#the title is a fortune telling reference. :' ) )
Text
❝time will tell.❞
[credits to the original artist of the photo!! can't seem to find their @ anywhere. title is taken from jane austen's persuasion, as was the first part.]
summary. ❝you are loved. and harry thinks there is no better description that that.❞
pairing/s. poly!mauraders x reader. (james potter x reader, sirius black x reader, lily evans x reader, and remus lupin x reader.)
word count. 9.5k.
tags. reader is referred to mum, with she/her pronouns[!], canon-typical violence [!], canon-typical deaths mentioned[!], very brief marauders as soldiers of the order[!], creepy old men being creepy[!], child abuse[!], pureblood arranged marriages, a minor character expresses wanting to die[!], Depressed and Traumatized Slytherins, the capital is important[!], themes of misogyny [!], teen boys fuck around and find out there are consequences to their actions, THERE IS ACTUALLY A LOT OF FLUFF, I PROMISE YOU, angst, children lose their baby teeth up until the age of twelve!! google said so!! not proofread we die like dobby the free elf
note. damn, i cried, you cried, we all crode. tbh, the first part was only intended as a oneshot, sdfkhdf, but when i re-read it, i thought that i could have expanded on more details,, so now here we are!! i love it more than the first part ueueue. thank you all so so so much for the kind comments :((( please please enjoy the second part to this installment!! part one
HARRY JAMES POTTER was only a few months old when you died at the hands of Voldemort — or as strangers have told him every time they ravaged his personal space and ogled at his scar. They said it was a quick death, better than what had happened to Alice and Frank Longbottom. But that was all they’ve ever said about your death. Unfortunate; caught in the wrong place at the wrong time, entirely different from the pedestal James and Lily have been put on by the wizarding society.
At first, Harry had wondered if it was due to your blood relations, being the daughter of a renowned Death-Eater, heiress to the fortune of a pureblood House. Harry can’t even count the amount of conspiracy theories he’s read or heard to his face that it must have been you who betrayed James and Lily, and not Sirius Black.
Even Hermione’s shared to him a theory that your death was faked to surrender your loyalty completely to Voldemort — of course, Hermione was eleven at the time, head full of books and her favorite theories, and Harry’s already forgiven her. But there’s a part of him that despises the way he’s never known the full truth about his parents, just bits of information dangled in front of him like bait for people [read: the Dursleys] to get him to do what they want, to act like the way they want. Until Remus and Sirius, you were a stranger to him, really.
. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .
(1976; CURRENTLY, IN THE PAST.)
IT IS RATHER UNFORTUNATE that Madam Pince has already taken her position as the unbearable librarian at this point in time. The woman gives Harry and you a pointed look as you slam the large book onto one of the tables — to Harry’s surprise, you glare right back at her. You’re awfully flushed, however, blushing cheeks betraying the fire in your eyes; it must have been from when Remus escorted the two of you to the library; he had tried to brush your hand with his pinky, to which you had responded with a startled hiss — Remus only smiled and chuckled at you, and Harry swears he’d like to forget that entire interaction because he saw literal stars in Remus’s eyes.
Jumping back in time and potentially causing chaos? Fun.
Meeting your parents? Definitely fun, in the strangest of ways.
But watching them pine and fall for each other? Not so fun.
Nonetheless, he hesitantly takes the seat across yours and watches you flip through the pages until you land on a chapter with the large, bold letters: THE CURIOUS CASE OF ELOISE MINTUMBLE — Time-Travel and Its Many Dangers. He meets your gaze with a sheepish grin, mustering a look of innocence; except the puppy dog eyes only worked when he was nine — you are not amused.
You slide the book towards him, scarily resembling Molly Weasley when she’s miffed with the twins. “You are aware, right, that just by existing here you’ve changed the future? Your future? And, that’s not even the worst thing that could happen.”
Harry sulks. “Yes, mum.” He prefers not to think about it, actually, it makes his head hurt.
“Don’t call me that in public!” You whisper heatedly, looking over your shoulder to check if anyone had heard him — to your luck, the library was empty, save for a Hufflepuff that was passed out on top of his books. “The less people that know about this, the better. It’s bad enough we told Potter about you. Do you even know what you’re going to do?”
“Considering I was thrown here against my will, no.” Harry shrugs. “And to be honest, I was just going to obliviate the people who asked too many questions.”
You reach over to smack his head, scowling.
“Ow! That hurt!” Harry rubs the sore spot as he grumbles petulantly. “This is technically child abuse, did you know that?”
You roll your eyes. “Do you at least have a plan to get home?”
“Of course I do,” Harry retorts with a scoff, “Her name is Hermione Granger.”
“Hopeless.” You groan exasperatedly. “Absolutely hopeless.”
Harry only grins in response. For a brief moment, he forgets about the present — his reality where the skies are bleak and home is where he knows the feeling of loss more than the warmth of his own parents’ embrace. He lets himself forget, and pretends he isn’t the Boy Who Lived. Just some random boy who’s pestering his mother — even if she likes to deny the inevitability of being romanced by the Marauders, (except for Wormtail because Harry would eat troll slime before he ever lets that happen.)
“Right then,” You say after your tangent — which Harry tuned out when he hears the words, be responsible. “If I’m going to help you get back home—”
Harry’s heart drops to his stomach; as selfishly as it sounds, he didn’t want to go home just yet — not to where people just took and took from him. He’s exhausted. Still, he puts up a front of being excited to be returned to his timeline. It’s for the greater good, of course, because his existence — present or past — is always somehow a threat to the wizarding society.
“—you need to answer this one question for me.” Your voice drops lower as you stare at him intently, lips pressed firmly.
Harry nods slowly. “As long as it’s within reason, yeah.”
You inhale sharply. “Do I outlive Dolores Umbridge?”
The wince escapes Harry before he can even stop it.
That’s all the answer you need, apparently. Your mouth hangs open in disbelief, eyes nearly bulging out of your head as you slam your hands down onto the table surface, shrieking.
“That slimy bitch!”
Needless to say, the two of you are kicked out of the library.
. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .
(1970; ORIGINAL TIMELINE.)
YOU ARE ELEVEN when your father introduces you to Ferguson, commonly known as Fergus, Bulstrode. He smiles at you with a leer, eyes hungrily dipping to the neckline of your dress. You grit your teeth as you hold out your hand for him to take — you almost shudder at the feel of his lips on your cheek. You eagerly take a step back away from him, hoping your father won’t notice the way you shy from Ferguson’s touch. You’re not dull, you fully understand the implications of this introduction and the way Ferguson is complaining to you about his third wife’s passing — as if you were the solution to his loneliness. Bile rises to your throat, and you shove it down with a forced laugh at your father’s jokes about Mudbloods. From across the room, Allegra Greengrass stares at you in sympathy, and you send her a glare — you do not need anyone’s pity.
The corset your mother laced on too tight is suffocating you; this whole Yule extravaganza made for elitist purebloods is suffocating you; and yet, you smile and greet every red-lipped witch your mother introduces you to. For hours, you pretend, and you pretend. By the time the guests have left, you wonder if you have any more of yourself to give.
You manage to convince your mother to let you slip away for the night. Without missing a beat, you rush outside and into the garden labyrinth, lest old Ferguson snatches you up for a dance and let his gaze wander elsewhere. For the first time since the sun had set, your aching feet finally find some relief. You drop onto the edge of the stone fountain as you toss your heels to the side. You begin working your fingers through your hair, ripping the glittery ribbons from your head. It’s not until you’re unclasping your necklace that you realize you are crying. Tears fall from your eyes, and they sink deep into the fabric of your dress.
You barely hold back your sobs. Your chest heaves as you hiccup; your vision goes blurry as your fingers grow numb. There’s nothing you can do but cry.
You’ve used up all your smiles for tonight.
But then, the sadness turns into resentment and then turns into indignation. Harshly, you wipe the tears from your eyes as you rip a violent scream from your throat.
You sink to the ground, perfectly polished nails digging into the soil as you gather patches of grass and tear them from the roots. You throw a handful of mud at the marble statues. You grab another fistful of mud, scream, then bash your head against the garden floor. You let out another cry, whimpering as you curl into yourself; shivering as a gust of wind brushes against your skin. Surprisingly enough, this is the most human you’ve ever felt. This is the most you have ever felt — period.
When hiccups regress into soft sniffles, you lay on your back, watching the stars float above. As the last of your tears slide down your cheek, you lift a shaky hand to trace the constellation in the sky. It’s not a familiar one to you, but then—
“That’s Sirius.”
You sit upright in a snap, wiping away the wetness from your eyes as you muster a mean glare at the newcomer.
Sirius Black.
“Oh, none of that,” He tells you when you move to stand. There’s barely any emotion on his face and it irks you that you can’t figure out what he’s planning. What you don’t expect is for him to sit beside you, thereby ruining his expensively tailored suit.
“You’ll get creases,” You scold him instinctively, nose scrunched — but your voice is hoarse; too tired to put up any pretences. “Your mother will be cross with you.”
Sirius scoffs, laying his head on the dirt, making sure to smear his sleeves with grass stains. “Walburga can go fall in a ditch and die for all I care.”
You gasp. “That’s horrible!”
Sirius gives you a look. “You don’t believe that.”
You really don’t, but you don’t have the courage to admit it either.
After a few moments of silence, Sirius asks, raising a brow, “So who was that?”
“Who was who?” You stare at him with knitted brows, toying with your fingers. You still can’t wrap your head around how weird this is — sitting with Sirius Black in the middle of your mother’s hedge maze, your once bright blue dress now sullied at the ruffles, eyes bloodshot and your hair a frizzy mess. (Sirius thinks you look cute, though; especially with your missing front tooth that peeks out every time you talk to him.)
“Bald guy, older than Merlin himself.” Sirius makes a face. “Looks like a troll. Smells like one, too.”
A giggle flutters past your lips, and your hands fly to your mouth. You really shouldn’t be bad-mouthing your guests, but Sirius was right — Ferguson really did act like an ugly troll. You sigh, letting your arms fall to your side. “My betrothed.”
Sirius nods in understanding. “My mother tried to set me up with my own cousin once.”
You grimace. “Which cousin?”
He sits on his knees to face you, and with a very solemn face, he says, “Bellatrix.”
This time, you laugh freely, throwing your head back as Sirius pouts at your amusement. “O-Oh, that’s golden.”
“No, it’s not,” says Sirius, lips twitching as he watches you snort like a pig through your giggles. “It’s horrible. A literal nightmare. You should feel awful for me.” He pokes your stomach, and it just makes you laugh harder, eyes disappearing into your smile. “Oi. I said feel awful, not take the piss out of me.”
“S-Sorry.” You wheeze, batting away his hand pulling at your cheek. “I just can’t imagine Bellatrix in a white wedding dress and saying her vows to you.”
“That’s disgusting.” Sirius gags. “You’re horrible, I hope you know that.”
When you finally calm down and Sirius tickles your bare feet until you cry in surrender, the two of you lay on the grass as he points out each constellation to you. Later, he fishes a small box of sugar mice from his pocket and offers it to you, opening one for himself. “Here’s to shitty parents and the one day we get to decide our own future.”
You bump your squeaky candy mice against his. “Cheers, Black.”
“Will you go to Hogwarts next year?” He asks you once he’s bitten off the tail of his mice.
You nod.
Sirius shifts on his side, holding his pinky out to you. “We’ll be friends when school starts?”
Again, you nod, wrapping your pinky around his. “Friends.”
The next September comes, Sirius finds a compartment and one James Potter in it. You sit with Allegra Greengrass and Endora Lestrange on the way to Hogwarts. You are sorted into Slytherin, and Sirius finds freedom and a home in Gryffindor. You play the role created just for you; you lift your nose at those beneath you, adorn yourself in custom-made silk clothing, and carry yourself with the etiquette of a pure-blooded lady. Perfect grades, perfect hair, perfect clothes, always picture perfect.
You pretend that Allegra doesn’t throw up in the evenings from the fear of getting married to a man twice her age. You pretend that you don’t notice Endora sleep-walking and begging for her mother to save her from her father. You pretend that under your blankets, in the Slytherin dungeon, you are safe.
You pretend that it doesn’t hurt when Sirius looks at you in disappointment when you shove a Hufflepuff student to the ground for getting a higher score than you in Charms.
They call you an ice-princess behind your back, and you overhear some of the fifth-years calling you foul words as well, and no one steps in to stop them; there’s no defending a Slytherin, after all. But you are keeping your head above treacherous waters, and you suppose that is all that matters.)
. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .
(1976; CURRENTLY, IN THE PAST.)
“SO ACCORDING TO THIS, Eloise was stuck in 1402 for five days until she was retrieved to the present, which means we only have four days left to figure out a way for you to get back home.”
Harry sinks into his chair, arms crossed over his chest. The two of you had found an empty classroom to discuss your plans away from inquisitive ears. “What’s the rush?” It’s unfair, he’d only just met you, and now he’s losing time with you.
You sigh. “Harry, Eloise Mintumble spent five days in the past and when she came back, her body aged five centuries, and she died in St. Mungos. It’s not just about altering the whole timeline, you could actually die.”
When you are met only with silence, you close the book, frowning. “Harry? What’s wrong?”
Harry swallows the lump in his throat, looking out the window to avoid your gaze. “What do you know about the Mirror of Erised?”
Your head tilts in confusion. “That it shows our heart’s deepest desire.”
“Yeah,” says Harry, nodding. “I was eleven when I found it.”
“Oh, Harry. . .”
It’s almost pathetic how quickly his eyes water. “Did you know, before today, I hadn’t known at all what your voice sounded like?”
You stay quiet, and Harry sucks in a shaky breath.
“When I looked into the mirror, I saw my parents—all of you. There I was, in the middle. You were behind me—happy.” Harry swipes a tear from his eye. “I wanted to stay in that room, stare at that mirror forever.”
“It’s—”
“Dangerous, I know.” He laughs bitterly. “Just like finally being able to meet you all here.”
“Harry, you aren’t supposed to be here in the first place,” You say quietly, eyes drooping sadly.
“I know that!” He exclaims desperately. “But is it so selfish to just want some time? I don’t want an illusion, I want the real thing. A real family. Why can’t I have that? Bloody Malfoy gets everything he wants, and what do I have?”
“Your friends,” You tell him firmly. “Your friends who must be worried sick that you’re gone and must be going great lengths to bring you back.”
“I know.” Harry wilts. He’s got Remus at home, too, who probably needs him more than ever after Sirius’s death. “I know. But can’t I just have this one thing?”
You purse your lips for a moment, brows furrowed in thought. Then, you break the silence with: “Do you want to hear a story?”
“What?” Harry croaks, peering at you through wet lashes.
Shrugging, you say, “Stories to remember us by. I’ve got six years worth of stories and then some. I know it’s not much, and you’ve probably heard some of these already from the others in the future, but it’s better than nothing, right?” You lean against the back of your chair, glancing at the wall clock before grinning at Harry. “We’ve got time to spare, anyway.”
Harry manages a smile, setting down his glasses before rubbing his stinging eyes with the handkerchief you offer him. He figures this is what Remus means when you’re the gentlest creature he’s ever known — just not gentle in what the world expects you to be.
“What do you say, Harry? I give you tidbits of the past, and you tell me if you know anything about the next Triwizard champion, so I can place my bets in advance.”
Harry snickers. “Not a chance, mum.”
“Worth a try.” And the smile you give him is nearly blinding.
. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .
(1977; ORIGINAL TIMELINE.)
YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND what it is about Gryffindors and their hobby of invading others’ personal space.
A year into dating and James likes to shove his head under your shirt, claiming he loves the sound of your heartbeat — but you know really what he wants to nestle his head in between. The amount of cashmere blouses he’s ruined is absurd! Sirius has a hobby of tracing runes on the plane of your stomach. Lily prefers it when you sit in front of her, just within reach where she can wrap her arms around you and rest her head on your shoulder. Remus tends to lag behind the group when he notices you walking slower due to your leg flaring up. He kisses the side of your head and promises to chase the pain away — sappy poetic that he is. And in the moments where all five of you are together, tucked under a wide alcove, you can best believe there is no escaping what they like to call, a cuddle pile. Limbs are tangled, kisses are shared, and confessions of love are whispered.
Before them, you hadn’t really known the different ways to love and be loved.
Onto the pressing matters at hand, you discover that the brazen show of affection extends to their parents as well. Particularly, the Potters. After a year, you finally caved into James’s requests for you to spend the holidays at their manor, since the others have already made a space for themselves there, and James had said it would be an honor for you to feel at home with his parents, too. Honestly, you spoil them too much — one look into his bright, wide eyes and you gave in. James didn’t even care that you brought two luggages for clothes alone; he lifted each bag with delight and with ease.
(Remus had the audacity to laugh when he caught you and Sirius staring at James’s flexed muscles, mouth wide open.
“As I have said, Remus Lupin, I do not drool!”
“Sure, dove, whatever you say.”)
But now, you really aren’t so sure of your decision.
“Oh, she’s beautiful, Jamie!” Euphemia encases you in a bear hug the moment you step inside the manor. You’re engulfed in the scent of cinnamon and burnt sugar. You stiffen as she cradles your face in between her palms, smiling ever so fondly at you, cooing about how precious you look, much like a mother would — and how your mother never did. You wonder if this is what you’ve been missing all along — the thought stabs you right in the heart. “Please excuse the mess, dear, we haven’t had the chance to clean up yet, Monty and I are excited to try the recipe Lily owled to us the other day, you see.”
“I-It’s okay,” You rasp, struggling to hold back the tears.
“Oh, what a darling you are!” Euphemia smiles and ushers you further inside. “Come, come. The others are right upstairs. You must be tired from the train ride. It is so lovely to finally meet you. Make yourself at home, dear heart — James Fleamont Potter! Give your mama a kiss this instant! Don’t think introducing your girlfriend will distract me from the fact you didn’t owl me letters for two months straight!”
James whines as he hides behind you. “Mum, I’m seventeen, stop embarrassing me.”
Euphemia scoffs, hands snapping to her hips. “You’re going to be my baby boy forever, now come here.”
With a shy smile, you step away to surrender James to his mother — you don’t understand which part of this is embarrassing; you wish for a mum who’d welcome you home like that, with unconditional love and kind eyes. James squawks and calls you a traitor, just before his mum attacks him with loud, exaggerated kisses to his cheek, leaving lipstick stains all over his face. You hide a laugh behind your palm, ignoring the way your heart pangs at the sight of their unrestrained smiles. Euphemia lets her son go after a few more seconds, cackling at the masterpiece she’s created on a grumbling James, who’s rubbing his skin to erase his mother’s affections. She hugs you once more before setting you off, telling you to meet Fleamont after you’ve unpacked.
Just as you reach the foot of the stairs, you hear a girlish squeal, then the sound of rapid footfall against each wooden step. Lily greets the two of you by jumping off the last step and wrapping each arm around yours and James’s neck. “Welcome home, Jamie!” She captures his lips with her own before doing the same to you, cupping your cheek lovingly, “So happy you made it, princess! How was the ride here?”
You were never a fan of traveling by Floo; it made you nauseous after, and left you with a pounding headache for hours. Without hesitation, the others offered to accompany you on the train, but you insisted they Floo ahead to Godric’s Hollow — it took a lot of convincing, but they finally agreed, (they’re not the only ones spoiled; they couldn’t refuse you, too.) With the exception of James, who wanted to be there when you saw his home for the first time. You nearly cried when you saw how well-loved their manor was; rose shrubs dipped in snow, Sirius’s motorcycle parked outside, a mailbox with poorly painted shapes, the fences covered in Christmas lights, and the amount of shoes by the door. From outside, you could hear the laughter and warm conversations.
“It was fine,” You say in a daze.
Lily sees right through you — and frowns sadly. “You alright?”
Were you?
You catch sight of the moving photographs of James and you finally reach your breaking point. There’s a swell in your throat that you can’t seem to push down. There’s a photo of James, Lily, Remus and Sirius; James is in his Quidditch jersey, raising the Golden Snitch high up in the air, Remus is twirling Lily, his arms around her waist, and Sirius is holding up a charmed banner that says: Gryffindor Rules! Slytherin Sucks! Except For My Darling Angel Love Of My Life Most Beautiful And Gorgeous Perfect Brilliant Girlfriend!
There are hints of life all around the manor. Remus’s textbooks and scarf are laid by the coffee table. Lily’s O.W.L. marks are framed on the wall, along with Dumbledore’s letters to James and Lily awarding them the position of Head Girl and Head Boy, as well as McGonagall’s previous letter to Remus that came with his Prefect badge years ago. There’s a spot dedicated to Peter, filled with a photograph of him awkwardly holding his Herbology test, one that he scored a hundred and twelve percent on. It’s a wall dedicated to them, you realize.
Then, you find it.
Right there, up above James’s spot, and beside Sirius’s display of beyond perfect Transfiguration exam marks, and a picture of him and Remus kissing each side of your face.
It’s a space on that wall just for you.
James follows your gaze and rubs the back of his head, ears tinged with a shade of deep pink. “Mum left a space when I first told her about you. I-It’s yours, you can put anything you want there.”
“I can’t,” You whisper, lips quivering as your heart cracks into a million pieces. It’s too much.
James blinks. “Can’t? It’s yours, I promise. Mum won’t mind. You can even hang your dumb Montrose Magpies poster and I won’t tear it down — Marauders’ honor. I can help you if you want. I-I’m not good as decorating as Lily, but I paid attention to your boring explanation of color theory and I know that you hate this shade of—”
“James, I can’t do this.”
That’s all you say before you run out of the door.
(And you’re absolutely delusional if you think James won’t follow you out that door and into the brewing snowstorm.)
You hear James call out to you, but you opt to ignore him and clutch your winter coat tighter around your body, shivering in the blowing wind, trudging through the deep snow through your heeled boots — designer couldn’t help you now even if you tried. You sniff, the salty taste of your tears dripping to your lips, chest tightening with a foreign kind of pain, and the frost nipping at your fingers. You give up after a few minutes, falling to the ground with an anguished cry, hand clutching the front of your chest as you struggle to breathe.
James reaches you in a matter of minutes, draping his jacket over you, barely flinching as the cold welts his bare skin. Frantically, he wipes the tears from your eyes, a pained expression on his face as he sees you cry helplessly. “Come on, dove, it’s not safe out here. Let’s go back home, yeah? I’m sorry for upsetting you. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry — I’m so sorry, dove, please don’t cry, it’s killing me to s–see you like this.” Tears fall from his eyes, and he begins stuttering from the cold, but you can’t go back to the manor. “What did I do? Please tell me so I can fix it. I love you—I’m sorry.”
You bat his chest. “G–Go home, Jamie. I’ll just take the train back to the castle.”
“What?” He shakes his head, grabbing onto your hands. “Y–You can’t. Not in this weather. You’ll get sick if you try to walk back to the station.”
You withdraw from his hold as you back away from James, slipping into the ice-cold mask you know so well.
James rises in an instant, reaching for you. “No, no, no, no, no. You don’t get to do that. Not now. Not with me. Please, just come home and I-I’ll fix it.”
“Goodbye, James,” You tell him firmly, clenching your jaw as you look him straight in the eyes.
