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angelplummie · 12 days

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getting baby trapped by 30s art……… i m unwell. after a messy divorce with tashi he found you, his kinder, softer, altogether more human younger girlfriend, and he can’t get enough. part of him craves tashis authority, but the other part of him relishes in being more than someone, older and stronger and wiser. he loves the way you make him feel, loves the way you dote on him and listen to him and take him in his entirety. loves the way you don’t play fucking tennis, you talk about other things, care about other things, fuck about other things. loves the way you lay down on your back for him and do as he says, even when he commands you in his soft, kind way. loves the way your eyes bead with tears as he pounds your tight young cunt and stares into your blistering face. he loves to stretch you open on his long cock and use you, use you for his pleasure until you cream and whimper, eat his seed from your sore, spasming cunt. he could fuck you however he wanted, and you adored him for it. in all his years he had never had so much sexual freedom, never been as totally and utterly fufilled. he loves how you thank him, for everything. with the newest dior hanging from your arm, you thank him. with his cum still on your tongue and bleary eyes, you thank him. he loves so much about you he’s starting to think he loves you. he loves you. you’re everything he needs after all that transpired with tashi, he needs someone loving and open. he wants you forever. but you’re so young. you could change, it could all go away so quickly. he needs a way to keep you, to make sure you always look at him with stars in your eyes, make sure you need him as much as he needs you. so slowly, he begins hiding your birth control. not very well, if you really wanted to find it you would have. but you didn’t. and you won’t.

“art,” you sigh as your wonderful boyfriend kisses your neck. you lay on his white sofa together, legs interlocked, pressing into every part of each other.

“art,” you sigh again, his hands palming your breast over your thin cami,”art, i forgot to take my pill. i couldn’t find my pill.”

“hmm,” he moans into your neck, grinding his hips into your thigh.

“art we can’t.”

“i want you.”

you giggle, and let him push away your top, and take your soft nipple into his mouth until it hardened, and deep in your core you felt a furling, peeling pleasure.

“i’m ovulating,” you breathe,”im gonna get pregnant.”

he groans, rock hard dick straining against his shorts, against your supple thigh. his hands roam over your torso and with kitten licks he flicks your nipple. you expel a soft breath, fingers carding through the blonde, tousled hair you suggested he grew out. you were making him young again.

“i want you. i’ll get a condom in a second.”

he’s lying. hes a liar and a bad bad man and he knows it. but he can’t care. you mewl once more about ovulating, but your fingers comb through his hair, and your chest heaves and your eyes flutter shut as he sucks and licks and paws at your tits, humping your thigh with his achingly hard cock.

“i’m… art… pregnant…” you whine half heartedly, but it only makes him sigh deeper, and he imagines the day that you’ll tell him that in complete sentences. would you be teary eyed? would you need convincing? or would you give yourself to him like he felt you would? only time would tell.

“shhhh.”

you twitched, spine arching and pushing yourself further into his mouth.

“i’m gonna grab a condom any second,” he murmured, “i want you now.”

“you have me now.”

he moves up your body and presses his lips to yours, large hand ghosting your jaw. you close your lips against each others, and open again to touch lip to tongue and tongue to tooth, to taste and to breathe each other. he tastes like sweet nothing, like air and cleanliness and summer. you taste like honey to him. your fingers tuck his hair behind his peach fuzzed ear delicately, and you breathe against each others upper lip. his nose mushes against yours and he flicks his tongue at your gums and lips. it deepens, and he toes the line between lavishing you in affection and trying to eat you lips first. it’s hungry and wet, and you forget where his mouth begins and yours ends, all becoming blurred in the spit and the heat of it.

he pulls away, with a spit string connecting your two puffy lips. his eyes twinkle in the dim light that can reach them in your tight embrace.

“why don’t you take off your panties?”

and he leant away, the warmth of his body leaving you burning in its absence. he sat, perched, watching you from above. he looked down his nose at you with a smile, so genuine and yet so condescending. so soft and nurturing, like you needed to be guided and taken care of. that him seeing you naked and feeling your insides and making you stupid and small was what you needed, was how he had to take care of you. it was times like this that you thought about the age difference, when he made you so aware that he could make you want to do anything, anything if it was just to please him. a special ability only he had over you, and if he has his way you would feel it forever. you scramble to be more upright, to rest on your elbows and lift your hips far enough that your reaching fingers could pull down your cotton panties. you writhed beneath him to reveal yourself, nipples peaking from your cami as he watched you fully clothed, in his white shirt and loose pyjama shorts. his hair was ruffled, this way and that, and he looked more collected than he ever had.

shed of your tiny covering, the orange glow of the living room light reflecting off the wetness that was smeared to your inner thigh. from under your lashes u stare up at him, the way his shirt clings involuntarily to the tightness of his core and to his broad shoulders, the way his blonde eyelashes flutter at the sight of your thighs, your hips, your tits, all the parts of you that spill over with softness. your lips part slightly, and in silence you forget what he wants you to forget and beg him to have his way with you.

he was pulled to you once more like a magnet, and you instinctively bent your knees up and spread your legs to receive his torso and hips. he took the bends of your knees in each hand and folded you up so that your ankles hung by his shoulders, bouncing in the air as the sofa gave way for his weight. he knelt above you for just a moment, just a tortuous moment before bending down, sliding his body back so his face could remain above your hot pussy.

with an untroubled drop of the wrist, your legs fell to his shoulders, sprawled on his back. the innermost part of your thighs pressed lightly to his ear, and your heels rested lightly on his back.

with his head situated mere inches from your hot throbbing hole, he took the opportunity to take his time. while he had you in the palm of his hand he made you suffer for it, kissing the tender flesh that shined with the mess he had made for you.

every touch was torture, and he knew what he was doing. his eyes never left your face, the ghost of a smile across his lips whenever they were not eclipsed by the fat of your thighs. your eyes never left his face either, and you watched him breathlessly. he licks a stripe of skin against the grain of your leg hair, and you make a sound like you’re crying.

“oh,” you whisper, “please.”

he hums, laughing. the air from his nose hits your folds and you twitch.

“ok,” he’s soft, controlled, serene.

lips parted, he leans forward into your core, not for one second breaking eye contact with you as he takes your clit into his wet mouth. his pink tongue lathes it, up and down and up and down.

his fingers make sharp indents in your thigh to stop your wriggling, and he forces your ass into his chest. he cranes his neck to eat you deeper, and you cry out, tears beading in your eyes. sucking brutally, he moans into your hole.

“fuck,” you fist the cushion beside you, gathering the fabric and ungathering it,”fuck.”

he eats your pussy like it’s your mouth, makes out with it, makes love to it. he seems to take you in your entirety into his mouth, making you all wet with him, covered and soaked. he reaches up slowly, taking your hand in his, and squeezes it softly. your fingers are tight, paralysed in his hold. the pressure his hand provides gets rid of your compulsive need to squeeze, pacifies you, makes you dumb and limp. you lie back, no longer watching his eyes trained on you, your mouth hanging open and your eyes fluttering closed. you moan involuntarily, unaware at all that you’re alive, that you haven’t died and gone to heaven.

his thumb rubs soft circles on the back of your hand in time with his mouthing, the swirl of his tongue and the rhythmic closing of his mouth. you taste like honey here too, like nectar and sugar and love. your ankles lock together and unlock on his back, and the mere feeling of that sends chills down his whole body.

suddenly he stops. he lays a final fat kiss on your clit, watching as you mewl and your tight, ready hole gushes. he pulls away with your puppy fat legs still hugging side burns and jaw. gently he rises and slips out of your leggy grasp, fingers still interlocked with yours. he wants to kiss you. you are so pathetic when he has his way with you, so passive and pliable. he wants to hurt you because you would let him, but infinitely more and for the exact same reason he wants only to look after you. to make you happy and full and rewarded for your eternal beauty, inside and out.

he wanted to kiss you, and so he did. he leaned over, still completely dressed, and draped his slender, finely chiselled body over yours. it even made him light headed to think about being close to you, to your body, not hardened by the dedication that destroyed him, left soft and unscarred, left without taint. his underbelly of tenderness was your everywhere. you were the rounding to his shoulders, the layer of fat that kept him in warm in winter.

you collided without friction, his wet lips gliding over yours in a dance of want. your legs were still under his control, and as such you were spread beneath him. your knees dangled by his sides, leaving your pussy wide open to leave sloppy kisses on his shorts. you kissed back with the same ferocity. despite your implicit submission, you wanted to consume him as much as he wanted to consume you, if not more. you gave him what he wanted because you wanted to give it to him. wanted to give him everything he would receive.

you gave him your tongue, which he accepted with a grin.

you gave him coiling fingers that grasped the fabric on his back desperately, which he took for momentum. he rolled forward on top of you, deepening the hold his mouth had on yours.

you gave him moans, whimpers from a wavering throat which he took for courage.

“im so hard for you,” you felt the reverberation of his voice in your very core, and you died a sweet death,”i’m gonna put it in.”

“uh huh.”

success. you had forgotten. he laughed, mischievously, and a smile settled into the curves of his face.

all you heard was the snap of elastic, the rustle of fabric and the dulled slap of arts heavy cock against his t-shirt.

all you saw was his pupils grow until his eyes appeared black, like an animal’s, looking at you so directly you felt he saw you deeper than skin, deeper than meat or bone. you felt utterly seen, and utterly loved. you met his gaze pleadingly, eyebrows quirking up in the centre and lips pouting. please, it told him, please my love.

“you want it?” he breathed. pre cum smeared the fat tip, his balls hung low out of his shorts that gathered at his middle thigh. it was so big. long and fat and filling. so big and so pretty, so big and pretty it was all you could do not to cry.

“i want it art,” you replied, voice clipped and cheeks burning,”i want you.”

“yeah?”

he touched your face, from your jaw to the temple. he didn’t even try to kiss you. he just held your face. he was gentle, gentle, gentle as ever. his every action was kind. you love him. you’re in love with him.

“i want you art. i love you.”

and that was that. he was getting you pregnant tonight. someone would have to pry him off of you, because so help him god he would drain himself dry in your hot wet cunt if it was the last thing he ever did.

you squealed as he pushed the entirety of his cock in, bulbous head stretching your cunt wider than any cock had stretched it before. but it slipped in so easily with the outpour of your sticky love. it made a thick squelch, and he groaned so loud, squeezed his eyes shut so hard, you might’ve thought he was being tortured.

“fuck!”

the force of his thrust had caused the thick juices of you arousal to spread around his thick cock where he stretched you out, the pain minimal, familiar and intoxicating.

you throbbed in unison, blood coursing through where you connected. you were so tight and hot, so fucking wet. art struggled, arms bracing either side of your shoulders, to force the rest of himself into you. he also struggled to think, to be a human and not a ploughing, panting, thoughtless dog.

a moan rose through your throat, broke from you involuntarily, came out like the sound of murder. your taut pussy suckled his fat dick with every pulse and quiver. you felt him so deep inside you, and he fought to push deeper. fingers still locked, his crushed your knuckles and your palm.

“oh my fucking god.”

it could’ve been either one of you, because you both meant to say it. this moment of stillness and feeling waited one more second, before art became beast, and drew back his hips so that only his pink tip stayed gripped inside. you felt so soul crushingly empty, until he drove himself back in, and you were brought back to life.

“god,” he pounded any thoughts away, any and all of them, until all you could do was breath and blaspheme, “fucking- christ.”

the buttery, fevered roll of his hips was one he was in no control of. he felt as though he was being moved by some godly force to cram your tight cunt full of him. his jaw hung open, and the hand that didn’t hold yours instead held your shoulder, dwarfing in it in his wide palm. holding onto you for sanity, his eyes opened to take in what he had done to you.

“you’re so tight. perfect. perfect. perfect.”

“i love you.”

“i love you. i love you. please god.”

what was he asking for? was he asking you or god? you would do it for him, regardless. you would do it.

your hand reached into his hair, and tugged hard. a whorish moan left his lips, the rolling of his lower half stuttering as his neck arched up. his knees were spread wide, digging deeply into his sofa. his pelvis moved on its own, smoothly, as if he had reverted to his baser instincts and let years of evolution take its course, nature guiding him to your inevitable impregnation.

you were as he liked you, completely dumb. he was too gone to enjoy it, but on another planet of pleasure entirely. he couldn’t relish in the feeling of control, but he could in the feeling of you, of having you, being loved by and loving you. the suckling heat of you was more than a man could take, and the picture beneath him was no more comprehensible.

your angel lips spread to a glistening tongue, your eyes glassy and dilated, your brow creased, hair mussed. he had to have that too, and so he kissed you once more. the hand on his hair tightened, and he moaned into your mouth.

he pumped your pussy so deep, pre cum was dashed from his oozing tip inside you, heavy balls slapping at your skin. you were so wet you didn’t notice, only felt the heat and the mind numbing ecstasy. the feeling of being pounded like a piece of meat till your tight girl pussy remembered every vein his grown man dick, but kissed like a lover and held like a princess pushed you that much closer, sent you that little bit more over the edge. you needed it. you needed him to cum. to please your daddy.

“i’m gonna cum, i’m gonna cum inside you.”

“fucking do it.”

“yeah?”

“yeah. get me fucking pregnant art.”

that was all he needed. he breathed into your lips and cried out, long steady body shuddering like a leaf. he held you close, pressing his weight on top of your till he could feel the fat of your breasts move around his chest. cum, thick and milky white, shot deep into your cunt, which even now gripped him tighter than ever. so much of it too. his meaty balls tweaked as their contents leaked into where they were always supposed to go.

your orgasm hit you like a ton of bricks, parting your lips in a silent scream.

his cock had not moved an inch from where it rested fully buried in your pussy. it was wet. it would spill out once he removed himself. it needed to stay inside.

he pressed his forehead to yours, your eyes fluttering closed from exhaustion and contentedness. you didn’t even think about what art had just done. you didn’t even realise he had done anything. he was just doing what you needed him to do.

you needed him. forever.

#art donaldson #art donaldson smut #challengers #challengers x reader #art donaldson x reader #challengers smut #30s art donaldson #30s art donaldson smut #art donaldson x reader smut #challengers x reader smut #lily rambles

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acupofqueercoffee · 1 year

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“A healer, a lover, a killer”

Unohana Retsu x Female Reader

wc : 6700+

cw : arranged marriage // sexual assault towards the very end // ***non-con is NOT between reader and retsu*** // blood and gore // graphic description of corpses // hurt-comfort // fluff and fluff and fluff and fluff // flirting // wives // minazuki is a gentle-giant 🥺 // murderous milf // older woman x younger woman

ffs i just want to spoil my mommy rotten (and be spoiled rotten) is it too much to ask for ಥ◡ಥ i’m desperate to do her justice but bruhh she sure is difficult to write 🥲

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Marriage, in essence, is a sacred binding of two people, or rather two lovers during which they vow as one to cherish the beauties, to endure the burdens of life.

There may have been a time when you have fancied such foolish fantasies, entertained little hope of finding a love so profound that it will bleed colours into your lonely, miserable life.

Alas, fate does not favour you. But of course, it never does. Likely will never do.

You were born earning the resentment of your father, for his beloved wife perished as you came to be. She was the apple of his eyes, the one possession that he dearly cherished, and swore to cherish in perpetuity. With fingers entwined and two hearts as one, they had endured the burdens of life in tandem, and just when it was beginning to thrive, a promising future stretched out ahead of them like a perpetual sunrise, a curse befell them in the form of you, oh evil, despicable you.

Bearing the brunt of the mother’s death is the child as your father treats you with much hostility. Within him resides not a dot of affection for you, and he makes a point of rubbing salt into your wounds, reminding you in every possible way that you are a murderer, an abomination, a hellspawn on a sacred land. Your life is no better than a slave’s, easier perhaps without the need to exert yourself, but certainly not kinder without anyone to converse with, much less to confide in. Even a slave has companions whereas you who is abhorred and forsaken by your own flesh and blood, have no one in this world but yourself.

Thus, in your father’s resentful hands, the flickering light in your heart eventually, completely dies.

When you have finally come to terms with your life as it is, marriage comes to you in the form of a cruel joke.

If you have been none the wiser, you may have believed it to be a chance at a better life, a crack of sunshine through a sky full of gloom. And for a while, you have. Naive enough to hope. Foolish enough to dream. All it takes is a flick of your father’s merciless tongue, and the fool’s paradise, in which you have been taking sanctuary, comes tumbling down.

“You do not deserve to feel happiness as ephemeral as it will be. So, listen to me. And listen carefully. The Gotei 13 wanted me to hand you in saying that while you may not presently look the part, you are a menace to soul society. You should have never been born to begin with. Instead of her, it should have been you.”

“Despite everything, in the end, I very generously agreed to relinquish you under only one condition. That you will be wedded to one of the captains. Such an outstanding opportunity is hard to come by and apparently, they were desperate enough to get their hands on you whatever the cost. I requested that the wedding be held to the nines for the sake of publicity. People need to witness it with their own eyes in order for them not to talk foul of my family.”

“I can’t have the whole boat going putrid because of a single carp, can I? So, enjoy it while it lasts, dear daughter because I can’t promise that you’ll come out unscathed once they’re done with you.”

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Your soon-to-be other half is a stranger. You know about her as much as you know about the outside world: in other words, next to nothing. Except that her eyes are reminiscent of azurites, and her hair, a moonless night, the woman with whom you will be spending the rest of your life is merely a stranger to you. But then again, with their motives kept under wraps, you will be lucky to survive through the night.

