#Elsie Stern

[underthewingsofthblackeagle]

Victory Column Berlin (aka "Golden Elsie")

Some Prussian Glory to gild your weekend :)

#Instagram #Berlin #Germany #Deutschland #Victory Colum #Siegessäule #Großer Stern Berlin #Great Star Berlin #Goldene Else #Golden Elsie #German Liberation Wars #Deutsche Befreiungskriege

[papaver-decervicatus]

Headcanons- John "Soap" MacTavish

Birthday, July 14th 1996

Early Life

Born in a hospital in Glasgow, but lived in a suburb of Glasgow for most of his life until enlistment

The only outstanding grades he ever got in secondary school were Chemistry and Art, originally took a basic art course as opposed to doing music but went on to take two more and won some low-level awards for portraiture. 

Goalkeeper in football throughout his life, continues to play in army rec leagues

He keeps in touch with the entirety of his old team through a group chat

Parents have been married since they were 18 (David) and 19 (Lorianne), respectively. His father is a bricklayer and his mother worked as a nurse aide until his birth.

Has 6 sisters, and is the 3rd born.

Jessica, 7 Years older, has twins who are currently 8 years old, no spouse

Deborah, 5 years older, married to a guy but no children

Lucy and Patricia, 4 years younger. Twins. Lucy is married and has a newborn, Patricia does not.

Abigail, Gwendolyn, and Elsie, 7 years younger, triplets, no children or spouses. (Yet.)

Was a choirboy at his local Catholic Church until he was kicked from the position for sneaking off to make out with one of the choir girls during mass.

Serial partier and fuckboy in his youth, got his ears pierced by a friend at a party when he was 14. Has a tramp Stamp from his 16th birthday while drunk. Got his SAS tattoo the day he passed selection.

Was arrested at 15 for beating the shit out of Jessica’s children’s father. The father beat Jessica and once Soap figured that out he nearly killed the man. The man fucked off and never came back and therefore charges got dropped

Only Gaz knew about that story until he let it slip while drinking and said “Isn’t that crazy?” Ghost casually responded with “Eh, hasn’t everyone?” completely seriously. Gaz just sort of stood there confused for a moment and decided not to bring it up again.

Ghost actually brought it up to Soap later and instead of a stern talking to like he expected, Ghost said “I always knew you were a good man. Glad to know you were an outstanding lad, too.”

Soap cried about that. Like. Actually teared up at the praise.

He was attacked by a neighborhood dog when he was 7, has never fully gotten over that fear.

Multiples run in both sides of his family, his mother was in a set of triplets and his father is an identical twin. Needless to say, massive family.

General

Avid letter writer and journal keeper, likes to tear out pages of his journal to keep his niece and nephew back home entertained. 

He has a small flat in Glasgow that he pays the triplets to keep tidy while he’s away. Will visit his family frequently when home but does not typically stay the night.

His hobbies include sketching, painting, and football. Makes his own watercolor paints, and roasts his own charcoals. His favorite medium is ballpoint pen, and his favorite subject is portrait. 

Has a terrible habit of chewing the tops off of his ballpoint pens, meaning he always has a few uncapped ones lying around

Price makes him run laps for this, but the only thing stronger than soap's stamina is his need to chew plastic. 

Has a sketchbook dedicated to each member of the 141, portraits, still lifes, likes and dislikes, etc.

Ghost’s is by far the most filled out, he would never admit it though.

Has sketched a ghost's face at least a hundred times, same with his tattoo. Chronic artist about it though, never thinks it’s any good. 

Ghost saw it once. 

He thought it was perfect and had to snuff out the urge to burn it. 

Secretly flustered about how handsome soap draws him. 

“That’s how he sees me? Fuckin’ hell. He thinks I’m hot.” 

Soap, does indeed, think Ghost is hot.

Gaz Gifted him a Christmas Gift in an old Soapbox, thinking it was the funniest thing ever. Since then, Soap only ever gives out people’s birthday and Christmas presents in soap boxes, much to Gaz’s dismay.

The gift was a shitty “Bodice Ripper” novel, signed by the author that Gaz picked up at a flea market. Soap read the thing when he ran out of paper to draw in on a mission and discovered he actually really enjoys the kitsch of them.

Gaz thinks it's funny, Price doesn’t comment, and Ghost fucking hates it.

Soap also has a terrible habit of reading the steamy parts aloud to mess with Ghost who originally started asking him what was going on in the books to try and get a rise out of Soap. Ghost regrets it immensely. 

Has no shame about most things. Owns lingerie, and he will wear lacy thongs in public showers to make others uncomfortable. Absolutely owns a pair of cartoon red-heart-on-white background boxers that he wears

Gets Gaz to pants him during the last day of recruit training while wearing the boxers. Never gets old. 

Has found a way to cheat at every single card game. 

Still never wins. 

Take out of choice is Chinese. Is a good cook but always ends up setting the smoke alarm off, even when not using the oven or stove. 

Is not allowed to use the microwave anymore after… the incident…

Has put all of his body care products into dish soap bottles so it looks to new recruits like he’s using Dawn Dish Detergent as a mouthwash.

Cuts and styles his own hair. 

Social Smoker, his mom, in particular, hates it, he picked up the habit in basic and has never been able to fully quit. Only 1-2 cigs a day, though.

Knows a little bit of Scottish Gaelic, mostly just words and phrases that get tossed around a lot. Couldn’t write it or converse in it, but will quote words/phrases casually

Not as religious anymore, but does still pray.

Would like to get married in a church and have a big family (which could include adoption), and live somewhere in the lowlands once he retires. No plans, as of current. 

Soap's most toxic trait is his pride, nothing gets him angrier faster than being underestimated in any regard and he takes everything personally. Ghost being cold to him? Personal. He is going to befriend him if it's the last thing he does. Graves betrayal? Personal. Johnny will survive in a burning city just to prove to himself that he may be stupid enough to get burned but not weak enough to burn. Not being able to do something perfectly on the first try? Personal. He has a weakness and it is his fault and he will do it until he gets it right. He may be a fighter in every sense of the word, and his pride might get him the win, but there's always a bigger foe- and it's always himself.

Talents, Special Bonds, ETC.

Really good at Caricature drawing, occasionally recruits will commission caricatures from him.

Chronic prankster along with Gaz. The difference is that Gaz either charms his way out of it or avoids getting caught in the first place.  Soap is really obvious and accepts punishment too readily to get out of trouble. 

Price is the hardest on Soap because he sees Soap as a protege, while Soap knows that it is technically positive attention, he is a little bitter that others get away with stuff he just can't

The reason he gets along so well with Ghost is that even though he's naturally abrasively charismatic, he does not ask hard questions. He is very much a "You tell me what you want to tell me and not a thing more, and if that means you tell me nothing, I guess we'll just sit around quietly and that's cool by me" type of guy. He gained that outlook from being the only boy in a household of girls, he is incredibly emotionally intelligent in that way.