He grimaces. “That won’t work on me, princess, and you know it. Don’t push me away—please.”
“Go home, James!” You yell bitterly, pivoting on your heel as you march through the thick inches of snow, hearing Remus and Lily’s voice grow louder in the distance. “Just go!”
He grits his teeth, nails digging deep into the palms of his hand. “You’re a coward if you walk away from here—from us—right now!” James shouts through chattering teeth and stray tears. “And I hate cowards more than anything!”
You don’t look back.
(Later that night, James stares blankly at the fireplace, tossing twigs now and then. He’s all out of tears. Remus crosses his legs as he sits beside James and offers him a steaming mug of hot chocolate.
“Don’t want one,” He mutters, words coarse from earlier, head turning away from Remus’s gift. “Just want her.”
Remus sets the beverage on the ground before pulling James’s head down to his chest, gently wiping the tears from his eyes as he wraps the blanket around both of them. He presses a soft kiss to James’s hair.
“I said I hated her,” James says weakly. “I don’t—I never will. I just hate that she’s out there spending Christmas all alone. She could be here—with us. I hate not knowing that she’s safe, or that she thinks I don’t love her anymore—that’s a bloody lie, Moony. I adore her. If anything, I don’t deserve her.”
James finds out that he does have more tears left in him. “I miss her. Bring her back, Rem, please.”
“You’ll cry yourself sick, love.” Remus wipes each tear away. “Let’s go to bed, yeah? Mornings do have a way of bringing miracles to us.” Because after a night of excruciating pain under the moon’s command, he wakes up to sunlight, and there you all are — smiling down at him like he is deserving of love; and maybe Remus can’t fault you for running away.
You’d kiss him gently and tell him how proud you are of him for coming back to you.
Remus only hopes you come back to them, too.)
. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .
(1976; CURRENTLY, IN THE PAST.)
“AND THAT, dear Harry, is how I humiliated Lucius Malfoy in fifth-year.” Your eyes gleam wickedly as you rest your arms on the school desk. “If he ever bothers you in your time, just mention my name—oh, I wish I could see the look on his face when he realizes I’m haunting him from my grave. Tell him, okay?”
Harry nods excitedly. “Definitely.”
“Got anymore stories?” He asks.
You cackle menacingly. “Boy, do I ever. Let me tell you about the one time Beckett McLaggen took me out on a date to Madam Puddifoot’s!”
Harry grimaces. “Do I even want to hear about this?”
“Oh, pish-posh.” You dismiss him with a wave. “You do, this story is hilarious. Now that I look back on it, Sirius was quite cross with him for the rest of the day—how strange. I wonder why.”
Harry stares at you in disbelief. “You’re joking.”
“I most certainly am not, Harry Potter.”
. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .
(1974; ORIGINAL TIMELINE.)
AN EAR-PIERCING scream wakes you up in the middle of the night. You snatch your wand from under your pillow, heart thudding against your chest in fear — last year, the Prewett twins decided it was funny to break into the girls’ quarters at midnight; you get a month worth of detention for hitting Gideon with the Expulso curse and suspension from class for two weeks, while the twins get away with a slap on the wrist and have the time of their lives spreading rumors of you being a Death-Eater.
Endora shoots up to her feet as well, staring at you in panic — then the girl screams again, and you realize it’s Allegra.
You sigh in relief, lowering your wand before saying to Endora, “I-It’s alright. I’ll handle it.”
“Are you sure?” Endora asks timidly, gnawing at her lip and wincing when Allegra wails once more.
“Certain,” You respond, yawning.
As Endora climbs back into her bed, you slip into Allegra’s side, holding her head to your chest, brushing your fingers through her hair and untangling the knots. Like most of the Greengrass women, she was of ethereal beauty — silky blonde hair, smooth and fair skin, deep blue eyes that enchant wizards and witches alike. But her cheeks have gone sallow from exhaustion, eyes devoid of any emotion, and her skin now sunken into her bones.
“I don’t want to marry him—I can’t! He’s old enough to be my father!” Allegra sobs violently, desperate for anyone to hear her, but no one really ever hears their cries from the dungeon. “They said they’d wait until I graduated—they promised! I’m supposed to marry him this summer!”
Your heart breaks for your friend — there’s nothing you can do but hold her until she’s cried every bit of her soul out.
“I hate them,” Allegra whispers to you; she had been shedding tears for hours, trembling in your arms until morning finally came.
“I know,” You say defeatedly.
“I wish I was dead,” She replies lifelessly. “He can’t marry a dead bride.”
“Don’t say that,” You beg as you hug her tight; afraid to lose her to the world that has worn her down. “Please.”
Allegra sinks into her pillows, and you follow in suit, hesitantly laying your head beside hers. She stares at the ceiling dully. “The world is so, so cruel to us daughters sometimes. And it’ll be cruel to our daughters, and their daughters. When will it end?”
“I don’t know,” You say honestly.
Allegra hums, neither disappointed nor surprised, and turns away to lay on her side. “Pansy,” She mumbles.
“What?”
“If we lived in a better world and I married for love, I’d want to name my daughter Pansy — like the flower.”
(Later that day, you are given detention for beating Evan Rosier to a pulp. He makes a joke about dirty blood, and you snap — you are tired of laughing and pandering to the arrogant men in your life. This is the first time you publicly defy your parents, and it felt good — more than good, it was liberating. It’s like breathing fresh air for the first time. Then, you earn a second detention for storming up to the Gryffindor common room and punching Fabian Prewett in the face — because fourth-year boys had no business sneaking into the girls’ dorm in the middle of the night for some stupid prank — and you threaten him by pointing the tip of your wand deep into his neck, demanding they apologize to you, Allegra, and Endora.
You get what you want, naturally — as princesses do. You decide then that you’re going to create a world where girls like Allegra don’t cry anymore.)
. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .
(1976; CURRENTLY, IN THE PAST.)
HARRY TWINGES WHEN he hears the end of your fourth or fifth story of the afternoon — no wonder you had been so angered by his being in your room. “I-I’m sorry—”
“Yesterday was hardly your fault,” You interrupt him. “There’s no controlling where magic brings you, not in your case. You didn’t know, but now you know. I don’t hold it against them — anymore. Fifteen-year-old boys can be stupid, and at least they’ve learned from their mistakes. You should have seen your mother — erm, Lily — she looked like she was ready to kill them after finding out what they had done. Even Molly was cross with the twins, and you know how loyal Molly is to her family.”
Oh, Harry knows.
And Hermione knows it all too well.
“Others call us evil, conniving and cruel, Harry,” You tell him grimly, “But I will protect my own, no matter what I have to do.”
At that moment, Harry thinks he understands why some people come to fear Slytherin.
. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .
(1978; ORIGINAL TIMELINE.)
“LOOK, LILY-PAD, the princess is drooling again.”
You open your eyes to glare at Sirius. “I don’t drool, idiot.”
Lily chortles as she presses a kiss to your shoulder. “Of course you don’t, princess.”
Currently, you’re lying on a shabby loveseat that is too small to hold the three of you; it’s the only furniture in the new cottage you call home, where Potter Manor was right across the street. (Euphemia was ecstatic to have you all nearby — the lovely woman was sprite for her age, but you notice the way she stops to sit and catch her breath, Sirius and James hovering over her attentively; you’re good at pretending, so you pretend that the Potters will be around forever.) Some rooms are dusty with cobwebs, walls unfinished, with the floors creak under your feet, and there’s no other place you’d rather call home.
You’re in between Sirius and Lily; your lips swollen from their kisses, cheeks flushed and the column of your throat graced with love marks. It’s the most beautiful set of jewelry you’ve ever worn, not even burmese rubies could compare. Lily’s hand rests under your jumper, Sirius’s thigh wedged between your own. While peace blankets the three of you, James and Remus have yet to come home from their task given by the Order.
“You need a haircut, my love,” You mumble drowsily, pulling at one of the dark ringlets — it’s gone past his shoulders now. He captures your hand and leaves a delicate kiss on your fingertips.
Lily buries her nose in your hair. “She’s right, Siri.”
“I’m always right.” You pout.
Sirius, love-sick fool that he is, smiles as he tilts your chin with his finger and ensnares you in a kiss that leaves you breathless. “Course you are — our girl’s bloody brilliant, isn’t she, Lily-pad?”
“Without a doubt.”
You roll your eyes at their antics, rolling around so that your back is pressed to Sirius’s chest — they’re not fooled, however; Lily sees the way your eyes flicker in amusement and the way your lips threaten to curve up into a smile. She traces the swell of your lips with her thumb, to the dip of your nose, and to the apples of your cheek. Sea-green eyes beam at you.
“I love you,” says Lily, committing every inch of you to her memory as she wears a melancholic smile. “I don’t know who told you that you don’t deserve to be loved, but they were wrong. You are so precious to us, dove, you don’t even know how much. This right here is real — and nothing could ever change that.”
As it turns out, you did have more smiles to give — only the happy ones; not the fake, courteous smiles that you had given to your mother’s friends in the past. You come to intertwine your hand with Lily’s, the one that had been resting on your cheek, tenderly wiping the tears that pooled within your eyes. Your heart could burst from your chest. They had a habit of wringing every emotion out of you; of making love feel real, not just a myth from a Muggle storybook. And you find, that you didn’t mind this particular habit of theirs. In the comforts of the place you call home, where you irrefutably belong, you are free to seek their arms and fall into their love, and the best part is where you get to love them right back.
How lucky you are.
“Let’s get married,” You blurt out, holding your breath, feeling Sirius’s hand on your waist stiffen.
“What?” Lily gasps breathlessly.
You smile up at Lily. “Let’s get married. All of us. I don’t care where, o–or about the rings, let’s just get married. With the war going on, we deserve s–something good.”
Lily sobs as she nods excitedly. “Yes. Oh my Gods—we’re getting married!”
Sirius stares at you in wonder. “Bloody hell, dove, give a guy some warning, would you?”
You grin. “Is that a yes?”
“It’s a yes — forever.” Sirius dives in to kiss you senseless. “Couldn’t get rid of us now even if you tried.”
“I don’t think I’d want to, anyway.”
Right then, the rickety door slams open, and you hear the loves of your life calling out for the three of you. Followed by the heavy thud of Dragonhide boots plunking down onto the floor
“We’re home!” James announces in the entryway.
Lily wastes no time in shooting up from the sofa and welcoming them home with quite a unique greeting:
“We’re all getting married!”
. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .
(1976; CURRENTLY, IN THE PAST.)
“That ring is an heirloom passed down to the children in our family,” You tell Harry, pointing to the band around his finger. “It’s meant to symbolize our loyalty and duty to our House. My mother said I would have earned it only when I became a wife to Ferguson Bulstrode.” You chuckle at Harry’s perturbed grimace. “No, I didn’t marry him — thankfully. After Allegra. . . I—I. . . I couldn’t bear it. If I was going to marry, it would be on my own terms, and it would be for love, nothing less. Then, if my child wanted it, I’d give them this ring. I want to leave behind a legacy that I created. When I was younger, I’d resigned to a fate that was forcefully carved by someone else’s hand.”
You shake your head. “I want to die being remembered by those who loved me. Otherwise, I was never truly alive.”
Harry won’t let that happen, he won’t ever let your name be forgotten. He’ll share of your kindness to his friends, of your bravery and loyalty. Hermione will love your fondness of Muggle musicals and how you stood up to Lily’s defense in a world that ostracized her for being different. He’ll remind Remus of your love for him, that he had brought you hope in times of despair. Harry is going to make sure the world knows you had been so full of life with endless love to give. You are going to be remembered in the way Voldemort never will.
“What do the words mean?” He stares at the writing: Tempus Edax Rerum.
You smile. “Time, devourer of all things.”
. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .
(1978; ORIGINAL TIMELINE.)
“REMUS—THE MUGGLES ARE stuck in the telly again!”
Remus snickers as he takes the vacant space beside you on the loveseat, now sewn up with care and spattered with knitted quilts and throw pillows — still too small to carry three people but hasn’t given out yet, anyway. He takes Lily’s legs over his lap, swiftly stealing a kiss from your lips. “It’s a film, dove, they’re acting.”
You purse your lips. “They’re trapped inside, then?”
Lily snorts into her tub of chocolate fudge ice cream. “Not quite, princess, it’s recorded. Movies are like moving photographs — but they’re an hour long with sounds.”
“Oh.” You turn your attention back to the screen, back to the film Lily had been watching. You had to admit — the story of Sandy and Danny was an interesting one. “Lily-pad, she’s singing — again.”
Sirius hushes you from where he was cuddling James on the other couch. “She’s supposed to sing, dove, it’s a musical.”
“Well, yes,” You begin, and James groans into Sirius’s chest, “But they should just talk instead of singing all the time — Sandy’s got a lovely voice, though. I just don’t understand why Danny’s treating her like that! Truthfully, I don’t like any of Sandy’s new friends, other than Frenchy — she’s harmless. If I was Sandy I’d move on from Danny — but then again, that hair and those muscles, and his leather jacket! I can’t blame her.”
Sirius glowers at you. “You like his leather jacket?”
“His hair?” James exclaims in horror.
Remus chuckles as he tucks you in his side, kissing your temple. “If I were you, dove, I’d be quiet and just watch the film.”
“Oh, no, no.” Sirius barely glances at the television as he pauses the film and stands up to point an accusatory finger at you. “Since when were you into leather jackets? Do you think those are cool? Since when? Jamie, should I get one? Let’s unpack this, right now. And his muscles, really?”
Your eyes roll to the back of your head. “Play the film, Black, I want to see the end of their love story.”
“I’m telling Euphemia on you!”
. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .
(1976; CURRENTLY, IN THE PAST.)
“—and then we realized that we accidentally locked Hermione in with the troll.” Harry’s arms flail about as he shares some of his adventures with you — it had only been fair. He felt like a young boy again, entering Hogwarts for the first time as he watched you listen to him intently, gasping at tale of the vanishing glass and scolding him when he says he and Ron had decided to go searching for Hermione, and by extension, the troll.
Your eyes grow wide. “A troll? In Hogwarts? They can’t have, not unless—”
“Someone let it in—I know!” Harry grins. “You’re not going to believe who let the troll in the castle.”
You snap your fingers, “Malfoy, the older one. I know that lump’s got something to do with this. Can’t have been Snape or Quirrell.”
“Just you wait.” Harry’s eyes twinkle with mischief. “—and so, Professor McGonagall finds us, and can you believe it? She awards us for dumb luck! Then. . .”
. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .
(1979; ORIGINAL TIMELINE.)
IT HAD COME AS A surprise when you volunteered to join the Order of the Phoenix. You wanted to scoff at their shocked faces — was it so surprising that you wanted to protect your family? They let Severus Snape join their ranks, and you’re fairly certain that you’re a better fighter and survivalist than him — not the better liar, however, he can have that one. The week before, you and the others had an argument that lasted for the whole day. They did not want you in harm’s way, and you would rather die than stay at home, waiting idly for them to return, when you could be out there alongside them.
(“It’s not some game out there!” Remus runs through his hair in frustration — he had always been so careful to never raise his voice at you, but this one time, he needed you to back down. “Every time you step into a raid, there’s a possibility of you dying, don’t you understand that? And even if you survive — you’ll have blood on your hands, and it does not wash away no matter how many times you try, trust me, we know.”
“So what?” You throw your hands up in the air, equally aggravated. “I just stay here like some. . . some pet waiting for their owners to come home?”
“Yes!” Lily angrily replies. “That is the whole point of us joining the Order — so you get to live another day. So we all have a chance at this new world without a war. Let us protect you!”
You grind down on your jaw. “You have got another thing coming, if you think I’m not going to fight tooth and nail for my future.”
James slams a fist onto the kitchen counter. “There are horrors out there you can’t even imagine. I-It’s worse than we thought. It’s our every nightmare come to life.”
You raise your chin defiantly. “Then we face it together.”)
Each day, you survive, and each day the five of you return home — scarred and bruised, but safe within the arms of one another. When you collapse and crumble, it is only for the walls of your home to witness.
Now a month into autumn, you are on your first task without Sirius, James, Lily or even Remus. Instead, you are assigned by Dumbledore to Knockturn Alley along with Peter Pettigrew and Gideon Prewett. How strange time was, years ago you’d never associate with the proud Gryffindors, and now you had to trust them to guard your back. Everyone had to grow up quickly during war, even pranksters.
The alley was quiet — too quiet for your liking. You had been on alert since the moment you apparated into the area, wand at your ready. The back of your neck prickled with goosebumps as you kept an ear out for any sign of movement.
Peter shivers and you glance at him — he’s become far too skinny, constantly shrinking into himself out of fear. And while you want to comfort him, you keep your eyes up ahead. Still, there's a nagging feeling that you can’t quite make out. It’s different from all the other times you’ve been asked to search and rescue.
“Don’t you feel like there’s something wrong?” You ask Gideon, eyes snapping to the flock of crows flying overhead.
“Dunno, kid,” Gideon says, nudging your shoulder with pressed lips. “Everything about this is freaking me out. The place is too empty.”
“I get what you mean,” You reply, swallowing your own nervousness. Without waiting for the rest, you speed up your pace. “I’ll scout ahead, who knows what’s been here before us. I don’t want to risk any of our lives, so let’s be careful. Gideon, ward the area while I check for any cursed objects, last time you almost got your arm cut off by a newspaper of all things. And Peter, could you. . . Peter?”
When you turn to check behind you, it all happens so fast.
“Avada Kedavra!”
You scream as Gideon’s deathly pale body falls to the floor.
“No!”
You aren’t given a moment to rush to his side — someone digs their wand in the side of your neck, and you stiffen in their hold. It’s not until they hiss in your ear that you recognize the voice.
“Rosier.” You spit, biting down on your lip when he presses the tip of his wand further into your flesh.
“Stupid witch,” He taunts, eyes dilating with vengeance. “Where are your lovers now?”
“Jealous?” You claw at his arms, chest heaving up and down. “We don’t have room for one more, sorry.”
“Shut up!” He pushes you to the ground in blind rage, and that’s all the opening you need.
“Expulso!”
Each curse you send his way lands on his cloaked body, sending him staggering backwards. With ease, you deflect each spell he counters with. You’re winning, he is growing tired, and perhaps that is why you let your guard down.
“Accio wand!”
The magic fizzles out, and the spell dies on your lips. As you swivel your head to find out who’s stolen your wand, you expect to find another Death Eater — except it’s Peter. Just Peter Pettigrew, quivering in his boots with tears and snot dripping down his face, your wand in his free hand. You furrow your brows — it doesn’t make sense.
“Peter?” You call out.
“Crucio!”
The curse finds its home in your body — and it sinks deep into your flesh, grinding your bones until you slump to the ground, wriggling as you draw blood from your lips, refusing to let them hear an ounce of your pain. Blood trickles down your nose as you hear Evan Rosier dancing around you in glee. You know this curse well; the sound of your father condemning you gleefully echo in your head. You crawl over to Gideon — hand desperately reaching for his shirt.
“Crucio!” Rosier grabs you by the hair and howls with laughter. “Scream for me again—Crucio!”
It’s as though someone had begun to rip you in half. Your bones shift and crack with every uttered curse. The veins in your eyes have popped and through bloody vision, you see Peter cowering away from you.
“You—fucking—traitor,” You gurgle, throat welling up with blood that’s risen from your stomach. “They’ll—never—forgive you—never.”
“Crucio! Crucio! Crucio! Come on, witch — SCREAM! Look at her go, Pettigrew, crawling like some pathetic worm.”
You lay in your owl pool of blood, wearing a body that is marred and lacerated. But you see something in Gideon’s hand. I’m sorry, you want to tell him. I’ll get you home to Molly, you promise, please lend me your magic this once. With every last bit of your strength, just as Rosier directs another curse at you — one you know you won’t survive — you snatch the wand from Gideon’s hand and tear the last of your magic from your throat.
“Defodio!”
You wait with a bated breath as silence fills the alley; lucky to have remembered Professor Flitwick’s quick remark as to how the slight difference in pronouncing a charm could alter its effect. Rosier stands on shaky legs, a stream of blood leaking from the corner of his mouth. You watch as he looks down to his chest, where a gaping hole now lies instead of where his ribcage and heart should be. As Gideon had done before him, Evan Rosier crashes to the ground.
That just leaves one more problem.
Peter scurries to your side the moment Rosier can hurt him no longer. “I-I’m sorry—I’m sorry. I had to. . . T–They killed my mum, they killed M–Mary, and t–they said I would die too if I d–didn’t do this. I’m sorry. Y–Your father was there, too. He said he would take you in, let you l–live if you joined us. W–We can live, t–there’s still a chance for us to survive.”
Your fingers are bent at unsightly angles, the remnants of the Torture Curse still flowing through your veins, but your face contorts in anger as you let your hand curl around his neck. He sobs louder, and though your grip is weakening — you make sure he looks into your eyes, that he feels your touch.
“I’d rather—die.” You say through gritted teeth, nails drawing blood from his grimy skin. “You’ll die too—you’ll feel my blood on your skin—everywhere you go, Peter.”
Peter shakes his head, now clumsily pushing his wand down to the center of your chest. “Y–You were the only o–one who d–didn’t laugh at me. N–Not like the others.”
“When they find out—you’re dead, Pettigrew.” You laugh darkly as more blood exits your body through your lips. “There’s nowhere you can hide—you’re a dead man.”
“P-Please die,” Peter cries out, each killing spell coming out as a garbled whisper. “Please die, s–so I can live. I c–can’t fight anymore, I’m tired.”
Your vision goes a hazy shade of white, Peter’s silhouette fading away to the familiar scenery of your cottage in Godric’s Hollow.
Oh.
Dying is less painful than you had expected it to be. It’s like coming home after a day’s work.
You just wanted to rest now.
The world caves in on you, and you barely hear Peter’s next words.
“Avada Kedavra.”
(It’s past midnight when Peter Pettigrew arrives at Grimmauld Place, where it’s been altered to host the members of the Order, Lily sobs in relief and gathers him in her arms.
You’ll feel my blood on your skin.
You’re a dead man.
Dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead.
“Oh, I’m so glad you’re home safe — welcome home — thank the Gods you’re alive,” Lily blabbers through her tears, checking his face for any major injuries. “Merlin, what happened? There’s too much blood on you. It’s on your shirt and your face.”
“It’s not mine,” says Peter hoarsely.
Sirius’s gaze darkens, arms crossed over his jacket as he leaned against the wall. “Where is she?”
Lily nods, standing on her tiptoes to search for any sign of you. “Peter? I–Is she alright? Has something happened to her?”
Peter stays silent for a moment too long, and he finds himself slammed against the wall behind him, Sirius snarling in his face as he seizes the front of Peter’s soiled shirt. “Where the fuck is she, Pettigrew?”
Peter begins to weep. “I–It was an ambush. None of us saw it coming. Gideon r–ran. She was taking on two Death-Eaters at once and I–I was too far away.”
Lily collapses to the ground with a heart-wrenching scream.
Sirius growls as he drives his fist to the wall, inches away from Peter’s face. “Where is her body?”
“It was a disintegration spell.” With Severus Snape — brought to the Malfoy Manor to be made as an example of what happens to blood-traitors.