Fleeing is out of the question for you understand the extent of your capabilities, and to flee right now will be tantamount to dicing with death. Despite your father’s despicable attempts to trap you in despair, you decide that playing docile is quite possibly your best bet. Come rain or shine, you will survive. You have not endured the torments of your wicked father after all this time simply to be trampled like a weed. What an insult it will be to your painstaking efforts.

So, when you are asked if you will take the stranger before you as your lifelong partner, without hesitation, you say, “I do”. Legions of people bear witness to your false union as your wife echoes your words; her dulcet voice, like the first trickle of rain, slakes your drought.

“Won’t you seal the deal with a kiss, Captain Unohana?”

Amongst the circle of people who are uniformly dressed in white overcoats, the one whose voice has sounded mischievous has been a man with a straw hat and an additional pink garb.

Unohana. Unohana. Unohana.

A pretty name indeed, as befits a pretty woman.

The first half of his statement is entirely lost on you as you repeat the name in your mind over and over and over again. It is the delicate crawl of fingers on your face that rectifies your lapse of concentration. First thing you notice, once you have blinked the haze away, is her violet gaze that is caressing your features and her face that has unexpectedly appeared under your nose, leaving little to no space to the point that your breaths mingle.

The warmness of her breath that ghosts along the apple of your cheek smells faintly of wild flowers and herbs; then comes the silky press of her lips atop the corner of your mouth. Given the circumstances, the kiss is not entirely unpleasant. If nothing else, it is kind, and although you loathe to admit it, your heart sings under her touch.

You fail to mention before that she has rose buds for lips, and now, upon departure, they bestow upon you a beautiful pink blossom smile. It is serene, strangely soothing, and you feel at peace with the woman who is your wife, all kind eyes and saccharine smiles, but whose full name you have yet to learn.

As inclined as you feel to assume that the kiss has somehow irreversibly put you under her spell, the more logical part of you know that neither your mind nor body is tampered with; your admiration for her beauty is born purely of your unadulterated self. Since the dawn of your life, it is ironically in the hands of a stranger whose intentions with you are still unclear that you experience tenderness for the very first time. Some semblance of affection has visited you in the form of a palm cradling your cheek and lips caressing your skin, and although you know it to be nothing more than a performance, it is undeniably the closest that you have ever felt to being loved.

Her gesture has understandably moved you in the warmest of ways, and it is only given that, as she continues to drench you in gentleness and swaddle you in kindness, you will grow to forget the true nature of your marriage.

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“Follow me.”

Such has been your wife’s first words to you, a command that leaves no room for rejection, as she comes to meet you in her, or rather your shared quarters. In her absence, unsure of what to do with yourself, you have been sitting on your heels by the side of a tea table, anxiously awaiting her arrival, but immediately on her command, you arise to your feet. And then, follow her you do as she leads you outside.

In the middle of the veranda, a wooden tray lies in wait, holding on it a ceramic pot and two ceramic cups. The side of the veranda, towards which the pair of you are heading, lacks the railing, and it overlooks the other buildings in Seireitei. When she goes to take a seat beside the tray, you silently watch her. Only upon being motioned to do the same do you mirror your wife. The night is tranquil and the sky, brimming with tiny twinkles. The flickering lights from the buildings below and the glittering celestial bodies above; together, they give you the illusion that you are being swallowed into an infinite pool of stars.

In the quietness of the night, she speaks with a gentle lilt that is carried to you by a zephyr.

“You have questions for me, I take it?”

Simply sitting still in leisurely contemplation of the stars, she oozes charisma, and you cannot help but admire her. Due to the moon bathing her in its silver glow, her long hair that is tied loosely around the small of her back shines with an otherworldly sheen. She is the juxtaposition of darks and lights as the charcoal of her strands that elegantly frame her angelic face accentuates the milkiness of her skin.

“Am I that dangerous of a person for you to willingly go through with this folly?”

It is more or less a slip of your tongue. There are many questions to which you seek answers, and at the first chance, without really thinking, you end up blurting out the one thing that is on the forefront of your mind.

When her eyes seek your face and your eyes subsequently are greeted by her face, to your surprise, a smile crawls onto her lips.

“My, what gives you the impression that this marriage is a sham?”

“I was told by my father that I was to be surrendered to Seireitei, and that all he had asked in exchange was for a captain to wed me very publicly, because he hated the idea of his family name being tarnished by the likes of me.”

“The likes of you?”

Tea is poured equally into two cups; one finds itself in your hand whereas the other is taken into elegant fingers. The warmth of the liquid as you take a delicate sip thaws the chill in your bones. By the time your voice makes an escape from your lips, it is accompanied by the billowing steam from your cup.

“A menace to soul society.”

“Hmm, is that what he said?”

Your response has been a nod, and she receives it with a hum.

“I see.”

Cradling the cup in your palms, you twiddle your thumbs over the rim, lips caught between your teeth.

“Is it true?”

“Partially, that is.”

At her words, confusion reigns. However intrigued you are, you wait patiently, poising for elaboration as she takes a languid sip of her tea.

Once again, she holds your stare before she speaks. The tilt of her lips that settles back into a line indicates solemnity.

“What I’m about to tell you is highly confidential, but since it concerns you, we’ve come to a collective agreement that it wouldn’t hurt to inform you of it. That, and we necessitate your cooperation.”

“You are not inherently a peril, although if fallen into wrong hands, you will inadvertently prove hazardous to Soul Society. You have innate powers that, while you may not be able to use them, make you a catalyst of sorts. It is not Reiryoku as Shinigami possess which therefore makes you a peculiarly. Even amongst the Gotei 13, only four of us is made aware of this phenomenon, meaning that your father, too, was kept in the dark. We thought it best to take you under our wings before any of the risks become a reality.”

“Simply put, after thorough investigation of your father, we exploited his hatred for you so that you will be relinquished to us without him making a fuss. Additionally, in order not to arouse suspicion, we’ve made a false announcement to our fellow captains and subordinates. They know you to be my longtime lady-love whom I’ve decided to tie the knots with. A flourishing merchant such as your father would surely lust for publicity. He was only playing right into our hands by stating his one condition.”

Even though the bombardment of information is too much to process, now, you know with certainty that you are not necessarily rotten to the core, and that your stranger wife alongside her companions harbour no ill will towards you.

As she takes another dainty sip of the tea in her cup, you silently mirror her, mesmerised all the while by the grace and elegance with which she carries herself.

“Although an apology is in order for my sudden behaviour at the altar, as I’ve explained to you, displays of affection and physical touch are mandatory for the believability of our story. This marriage isn’t merely for show in that we have to talk and act as married couples do. Do try to put up with it.”

Talk and act as married couples do?

The implication alone has your cheeks ripening into cherries, the redness of which is only amplified by the unexpected words that go tumbling down your lips.

“I didn’t particularly mind the kiss, so an apology isn’t necessary.”

“Is that so?” The delicateness of her voice has a playful lilt to it, and it pleasantly tickles your ears. “Then, my dear wife, I’ll be counting on you from now on.”

“I- I’ll do my best.”

“My, my, aren’t you a good girl.” She wears a smile on her face that drips delight while you are painted red to the tips of your ears.

Good Girl.

Those two little words alone has single-handedly put you in a trance that the rest of the night passes in a blur. As far as you remember, the pair of you sip tea in silence until when she suggests retiring for the night, like a lost puppy, you follow her. Her quarters become your quarters and her futon, your futon because, as far as a married couple is concerned, living separately is out of the question.

Suffice to say, on the night of your wedding, you lie awake in bed, unaccustomed to the warmth of another body just inches away from yours. Amidst counting the tiles on the ceiling, you peek a look at your partner to find her at rest. Even asleep, she truly is a sight to behold. However, unbeknownst to you, she shares the same sentiment, and it is proven soon by the voice that calls out to you in the death of night.

“I’m surprised that you took me at my words without the faintest hint of scepticism.”

“Call it a gut feeling if you will but you seem to mean me no harm. Besides, I have nothing to lose by taking a chance.”

On the night of your wedding, you wear a smile to sleep.

Maybe,

Just maybe,

your chance at a better life, after all, is not entirely an impossibility.

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Unohana Retsu.

The name of your wife which you have forgotten to ask her directly has been revealed to you by her Lieutenant in the name of Isane Kotetsu.

Captain Unohana, as her subordinates address her as, is surprisingly a natural at playing lovers.

Likewise, touch-starved and thirsty for endearment, aside from shyness that stems from inexperience and her offhand compliments, you take on the role of a love-struck wife with much ease.

“My, my, darling, is that a proper way to see your wife off? How cold.”

She does a convincing job of sounding crestfallen as you walk her out of her estate, sending her off to work with only a wave of your hand.

Upon hearing her sigh, you walk up to her, letting your palms glide over the chest of your finely-dressed Captain. A kiss is demanded of you, and so, in the presence of her Lieutenant and a few other subordinates, you drop your lips to the apple of her cheek, murmuring your utterances into her fragrant skin.

“Do your best, Hana. I’ll be awaiting your return.”

Genuine surprise can be found in the widening of her eyes, albeit lasting only for a fraction of a second. And then, her lips are curving skyward, settling into a saccharine smile.

If the kiss that finds you on the tip of your nose, like the gentle flap of a butterfly’s wings, is not enough to sweep you off your feet, then the pad of the thumb that caresses the bone of your cheek certainly is. Ample, in fact.

“See you later, little flower.”

════════ ∘◦ ✾ ◦∘ ════════

Your wife has an unusual way of styling her beautiful long hair.

She tends to wear it in a thick braid, but instead of letting it dangle behind her back, she lets it hang below her chin almost in the form of a necklace. You will go as far as to say that it is one of her idiosyncratic features, for without it, her attire for work is incomplete. On idler days when she remains at the estate, her hair can be seen tied loosely at the small of her back.

When you have noticed how difficult it is to care for a hair of such thickness and length, you have expressed your desire to do it for her. To your delight, she has let you, and so, here you are, gingerly applying essential oil to a mane of dark hair as you comb it with great reverence.

You admire the way she sits, spine always straight, perfectly poised. The same goes for the voice that softly caresses your ears, warm and tender.

“How was your day?”

“Infinitely better than what I was used to,…” For an answer, it should suffice. And yet, “…but I’ve missed you, Hana.”

It may just be one of your flaws; you never know when to keep your mouth shut. Thankfully, she receives your divulgence with a sweet smile.

“My, you’re quite the charmer.”

Cheeks painted pink and heart thrumming giddily, you continue combing her hair. Surely, she is graced by the gods themselves; lush and healthy, her charcoal mane slips through your fingers like expensive silk.

“You called me Hana.”

“Oh! I- I did, yes. Since we’re supposed to be long time lovers, I thought it was only fitting for me to call you by a unique name. If you don’t find it agreeable, I’ll refrain from-”

“None of that. I’ve never been called a pet name, is all. It’s refreshing.”

Then, after a beat of silence, she chuckles. Until now, you have only seen her smile, having never heard her laugh or chuckle for that matter. It is the most wonderful sound, rich, warm, and the culprit behind your breath that has suddenly been stolen.

“Yachiru would like you.”

You do not know whether to rejoice or lament that such a precious sound stems from the thought of someone else. In the end, you settle on savouring it all the same.

Yachiru, whom you have the pleasure of meeting during your visit to your wife’s Ikebana Club, is quite the boisterous little lass. You feel silly and selfish in equal parts; silly for going green because of a child and selfish because you want to be the sole reason behind all the lovely sounds that she makes. On the other hand, as your wife has expected, the pink-haired girl takes an instant liking to you, sticking like glue to your side. Meanwhile, instead of paying attention to the real task at hand of arranging flowers, you end up being entranced by your wife’s gentle cadence and her distractingly gorgeous face.

When the name which you have uniquely chosen for your wife leaves your lips, Yachiru mimics you.

What you have not been expecting is for your wife to intervene.

“If you could refrain from calling me by that name Yachiru, I would appreciate it. I don’t mind you giving me a new nickname but this one is reserved for my wife. She alone calls me Hana, and I would like for it to remain that way.”

“My, Captain Unohana is very romantic!”

If you are not mistaken, the dreamy sigh comes from Matsumoto, the Lieutenant of the 10th division.

“I understand, Captain HaHa. Can I call you Captain HaHa?”

“By all means. As long as it isn’t Hana, I don’t mind.”

════════ ∘◦ ✾ ◦∘ ════════

More often than not, your wife’s placating smile is the testament to her benevolence as a healer, but there are times when she wields them as a weapon.

Having cultivated the habit of preparing lunchboxes for your wife and her Lieutenant, you deliver the homemade meals personally to her division. One of the things that you look forward to every day includes admiring your wife in her elements. Such little glimpses into her work life allows you to understand just how much of an influence she has on her subordinates.

Soft-spoken and kind-faced as the Captain of squad four is, even the rowdiest of Shinigami fear her; they regard her with much respect. You have yet to hear her raising her voice to someone, and even still, she has never had to repeat her will more than twice for the other person to obediently comply with it. There are people from the 11th division, who, according to the information that you have gathered, are supposed to be the most battle-hungry Soul Reapers in Seireitei, that at your wife’s gentle warning and excessively sweet smile will flee with their tails between their legs, leaving a trail of apologies in their wake.

“Oh my, treating me as if I’m some kind of ghost.”

Puzzled, she has wondered aloud, and you have found her expression heart-meltingly adorable.

During one of your visitations to her squad, you have also had the pleasure of befriending a special someone.

You remember marvelling at the giant sage green creature that is aloft; its form, very reminiscent of a manta ray. However, when you see someone climbing effortlessly down the back of the creature, you have been surprised, to say the least, to be greeted by the unmistakable voice of your wife.

Upon striding towards the pair of them, you fall prey to the surprise attack of an extremely wet tongue. Even though it leaves you resembling a drowned rat, what simmers inside you is the farthest from annoyance. If anything, you find the one-eyed giant quite lovable.

“Why, will you look at that.”

“What does it mean?”

“It means, sweet girl, that she likes you.”

Before you hug the bizarre creature, you peek a look at your wife. Only when you see the nod of her head do you advance.

“Oh! Right back at you…?” Another questioning look at your wife earns you her name. “Minazuki.”

“Miki, you adorable little munchkin!”

At your words, she emits a crooning sound that you are inclined to believe is her way of purring in pleasure.

════════ ∘◦ ✾ ◦∘ ════════

When your wife has some time on her hands, she has a habit of climbing mountains. It is as much a recreational activity as it is a hunt for medicinal herbs. Having been longing to accompany her during her excursions, you have, after much consideration, raised the question, only for her to readily agrees.

“Can I come?”

“I don’t see why not.”

The silence that cocoons the two of you is anything but unbearable as you amble abreast. Taking it as your opportunity, you voice the query that you have been mulling over for some time now.

“There’s something I’m curious about.”

“What are you curious about?”

“Why you?” When you steal a glance at her, you find her eyes on the track, face impassive. “There were four of you who were privy to the truth, correct? So, how come you were the one to marry me?”

Her response does not come until after a while, voice sounding serene as it usually does.

“The Captain-Commander is out of the question, and among the three of us, I was deemed the most suitable candidate. One doesn’t go out much due to how sickly he is and the other is- well, it’s unthinkable that he’ll settle for one person.”

“And what about you, Hana? Have you got no qualms?”

“Whatever the Captain-Commander asks of me, I do without question.”

Oh.

You have asked, and so she has answered. It certainly is not meant to hurt.

And yet,

“I see.”

“That, and I also happened to be the first person to learn of your existence.”

At this, you perk.

“You did? How?”

“Purely by chance, but that’s a story for another day. Now, come. The herbs I’m looking for are just up ahead.”

She teaches you about different herbs and you help her collect them, preening under her complimentary head-pats when you find the right plants, and becoming all the more hell-bent on seeking rarer herbs, for only then will you be rewarded with honey-dewed whispers. Upon stumbling across one such plant, in your excitement, you fail to see a hole in the ground as you briskly make your way through the thickets.

Needless to say, your recklessness leaves you with a strained ankle. It is your pained grunts that garner the attention of your wife. When she finds you limping, the discomfort apparent on your face, she helps you to a tree trunk. You are thankful for the arm that is stably wrapped around your waist for it halves the effort that you will otherwise have to exert.

No sooner has she sat you down onto the mossy trunk than she is kneeling before you. Taking your wounded foot into her hand, she gingerly lets it rest atop her thigh. Forefinger and thumb pluck your sock, peel it down, and doing so reveals your ankle where a bruise is already beginning to bloom.

As she works on your wound, you can feel the pads of her digits ghosting across the naked base of your calf. Her fingers, dainty in appearance, have strength in them along with callouses that you suspect are the by products of her years of sword training. Speaking of which, Minazuki, her Zanpakuto as she has taught you, Miki as you like to call her, is slung over one of your shoulders. Since her Lieutenant is absent, for today’s trip is you and your wife’s alone, you have happily taken the role of the Captain’s blade bearer.

Due to the injury that you have sustained, despite your reassuring that you are fine, your wife does not take no for an answer, and so, the expedition is cut short. Soon after the pair of you have mounted Minazuki, you fall victim to exhaustion, surrendering yourself to the clutches of sleep.

The first thing you notice upon opening your eyes is the shimmering sea of stars, with the first thing you hear being her voice that pulses warmly in your ears.