Gaz is the best with infants, but Soap is the best with kids. The second a kid is crying, he has already distracted them and they're off playing. He can handle about a dozen children at once with no problem, and therefore he is the best with new recruits.

Mental math talents are off the charts, also has a terribly uncanny ability to look at any object and say "yeah. I will need x amount of C4 for that." And he is always right.

#navigation -> headcanon tag #john soap mactavish #cod mwii #soap mwii

[sweaterkittensahoy]

I finished "Fierce Valor," the Ronald Speirs biography, and actual Speirs--despite the efforts of Dick Winters to get him to contribute--gave no interviews for Ambrose or for Spielberg and Hanks. He ended up very upset with how Edwyna (his first wife) was portrayed in both the book and miniseries.

Edwyna had NOT been previously married as reported in Ambrose's book. What had happened was that a previous beau she'd assumed dead had returned from the POW camp, and she'd written to Ron about her struggle with what to do. They agreed to a divorce with her and her new husband raising Robbie (his son with Edwyna). She also did not refuse to return the war prizes. As mentioned in Ambrose's book, Ron adored Robbie, though they were only reunited when Robbie was an adult.

Ron was very upset that there were the printed "facts" in the book. In fairness, Winters attempted several times to get him to review what the other men said of him or to sit down with Ambrose himself, but all Ron did was write a six-page letter with what he remembered with no further comment.

Ron admitted to Winters in a letter at one point that he loved Edwyna even decades after their divorce. Ron himself had two failed marriages after divorcing Edwyna and finally found a great fit in Elsie. Wiki has her listed as his second wife, but she was his fourth. She also was the reason Ron showed up to any reunions or the BOB premiere in France. Basically, Dick Winters tried to coax Ron to show up, and he never agreed, but then he'd write Dick saying, "Well, Elsie says she wants to go, so I'll see you there." And if that's not the cutest shit, I don't know what is.

When Spielberg and Hanks started planning for the miniseries, Ron also didn't want to participate. Dick Winters tried, again, to get him to open up, but Ron just wouldn't. According to his family, Ron simply didn't think he'd ever done anything spectacular. He was just a career Army fellow. Dick Winters ended up--I assume--selling a kidney to get Spielberg and Hanks to send Ron a script to review. Ron didn't like how he was portrayed but also--again--refused to provide any help in making it match how he saw himself.

Matthew Settle says he's disappointed he only ever got to speak to him briefly because he had family who fought in WW2 and just felt a lot of respect for the difficult decisions Ron had to make.

BTW, all of Elsie's kids and grandkids and great-grandkids considered Ron their Dad/Grandfather/Great-Grandfather. She was a widow when they married, and everyone in the family remembers him being kind and sweet and practical with a sternness that only came out when necessary but was unmovable when it showed up.

He also had poodles. Which delights me because poodles look so cute and silly but are absolutely fucked-up smart and assholes if you've ever actually dealt with them.

A little cry: At the final reunion with Easy, Ron greeted everyone who spoke with him by asking "Which war?" which was a go-to response when a solider he formally worked with called him. His hearing was going, so the guess is that he used his go-to way of talking to fellow soldiers as a way to try and hide it.

A different little cry: Lipton absolutely considered him one of the best men he ever knew. It's very, very sweet.

(I read Band of Brothers right before reading Fierce Valor, and there's a lot of borrowed passages from BOB (properly sourced), so some parts of the book felt like a photo-copy, but Speirs himself wrote very little about himself and didn't leave a huge trove of journals or correspondence, so the writers did the best they could with what they had. It reads more like the biography on an ancient philosopher--where you have to conjecture and guess to some extent--rather than the biography on a very recently deceased man immortalized in book and film, but I appreciate the effort to look more deeply at the man and put together an idea of who he was as a whole person.)

#band of brothers #ronald speirs #fierce valor #biography

[whaleofatjme1920]

I'm sorry sweets. I'm sure you'll get this. So my granny was a teacher and she would give this stare that would make even the most naughtiest of children behave. If only I inherited that.

After work maybe go home get some rest and eat something nice. Love ya Elsie<3

She didn’t show up today thank the gods. I wasn’t prepared for her, but one of my other normally good kids was acting up a lot—his mom made him apologize. I’m tired,,,,,,,,, I can’t sleep, shower, food, then maybe doodles. I’ll get to those red strings later.

I WISH I had your granny’s stare my kids only fear me when I get stern. And I hate being mean to them >:/ love you lots ♥️

#conversations with a fish woman #yeahneh :] #seeing Michael today was super nice too <3 #I just like to see him even if I know it’s n out going anywhere lol bc you never date coworkers

[fivecrowned]

❝ hello, doctor. ❞   she doesn’t hold the stern expression on her face for very long. he’s been escorted here by armed guard, with no explanation, and she doesn’t want him to stay alarmed - even if it’s a  little amusing  at the very start. the last time she’d seen him, he’d been flying off in that strange ship of his. no goodbye. it didn’t seem as if he liked goodbyes, or endings, even if they’re happy ones. his intervention saved her planet; he left her an exile with an uncertain but promising future, and now he returns to find her seated on the throne. what must be going through his mind? elsie smiles, removes the crown from her head, and stands to descend the steps towards him.   ❝ i’m sorry. when i was told your box had been spotted in the market, i had to be sure it was really you. ❞

starter call        ♡        @undecimusor​.

#undecimusor #❪ ic ❫ ⤿ gold in the shadows‚ flicker in the night. #❪ in space ❫ ⤿ leave a spray of diamonds in your wake.

[mauricedharris]

Moses's encounters with God - a podcast interview I did with Reconstructing Judaism

Moses’s encounters with God – a podcast interview I did with Reconstructing Judaism

Dr. Elsie Stern’s interview with yours truly Here’s the intro: In this Community Learning call from November 21, 2017, Rabbi Maurice Harris talks about the strange way the Torah tells us about Moses’ up-close encounters with God, contradicting itself purposely within the space of nine verses. Two consecutive stories in the Book of Exodus confront us with a crucial paradox about how it is or…

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#abstract theology #anthropomorphic God #Biblical paradox #Exodus #Midrash #Moses #paradox #personal God #progressive religion #Rabbi Maurice Harris #Reconstructionist Judaism #Seeing God&039;s face

[jewishbookworld]

Open Access Books from Brown Judaic Studies

Open Access Books from Brown Judaic Studies

Brown Judaic Studies (BJS) announces the launch of our Open Access Books program.  During the 2019-2020 academic year, with the support of a grant from the NEH/Mellon Humanities Open Books program, we have been digitizing about fifty titles from our backlist in order to make them publicly accessible at no cost in perpetuity.  The books are available for download in different formats, including…

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#A.T. Kraabel #Adriana Destro #and Robert Culley #Anthony J. Saldarini #Brown Judaic Studies #Brown University #David Novak #Dorothy Sly #Edward Greenstein #Elliot R. Wolfson #Elsie Stern #Ernest S. Frerichs #James S. Diamond #Jeffrey Rubenstein #Lawrence H. Schiffman #Lynn H. Cohick #Marc Lee Raphael #Martin Jaffee #Maurice Gerald Bowler #Max Kadushin #Meir Bar-Ilan #Michael Satlow #Morris M. Faierstein #Moshe Benovitz #Nancy Sinkoff #Philip R. Davies #Robert S. Schine #Saul Olyan #Shaye J.D. Cohen

[sims-through-the-decades]

With Britain officially at war, posters began appearing all over Brindleton urging young, healthy men to enlist in the Armed Forces. Seeing the posters, and seeing other men his age already preparing to leave for war, Joseph knew what he had to do.