James pushes Sirius out of the way and grabs a hold of Peter, knocking his head against the concrete. “It should have been you—” James snaps at Peter. “If it came down to you or her—you should have saved her!”
“W-What?” Peter stammers, eyes wide. “She chose to save m–me.”
James sneers at him. “You should have just died.”)
. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .
(1996; CURRENTLY, IN THE PRESENT.)
ST. JEROME’S GRAVEYARD had exactly one visitor. Remus Lupin sits in between James and Lily’s graves, a bottle of firewhiskey in his hand — four empty at his side. He must be going crazy. There’s no funeral for Sirius as there’s no body to actually bury, Harry is presumed missing after an attack in Diagon Alley, and your name stares back at him mockingly. He tries not to dwell on your passing — there have been too many holes, too many details left unsaid; and he knows just the rat who has all the answers. Unfortunately, Wormtail won’t come out of whatever hole he’s crawled into. Either him, or Severus.
He sighs, rubbing the temples of his head to ease the growing pains.
You are the first to be buried of the five. Like Sirius, there had been no recovered body to lay to rest, but they asked for a compromise instead. Your name is engraved under Euphemia’s in her tombstone, and Remus figures it’s the fitting place to leave you be — with your mother, welcoming you home with open arms. He hopes you’re at peace, wherever you are. (Because, honestly, at this point, he might just fucking follow you.)
Remus takes another swig of his alcohol, laughing bitterly to himself. He glances at James’s headstone and raises his bottle to him. “Not even in death, huh?”
He downs the last of the drink, rising to his tremulous legs. Remus gathers the flower bouquets he had bought earlier this morning; lilies-of-the-valley for Lily, white carnations for Euphemia, forget-me-nots for you, and for James — Remus leaves a moving photograph of him and Sirius; it’s a snapshot taken by Lily during the wedding as James dips his head low to kiss Sirius. Remus thinks it’s a wonderful memory to remember them by.
“Take care of them for me, Jamie.”
And that is all the goodbyes Remus has the strength for.
end note. i think i was crying the whole time i was writing this part, LMAO. i should be able to wrap things up in the next one. important!! there is actually a scene i was hesitant to include, but i ended up writing anyway. it's the whole part where allegra greengrass breaks down, and it was difficult for me to decide because i knew the implications; that i had a strong underlying message in that part, and i don't want it to be misconstrued or anything. pls pls tell me if it comes off as offensive, i definitely don't want to hurt anyone. nevertheless, thank you again so so so much for reading!! if you spot a plot hole, no you didnt!! i hope the time-jumps weren't too confusing! again, thank you so so much for reading!!
#hp angst#hp fluff#hp imagine#hp x reader#james potter x reader#lily evans x reader#marauders angst#marauders fluff#marauders imagine#marauders x reader#sirius black x reader#poly!marauders x reader#poly!marauders fluff#remus lupin x reader#sunny's hp fics
3K notes
·
View notes
Text
BSD Anthologies Masterlist
I couldn't find a comprehensive (and with still working links) masterlist of the translated anthology chapters so. Here we go! Biggest shoutout to this other masterlist by @/yokohama-drip for most of the chapter references and to bsd-bibliophile for chapters 7 and 12 of the first and second anthologies. Titles translation credits go to the bsd wiki. Happy reading!
Edit: Thank you so much @amythedemisimp for the precious additions!!!
1-5 raws
First Anthology -Rei-
Don't Get a Stomachache to Gain a Friend by Hideki
The Things I Hate, the Things I Like by Ichi Kotoko
The Devil Comes and Takes Care by KanaiNeco
Kenji 100% by Enya Uraki
The Detective Agency's Manju Incident by Ui Kashima
A Quiz During Work by Mito Aoi
Karl's Resentment by Tsubata Nozaki /// alternative translation
The Things I Like by Con Kitora
Me and the Cake and Sometimes the Pug by Kazuki Tōgō
Jun'ichirō Tanizaki's Suffering by Akamaru
Fortune-telling Will Bring Good Luck by Yūto Masagishi
Icy Weather by Tam Chashibu
What is a Partner...? by Akaza Samamiya
Second Anthology -Hana-
The Detective Agency and the Port Mafia's Holidays by Mikan Aka
Time Sale is a Battlefield by Guru Mizoguchi
Q's Stroll Day by Kazusa Subaru
Osamu Dazai Quiz Tournament by Hinoki Kino
Ruler! Fitzgerald's Room by KanaiNeco
Thirty-two. Episode Five by Kakashi Tano
Ichiyō Higuchi's Off Duty Top Secret Mission by Ataru Hida
A Restaurant with Many Literary Masters by Ko Nikaido
A Timid Person's Day by Masahiro Jinno
Hot Pots and Holidays by Sho Kimiduka
The Tiger's Repayment by Kotaro
Sweet Outing by Yuzuru Kuzukiri /// alternative translation
Bungos' Joint Social Gathering by Hideki
Stray Dogs' Lucky Spot Disagreement by Noka Nogami
Third Anthology -Rin-
Mother by Hideki /// alternative translation
The Mafia Inadvertently Read a Novel Written on a Whim and Reincarnated in a Parallel Universe by Hinoki Kino /// alternative translation
As You Wear It by Akira Hirahara /// alternative translation
The Devil's Automatic Door by Nanora /// alternative transaltion
How to Find Happiness by Kanae Ikushima /// alternative translation
Hello, Again Winter Dreams. by Pyaa /// alternative translation
The Visitor in the Rain by Togekinoko /// alternative translation
Because My Senior's Healthcare is Also My Job by Roku Sakura /// alternative translation
Good Weather, Cat Storm by Osawa /// alternative translation
Breakfast Situation by Miki Daichi /// alternative translation
Elise-chan, a Smartphone Application by KanaiNeco /// alternative translation
Q's Suffering by Hiko Nekome /// alternative translation
Tiger, Sometimes Cat by Taichi Miya /// alternative translation
The Port Mafia's Medical Check-up by Sakurana Haru
With a Hat, a Man and a Beef Bowl by Oda
Fourth Anthology -Akatsuki-
Poe and Ranpo and Enter and Black Tea by Imaru Adachi /// alternative translation
Apple Demon by Nykken
A Little Break by Siroisora
Exciting Grab Bag by Toriyasu
All Quiet on the Black Cloth Front by Mari Araki
Hirotsu-san's Coffee Shop by Yashino Ayashiro
The Client is a Cute Ghost by Otakumi
The Little Visitor in the Rain by Togekinoko
Fully Automatic Suicide Machine by Zero Akabane
Why Did You Come to Japan? by KanaiNeco
The Story of Kunikida Falling Asleep by Saru Hashino
A Hunting Dogs' Holiday by Hinoki Kino
Infernal Day by Asuka Keigen
The Decision is an Oblate that Enwraps the Pain of Life by Hideki
Fifth Anthology -Kanade-
Masterlist by @/zilinks
Sixth Anthology -Mutsumi-
Given to You Based on Your Level and Love by KanaiNeco
Detective Agency Radio by Yu Kira
GET UP LUCY!! by Kabotya
Poe, Wine and the Setting Sun by Imaru Adachi
Shindafuri Dai Sakusen by Yuri Tsukushiro
Hanachidori by iyutani
What Style Are You? by Kiyo Hasui
'Hitori' yori 'hanbun' by Neno
The Angel's Rest by Mari Araki
Mottomo Erai Egoisuto by Mutsuki Higashioji
Magomusume Sakusen, Zokkō-chū ni Tsuki by Eku Hachida
Boo no Yū by Asato Konami
Do S! Erisu-chan!! by Kakeru Sora
Young Ranpo Wants to Be Praised by Tsuki Anmi (incomplete)
#Need to make this for the other masterpost#Enjoy!!#bsd#bungou stray dogs#bsd anthology#mine#my masterlist#I hope everything is okay‚ please let me know if you notice any mistake!!
1K notes
·
View notes
Text
about you (rin x reader)
warnings: grumpy x sunshine!!! childhood friends to lovers, reader is delulu, image from our secret alliance
a/n: i had to title the fic about you since it was playing in the bg 😭😭
Being a teenage girl meant a few things. Consuming random content about silly romances and squealing over pixels; experimenting with make-up at 3 a.m; screaming at the top of your lungs to songs about heartbreak.
It also meant going delusional over your crush. In your situation, crush means your childhood friend, Rin Itoshi. Though he wasn’t yours. Not yet at least.
“Rinnie!” you greet him, not noticing the looks of bewilderment from his team. He’s calm, unlike his teammates or who he commonly refers to as npcs in his messages with you.
You already told him over the phone that you were going to visit him for a while. And to your surprise, he offered his place for you to stay at—telling you that it wasn’t a big deal since the house was too big for one person.
You think you must’ve saved a kingdom in your past life from how fortunate you’ve been lately. Like how even now, you were to manage to land early enough to visit him at practice. You’re so ecstatic that his team thinks you might be glowing.
“I found some sandwiches on my way here! You want some? Here let me go to you!” You chirp, running freely so freely that you don’t even notice the ball beneath your feet. Your ears pick up a few warnings and the sound of multiple footsteps. Yet your body picks up the feeling of a pair of strong arms and the familiar scent you’ve grown to love.
Disbelief washes over his team as they see how Rin quickly moved to catch you and their mouths are left open when they see him actually being gentle. You laugh awkwardly as you peer up at Rin who just sighs. “Idiot.”
“Hello to you too Rinnie,” you chuckle, letting him take your bag from you.
He frowns, seeing how the bags were piled with sandwiches. “Don’t call me that here. And why’d you buy so much?”
“For your team of course!”
“Why the hell would you spend your money on these shitheads—“
“Now c’mon Rinrin,” a deep voice snickers and you’re startled at the pair of pink hues that stare down at you. Your lips part, eying his tanned skin and hair of shades of blonde with pink streaks. “If a pretty lady’s offering to feed ya, you gotta say thank you right?”
“I didn’t ask you, antennaed freak. And stop calling me that.”
“Lighten up,” he grins, shifting his attention to you.
Your eyes widened in recognition, hands reaching to grab Rin’s arm—moving it so you could pull a wrapped sandwich out. “You must be Shidou right? I’m—“
“(Name) right? Heard all about you from this guy.” He takes the sandwich from, his hands purposely lingering on your palm.
Rin’s fast to shove Shidou’s hand off of yours. “Hands off.”
“What? You gonna make me?”
“You picking a fight—?“
“Rinnie talks about me?” You beam, ignoring the tension in the air. His teal-colored eyes widened, as if suddenly caught. You don’t let him stop you, instead making your way in between them to beam at Shidou. “What does he say?”
Shidou blinks, lips falling into a wide grin. “I might tell you if you let me take you ou—“
“Cut it out,” Rin’s voice interrupts, his eyes twitching in irritation.
“Are they good things?” You question, ignoring Rin’s look of exasperation.
“You bet. He talks about how pretty your eyes are and how he wants to kiss—“
“No I don’t,” your friend retorted sternly, sighing as he saw the hearts that were forming in your eyes. His hues take a moment to scan your appearance, noticing how you spent some time touching up. “You look different.”
“He means you look cute. Right Rinrin?” Shidou provokes.
“Really? That’s great because I’m trying to impress Rinnie right now!”
Both men watch in silence. You’re sure the whole field just heard that but Rin thinks you’re too oblivious to notice—sighing when you blink as a couple of his teammates give you a thumbs up as motivation.
Rin feels himself growing warm, red dusting his cheeks. He glances at you—how you smile so brightly at him. Only him. For a second, he forgets about the people around him, merely focusing on the way you grin at him. He would’ve enjoyed this moment longer if not for a shit-eating grin appearing next to him.
“Oh? Are you blushing Rin—?”
“Shut up antennaed freak,” he huffs, pulling on your arm. Rin’s eyes flit to you and how you eagerly anticipate his next move. He sighs. “We’re leaving.”
“We are? W-Wait the sandwiches!” You yelp, setting the basket on the ground as he drags you away from his team—his grip surprisingly gentle despite its firmness. You gesture at the basket, waving at his team who seem to be more bewildered at the sight of Rin pulling you away.
You smile as he opens his car door, ushering you in with a grunt. “Did you take a taxi here?”
“That’s right! Why? Did you want to pick me up instead?” you chirp.
He enters the driver’s seat, ignoring your question in his usual manner. He’s already reaching forthe seatbelt besides you, buckling you in—his scent filling your senses. Oddly enough, Rin doesn’t hear any playful remarks leaving your lips. Instead, he’s face-to-face with pursed lips and an expression that’s unmistakably embarrassment.
Oh shit, he thinks. Not again. That feeling swelling in his stomach returns, suffocating the car with tension. You’re not given much time to dwell on the pink that dusts his cheeks momentarily as he’s already reaching for his phone. “Here.”
The tension’s forgotten and it’s hard to slow your rapid heartbeat. You blink rapidly, your lips falling into a big grin once you realize his intentions. “I thought you hated my ‘lukewarm love songs.’”
“I never said that.”
“Oh? So you do like them!”
“I never said that either. Just take my phone already or else I’ll get mad. My arm’s hurting, idiot.”
“Liar. I know you like me too much to get mad,” you muse, taking his phone to open Spotify. You’re already humming to the first song that plays.
He knows you’re teasing but it’s hard to brush off the comment. Rin’s lips twitch, finding it amusing that some parts of you stayed the same since you two were children. You were always clinging onto him—making him listen to your random delusions or listen to you sob about some silly romance novel.
He knows you like stupid tropes about enemies to lovers and your strange obsession with sharing a bed. He knows that you have strange tastes and he’s never pass on making fun of you for that. He knows you like those cringey couple nicknames because they make you laugh. He also knows he doesn’t have a single romantic bone in him but for once, he doesn’t mind doing what the poets do.
You’re still humming, oblivious to what kind of thoughts linger in his brain. He hums. “Yeah. You’re right.”
“Right about what?” You ask, bemused at his sudden comment. He’s quiet, a ghost of a smirk on his face. You’re not sure if it’s the fact that About You by The 1975 is playing but the atmosphere makes you catch on far too quickly.
“Oh my god,” you say too quickly. “Rinnie do you like me? Rinnie? Stop the car! Rinnie tell me!”
Your constant pleading does little to dissuade him as he laughs silently to himself—the sight rare even for you. “You do! You do! You like me!”
“Shut up or else I’m taking the phone away.”
“That’s mean! Wait a minute, that means we’re dating now right? Does that mean I can call you pookie wookiee—?”
“No.”
“Oh you didn’t say no to us dating! You can’t take it back!”
He sighs again, smiling softly. Feelings are weird, Rin thinks. They’re even weirder when confronted but he doesn’t mind doing that when it’s for you. He sighs for the nth time.
“Idiot. Why would I take that back? You said it yourself. I like you too much.”
The car’s silent and About You is still playing. It’s silent and Rin can’t resist glancing over at you, his eyes widening slightly. He suddenly understands why you go so crazy for those books and shows of yours—the ones about love. Since seeing you wear such an expression is enough to make him realize that love isn’t so bad after all.
#itoshi rin x you#rin itoshi x reader#blue lock#bllk#bllk x reader#blue lock x reader#fluff#rin x reader#rin itoshi#itoshi rin#rin x you#rin itoshi x you#bllk fluff#childhood friends
417 notes
·
View notes
Text
moon bend the knife
pairing: ieiri shoko/reader
word count: 3181
rating: explicit
warnings/tags: smut, established relationship, canon-typical discussions of violence, masturbation, strap-ons, tender sex, some emotional hurt/comfort.
notes: for the end of 2023, have some tender shoko! title from perfume genius, some superficial references to the heart sutra and other buddhist recollections. this is diametrically opposed to my other shoko fic (or is it?). mostly unedited, completely not beta-read.
There’s no rush here, you remind yourself. You don’t have infinite moments with Shoko— you may not even have tomorrow, the luxury of long life not the path you walk— but you have this time right now. There is more love here than curse.
read on ao3
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“So don’t,” Shoko says. She’s standing between your knees, toweling your hair dry for you.
It had been a bad mission. The way that leads to short life makes you yourself short-lived. With curses, survival was dumb luck as much as innate skill. Sometimes, you were standing a foot in the wrong direction. Today, it had been the right direction. You’d gotten out with nothing worse than bruised ribs. Your partner had not been as fortunate.
In the aftermath, Nanami had driven you to Shoko’s apartment. He had helped you get into the passenger seat of his car and fastened the seat belt around you when you couldn’t coordinate the movement. All you can remember from the drive is the rain sheeting down the windows, washing the smears of blood left from your hands. Nanami hadn’t even complained about the puddles of bloody water you had left in his car, or smeared across his nice shirt from your impromptu embrace.
You clear your throat, shake the thoughts out of your head. “Tell me about your day.”
“Corpses, mostly, but none of them were yours.”
Shoko whips the towel off of your head, leaving you blinking with your hair in your face. When you push the damp hair back from your eyes, she’s already turned away from you to inspect her face in the mirror.
You both know the state of the world you live in. The list of Tokyo veterans dwindles with every month that passed. It is human to hold pain close to the chest, and only more expected for jujutsu sorcerers. You see it in the way the lines drew tighter and tighter on Nanami’s face, the false cadence of Satoru’s laughter, Utahime’s dry eyes at every funeral, the deepening purple bags under Shoko’s eyes. Today, it hadn’t been you.
Grief is the most constant companion a sorcerer has. By nature, it makes you all a tricky breed. There’s a reason it’s easier for sorcerers to be solitary, distant, isolated— or, at least, to hold anything else closer than you held others. Satoru feels the emptiness of Suguru so keenly that he holds it even closer than Shoko. You had worked with your partner for a little over a year before today; there will be someone else waiting for you with the next curse. Maybe a student, maybe an auxiliary manager, maybe someone from Kyoto. Nature and jujutsu society abhor a vacuum. The empty space will be filled; it will never be full again. It never is full to start with.
As the sutra went: form is emptiness, emptiness is form.
Let me know when you get inside, Nanami had told you. Shoko had met you at the door, still in her wrinkled scrubs from the morgue. You were certain that if she hadn’t, his car would still be idling below until he received an all-clear. As soon as you had gotten into the apartment, Shoko had stripped you down in the kitchen and examined your wounds herself right then and there. Then, she had whisked you into the shower with her. All of the mud and blood had been scrubbed from your skin, leaving only the bruises as physical evidence of what you had survived.
You put your arms around Shoko, making eye contact with her in the mirror. “None of them were me,” you agree, voice soft.
After a second, Shoko turns in your arms, presses her face into your neck. Her sigh is warm against your jaw. You both smell like the expensive soap she buys, cypress and balsam. It feels good to stand like this, belly to belly, the sensation of her skin against yours a comfort.
It is a careful practice to think to yourself: I must be parted from whatever I hold dear.
Shoko maps her hands down the sides of your ribs, over your soft belly. It would feel clinical if you didn’t know her better. You know she’s tracing up the line of a laceration that would have killed you if she hadn’t gotten to you in time. The scar is old and silver now, thanks to her reverse cursed technique, but every now and then you wake up convinced your guts are spilling into your lap.
You wince as her touch moves towards the edges of your bruised ribs. A frown touches Shoko’s lips. Her eyes are fixed on your injured body, but she looks as though she’s far away. You could pass your hand in front of her eyes and you’re not sure she would blink. You think to yourself again: pain held close and dear.
“What’s the diagnosis, doc? How long do I have to live?”
To your relief, Shoko’s lips twist up into a wry smile even as she rolls her eyes at you. “You’re not very funny.”
You allow yourself a giggle, mostly of relief and dizzy exhaustion. “I’m a little funny.”
She pokes her finger into your bruised ribs. You squeak and jerk back. Point taken. “Jerk,” you tell her.
Her smile softens. This time, when she passes her hand over your ribs, heat fizzes out from her fingers. The edges of the bruising spread and fade: purple-black, green, yellow. She leaves them in that middle stage, an ugly green-yellow like a cat’s eye, but the worst of the tenderness is gone when you shift and twist to see.
This gift is greater than it appears. Shoko’s cursed energy is precious. She’s always on call, always ready for her phone to go off with the next horror story that will need to be triaged. It’s why the higher-ups keep her on campus and not in the field; she’s too valuable to lose in this war. When all else fails, she must remain. All sorcerers relive their grief, but Shoko has to dissect it. It’s easy for the jujutsu world to denounce Ieiri Shoko as cold, yet another special grade as distant as the stars, but you know that she is just another mortal woman.
You catch her wrist, press a kiss into her palm. “Why don’t we go to bed?”
Shoko touches your cheek. “Let me take care of you,” she says.
Some nights, you think you would say no. She works too hard, your Shoko, and it’s your honor to take care of her in a way that she doesn’t let anyone else. Tonight, there’s something in the way she’s looking at you, expressed in the way that she washed your hair and healed your ribs. This desire is something that would be cruel to deny her.
“Okay,” you say, leaning in for another kiss. “I’m at your mercy, then.”
That earns you another eye-roll and a nip to your bottom lip. As lucky as you are to be on Shoko’s leash when she deigns fit, that’s clearly not the mood she’s in tonight. That’s more than okay with you. You crave her touch, her warmth, more than anything. You’ve sat up with that desire many a night, let it scald you. Some of those nights, you think the only thing that burns bright within you is that want, that attachment.
Shoko’s apartment is replete with shadows at this hour. Only the kitchen light is on, banishing the darkness to the margins of the apartment. When you take a breath, you can smell the faint spice of incense. Shoko often burns tiny cones of incense or the fancy candles that Satoru furnishes her with. The scent marks her home like her cigarettes. The thought flashes to you with the smoke, tears stinging your eyes: there would hardly be enough left of your mission partner to cremate.
Shoko squeezes your hand. You blink, remember to let the air leave your lungs. Let it pass through you like the blood spiraling down the shower drain. You let her lead you to her bed.
It’s most likely a doctor’s consideration for her lover’s wounds, but at first, she lets you straddle her lap and bury her in kisses. You kiss down her neck, relishing the way she leans her head to give you more room, the soft sigh when you let your teeth close around her throat. Run your fingers through her damp hair, cup the weight of her breast in your palm, hold the gentle curve of her waist. You let yourself rest your tired head in the crook of her shoulder, breathing in the soapy, salty musk of her skin.
The rain pours down the windows of the apartment. There’s no rush here, you remind yourself. You don’t have infinite moments with Shoko— you may not even have tomorrow, the luxury of long life not the path you walk— but you have this time right now. There is more love here than curse. It’s hard to think of the woman cradled in your arms as anything but yours. You pause, let the desire wash over you, let it strip you bare.
Shoko steers you down against the pillows with a touch to your arm. She lets you situate yourself again her pillows— luxuriously plump, the silky sheets cool against your hot skin— before crawling back over you. She straddles one of your thighs, careful to keep her weight off of you, which is as frustrating as it is practically appreciated. You wouldn’t mind a little soreness if it meant being even closer to her.
Shoko kisses you until you’re breathless and pliant under her. Her tongue tastes like mint toothpaste. All of the tobacco has been scrubbed out of her teeth, her nails, her hair. Clean, stripped of armor and title and distance, starlight made heavy for you to hold.