“Are you awake?”

“Hmm, where are we now?”

When you shift, you discover that your head is cushioned by her thighs.

“Not very far from home.”

You are suddenly awestruck by the vision that appears in your line of sight. Backdropped by the starry sky, she is truly a sight for sore eyes.

“How are you feeling?”

“My eyes feel hot.”

A palm finds home on your forehead. You cannot help but sigh dreamily at her cool touch that seems to instantly soothe the ache in your head.

“You have a touch of fever, I fear. Rest. I’ll wake you when we arrive.”

You can only hum, ready to succumb to slumber again. However, when you feel the withdrawal of her hand from your forehead, your fingers catch her wrist, emboldened by a feverish haze. You press it against your neck where the coolness of her flesh offers you sweet reprieve from your body’s heat. If you are not mistaken, you have felt the faintest sensation of a fingertip tracing the length of your nose before you drift.

She does, in fact, not wake you.

By the time you open your eyes, you are already under the comfort of a futon that smells distinctly of her.

════════ ∘◦ ✾ ◦∘ ════════

You do not know when it changes, but at one point, it does. Your marriage stops being an elaborate masquerade and starts becoming something more by the time you no longer need reminders to exercise intimacy. A kiss on her cheek, a palm on the small of her back, sweet-nothings dripping with honey; they come to you as easily as breathing, and she responds to you in kind as she always has. But then again, to be unreservedly honest, your actions, from the beginning until now, have never been absent of sincerity.

From sleeping entwined in each other’s arms to walking with your fingers intertwined, even in the absence of onlookers, in the privacy of your quarters, you behave as lovers do. Neither of you seem to notice the change, and if you do, neither of you bother to comment on it. It simply is the way it is.

“Oh, Hana, you’ve returned! Come here. Sit.”

“What is this?”

“I just thought that your feet could use some pampering after walking around all day.”

“My, you need not trouble yourself-”

“But that’s what married couples do. They look after each other.”

“Very well, then, if you insist.”

Adoration, ardour and nothing in between; that is how you sink to your knees before your deity. Raising her feet off the floor, you gingerly place them atop your thighs. When you slip the socks off her feet, you exercise both care and tenderness, barely suppressing the urge to press delicate kisses to her exquisitely dainty ankles. Once her feet are completely bare, you guide them into the bucket that is sitting in front of you. Under the warm water, you trace the little notches of her bone, run your fingertips along every dip and hill the way you want your lips to caress them.

Then, all too gently, you gather them once again into your lap where a towel awaits. You take your sweet time petting them dry, the desire to drench her porcelain skin in kisses now coming back with a vengeance. As if possessing a mind of their own, your hands slips beneath her uniform, fingers leaving playful caresses along the length of her shin.

Suddenly overwhelmingly thirsty, you wet your lips with the tip of your tongue before chancing a look at her. There is a silent question in your eyes, and she answers you with a nod of her head. As soon as the green light has been given, you carefully hike the skirt of her Shinigami uniform over her knee, allowing your fingers to knead the muscles in her calfs without interruptions.

It is true that when you have decided to give her feet a wash and a massage, you have no ulterior motives.

But now,

Now, it is entirely a different story.

The collision of your gazes sparks a flame in you.

Has the blue of her eyes always been this dark, you wonder.

*Knock*

“Captain Unohana, may I please come in?”

Hastily scrambling to your feet upon hearing Isane’s voice has you tripping over your own two feet. Your forthcoming fall is prevented by willowy fingers that latch onto your wrist. One thing leads to another, and before you know it, following a breathless “oomf”, you find yourself seated on the pillowy thighs of your wife.

Seemingly unfazed, she commands, an arm around your waist cradling you close to her chest.

“If it’s nothing important, Isane, I suggest you leave us be. My wife and I are currently in the middle of some important matters that urgently need attending to.”

“U-understood!”

It is beyond your control; your hands finding purchase on her shoulders, even more so the amicable slap that you deliver to her arm.

“Did you really have to phrase it like that?”

“Like what?”

Ah. There is no denying it. From the very first moment you behold this woman, you have fallen irrevocably in love with her.

“Hmm? Care to enlighten me?”

You do not. Care to enlighten her that is, for your lips have found hers, sampling her smile to see if it tastes as sweet as it looks. You have taken a bite out of the forbidden fruit, and there is no going back, although when you feel no reciprocation from her part, you pull back with a heavy heart.

The look on her face is indecipherable; she has always been difficult to read. Completely at a loss, you are tempted to blurt out that it has been a momentary lapse of judgement even though you know very well that it is anything but. The loudness of your rampaging thoughts is instantly lulled as soon as her lips seize yours, the fervent collision prompted by the hand that is holding you at the peak of your nape while wandering digits curl deliciously into your hair.

Likewise, greatly galvanised by the ravenous mouth that is feasting upon your lips, your fingers wander beneath her braid, and further still beneath the lapels of her uniform. It is as you are ghosting along the jut of her collarbones that your fingertips feel a patch of uneven skin just below the dip in her throat. As if electrocuted, she jolts, subsequently discarding you in the process of rising to her feet.

“You should leave.”

Leave? Leave where?

After all, this has become as much your home as it has been hers.

“Hana, I- did I do something wrong?”

“You should leave.”

Ah. Never have you thought that you will find yourself at the receiving end of the generous Captain’s genuine irritation.

As the last vestiges of warmth is entirely replaced by the chill of her stare, you decide that you will smile. You will smile for the both of you, as wide and as big as you can, a farewell to what could have been.

“I understand. I’m sorry.”

Delivering your utterances in the cheeriest voice that you can muster, you smile at her. You smile so broad that the uncomfortable stretch of your lips hurt your face.

But as soon as the door to her chamber closes with a thud behind your back, the first droplet of tear begins to fall.

════════ ∘◦ ✾ ◦∘ ════════

In a wicked twist of fate, you fall into the hands of malicious men who have all the intentions of maiming you beyond repair. It is drizzling, a night befitting your mood, as the cold droplets mingle with your warm tears.

There are hands, hands everywhere, tearing your clothes haphazardly off your body, hitting you when you struggle; your foot has caught one of your assailants in the crotch, and his payback comes in the form of kicks to your ribcage. Blood is leaking out of your nose from being brutally backhanded across your cheek. It forces you into a daze.

A whore. A wench. A witch.

Awful names have been called.

Four versus one; you are helpless against them. Your suffering is their satisfaction, but a rag doll in their heartless hands, as they manhandle you with a single minded purpose of ravishing you.

You feel hands on your thighs that are manipulating your body as they see fit.

You hear the rustles of fabric, frantic and foreboding.

In the face of danger, it is her face that you picture.

And then, you hear screams.

Alas, the raindrops are red, eerily reminiscent of blood.

Hands are retreating. Feet are scrambling.

And suddenly, you are alone.

With much difficulty, you sit up. When you bring your palm up to your face for examination, you find blood. Your eyes follow the scarlet trail on the ground only to be greeted by the lifeless eyes of the man who has kicked you with wild abandon. His body lies a few steps away from his head. Scattered messily across the ground are his companions, and mixed within them are parts of their bodies; a leg here, an arm there. In the middle of it all stands she, holding her blade with a head impaled on it like a grotesque skewer.

Ah. So, this. This is your Hana in her purest form, who has butchered them in cold blood as though they are mere cattle.

Such empty eyes. How merciless. How magnificent. You are not so much surprised as mesmerised. Such macabre display should scare you except that she has killed in order to save, and if nothing else, you feel cherished, you feel protected.

Sore all over as you are, you attempt to stand, immediately shaking on your legs like a newborn fawn.

“Hana.”

It is but a feeble croak that manages to bring her eyes to you all the same. In an instant, she is by your side.

Her hair is unusually undone, and it leaves the scar in the middle of her chest exposed. Surprise colours your features when her sword is unceremoniously dropped to the ground in order for her to slip free of her Captain Uniform. The white cloth is then gingerly draped over your frame which is as good as bare. Your clothes are in tatters, tears and bruises marring your features, and for once, she seems to be at a loss for words.

Although her mien betrays nothing, behind those unfeeling eyes, you can practically see the cogs turning in her head. While she appears to be in a dilemma, you take the initiative to approach her, fingers gripping the dark fabric of her Shinigami uniform white-knuckled tight.

Your forehead collapses onto her shoulder before you whisper against the hummingbird flutter of her pulse.

“Hold me, Hana. I need you to hold me, please.”

And hold you, she does. Oh, how she does, as you weep and weep and weep until with the drying of your tears, your consciousness, too, fades.

════════ ∘◦ ✾ ◦∘ ════════

“Whatever you do after the wedding is no concern of mine. Didn’t you say it so yourself?”

“Only because I thought she’ll be trea-”

“Whatever you do after the wedding is no concern of mine. Didn’t you say it so yourself?”

“Please. Please, spare me. I beg of you. Please.” The man before Unohana grovels at her feet. “I’ll give you whatever you want. Please.”

“Whatever I want?”

A series of frantic nods ensue. She cannot care less if he looks a crying mess. His state of dress: posh and pristine, his state of being: without a nick, only reminds her all the more of you, bloody and bruised, and her blood boils. Oh, how her blood boils!

“What I want is your head!”

“What I want is your heart!”

“What I want is you sliced in half!”

Looming over the cowering excuse of a man, she sinks her sword into his chest, inch after inch of blood-drenched blade penetrating his flesh.

“Well? Do you think you can give me what I want?”

“Please. I- I’m sorry. Have- have mercy.”

“Mercy, you say?” The moonless night echoes with a maniacal laughter, dark and haunting. “How laughable!”

“No matter, you will die at my hands. And you will die tonight. My bloodlust will not be sated unless you die. So, die you will whether you like it or not.”

════════ ∘◦ ✾ ◦∘ ════════

“I received a letter this morning.” You speak into her chest as you lie cocooned in her arms. “Father has passed.”

“Does it upset you?”

A fervent shake of your head should suffice for an answer. Still, you voice your reason.

“He may have been my mother’s devoted husband but he was never my father.”

Silence reigns. Her fingers trace patterns on the small of your back while your face nuzzles the little notch of her throat.

“Thank you, Hana, for being my sunshine after the rain.”

In a show of sincerity, you press a delicate kiss to the scar beneath your lips. When your face is brought out of its safe little cocoon, it is only so that she can take a bite out of the sweet, succulent fruit. She conquers your lips in the same way she has conquered your heart, and all too happily, you let her consume you. Body, mind and soul.

By these hands that are no stranger to bloodshed, you have been healed. In more ways than one.

In these arms that are capable of destruction, you have found solace.

A healer or a killer, Retsu or Yachiru, she is your beloved wife all the same, and you intend to cherish her for all that she is.

In sickness and in health.

In good time and in bad.

In perpetuity. In tandem.

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

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rageprufrock · 1 year

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Hi Pru!!! Ik you have been back on tumblr for a little but I just found out (bc I havent been here) so in a fit of nostalgia I went through your ask/fandom tags and read old fic meme responses and honestly it really struck me that I am now at the age of when you were writing many of my favorite fics (presque vu, drastically redefining protocol, etc etc your inception, haikyuu, and merlin fic lives in my heart) amd tbh it came as a shock. I think because im probably 15 years or so younger, I've always just seen those fics and ur process behind them as so Adult and one day I will also be an Adult just like that.

Spoilers, I am not quite the Adult I envisioned myself becoming while I had been reading your fics at 13, 14, 15 etc (worringly young) but I still hold a lot of it close to my chest and I think at least I am on the right track. Anyways tldr I love your fic, thanks for writing them, from both me of past and present.

I've read this ask over and over again, and I want you to know that I found it so moving, Anon, that I've been sitting with it for ages wondering how to respond other than to say: I can't think of anything more lovely or flattering than to know that in some way, the stories I wrote have been a part of your experiences growing up. These stories felt, to me, like part of my experiences growing up, too, and that we share that in some cosmic way always makes the world feel smaller and friendlier, and my own missteps and embarrassments less searing. We're all just kind of fumbling along together.

I think if you ask anyone, none of us are the adult that we anticipated being when we were young and reading about people older than us, who we had assumed had their shit together. I like to think that we're better than those imagined versions of ourselves, wiser and more patient, kinder from going through our own difficult periods, and more forgiving of people who we see headed down the same confusing roads toward getting older that we once took. It's why I think I find myself revisiting the theme of internal transformation so much: there's something so big and bright and difficult to explain about how the shape and size of the thing inside you changes over the years, how without any trigger mechanism or intention, you might wake up one day and realize you're an entirely different, marvelous surprise even to yourself.

Thank you, from the me of both past and present, for reading. <3

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threeredcrayons · 1 year

Text

For my twelve year old self:

I can't give you a perfect life. But I'll give you peace. The sun still rises in the morning, and you wake up, and you're alive, one day after the other. You start to know yourself, and slowly break down the walls you spent your whole life building. You're not lonely anymore. Your body starts to forgive, the scars on your thighs fade and your face starts to look different. You've grown up.

Mom is doing better. She's starting to realize how she hurt you, but eighteen years of anger are hard to forget. You'll find the words to make her hear you, and you'll learn love isn't enough without respect. Your remaining friends will show you both.

You won't loose hope. And I admire that. I can't lie to you, there are many bad days ahead. Horrible people will come into your life, and they are going to hurt you. You'll come out kinder, but knowing how to stand up for yourself when things are unfair, when you are mistreated. You'll learn these things aren't opposites, and you'll stop trying to fix what you didn't break.

Turns out mom was right, college isn't for us. But that's okay. Life goes on. We have time. You learn failure isn't the end of the world, and grades don't really mean anything. Your love and dedication to what you do are much more important.

You will start to respect yourself. You will find the strength to be passionate again, new and old dreams are going to come back to you. You will dress for yourself, live for yourself and take up space. Happiness will slowly come back. You never gave up, even when you didn't understand what you were fighting against. And because of you, I am here. You are a hero.

I'm not exactly what you dreamed of, but I make sure to let you live through me. The walls of our room are finally pink. I still collect plushies and keep your favorite songs in my playlist. I've got those colourful skirts you liked for spring, and tops that show midriff for summer. I'm finally not ashamed when I wear them.

I still draw, of course, and do many other things, but you'd love to see how beautiful our art looks now. I practice often. I'm finally starting to be able to make our stories come to life, but it's a process. You wish you could do that too, but don't be too hard on yourself. I know you are fighting something no one else can see, and I'm proud of you for doing your best. It's normal to be exhausted after having to keep yourself alive through so much.

Right now, you have no way of even telling anyone what's going on. You are still a kid. You shouldn't be doing this alone, but you have no choice. The help you need will come one day, but you'll also have to fight for it, like for everything worth getting. I wish I could have been there to hold you when you cried yourself to sleep, and dreamt about someone older, wiser, who could understand your pain.

I just wanted to tell you that life is worth it. It does get better. I love you dearly, and I love myself too, and we are here, stronger than ever, healing, growing. You've taught me compassion, and how to help others around me that are fighting the same battles we did one day. I am still as fierce as you, but I now know how to ask for help too. I've finally found loving people, and I finally feel like I deserve it. You deserved them too. You're the bravest kid I know. Keep going. You've got this.

#poetry #inner child #healing #art #sad poem #i am the adult i needed

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arotechno · 2 years

Text

on being your own aromantic role model

This post of mine is suddenly blowing up for whatever reason, and I had honestly forgotten I wrote it waaay back in February 2018. I was a whole baby in my freshman year of college, and in some ways I am still a whole baby which is going to make this next post seem really disingenuous and retroactively funny in four more years, but things are a lot different now and I want people who see that post of mine to know that hey!! It isn't all bad and scary and confusing forever!!! And ironically I've been making much more deeply personal posts lately, so I thought I might as well.

Many truths from 2018 remain truths in 2022. Yes, the aro community is still relatively small and fledgling compared to other queer communities. Yes, we are still relatively invisible and don't have much documentation on our history (after all, it's not as though a generation has passed). Yes, our representation in media and in the public eye still leaves very much to be desired. And all of those things (visibility, history, representation) are still things we have to build for ourselves, and ARE building for ourselves, step by step.

But I am four years older and four years wiser and two years fist-deep in "graduating into a pandemic" early-twenties life and I also know this to be true: For all that aro adulthood is often weird and difficult, it is also deeply, deeply freeing.

Often, I am met with a chilling uncertainty in my life. Despite the aromanticism of it all, these days this just makes me ordinary, I think. I often worry about the too-quiet of empty houses, of familial disappointment, of being left behind, of running out of Life Milestones to check off a list of "ways to make people proud of me." I am permanently single, unmarried, child-free, openly aro, and living with two roommates who are on the cusp of getting married (to each other). I am hurtling towards an eventual age where those aspects of my life are no longer understandable or quirky and instead become disappointing, confusing, or alarming to people in my life and in my roommates' lives. I am curating a life for myself on shaky ground, knowing that home is a thing I have built for myself and will inevitably have to build for myself again some day, over and over. I am not unique in these problems, but I often feel profoundly unique in their cause, as the haze of uncertainty hovering over a future with no predetermined path or destination makes an attempt at striving for anything feel futile at times.

But other times, when my mind is kinder to me, I am met with a startling clarity that I am exactly where I am supposed to be, that I am unbelievably lucky to be who I am, and that my aromanticism is a priceless gift.