One evening, while Elsie was cooking dinner, Joseph looked up from his newspaper and turned to her. “Elsie,” he said, “I’m going to enlist.”

Shocked, Elsie put down her wooden spoon and turned to face her husband. “Oh, don’t be ridiculous. You’ll get yourself killed out there!” she snapped.

“I’ll have to go sooner or later, Elsie. They’ll start calling men up soon, and I’d rather go now than be forced to later,” replied Joseph, not backing down. “Besides, all the other men in Brindleton are already enlisting. It would be cowardly of me not to go with them.”

Elsie shook her head at her husband’s words. “So you’d rather die than be called a coward?” she asked. “You’re not being rational, Joe.”

Despite his wife’s stern words, Joseph had already made up his mind. He would be enlisting in His Majesty’s Armed Forces as soon as he possibly could. “Rational or not,” he said, his expression determined, “I’m going, and that’s final.”

Seeing the look on her husband’s face, Elsie knew that arguing with him further would be futile. Instead of arguing, she simply sighed and held her husband in her arms. “You silly man,” she said, feeling Joseph return her embrace. “You’d better come back alive.”

#the warren legacy #1910s #decades challenge #the sims 4 #ts4 #simblr #war tw

[underthewingsofthblackeagle]

Berlin.  A new day.

Good Morning from Berlin :)

#Berlin #Germany #Golden Elsie #Victorycolumn #Deutschland #Goldene Else #Großer Stern #Great Star #Siegessäule

[eppysboys]

Eppy can you rate the Beatles parents on /10 ? (the parents of the bugs not the bugs themselves as parents)

Hi anon! I don't think I could give a neat number out of 10 on something like parenting (unless you meant /10 based on looks? 😳). My general impressions of them are basically:

Elsie Starkey: An absolute gem! 😊 (who also happened to be very persuasive) She loved her little drummer boy, and he adored her, and I have endless respect for how she cared for him and carved out the best life she could give him out of often unfortunate circumstances.

Harry Graves: Seems like a genuinely lovely man, who importantly taught Ringo 'gentleness' (I'd interpret that as more Harry encouraged Ringo to be gentle, rather than mask up that aspect of his personality).

The Harrisons: #1 Fans and supporters of George and the boys. It's really sweet hearing them talk about George - they just seemed to /know/ him, and wanted him to follow his own path because they understood how important it was to him. They speak more of his character than of his achievements, which is just very sweet to me. Louise in particular is a legend :')

Aunt Mimi: 😐 (I think she would have made a great strong parent to someone with a different personality + free of horrible trauma, but unfortunately - despite mostly good intentions - a lot of choices she made and her approach to raising John really mixed him up. 10/10 would raid her book collection, though.)

Julia Lennon: Manic Pixie Dream Girl irl??? Seriously though, It's a little hard to gauge that much about Julia and who she was/could have been between all the versions of her story told by various people and the fact her life was tragically cut short. There's large chasm between the 'handling' (for a lack of a better word) of John and Julia + Jackie Baird (who vehemently object to how their mother has been written about and portrayed). I think she would have been a lovely entertaining friend for sure, but there seems (to me at least) a mix of immaturity and harmful circumstances inflicted on her that really complicated how she could have parented John. I do trust in Julia Baird's kinder portrait of her, though, during those last few years of her life.

Alfred Lennon: He gives me battery acid vibes.

Mary McCartney: I just sort of follow what Paul and Mike say about her - Strong, intelligent, stern, motivated woman who wanted the best for her family. It would be lovely to know more about her personality outside of 'Mother Mary' 👀 So I dearly treasure how Mike wrote about her, in particular.

Jim McCartney: By all accounts he was a sweet man that clearly loved his boys and wanted the best for them. It's hard to reconcile that image of soft spoken Jim - learning to cook and take care of his two sons, wringing out Paul's sweaty shirts after gigs and preparing him dinners for when Paul came back home - alongside Paul's descriptions of him hitting him well into his teenage years. Looking through forums, there's a mixture of opinions on how common that was (specifically relating to Paul's age) for the time and place, in any case, I do respect him for how hard he tried and how he guided his boys through their upbringing, but it's obviously really upsetting to read how he dealt (or failed to properly deal with) his anger/disappointment in Paul (and Mike) at times.

#asks #abuse tw #idk why but it feels weird to write this all up #who am i to have opinions on anyone or anything

[fortisfiliae]

Promised Part 7 - Tom Riddle x reader

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16 | Part 17 | Masterpost | Masterlist

Summary: In this story, Tom didn’t grow up as an orphan, but with his grandfather and uncle. Reader’s sister got very sick and the Gaunts offer their help. But not without asking for something in return. 

Disclaimer: Please be aware that I don’t condone any of this in real life. (GIF is not mine)

Warnings: Arranged marriage

Word count: 3.1k

Part 7 - Gift Giving

“So this is the last part of the house. The bedrooms,” you said, after giving Tom a quick tour around the mansion. “The guestroom is right at the end of the hallway.”

Tom peered towards the half-open door to the guestroom, that the house-elves were preparing for him.

“This right there is Elsie’s room, next to it is the master bedroom. And this,” you said, leaning onto a door. “Is my room.”

He turned back to you.

“Want to come in?”

He nodded. “Sure.”

There was a sense of excitement in the air, letting Tom enter your room. It was something so private, it felt like you let him walk straight into your head. But you wanted to be nice. He still seemed crushed from the argument he had had with his grandfather and uncle and you thought it would make him feel better if you showed him he was welcome here. 

“Take a seat if you want. Anywhere,” you said and went over to sit on your bed.

Tom slowly walked across the room towards your desk, his eyes incidentally scanning your belongings. He sat down on the chair by the desk and looked at the framed picture of you and your family that stood there.

“Sorry about my mother,” you mentioned when you noticed what he was inspecting.

Tom looked at you. “What do you mean?”

“She can be a bit brash, you know. When she asked you to stay earlier. But she usually means well.”

“Oh,” he spoke. “I didn’t mind actually. You know my family. They’re brash. And not the good kind.”

“Fair,” you agreed. “Have they always been that way?” 

“Since I can remember at least.”

There was a moment of silence. 