You skim your hands across her shoulders, tucking her loose hair over her shoulder as her mouth moves to your chest. She sucks a kiss into the sensitive underside of your breast, her other hand coming up to cup the other. Shoko has always had a possessive streak when it comes to you. She grazes her teeth over your nipple and you whimper without meaning to, arching up to encourage her touch. Your ribs protest the movement with a sharp pulse, and then you’re whimpering for a different reason.
Shoko is quick to check: “Did that hurt?”
“I’m fine. But you might need to take care of me a little faster.” You affect a little yawn that turns jaw-cracking without your permission, your ribs twinging again with the great inhale.
Shoko shoots you a blazing look; you have the grace to be a little sheepish in return. There will be another time where she’ll let you push all of her buttons, admit to liking your teasing. Maybe tomorrow, when the violence of the day has worn its teeth on time. Shoko knows what you need; this is for her as much as it is intended for you. She needs to feel you here, hale and whole under her palms. There are many corpses in this time of wars, but you are not one of them.
When you give her shoulder a gentle tug, she comes up easily. You cup her neck with one hand, lean in to kiss the mole under her eye. “I’ll be good,” you promise, sweet and earnest, and press the same promise against her lips. “Take care of me, Shoko.”
Shoko lets you lick her mouth open. Sighs when you move your thigh just so against her bare cunt. You can feel that she’s already wet, which sends arousal zipping up your own spine. “You’re incorrigible,” she murmurs, but she makes it sound so fond you can’t help but smile.
Your breath catches as she takes your fingers into her mouth. Shoko sucks on your fingers as she rubs herself against your thigh, her thigh flexing against you in turn. Pleasure thrums through you like a well-struck chord, the pluck of a shamisen string. If this is what she wants, you are well-enough cared for. Then, to your chagrin, she moves back to sit on her heels. The hot weight of her gaze keeps you pinned in place, sprawled out in her bed. Her naked appreciation almost makes you want to hide, but you know better. You wonder what she sees hidden in the curves and lines of your body.
Shoko swings her legs off the side of the bed with a leisurely stretch, and then leans over you again. “Keep yourself occupied for me,” she says, emphasizing her words with her thumb tracing over your bottom lip. She drags your wet fingers over your cunt to underscore the command. Your touch is pale fire compared to hers, but you still moan as you roll your fingers over your clit. That intense urge for closeness, for touch, has your breath quickening, your cunt pulsing heavy with your own touch and the promise of hers.
You bite your lip as you watch her slip her long legs into the simple leather harness and tighten the straps against her hips. Shoko has always been beautiful, even tucked into her stark, shapeless white coat. She’s backlit from the warm light spilling in from the kitchen, she looks even more like a dream, built like a bough of a willow. Her dark hair hangs over her shoulder, cheek limned in light.
When she looks at you, you spread your legs a little wider for her. You hope she can see you wet and wanting for her. As she approaches, her shadow spills over you. She passes her hand over her cock, wet and shiny with lube. You know part of her choice slips inside of her, so she can feel what you feel mirrored.
“C’mon, Sho,” you urge her. “I want to feel you inside of me.”
You lay on your good side, arms open for her. When she settles next to you, you stretch your leg over her hip, wiggling to get the hard line of her dildo to rub just right against your clit. Shoko grunts at the pressure it puts on her, lips parting. You breathe in. Cypress and balsam soap, the salt and musk of her skin. She pushes inside you and you exhale against her jaw. There’s nothing but her.
You lay like that for a second, together, just breathing. The impatience has fallen out of you, just like that. Nothing but the two of you; nothing but form; nothing but that nothing. Her breath on your mouth tastes like a koan. You have never felt more alive than you do with her hands on you. Shoko shifts her hips, adjusts the strap; you knot your fingers in her hair, wait for her to move. She knows what you like, what you need. It’s a slow, tender rhythm, an undulation of her hips that builds pleasure in you like a wave.
You make no effort to muffle your moans. You clench against her cock inside of you, bumping your hips closer. Shoko kisses your jaw, runs her tongue along the shell of your ear, ducks down to nuzzle your shoulder. Then, she presses her forehead against yours. You’re pressed together, fitting all the way along your bodies. If you as much as twitch, the other feels it.
“Tell me how it feels,” Shoko says. It’s an order, if only a soft one.
“So good,” you tell her, arching into her and not minding the ache. “You’re so good, Shoko, treating me so well.”
Shoko kisses you again, teeth clinking together, unexpectedly desperate. You whimper into her mouth, clit grinding against the leather knots of her harness. It’s building up fast at this angle, cresting over you.
“Shoko, ‘m so close—“
“I know,” Shoko whispers, grinding her hips at that dizzying angle. Pressed this close, you can feel her heart pounding in her chest as if it were your own. “I know, let go for me. I want to see my pretty girl come for me.”
You had lied before: you do want to talk about it. You want to tell Shoko everything. You want to hold her closer than you’ve ever held anyone, keep her all to yourself. You hold the desire deep inside yourself, roll it smooth like a pebble in a river as you shake with her pleasure. Is it too much to tell her you fantasize of running away from it all with her? If you offered your hand, would Shoko take it?
You know it’s a moot point, at most another pipe dream that sorcerers hold in the privacy of their souls next to all of the grief. Attachment is the root of all suffering. I must be parted from whatever I hold dear. In the car, Nanami had told you he thought of retiring to a beach on Kuantan where there would be no such thing as curses. Neither of you can abandon your duties like that. What matters is that you’re here with her. The moment will pass like the rain, but you will share it nonetheless.
You must have been a saint in your last life to end up here with her.
Shoko fucks you through your orgasm, her breath stuttering as she presses her forehead against yours. You keep your thigh stretched up over her hip, whispering incoherent encouragement into her mouth, take what you need, I’m here. When Shoko comes, it is with a sound that is nearly a sob.
You stay curled together, slick with sweat, listening to each other’s breathing slow. Finally, she rolls away from you, tugs the harness and strap down her legs and kicks it to the end of the bed with an uncharacteristic lack of care. She tosses a delicate wrist over her flushed face, her other hand wrapped around yours.
The rain is still pouring outside, stained-blue pattering down the window. It will rain through the night, through the next day. There is a pile of bloodied clothes in the kitchen that will need to be dealt with come morning. At some point, your phone or hers will ring and bring you back to your duties and promises. Emptiness and form. Shoko’s apartment may not be Malaysia, is certainly not free from the ravages of the cursed world, but you can stay here a while.
Golden light pours over Shoko’s shoulders as she leans in to press one last kiss to your lips. Then, she’s twisting away from you to open her bedside drawer. There’s the click of a lighter, and an exhale. Smoke swirls up in the light; sweet, haylike tobacco eclipses the cypress soap. With her shoulders set against the darkness from the window, Shoko looks very far away. You reach over, tracing your fingers down her spine. She shivers. Then, she falls back with a gentle thump against the mattress, cigarette still caught between her lips.
When her eyes meet yours, you think that to her, there is never any distance between you. You don’t need any words.
“If you set the bed on fire, I’m breaking up with you,” you threaten.
Shoko chuckles, voice raspy. “Yeah, yeah,” she says. “I love you too.”
#jjk x reader#jujutsu kaisen x reader#shoko ieiri x reader#shoko x reader#ieiri shoko#smut#jjk#reader insert#jujutsu kaisen#shoko ieiri#nanami kento#f/f fanfic
157 notes
·
View notes
Text
“During the same twenty-five year period that feminist theory and practice have been ongoing, a trend in theory called postmodernism has been working on undoing it. Its main target is, precisely, reality.
Part of the problem in coming to grips with postmodernism is that, pretending to be profound while being merely obscure (many are fooled), slathering subjects with words, its selfproclaimed practitioners fairly often don’t say much of anything. A splendid illustration is the parody of postmodern writing that was in fact gibberish that was accepted and published in a leading postmodern journal (see Alan D. Sokal's Transgressing the Boundaries: Toward a Transformative Hermeneutics of Quantum Gravity.)
Postmodernism as practiced often comes across as style— petulant, joyriding, more posture than position. But it has a method, making metaphysics far from dead. Its approach and its position, its posture toward the world and its view of what is real, is that it’s all mental. Postmodernism imagines that society happens in your head.
What [feminists] said was credible because it was real. Few people claimed that women were not violated in the ways we had found or did not occupy a second class status in society. Not many openly disputed that what we had uncovered did, in fact, exist. What was said instead was that, in society, nothing really exists.
Even questioning in the name of “differences” whether “women” exist and can be spoken of.
Antiessentialism is one facet of this objection: the view that there is no such thing as “women” because there are always other aspects to women’s identities and bases other than sex for their oppressions. The defense of multiculturalism is another facet of it: there is no such thing as women in the singular, there are only women in the plural, many different particularized, localized, socially constructed, culturally modified women, hence no “women” in what postmodernists imagine is the feminist sense.
The postmodern critique of feminism seems to assume that the “women” of feminist theory are all the same, homogeneous, a uniform unit. I do not know where they got this idea either. Not from me. They don’t say. This notion that everyone must be the same to have access to the label “women” is not an idea that operates in feminist theory to my knowledge. Women, in feminist theory, are concrete; they are not abstract. In fact, feminism in one sense started the critique of universality as currently practiced by showing how women are left out of the human episteme.
Domination, postmodernists know exists, but they don’t tell us how or where or why. It is something that no one does. What we used to call “what happened to her,” has become, at its most credible, “narrative”. But real harm has ceased to exist. So whole chapters of books with “pornography” in their titles can be written without ever once talking about what the pornography industry concretely does, who they are, or what is done to whom in and with the materials.
Abuse has become “agency”—or rather challenges to sexual abuse have been replaced by invocations of “agency,” women’s violation become the sneering wound of a “victim” pinned in arch quotation marks. Instead of facing what was done to women when we were violated, we are told how much freedom we had at the time. Postmodernists ought to have to confront the human pain of the ideas they think are so much fun.
Postmodern feminists seldom build on or refer to the real lives of real women directly; mostly, they build on the work of French men, if selectively and often not very well. Feminist postmodernism is far, far away from the realities of the subordination of women. All women should be so fortunate. Postmodernists have to portray women actually having power that men largely have in order to confuse people about power. (That they want to avoid being called sexist in the process, we have accomplished.)
What postmodernists want, I have come to think, apart from to live in their heads instead of in the world (that old dodge), is to vault themselves out of power methodologically. They want to beat dominance at its own game, which is usually called dominating. They want to win every argument in advance.
The reason that it doesn’t appear to men (especially men of the theory class) that the world exists independently of their minds is because they largely do have the power to do whatever happens in their minds.
Women are in a position to know this to the extent that reality does not respond to us. What we know is that the power to make reality be real is a product of social power to act, not just to imagine. We know that reality is about power because we can imagine change all day long and nothing is any different. The reality of people who don’t have power exists independently of what they think. The social constructs that control their lives very often are not their constructs. Any woman who doesn’t know this, in my opinion, has not pushed very hard on the walls around her and other women, or has been, so far, very privileged and very lucky.
This is a criticism; it is not an inevitability. We can collectively intervene in social life, but not if we deny that it is there or what makes it be there.
What does this suggest about their ability to promote change? What is postmodernism’s project? How linear, how teleological, how serious. To whom and what is it accountable? I say it is accountable to academic hierarchy. Who else can afford this theory? Postmodernism appropriates its methodological pretensions and gestures from feminism, but it doesn’t practice them.
So it’s forward to the past: to yet another set of abstractions with no accountability to subordinated peoples’ reality and an implicit but total accountability to power, with familiar if fancier reasons for doing nothing—radicalsounding, but with the same origins, a dislocated elite, and the same consequences, a disengaged theory, that corrodes material resistance to power.
Postmodernism’s analysis of the social construction of reality is stolen from feminism and the left but gutted of substantive content— producing Marxism without the working class, feminism without women. It’s an abstract critique of abstract subjects. The hall of mirrors (that’s plural) that much of postmodernism substitutes for any attempt to grasp a real social world is an ultimate collapse into liberalism’s relativism regresses.
Once postmodernism’s various acts of theft and sell-out are exposed, what is left is a pose, an empty gesture of theatrical anarchism (to which Marx’s critique applies), a Hegelian negation of the status quo (and just as determined by it), liberalism’s terrible child (many liberals look plenty grounded and engaged by comparison), a precious politics of abdication and passivism.
I do know this: we cannot have this postmodernism and still have a meaningful practice of women’s human rights, far less a women’s movement.
Postmodernism, empty as much of it is, is taking up a lot of feminist theoretical energy in this one world that we all go to sleep in and wake up in. Postmodernism is an academic theory, originating in academia with an academic elite, not in the world of women and men, where feminist theory is rooted. In the early 1970s, I (for one) had imagined that feminists doing theory would retheorize life in the concrete rather than spend the next three decades on metatheory, talking about theory, rehashing over and over in this disconnected way how theory should be done, leaving women’s lives twisting in the wind.
My feeling is, if the postmodernists took responsibility for changing even one real thing, they would learn more about theory than everything they have written to date put together. Instead, as practiced by postmodernists, the job of theory, as the blood sport of the academic cutting edge, is to observe and pass on and play with these big questions, out of touch with and unaccountable to the lives of the unequal. Their critically-minded students are taught that nothing is real, that disengagement is smart (not to mention careerpromoting), that politics is pantomime and ventriloquism, that reality is a text (reading is safer than acting any day), that creative misreading is resistance (you feel so radical and comfortably marginal), that nothing can be changed (you can only amuse yourself). With power left standing, the feminism of this theory cannot be proven by any living woman. It is time to ask these people: what are you doing?”
Points On Postmodernism by Catharine MacKinnon
2K notes
·
View notes
Note
Hellooooo! Saw the last ask about tarot cards and while you don't have to answer this, I'd like to give the meanings of the cards that we've seen in the chapter titles, which I'll let others make the connections cause this is already gonna be pretty long if you choose to answer this ask lol
Please note all of these are the general information and meanings about the cards (upright) I could find and the meanings can slightly vary depending on the kind of reading being done and the paired cards <3
Chapter 1: Death. Generally this actually refers to new beginnings and change! It's also a good reference to the talk of sight and death in the first chapter imo, very clever play on your part!
Chapter 2: Seven of Cups. This generally is interpreted as having many options or multiple possibilities, which can either be a comfort due to having options but also could inform you of a sense of being overwhelmed due to too many choices.
Chapter 3: Page of Wands. Often this means good news that should be coming to you soon (often represented by mail or a phone call wink wonk) though for the particular chapter I feel it's relevant to point out some other interpretations, including but not limited to: being inspired or creative, making new exciting plans, finding something you are passionate about, and having a tendency to rush into new things without thinking them through.
Chapter 4: Two of Pentacles. Oft a representation of trying to find or maintain the balance of various aspects of ones life! It can also be a warning to those trying to juggle too many things at once.
Chapter 5: Trochomancy. Not sure if this is a tarot card, I've never heard of it and I can't find anything about it in any of my sources so. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ though I did find a definition of the word from a simple Google search: "Trochomancy is a divination by interpreting the wheel tracks." Which plays in well with our little bike trip.
Chapter 6: The Moon. The simplest interpretation for this card generally is that everything is not as it seems, be it a person or a situation in your life.
Chapter 7: Three of Pentacles. This generally is seen as a good card in a reading, often representing things like learning and/or apprenticeship, hard work, dedication, and building on success or foundations!
Chapter 8: Seven of Pentacles. Generally, this card tells you that you've been working very hard and soon your hard work will pay off. A wonderful successor to a card like the Three of Pentacles! You've used these very cleverly, it makes me so happy to see these pair so well with each other and the chapters!!! New thing to be insane about your fic!
Chapter 9: Clamomancy. ALAS! Stuck again with one I've not heard of as a card or can find in my sources, my apologies. But, again, I could find a definition from the ever reliable yet not so reliable Google! "Fortune-telling from the random shouts and cries heard in crowds, at night, etc." I. AM. STARING. 👁️👁️
Chapter 10: Two of Cups. A little ironic considering it's general upright reading interpretation and how the chapter starts out lol. Two of Cups often means things should be going well for you and your life should be very harmonious. It can also mean harmony and mutual respect friendships/partnerships, and all in all has a lot to do with balance regarding life and relations.
Chapter 11: Six of Swords. At the time of writing all this out I actually haven't read this one yet so I'm very excited to see how the cards meanings apply to this chapter! This card generally means moving on or making progress (love that idea), but can also be interpreted as escaping/running away (👁️👁️) or travel! But most often means things like the calm after the storm (👁️👁️) I'm excited to find out how these apply!
I need you to know I actually love you (platonically) for being this amazingly creative and playing these so well!
Thankyou for going to all the effort of writing these! <3 Some of the chapter titles do play into the reversed readings of the cards too, which is something that's worth considering if you want to deep dive!
I anticipate GITM being 100+ chapters so while I intend to use the entire major and minor arcana Tarot as titles, I will also be including some Astral Houses, Lenormand Cards, divinatory practices and philosophical ideas to fill the gaps!
111 notes
·
View notes
Text
Matsuri - (Xiao x Fem!Reader x Scaramouche) - Modern!UniStudents!AU
word count : 5.1k
trigger warning: none except potential swearing. reader wears a dress and is referred to in feminine titles.
Chapter 2 - Someday .
Proceed to masterlist - Matsuri .
---
“Anonymous: thank you…?”
You were positive you were dreaming when you saw the private message on the anonymous website of your college community. There was actually no way this was him, was someone messing with you after they saw your post? That had to be it, it felt too good to be true.
You shakily typed back a response after pondering for a solid minute spent staring at the screen motionlessly.
“Are you really the drummer who played Raise Hell?” You hesitantly pressed “Send”, heart pounding in your chest with millions of questions raising in your head. It was the name of the first song they performed, the hidden gem you didn’t imagine many knew until you coincidentally heard the familiar melody today.
To your surprise, the reply came relatively faster than you first assumed.
“I am, yes. Could I ask who you are?” Slight anxiety from his curt message made your hand tremble as you hurriedly thought of a reply. People don’t normally immediately tell their names or introduction in situations such as this, do they? It’s not as if he knows you to begin with, so you decide to somewhat divert the question.
“I was at your performance, and I just wanted to write about how cool it was to see you and your bandmates on stage. I’m sorry if the post made you uncomfortable!” You sent the reply, and stared at his previous message for a while. Call it the spur of the moment, but you remember adding something embarrassing along the lines of “I wonder if he has a girlfriend”. It was too late to delete or edit the post now but god, you truly did regret adding that part. It's not like you could’ve known he would (un)fortunately see it, or even send you a private message to begin with. You didn’t even write to post in an attempt to court him if that’s what he was worried about. Then again you imagine you’d find yourself apprehensive if you saw the same post regarding your performance if you were in his shoes.
Just as you were starting to wonder if you said something weird for him to not want to reply anymore, he thankfully did after around ten minutes.
“Not at all, it was just curiosity speaking. Thank you for appreciating our performance.” Now, you appreciate him replying at all but his messages really had no corner for you to turn to continue the conversation. Was it perhaps on purpose? You guess you’d never know if you didn’t push your luck a bit.
“Your first performance really was amazing because I hadn’t heard Raise Hell in years! I really liked the arrangement your band made.” Your eyes nearly popped out when he replied almost immediately after you pressed send.
“Oh, Raise Hell? It’s nice to hear the band isn’t as underappreciated as I thought. :)” Shoot, your heart almost leapt out of your chest at the random smile he added at the end. Something about the fact that he wrote the smiley face in between two dots to end the sentence properly made it even more adorable than it probably would’ve been otherwise.
You blinked in slight pause when you noticed the smile on your face that bloomed beyond your control, and at least attempted to keep a straight expression on the bus in a sea of passengers.
“I love the song, I used to listen to it a lot back in high school. I really didn’t expect to hear it today, your band did an amazing job performing it, truly.” You wrote the reply back after a little more than 3-5 minutes so as to not startle him with an instant reply. Call it dignity or pretending to have something to do if you will, there’s just something distasteful about immediately replying especially to someone you barely knew. And in this case, a complete stranger you knew nothing about except for the fact that he plays the drum and is unfairly attractive.
After a while, your phone vibrated in your hand. The speed at which you picked it up to check the message would be somewhat embarrassing to let someone else see, but truth be told you couldn’t be bothered to think of what strangers on the transportation thought of you when you were overjoyed that you actually managed to contact the pretty drummer like this.
“I suggested the song to my bandmates, actually. It took a little bit of persuasion but it was worth it in the end, I’d say.” As if he was actually talking in front of you, you nodded a little as you read the last part. “Worth it” would be an understatement, their band truly did an amazing job performing the song. You found yourself repeating that over and over both to him and yourself.
Suddenly you felt maybe it wasn’t a bad idea to write that post spontaneously after all.
—
The pretty drummer had slowly become some sort of an internet friend before you knew it. It had been a little more than two months since you two first started chatting. It was like an unspoken rule between you two to keep the somewhat exciting anonymity, neither of you knowing each other’s names or faces yet. Well, you’d be the one with a slight advantage because at least you knew how his hair looked. The raven locks flowing past his shoulder slightly with that prominent forest green streak, it was hard not to remember. But then again, he was wearing a mask and even if he weren’t, you couldn’t have had a clear look from the distance between your seat and the stage. So in other words, it was safe to say neither of you knew much about each other personally except for the most random messages you two end up sharing in the comfort of anonymity. He was a great listener in spite of being a curt replier, he somehow always made his responses short and direct while still not making you feel uncomfortable or cornered.
For example, you mentioned yesterday how you were craving a slice of cake and he simply sent two cafes near you two’s college with a “These places are pretty cheap and nice to sit in.” The other day you briefly ranted about your college group presentations with teammates and he gave you short advice on how to deal with the ones who slack off, the ones who are stubborn and only want to pursue their own ideas. College was tiring and an insufferable struggle, both of you seem to bond over that one fact if nothing else each day past.
On the other hand, you had to explicitly ask him a question if you wanted to learn anything more about him. The most he asked from you was your age on the day you started chatting, and he turned out to be one year older than you. So you had automatically assumed he was probably a junior since this semester was your second year of sophomore year. Well, that turned out to be your false assumption because he mentioned that he was one year below you in engineering college this morning in the middle of a conversation, albeit a bit randomly. You’d like to think he brought up the topic because he wanted your chat to continue or perhaps because he wanted to get to know you better. Though you weren’t sure if he knew how out of the blue it felt to see a reply of his major and year 17 minutes after you left him on read at his “Ah, I see.” when you mentioned how particularly tasty your iced drink tasted in the morning while you were semi-running late to your lecture. You could only assume.
He had a habit of replying a bit on the later side during the weekdays and relatively sooner on weekends you noticed. One thing you found somewhat cute was how he always disappeared around 11pm every day with a “Good night. :).” and replied to your latest message the next morning around 7am with a “Good morning. :).” His smiley emojis were one of the sole reasons for your happiness as of late if you could afford to be a bit dramatic.
What surprised you the most was how he mentioned he had been playing the drum for only half a year now, and claimed to be a complete beginner. Now, you don’t know much about drumming to start with but unless playing an instrument in a band that mostly performed upbeat hard-rock songs was extremely unchallenging (you knew for a fact it wasn’t easy), this guy had to be gifted. Truly gifted.