Four years ago, I was deeply closeted and lonely and confused and hopelessly 19. I have since graduated, gotten a job, moved more than once, etc. etc. and despite everything I am content. I still don't know what I'm reaching for in life, or how to make those good things last. I still don't know what I SHOULD be doing with my life, as there's still no real cultural framework for life as an aro adult, in any of the many, many forms it may take. But little by little, choosing gets easier. Your life, your future, is something you have to forge for yourself. You HAVE to, aro or not, and the gift of being aro is how quickly you realize that there are no rules. The clock's all zeroes, and the only step you have to worry about taking is the next one, day by day. You have to take control of your own future, and you have to talk about it, with other aros and with people in your life. I talked about this before when discussing Koisenu Futari, but you really do have to build your own castle. You don't have to make yourself small or force yourself into a new box that's just as restrictive as the old ones. You have to create the life you want to live for yourself. You get to decide what that means.

There is an inherent freedom to aromanticism, and no matter what anyone says, the only person who can decide what makes you happy is you. So find out what makes you happy and choose it, on purpose. I am not saying that it's easy or that the infinite barriers in life (aro-related or otherwise) do not exist. What I am saying is that you don't just have to wait to be someone else's future aro role model, you can be your own aro role model. Sometimes, this will be hard. There will be moments of struggle, of darkness. But there will also be light again, and life will fall into place, and you will feel so, so warm when it does.

#i started ramblinggg because i forgot what i wanted to say.#look i am just passionate about aro adulthood #aro #aromantic #aro adulthood #long post #op

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cherienymphe · 2 years

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Could we get a little drabble of crossfire's like how life is after this marriage or how reader is now being treated and coping with being married to Bucky?

"Happy Birthday to you..."

The house had been expanded on, and you sat at the table in the large den. It was chilly outside now, and the house was warm with the heat from the fireplace and the bodies that surrounded you. Faces that once terrified you beyond belief were now familiar like the house cat was to the bird outside the window.

Your hair was longer. Your face fuller, and when your eyes met Nat's, you just knew she wanted to tell you once again how much you were glowing. Her lips were pulled into a smile as she sang, and you looked around to realize that everyone had the same expression. Why wouldn't they?

You were Mrs. Bucky Barnes now. Their king had found a queen, and once it became clear that you were no longer a threat nor would you ever be running off, the tune changed drastically.

"Happy Birthday to you..."

Peter smiled at you and looked after you like he hadn't been the one to hold you down one day while Bucky raped you. Sam acted as your shadow when he wasn't riding around with Bucky, watching out for your safety like he hadn't been the one to record you that day.

Nat looked at you like a sister despite how much you looked at her like another warden to your prison. Tony and Thor joked around with you, trying desperately to pull a smile from your lips, but it was rarely successful. Clint was the only one who never gave such falsities. He spoke to you when needed, and oddly enough, his realistic behavior towards you was comforting. It was a relief to know that everything had indeed happened as you remembered and you weren't crazy for never pretending otherwise.

Wanda was your only true friend. She had wanted the best for you from the very beginning, but where she went, Pietro went, and Bucky didn't care for the male twin's presence around you. So you didn't speak with her as often as you'd like. He hated it almost as much as he hated Sharon's, the blonde woman never missing an opportunity to cut her icy gaze towards you.

"She always held a torch for Steve," Wanda had told you one day. "She blames you for what happened to him."

That was the last time you had laughed. Genuinely laughed. Steve was 6 feet under because of Steve, and the idea that you held any blame for his own actions had genuinely tickled you.

"Happy Birthday, dear Y/N..."

The harmonies floated around you as Bucky stepped into the room, followed by Sam and Peter with the biggest cake you'd ever seen. You swallowed as they neared, Bucky coming to stand behind you with his hands on your shoulders. He leaned down as they placed it on the table before you, decades worth of candles on top.

"Happy Birthday to you," Bucky whispered in your ear, his hand coming down to rest on the swell of your stomach.

You felt obligated to lean in as Bucky told you to make a wish, and you wished for a stillbirth and a plague to wipe out everyone of this town. You kept it to yourself, hoping it would come true, and you cringed when Bucky turned your head towards his for a kiss.

One year older. One year wiser, but certainly not one year kinder.

#drabbles

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itsmemercurybaby · 3 years

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Planets : symbols and properties

SATURN

♄ Saturn is the planet which represent the awareness of time. When influenced by this one, you will take your time each step of the way, cautiously when executing things.

♄ Saturn is how you discipline yourself and your responsibilities.

♄ In other words Saturn represent all about that seriousness, restrictions, achieving things, and if not, teaching you a lesson...etc joy killer right?

♄ Check where is Saturn in your natal chart, it can tells you in what part of your life you will have to learn/grow the hard way. Saturn is always giving tough love. Because depending on what house its in, in what sign, how its aspected, Saturn can grants solitude, fear, dissociation, sorrow, insecurity, pain, loss etc.. In the opposite case, it can adduce success.

♄ In fact, Saturn is viewed as the teacher, the judge. if you learn the lesson, it's ok. If you don't, you'll get punished. Some say that Saturn is a really karmic planet. So keep an eye out for selener- i mean Saturn

♄ But more seriously and with kinder words for Saturn (bc you guessed it, its not my fav) . Saturn can bring us mastery of the sign and the house where it's placed, as we can learn with it to consciously meet, manage and then direct the energy of the sign in a particular setting. Saturn therefore also acts in the manner of the Black Moon, because it begins by "blocking" us a domain of our life so that we learn to know better and to control this sector.

♄ Mythology Time! Saturn (Kronos in greek mythology) was a titan, predecessor of the gods. He emasculated his father to have his power and reign. Then once a father, he ate his children (the Olympian Gods) to prevent one from reproducing his actions and taking his place. But one day, one hidden child of his, Zeus/Jupiter, fulfilled the prophecy and took his place. and made him spit out the eaten gods.

♄ ℞ Saturn retrograde occurs every 12 months and lasts 4 months :

(for 2021) 23th May - 10th October in Aquarius

♄ ℞ As with all planetary retrogrades, now is a great time to review the decisions you've made over the past few months and make a big assessment of the year. Saturn retrograde periods bring back elements of the past. Saturn deals in particular with history and tradition, so its retrograde invites us to get older and wiser and maybe pushes us to review our lifestyle, more precisely, our career, financial situation and routine.

♄ Saturn is exalted in Libra ; in detriment in Cancer and Leo ; and fall in Aries

♄ Saturn rules Capricorn and mildly Aquarius so is at its best in the 10th and 11th houses

♄ SATURN IN 10th HOUSE : It is a good placement, more useful at the social level, than when it is in the lower part of the chart where it tends to act more like a personal weight. Here the Saturnian introversion is not really problematic, on the contrary it allows very strategic notions, useful for the native to achieve their various objectives in the social-professional sphere for example! And even if it needs a lot of rigor, coldness and patience, it will give some time for the native to master their relationship to ambition and social achievement.

♄ SATURN IN 11th HOUSE : In this placement, Saturn can show quite a bit of introversion and social fears (of rejection, abandonment, lack of recognition..) But not only in a bad way, for exemple Saturn's wisdom will help the native to take a step back and get the big picture of a group setting. But don't we forget here Saturn mixes with the domain of Uranus which can bring to the native an important needs of openness, emancipation, and a thirst for freedom. Saturn will teach the native the sense of community and group projects.

Sun . Moon . Mercury . Venus . Mars . Jupiter . Uranus . Neptune

#astro community #astro tumblr #astro notes #planets in astrology #astrology for beginners #saturn #capricorn #aesthetic #moodboard #astrology 101 #aquarius #greek mythology #roman mythology #saturn in 10th #saturn in 11th house

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lindsaywesker · 2 years

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Good morning! I hope you slept well and feel rested? Currently sitting at my desk, in my study, attired only in my blue towelling robe, sipping my first cuppa of the day.

Wow! Too much sadness! I was just getting over one death and then I discovered a beautiful friend of mine lost her mum yesterday. I last saw her mum on July 3rd, to be precise. We all watched England beat Ukraine at the Euros. Lovely woman. Very sad. R.I.P. Mrs. Laura Cassius.

Yesterday, I had a day off. Yesterday, my body told me to take it easy. As you get older, you learn to listen to your body. When you’re young (or younger), you think to yourself, “I don’t need sleep, I don’t need rest, I want to try this, I want to try that, I want to do everything and I want to do it NOW!” As we all well know, abusing your body is enormous fun but it can only happen for so many years. Some people try to rave on past their expiry date and it’s not pretty! I did so little yesterday, I had a post-breakfast nap and I hadn’t done anything to deserve it!

I did so little yesterday, I even gorged on mindless Netflix nonsense. One of my favourite guilty pleasures is ‘Emily In Paris’, which is so cliched and formulaic, I know I’m losing a million cool points by admitting this!

Here’s a big question: are you the same person you were ten years ago? Are you even the same person you were two years ago? Do people treat you like the old you? Do you sometimes want to say to people, “I’m NOT that person anymore! Haven’t you noticed?” Some people don’t notice. They put you in a box and you will stay there forever more. The writer Maya Angelou once said, “I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.” This is so true. People still remember how you made them FEEL, and I certainly remember how people made me FEEL. The thing is: we change. We all change. We change all the time. I am definitely NOT the person I was ten years ago. I am wiser, I am kinder, I am more tolerant but I won’t tolerate grown folks acting like hormonal teenagers!

This Saturday, January 8th, we will start on The Letter E (Part One). I didn’t do much yesterday but I did alter Part One. I wasn’t happy with it. I didn’t like the music blend, so I re-scheduled it slightly. Now the genre balance feels better.

Have a throbbing and thrusting Thursday (with hopefully a few thrills through your thoroughfare?) I love you all.

#mixcloud #mi soul #lockdown #new blog #dj #music #coronavirus #books #weekend

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shadowphoenixrider · 4 years

Text

Continuation to this, as my mind chewed it over a couple of days ago.

Katla stared glumly into the steaming waters of Circhester’s hot springs. It had been a week since her argument with Kabu in Hammerlocke, and it was still weighing on her mind and heart.

She’d managed to push thoughts of the gym leader aside during her training for Gordie’s challenge, but Kabu always returned to her mind in the quiet moments, like now. She’d not left his company pleasantly - she’d not even said goodbye, with how bitter and angry she’d been at his words and assumptions.

The bitterness had boiled down into guilt as she’d considered his words, playing them over and over in her mind. Kabu had only been trying to help, trying not to let her potential slip through her fingers. That he admired and regarded her enough to tell her that was...a lot, honestly. Yet she’d pushed him away, and with little option for recourse. She wanted to apologise to him, but she wasn’t even sure he’d want to see her again - that, she had no other way to contact him. The thought that he might not even watch her upcoming match due to this hurt enough to prick tears in her eyes.

In truth, it was more than just that.

She was so absorbed in her internal dialogue that she didn’t notice the figure that came to stand beside her. It was only when they spoke did she snap back to reality:

“Katla?”

The trainer blinked widely, turning quickly to see Kabu, bundled up in a large black bench coat, with a strange segmented scarf wrapped tightly around his neck. Whilst his expression was a careful neutral, his silver eyes were not - they were anxious, strangely fragile, like glass.

“K...Kabu?” Katla croaked out, her voice thick from lack of use.

“I apologise for disturbing you.” Kabu spoke softly, yet quickly. “I’m aware you probably don’t wish to see me again, but please, at least do me one favour.”

He handed her an envelope, her name written in his scrawly handwriting. “Read this letter.” He paused for a moment, and forced a sad smile across his lips. “Best of luck for your upcoming Challenge, Katla.”

With that, he began to walk away. Katla opened her mouth to call for him to wait, but his name got caught in her throat, and she could only watch him melt into a crowd of people.

She glanced down at the envelope in her hands, turning it over in her hands before she decided there were better places to read it.

---

Sequestered in her much warmer hotel room, Katla broke the weak glue seal and pulled out the letter. It was neatly folded, and though Kabu’s handwriting reminded her of a doctor’s, it was much more legible. And pristine, without a crossing-out to be seen - she wondered how many drafts preceded this one.

Katla,

I do not know if you will read this letter after our disagreement in Hammerlocke, but I write in the hope you will.

I’m sorry for insinuating that the reason why you’d not attained Championship status in the other Leagues was because you were deliberately holding yourself back. It was incredibly thoughtless of me, especially since you had confessed that you had given up your title due to the stresses it had imposed upon you. I have never known these stresses, and though I can extrapolate from the duties Leon undertakes, I can never truly know. Thus to assume I know what you felt is at best foolish, and at worst, offensive. I ask for your forgiveness.

I do not know the challenges of other regional Leagues - any knowledge I had of Hoenn’s League is woefully out of date now - and thus to assume that you lost to them because you sabotaged your own match is not only an an insult to you, but an insult to your opponents too. I ask forgiveness for this transgression too.

Yet my views on your potential are unchanged. I truly believe you could defeat Leon. I am certain that you will make it to the Finals. I can see the spark in your eyes, the fire that burns when you’re in the midst of a battle. I was honoured to experience it first-hand. Your love for your Pokemon binds you together and makes you strong.

Katla, it is difficult for me to articulate my feelings regarding you, but I feel I must try. I was curious about you from the very moment you appeared on the roster. All the gym leaders were - it is rare indeed that Leon endorses anyone, especially two challengers at once. My curiosity deepened over the course of your Gym Challenge, and deepened into admiration after our own battle. Whilst I am thankful that they are all recorded for posterity, I will not forget the experience for a long, long time.

I have found myself caring for you. I want only for you to succeed, and for you to get up from the falls you will no doubt experience. I said my foolish words not out of a place of unkindness. That does not excuse their pain and hurtfulness, but I want to assure you that my deeper feelings are unchanged.

No matter what you may think of me now, and how justified you will be for thinking it, I will continue to support you. It will hurt to know that I have caused this rift between us through my own fault, but that is my burden to bear. I only hope it has not burdened you as well.

I wish you all the best in your future endeavours, and I look forward to seeing your future gym matches. I will leave my number at the bottom of this letter in case you need to contact me for any reason. No matter what has happened between us, I will help you in any way I can.

Kind regards,

Kabu

Katla read his letter several times, making sure she didn’t miss a single word. The guilt curled tighter around her heart - he’d made a good point with his hypothesis. She’d been ruminating on it for a while and wondering whether it was true. She’d only been eleven when the mantle of Champion had fallen heavy on her shoulders, and Katla couldn’t completely dismiss that the bad experience still cast a long shadow. But she was twenty six now; older, and hopefully wiser. Wasn’t it worth trying again? She cast her mind back to the Elite 4 challenges she’d failed at - she’d bailed out straight afterwards, and she wondered if she would have dug her heels in and kept going, if not afraid of the thought of actually succeeding.

Yet Kabu was apologising, thinking it was him who had caused the hurt, when it was her, lashing out in pain and guilt and shame as he exposed the festering wound to daylight. Just as effortlessly as he had done in the Wild Area, asking her when she was going to tell Hop her secret. And she’d prickled much the same way, only this time she’d driven off one of the kindest men she knew. And it hurt more seeing that he still cared for her, still wished the best for her, was still going to watch her matches and put himself at the end of the line in case she needed anything.

A part of her wished he’d just slammed the door in her face - that would have been kinder than this.

Tears burned at her eyes, but she held back her sob. She wanted to find Kabu and make it right, somehow. The numerals stood out starkly on the paper, an imposing invitation that Katla felt too nervous to use. In honesty, she felt so emotionally tied up, she had no idea what to do.

At that moment, her phone buzzed, and she took a look. It was Hop, asking how she was doing, as he was having to get used to the snowy conditions his Pokemon now found themselves in.

Katla: I've been better. Hey Hop, I dunno if this is the right time, but do you have time to talk?

It only took a couple of seconds passed after her message before a video call request came through. Hop's cheeks were reddened against the cold, his bright gold eyes full of concern.

“Katla, mate. What’s up?” He said, brows furrowing when he got sight of her.

Katla sighed, pulling a smile and not hiding the tears blurring her vision.

“A couple of things. You know me and Kabu had a fight in Hammerlocke, yeah?”

“What’s happened?” Hop asked, an edge to his voice that she’d never heard before.

“Nothing, nothing bad. He gave me a letter, a-and I just wondered if I could talk things through with you.”

“Nah, I’m gonna do better than that.” Hop shook his head. “What room are you staying in, 448? I’ll be right there, don’t go anywhere.”

She could barely take in a breath to protest before the call ended, and she sighed. Not what I had in mind, but I’ll take it.

It wasn’t long before he knocked on the door, and would have bounded in if he wasn’t holding two cups with steaming hot liquid.

“I got you a pick-me-up.” Hop grinned. “You might not be freezing, but I think you’d appreciate a cuppa.”

“Shit Hop, you didn’t need to.” Katla took the proffered cup carefully, cradling its heat in her hands. “How much do I owe you for this?”

“You owe me an explanation of what the hell’s going on with you, mate.” Hop replied, taking a chair and sitting on it backwards next to her. “Where’s that letter Kabu gave you?”

Katla took a deep breath, her heart beginning to pound. Here we go.

“It’s here, but I need to give you context for it to all make sense,” she began. “That means I’ve got to tell you some things...some things I probably should have told you earlier.”

And so Katla spilled the beans, revealing her past experiences as a Pokemon trainer, as well as the fact she’d become Hoenn’s Champion for a brief period of time, stepping down when the stress became too much for her. She elaborated on the argument she’d had with Kabu, the whats and whys and how they’d parted company unhappily.