“I’m sorry,” you then said. 

“For what? That’s just how it is. They have their ways and I have mine.”

“Right. Did you know they would bring up the unbreakable vow?“

“No… I had no idea. They’re idiots. Just stupid. Why ask for more each time? They always want to be a step ahead for nothing.”

“What did you say to them?” you asked, hiding that you already knew.

“That I wouldn’t do it. They took our word for it then and that should be enough. They can’t force us to do a vow.”

“Are they mad at you?”

“Yes. But they’ll come around. It wasn’t our first argument and it won’t be our last.”

You pondered if you should say what you were thinking. Maybe it was a bit too much, but Tom didn’t seem bothered talking about his family. So you went on: “Do you ever wish it could have been different? To grow up with your parents, I mean. That would have made it easier, don’t you think?”

Tom smiled weakly, his eyes wandered across the floor and he shook his head. “Wishing for something won’t make it happen. And no. It would have been quite the same, I think. Maybe even worse.”

“Worse?”

“You’ve heard how Marvolo talks about my parents. His daughter and a muggle. A stain in the bloodline he said, didn’t he?” Tom chuckled lowly.

“But if they loved each other that shouldn’t have mattered to him.”

His eyebrows rose in what looked like a strange form of amusement. “Well, that’s a whole other story.”

You frowned. What did that even mean? You had heard all kinds of rumours about the Gaunt family and how Tom’s parents had met but never would have thought that one of them might be true. 

“Have they-”

Tom shook his head as he got up, making it clear that he wasn’t going to talk about it. He walked across the room towards you, fiddling something out from the inner pocket of his jacket. 

You had gone too far apparently and wondered if he was pulling out his wand or wanted to leave, but as you opened your mouth again, he sat down beside you and looked into your eyes.

“I’m going to tell you,” he said. “Not now though. You’re going to know everything about me eventually. Someday.”

“Someday then,” you repeated. “What have you got there?”

He held the thing from his jacket in his hand now. It was a package that seemed a bit squished as if it had barely fit into the pocket.

“Hold on,” he said and waved his wand at it, to smooth out the wrinkles on the paper. It was a present, a rectangular box, covered in dark green gift wrap.

“I thought it would be impolite to come over for lunch without bringing at least a little Christmas gift.”

“Oh, you shouldn’t have,” you said as he handed over the present. 

“Go on, open it,” he said and motioned with his hand.

So you did and quickly found out what the package contained. A small handwritten book, full of potions recipes. 

“Nicked it from my uncle when he wasn’t looking,” Tom said. “So you better don’t mention it to him.”

“Oh great,” you laughed as you flipped through it. “Wow, I haven’t heard of any of these.”

“None of them are taught in school. I thought you’d like them. Didn’t seem like the ones we do with Slughorn were much of a challenge for you.”

The book looked as if it had been used a lot. The thin black binder was frayed and faded, and the edges of the pages were crinkled. On every other page, the handwriting changed, so it seemed that many different people had written the recipes. Poisons, antidotes and bewitchments you had never heard of were all listed, neatly explained and completed with full lists of ingredients.

“Where did your uncle get this from?” you asked, still looking through it.

“I’m not sure. Knockturn Alley perhaps, or on some market. I wouldn’t be surprised if he had added a few ones himself.”

As peculiar as it was, not many people could say they got a book of dark magic and probably illegal potions for Christmas.

“What an unusual gift. I do like it. Thank you, really!” you said and opened your arms to hug him, out of pure habit, but froze when you saw his stern expression, your arms still open. 

He looked into your eyes again, seemed to think for a moment and finally nodded to let you hug him. Just like when you had held hands, he was stiff and rigid, it felt like he was uncomfortable. You retracted, but as soon as you let go, he wrapped his arms around you and held you a little tighter, extending the embrace for a few more seconds.

There was a ghost of a smile on his face when you sat back straight and he was about to say something when the door flew open.

Tummy, one of the house-elves, stood in the door frame. “Miss, the guestroom is ready. Mister Riddle, Sir, please follow me.”

“Great,” Tom whispered sarcastically under his breath, got up and followed the elf.

You quickly hid the book under your pillow and called after them: “It’d be nice if you could knock next time, Tummy!”

“Sorry Miss! Will knock!” you heard him from the hallway.

When Mother called for dinner in the evening you picked up Tom from the guest room and went downstairs. 

Sitting at the table together was a bit awkward at first and no one said anything. It seemed that your parents were still thinking of the incident from lunch, but didn’t want to talk about it in front of Tom. You didn’t know what to say either and Tom wasn’t one to talk much in general.

“Tom?” Elsie said all of a sudden, breaking the silence.

“Yes?” he answered and you looked back and forth between the two.

“Did you know I’ll go to Hogwarts too next term?” Elsie went on, a very proud tone in her voice.

He grinned while picking up some green beans with his fork. “I did know that, yes.”

“I haven’t gotten the letter yet, so technically I don’t know if I’ll get in, but my parents said it will come on my eleventh birthday.”

“I’m sure it will.”

He had barely finished his last word when Elsie asked the next thing. 

“What’s your favourite subject?”

“Um… Defence Against The Dark Arts, I think,” Tom said. “It’s interesting enough.”

“Why?”

“Well,” he took a second to think. “I like to be prepared.”

“And you’re in Slytherin, aren’t you?”

“Yes. Do you have a favourite house?” 

You caught your parents exchanging looks and smiling at each other.

“Um… Well,” Elsie began. “I think they’re all nice. But Gryffindor is the best I guess.”

Tom clicked his tongue and shook his head jokingly. “Shame,” he said.

“Do you play Quidditch?” Elsie asked.

“No, I’m not into sports.”

“But can you fly?”

“Yes, I’m a decent flyer.”

She looked at your parents for a moment and whispered to Tom: “Do you think you can show me? How to fly a broom. I got one for Christmas, you see. And I-”

“Elsie,” Father said laughing. “Let the boy eat, please.”

“No, I can show you,” Tom said. “It’s the least I can do to show my respect after you’re letting me stay here.”

“That’s very kind of you Tom,” Mother said. “And you can stay as long as you like.”

“Thank you. I won’t bother you for long though,” he answered.

Dessert was served and Elsie peppered Tom with questions about brooms until Father finally told her to leave him alone. 

You thought of the book he had gifted you and knew that your parents would be pleased to hear that at least one member of the Gaunt family had manners. They didn’t need to know exactly what it was about. 

“Tom gave me a Christmas present earlier,” you said.

He shot you a quick look as if to ask you if you were out of your mind telling your parents about this. You ignored him.

“Oh really?” Father asked. “What is it?”

“A Potions book. Handwritten. It looks very rare,” you said and looked at Tom who was still staring at you. “It’s like an extended version of our school books. I can use it to perfect my skills. Maybe I’ll even get an O on my N.E.W.T.s because of it.”

“Oh lovely,” Mother said. “Where have you got that from?”