You felt yourself slowly getting attached to him, the more you talked on the anonymous platform. It felt so easy to fit him into your daily routine, just having a comforting online figure to talk to. Well, maybe for some people his replies wouldn’t be comforting and you may be overthinking, but it did feel like he was making an effort to make his messages sound less harsh. By that you mean he'd attach a “:)” or heart-react to your message if he found it pleasant to see once in a while. That could mean something, no? Even if it was out of common courtesy, it wouldn’t hurt getting a little ahead of yourself if it wasn’t hurting anyone, right?
—
That was all in your sophomore year. It startled you when you noticed an entire year had passed since you first met Xiao, especially since your memory was crystal clear from the way you spent every day giddily waiting for him to reply.
Unfortunately before you knew it, you two began to grow distant more and more as class workload had gotten the best of you after around 2 months or a bit longer since you got into the habit of chatting with him every day. To be perfectly honest, you two did end up changing social media accounts. But the problem was in the fact that he rarely logged in and didn’t reply to your messages for a week or longer because he hardly ever used it so in truth you semi-regretted choosing to move onto another platform where you two could communicate. There were times where you uploaded a picture including your face on your stories to see if Xiao (you finally got his name the day you two followed one another’s accounts) would see, but there was no use. He never watched your stories, or probably anyone’s in fact. 68 followers and 54 following, no pictures and no stories with a single song link on his bio- that was his account. An account you were positive he remembered the existence of once in a full moon, you were convinced. So it was almost safe to say you two remained strangers who now happen to know each other’s names and nothing else, even after exchanging your social media.
His long, long absence on his account slowly contributed to you two growing apart and hence, you hadn’t talked to him at all for the past 9 or so months.
That’s why from the announcement of Breeze, you silently wondered if he was even in the band still to begin with. If only you were still in contact, maybe you could’ve known prior and even cheered him before he went upstage. Or, you don’t know- be less startled by his potential appearance and not feel like your heart is going to leap out of your chest, holding your breath to see if he would actually be here? Some bandmates, especially the ones in college often seem to quit amidst their time together due to various problems, academic pressure being a popular reason why. Now that you were in your junior year and him in his sophomore year as you assumed, maybe he had quit due to workload that drove you two apart in the first place.
Well, you were wrong.
Your breath hitched when you surely saw him walk towards the seat behind the drumset with his familiar black attire, his street-comfy style still similar to the first day you saw him. Only this time he was in a black leather jacket, his signature (or so you assumed) silver jewellery layered around his neck and over his fingers in forms of stylish rings. This time everything about him graced your eyes, perhaps too much so from the way your heart wouldn’t calm down from seeing him again. His hair was slightly longer than you remembered last year, and most importantly- he wasn’t wearing a mask this time. Being in the front row, your eyes widened and nearly popped out of your sockets when you saw his face so clearly. He was beautiful. He had a curious shade of amber eyes, and a bold red eyeliner drawn similarly to Scaramouche as you noticed earlier. You didn’t know when red eyeliner had become a trend or if their tastes just happened to overlap, but you continued staring at him as if you temporarily forgot that you weren’t watching this on screen, but in person.
You shamelessly gawked over Xiao’s attractive appearance as you stood motionlessly amidst Kazuha and Hutao sharing a lively conversation, you didn’t even notice when she moved over next to him and you found yourself shoulder-to-shoulder to Scaramouche again. Maybe you would’ve been irritated by her switching sides and consequently forcing you to tolerate the smug brat next to you, but the moment you saw Xiao again, nothing else seemed to matter. In fact, you didn’t even hear him poking fun at you anymore as he started off his band performance with the same four hits on the cymbal. The entire moment felt like déjà-vu, the familiar sight of Xiao playing the drum with a silent yet domineering confidence, and you in the audience in awe. And once more, you felt yourself completely enthralled by Xiao.
You’d be lying if you didn’t keep him in your mind even though you didn’t speak anymore. Perhaps it was foolish to feel this sense of longing? missing? when you hadn’t even spoken a single word in person before. In fact, you were sure Xiao didn’t even know what you looked like.
A pang of sadness made you softly put your hand over your chest as your expression flashed melancholy. He left such a lasting impact on you, adorning your thoughts and stayed in your restless mind for months of no contact. And when you finally somehow found your fate cross his again, you were brutally reminded of how little you truly mattered to him. You bit the inside of your cheek in conflicted emotions as you realised you were the same as everyone else in the crowd in his eyes. A complete stranger.
The moment he set foot on stage, your world faded away to nothing and your entire focus had shifted to nowhere else but Xiao. All the while being painfully aware of the reality- he doesn’t know what you look like or perhaps doesn’t even remember your name. You had to remind yourself you were just a passing by online friend for him, not this fated destiny you somehow managed to convince yourself it was.
Perhaps your gaze was overly clear or the way you completely fell silent and stayed unmoving was too obvious, it unintentionally captured the attention of the not-exactly-a-stranger next to you.
“Ex or something, is he?” You didn’t even think he was talking to you until you yet again saw him turn his head entirely to stare at you. Him and his unyielding gaze.
“What?”
“That drummer you’ve been staring at nonstop.” His tone was devoid of the amusement he held earlier, diverting his indigo gaze to Xiao. For a moment, it almost looked like he was concerned about your sudden change in behaviour, but you brushed off the thought. Why would he be worried? That was ridiculous.
“No, just…” You found yourself stumbling over your words as you paused before explaining how you knew the drummer. What were you to him anyways? More than a nobody, yet less than a friend? Or were you two entirely strangers at this point? If it entirely came to that, you couldn’t even deny the possibility of someone else chatting with you because they saw your post and wanted to ridicule you. But come on, you two had been chatting every day for a few months, surely at least it was him?
“...someone I know, I guess.” Settling for a vague reply, you mumbled under your breath. It didn’t take a genius to know you couldn’t offer any more explanation, and thankfully Scaramouche hums in acknowledgement. Although he dropped the subject, whether he stopped pressing on because he truly noticed your hesitance or just lost interest remains unknown.
“You might want to be discreet with the staring. You’re very much visible to him, if you didn’t realise.” Just when you thought he’d gotten the hint. With a sigh you crossed your arms over your shoulder, facing Scaramouche.
“Well, it’s not like he’s going to notice me amidst a sea of people.”
“You never know. You didn’t say you two were strangers so I can only assume you two share a history.” Once again you didn’t know how to reply to his statement. How could you explain that he probably doesn’t even remember your identity when you were so obviously astonished to see him on stage again?
Scaramouche’s face was unconcerned most of the time if not for the smug amusement from time to time. Maybe you should’ve gotten the hint when his eyes widened at some sort of realisation after a while.
“He does know you, after all.” A tad too slow to grasp what he was referring to, you sighed quietly.
“What do you mean?” Your question remained unanswered as you diverted your focus back to the stage at his wordless gesture towards who you assumed to be Xiao.
And oh, you did get the answer to your own question the moment you looked back at those amber eyes who bore into yours directly. Eyes widening in shock, you glimpsed around to check if it was truly you he was staring straight at. Nobody else seemed to be focusing on the drummer perhaps due to his location at the very back, but you were. In fact, you were the only one whose attention was pinpointed at one member in particular and the way your gaze met for the first time ever took your breath away. Even that was an understatement as your heart pounded in your chest in excitement. Could it be that he really did recognize you amidst a sea of people? Or was this another one of your borderline delusional mindset playing another prank on you? You wanted to ask Hutao to confirm if he was truly looking at you of all people but deep down, you knew he was staring straight into your eyes. He had been looking directly in your direction for minutes now, gaze unshifting and somewhat inquisitive. Like he couldn’t believe his eyes as much as you couldn’t either.
Of course Scaramouche would be the one to break your little moment as he sighed out dramatically. Reluctantly, you glanced in his direction to see what his issue was. Maybe it was “the Xiao effect” but you found yourself even less irritated by Scara’s behaviour that was almost driving you crazy to the point you wanted to throw him to the stage and force him to sing Bohemian Rhapsody. Maybe that would wipe that smug smirk off his face.
“You call that ‘someone you know?’. He’s been looking at you for the past ten minutes or so now.” That was news to you. Ten minutes? That’s even longer than you became conscious of his stare.
“I… didn’t know.” This time when you turned your face back to the stage, Scaramouche remained quiet for once. Perhaps you would’ve teased him for his silence if you weren’t so caught up in the sudden weight of Xiao peering over at you without bothering to conceal his attention. Or maybe he wasn’t even aware of his fixated look in the first place, you couldn’t put past the possibility if you had a hunch on his character for a few months since you’ve known him.
Neither the golden-eyed drummer on stage nor you who was occupied with distress on deciding your following actions seem to focus on the braided band leader who was introducing his bandmates to the crowd. It appears that they had two more songs to perform, and this time Xiao looked like he was the only drummer in charge. You’d be lying if you said you weren’t excited to see him play the instrument again, if only your heart and mind could quiet down for a while at least until they got off stage so you could properly enjoy their hard work spent practising the songs.
Every cell in your body seemed to be screaming at you to wave at him or do something, anything to confirm your suspicions, but you found your actions held back by the constant fear of being wrong. What if he truly was looking somewhere else and you waved at him, a complete stranger whom he didn’t recognize? Or was there something on your face, or your hair was weird, your dress was untidy, something that attracted his regard within these lines?
Amidst your inner conflict, he slowly raised his hand to your astonishment. A short nod of acknowledgment followed his slightly awkward wave, his drumsticks still in his hold.
He waved at you. He waved at you.
It didn’t help one bit how faintly cautious he looked, like he was nervous behind his piercing stare. And if your eyes weren’t deceiving you, his hands were shaking ever so slightly too. All of your former thoughts seem to evaporate into the saffron tinted evening air as you raise your hand to wave back, eyes wide just as your smile was. You couldn’t help it, you could barely wrap your head around the fact that Xiao recognised you, let alone acknowledge your presence. From the way his ochre sight pinpointed you as the centre of his attention, you knew you weren't imagining things.
A part of you pondered how he knew it was you in the first place, did he somehow come across your story when you didn’t check it? Admittedly, you had stopped going through your feed and pictures you uploaded both on the platform and stories for the past few months when you assumed he never used the social networking site anymore. You had spent an embarrassing amount of time just scrolling through the viewers and likes in hopes of spotting one blank account which never happened. To your surprise, it turns out in the end, your efforts were not in vain.
And so the festival continued with molten gold and midnight amethyst gazes directed to you.
—
A part of you kept considering writing to Xiao especially since as soon as the performance ended, he took off and disappeared just like the first day you talked to him. It was hard to stay still when you got a positive sign on this seemingly-hopeless feeling you’ve harboured for an entire year.
Do you write to him, and even if you do, what do you say? Or should you ask to see him for a while? You had no idea, how do you even talk to guys?
What came as a surprise to you was how Scaramouche for once stopped poking fun at you every breathing moment. In spite of bickering with him for the past few hours for the first encounter with him, you found yourself slightly curious about his… colourful personality. He was an enigma, and you’d be lying if you said you weren’t even the slightest bit intrigued by his uncommon behaviour.
“Fine arts, was it? Do you happen to paint?” You asked the question to hopefully break away this tension between the two of you that you didn’t even notice for a while now.
This time he didn’t even look at you as he answered in a slightly bitter tone.
“What’s it to you? Are you trying to force whatever subject you can find to accommodate the silence? There’s no need.” You didn’t know whether to sneer at his unwelcoming attitude or feel impressed by his ability to twist such a simple question into… whatever that was.
“Is it unbelievable to think I’m just interested in getting to know my saviour of the evening?” You purposefully quoted his former words as he liked to turn back on you so much.
As you slightly leaned forward to peer over to Kazuha and Hutao, your eyes nearly popped out of your socket when you noticed not one but both of them absent. It didn’t take much to understand it was mostly Hutao’s idea to probably “give them time to themselves”, and Kazuha probably went along with it because he already had misunderstood Scara’s hoodie wrapped around your waist. What a turn of events.
“If you’re looking for them, they both left around twenty minutes ago.” Noticing your shock, he smoothly replied as he reached out to fix his hair blown to the side by the wind. Once again your eyes worriedly shifted to his bare arms, his tight-fitted tank shirt didn’t look warm in the slightest.
“Your friend led him away.” Of course it was Hutao. Alright, here goes nothing.
“Are you cold?” You managed to ask him what you’d meant to make sure about an hour ago.
Ah, yes. His familiar smug smirk returned immediately. You had been prepared for this.
“Why, are you worried all of a sudden?”
“But the wind is super chilly.” You might’ve been speaking for experience from the way you shivered under the cool breeze just now. It felt like the cold seeped through your thin crop cardigan (if you could even call this see-through material a proper piece of clothing) that you wore just so you wouldn’t be showing the entirety of your arm. Not to mention it was thanks to the sleeveless dress that’s been the centre of all of your series of unfortunate events today.
“You’re shivering like that from one gale of the wind? I don’t get cold easily, worry about yourself.” His unwavering gaze dropped down to his shirt hanging onto your lower half, holding the stare as if considering something.
To your surprise, he pulled off the hoodie around your waist from the side and once again, purposefully paying attention not to drag your skirt along with it, then draped it over your head.
“Wear it properly. It’d cover your skimpy short dress plenty well if that’s keeping you back. It’s long enough”
You pulled off the thick fabric again from atop your head, half irritated by him messing up your hair a second time, and half impressed with how surprisingly observant he was. How many guys just offer their outerwear to a girl he might never see again and stand in the cool wind in a tank shirt? Exactly, so despite everything, you truly were grateful.
“Thank you.” You replied and followed his words to wear his hoodie, then zipped it up all the way. Although you were sure you looked ridiculous with a mismatched oversized street-style hoodie and the somewhat preppy dress, you found yourself unable to mind such details in hopes of avoiding catching cold in this weather. After all, spring-summer colds were the worst.
“Does this even fit you? It’s so big.” His entire body was slender without being too stick-thin, you’d go as far as to say he looked like a model. Not that you’d ever say it out loud, it’s bound to feed onto his preexisting god complex or narcissism you reckon he had.
“It’s called style, I imagine it’s your first time hearing such a term.” Right. It doesn’t even surprise you anymore as you continued paying no mind to his words and replied.
“It definitely is. When has this term started to go around? Youth these days, nothing but outer appearance on their minds.” You played along, making Scara raise his brow in what you assumed to be an indication of pleasant surprise.
“Ironic coming from a vixen who comes to a college festival in a short dress who can’t handle the cold.”
“Vixen? I seem to remember that isn’t quite the insult you think it may be.”
All of the former annoyance he held seemed to slowly lessen the more he talked to you. Now that isn’t to say he is kind or welcoming now, it just means that he is slightly less insufferable in comparison to when you first met him. As much as you’d like to deny, he was fun to be around. So much that you were barely paying attention to the performances on stage anymore.
“Watercolour painting.” Scaramouche quietly mumbled under his breath amidst the comfortable silence you two were sharing.
“Huh?”
“Fine arts. Watercolour painting.” He replied to the first question you asked to break the ice. Your eyes widened in pleasant surprise at his forte, quietly concluding how it seems to suit him now that you imagine.
“It suits you.” With a nod, you looked at him.
“Heard that before.” If he didn’t mean to sound cocky, he failed miserably. Yet despite his tone that some may find unbelievably arrogant, you found yourself nodding along in silent agreement. It wasn’t like he wasn't allowed to be confident in himself. Besides, art school students hold a place in your heart from the way they seem to hold such free and creative minds enough to pursue it as a career. They create their pieces from the bottom of their soul. Art was soulful, and you respected those who could create such physical manifestation of their thoughts and emotions. Respect was an understatement, really.
A glimpse of a mismatching shade on his black tank shirt captured your interest when he stretched with a tired groan. You tilted your head slightly when you noticed the splashes of what you assumed to be watercolour on the side of his top. It brought a small smile to your face before you could control it.
Without a warning, Scara suddenly sighed out loud and threw an unamused look at the stage.
“I’m leaving.” You blinked and turned your head at him slowly with a confused look at his declaration out of the blue. First Kazuha and Hutao, now him?
“Now?” Reaching out to grab his black leather bag, he carelessly swung it over his shoulder and nodded at you.
“Yeah. See you.” Before you could say anything or even offer his shirt back, he was gone, disappearing into the crowd of students.
See you? When? You were left wondering alone.
#genshin impact x reader#genshin x reader#xiao x reader#scaramouche x reader#wanderer x reader#genshin impact#genshin impact fanfiction#xiao x reader x scaramouche#xiao x reader x wanderer#genshin fluff#xiao x reader fluff#scaramouche x reader fluff#wanderer x reader fluff
172 notes
·
View notes
Text
hello gay people. i mentioned awhile back about a possible concept for a tma au but its mixed with mythology/religion based stuff. i have since finished this chunk of concept/reference art of the Ceaseless Watcher for this au!!!
im dubbing it: The Magnus Mythos!! please talk to me about it i am insane
putting my rambling au nonsense under the readmore!!!!!
edit!!!: new mythos post just dropped :3
alright- bare with me because my thoughts are everywhere lol
random various au information:
the fear entites are instead more general gods, much like those from various mythologies (greek, norse, egyption, etc.) like the eye, rather than an entity that feeds on the fear of being watched, is rather the god of knowledge and sight!
all of the gods have influence over the world, some mortals will devote themselves to one specific god entirely, others will become devout to multiple, and some will simply be neutral among all 14 and live life out as they please.
avatars are mortals who have been blessed with power by the gods while creatures (like mr spider, the not them, etc) are simply beings who have been born into the world by the gods power seeping into it. artifacts are items that have either been blessed/cursed by the gods or avatars, or have been affected by the gods power seeping into the world also.
theres multiple sects, cults, and churches for each god much like how many real life religions have different sects with their own rules and standards. some have beef, others do not.
the gods themselves are entirely morally neutral, they have their own interconnected relationships with eachother, and kind of view mortals as pets in a way, picking favorites and seeing them as of lesser importance in comparison to themselves.
since the gods here arent necessarily evil and theyre actually sentient beings, their titles are changed to be more fitting (the mother of puppets -> the mother of fate as an example)
the story is set in an era resembling the early 1900s because idk. vibes are neat i guess
thats all the basic world building crumbs for now, ill go deeper into it when i have more art and story stuff ready!
for now- heres some actual lore :3c
Jonah magnus is basically eye jesus. thousands of years prior to the start of the story, the eye favored him and he became a messiah of sorts.
the House of Magnus is a church sect of the eye founded in what is now london. but it doesnt operate JUST as a simple church. many sects of the eye devote themselves to gaining knowledge of the world around them and the House of Magnus is no different there. operating with a library, research centre and all. the research not just on history and knowledge, but also the holy and divine. documenting stories that deal with the divine powers and researching cursed/blessed artifacts aswell.
its a common legend that if one tells their story under the eyes watch (either in a church of the eye or directly to an avatar of the eye) that theyll receive good fortune and foresight, and since the House of Magnus has become a well known sect of the eye, many will come far and wide to detail their accounts under its roof
all of this documentation leads down to the Magnus Mythos, a large archive under the church where the written documents are filed, curated and cared for by the head Archivist. as such, the position of Archivist has become a most sacred role among worshippers of the eye comparable to the head of the church itself.
they arent just revered for their care of the mythos (though the devotees of the eye view the care of documented knowledge to be a sacred and ever important responsibility) Theres a prophecy, hand woven by the Mother of Fate herself, one that states an ordinary archivist will one day be gifted by all 14 of the gods and awaken the great change, bringing about a new and blessed age.
but is this newest archivist even ready for such pressure and commitment? and what if the prophecy is more devious than one might think?
oooOOOOoooOO mysterious lore- i know this is heavily self indulgent but i refuse to apologize for that because im havin FUN. if you read all of that just know i love you so much and i hope you liked it ;w; im very excited and ive been working on archivist +archival assistant lore for the past few days and im excited to do art for them ;_;
#myart#my art#scopophobia#trypophobia#eyes tw#religious themes#religion tw#tma#magnus archives#the magnus archives#magpod#tma fears#the fear entities#the ceaseless watcher#elias bouchard#jonah magnus#tma au#the magnus mythos#digital art#long post#the archivist
79 notes
·
View notes
Text
Letters to My Love // Part VII
Auld Lang Syne
Series Masterlist
Pairing: Bob Floyd x Female Reader
Summary: When you signed up to volunteer with the USO, you never anticipated that you would meet a man like Ensign Robert Floyd. Fate brings you together one balmy spring evening in Charleston—the night before Bob is set to ship off across the Atlantic. Pen and paper become your only means of sharing your heart with the naval aviator who’s captivated it, igniting a correspondence that spans the distance between you. Can love blossom even as war rages and thousands of miles keep you apart?
Word Count: 2.8k
Author’s Note: We’ve finally made it to 1943! Can you believe it will soon be a whole year since the night Bobby and Peach met?
Set the Mood: If you’re looking for some 1940s vibes, check out the playlist I made to pair with the story.
To ring in the new year in the story, the title of this chapter is based on the holiday classic, Auld Lang Syne. To get in the spirit, check out this 1939 instrumental version by Guy Lombardo!
Dedication: As always, this story is dedicated to my dear friend, @luminousnotmatter. Clara, thank you, thank you, thank you for your support of this story!
Warnings: Alternating POV, talk of the holidays, brief allusions to the trauma of war, references to rationing, and a ton of fluff.
January 12, 1943
Dear Peach,
Happy New Year! I know we’re only 12 days in at this point, but I hope that 1943 is already shaping up to be a good year for you. Hopefully it will be a good year for all of us. And I look forward to hearing all about your Christmas back home in Georgia!
Now to address that “elephant in the room” as you called it—well, Peach, I see no elephants, but I do see what has to be the most beautiful and elegant photograph I’ve ever had the good fortune to lay these sorry eyes on. Are you sure you really meant to send it to me and not to MGM? You could be a movie star! I wouldn’t be surprised at all if it was announced that their next big picture was starring The Sweet Peach from Georgia. Hey, maybe that could even be the name of the movie. What do you think?
Peach, I hope you know that I’m not teasing and I’m not kidding. And I hope my saying so doesn’t come across as forward, but you really are the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen, whether in the movies or in real life. Part of me was starting to wonder if maybe I’d dreamed it all up, that night we had together in Charleston. Could any girl really be that beautiful and kind and funny and smart, all wrapped up in one splendid person? But then I opened your last letter and your photograph fell out of the envelope, and I realized that sometimes real life can be even better than our dreams. Because you, Peach, are even more stunning than you were in my memories. And you know what makes it even better? That your beauty shines from the inside. Looking at your photograph, I can see all the kindness and gentleness and goodness that I’ve come to know so well, shining in your eyes and brightening your smile.
Gosh, am I rambling? I’m sure I am. But I don’t want you to feel embarrassed, not for a moment. And to think that you would even suggest I take a photograph this beautiful and shove it in a drawer or throw it off the carrier! That would be an absolute crime! It deserves to be framed and hung for everyone to admire. I admit that I’ve never seen the Mona Lisa, but I can already guarantee that you’re a thousand times prettier. But can I tell you the truth, Peach? As much as you deserve to be universally praised, I’ve been very selfish. The fellas are all quite jealous, you see, that the prettiest girl in the world has chosen to write to me, of all people. So I keep your photograph tucked close to my heart, away from all the guys. Don’t want to rub salt in the wound, you know?