She paused, letting Hop take this all in, and waited nervously for his response, trying to resist the urge to fiddle with the cup of boiling liquid in her hands.

“That...That makes so much more sense now.” Hop said, leaning back. “Why Lee endorsed you, why I just can’t seem to beat you. Why you always get so mad when I say I’m gonna be the next Champion.” He frowned. “Hey, wait a minute. I’ve never seen it mentioned anywhere that you were Hoenn’s Champion.”

“It’s not something I like to advertise.” Katla explained. “Also news of my ‘ascension’ was kinda pushed aside by the legendary Pokemon shit that was going on at the same time. Kyogre awakening and attempting to flood the entire world was a much bigger deal than an eleven year old becoming Champion. Even if I was involved in that too.”

“I dunno, it seems a pretty big deal to me.” He trained his eyes on her. “So you don’t tell anyone about it?”

“No-one. Put it this way, Hop; you and Kabu are the only people outside my family in Galar that know I was once Champion, and I wanna keep it that way.“

“Were you...ever gonna tell me?”

Katla cringed, hanging her head.

“If I could have helped it? No.” She admitted. “You’re a good kid, Hop. I didn’t want to crush your spirit - you want your rival to be on the same level, not to learn that they were a Champion once.” She sighed. “I was going to tell you after you came back that battle you had with Bede in the Wild Area...” She didn’t need to look at the younger trainer to know he was shifting uncomfortably. “But you looked and acted so broken I...I couldn’t.” She shook her head, and a snarl curled her lips. “I could have ripped that sucker a new one, treating you like that. He got his comeuppance in the end, but still...”

Katla risked a glance at Hop, and saw he was still looking at her, his face earnest and listening intently.

“I’m sorry for not telling you sooner, Hop. I’m sorry to have led you on. If you wanna stop being my friend and just walk out of here, then that’s perfectly fine. I wouldn’t blame you in the slightest.”

Hop folded his arms over the back of the chair, resting his chin on them.

“Whilst it’d been nice to know my rival was a Champ in another region, I don’t blame you for keeping it secret. The media would never leave you alone if they found out. Speaking of which,” he stuck out a hand, dropping it on Katla’s shoulder. “I’m not leaving you, mate. You asked me here for help, and I’m not gonna leave until I’ve helped you.”

Katla managed a smile, even as her heart swelled and eyes burned.

“Shit. Thanks, Hop. You’re a good friend, more than I deserve.”

“Aw, don’t say that.” He playfully punched her arm. “We’re buddies. That’s all that matters. Now, gimme that letter.”

He all but snatched it off her, yet he took his time reading it, brows furrowed in concentration.

“Kabu uses a lot of big words, doesn’t he?” Hop commented. “Bet he’s good at essays.”

Katla arched her eyebrow at him, but said nothing, giving the younger trainer time to formulate his opinion.

”Wow...” Hop finally said. “He’s got it bad for you, hasn’t he?”

The older trainer felt her face begin to burn up.

“You...you think so?”

Hop gave her a look that was halfway between disbelieving and annoyed.

“Seriously? You read this and didn’t pick up on the fact he might be into you?”

“Well, I can tell he cares about me, that’s clear enough!” Katla retorted. “But more than that?” She glanced away. “I...I didn’t think it’d be a thing. I mean, he’s a Gym leader, I’m just a Challenger. Not to mention he’s like...fifty odd.”

“Sure.” Hop nodded. “But you like him back, don’t you? I mean, you’ve been crushing on him since we saw him in in Galar Mine Two.”

“I do.” Katla stared pensively at her drink. “He looks so cold and closed off, but he’s not. He’s warm and gentle and kind, and...I feel awful that I hurt him with our fight. And he’s blaming himself for everything, when he’s got nothing to be sorry for!”

Hop glanced back to the letter and then back at her.

“Wait. When you say he’s got nothing to be sorry for, does that mean...” He spoke slowly. “Does that mean you were throwing those matches...?”

“No!” Katla snapped, then cringed, shaking her head. “No, I...I don’t know. Maybe. I didn’t deliberately sabotage myself, but never tried again after I lost; I just walked away and never came back. Maybe I was shying away from it. I dunno.” She sighed. “I can’t be certain I was at my peak in those fights, or that I was doing my all to win, if I’m honest. So, yeah, it was possible the thought of becoming Champion again was scaring me off. Kabu’s been the first person to really challenge me on it, and as you can tell,” she gestured to the letter, “I took it badly. It looks like he’s backpedalling, when he might actually be right about it.”

“Then I think you should tell him that.” Hop said. Katla’s heart forgot its next beat.

“W...What?”

“You should tell Kabu that he doesn’t need to apologise.” Hop said, as if it was the easiest thing in the world. “He sent you this letter as a way to smooth things over with you, right? Well, now you gotta smooth things over with him. And the only way to do that is to talk to him. It shouldn’t be too hard - you got his number!” He thrust the letter at her. “Text him or give him a call, and talk it out. You’ll both feel so much better afterwards.” He smiled brightly at her. “Then you can stop worrying about Kabu, and go back to focusing on beating Gordie!”

She couldn’t help but chuckle.

“You make it sound so simple when you put it that way, Hop.”

“It looks simple to me!” He replied, before he leaned over, resting a hand on her shoulder. “Kat, listen. From what I know about you, and what I’ve seen in that letter, I think you’ll be fine. I think you both feel the same towards each other, actually. If you go talk to him, I bet my badges only good things’ll come from it.”

“Bet your badges, eh?” Katla arched an eyebrow. “Those are some confident words, there.”

“‘Cos I am.” Hop grinned toothily. “Honestly, mate, you’ll be fine. You’ll feel tons better talking it through with him anyway.”

He pulled away, and his face then became serious.

“Kat...you’re gonna give your all in the Semifinals, right?” He asked. “It won’t be right if you’re not at your best. If I win, I want it to be because I was better, not ‘cos you don’t want to face Lee just in case you win.”

“Yes.” Katla made sure he could see the sincerity in her blue eyes. “I’m going to give you the match you deserve, Hop. I’ve never held back in any of my matches against you, and I won’t start to. I promise.”

“Good.” He nodded, looking content.

“You are assuming that I’ll actually get to the Semifinals, though. There’s three Gym Leaders to get through before then, and any of them could halt me in my tracks.” She pointed out.

“That’s what you said about Kabu, and look what happened there.” Hop grinned. “Speaking of which, you should clear the air with him before you go face Gordie, or you’re gonna be too distracted to beat him. And I don’t want my rival falling too far behind!”

“Oh come off it!” She swatted at him. “I’ll...I’ll think about it. About texting him, I mean. I just...”

“Hey,” Hop leaned over again, putting an arm around her this time. “He wouldn’t have given you his number if he didn’t want you to use it. Just...be you. You’ll be fine.”

“I guess.” Katla smiled. “Thanks, Hop. I really mean it - you’ve been...more than I deserve, honestly.”

“Aw come on, we’re friends!” He grinned, a slight blush on his cheeks. “It’s what friends do. I know you’d do the same for me. Right?”

“Yeah, of course.” She nodded. “But I might beat up the person who upset you too.”

Hop barked out a laugh.

“What, really?”

“I’m serious! The only thing that saved Bede from an ass-whooping was witnesses.” Katla grinned. “Still might punch him in the face when I see him again.”

Hop chuckled bashfully, his blush slightly brighter.

“Hehe, thanks Kat.”

“You’re welcome, Hop. Least I can do.”

---

Katla: Hey Kabu, it’s Katla. Do you have some time to talk?

Kabu: Yes. I have as much time as you need.

Katla: I was thinking maybe we could meet up to talk, if you’re still in Circhester?

Kabu: I am. There is cafe on the east side of the city, towards Route Nine, that is known for being discreet. We will be able to meet there in privacy.

Katla: That sounds perfect. What time? I have nothing going on so any time today is good for me.

Kabu: Fortunately I have that luxury too. If I send you the location, we could meet in a couple of minutes. Is this okay?

Katla: Yeah, that’s fine, thanks.

#SPR writes #pokemon sword/shield #pokemon trainer oc #kabu #hop #kabu pokemon #hop pokemon #self insert #kabu/oc #katla/kabu #angst #yes there will be another part #looks like that previous part did awaken something in me #*sigh*#also hop is adorable and I will die for that boy #sprs writing #pokemon oc: katla

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reddeadmort · 5 years

Note

Hello could I please request something with the reader being Hosea’s daughter where she and Arthur fall for each other and he’s real nervous about coming clean to Hosea & Dutch about it

So I’ve *tried* to fit this into the established timeline, luckily there’s not much canon around Hosea/Bessie background! I was originally intending on making this quite angsty, but as I wrote it got fluffier and fluffier - I had no idea I would ever write like this! I hope you enjoy :)

Arthur Morgan x F Reader | “So….Dad….”

Guidance: Don’t let the first paragraph fool you, this shit’s fluffy AF. You’re Hosea’s adult daughter.

Words: 2.1k

You had known something was wrong when your father had appeared with no warning at the Doctor’s office where you worked. You hadn’t seen him and your mother for a few years, but they sent letters regularly, and always a small package on your birthday. You’d received one such package for your 20th, just a few months prior to your father arriving to give you the bad news. Your mother, Bessie, was dead. Hosea was in a bad way, and you had insisted it on coming with him to look after him. After all, while you had a job, you had no close friends in that town. You’d always struggled there, since your parents had insisted you go live with your cousin at 13; you never really felt like you fit in.

Arriving at the Van der Linde gang camp had been a shock, and the next year or so was a struggle as your father nearly drank himself to death. But everyone was so kind, and helpful; Dutch was always there for you when you needed to cry after spending another evening trying to make sure your father didn’t die in his sleep.

You and John were very close in age, and he felt like your brother. You had some good laughs, admittedly most at John’s expense. Intellectually, you could run rings around him; but he definitely had skills you didn’t and typically got his own back whenever you attempted to shoot a gun. You were learning, but he had years of experience and loved showing off. After living with the gang for a while, you started to understand why your parents had sent you away; it gave you stability, the chance for an education. But you still wished you’d had more time with your mother.

Arthur was older, wiser, different to John; he’d experienced more pain. You expected him to not really pay much attention to you, but he was more than willing to spend time with you, teaching you the skills you needed to make yourself useful. He especially enjoyed any teaching you anything that helped you in your long-running one-upmanship with John. As soon as you mastered one skill, there he was, ready with his next idea; as time went on, you slowly realised what he was doing. He was desperate to spend time with you, and you were more than happy to oblige.

It had all come to a head on a hunting trip out on the plains. You’d had a rough day; you had tried to break one of the wild horses you saw, as you really needed one of your own. Arthur had been brilliant, showing you how to slowly move towards the horse, calming it as you did. It had been going so well, right up until you were thrown onto that cactus.

Luckily, you only caught it with your arm, but it still took Arthur a while to carefully pull the spikes out. It was almost worth it though when he gently rubbed ointment into your sore skin. As you lay on the blanket, head nestled on Arthur’s shoulder, allowing your sore arm to rest, Arthur had kissed you. And you had kissed him back.

In the months since then, you’d spent as much time as you could together. You’d only told Abigail and Mary-Beth; you needed their help if you were able to keep your relationship from Dutch and Hosea as long as possible. Your dad had been getting more and more protective recently; you suspected he was trying to make up for the failures in that year after your mother died. Ever since that year, Dutch had been like your second parent. He treated you differently from John, always choosing his words more carefully, being slightly kinder; you were sure he’d asked Miss Grimshaw to be easier on you too.

That morning, you and Arthur had almost been caught. Dawn was barely breaking when Mary-Beth had practically thrown herself into Arthur’s tent. You were still half asleep, blissfully comfortable in Arthur’s arms. Grabbing you roughly by the wrist, she yanked you out of the back of the tent and behind the wagon. Still groggy, wearing only your nightdress, you were about to question her when you heard Bill and Dutch’s voices the other side.

“Arthur, get up! Micah’s got a tip, and we’ve got a train to catch.”

You and Mary-Beth had stayed perfectly still, waiting for the voices to fade into the distance. You only relaxed when Arthur’s confused face appeared from the back of the tent. After that, you’d crept back carefully to your and Mary-Beth’s tent; you owed her big, you knew it.

Late that afternoon, as soon as Arthur returned with the others, you went to speak to him in his tent. He was tired, but happy; the job had gone well, with not a single shot fired. You hugged him quickly, then sat on the corner of his bed. Arthur turned his back on you, fists on the table, looking down.

“Arthur…. we have to tell them.” He didn’t need to ask what you were talking about; it was the only thing that had been on his mind all day as well.

“I know, (Y/N), I know. But I can’t….. I don’t know what to say.” Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed.

“Arthur, they are going to find out whether we want them to or not. And it would be much better for both of us if they found out on our terms, not with our legs tangled together.” You were going to tell your dad whether Arthur liked it or not, but you really wanted him by your side when you did. You understood his reluctance; recently, Hosea had been vocalising his displeasure at you being in the gang, rather than leading a ‘proper’ life, more frequently. And Dutch had been so angry when Sean, after a few whiskeys, had pulled you onto his lap and joked about wanting to ‘get to know you better’.

“Dammit, (Y/N), how many times! I know that! It’s just…..I……. they…..” His anger subsided as his voice trailed off.

“Arthur, sweetheart, it’s okay to be scared. Of their reaction, of the future, of everything.”

Arthur finally stopped pacing around his tent, though you weren’t sure that it really counted as pacing when he cleared the length of it in 2 or 3 strides.

“Darlin’, you’re right. You’re always right” he said as he leaned against the wagon that supported the tent. Rubbing the back of his neck, he gave you that cute one-sided smile that always made your heart melt. “Best I tell ‘em alone I reckon. That way, if they ain’t happy, it’ll be me that gets the heat.”

“You sure Arthur?” You stood up, glancing around before quickly, delicately, kissing him.

“Yeh darlin’. I’ve antagonized Hosea and Dutch plenty before, ain’t got me killed yet. It’ll be okay, I promise.”

Arthur gently kissed you on the forehead before setting off towards Dutch’s tent. You smiled, watching him go, before quickly going to help the others with the chores. Anything to keep your mind busy.

———

Arthur had a plan. He’d been thinking about it for a while, but it had only been formed in those last few moments in his tent, and he was praying that Hosea and Dutch didn’t mess up the first part by not being able to see the relationship for what it was. But, while he was worried, he knew that he would fight anyone and anything he had to keep you by his side. Taking a deep breath, relieved to see Hosea and Dutch were already alone, he stepped into Dutch’s tent and closed the flap.

——–

Arthur had been gone a while, and your feelings about this were mixed. On the one hand, you hadn’t heard any yelling, no shots, and you were pretty sure he hadn’t been chased out of the camp. On the other hand, how long a conversation did this need to be?! You wished you’d gone with him.

You were alone, hanging the last of the washing on the trees at the edge of camp; everyone seemed to be gathering around the fire, so it looked like it was that time in the evening where you got to relax and unwind. You just hoped that, this evening, maybe you could curl up to Arthur while Javier sang.

You’d just finished hanging the last of the dresses up when Arthur finally appeared by your side. You turned towards him, a mixture of fear and excitement welling up inside you. Your face fell when you saw his frown.

“(Y/N), I’m so sorry. We’ve got a problem. You need to come talk to ‘em.” You’d never seen him look so serious.

“Arthur, sweetheart…..what happened?” You could feel tears uncharacteristically welling up at the corner of your eyes.

“I’ll explain soon darlin’. But we need to go to them now.”

You could have sworn the whole camp was staring at you as you and Arthur walked hand in hand to Dutch’s tent. You were sniffing, barely holding it together; but as you approached, you started to feel angry. How dare they object? They had no right to, you were a person with your own opinions.

As the tent flap opened, you stormed in, ready to give your Dad and Dutch your full wrath. You got to the centre of the tent before realising that no-one was in there. The tent was filled with soft music from Dutch’s phonograph, and as you looked you realised that every surface was covered with candles. You turned, ready to ask Arthur what the hell was going on, only to see him on one knee in front of you.

Arthur reached into his pocket and slowly brought out the ring. He’d been carrying it around for weeks; he’d had one of the Jewellers in Saint-Denis attach a sliver of the meteorite he found onto a delicate platinum band that he’d bought from them.

He reached out, taking one of your hands in his. Your free hand went to your mouth; of all the scenarios you’d run through your head in the hours you’d been separated, this was not one that had even occurred to you.

“Darlin’, I’ve been actin’ like a fool. I never should have waited this long to tell the others, and I certainly shouldn’t have waited this long to ask you. Ever since that first kiss, as you lay by my side on the plain, staring up at the stars, I knew I wanted…needed….you by my side forever. You’re my shootin’ star darlin’.”

You could feel the tears rising again as you kept your hand pressed to your mouth, still slightly unable to process what was happening.

“Darlin’, will you be my wife?”

With that, you burst into tears. You weren’t really sure why; you’d been on such a roller-coaster of emotion in the last few hours, you couldn’t help yourself.

“Errr….darlin’…. the suspense is killin’ me.”

“YES Arthur, a thousand times yes” you practically yelled as you finally pulled yourself together and launched at him, arms around his neck, hugging him tightly.

Arthur stood up, gently lifting you in his thick arms, as you kissed hard. Grinning like a man possessed, he gently slipped the ring on your finger and took your hand.