“Diagon Alley,” Tom lied and seemed to be more relaxed now.

“Very nice,” Mother said and turned towards you. “But you didn’t have anything for him, did you?” 

“No,” you mumbled.

“Well, let’s talk about that another time. Tom, have you heard about the time when we went on a trip to Italy?”

Later that night, when you lay in bed, you pulled the book out from under your pillow and held it for a while. It probably wasn’t even meant to be so special, but the fact that Tom had thought of giving you a present for Christmas, was not what you would have expected.

And you hadn’t even wasted a single thought about getting him something. How ignorant. 

You wondered how he felt about that. If he even felt about that, one way or another.

Your fingertip ran up and down the book spine countless times while you stared up onto the ceiling. You had to get him something. Something special.

And then you wondered if he couldn’t sleep either. If he wanted to talk for just a bit as well. If he thought about lying next to you, too. You could try to sneak out of your room and over to the guest room. Your parents wouldn’t like that of course, but you were going to marry him. They had to get used to the thought. And if you were quiet enough, they wouldn’t even notice.

You sat up slowly, put the book back under your pillow and tiptoed to the door of your room. Turning the doorknob as quietly as possible and holding your breath, you looked out into the dark hallway. You wouldn’t even need light, you knew this hallway like the back of your hand. Fifteen, maybe twenty quick steps and you would be right by the door to the guest room. So you took the first step out of your room.

“Miss!” a squeaky voice whispered in the dark from below. 

It was Tummy, standing there alone. 

“Tummy?” you asked quietly. “What are you doing here?”

“Miss, master told Tummy to keep watch all night. So that Mister Riddle wouldn’t disturb you in your room.”

Great. Your parents were a few steps ahead. 

“Can Tummy get you anything, Miss?”

“No, I… I just thought I heard something,” you sighed. “Does Father really force you to stay up all night? You can go downstairs to sleep if you want to.”

“No, Miss, no,” the elf said and smiled. “Tummy sleeps right here on the floor. I have very good ears, yes. I hear every little noise, you see? I will wake up whenever I hear something and alert the masters.”

Unbelievable. They had thought of everything.

“I see,” you said. “But I’m not afraid Tom would disturb me. You really can go downstairs.”

“Miss, Tummy is thankful for your offer, but I must follow the master's order. Tummy doesn’t mind it.”

“Alright then,” you gave up. “Hang on though.”

You went back into your room, walked up to your bed and fetched one of the three pillows from there. 

“Take this at least,” you told the elf and gave him the pillow. “It’s big enough for you to sleep on.”

“Oh, that’s not necessary. Please.”

“I insist,” you said with a jokingly strict tone.

Tummy smiled, took the pillow and nodded. “Thank you, Miss. Tummy is very grateful.”

“Good night, Tummy.

“Good night, Miss.”

The following day went by quicker than you had wanted it to. Father, Tom and Elsie went outside in the late morning to give Elsie her long-awaited flying lessons. They were a great team, against all expectations. You watched them from the kitchen window and noticed how Father held himself back from helping. He kept a careful eye on the two when Tom showed Elsie how to mount the broom correctly.

Elsie listened intently to everything Tom told her, tried to follow each step precisely and could properly hold herself in the air after a while. Father and Tom seemed incredibly proud, not only of themselves but of your little sister.

You could have watched them for hours, but Mother had called you to the reading room, to go to Diagon Alley via the Floo Network. You had asked her to take her with you since you wanted to get some new quills for school and a proper Christmas present for Tom.

Thankfully Diagon Alley wasn’t too busy, yet it took you a while to find an appropriate gift. You hadn’t even known where to start looking, but when you finally saw it in the shop window, you knew it was perfect.

Back home, Elsie, Father and Tom were just walking back inside, their cheeks and noses all plump from the hours they had spent out in the cold. Elsie jumped through the living room excitedly and told Mother and you how high up she was able to fly now. She had even attempted to do some advanced twists but almost had taken a fall.

Father patted Tom on the shoulder and thanked him for his time, which made Tom’s ears turn almost as pink as his cheeks and nose.

After congratulating your sister on her achievement, you turned to Tom and said: “Would you follow me? There’s something I want to show you.”

You took him to the reading room, where the parcel you got him stood under the desk.

“Long day, huh?” you asked when you closed the door behind you.

He nodded. “Long but successful. Your sister is a quick learner. She could make it on the Quidditch team one day.”

“Thank you for teaching her,” you said. “We all appreciate it.”

“It’s my pleasure.”

Now that you were with him, you didn’t know where to start. Should you tell him about lying in bed with the book in your hand, thinking of him? That you almost would have knocked on his door in the middle of the night, if Tummy had not been there? That could sound terribly invasive. What if he wouldn’t have wanted you to come? Now that you thought about it, you were glad that Tummy had spoiled your plan. Nighttime certainly made you too reckless.

“I hope you slept well,” you mumbled mindlessly. Merlin, why would you say that?

“I um…” Tom looked at you surprisedly. “Yes, I did.”

“Good.”

“If it wasn’t for the elf in the hallway, it would have been even better,” Tom added nonchalantly.

How would he also know about Tummy? Did he leave his room too? You scanned him questioningly and Tom smirked.

“Father is overprotective,” you answered. 

“Shame, isn’t it?”

“Certainly.”

You looked at each other, both with mischievous smiles on your faces. It would not have been awkward at all if you had gone over to his room last night. Tummy be damned.

“I thought of your present a lot,” you went on, changing the subject. “And I decided I had to get you something as well.”

“Not necessary. Your family let me stay the night, that’s more than en-”

“Stop it,” you snapped playfully and went to get the parcel from under the table. “There’s not a lot of things I thought suited Tom Riddle. But this does, I believe.”

He took the box with both hands, as it was quite big, placed it onto the desk and pulled off the top.

“Oh,” he breathed when he looked inside.

“Her name is Nagini. She’s not fully grown yet.”

Tom took a dark green, medium-sized snake out of the box and let it curl around his arm. 

“Did you know?” he asked.

“Know what?”

“That I’m a Parselmouth.”

“Yes,” you nodded. “People in Hogwarts were talking about it years ago and then I thought of your house and your relation to Salazar Slytherin. It made sense.”

“Thank you,” he said genuinely, looking into your eyes before he watched Nagini gliding from one of his arms to the other. “Stretch out your arm for me.”

You did and let your fingers touch his. Both of you now stood there with one arm pointing towards each other. The snake slithered around Tom’s arm, quickly making its way towards his outstretched fingers and over to yours. It hissed quietly while wandering up to your shoulder.

“She likes you,” Tom said softly. “A lot.”

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16 | Part 17 | Masterpost | Masterlist

Credit where credit is due: My boyfriend came up with the house-elf’s name. I don’t know where that came from but I won’t make him stop. He also gave him a short backstory. I might try to implement it into the story line if you’re interested.