Benny and Tommy Boy wanted me to respectfully let you know that you looked quite lovely in your photo, and that they’d be more than willing to serve as pen pals to any of your friends back home who may be in need of some correspondence.
Will you do me a favor and thank Dottie for this little scheme of hers? I knew that I liked your sister already, but this has truly solidified it for me. She’s a smart woman, that Dottie Sheridan. And I hope Frankie’s birthday pictures turned out just as nice as yours!
Can I tell you something else, Peach? We’ve been doing a lot of flying over here, me and Paul and the rest of our squadron, as I’m sure you can imagine. Paul keeps a photograph of Natasha and the kids in our aircraft when we’re flying. He says it brings him good luck and helps him remember what he’s fighting for. I like to keep a photograph of my family with me while we’re flying so that I can remember the same. But now I carry your photograph with me, too. And I think I understand now what Paul meant about his photo bringing him luck. Every time we’ve flown since I started carrying you with me, I feel this extra sense of protection. I know that sounds crazy, but it’s true. You’re my good luck charm, Peach, and I thank you for that. Thanks for helping me remember what I’m fighting for, every day that I’m here. And, hey—it’s sort of like we’re flying together already, right?
I was glad to hear that you enjoyed the pumpkin pie story, and that my utter humiliation could at least bring you some laughter. It’s funny that you should mention my mama setting aside some pumpkin pie for me because I did, in fact, receive a letter from her not long after Thanksgiving, and she told me she had done just that. She said that she’s hoping and praying I’ll be home for pumpkin pie this year. I hope she’s right.
I’m so happy to hear that you got to spend time with your folks and be together for the holidays. And happy belated birthday to little Frankie! They grow up fast, don’t they? Natasha sent Paul some photographs from Paul, Jr.’s first birthday, and neither of us can believe how big he’s gotten. Natasha says she’s writing down all his milestones in a little book for when Paul returns, so that he doesn’t miss a thing. I know it makes Paul feel good to hear that. He misses them so much.
I hope you don’t mind me doing so, but I shared with some of the guys on the carrier how you offered up your Thanksgiving gratitude and prayers for us. It lifted a lot of fellas’ spirits, I’ll tell you that. We were all missing home a little extra around the holidays, but to be reminded of why we’re doing this, and of the good people back home who are thinking of us, really makes all the difference.
Now to hear that you were an excellent pupil back in your grade school days does not surprise me one bit, Miss Peach. It’s funny that you say that you’re hopeless when it comes to arithmetic because I was always rather hopeless when it came to my writing—as I’m sure you can tell from the woeful state of my handwriting. My teachers at school—and yes, even my professors at Annapolis—always scolded me over it. Everyone has their strengths, huh? But if you don’t mind handling the writing, I’m more than happy to take care of the numbers and figures. We’d make quite a team.
Peach, I can promise you that the thought of getting to share another dance with you is one of the few things that keeps me going on the days when this war just really takes all the stuffing out of me. I just hope it’s something that YOU still want when all is said and done. I’m sure all the boys are lining up to sign your dance card.
Speaking of, have you been to any more dances at the USO lately?
You’re right when you say that Paul, Tommy Boy, Benny, and I couldn’t be any more different if we tried, but we do have a special bond and I’ll always be thankful for that. I’m glad to know you have that, too, with Dottie and Paddy and the rest of your family.
That glass of lemonade in Charleston sounds real nice right about now. It’s cold and rainy where we are, but I’ll be dreaming about that South Carolina sunshine.
My family was telling me about the coffee rations in one of their last letters. I am sorry to hear about that. I can only imagine how hard that’s hitting people, especially Paddy. I used to see him down at least three or four cups in the morning, back when I was stationed stateside. I’m sending all my best wishes that you and Dottie can survive his grumbling.
Peach, I just want to close by letting you know, once again, how much your support means to me. Truly. I hate to dwell on the negative, but there are days when this war is really hard. In fact, there are days when it feels downright impossible. But then I reread one of your letters, or take out your photograph and gaze at that pretty smile, and my hope is bolstered. You’ve given me so much, through your words alone, and I want you to know that.
I miss you, too. Who knows? Maybe 1943 will be the year we finally get that dance?
I hope so.
Very Truly Yours,
Bobby
February 3, 1943
Dear Bobby,
Happy New Year! 1943 has been treating me kindly so far, but it would be even better if it was the year that you and the rest of our boys came home. Just like your mother, that’s what I’m hoping and praying for.
My goodness, Robert Floyd, you certainly know how to make a girl feel special! I have to confess, I must have read your letter through a good two or three times when it first arrived in the mail, and I couldn’t stop blushing or beaming the whole time. Dottie said that I looked like a giddy school girl, which taught me that I really ought to read your letters in the comfort of my own room instead of in front of my nosy big sister.
Just so you know, Dottie gladly accepts your praise and thanks, and has not let me live it down for a moment. She has not failed to remind me that big sisters know best, and that I shouldn’t be so afraid to trust her, because look how well her plans always turn out? Well, knowing her my entire life, I can quite confidently say that Dottie’s plans don’t ALWAYS turn out well, but I am glad that this one did.
I’m certainly no movie star, but Dottie did work her magic on me that morning, and I’m touched beyond words at your kind reception of such a silly little thing. My cheeks still feel warm, even as I write to you now. Do you really carry my photo with you, even when you’re flying? I can hardly believe it, but I know you’re an honest man, Bobby, so it must be true. And if it brings you any sort of luck while you’re up in the air, then I’m glad for it and I’d send you a hundred more photographs if I could. I want you to come home safely, Bobby, more than anything. I need you to make it home safely so that we really can go flying together one day.
Please send my thanks and my best wishes to Benny and Tommy Boy, who are both clearly gentlemen of the highest caliber. But I’m sorry to tell them that I don’t have any girlfriends I can match them up with. Truth be told, I don’t have many girlfriends to begin with, and most of the women I do know are spoken for.
Speaking of which, do you remember my friend, Emily? She was the blonde volunteer working at the punch table with me the night we met. That was so long ago now, it’s okay if you don’t remember. Anyway, she just got engaged! She and her fiance actually met that night at the dance. His name is Eddie and he’s a corporal in the Army. He was stationed in Charleston for about a month or so after you were deployed, and he and Emily got to spending a lot of time with each other. They wrote to each other after he left, and Eddie proposed while he was back in Charleston on a short leave last month. Isn’t that something? It’s funny how things work out sometimes. I had thought Eddie was going to ask me to dance that night, but it was Emily he wanted to dance with. And look how well it turned out for them! I’m really happy for her. She’s so excited. They’re hoping that the war will be over soon and Eddie will come home permanently so that they can plan a big wedding. Emily even asked me to be one of her bridesmaids! I was Dottie’s Maid of Honor when she got married, but I’ve never been anyone else’s bridesmaid, so it’s all very exciting. A little bit of good news and hope in the midst of so much ugliness.
Christmas in Georgia was lovely, even if it was a little quieter than Christmases we’ve enjoyed in the past. I did get to see my grandparents, and some of my aunts and uncles and cousins, and that was a joy. If there’s one thing this war has taught us, it’s that spending time with the ones you love is really what matters most. My aunt actually made a pumpkin pie for dessert on Christmas Eve and I couldn’t stop giggling, thinking about your pumpkin pie fiasco as a little boy.
I hope that Paul, Jr. had a wonderful first birthday, same as Frankie! I think it’s an absolutely marvelous thing Natasha is doing, writing down all the special moments that are happening now so that Paul can relive them when he gets home. What a special gift that will be! Would you do me a favor, Bobby, and send Paul my best? I’ll never forget his kindness at the dance that night, and I really do hope he’s doing well.
Of course I don’t mind you passing along my best wishes to the rest of the men! I feel like I have so little to offer, and so little to contribute to this war, so if my thoughts and prayers can help lift even one person’s spirits, then I’m happy to hear it.
I’m also happy to hear that you’re good with numbers and figures because I simply never have been. I’d suggest that you could tutor me when you return home, but I’d be embarrassed for you to see just how truly hopeless I am when it comes to my mathematics. Instead, I’ll gladly take you up on your offer to handle all the writing if you handle all the numbers. An excellent team we’d make, indeed! And believe me when I say that your handwriting is far from the most dreadful I’ve seen. You should see my father’s and Paddy’s—completely illegible! Paddy once left me and Dottie a note letting us know he’d be home late that night, and we sat up for hours worrying because we couldn’t even read what it said! So trust me, Bobby, your writing is not as woeful as all that.
You can also trust me when I tell you that there are certainly no boys lining up to sign my dance card. I’ve volunteered at several other USO events, but truth be told, I haven’t gone to many dances since that one back in May. Emily’s always trying to get me to go with her, and I have gone to a couple, but it just doesn’t feel the same, Is that silly? I know we only got to attend one dance together, but it just doesn’t feel right, being there without you, Bobby. Every time I did force myself to go, I’d hear a song that played that night and then I’d miss you too much. The next time I go to a dance, I want you to be there, too, and I want us to be dancing together. I’ll make sure there’s plenty of lemonade for us afterwards.
I think Paddy is finally recovering from his caffeine withdrawals, thank goodness! Dottie and I have been cutting back on our coffee consumption so that he can have some more in the morning. I have a feeling more rations will be coming soon, which is why Dottie and I are already making plans to revive our Victory Garden this spring. We didn’t pay as much mind to it last year, when everything still seemed so readily available, but this year we’re determined to grow as much as we can. We’re not exactly farmgirls, my sister and I, so maybe you could send us some tips?
Bobby, if my words bolster your spirits, then I want you to know that your words do that a hundredfold for me. Receiving your letters in the mail brings me such joy. I have every single one saved, and I read them whenever I’m feeling sad or scared about the war. Have I told you lately how glad I am that we met and that we’re still exchanging letters all these many months later?
Here’s to hoping that 1943 is our year, Bobby. I hope that I’ll be seeing you real soon.
Most Affectionately Yours,
Peach
P.S. I almost can’t believe I’m asking this—and I hope you don’t think it too forward—but is there any possibility that you might have a photograph you could send? I can still see your face so clearly in my memories, Bobby, but it would be so special to have a photo to remember you by. If not, it’s okay. I just thought I would ask. Stay safe, Bobby.
#robert bob floyd#bob floyd#bob floyd x reader#x reader#x female reader#top gun#top gun: maverick#lewis pullman#WWII AU#1940s AU
191 notes
·
View notes
Note
Why do you think Varric made the Inquisitor a Comte? Wouldn’t that make them outrank him? Dumar seemed pretty powerless and I always thought that Varric got shoved in the rule to make him in charge of the recovery of Kirkwall but not actually of Kirkwall?
Sweet gentle anon, I know it was not your intention but you have stumbled into one of my favorite conversational topics and I hope you are ready for the fall out.
Welcome, children, to Fereldone talks about Thedas' Geo/Theopolitical bullshit!
(tl:dr at the bottom)
So, very important things to know going in: Kirkwall's political history is weird. Founded by the Tevinter Imperium in -620 Ancient (which is DA equivalent of BC/BCE, or the time before the ages ascribed to history by the chantry), it was a mining city. After a slave tried to kill the Archon the Magisterium decided they needed to start importing- and presumably breaking the will of- slaves farther from the heart of the imperium and thus the City of Chains gained purpose.
I could throw a lot of facts and names at you, but here's the basics-- it housed millions of slaves over hundreds of years, at the end of the ancient age they rebelled and overthrew it. Kirk means black in Alamarri, the stone they mined there was jet black, and so Kirkwall (black walls) becomes a Free city. It suffered during the fourth blight in the Exalted Age (fifth age, for those keeping score at home), was conquered by the Qunari in the Storm Age (seventh age) and was then conquered by the Orlesians. Orlais was on a roll with the whole 'we own everything whoops killed your ancestral leaders', but in the Blessed age (eighth age) the people retaliate and overthrow the empire to regain independence.
For reasons I can only assume are laziness and a desire not to change all the paperwork, the leader of Kirkwall is still referred to by the Orlesian word Viscount/Viscomte. Bear with me, this is important later.
We are now in the early dragon age (9th age, and when Inquisition happens). The first two rulers of free Kirkwall sucked. Basically they blockaded their own port and made people pay a fortune to get in and trade. This didn't sit well with the Chantry, who would much rather do that themselves, and in 9:14 Divine Beatrix II (later saved by Cassandra!) tells the Templars to strong arm him into submission talk some sense into the viscount.
The knight commander is killed in the exchange, and so his second command Meredith Stannard steps up to try her hand at negotiations. It goes poorly, so she arrests and jails the Viscount and essentially takes control of the city with full Chantry approval. Now the Templars are essentially in control of the city, and so they appoint a puppet leader (Dumar) to play act in control. But Meredith is actually in charge, and everyone knows it.
Including Elthina, who named her Knight Commander. This is why the Chantry never actually does anything about templar abuses.
So! If you are still with me, this is where Viscount becomes important. There are some wibbly bits about how you treat Sebastian Vael in DA2, but essentially Kirkwall decides that it's time to be an actual city state and not a poorly run Theocracy. As the only man with a plan (and the money and influence to do it), Varric steps in to help his home town. Ecstatic at not being responsible for that, the nobles (comtes) band together and put him in charge.
So while yes, in Orlais Viscount be beneath comte, Kirkwall has been so broken up and conquered and messed with over the years that names and titles are meaningless. In my personal opinion, Varric ennobles the inquisitor so that they will always have a staunch ally amongst the backbiting Kirkwaller nobles. It's also a nice and generous a decent thing to do, of course, but Varric is very good at making something do a lot of things for him all at once.
(Also, Varric knows exactly what that key does. He just ensured that someone smart enough and invested enough in peace will always be able to either open or close the harbor--making sure that the people who depend on him will be safe no matter what.)
Personally, the Trespasser epilouge is useless. It's the result of not having a head writer to review things, and the sweet but misguided attempt to give us closure if DA4 never happened. Hawke doesn't come back to Kirkwall. They are in Weisshaupt (if not in the Fade), and that plotIine will likely be in the final game. The Inquisition in whatever form it still has will be heading north, possibly with Kirkwall as an operating base, and this way the Inquisitor (who is confirmed to not be playabe in DA4) will have a reason to be there and not in Tevinter.
That's my read, anyway.
tl;dr Kirkwall has weird history that led to odd ways of organizing their nobility, Varric wants friends in places almost as high as him, shit's going down in the north and I think the inquisitor will be in Kirkwall so the writers needed a reason to put them there.
Thanks for coming to my TED talk.
Mod Fereldone
#not a reaction#kirkwall#mod fereldone talks Thedas#this shit is weird: geopolitical discussion#varric is clever like a fox#i really hate his writing in trespasser and so this is how I retcon it#dragon age inquisition#trespasser#dragon age dreadwolf#tevinter imperium#dragon age 2#hawke#meredith stannard#fuck the chantry for real though
84 notes
·
View notes
Note
(To clarify, I don’t have any preferences on genre or tone here, just budget. Or lack thereof I guess.)
THEME: Free TTRPGs (2/2)
I’m so so glad that you posted two asks because holy shit do I have recommendations. This is the second part, once again organized into different pieces of advice!
4. Unofficial games based on a licensed IP.
Yeah, people do crazy things for the stuff they love, including designing an entire roleplaying game and then releasing it for free! Here’s a few that I’ve found.
Unofficial Hollow Knight RPG, by HKRPG Team.
Vast kingdoms, ancient mysteries, and adversaries far beyond reckoning await you.
The Unofficial Hollow Knight RPG is an original tabletop role-playing system inspired by Team Cherry's hit indie title. In HKRPG, players take the form of daring bugs going on adventures in the strange and wondrous world of Hollow Knight and its insect-populated kingdoms.
What a labour of love this game is. This TTRPG feels dungeon-crawly, which makes sense considering the game it’s designed after. Each bug has hit points, stamina points, and Soul, referring to their magical reserves. Inventory is also tracked, using a pool called Stash. There are three Bug templates available for you to choose: Small, Average and Large, with different benefits and drawbacks for each template. There’s over 100 pages of character traits and abilities, spells, charms and rituals, items and obstacles, which allow for complex character builds.
On the GM side, there’s links to info for settings and NPCs, as well as Lands Beyond, a supplement that allows you to create your own insect kingdoms and gives you four random roll tables to aid you in this creation. If you want to replicate your own little traumatized bug adventure, this game is absolutely for you!
Skyfarer, by Failbetter Games.
Queen Victoria has brought London into the heavens. The High Wilderness stretches out ahead of you; cruel, unwelcoming, and filled with opportunity. Here you make your living as a Skyfarer, working on board a locomotive jury-rigged to fly through these cold skies and raging winds. Your captain has taken you to the Reach, a frontier on the edge of civilization, in search of fame, fortune and adventure.
You will change out here, where the Empire’s light falters and casts deep shadows, where rebels stake their claim on fragments of sky-rock riddled with fungus, where pillagers dig into ruins built by the now-dead sun.
Players form the crew of a spacefaring steam locomotive. Gunners, quartermasters, engineers, signallers – even mascots – are brought to the fore as the Captain is struck down by misfortune and the crew must band together to get out of (or into) many surprising kinds of trouble.
Using a simple dice-based system, Skyfarer allows players and game-masters to easily tell stories set in the Fallen London universe with plenty of climactic moments, tense stand-offs, and grim decisions. As characters risk life and limb, they’ll accrue Peril – the more Peril they have, the greater the chance of them meeting a grisly and permanent end.
This game uses both d6s and d10s, and leans more towards the narrative side: your character qualities are descriptive, and your abilities are abstract representations, titled Iron, Mirrors, Veils and Hearts. You’ll collaboratively come up with your starting situation, and include details like who your Captain is, what the current crisis is, and what kinds of Allies and Antagonists are involved.
One thing that’s really unique about this game is that there’s a character that the GM must play - the Captain, someone who gives orders to others, but for the purpose of this game, can’t carry out their normal duties for some reason or another. Once you set up your characters and determine what your starting scenario looks like, you’re good to go!
5. Playtests.
Sometimes the playtest of a game is released free of charge, with all of its editing errors and without any art. These games won’t be perfect, but they contain rules, as much of the setting as the creator has managed to flesh out so far, and the spark of creativity that can pull you into a fantastic community. Get in early on a playtest and you might find yourself holding the early stages of something truly great - and you’ll get a sense of warmth knowing you got to be part of it.
Aeronauts: Flight After Fall, by Electric Purple Studios.
The world is covered in purple mist, the legacy of some cataclysm long past. Through the haze have risen several powerful city-states, built where the mist is thin enough that they are not constantly besieged by the fog’s lurking horrors. Now airships fly above the mist, and a new era of trade and conflict has begun to bustle in. The city-states, previously only in contact through small trading caravans, are now forced to face the reality of different cultures, different ways of life, and the possibility of war.
Aeronauts: Flight After Fall is a TTRPG of grand quests and small moments, of journeys from the tops of the clouds to the depths of the darkest tunnels. You and your friends tell the story of the crew of a small airship, trying to make their way in a world that is rapidly changing around you. Are you diplomatic envoys endeavoring to build connections, or are you a group of ragtag scoundrels simply trying to survive? It’s up to you.
Aeronauts uses a 3d6 system, and emphasizes narrative role-playing, similar to games like Apocalypse World and Blades in the Dark. When you roll, you add up your dice - a 15 is a critical success, 10-24 is a partial success, and a 9 or less is a failure. You will have access to a pool called Focus, which can add a bonus to your check, as well as tokens, which can be gained using certain actions and spent to alter certain types of rolls. Finally, there is a tool called Kismet, which allows characters to establish details within the narrative, either for their benefit or just to put their own personal stamp on part of the story.
The rules as put out here are simple, but the ways you can use them and your characters go into much more detail, taking up 198 pages in total. There’s rules for different kinds of combat, examples of how to use certain parts of your character sheet, a delve into the lore, and pre-made characters who want to pick up the game sooner rather than later. There’s also a community Discord advertised in case you want to find other players, talk about the game, and get updates about changes as they happen.
The Modern Eldritch, by Moondog Gaming Press.
The Modern Eldritch leads you into a world run by mega-corps headed by eldritch horrors who demand brand loyalty over blood sacrifice, wizards who believe themselves better than worldly governments, and non-profits who leverage vast intelligence networks to find donors. Players take on the roles of average citizens who have had their lives shattered by these systems, and now must journey through this world to fight for some sense of normalcy.
The Modern Eldritch utilizes quick character creation, which revolves around crafting motivations and backstory; a wide skill set and freeform magic system which encourage roleplay and creativity to tackle obstacles; and a unique exhaustion system that invites players to gamble with their own sanity to increase their odds of success.
This PDF starts off with a quick introduction to the world and an outline of some basic concessions that the group should agree on before getting ready to play. Character abilities are ranked from a d4 to a d12, and character skills are ranked from 1 to 5. You’ll be rolling dice pools, and adding up the results to determine whether or not you succeed. You’ll also assign positive and negative elements to your character, to flesh them out and give them exploitable weaknesses - this is an eldritch horror game, after all.
This game is also supported by a Discord server, and also provides a link to a Playtest Survey, where you can send in your feedback for future edits! My only complaint is that the PDF takes a little bit long to load - it takes patience!
6. SRDs - write your own game!
Maybe you have the perfect idea of a game in your head. Maybe you have a setting that you absolutely adore - you just need rules to tell you how to play a character in that setting. Maybe you really really like filling all of your free hours with matching character tropes to game stats and putting together character sheets and writing random tables…. maybe I’m just calling myself out here.
SRDs are tools to help you design your own game in your own setting using rules that have already been sorted out. They will contain advice about the kinds of games that were in the creator’s mind when designing the rules system, and steps through what a character will need. Creators often offer them up for free, out of the kindness of their hearts and the desire to see just how far people can take their rules and bend the genre.
Caltrop Core, by titanomachyRPG.
Ever wondered how to make your own TTRPG? Welcome to v1.0 of Caltrop Core, an introductory game design system using the humble and sharp d4! It's extremely simple and bare bones so anyone can make a game with it, regardless of your experience level! It can have as much or as little complexity as you like.
This game is extremely beginner friendly, and familiarizes you with the core dice-rolling mechanic before introducing you to character building blocks, ways to communicate genre and tone, and optional elements that help characters change the narrative. There’s also an entire collection of Caltrop Core games for you to check out (some of which are free to download!) that really show off what this system can do!
Titanomachy has also released Caltrop Core EX, which they refer to as a “director’s cut” of the regular SRD, and EMERGE8, an SRD that’s designed to help you create your game as you play it. It uses a d8 dice mechanic that takes inspiration from World of Darkness dice pools, as well as a few other tips and tricks that encourage collaboration between players and GM.
VRBS SRD, by David Garrett.
VRBS is an ultralight system for creating highly improvisational role-playing games that reward creative, heroic action. It has a universal conflict resolution mechanic that requires a single six-sided die. In VRBS, characters are defined by what they do, not by abstract statistics. Characters can attempt anything that a creative hero would be able to reasonably accomplish and they either succeed or grow in the process.