“Come on then, we best be havin’ some dinner.” He winked as he lifted the tent flap and led you outside.

You left the tent, staring at the beutiful ring on your finger, then froze as you were met with cheers and whoops. Everyone, including Hosea and Dutch, were gathered around the front of Dutch’s tent, drinks in hand. Arthur moved behind you, wrapping his arms around you and resting them on your stomach.

“See darlin’, I told you it would be okay” he leaned down and whispered in your ear.

Your dad and Dutch were the first to come to speak to you.

“Well I guess you’re definitely not returning to that other life or yours now eh, Y/N?” Dutch chuckled as he patted your arm.

“I wasn’t planning on going anywhere Dutch, but yeh I guess this is a pretty good reason to stay” you laughed, as Arthur gently squeezed you into his chest.

“My precious daughter, you’ve made an old man very happy” Hosea said as he stepped forward and hugged you and Arthur. “And you, my boy, thank you for asking my permission. It was a nice touch”.

You half turned, so you could look up at Arthur. “You did what?”

Arthur quickly broke your gaze, grinning as he looked up and away.

“I warned you Arthur, I warned you!” Dutch laughed. “You know perfectly well she’s her own woman, not Hosea’s to give away!”

You jokingly elbowed Arthur in the ribs, mock scowling at him.

“Dammit, what’ve got myself into” he said, smiling, as he kissed your ear, gently squeezing you tight again.

“Wait, what would you have done if I had said no?” you asked.

“Well, either way I needed a drink, so I guess…. not much different! Would’ve killed the mood a bit though.” You chuckled, and turned to face him. As you did so, a familiar voice rang out across the gathering….

“Ladies and Gentlemen, I do believe we are celebrating! Who wants champagne?!”

“Where in the hell did Trelawny come from?!” Arthur exclaimed, frowning.

“It’s a party sweetheart, of course he’s going to appear. It’s his version of a summoning!” Laughing, you and Arthur moved to relax and celebrate with the others. This life was unconventional, it was hard, but with family old and new at your side, you had never felt more at home.

#arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan #arthur morgan fic #rdr2 fanfic #rdr2 fic #rdr2 x reader #hosea matthews #arthur morgan fluff #fluffy #my work #request

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forgiven-whimsy · 5 years

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CHARACTER PROFILE – MUSIC EDITION ♪

For many of us music is a source of inspiration for our characters, so I want to know what songs inspire and/or relate to your muse! Choose between 10-15 songs, compile them into an album and tag some friends to share the beat!

I was tagged by @rhymingteelookatme

I’ve made a Playlist on Spotify If you would like to check it out there, I’ve also linked all the songs from youtube.

1. Pocket Full of Gold - American Authors

2. Beautiful Jungle - Karmina

3. Big World - Ellem

4. Inner Demons - Julia Brennan

5. Head Above Water - Avril Lavigne

6. Champion - Bishop Briggs

7. Meet Me on the Battlefield - Svrcina

8. Zombie - Bad Wolves

9. You’re Going Down - Sick Puppies

10. Bloodlust - The Phantoms/Amy Stroup

11. Where do We Go - Lindsey Stirling

12. Just Hold On - Neoni

13. Where the Shadows End - BANNERS/Young Bombs

14. Alone - Alan Walker

Bonus track

Squad (My Crew) - J2, Roger Wills, Tennyson McCoy

Song analysis below the cut, it got long!

I’ve set up the songs in what I feel is chronological order.

Pocket Full of Gold, and Big World are very much Shiloh as a brand new adventurer, excited to be out in the world, and helping people, going to far flung villages and healing ills, and driving away some beasts, small differences in the grand scheme but huge for those she helps.

Beautiful Jungle is how she views herself in the beginning, before everything starts to fall apart. Being an Au Ra Raised in Limsa she’s always been an odd duck, add to the fact that she’s introverted, and a bit of a dreamer which didn’t help her social awkwardness. But her adopted family, her mother in particular, has always been encouraging, wanting her to step out of her comfort zone, her mom was her biggest fan, truly believing Shiloh would do great things.

Inner Demons represents her doubts, her impostor syndrome, especially after she’s being called a Warrior of Light. She never feels worthy of the title, and after the massacre at the Waking Sands, and a couple of other not so good events that happen to her around that time, she begins suffering the effects of depression and PTSD. Head Above Water, is a call for help to Hydaelyn, or anyone who will listen it’s very much tied in with her mental illness, and her fight for recovery. this is an ongoing battle for her, throughout all of the expansions and events, oftentimes getting far worse before getting better.

Champion is a great WOL anthem in general, it’s very much her Carrie Fisher song, the be scared but do it anyways song. This is her embracing her powers and strength, doing what is right, and needed even if she doesn’t feel like what she can offer will be enough. She’ll be damned if she doesn’t give it her all. She will do her best to be the Champion everyone believes her to be.

Meet me on the Battlefield and Zombie, speak to the sorrow and sadness of war itself, the casualties, and often needless death of innocents. Her compassion extends to the beastmen, and the Garleans she fights, the refugees, and the people of Eorzea. When she’s put in a position to lead soldiers, and friends, into war, Shiloh will often over exert herself in order to keep her allies safe. She believes herself a healer first and foremost, and feels a resigned sadness when she must bring her powers to bear on people, instead of Primals.

And then there’s that point when Shiloh’s compassion snaps, when she’s been pushed too far, and she becomes, in the words of Hien, terrifying, Aymeric has compared her to a Valkyrie, where she is not a healer but every bit the Warrior of Light they call her, a near blinding beacon on the battlefield. You’re going Down and Bloodlust, are very much songs that go alongside those big hero moments, the big fights, when her aim is to kill, and to make that death hurt. Lahabrea, Thordan, Nidhogg, Zenos, Vauthry, and Emet-Selch have all pushed her to that point where she embraces vengeance. Zenos glimpsed that spark in her, and the realization that if she gave in to that dark place she would be no better then him. And yet in the moment, in those big battles, where she’s un-tethered fighting with everything she has, there’s freedom, and a strange manic joy, feelings she will never admit to. In those moments she will often times push herself to near death, running on nothing but adrenaline. Raising the question in her friends as to whether she was trying to kill herself.

Where do We Go, is for all those times she still lost despite every effort, this is Haurchfant, and Moenbryda, and Ysayle. This is the aftermath of the bloody banquet. This is Zenos committing suicide, and her victory over Emet-Selch that felt like anything but. This is saying goodbye to G’raha Tia after he locks himself in the Crystal Tower, and mourning the woman Yotsuyu could have been.

Just Hold On, is very much a song about where she is as a person at the end of Shadowbringers. It brings to mind the conversation she had with Ryne, who is walking a very similar path, and the kind of advice she might give the young girl. “If it all goes wrong, Darling just hold on.” “Where do you go when your stories done? Do you be who you were or who you’ll become.” She’s older and wiser, and she’s trying hard to not be jaded. She’s become kinder, and is starting to let the walls down, letting go of what everyone else thinks the WOL should be, and just being who she is....and finally giving thought to who that is.

Where the Shadow Ends, represents her hope, resolve, and keeping all those she lost in her heart, “for those we have lost, for those we can yet save” and how their memories keep her going.

Alone, is representative of the biggest lesson she learned in Shadowbringers, and that is, that she has friends she can rely on, who do genuinely care about her, and that they’ve never expected her to be or act a certain way. she is cared for just as she is, and that she still has family. Ardbert’s words struck a chord, “don’t choose the option that leaves you alone.” Because for a long time she truly believed being the WOL meant being alone.

As for the bonus track. all her friends, the scions, Lyse, Yugiri, Estinien, Tataru, Krile, the Fortemps, Raubahn (he’s part of her crew..idgaf)....just...all of them together are a hell of a Force to be reckoned with. This song made me picture all of them in an 90′s early 2000′s rap video. and it’s fun to play while running Trusts.

Honestly anyone I would have tagged has already been tagged, so if you see this and want to participate consider yourself tagged, I highly encourage you to do so! it’s a great character building exercise.

#Chracter meme #I talk too much #FFXIV #this isn't even counting all the shippy songs for her various love interests #I could make so many play lists #These all are very much Shiloh and who she is #shiloh mitka #My OC

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lilacmoon83 · 5 years

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Dreaming Out Loud

Also on Fanfiction.net and A03

Chapter 93: Skies Are Blue

The Enchanted Forest

27 Years Before the Dark Curse

Cora looked out over her Kingdom from the balcony in the palace chambers of the Queen. Two years ago, she had married Prince Leopold and their coronation as King and Queen had happened quickly after that. Their daughter, Princess Zelena had been born not long after that.

Almost from the beginning though, their marriage had settled into indifference. For the most part, Cora was fine with that. She had what she wanted. She was Queen and her daughter would be Queen someday. The Kingdom was none the wiser that Zelena was not biologically Leopold's daughter and that secret had died with Princess Eva, which she took great satisfaction in.

But with Leopold being away and their marriage quickly becoming stale, Cora had briefly sought comfort in the arms of someone else. Another Prince actually by the name of Henry. And the dalliance resulted in another daughter. Henry had agreed with Cora that it could not come out that their daughter Regina was not Leopold's. They had agreed that not even Leopold could know, but Henry still yearned to be a part of his daughter's life. So Cora hired him as caregiver for her daughters. It was not very common for a man to hold a position as a caregiver or nanny for noble children, but it wasn't unheard of. Leopold didn't protest, because the girls seemed to take to Henry very well and he remained none the wiser.

Regina was born two years after Zelena and now, her girls were twelve and ten. Zelena was a natural when it came to magic and she had developed a wicked streak, one which Cora encouraged. If she had learned one thing from her mentor, only ruthlessness in this world would get you what you wanted. And that was certainly true for her. She planned to make sure Zelena knew that and did what she had to in order to stay on top. Regina was much kinder and gentler and she often thought that Henry's tenderness with her would only result in making her soft. But as much as she had considered getting rid of him, she knew how much Regina loved him, even if she didn't know the truth. She knew eventually she would need to send him away so she could mold her daughter in her image and ready her to seek her own Throne. Zelena would ascend to her Throne one day and Regina would have to marry into a Kingdom somewhere. And Cora was going to see to it that she ensured both.

"My my...you've certainly done well for yourself, dearie," Rumpelstiltskin trilled. Cora turned and smirked at him.

"Hello Rumple," she purred in response, as he observed Zelena's practice with magic below. Regina was having a riding lesson and showed little interest in magic.

"She had a natural talent," he mentioned. Cora smiled proudly.

"That's why I want you to take her on as your student," Cora replied. He giggled.

"And what, pray tell, would I get out of an arraignment like that?" he questioned. She smirked.

"I know what you need, Rumple...and Zelena can do it for you," Cora responded.

"She can cast your curse," she added, as he looked down into the courtyard again, where the redheaded princess vicious zapped a poor bird with her green magic.

"A bit savage that one," he commented distastefully. A curse under Zelena...what a nightmare that would be. On the other hand...if it got him what he wanted and back to Bae...he could hardly refuse.

"She lacks finesse and discipline," he remarked.

"So did I...but you taught me so well," she purred.

"Fine...bring her to my castle, twice a week, and we'll see if she has what I need," he decided, as he grabbed her arm roughly.

"But if she crosses me the way you did...there will be no mercy for her, dearie. If you think I cannot find another to cast my curse, you are quite mistaken," he warned. She smirked.

"Duly noted," she responded, as if she was hardly worried. Rumple disappeared at that point, but continued to watch Zelena.

Truthfully, she was the best option, but he wasn't about to admit that to Cora. He had briefly considered King Eli's new Queen, Ravenna, but he quickly determined that her psychotic rage toward her now two-year-old step daughter wouldn't bode well at all. Teaching her magic would lead to catastrophe and most certainly Snow White's death. And he knew from his visions that little Snow White was extremely important to his entire plan. Without her...there would be no Savior one day and then his curse would be moot. But as he watched Zelena, he wondered if this one would be much better. Still...it was something to work with...for now. And if it turned out that she was too dangerous, then he'd take care of her if she threatened his plans...

~*~

The Enchanted Forest

19 Years Before the Dark Curse

Ten-year-old David peered inside the tavern and spotted his father at the bar, drinking again. Disappointment rooted inside him, as he faced the reality of all the broken promises his father had made to him. Four years ago, when he was six, Robert had been going for supplies and promised David that when he returned things would be better. That he would be better. But when he returned, Robert seemed like an even more broken man, reeking of alcohol and returned with no supplies. He knew his mother had been livid and as he got older, he knew more had happened on that trip than he was told.

What he couldn't know was that his father had journeyed to Pleasure Island to try and retrieve the son they had given up to the King. A brother that David knew nothing of. But the King had taken him back and Robert barely escaped that island with his life. First the King had ordered he be killed, but then pirates had killed the guards in order to steal anything of value from them. The Captain had almost killed him so as to not leave any witnesses, but a magical puppet of all things, had pleaded with the Captain to spare him, imploring that a young boy would be fatherless without him. Though Robert had told him the same thing, the puppet boy had managed to strike a chord somewhere within the cold-hearted pirate Captain and Robert was spared that night.

Unfortunately, he had not been able to keep his promise to David. He had been so depressed by everything and failing James that he lost himself in a bottle again. He even had the presence of mind to realize that ultimately he was failing David too by breaking his promise of sobriety to Ruth and David. When he had returned, he came back broke, drunk, and with no supplies. Putting David to bed that night hungry had been the last straw for Ruth. When Robert awoke from his stupor the next morning, she was gone and had taken David with her. He searched the nearby town, but no one could tell him where they had gotten off to. He didn't find them and knew he only had himself to blame.

Meanwhile, Ruth had taken David and made her way into town, looking for work. She surprisingly found it when a woman overheard her begging for work in the marketplace. The woman had taken an immediate interest her and her little boy. She told Ruth that she lived alone on a modest estate in the countryside and needed someone to help with the upkeep. She offered room and board, as well as meals for her and her son. At this point, Ruth was leery of something that sounded too good to be true, but accepted and they went with the woman, who told them that her name was Serafina. That stunned Ruth to her core.

"You can't be...Serafina. Queen Serafina?" Ruth questioned, as she almost felt the need to kneel.

"Not anymore," the kind woman replied. She was beautiful, with blonde hair, blue eyes, and she wore a nice, but modest dress. Kindness radiated from her, making Ruth almost sure that any kind of marriage she had to King George had to have been arraigned.

"Queen Serafina...I heard she died four years ago," Ruth said in confusion.

"When I failed to produce an heir, we adopted a baby boy," she said, as her eyes watered, especially when she looked at David.

"He was my world and I was so thankful that he had come to me. But my husband is a monster that intended to raise my sweet little boy in his image. I protested and planned to run away with my son. But I was caught," she revealed.

"Word spread through the Kingdom that I was ill and the King would soon be a widower. But in reality, the King's men ripped me away from my son that night and I was to be taken to a secluded place where they would commence with my execution," she continued.

"Then you escaped?" Ruth asked. She nodded.

"One of the Knights had always fancied me and was very kind. He told the others that he would carry out the sentence alone. He somehow convinced the other Knights that I deserved to die with dignity. Once we were alone, he told me that my family's house, though abandoned, still stood. He gave me an allotment he had managed to stipend from treasury and told me to go," she replied, as a few tears fell.

"I almost refused, for I thought life without my son was no life that I wanted. But he told me that I had to live for James...that perhaps we could be reunited someday. So I have been living in exile, hoping that someday, I may be reunited with him," she stated. Ruth put her hands on David's shoulders.

"Then you know who I am?" Ruth questioned. She nodded.

"You're the woman that gave me my son," Serafina replied. She nodded sadly.

"And now you want my David," Ruth realized, jumping to conclusions.

"No Ruth...I promise I would never try to take David from you. But I know that you and your son deserve better than the lives you have. I believe that your husband loves you, unlike mine, but he is a broken man that cannot take care of you," she said.

"But I can," she added.

"What do you want in return?" Ruth questioned.

"Company...a friend. Even family someday if it happens. I just don't want to be alone anymore and I know that you don't want that either. I also know that you cannot take one more night of your son suffering from hunger pangs and I can't stand that either," she pleaded. Ruth softened and saw the sorrow and sincerity in this woman's eyes.

"And we won't keep Robert from David if he wants to see his father," she added.

"If Robert can manage to stay sober...he can see David then," Ruth replied, with bitterness. She smiled kindly.

"Perhaps you can help me make dinner then. I am afraid I am not so good in the kitchen," Serafina said.

"Mama...I'm hungry," David said, as he rubbed his eyes. He was also tired, as they had been walking for a long time. Serafina smiled.

"Well...we cannot have that. Come...my home is your home now," she offered, as they followed her inside.

That had been four years ago and David had only seen Robert a handful of times. He had lost the farm and went to work on a neighboring farm, when he managed to be sober. Ruth was getting tired of Robert disappointing their son by failing to stay sober and missing visits. And so was David, for he had sneaked away that very day to find his father, if for no other reason as to see why he kept missing his visits.

"Boy...what the hell do you think you're doing in here?" the bartender bellowed, as he grabbed the boy's arm.

"Easy Hal...he's my boy," Robert drawled, as he stumbled toward them.

"This ain't no place for brats...get him out of here," Hal scolded, as Robert took him outside.

"David...what are you doing here?" he asked, as he squinted. The sun was like a thousand knives piercing his head.