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[nashibirne]

Painkiller - 5

Need a painkiller? Here we go! The fifth part of my story about Henry and Ella. Months have passed by since their date, let's see how the "friends" are doing...

Pairing: Henry Cavill x OFC (Ella)

Summary: Ella keeps on pretending and Henry tries to move on

Warnings: Angst, a little smut, 18+, NSFW, sex, mentioning of oral sex (f receiving)

Unbeta'ed! As you know...English is not my mother tongue so be warned...

Credits: Pics for the moodboard are from Pinterest (face claim Pamela Reif, unfortunately I don't know the name of the model I use as face claim for Ella), I know nothing about the real Henry Cavill, this is all fictional.

You can find part 1 - 4 on my Masterlist.

taglist: @hell1129-blog @lunedelorient @inlovewithhisblueeyes @mis-lil-red @willkatfanfromasia @agniavateira @omgkatinka @legendarywizarddetective @summersong69 @taebfada @xxxkatxo

(let me know if you want to be added or removed)

~~~~~~~

The little bell above the door rang like crazy when Jackson entered the book-cafe with vim.

"Jax!" Ella beamed with joy when she saw him.

"Hey auntie." He embraced her with a grin, hugging her tightly and lifting her off the ground a bit. "Congratulations on your third nephew. He's really cute. I paid Katie a visit before I came here. Paul was there too, almost bursting with pride, changing diapers like a pro. He's going to be a great dad."

"Yeah, absolutely. They're going to be great parents. Hopefully Katie can leave the hospital soon. Henry can't wait to meet little Leonard."

"So you've already told him?"

"Of course. I had to promise him to call as soon as Katie goes into labour. And I kept him updated throughout the day yesterday. He's so happy for them."

"Uncle Henry and Aunt Ella, huh?" Jackson said with a teasing grin.

"Funny." Ella rolled her eyes.

"Not really. I mean come on, Elsie, you know that you and him are in a relationship without sex? Sharing everything but the bed?"

"Yes, I know that. It's called friendship, Jax."

"No, it's not. What you have established over the last 4 months is much more than friendship."

"Nonsense. Henry is a close friend just like you." Ella crossed her arms ready for defense.

"Fuck no. He's not..." Jackson let out an amused snort.  "You talk on the phone every day, no matter how busy you are. You text each other constantly. He comes here whenever he finds a minute. You spend all your spare time together when he's in town, he practically lives at your place on his free weekends, sleeping on the couch. All your neighbours know the attractive guy, who looks so vaguely familiar under his caps and beanies and the beard, and who's always so friendly when he walks his dog with you. You do everything together, like a couple, you just don't fuck and nobody understands why."

"Because it's for the better." Ella turned away from Jackson and began to unpack a parcel that was standing on the counter. She got out some books and put them into a shelf with a stern expression.

"Really? You still claim that?" Jackson started to help Ella, pacing between the counter and the shelf, following her close.

"Yes I do. Because it's still true. We're better off as friends."

"Jesus, Elsie. How can you be so stubborn? The last months have proven that your worlds are not different at all, on the contrary...you love the same things, you laugh about the same silly jokes, you share the same view on life. You perfectly fit in with his life and vice versa."

"Yes. As friends. And I'm not stubborn, I'm realistic."

"And what would be so different if you were lovers and not just friends."

"Everything would be different, Jackson." Ella stopped in her tracks and turned around to him. He could tell by the look on her face and her crimson cheeks that she was not only annoyed but really upset. She cocked her head and poked his chest with her index finger. "What do you think would happen if we were spotted together? Appeared in public as a couple? Holding hands or kissing? If I left Henry's house in the morning? The whole world would know about it. It would be in the press, on the internet. The tabloids would be full of it. Who's Henry Cavill's mysterious girlfriend? Oh, only an ordinary book trader from Uxbridge...there must be more to it. They would start to dig and stalk me and my family, show up here at the store. His fans would go crazy, and I would be their target. They would bitch about me. How the hell did this mousy bag of bones get a man like him. I would be called gold digger, attention whore, slut and worse. I'd have to go to official events with him, meet his VIP friends, we would be chased by paparazzi..."

Ella stopped her rant and took a deep breath. 

"Right. And I know this scares the shit out of you, but don't you think it might be worth it?" Jackson placed his hands on her shoulders and gave her a soothing smile. 

"No, I don't. And I don't even know if Henry feels about me that way. If he would still want to date me..." 

Jackson stared at Ella, raising his eyebrows in disbelief.  "Are you kidding me? He's crazy in love with you. And you love him too. Stop lying to yourself, honey."

Ella just shrugged, avoiding Jackson's gaze.

"He won't wait forever, Elsie. One day, he'll get over you and he'll move on and then it might be too late. Mark my words."

That was the moment a customer entered the shop and gave Ella a good reason to end their conversation at this point. 

***

Later that day, when Ella was cuddled up on her couch, eating ice cream and trying to read a book, Jackson's words still nagged on her. You love him. That much was true. He won't wait forever. Another truth. He'll move on. That was the hardest part because of course he would and it was Henry's goddamn right to do so. And she couldn't help but wonder if he'd already started to. There were those slight changes in his behaviour. It had been harder to get him on the phone in the evenings lately. He said he had an ass full of work but it sounded like an excuse. He got a lot more texts than usual and he never read or answered them when Ella was around. He'd even shaved his full beard. She knew it was wrong and pathetic and completely unjustified but Ella was jealous without any actual reason. The thought that Henry was seeing someone was killing her. 

Then it might be too late. Yes. Jackson was right. If Henry was dating someone, if he was in love with someone, it would be too late indeed.

She couldn't help but think about all the chances she'd wasted to become more than friends with him. There had been quite a few moments in the last four months they had been close to crossing the line, but Ella had been too scared to make a move, for all the reasons she'd mentioned to Jax.

And Henry had respected her boundaries and taken her no for a no and had never tried to leave the friend zone, which was great because it showed her how much he respected her and what a decent man he was, but it also sucked. She had maneuvered herself into a corner and she didn't have the guts to get out of it on her own. She was a coward.

She thought of a day only a few weeks ago, when Henry had tried to teach her some Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu techniques. Ella was pretty sporty, she did yoga as part of her daily morning routine, she liked running and played volleyball once a week with some of her friends but she'd never tried martial arts before and it turned out soon it was for the better. She had zero talent.

After an hour of training that included lots of touching, rolling around on the floor together, sweating, panting and laughing, there had been no improvement in her non-existent skills. The only things that had increased had been the tension in the room, the physical attraction and Ella's arousal. Being so close to Henry, his hands all over her body, her hands touching his muscles all the time...it had been pleasure and pain at the same time.

After her umpteenth ineffective try to pin Henry down on the floor, he finally had mercy and let her win. He dropped to the floor laughing, dragging her down with a smirk so that she topped him. They had been so close in this moment, her body on his, their noses almost touching. Henry had wrapped his arms around her waist and he had looked her deep in the eyes.