The VRBS SRD is easy to understand and is excellent for games that need a tight session with an easy-to-predict end time. It uses only d6’s - the easiest-to-find dice - and sets up your characters to move through three scenes, plus one scene through each member of the group. Throughout the game, they will draw on a pool of Energy. If you finish the final Scene without depleting your Energy, you are sucessful! Run out of energy, you go home. Try again tomorrow.
Full disclosure, I have designed a game using this SRD before - Mischief by Moonlight, a game about small gods getting up to shenanigans inside a museum where their relics have been trapped. (Go ahead and download it for free!)
Finally…
Games I’ve recommended in the past!
Mothership, by Tuesday Knight Games.
IronSworn, by Shawn Tomkin.
Straight to VHS, by Lost Cat Games.
171 notes
·
View notes
Note
Kakashi seems kinda serious in the Tattoo Shop AU. Got any silly Kakashi headcanons?
For the Tsau? He is rather silly in his own way
Gave a speech at Minato and Kushina’s wedding thanking Kushina for saying yes so Minato could finally shut up about her 👍
He wears custom socks with their dogs faces and crocs most days
Nuzzles Rin and Obito over kisses on purpose to make them lower their guard for an actual kiss. They never know when it’s coming and that’s fun for him
Bought a shirt that says ‘sugar baby’ to wear on dates with Obito because he thought he wouldn’t actually do it to goes perfectly with his crocs and socks
Tells Sai harmless misinformation because he takes things so seriously and Kakashi gets a goof laugh out of hearing the kid repeat it
Had a intervention with Naruto/the shop; asked people to raise their hands if they haven’t fucked Naruto. He wasn’t surprised by the outcome 💀
Has a few paper fortune tellers in his desk for when Yamato is being indecisive, anxious, or wants date ideas w/ Genma. Yams says he’s too old for that but let’s Kakashi do it every time
Has worn the wigs that Sakura leaves in the shop just cause
Intentionally refers flirtatious clients to Sasuke and states he’s single. every. TIME.
Does the same to his father. “He’s single.” “Kakashi” “loves walks” “KAKASHI!!” This man will list every single person he knows if someone tries to flirt with him.
Leash dad that also dresses the kids up as dogs for walks. He thinks it’s funny and cute, plus the kids have a lot of fun doing it/don’t complain about their leashes when they’re dressed up too
Will howl to get the dogs howling. 9/10 if the dogs are howling, he started it
Makes Tako sausages for the kids lunches and gets really happy when Rin makes one for his lunch too.
Participates in Ryu’s dojo, which means he’s also having to demonstrate things with Gai
Not so silly; but can’t actually mimic most singers and has a wide octave range, so has helped Chiha rehearse singing the female vocals with ease. He’s also told her she can’t tell anyone if she wants him to keep helping her.
Can’t pass on purchasing books with outlandish titles so his bookshelf is full of the most random stories
Gives Gaara dog stickers anytime they meet. He noticed Gaara smile the first time he gave him one and it’s become a thing now (Gaara isn’t even sure why it’s happening, but he keeps them)
Is in a small competition with Tsunade over the scones at the local bakery. It’s usually with him or her getting the last one because of their schedules
Thankfully, the Uchiha behave themselves when they come to his shop, but he does have a kids chair for Shisui sense he won’t stop hanging out in the shop whenever he feels like. Has his name on it and everything
Enthusiastically participates in the floor is lava. Has pushed Obito, Chiha, Naruto, Minato, Kushina, Yamato, Genma, Sakura, Sai, Ino, and apologetically placed Rin into the “Lava” in order to win
Also refuses to lose in twister, zero shame or embarrassment. He’s honestly a big kid when it comes to games 💀
49 notes
·
View notes
Text
Good Omens Book Club
So I have, in other fandoms, talked about the importance of what an audience can actually see on the screen. Specifically: When a constrained format (like, say, between 45 to 56 minutes of a single visual/audio input) is telling a constrained story (like, say, something that must start, climax, and resolve within some kind of structure), it's useful for the audience to pay attention to what gets given the valuable real estate of camera/story time.
So when time is given and effort made to show the actual titles of actual books... well.
Figure 1. Local bookshelf weighted down by an over-abundance of literary allusions.
This is a screenshot from episode 3 of Good Omens's second season, as Jim is reshelving all the books in Aziraphale's book shop by the first letter of their first sentences. He's about to shelve Jane Austens's Pride and Prejudice ("It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.") and the red sideways book, that he is about to pick up, is Good Omens itself ("It was a nice day.").
But, unusually, we can see the title of almost every other book on the shelf. Several of them appeared in the advertising poster, too, as I outlined previously (if you click that link, be advised that I am very proud of several bits of that essay and also let's not talk about how my go-to for musical references is Middle English folk rather than, say, Buddy Holly). Anyway-- with this in mind, and the understanding that time, effort, and celluloid have been spent on getting this shot to the audience, it would behoove us, I think, to actually look at these books.
Figure 2. A pair of showrunners providing not-so-subtle ancillary notation suggesting the same thing, so really, this is a no-brainer in terms of meta fodder.
Okay, Trifles, so what about the book club
Technically, this isn't my idea. It's Neil's and Douglas's, so jot that down.
What I figure is, I can provide a list of the books shown, their first lines, and a VERY brief summary of each. Those are below. And as I rewatch the show, I may reblog this post with additions, but also...
I've read some of these, but not all of them, and not recently -- with at least one of them, though, I remember enough to know that the first line and summary do nothing to showcase the heartrending possibilities the book may be alluding to for the overall Good Omens narrative.
And further-- as I collected these summaries and first lines, I started noticing some compelling commonalities. Which I, for one, would like to confirm and dig into more deeply.
So while I'm going to start reading these, it might be a Nice Idea for other folks to do so as well. The more write-ups we can get, the greater the concordance of Interesting Insights might be available. (And if you tag me in your write up, or otherwise draw my attention, I will gladly link your essay up here for the edification of others omfg.)
ANYWAY
The "Jim Shelving" Book List
From right to left (which feels odd, but it's the actual alphabetical-by-letter arrangement), and summaries from various internet sources:
Herzog, by Saul Bellows
"If I am out of my mind, it's all right with me, thought Moses Herzog."
"Herzog is a 1964 novel by Saul Bellow, composed in part of letters from the protagonist [...] The novel follows five days in the life of Moses E. Herzog who, at the age of forty-seven, is having a midlife crisis following his second divorce."
A Series of Unfortunate Events, (series) by Lemony Snicket
"If you are interested in happy endings, you would be better off reading some other book."
The first book in the series, The Bad Beginning, "tells the story of three children, Violet, Klaus, and Sunny Baudelaire, who become orphans following a fire and are sent to live with Count Olaf, who attempts to steal their inheritance."
The Catcher in the Rye, by J. D. Salinger
"If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you’ll probably want to know is where I was born, and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don’t feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth."
"The novel details two days in the life of 16-year-old Holden Caulfield after he has been expelled from prep school. [...] From what is implied to be a sanatorium, Holden, the narrator and protagonist, tells the story of his adventures before the previous Christmas."
The Great Gatsby, by F. Scott Fitzgerald
"In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since."
"Set in the Jazz Age on Long Island, near New York City, the novel depicts first-person narrator Nick Carraway's interactions with mysterious millionaire Jay Gatsby and Gatsby's obsession to reunite with his former lover, Daisy Buchanan."
The Bible, (anthology) by God et al.
"In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth."
"25 And the Lord spake unto the Angel that guarded the eastern gate, saying 'Where is the flaming sword that was given unto thee?'
26 And the Angel said, 'I had it here only a moment ago, I must have put it down some where, forget my own head next.'
27 And the Lord did not ask him again."
The Big Sleep, by Raymond Chandler
"It was about eleven o’clock in the morning, mid October, with the sun not shining and a look of hard wet rain in the clearness of the foothills."
"Private investigator Philip Marlowe is hired by wealthy General Sternwood to stop a blackmailer. Marlowe suspects that the old General is merely testing his caliber before trusting him with a bigger job, one involving Sternwood's two amoral daughters."
Nineteen Eighty-Four, by George Orwell
"It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen."
"In George Orwell's iconic and prophetic masterpiece, 1984, a haunting vision of a dystopian future unfolds. Set in a world dominated by the all-seeing eye of Big Brother, the story follows Winston Smith, a lowly Party member whose very thoughts are scrutinized. As the Party manipulates history and suppresses truth, Winston's yearning for individuality and connection pushes him into a daring dance on the edge of rebellion."
[A title I cannot, unfortunately, read-- if anyone who HAPPENS to be familiar with the show and HAPPENS to perhaps also be on tumblr just HAPPENS to say what this book might be, that would be Very Much Appreciated]
"????"
[WOW I WISH I WAS A SUMMARY OH WELL]
Catch-22, by Joseph Heller
"It was love at first sight."
"Set in the closing months of World War II in an American bomber squadron off the coast of Italy, Catch-22 is the story of a bombardier named Yossarian who is frantic and furious because thousands of people he has never even met keep trying to kill him. Joseph Heller's bestselling novel is a hilarious and tragic satire on military madness, and the tale of one man's efforts to survive it."
Love in the Time of Cholera, by Gabriel García Márquez
"It was inevitable: the scent of bitter almonds always reminded him of the fate of unrequited love."
"The story, which treats the themes of love, aging, and death, takes place between the late 1870s and the early 1930s in a South American community troubled by wars and outbreaks of cholera. It is a tale of two lovers, artistic Florentino Ariza and wealthy Fermina Daza, who reunite after a lifetime apart."
The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time, by Mark Haddon
"It was seven minutes after midnight."
"The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time is a 2003 mystery novel by British writer Mark Haddon. [...] The novel is narrated in the first-person perspective by Christopher John Francis Boone, a 15-year-old boy who is described as "a mathematician with some behavioural difficulties" living in Swindon, Wiltshire. [...] Christopher sets out to solve the murder [of a neighbor's dog] in the style of his favourite (logical) detective, Sherlock Holmes."
The Crow Road, by Iain Banks
"It was the day my grandmother exploded."
A Scottish family drama about a perfect murder against the backdrop of the 1990s Gulf War. "This Bildungsroman is set in the fictional Argyll town of Gallanach, the real village of Lochgair, and in Glasgow, where the adult Prentice McHoan lives. Prentice's uncle Rory disappeared eight years previously while writing a book called The Crow Road. Prentice becomes obsessed with papers his uncle left behind and sets out to solve the mystery. Along the way he must cope with estrangement from his father, unrequited love, sibling rivalry, and failure at his studies."
No Woman No Cry: My Life with Bob Marley, by Rita Marley with Hettie James
"I was an ambitious girl child."
"Fans of reggae legend Bob Marley will welcome this no-nonsense biography from his wife, Rita, who was also his band member, business partner, musical collaborator and the only person to have witnessed firsthand his development from local Jamaican singer to international superstar."
I Capture the Castle, by Dodie Smith
"I write this sitting in the kitchen sink."
"I Capture the Castle tells the story of seventeen-year-old Cassandra and her family, who live in not-so-genteel poverty in a ramshackle old English castle. Here she strives, over six turbulent months, to hone her writing skills. She fills three notebooks with sharply funny yet poignant entries. Her journals candidly chronicle the great changes that take place within the castle's walls, and her own first descent into love."
...and because I happen to know and love this book, I'm aware of the devastating last lines...
"Only the margin left to write on now. I love you, I love you, I love you."
55 notes
·
View notes
Text
The Exciting Chronicles of The Shapeshifter & The Eccentric Gentleman
I / II (You're here) / III / IV / V
As a child, you would wait
And watch from far away
But you always knew that you'd be the one
That work while they all play
In youth, you'd lay
Awake at night and scheme
Of all the things that you would change
But it was just a dream
(Warriors, Imagine Dragons)
Words: 2.2k
Weeks would pass since that day. The shapeshifter, who would later be named Mercy, was trained rigorously to utilize their powers constructively; simultaneously, their abilities would grow stronger with some exercises from Numbers Four, Five, and Seven.
Mercy would quit trying to romance Number One. Reading his mind after assuming his form the second time made them realize he didn’t desire romance in general. As someone who became him, naturally Mercy would understand and respect his reasons.
After a month and a half of routine, Mercy became skilled and powerful enough to not only shapeshift into beings of unfathomable power, but also act as them too. To a normal person, they wouldn’t be able to tell the real from fake. Ordinarily, this would take at least a year, but thanks to their intervention it accelerated.
Now, Mercy found themselves sitting in a dark room in front of a screen; Number One finished setting up the projector, turned it on and manifested a pointer stick.
One pointed at an image of a red X. “So here’s the situation.”
Mercy nodded. One clicked and the image changed to a colored sketch for a hulking, green figure. It had a horned skull for a head and three eyes with yellow glowing pupils. Its ‘cloak’ was made out of grass, decorated with various flowers they couldn’t be bothered to try to name. The number next to it told them it was 9 feet tall. Compared to it, they were a measly 5 foot 5 inches.
One poked the screen at it. “I need to get an audience with them.”
Mercy vaguely felt their jaw drop. This…this creature-no, entity was surreal; it looked like it leapt out of someone’s amazing imagination and uprooted an entire garden for its cloak. No, cape…? In any case it looked fantastical. Mercy found it pleasant to look at.
(Art from this fic by the_moon_archives on ao3)
“This is Creator #AQ-120, but refer to them as Eldritch for simplicity. Eldy for short.” One retracted the pointer stick and chucked it behind him. “They’ve been at the ‘game’ for long enough that they know enough about the big picture that their knowledge is critical to my objective.”
Mercy raised their hand. “And what is the big picture?”
One grinned. “I’m glad you asked.”
The slide changed to show the words “SAGAU PHENOMENON” in bold black letters. General questions asking about it were scattered throughout. One pointed to the title. “Finding out what is causing this-this anomaly and putting a stop to it once and for all! I’m confident Eldy already knows what’s happening and I suspect something or other is preventing them from acting on it. So I thought I’d gently ask to take the reins from them.”
One summoned the pointer stick back in his hand. “The problem is Eldy is heavily guarded by cultists and priests. Especially this one lunatic: Rex Lapis. He’s not only a highly dedicated and religious god, but also the oldest and most experienced.”
The slide changed to show a tall, handsome man in white robes and a hood; despite that, two branch-like horns tipped with amber hues poked out of it. His face was immaculately sculpted with a nice jawbone and his captivating eyes with amber irises. He looked like a combination of a dragon and a human, the latter moreso.
Mercy stared into those hypnotic eyes. It was almost a crime how handsome he looked. Fortunately, One changed slides and tapped on an image of an elaborate temple. “This is where Eldy is living, or rather staying. The Temple of the Omnipotent Emperor is usually highly guarded 24/7. Only acolytes are allowed to enter, and the place is crawling with guards.”
Number One sighed. “It would be ideal if we could simply schedule a meeting face-to-face with them, but to them we’ll be perceived as complete strangers with no social standing or power. Furthermore, their guest log is practically full all the time. Scheduling anything with them is an impossibility; we’ll be put on the waitlist if we even try.
And then One smiled like a devious tactician who already thought of contingencies for their master plan. “Which is why we have to resort to more clever methods to set up a meeting. I present to you: Operation: Masked Fools. You’re the mask and I’m the fool, just to clarify.”
Mercy arched an eyebrow. “What an interesting thing to call it.”
“I know! Sometimes my naming sense is genius,” One laughed lightly. Mercy rolled their eyes with an easy smile. “It’ll be simple. We’ll be pulling a Spiderman: into the spiderverse nigh-end scene; in other words we’ll disguise ourselves as one of the acolytes, avoid unnecessary characters, acquire an audience in private, and leave before anyone notices.”
“You’re missing an awful lot of details. Like, what happens if we run into someone like Rex anyway? Or-or what if Eldy isn’t even there in the first place?” asked Mercy.
“Then we hide our presence, or act natural! And if Eldy isn’t there then we ask around, get our answer, and then teleport to them!” One said without missing a beat.
Mercy frowned. They still weren’t satisfied. “What happens if there’s like, an object that cancels my ability to shapeshift?”
“Then you hide while I find it and shut it down.”
“Well, what if Eldy calls us out while we’re disguised?”
“I…teleport us into a private room, put on my charm, and reassure them we mean no harm!”
“Right, like you have charm in the first place,” snarked Mercy.
One put a hand on his chest and spoke in mock hurt. “How dare you! I’m practically oozing with charm, thank you very much!”
“Ha! Liar! I’ve been in your mind. Would you like me to recount the first time you tried to flirt with a woman?” Mercy cheekily said.
One puffed out his cheeks. He didn’t dare say anything to dignify that statement. Mercy smirked with the energy of a cat that had found the bag of cat food all by itself.
“Let’s just move on,” One said, slightly disgruntled. The slide showed what looked like a throne room. “This is where Eldy is during the day. Normally, there’s a translator by their side to translate what Eldy says; they speak in a different language apparently, but it would be better if we were alone.”
“You’re saying…you know how to speak their language.”
“Yes. Next, we need to make sure that nobody interrupts us. To accomplish that, I’ll set up a mid-level perception filter around the room so that nobody will even think of entering. Think of it as a censor for the mind, one that reassures it that everything is ordinary,” explained One.
He tapped his forehead with the stick. “Finally, after I get the answers I need, we teleport out, get back home, and review what we learned. Okay! Briefing over.”
One clapped twice and the lights turned on; the projector turned off as well. One stretched his arms. “I suggest you get a nap and catch some sleep while you can, Mercy. We’ll be deploying early in a couple days.”
“Understood.”
///
That night, Mercy laid in bed awake. They stared up at the ceiling with a thoughtful expression. Memories of today’s briefing stuck with them like a fly caught in a tape trap. It just refused to settle down. They tossed and turned yet nothing seemed to help. Not even counting sheep.
Ugh. Fine. With a defeated groan, they got up and out of their room but not before grabbing a white and black hoodie. Mercy quietly crept down the hallway, down the stairs, and out the door. They shut it silently, then examined the nightly scene before them.
Before them was a place that was still in its early stages; when Noraa (Number Four’s name, given after earning his trust) offered to shelter them, they accepted with a promise to assist him however they could. Thus, they’d move and attach bricks, turn boulders into rubble, and generally clear the way. A dozen buildings, including a moderately sized castle, served as the homes for those who lived here.
This was the Kingdom of Delusion and while Noraa could call it home, Mercy…had a ways to go until they felt settled.
With that in mind, they started trekking along the beaten path. Hopefully all of this excess energy will just go away as I walk…
It would have to be a short walk as they didn’t want to stay up too long. A glance upwards showed the moon nearing its peak in the sky. That and the stars shining above made for a rather beautiful sight. Their chest felt light like a balloon as they let their feet guide them towards a circular clearing in the middle.
This was the site for the future town square. Although only hollow shells for buildings were here, at the very least there was a simple fountain. Mercy sat on the smoothened stone. They looked down at the water below. It was as clear as a mirror.
The shapeshifter (Mercy took to calling themselves that after hearing it countless times from them all) examined their appearance. After several days of experimenting with it, they were satisfied with their current form: A round head with a flat chin, light gray medium hair with bangs short enough that a pair of heterochromatic eyes peeked out; the right was orange and the other was blue.
They had a build that was well-built yet had the right amount of fat (plump was what Number Six described it). Thanks to their head shape they looked androgynous. Overall it felt pleasing to look at.
Mercy shivered. They rubbed their hands to try to warm themselves-
-only to have a coat get wrapped around their shoulders.
Startled, they swiftly turned around to discover a tall young man with short, jade green hair, slightly tanned skin, and light green eyes in his nightwear. He wore a neutral expression as he opened his mouth. “Couldn’t sleep?”
Mercy withdrew into the coat. “...No.”
“Mm,” was all he said. He opened his right hand and a metallic staff manifested. Noraa casually pointed the tip to his left palm and a dotted white beam fired. A cup of milk appeared in his grasp. “Warm milk?”
Mercy stared at it briefly what the f- before moving to take it. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” replied Noraa. He made himself another one and sat down right next to them.
The duo silently drank their cups of warm milk. They savored its warmth and taste as much as they could. Once finished, Noraa took both empty cups and made them disappear via staff. Mercy found themself staring at it.
It looked ordinary enough with a long jade green handle, but near the tip was where it started looking interesting. Inserted into a slot was an orange cube with a diamond gray panel that had five glowing square lights; the cube was big enough like a decently sized watermelon. There was a small barrel at the top where the beam came out of “Where’d you get that?”
The edges of Noraa’s lips pulled up. “Mm. Built it myself. I was inspired after I saw someone else’s.”
“I see. So you basically wanted a cool magic staff.”
Noraa nodded. “Don’t we all, at some point, want to pick up a stick and pretend to cast spells with it?”
“I guess. It sounds fun.”
“It is…” Noraa agreed. They both looked up at the starry sky. Neither said a word for what felt like hours. Mercy felt as calm and clear as a tranquil pond of water completely untouched, unsoiled. It was a nice moment, one they'd treasure.
They inhaled, savoring the pureness of the air when Noraa said something that caught her off guard.
“Mercy,” he licked his dry lips. “If you don’t mind me asking, what will you do after this?”
Blank. That was their mind. Nothing came up immediately so they said that. Mercy looked at Noraa who was still looking up. “Why do you ask?”
“It’s just…I thought I’d bother asking since we know this is a one-time thing. This operation will benefit us, but I realize that it doesn’t benefit you at all. I mean, at least in the long run,” he explained. He looked at them with a face that screamed ‘worry’. It was something he did often; it was how he showed he cared. Mercy teased him by calling him dad. That made him stop doing it, at least for a while.
But back to the topic at hand. “I’m content with helping One at the moment. Once I fulfilled my end of the deal, I figured I’d just go out there and find myself. Do it the tried and true way.”
Noraa tilted his head as he processed that. “Yeah…okay. Valid.”
He covered a yawn. “Well, I’m gonna tell ya this right now: If you ever feel yourself in need of a safe space whenever your journey starts to wear ya down, my door’s always open.”
Mercy blinked. “That’s…actually very sweet of you.”
“Don’t mention it.” Noraa clicked his tongue. He stood up and stretched. “Mm, on that pleasant note, I think I’m gonna hit the hay. The milk’s kicking in. Want a lift?”
“Sure.” Mercy hopped off their seat. Noraa put a hand on their shoulder. Thanks to his staff, they disappeared and reappeared inside his house. As Mercy climbed the stairs they called out one final time. “Good night, grass head.”
“Good night to you too, dingus.”
“Snake eyes.”
“Vegetable.”
“That one didn’t make sense.”
“Good night.” Noraa marched off to bed.
Mercy chuckled quietly before doing the same.
///////////
A/N: @idkfitememate
This is mostly a set-up chapter plus some filler. A part of me thought it was a good idea to give a glimpse into Mercy’s bonds with two of the people who helped them adjust to life outside the mirror; after a month and a half of hands-on training it’s only logical for one to forge such a tight-knit bond.