"I wanted to see you...you were supposed to come visit today," David replied. Robert sighed.

"I'm sorry David...but does your mother and that woman know where you are?" he asked, saying the last part with bitterness. He blamed Serafina for his broken family, though he knew deep down that it was him that drove Ruth away. David looked away.

"No...I sneaked away while mama was tending to the chickens and mama Sera went to the market," he confessed.

"Mama Sera…" Robert muttered bitterly.

"David…" a voice said.

"Speak of the devil," Robert murmured, as Serafina stood there with her hands on her hips.

"Uh oh…" the boy said.

"Uh oh is right...your mother is probably frantic right about now," she scolded.

"I'm sorry Mama Sera," he said. She sighed and gave him a piece of silver.

"Go to the bakery stand and buy the bread. Then we'll go home," she said. He nodded and hurried off, as she stayed behind to speak to Robert.

"Guess my visit is canceled," he drawled.

"It wouldn't be if you were sober…" she scolded.

"I don't need a lecture, especially not from the woman that stole my family," he retorted.

"I did not steal them from you," she protested.

"Oh, so you're not sleeping with my wife?" he questioned.

"Ex-wife...and Ruth and I fell in love. We did not plan it, but it happened. This is not about us though. It's about David," she responded sternly.

"I love my son," he insisted.

"Then get sober," she responded.

"Don't you think I want to?" he asked.

"Of course...but you can't seem to shake your demons. You don't think I miss and am just as worried about James as you are?" she asked in return.

"Don't bring up James to me," he growled.

"We both love James and wish we could take him away from George. But at the same time, we cannot neglect David. All your son wants is your love. It's not too late, but it soon will be...David is growing up and right now, he doesn't resent you. But he will...especially if he finds out he's not enough for you," she admonished. As much as he hated, he knew she was right.

"If you can refrain from a drink the rest of the day...you may come for supper tonight. It would make his day," she said, as she went to find him. Robert watched her go and saw David take the hand she offered him. He wanted to be better...he had to be better.

~*~

Zeus looked on with disdain from his Throne upon Mount Olympus. If there was one thing that Zeus had never counted on when he allowed Hades to abduct Persephone centuries ago was her actually falling in love with him. That had led to her restarting his heart and allowing him to occasionally leave the Underworld. And he believed it was all because of the little demi-spawn between them. They had brought the little half mortal spawn to see Demeter and the other Goddesses that just simply loved to dote on Persephone's fair daughter. It was pathetic. Not only had his brother forgiven Persephone for cheating on him in the first place, he actually loved the little waif.

"It's sickening…" Deimos mentioned, as he stood dutifully beside Zeus' Throne.

"Yes...quite," Zeus agreed.

"Word has it that Queen Ravenna loathes the little retch too," Deimos mentioned.

"Which is irrelevant. Persephone is powerful...and has the backing of almost all the Gods. They prefer her over me. If I were to even arrange for something terrible to befall her precious little Snow, it would lead to a revolt," Zeus warned.

"Then we find a way to get rid of Persephone and seal Hades back where he belongs. Then no one else would dare to challenge you," Deimos responded.

"And you have a way to do this?" Zeus questioned. Deimos smirked evilly.

"I have some thoughts," he responded.

~*~

"Oh Snow...every time I see you, you've grown so much," Demeter gushed.

"I've missed you, Nana," Snow said, as Demeter hugged her and then she saw Artemis.

"Aunt Arty!" she called, as she hugged the other woman.

"There's our snowdrop...I have something for you," Artemis said. Persephone smiled and looked on.

"So...I suppose you won't be staying long," Demeter mentioned.

"You know we're pushing it by coming here at all. Zeus looks ready to toss lightning bolts at us," Persephone replied.

"It's mostly me. He hates that I can leave my station now," Hades interjected.

"We'll be nearby at our cottage, mother. It's more comfortable and secluded, with a lot of room for Snow to play," Persephone replied.

"As long as it's safe...please let me put more protection spells up," Demeter pleaded. Persephone sighed.

"We'll be fine, Mother," she insisted.

"I don't like the disdain that Queen Ravenna has for my granddaughter. That horrid woman would hurt her if she thought she could get away with it," Demeter warned.

"We don't agree on much, but I'm with her," Hades agreed. Persephone sighed.

"Believe me...I don't like that woman either or the treatment Snow receives. I've already talked with Eli and believe me, I'll be having my own talk with his sanctimonious wife when I return Snow in six months," she said.

"That's my point, darling...I don't think Snow should go back there," Demeter pleaded.

"Mother...I can't take her away from Eli. He loves her very much too," Persephone responded.

"And I'm not saying you should. But please...go the edge of realms. It would be a wonderful place to raise her and you could give Eli access to it any time he wanted to see her. It would be a safe place and only people you allow access could come there," Demeter reasoned. Persephone looked thoughtful for a moment, as she watched her daughter.

"You know the ominous warnings I have received from the Oracle," Hades reminded.

"The Oracle is never clear...she only speaks in riddles," Persephone argued.

"Perhaps, my love...but Snow's future is clouded in what could be an exorbitant amount of danger, simply based on who she is," he reminded, as he took her hands.

"Before she was born...I could have gone down a very dark path, but it was the Oracle that showed me a clear vision of the life I could have if I let go of my thirst for revenge. I saw happiness and that happiness was you...and our little Snow," he continued.

"I love her as my own and I cannot bare it if anything were to happen to her," he pleaded. Persephone still looked torn. She promised Eli that she wouldn't take Snow away...and she knew he would see this as exactly that. But at the same time, she had to protect her little one.

"Mama...Papa Hades...look what Aunt Arty gave me!" Snow said with excitement, as she showed them the bow and quiver of arrows.

"Ah...the perfect weapon for a Princess such as you, sweet pea," he praised.

"Aunt Arty is going to teach me to use it, right Aunt Arty?" Snow asked.

"Of course, sweet pea," Artemis answered, as she looked at her sister.

"We'll retire to the cottage for now...then I'll summon Eli that we need to meet," she decided. Demeter hugged her daughter.

"I know it's hard that this is the reality...but this will be for the best. She must be protected, sweetheart," Demeter implored.

"What have you seen, Mother?" Persephone asked.

"Athena will only say that Snow has a grand destiny that's written in the stars. She will find a love so incredibly true that it will create light magic in this dark world. And that light may be the only thing that can keep darkness from ruling. She must be protected," Demeter revealed. Hades and Persephone exchanged a glance and he put his arms around her.

"She will be...no harm will come to her as long as we draw breath," he assured, unaware of the menacing stare of Deimos in the near distance.

~*~

"Mama!" David called, as they arrived home.

"Oh David...do you have any idea how worried I've been?" she scolded.

"I'm sorry Mama," he said apologetically. Ruth sighed. It was very hard to stay angry at David.

"Go inside and wash up for supper," she ordered, sending him on his way, as Serafina approached and kissed her.

"He went to the tavern, didn't he?" Ruth questioned.

"I'm afraid so. Robert was there," Serafina replied.

"Drunk I suppose," Ruth said bitterly. She nodded.

"I implored him to get sober for David. I told him it wasn't too late and we both know it soon will be," she replied.

"You mean if our son finds out he has a twin we gave up and he's never been enough for his father," Ruth said bitterly. Serafina put her hands on Ruth's shoulders.

"Robert realizes that this is how David will see it...but there is still hope for him to be better," she urged. Ruth shook her head.

"I want to believe that...for David's sake," she said.

"Then believe it…" Robert said, as they saw him standing there in the near distance.

"I can't let you break our son's heart again...not with another one of your empty promises," Ruth said bitterly.

"And I won't...not another drop and this time, I'll make it stick," he pleaded.

"And what makes this time different from all the others?" Ruth demanded to know.

"Because I know what a terrible father I've been and I realized that I'd rather have one son doesn't hate me than one that does and another that may never know me. Please...I hated my father and I've become him now. I don't want my son to hate me," he pleaded. Serafina looked at her and nodded, as Ruth sighed.

"Wash up for dinner," she told him. He let out a breath in relief.

"One drop...and you're out," she warned. He nodded.

"Fair enough...and I won't let him down this time," Robert promised.

"We'll see," Ruth responded, as they went inside the house. And for David's sake, she sincerely hoped that he was sincere about his promise this time.

~*~

"Wow…" Emma uttered, as her head was spinning from all she had seen already.

"So Regina was born after all," she mentioned. Athena nodded.

"Zelena may have turned back time, but messing with time like this is having some very unique effects," the Goddess answered.

"But...it's not all bad. I mean, my Mom is so happy. Hades...loves her and Persephone. And my dad...I know what he went through. I mean Grandma Ruth did her best...but his childhood was no picnic before," Emma mentioned. The Goddess nodded.

"That's all very true. Robert lives, despite still being a drunk. But David has two mothers now and lives comfortably. Even I did not foresee Queen Serafina escaping King George's death sentence," she mentioned.

"Yeah...that was pretty wild," Emma commented.

"Looks like Deimos is still scheming though," she mentioned.

"Yes...that did not change and he will always be a danger," Athena responded.

"Much can still happen though and there is no telling what other changes may occur," she added. Emma nodded.

"So what you're saying is I need to keep watching?" Emma asked. Athena smiled and nodded.

"Much can still happen and the moment for you to change everything back is not yet upon us," she replied, as they continued to watch events unfold in this new reality.

#Snowing #SnowxCharming #Emma Swan #AU #Greek Mythology meets fairy tales #HadesxPersephone #Charming family #romance #adventure #family #dreaming out loud

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ahkaraii · 6 years

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Since Kakagai is your Naruto OTP and you multiship. I've seen all your Kakashi ships. Do you have any other Gai ships that you like or would like to see more of? Please and Thank you P.S. I love your five comic and blog.

HEHE I actually really really dig Itachi/Gai?? Itachi, imho, has quietly admired and respected Gai for years. He canonically reminds Kisame and others to not take him lightly, and he immediately leaves Konoha after Gai shows up to save Kakashi. This man knows not to underestimate Gai!!

In a kinder world, Itachi and Gai could have been something, don’t you think? Gai finally being admired and acknowledged by someone who genuinely respects and looks up to him… ahh, I get butterflies thinking about it. Non-massacre AU Itagai…! What a good.

(A part of me thinks Itachi gets along pretty well with Kisame because Kisame reminds him of Gai. Of course, Itachi primarily gets along with Kisame because Kisame is himself – I like that pairing a fair amount on its own merits, too!).

((In a similar but more twisted vein, I read a fic once where Kisame kidnaps and tortures Gai and that was hotttt–))

I also lowkey dig Gai/Yamato, but I feel like my brain too quickly defaults to them being together because neither of them have snagged Kakashi. Which is fine for angst fodder, but if I want Gai to be happy then there must be others!

Haha, if you squint and throw yourself in the future some, Gai and Tsunade sounds like it could be a fun ship. (I like older women, sue me!) Ooh, Gai and Shizune–?! Gai x any medic would be good for him, haha, that man needs someone to take care of him and his recklessness.

Also, if you don’t mind shipping adults with the kids grown up, Gai and Sai could be an interesting match. Though honestly that would be Gai rehashing his attempt to save ANBU!Kakashi through Sai as a wiser adult, and that could be problematic. (Unless you’re into problematic stuff? ;D)

What other Gai ships do yall have? I’m always open to being convinced~

#itagai #gaishizu #naruto #ask responses #heraldofsong

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oscopelabs · 6 years

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War Starts At Midnight: The Three Wartime Visions of Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger by Josh Spiegel

Few filmmakers have made films as thematically rich as those from writers/directors Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger in the 1940s. From 1943 to 1949, Powell and Pressburger, better known as the Archers, made seven superlative films that leapfrog genres with heedless abandon, from wartime epic to fantastical romance to psychosexual thriller to ballet drama. Thanks largely to cinephilic champions such as Martin Scorsese and his longtime editor Thelma Schoonmaker (who married Powell in 1984), as well as home-media ventures like The Criterion Collection, the Archers’ films have received a vital and necessary second life.

While the Archers’ 1940s-era septet have recognizable throughlines as well as a reliable stable of performers, three of those films are cut from the same cloth, despite telling radically different stories with varying tones. The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp, A Canterbury Tale, and A Matter of Life and Death all take place, at least in part, during World War II, and all three films depict a nation at war, as much with other countries as with itself. When we think of British culture, we think of the stiff-upper-lip mentality depicted in popular culture for decades, typified by how Brits acted and reacted in World War II. But the Archers, in this wartime trio, debated the validity of fighting a war with that old-fashioned mentality, offering up films designed to be propagandistic enough to be approved for release but that also asked what it meant to be British in seemingly perpetual wartime.

* * *

“But war starts at midnight!” -- Clive Wynne-Candy

“Oh, yes, you say war starts at midnight. How do you know the enemy says so too?” -- Spud Wilson

The nuance of The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp was likely always going to make it a sore spot for the British government. Colonel Blimp was not original to The Archers; he was a comic-strip character created by David Low in the 1930s, meant to skewer puffed-up elder statesmen of the British military. The stereotype of a fatheaded, pompous fool had pervaded the national consciousness so much that Winston Churchill feared the Archers’ adaptation would revive the public’s critical perception of the military when support was needed the most. But while the title invokes Colonel Blimp, the lead character is never referred to as Blimp, and is much less foolish than he may seem when initially seen attacking a young British soldier in a Turkish bath. Powell and Pressburger used the character and the staid, fusty old notions of British militarism as a jumping-off point for a detailed, poignant character study.

Set over four decades, The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp begins near its finale, as Great Britain struggles to gain a foothold over the Nazis. We first see our Colonel Blimp, the portly, bald, and mustachioed Clive Wynne-Candy (Roger Livesey), beset upon by younger soldiers in the club where he now lives as part of a training exercise. Clive is infuriated because they’ve started hours earlier than planned; before the smug young soldier leading the charge can explain himself, the two get into a tussle that speaks to why Powell and Pressburger wanted to tell this story. In the production of their previous film, One of Our Aircraft is Missing, the directors removed a scene where an elderly character tells a younger one, “You don’t know what it’s like to be old.” (The idea that this could serve as the thematic backbone to an entire feature was provided by the Archers’ then-editor, David Lean.) Clive’s rage at being taken off-guard leads him to thrash young Spud Wilson and teach him a lesson: “You laugh at my big belly, but you don’t know how I got it! You laugh at my mustache, but you don’t know why I grew it!”

And so, The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp flashes back 40 years, a rare instance where a movie indulging in the now-hoary in medias res technique pays dramatic dividends. The rest of the film focuses on three points in the life of the man known first as Clive Candy: his time in the Boer War, the devastating World War I, and his twilight years of service as World War II ramps up. For a war film, The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp offers exceedingly little bloodshed. Powell and Pressburger’s film examines how such gruesome action informs men like Clive away from the battlefield, instead of depicting that action in full. Each section of Blimp shows how his noble efforts make him hardened and intractable over time, even against the tide of a truly tyrannical force. At first, Clive’s militaristic mantra is honorable: “Right is might.” But as the film reaches its third hour, he learns that his theory, one embodied by his nation, has been so cruelly disproven by the Nazi scourge that he and Britain must change their ways.

In the earliest section, Clive steps to the aid of Edith Hunter (a young Deborah Kerr), a British governess in Berlin who’s concerned about a German soldier spreading anti-British lies regarding their treatment of South African women and children in the Boer War. In so doing, and after insulting high-ranking German officers, Clive must duel with a German soldier chosen by lot, Theo Kretschmar-Schuldorff (Anton Walbrook). Watching a Brit face off with a German soldier might’ve felt appropriate, at least to the watchful eye of the British government. But Powell and Pressburger shrewdly show us the build-up to the duel itself, not the actual fight; instead, we see the aftermath, as Clive and Theo both convalesce in the same hospital, become close friends, and fall in love with Edith. Only Theo is lucky enough to win her heart; though Edith has as much love in her heart for Clive as for Theo, Clive only grasps his feelings once she’s left his life.

Portraying Theo, the film’s major German character, as surprisingly decent is one significant way in which the Archers brought nuance to what might have been another propagandistic WWII-era film. His innate humanity becomes heartbreaking as the film progresses. In the second section, Theo is a prisoner of war who’s initially too proud to admit his previous connection to Clive, before they reunite briefly. In the final section, Theo is older and much wiser than his friend, yet no luckier. He’s seen in a British immigration office, attempting to leave Germany on his own: his two sons have become Nazis and Edith has passed away. (“None of my sons came to her funeral. Heil Hitler,” Theo says grimly.) Theo then explains what drew him back to the UK, in a measured yet passionate soliloquy. No matter how many faults Theo sees in the Brits—after he reconnects with Clive post-WWI, Theo tries to point out that regular citizens “can’t be adjusted from war to peace as easily as you”—it is still a far kinder place to live than Germany. That the film’s most impassioned speech, expressing fondness for the British way of life, comes from a German is one of its many welcome surprises.

The film’s most haunting twist revolves around the women in Clive’s life. When Edith joins Theo in Germany, Clive is so shaped by her memory that when he settles down and marries the charming Barbara Wynne, she just so happens to look like Edith’s twin. Barbara, like Edith, passes away before World War II begins, but though Clive has aged, he hasn’t changed; his driver, Angela “Johnny” Cannon, looks just like Barbara and Edith, to the point where he introduces Johnny to Theo, fully aware that both men spot the similarity. Kerr, thus, is playing three strong-willed women, all of whom feel like perfect fits with the men of the film.