The moment had been so intense, so intimate, the atmosphere so vibrant with an erotic kind of anticipation, it had sent shivers down her spine and goosebumps all over her body. Her pussy had been throbbing and she'd felt Henry's dick harden in his sweatpants. It wouldn't have taken much. She could have kissed him easily. She'd wanted it and she was pretty sure he'd wanted it just as much. But she hadn't been able to move, to stop her thoughts from running, to turn off reason, to let emotions lead the way and so the moment had passed with the result that they still were nothing more than good friends.

And she just couldn't shake off the feeling that she was going to regret her hesitation soon.

****

Henry grabbed her by her hips and increased speed. His balls slapped against her butt as he fucked her hard from behind. She moaned loudly and it sounded fake in his ears. He was quite sure the orgasm she had when he'd eaten her pussy a few minutes ago was a real one, but the sounds and noises she was making now were artificial, somehow forced and deliberate, just slipping from her lips to turn him on. But he didn't really care, it worked well and he came with a muffled grunt. He thrust his dick inside her pussy another few times till his orgasm was over and pulled out right after. He stripped off the filled condom and got up to throw it in the bin. 

"Come back to bed, Babe." Kelly stretched out  between the rumpled sheets. He looked at her and smiled. "Gimme just a second." He went to the bathroom and took a deep breath while washing his hands and his cock. 

What am I doing here? He asked himself not for the first time and the answer was always the same. He was having a stupid fling with a beautiful 25 year old bimbo. He had met Kelly four weeks ago and after two weeks of flirting on the phone and a lot of hot texts and pictures he had taken her on a date first and on his kitchen counter afterwards. 

Since then they'd met often to have sex. Casual sex, no strings attached. He had told Kelly this several times and she didn't seem to care. "No problem" had always been her answer. Nothing seemed to be a problem for her. 

"You have to sneak out, so nobody sees you!" - "Sure."

"You can't stay overnight." - "That's alright."

"We have to be very discreet. Don't tell anyone about us." - "Of course not."

"I'm not looking for a relationship." - "That's fine."

"I'm in love with another woman." - "Okay."

Ella. Yes, he had told Kelly about her. That he loved her though she just wanted him as a friend. And again...no problem for Kelly. But it was a problem for him. He thought way too often about Ella when he was with Kelly. He didn't only compare them constantly - always with the same result, Kelly was nothing like Ella, not a tiny bit and that was equally good and bad - but he had to think of Ella whatever they were doing, even when things got steamy. He didn't really imagine being with Ella when he fucked Kelly, but he often thought about her before and afterwards. Fantasizing about how it could be...if this deep friendship they had turned into a relationship. If they turned from friends to lovers. The problem was he was quite sure this was never going to happen.

There had been some moments they had been close to kissing but Ella had never made the one missing step to close the gap between friendship and love.  And he couldn't because he was trapped in the friend zone. Just lately there had been this situation. Both of them lying on the floor after a Jiu-Jiutsu session, Ella on top of him, shaking and obviously turned on, her eyes full of desire. And she must have seen the same sensation in his eyes and even if not, she must have felt his hard-on. But even in this moment she hadn't crossed the line. No kiss, no touch, no words. That had been the moment he'd finally accepted that all he would get from her was friendship.

A soft knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. "Henry? Is everything okay? The bed's too big and too cold without you."

Their friendship...that was another problem. He had a terrible guilty conscience. Not because of the fact that he had an affair, he was single, Kelly was single, there was no reason to feel bad. But he hadn't told Ella anything about it. Not a single word. He had texted Kelly behind her back, had made up excuses why they couldn't meet or talk on the phone in the evenings. He knew if he told her Ella would start to ask questions about Kelly, about his feelings for her. And what was he supposed to answer? I don't have feelings for Kelly, I just shag her to get you out of my system, because I love you more every minute, every hour, every day we spend together. And it kills me that I know we will never be more than friends.

That was completely out of the question.

"Yeah, sure." He opened the door and gave her his best fake smile. "Just freshened up a little."

"Why don't we get dressed and you take me out for dinner?" Kelly wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him close for a kiss. "I'm starving."

"I don't know, Kell. I don't want us to be seen...you know that."

"Oh come on, babe." She pouted and kissed him again. "You can wear a cap or a beanie and glasses or something and we go to a simple chippy. No one will recognize you."

Henry thought about it. He was hungry too and she was right, it was unlikely that some paparazzo caught them in a fish and chip shop.

"Fine, let's get ready and go."

****

Two weeks later Henry still hadn't told Ella about Kelly and when he opened the Daily Mail in the morning he knew he wouldn't have to anymore. She could read and see it herself.

He almost spit out his coffee when he saw the pictures of Kelly and him in front of the little Asian supermarket, they had visited yesterday. They were kissing and hugging each other tightly in one picture and walking away from the shop hand in hand on the other.

Fuck...Fuck.Fuck.Fuck.

Henry Cavill in love again. Has Superman finally found his Supergirl?

The headline made him want to puke.

That was bad. Henry had to talk to Ella before she saw this rubbish. He had to explain it to her. He got dressed in a hurry while he called his agent to cancel their 9 o'clock appointment. When he left the house he had a bad feeling, a very bad feeling.

****

tbc

#henry cavill #henry cavill fandom #cavillry #henry cavill fanfic #henry cavill x ofc #smut #henry cavill smut

[whaleofatjme1920]

The Universe Will Fold In On Itself

[Warnings: I mention attempted suicide a few times, angst]

[AN: So, in true Elsie fashion, I have put way too much effort into a fucking meme. Have fun. 5666 words <3]

The universe was born through an immense explosion.

A cosmic explosion of colors that we know as the elements burst free from the nothingness and came together over eons of weaving to create the universe that we know today. It formed the bones of the universe and breathed life into the swirls we recognize as galaxies. Over time, some of those stars fell apart and came back together to create us and our entirety. You, amongst those creations, and a pesky snail. A snail who would follow you to the edges of the universe.

The first time you can remember seeing that odd snail, barely the length of your index finger, was when the first civilizations were in their heyday. You, amongst them. Though, how could you ever forget? It was a single decision you made that would change your life forever, and you believed it to be inconsequential when you first made it.

You were a young person during that time, poverty stricken, wondering how you were going to provide for your ailing loved ones. Every day was an even harder struggle as your loved ones withered away with the conditions they lived in. The poorest district in one of the richest civilizations of the early world.

Sighing, you had left your home before the sun came up, hoping to ask for another job in the markets doing anything that would bring in a few more shekels. Your shoes scuffed the ground as you took in the warm morning air. You instinctively pulled your shawl around you just a little tighter, the lack of the sun making you shiver ever so slightly. Thankfully, the sun would be shining soon, and with it, the crowds and the chatter of people. Busy, busy, busy.

You took solace in the quiet moments, pleased that there was no nagging or any responsibilities for just this soft moment in time. Your eyes looked out at the clay buildings around you, watching as they grew higher when they neared the center. A slight bitterness entered your head and your heart. The richest of the rich high up in their castles while the lowest wallowed in the slums.