I hope you enjoyed that slice-of-life bit because next is the exciting part. And I have enough action sequences stockpiled to draw upon. ;)
I've been wanting to write more on SAGAU somehow. This was my plan. The SAGAU Phenomenon is an ongoing anomaly where "countless human souls are prevented from passing peacefully; they are instead reincarnated or transported into Teyvat, totally unprepared for any trials. Depending on what kind of universe they're in, they will either thrive or perish." This is an original thing I came up with.
I wanted to make Mercy have an androgynous appearance since they can literally become anyone, any gender, etc. It makes sense from a design standpoint. As the first character I’ve ever written to hold that status, it felt easier since I had sources to draw upon (looking at you Pidge Voltron & Double Trouble She-ra). For their name, I spun a wheel with four choices: Halcyon, Mercy, Mica, and Blake. No guesses as to which one won.
Reblogs, questions, comments, and critiques are welcome (don’t be shy y’all!)
#my ocs#.mine#no beta we die like men#writers on tumblr#creative writing#writer stuff#writer#sagau#genshin sagau#sagau fanfic#self aware genshin au
17 notes
·
View notes
Text
Once again, I am doing a series of my behind-the-scenes thoughts for The Golds while I do light edits for formatting, typos, and continuity. Here’s Chapter 6!
For this chapter’s title, I chose to reference the Stranger because of the fear for Jace’s life throughout the chapter. But there are no lyrics for the Stranger in “The Song of the Seven” because, as Sam Tarly says in ASOIAF, “no one sings of the Stranger.” Hence the placeholder: (The Stranger has no songs). And, at the end of the chapter, Jace tells Aegon that she wants no more songs.
Like Chapter 3, this chapter has no scene breaks since it is essentially one long scene during one day. In Chapter 3, there’s a mystery while Jace is trying to figure out what Aegon has been up to, then in Chapter 4 we find out the truth. Here it’s reversed: we already know from Chapter 5 what happened to Jace, but now we’re following Aegon as he tries to figure out where she is.
The chapter starts with Aegon having a normal morning. We see he’s developed the habit of helping his wife dress, and his knowledge of her gown, shoes, and hairpin is useful in his investigation later.
The irony of Aegon and Jace’s last dialogue before they separate! Turns out it’s not Aegon we have to worry about missing the lunch meeting 😢.
Aegon is of the opinion there’s nothing wrong with a little brawl between boys (he and Aemond still brawl on occasion). TBH he probably would’ve kept moving if he didn’t know any of the boys, but because he knows Ronnel, he intervenes. Also, since Aegon pays Gyles, Gyles and Ronnel are part of Aegon’s household (although Gyles makes pies for pretty much everyone who asks), so there’s some of that feudal responsibility where a lord takes care of his people.
Ronnel is basically the new kid at school, and the other servant boys don’t like him because they perceive favoritism from Aegon (which there is). I’m sure the castle staff have some kind of hierarchy that factors in things like tenure, and suddenly Ronnel and his dad show up going “milord Aegon” in what the others deem an overly familiar way. Gyles’s pies are very in demand among other highborns at the castle, which means Gyles’s standing quickly rises (and Ronnel by proxy), so the boys are envious of Ronnel’s good fortune. And most of the servants are from the Crownlands, so the boys are quick to pick on Ronnel’s Vale background.
Gyles is around 30 (Aegon is 18) and from a very different background, so it would be difficult for them to be true friends in a society that places so much emphasis on class and wealth. But they’re at least friendly because they’ve known each other for so long, and Aegon has been thinking a lot more about fatherhood. Gyles is one of the few men he personally knows who seems to have a healthy relationship with his son, so I feel like Aegon has asked Gyles a few questions about fatherhood prior to this chat in Chapter 6. The convo about Gyles’s wife foreshadows some of the issues Jace wrestles with in the coming chapters (although she has a much happier resolution), and it’s definitely on Aegon’s mind while he helps her through the aftermath.
Aegon’s little detective business just kind of happened. Probably started with one of the former captives at the warehouse asking for help related to the Tyroshi, and it snowballed from there as word spread around the city that “hey, if you have a problem, Prince Aegon might help you out.” Of course Aegon would prefer not to get the boring problems (I keep imagining BBC’s Sherlock only taking interesting cases), but he puts up with them because the smallfolk are very enthusiastic with their gratitude—and Jace likes it when he helps people, which is probably the bigger incentive.
The innkeeper disapproving of his daughter’s elopement is supposed to parallel Daemon disapproving of Jace’s elopement, so Aegon is inclined to sympathize with the young couple instead of the father (again, the theme of smallfolk and highborns being essentially the same, just with more or less money). AND the daughter is pregnant, so Aegon is envisioning what he and Jace would want in that scenario. Also, Aegon specifically buys a goat as a wedding present because it’s just about one of the most useful things a peasant could have. The goat is relatively inexpensive to maintain and feed, and it provides milk and some wool. And it can be marked with ownership, so it’s harder for a jealous neighbor to steal than a sack of coins. (This is my amateur understanding of goats, I know very little about goat husbandry.)
I’m probably going to write a chapter from Liane’s POV in my smallfolk anthology. She’s a very smart girl who was born into poverty, can’t read (hence the X she signs on the contract) but has a good head for business. For a poor prostitute in this society, the most common career paths are either a) keep being a prostitute forever, b) repent and join the Faith as a septa, or c) become a brothel owner. Liane has been working on option C for a while, and she sees the opportunity to buy the building she works in when Aegon shows no interest in the Garden. He also doesn’t take a cut of their earnings, so she’s able to save up faster the next few months. I like to think that because she’s worked side by side with the other girls so long, she’ll be a good manager to them rather than let the authority go to her head. And the influx of money that Aegon sends them after they help Jace significantly improves living conditions, to the point that Liane might even be able to change it from a brothel to a different establishment.
But the most important point of the scene: Aegon sows good karma by selling the Garden to Liane for dirt cheap (1 groat = 4 pennies), and it pays dividends that very day when Jace needs help.
Rhaenyra mentions in the Handbook that Luce had quite a few childhood fears, including storms, which she still secretly has. I gave this fear to Luce because I was thinking about the canonical Storm’s End chase scene and how that would be even more harrowing with a fear of storms. Now I also realize there’s some symbolism because Cassandra Baratheon is one of the Four Storms ⛈️.
In Chapter 4, Aegon is quick to distract himself when he starts thinking about the baby and being a father. Here, he purposefully lingers on thoughts about fatherhood as he observes Daemon interacting with Alyssa; Aegon is making progress coming to terms with being a father.
Sorry not sorry but I love the imagery of short Lucera wearing Aemond’s big coat 🥰. She’s soaked after flying on Arrax in the rain, and he probably makes some snarky comments about how unkempt she looks while he wraps the coat around her. (Meanwhile Rhaenys is off to the side like “OK ignore me, I’m just an old lady, thanks.”)
There is some irony that Aegon sneaks out alone to the city all the time and deliberately gets in trouble but is always fine, while the one time Jace leaves the castle during her pregnancy, the worst happens.
Aemond thinks Aegon is being panicked and reckless (which he is), but Aemond follows him anyway because a) that’s his brother even if he’s kind of a dumbass sometimes and b) Aemond knows he’s the only person who can keep up with Aegon right now 🥲.
Bethany is in a heckload of pain right now, and it would be her right to demand a maester’s attention before her own wounds worsen/get infected, but she cares about Floris so she makes sure Floris isn’t alone at the end 😢.
Aegon’s threat to feed the madam’s brother to Sunfyre and make her watch is indeed a reference to a certain canon event… 👀
Aegon has definitely done his homework on the Tyroshi since he spent a while trying to catch him. I might flesh out the guy’s backstory in a future fic, but I imagine him to be from one of Tyrosh’s ruling families (the archon is chosen from a conclave of the richest families in Tyrosh). I had to make up a name based on the naming patterns of other Tyroshi characters GRRM created.
Throughout this chapter, Aemond serves as the voice of reason and is able to quickly refute many of Aegon’s arguments because he knows how Aegon thinks. Admittedly, Aemond would act a lot like Aegon right now if Luce were the one in trouble—but then Aegon would be the one knocking sense into Aemond into that scenario. The brothers are more similar than they like to admit.
Bethany is very angry at Elinor, understandably so. Bethany did her duty and came to Jace’s defense, and she almost died for it—plus she’s aware that her face is never going to look the same again. Meanwhile Elinor abandoned their mistress and did absolutely nothing to help anybody, and she’s perfectly fine (for now). I don’t think Elinor was thinking at all about her crush on Aegon at the time, but Bethany really wants to make her words hurt and ensure that Elinor doesn’t come away completely unscathed. Definitely not friends anymore.
As I’ve said before, book!Aegon has excellent zingers, and TGC says Aegon has an eye for people’s weak spots. Here, Aegon deliberately says one of the most hurtful things he could possibly say to a girl who likes him: “you’re worse than a dog.” 💀 (I can’t blame him though.)
Despite the circumstances, Westerosi values are pretty engrained into Aegon, so he feels like he can’t lay hands on a highborn girl like Elinor, whereas he wouldn’t hesitate to beat a man into a pulp. So he hands (pun not intended) Elinor to Rhaenyra, because the optics of a mother/another woman punishing Elinor are much less bad, and he’s confident Rhaenyra will make it hurt. (And he forces Elinor to personally tell Rhaenyra what she did. Oof!)
Book!Aegon is capable of immense cruelty, especially after he’s been wronged (I’m hoping we see that in S2). I wanted to channel that here when he punishes Edwyn Pyle. First he unofficially puts Edwyn on trial, with Aegon as judge and jury, and makes Edwyn sweat as he confesses everything he did wrong. Of course Aegon deems him guilty, and part of him would like to kill Edwyn personally. But Aegon also thinks the other guards need to be punished for blindly obeying orders (we can argue whether this is fair to the guards, but Aegon doesn’t care about being fair right now), so he includes them in Edwyn’s punishment. I was inspired by the Roman practice of decimation, where if an entire group of soldiers (usually groups of 10) needs to be punished, one of them is randomly selected and the others beat him to death. Aegon makes the other guards take turns beating Edwyn so they never forget their failure (and if they mess up again, next time it might be them being beaten to death), and it adds extra burn to Edwyn’s death because he’s being beaten by the very men he was ordering around. (And yes, Edwyn does end up dying after 12 hours of this.)
Although I just said Aegon is capable of immense cruelty, he is arguably “nicer” than Aemond 😅. In F&B, Aegon shows mercy to Gaemon Palehair and agrees to knight Trystane Truefyre before execution, neither of which he needed to do. Compare to Aemond, who slaughters all of House Strong including the toddlers and burns tf out of the Riverlands 😐. Neither of them is really nice though, let’s be real.
A younger Daemon would’ve been out searching on the streets too, but he is sadly no longer a young man. Instead he’s been playing spymaster at the Red Keep, and it pays off. The old man who has info about the hay wagon goes to a brothel in Mysaria’s network, and she sends word to Daemon. The show has made Mysaria a populist, so I think she approves of Jace’s attempts to help the people of KL. And I’m sure Mysaria has heard about Aegon’s detective services, so overall she’s inclined to help find Jace.
A wagon, two mules, and pile of good hay are worth way more than a little rowboat, hence the old man’s eagerness to trade and disinclination to ask too many questions.
Kites have been used in warfare for many centuries. When you have dragonriders, you need to be able to signal them somehow, and I feel like kites would be a pretty good solution for that. Now that there are so many adult dragonriders in KL, someone (probably Corlys or Daemon) suggested incorporating the kite system for emergencies such as this. The gold cloaks were notably incompetent during Chapter 4, but I think the Targs have whipped them back into shape during the last few months.
Luce is honestly not in much danger at all on dragonback, with only one “enemy” on the ground. But Aemond worries anyway 😛. (Aegon’s been in a state all day, some of it probably wore off on Aemond.)
When Aegon asks “where is she,” the Tyroshi realizes they haven’t found Jace. He knows there’s no way he’s escaping now, so he decides to drag out Aegon’s torment as much as he can before he’s inevitably executed.
Aemond reacts very strongly to Aegon digging into the Tyroshi’s mutilated eye because…uh…well, the eye thing 👁️👄⚫️. Aemond has zero sympathy for the guy but he’s probably getting some secondhand pain watching it happen.
I actually do think Jace saw Arrax while Luce was flying out, but she had no way of signaling Arrax, and it was too dark/high for Luce to spot Jace in the trees 🙁. Jace probably thought about trying to follow Arrax, but she had no idea when/where Arrax would land (and a dragon is much faster than her on foot), so she continued onward to the city.
Contrary to common belief, House Hightower’s sigil colors do NOT include green! It’s a white tower with orange flames on a gray field. That’s why Alicent’s necklace is white gold and amber. I imagine it as a necklace from when she was a girl (long before her green era), and she gave it to Jace shortly after the elopement.
The guards who refused to listen to Liane are probably due for some very arduous training drills once the Targs have the bandwidth to pay attention to them 😬.
The Liane chapter I mentioned above will probably cover in more detail what happens when Jace shows up at the Garden. I imagine that once the girls realize Jace is in fact the missing princess, they kick out all their customers so they can focus on her.
Jace has a big problem with people touching her in the next chapter, but right now she’s still in shock, so she lets one of the girls comb her hair. The Garden girls have never interacted with anyone as high society as Jace before, but they’re offering the best hospitality they can: dragging out a clean mattress and blankets, building the fire as hot as they can (firewood ain’t free), giving her clothes (they don’t have much that’ll fit a heavily pregnant woman but they try), scrubbing Jace’s muddy shift.
Jace being soundly refused help from the other shopkeepers shocks and hurts her a lot. She’s spent her entire life being recognized instantly because she’s a princess. But the smallfolk have only ever seen her from a distance, if at all, and she would’ve been dressed in royal finery, like during her wedding day. Now she’s only wearing her shift and one shoe, and her hair (which is black instead of a distinctive Valyrian silver) is a mess. Usually the only people who walk around in public in their smallclothes are whores, so the shopkeepers take one look at her and assume she’s a whore. Meanwhile the girls at the Garden are at the bottom of society, so they know what it’s like to need help but be scorned by everyone else. They don’t believe Jace’s identity at first, but she’s a pregnant woman in desperate need of help, so they let her inside because they’ve been in similar straits before.
This is a turning point in Aegon’s journey to fatherhood. His concern most of the day was about Jace, but when he feels Cheeseball move for the first time, it suddenly strikes him that the baby is not just an extension of Jace, as he’s been thinking so far. This is the moment when Aegon realizes he loves the baby because it’s his child, not just because it’s part of Jace.
Luce has been away for six months, but she grew up with Jace. She immediately clocks that Jace isn’t going to be entirely OK. Aegon also knows this deep down, but he’s desperately hoping for the best so he’s acting like it’s only a physical thing.
Rhaenyra picked a very poetic punishment for Elinor. Elinor loses her dominant hand, which she used to push Jace, but it’s also the hand that made her excel as a LIW because many of Elinor’s talents, like hairstyling, lay in the dexterous use of her hands. But even if Elinor were ever welcome at court again, she wouldn’t be able to reclaim a similar position. The loss of her hand also takes down her marriageability a lot, if the dishonor weren’t enough. I also imagine Aunt Elinda had a lot to say to Elinor 😬.
Alicent doesn’t know how to comfort Aegon (and he probably doesn’t want it right now), so she defaults into “hostess” mode (the queen is basically hostess of the entire castle/court) by making sure he and Jace have their physical needs taken care of.
Jace spent many hours alone in the woods, so she had a lot of time to think about what happened that day. She’s already begun internalizing her guilt about her ladies’ deaths, and how her pregnancy led to them being in the Sept. She feels like she shouldn’t celebrate the baby when her ladies/friends have died because of it. And the Tyroshi talked about how people sing about Jace and Aegon, hence Jace’s temporary aversion to songs. So Aegon’s first attempt at helping her back to “normalcy” fails—but as we see in future chapters, he figures out another way.
#my writing#meta#house of the dragon meta#hotd meta#fanfic meta#aegon ii targaryen#female jacaerys velaryon#the golds
20 notes
·
View notes
Text
The Himura clan
did some research! lots of research, actually, all about what being 'village headmen' entailed, what it meant to be wealthy post-land reforms, and I've even come up with a theory/explanation about why they had numerous branch families. let me share what I've found:
(but first, please go read @stillness-in-green’s wonderful review of chapter 387 that contains a great explanation on clan intermarriage and how the situation at the Himura’s must have looked!
The 庄屋 - Shouya - "Village Leaders"
Shouya translates to village headmen, village leader - which is correct, but I don’t think that tells the whole story. So I’ll tell it to everyone:
The 'village headman' (and his lineage) was part of a specific, special rank of 'titled' peasants during the Tokugawa period (1603 - 1867). Basically, they were the elite of the peasant elites. When the shogunate came into power, it created a new system of village offices of headman and council to better collect taxes - and this new status granted prestige and the power to collect and deliver tribute, keep records and maintain the population register, and generally presiding over all public affairs. Headmen were still peasants, but they would be allowed things that would normally be only entitled to the warrior/samurai class, like the usage of surnames, the wearing of silk, and even carrying one (1) small sword.
(Source: Tokugawa Village Practice, by Herman Ooms)
With these culminated privileges and means, then, it was easy for village headmen to get cultivate lots of land, get rich, establish lineages and cadet branches, cultivate more land, get richer, etc. This being feudalism, all land belonged to the central state, so they weren't exactly landowners, but they essentially functioned as wealthy landlords (and became exactly that when the Meiji era (1868 - 1912) established the right to private land ownership.)
This is what the Himura(?) marriage broker meant when they talked about how the family was once "considered prestigious, with a long and storied history", and when Geten spoke of the Himura having wealth and pride. This is a family who could trace their history and genealogy back to samurai times, a lineage with inherited land and fortune that has been continuous for over 500 years by the time the story in HeroAca takes place.
The 農地改革 - Nouchikaikaku - Land Reforms
idk what exactly Official Viz Translator Caleb Cook was thinking when he decides to translate nouchikaikaku - agrarian reforms - as ‘agricultural revolution’ which (to me) brings to mind ‘the era when cavemen starts farming’. It’s not incorrect, exactly, but there are much better options that have more accurate connotations. Nouchikaikaku can be referring to land reforms in general, but here, it is almost certainly talking about the post-WWII land reforms of 1947.
Some background: When poor farmers fall into debt - due to crop failures, due to the chaotic economic times, due to random things like "a fall in the price of rice coinciding with the expense of a wedding or funeral where social custom would permit of no stinting", just having one bad day, etc. - they usually were forced to sell their land... then stay and become tenant farmers on that same land, except now they were paying rent that could be as high as half their income. Thus a system of landlords and tenants came to be, and the gap between their economic statuses would widen.
By 1941, 46% of cultivated land in Japan were tenanted; and only 30% of peasants owned all the land they tilled. (In other words, landlords owned nearly half of all farmland, and 70% of farming households were tenants of some kind.)
(Source: Land Reform in Japan, by Ronald Dore)
This is where land reforms come in, in order to correct this inequality.
After the war, all absentee landowners and landlords who own too many acres were required to sell their land to the government, who then sold it to the people who actually worked the land. In this way, large landlords was practically eliminated, tenant farming was no more, and every farming family became proper small property owners, and Japan's land reform is considered today to be one of the most successful in history.
The whole purpose of the land reforms was to reduce the wealth and power of rich landlords... So how is it that the Himura clan somehow found a way to keep all that?
This is, I think, where the key words of "by creating branch families" come into play.
Quick jump back to the agrarian reforms: Under the land reform laws, owning and selling land became a very regulated affair - Corporations and non-farmers cannot own farmland; there was a maximum limit to how much land a person/family could have; only limited local landlording was allowed, and even then, tenants rights were favored.
Essentially, the “only way an individual could acquire farmland was by joining a farm family through birth, adoption, or marriage, then co-residing with the preceding generation until inheriting the parents' land, and eventually passing the same land to a household heir to repeat the cycle.”
So, my theory:
The Himura, as wealthy ancestral landlords, were bound to lose land (and their fortune) when the land reforms came. To avoid doing so - or, rather, to gain back land they had to sell - they could've started marrying local neighboring families, bringing them into the Himura clan. Each non-eldest, non-inheriting son who married out would already be creating a branch, and have access to his wife's family's land; with the Himura's influence and status, it wouldn't be strange if their daughters' husbands take the Himura name instead of the other way around.
Heck, they also could've just adopted people - one traditional method was indeed this: "families often adopted as “branch families” people who were not related by blood. This kind of branch family was often in an economically subordinate position: perhaps a family of farm workers who depended on the stem “family” for land and tools. The fictive familiar relationship added extra depth and strength to the economic relationship."
Thus, on paper, a tract of land is owned by a individual couple or family... but that couple or family is now Himura, and therefore the Himura clan have increased in branch families, and maintained/maybe even increased their wealth (land), exactly as Geten says.
Which is why when the Advent came, "Heteromorph blood" became so abhorrent?
To be sure, they were likely just bigots who discriminated against Heteromorphs for being different.
However, if their whole operation had been to bring people into the clan, this hatred would mean a loss of marriage and adoption candidates. Anyone who had heteromorphic quirks were out; anyone who came from a family that had even one (1) individual with a heteromorphic quirk was out, since that trait could be inherited. As @stillness-in-green points out in her post, "Given that the characters in-universe still don’t know the origin of quirks, there’s no way to completely guarantee desirable quirks, or even to perfectly guard against the dreaded heteromorphic quirks," outsiders had the potential to bring surprise heteromorph blood, which would've been horrifying for them.
Official Viz Translator Caleb Cook translated this part as 'They [the Himura] didn't want to dilute their blood', but the more accurate translation, I feel, would be 'they hated the mixing of blood'.
'Dilute' gives off the sense that they wanted to keep their 'Himura essence' or whatever pure, which is true to a point; but in the context that Mr. Compress gives us - heteromorph discrimination - and how it's only after the Advent that the result of clan endogamy came to be, I think it's more accurate to say that, yeah, the Himura specifically did not want to associate or mingle with 'unknown qualities', so to speak. They hated the idea of that ‘mixing'; so the Himura had to turn inwards to be certain that no heteromorph lineage could be mixed into the clan.
In doing so, the Himura would've lost their traditional method of growth. No more increasing branch families; instead, the branches would combine and decrease. No more obtaining, inheriting, and accumulation of land to the Himura name. The family shrink and wane, and eventually lost everything altogether.
(and the final delicious irony of all this is that their last ditch effort to marry off Rei would be consistent with their earlier methods, trying to save themselves and obtain wealth...
except this time it would be too little, too late.)
＊
Thanks for reading!
#Himura Family#Himura Clan#Geten#Todoroki Rei#Heteromorph Discrimination#Chapter 387#Chapter 301#HeroAca#bnha#mha#worldbuilding#actually it would be more#history#?#I did allllll this research and wrote allllllll this solely because of my love for Geten#tu superbus Himura nube#Himura#nalslastworkingbraincell
102 notes
·
View notes
Last Seen Blogs
baby-xemnas
yes, seriously, with the bear
pearl-riptide
୨୧ Pearl ୨୧
autozer0
Rae/Yuki
pinktaffy
pinkie
mandyvsfx
Unknown Caller