Clive, like his country, stays firmly and proudly rooted in the past, much to his detriment. When Theo, as an older man, reasons with Clive about how his way of waging war is outdated, it falls on deaf ears despite being a darkly accurate portrait of how WWII could have been lost: “If you let yourself be defeated by them just because you are too fair to hit back the same way they hit at you, there won’t be any methods but Nazi methods.” Only after Spud Wilson’s gambit to throw oldsters like Clive off their game in the training exercise does Clive begrudgingly realize that time has passed him by. The old-fashioned sportsmanship of battle could no longer apply for the Clive Candys of the world; at least this one realized it.

The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp ends wistfully, as Clive surveys the literal waterlogged wreckage of his life, having lost his house in the Blitz. He, Theo, and Johnny stand by the debris, and he recalls Barbara’s long-ago declaration: “You’ll stay just as you are till the floods come.” As he looks at where his house once lay, he says to himself, “Now here is the lake and I still haven’t changed.” Livesey, one of the very best actors to work with the Archers, imbues that line with a fine blend of pride and heartache, as he does with the salute he gives to the passing, much younger army of his native land. This elder statesman isn’t quite Colonel Blimp, only grasping Theo’s warnings about the Nazis after it’s too late, but he can see complexities of his life where others might not.

It took The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp, like the other films explored here, years to fully get its due in the U.S. While Churchill didn’t bar Blimp from release in the United Kingdom, he enforced an export ban on the feature because he saw it as a less-than-helpful presentation of the military at such a dire period. (Or, as some have wondered, he may well have seen the older Clive Candy as a critique of him. Of course, Churchill reportedly never saw this film, because that would have been too challenging.) A shortened version was released in U.S. theaters in 1945, cutting out the flashback structure. The truncated TV version, which runs just 90 minutes—the original is 163 minutes— was still able to excite a young Scorsese, who helped fund a restoration in 2013 for this classic.

The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp was, perhaps, doomed for failure; its treatment of people perceived as the enemy could gain resonance only with distance from WWII. The British War Office and Churchill stated their antipathy to the production even before it began filming, refusing the Archers’ request to release Laurence Olivier from service to star as Candy. (Livesey, to note, is wonderful in the film, so the Archers’ loss is our gain.) But Clive Candy was able to weather attacks, and so too was Blimp, the beginning of a seven-year period where the Archers upended expectations, strove to break cinematic ground, and stayed true to their artistic principles. Here is the lake, and still, this movie hasn’t changed. It only grows with age.

* * *

“It’s a great thing to sit back in an armchair and watch the world go by in front of you.” – Sgt. Bob Johnson

“The drawback is…that people may get used to looking at life from the sitting position.” – Thomas Colpeper

Fourteen months after The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp, Powell and Pressburger released another film set during World War II, which presented both the natural wonder and beauty of England while calmly displaying the ways in which the war had devastated some of its history. A Canterbury Tale wasn’t a hit with critics or audiences in the late summer of 1944; by the time it was released in the United States, the year was 1949, and a movie about three young strangers who journey towards Canterbury Cathedral in the waning months of World War II needed new, American-focused framing scenes to entice audiences.

Over 70 years after its initial release, what can we make of A Canterbury Tale? The allure of this low-key drama is, like its setting, ineffable and mysterious. The three leads, waylaid in the small English town of Chillingbourne while they wait for another train to Canterbury, ostensibly try to solve a mystery whose solution isn’t that mysterious. Some aspects of this film—whose three protagonists were all newcomers—feel less like drama and more like the Archers trying to make UK citizens turn away from the dark days of World War II and remind them of their land’s own beauty. From the vantage point of the 21st century, A Canterbury Tale is an utterly fascinating and serene look at how small towns tried to maintain a community-wide calm in the midst of terror.

Bob Johnson (Sgt. John Sweet) is an American soldier on his way to Canterbury Cathedral to meet a fellow Yank and do right by his mother back home in Three Sisters Falls, Oregon. Peter Gibbs (Dennis Price) is a British soldier who seems outwardly as arrogant as Blimp’s Spud Wilson, even though his true passion is playing the organ. While he plays it at cinemas back home, he’d rather play the kind of organ in the handsomely appointed Canterbury Cathedral. Alison Smith (Sheila Sim) has been conscripted into the Women’s Land Army; assigned to a farm in Chillingbourne, she has personal memories from her time near Canterbury that she can’t help but unearth. These strangers are brought together one dark Friday night by happenstance: Bob misheard the station stop and got off early, but he and Peter end up helping Alison after she’s beset upon by a mysterious figure who puts, of all things, glue in her hair. Strangest of all, this isn’t the first time a young woman was attacked by “the glue man” in Chillingbourne.

In a more predictable film, this inciting incident would lead our trio down some dark paths in Chillingbourne, a name that portends something terrifying. But while there’s an unquestionably disturbing subtext to a man placing “sticky stuff,” as Alison describes it, in young women’s hair, there’s little in the way of conventional twists in A Canterbury Tale. When our heroes meet Thomas Colpeper (Eric Portman), the magistrate of Chillingbourne who’s coincidentally the farmer to whom Alison has been assigned, it’s immediately obvious that he’s the glue man. Our heroes use the summer weekend, as they wait for the next train to Canterbury, to build up evidence, but as the weekend progresses, Bob and Alison (and eventually Peter) lose interest in solving the case as they fall in love with the British countryside.

Unlike Blimp, A Canterbury Tale has an ensemble of disparate characters who mostly have never seen serious battle. So many of them are average people conscripted into action, trying not to admit how terrified they feel. A Canterbury Tale features no bloodshed, but Powell and Pressburger stuck to the notion of making the film feel like a document of regular civilians by casting few recognizable actors. Portman worked with the Archers on the earlier film 49th Parallel and was, at the time, this film’s most well-known actor. Sweet, on the other end of the spectrum, was the least well-known; this was his first and only role in a film.

Recently, much was made about how Clint Eastwood’s The 15:17 to Paris, in which three young men who foiled a real-life attack, feature those three men playing themselves. When Powell and Pressburger cast their American character, they didn’t change his name to match the actor’s, but they might as well have: John Sweet was an Army Sergeant at the time, and his first-time performing style is always evident. Unlike the performances in The 15:17 to Paris, however, Sweet’s work is oddly charming. Watching him interact with the ensemble allows for the understandable awkwardness of his performance to take on a double meaning; Sweet is the outsider as much because he’s untrained as because he’s American. Bob Johnson is incurably curious and inquisitive, having so little awareness of British traditions, making his languorous journey through Chillingbourne all the more compelling.

By the close of A Canterbury Tale, all three of our heroes receive a blessing in the style of Geoffrey Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales. For Bob, it’s a revival of a romance he presumes is finished. His paramour, who he figured had moved on, has instead joined the Women’s Army Corps in Australia and has responded to the letters he thought had been ignored. Even before that, the people Bob meets in Chillingbourne, from the boys playing soldier to the local mechanics and a fellow military man from Seven Sisters in England, serve as a kind of blessing. When we first meet Bob, he’s all too happy to get his visit to Canterbury out of the way; before the movie ends, he’s taken to running down the sloping hills of Chillingbourne with his new friends, an overgrown boy at play. Stopping in Chillingbourne brings him joy even before his love life is given a new chance.

Alison, too, becomes closer to nature as she explores Chillingbourne. Of all people, she finds herself associating with Colpeper, even after she’s correct in presuming that he’s the culprit. Her blessing arises from memories she has of spending a summer outside Chillingbourne in a caravan with her fiancé, now presumed dead. But before she can receive the happy news that her fiancé is alive and well, she has to almost commune with the Earth to try and move on. By the second half, Alison is so in touch with nature that she hears the sounds of music and voices in the hills, akin to the centuries-old pilgrims Chaucer wrote about.

Alison’s connection is validated and shared by Colpeper, with whom she’s convening in those same hills Bob runs down. Even after Alison confirms Colpeper’s nighttime habits, she admits, “I was very mistaken about you.” Their connection is more emotional than anything else; Colpeper tells her that hearing voices as she does only works “when you believe strongly in something.” Colpeper’s strong belief in respecting Britain’s history is how he became the glue man. After his historical lectures were met with boredom and few attendees, he made it so British soldiers had little choice but to listen about their homeland’s history. By giving the soldiers a bad name (other townspeople, including the young women, presume one of them is the glue man), Colpeper assumed he could make a small encouragement to the British military to learn about the land it defended. As he explains to Peter on the train to Canterbury, “There’s no sin in being a savage, but a missionary who doesn’t try to do his duty is a bad missionary.”

Though Portman’s enigmatic performance turns Colpeper frosty even here, the magistrate receives a blessing from an unlikely source: Peter. Though Peter is the most gung-ho of the three young people to find the glue man, he chooses not to give Colpeper away to the authorities after he receives his blessing: the chance to play the Canterbury Cathedral organ. But Peter’s decision to let Colpeper walk is portended in one of the wonderful flourishes thrown in by the Archers in the film’s lush black-and-white cinematography. While on the train to Canterbury, Peter scoffs in response to the magistrate asking him if he is an instrument of judgment and says, “I’ll believe that when I get a halo over my head.” Cue the train light creating a halo effect over him.

There is no action-heavy setpiece in A Canterbury Tale, which instead features plenty of images of the main characters taking in the beauty of Chillingbourne. Through Colpeper, we see how hard it is for regular people to both support the military in wartime and forgive soldiers their vices. Through Peter, we see how soldiers didn’t quite grasp that their presence in small towns threw other people’s lives into upheaval. You could argue that very little happens to the characters in A Canterbury Tale; all that does happen is that Powell and Pressburger let the audience watch these people’s unremarkable yet compelling lives, and that they each secretly want to find some purpose when they arrive in Canterbury. The heroes appreciate what it meant to be British in decades gone by, and reflect on how that impacts their actions in the present. A Canterbury Tale was a love letter to England, made as gorgeous by its rolling hills as by its people. Though it didn’t hit big originally, and additional footage featuring Bob reconnecting with his girlfriend (Kim Hunter, about whom more very shortly) didn’t help it translate in America, A Canterbury Tale is a truly entrancing story of how badly people needed their unique burdens eased in such a horrific time of history.

* * *

“This is the universe. Big, isn’t it?” – Narrator

It’s hard to decide which is the best Archers film. Black Narcissus and The Red Shoes, perhaps their most broadly appreciated films in America, are remarkable leaps forward for Technicolor cinematography, while showcasing incredible performances, breathtaking set designs, and more. They are gorgeous films, featuring some of the most jaw-dropping images in the Archers’ filmography. But the film released the year before, suggesting the possibilities of what the Archers would do next, is just a touch greater. It is a film that was well-received initially, despite receiving a new title for its U.S. release; a film that’s only getting its first Region 1 Blu-ray release this summer although it offers some of the richest, most colorful images in Three-Strip Technicolor; a film that’s influenced everything from The Simpsons to Harry Potter. It is A Matter of Life and Death.

What if someone was supposed to die, but got misplaced? What if that person, with their extra time, fell in love before they were found by their bringer of death? This, in effect, is the concept of A Matter of Life and Death, in which Peter Carter (David Niven), a cheerful RAF pilot, is meant to die when he escapes his damaged plane without a parachute. Before Peter jumps, he contacts June, a winsome young American radio operator (Hunter), to share what he presumes are his last thoughts in the strangest Meet Cute ever. Peter jumps from quoting Walter Raleigh to brazenly declaring, “I love you, June. You’re life, and I’m leaving you.” But once Peter exits the plane, the damnedest thing happens: he wakes up on the beaches of England very much alive, after which he meets June in person, officially starting their relationship.

The whimsy of A Matter of Life and Death is clarified when we learn why Peter was apparently able to cheat death: his French conductor (Marius Goring, who co-stars in The Red Shoes) couldn’t locate Peter in the thick English fog. Peter is dismayed to learn that his permanent eternal presence is requested in the Other World, taking him away from June. She, of course, is concerned that her new boyfriend might be going mad; kindly local doctor Frank Reeves (Livesey again) believes Peter might be suffering from a brain injury. The perpetually unanswered question is just that: is Peter hallucinating the Other World because his mind is going, or is he really at death’s stairway?

Powell and Pressburger don’t answer the question, providing just enough medical details, down to the smell Peter notices when he speaks to his Conductor, that it might just be a mental malady. (I submit that Peter isn’t hallucinating the Other World because the film never answers one question: how the hell did he survive that fall from the plane?) The closing moments of the film suggest that either option is possible, when it’s revealed that the judge of the Other World’s court of appeals and the surgeon operating on Peter are played by the same actor.

But the mystery of Peter’s circumstances is not what makes A Matter of Life and Death so special. This is one of the most ambitious films the Archers ever made. It is a buoyant, bursting-with-emotion romance between two star-crossed lovers whose connection is straight out of a fairy tale. It is a film designed to help bridge divides between the British and the Americans in the immediate aftermath of World War II. (The story begins just six days before the European section of WWII concluded.) And it is, above all else by the finale, meant as a rousing and spirited defense of the British people. When the Other World allows Peter to appeal his case, he chooses the firm, well-spoken Reeves—who dies tragically in a motorcycle accident before Peter’s surgery—to plead Peter’s case, passionately arguing in favor of his client’s basic humanity.

In these spectral, spiritual moments, Reeves goes head-to-head with Abraham Farlan (Raymond Massey), the first American felled by a British bullet in the Revolutionary War, in arguing for Peter’s clemency. But it becomes clear that Reeves and Farlan are not arguing over Peter’s right to live longer than originally planned: they are debating what it means to be British and to be American. Farlan doesn’t think much of the romance between Peter and June, seeing it as another case of two people ruining relationships back home because they’re thrown into unexpected circumstances abroad: “Men and women thousands of miles away from the love they left behind. Minute sparks, instead of scorching flames.”

This is the Archers’ irreverent way of presenting the British and American states of mind post-WWII. It’s also a sign of their empathy as filmmakers: when Reeves argues that the current jury—all men from different countries around the world impacted by England’s imperialist rule at varying points of history—is unfairly biased, he asks for six American citizens. The reveal is powerful in 2018 as much as it may have been in 1946: the six American citizens are all immigrants, French to African to Irish. There is no one type of American citizen, as there is no one type of British citizen: this film is a dissertation on what it is to be human.

Visually, A Matter of Life and Death is unparalleled in the Archers’ work; the cinematography shifts from Technicolor (in the real world) to black-and-white (in the Other World), and the design of the Other World creates a series of gasp-inducing images. There is the impossibly wide shot of the attendees of Peter’s appeal, in a vast auditorium that reveals itself to be the size of an entire galaxy; there is the design of the literal stairway to heaven (hence its American title, Stairway to Heaven), which seems appropriately infinite without being terrifying; there is the moment when Peter’s fellow RAF pilot, waiting for him in the Other World, peers down to the vast center where files on all people from Earth are kept, and we see his silhouette from far above. The sense of scope and scale in moments like these should be teachable moments for anyone crafting some big-budget spectacle; this film’s moments of wonder were accomplished with a meager budget.

The grandness of A Matter of Life and Death—a movie that begins with the camera panning through the vast universe and closes with lovers reuniting happily—is coupled by its creators’ aims, to emphasize the humanity in people of different creeds and cultures. Peter Carter seems almost carefree in his opening scene, throwing slang left and right to the woman who he’ll fall for even as he expects to die. By the end, Peter and June are united by what Reeves deems the most powerful force on Earth: love. It’s a declaration that manages to be corny and life-affirming at the same time, much in the same way as Powell and Pressburger attempt to emphasize the universal qualities of mankind throughout the spiritual-court climax. In this film, as in The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp and A Canterbury Tale, to be British is to be human.

* * *

Unlike some of their British cohorts, such as David Lean and Alfred Hitchcock, most of the Archers’ films didn’t immediately hit big in America. Powell’s 1960 horror film Peeping Tom didn’t exactly end his career (he kept making films after that disturbing effort), but it garnered fiercely negative criticism. Over the last couple of decades, the Archers’ films have received well-deserved revivals. Last year, A Matter of Life and Death received a 4K restoration overseen by Scorsese and Schoonmaker, which is translating to the film soon receiving a Region 1 Blu-ray from the Criterion Collection. (It is painfully overdue.) Before that, The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp and the operatic The Tales of Hoffman both received restorations, hopefully introducing more people to the wonder of these filmmakers.

The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp, A Canterbury Tale (which also deserves the Blu-ray treatment), and A Matter of Life and Death are the product of fertile creative minds who used the backdrop of World War II to explore vastly different worlds that all happen to exist in Great Britain. This trio runs the gamut of genres and emotions, all while showcasing the kind of soldiers who protected the United Kingdom throughout the first half of the 20th century. The raffish romantic lead of A Matter of Life and Death could easily have been the same kind of soldier to surprise the elderly Clive Candy in the opening of Blimp, or he could have just as easily stumbled across Chillingbourne’s glue man. He could have even been the young Clive Candy. These characters are distinct enough to exist within their own stories as they are to represent attitudes and personalities across all of the Archers’ films. These films encompass a vast universe, one that offers new wonders to cinephiles. Just as the pilgrims came to Canterbury for blessings, so too do true cinephiles receive blessings when they make the pilgrimage to watch Powell and Pressburger’s films.

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