You shook the thought off as the sun’s rays began to rise in the east, and with it, your anger dissipated. The ache remained.

Tiredly, you found yourself on the outer ring of the busiest part of the city’s market district. Here, you were subject to a plethora of awful, no good things. You clasped your hands around your shawl, gripping it tightly to show that you truly had nothing on you. No jewelry, no shekels, nothing. Still, people did odd things in their desperation, and that made you a target regardless of your monetary status.

Your eyes flickered around as you passed by the dark alleys, the shadows only deepening as the sun rose higher and higher in the early morning sky. You bit your lip as you scurried towards the growing hum of people. The gates were open, the morning waking up with her people.

A few shifty glances were thrown your way before you finally made it to the safety of others. Vendors, yelling in through the bustle, the rich holding stern commands over their maids, guards shuffling through to ensure the peace, children off to the fields with their parents, and the general hum of life. You took in a sharp breath and relaxed ever so slightly, looking for the vendors who seemed to be overwhelmed.

You wandered the maze of vendors and travelers who brought in foreign wares, some from neighboring, yet tinier, villages. So many things caught your eyes, specifically the clothing. How you’d love to gift your loved ones with such luxuries.

The pleasant aroma of food wafted through the air with the slight breeze that passed through, automatically turning your attention over to the stalls lined with nourishment, both needed and for gluttony. Your legs moved faster than your head did as you glided over, quietly weaving through bodies to reach the stalls. Your stomach was rumbling. How long had it been since you actually had something worthwhile to eat?

Pitifully, you reached your hands deep into your pockets and pulled up nothing. Empty, save for the dust and dirt that pooled inside of them. Your shoulders dropped as you wandered the stretch of food vendors, eyes big and sad like a lost puppy. How you longed to eat something of substance.

Your steps dragged as you walked back down the same stretch for the fourth time, knowing very well you couldn’t actually afford anything here. It was cheap, commoner food and you couldn’t even afford that. Defeated, you began to exit the place that smelled so heavenly when you heard a woman’s voice.

“Hey, hey you!” She called out. Seeing your confused expression, she nodded rapidly. “Come here, kid.”

Not one to test the commands of your elders, you turned on your heels and followed back to her stall. There, sitting on display, were delicious honey cakes, and savory foods.

“Like them?” She grins.

You nod. “I do,” you answered honestly as your stomach growled louder and louder.

The kind woman ushered you to her side, taking you under her wing after giving you a proposition: if you do the heavy lifting now that her sons have joined the king’s army, you and your loved ones would stay fed.

Of course, you took the opportunity and began work that very day, carefully attending to her bakery while bringing home delicious things to your starving loved ones. While it was nowhere near the upper class or even middle class’s luxury, you were grateful that you had an opportunity to provide.

The woman stayed up with you well past daylight, teaching you the trade so you could both take care of her business, and provide for yourself when she would release you of service. She’d always said it would be just until her sons returned, and you had no qualms about such matters as it was their birthright. But you could not deny that the bond the two of you had started was one that would last more than a lifetime.

You ended up working for this woman for many years (her name was Aruru), tending lovingly to her business and building up a friendship with her like none other. She was almost like a mother to you, seeing as you spent so many hours at her side and in her vicinity. Your own family adored her as well, often having her spend the festival seasons in your more than humble abode so she would not be lonely.

As the years passed, you, in the prime of your life, Aruru growing old and near the end of her cycle, she called you to her side.

You entered the room that was once yours, watching as light flickered just barely in her eyes.

She tiredly held her hand up to you, seeing what a beautiful adult you’d become. “Come here, my child,” she said softly. Her sons had never returned from duty. You were all she had left.

Shakily, you stepped forward and kneeled at her side, body hunched over slightly to gaze into her eyes from where she lay on the straw may. “Mother,” you said softly, as you leaned into her touch, her hand warmly pressing your cheek. Her thumb lovingly wiped your tears away.

The two of you just… talked. Little memories, stories from her long life, and everything in between. The love she felt for you was immense, and she constantly reminded you that you were her third and final child. She laughed with you, and brought you safety that you thought you would never be able to feel ever again without her in your life.

You poured your heart out to her, telling her how thankful you were that she called out to you that one morning. You told her how besides your mother that tearfully listened in the other room, she too, was your mother. You couldn’t bring yourself to letting her hand go off your cheek as the two of you quietly spoke. The candle light only grew brighter as the moon rose higher in the sky.

The light was beginning to dim in her eyes once more, body slowly beginning to fail her.

You furrowed your brows, feeling warm tears cascade down your cheeks before you sniffled.

She breathily chuckled, not meanly, before bringing your head down further, her lips pressing to the crown of your head. “I never want you to worry in your life,” she said, “I want you to be provided for.”

You cocked your head to the side. Your eyes were still clouded with tears.

Aruru lifted her head, the tone turning serious. “On the windowsill is a snail,” she said, “he’s harmless to you now. Please, bring him to me, but do not let him touch me.”

On wobbling knees, you stood and walked over to the windowsill. There was indeed a snail. He looked like any ordinary garden snail. You reached your hand out to his shell before carefully plucking him, holding him as if he were fragile. Quietly, you came back to Aruru’s side before dropping to your knees once more, holding the snail out to her, but not letting him touch her. You watched with curious eyes as his eyes hone in on her.

“I made a covenant with him many years ago,” Aruru began, “He has given me money beyond my wildest dreams and safety from everything but himself. I have lived longer than what is gracious,” she coldly laughed before devolving into a fit of coughs. Her dark eyes briefly looked up to the snail, “just a few more minutes, please,” she said, lightly waving off the small creature.

You kneeled there, flabbergasted at what she was telling you. “Mother, please, I ask you to jest not-”

“It’s not,” she cut you off, “make a covenant with him too and you will be provided for for the rest of your life.”

Her hand gently brushed your cheek once more, a maternal smile on her lips before she held an open palm out for the snail.

He slithered from your fingers to her hand.

You saw Aruru’s face fall from maternal grace to one of slight fear, her brows furrowed and lips pressed into a thin line. The snail rested on her palm, looking expectedly up at her. She paused for a moment or two before the toxins set in, a sharp, piercing pain over taking her heart as she dropped her hand on the ground, eyes rolling upwards. Pain etched onto her face before the most peaceful slumber you’ve ever seen followed after her.

You wanted to cry, or scream, perhaps a mixture of both before you reached out to touch her. Your fingers moved to her shoulder, and just like that, her body collapsed to dust, the particles floating upwards before disappearing in flickers like a flame, absorbed by the moonlight

You say there, slack jawed. In horror, you scrambled backwards from the snail that turned his attention to you. “Wh-What did you do-”

“Will you make a covenant with me?” He asks.

The voice reverberates through the back of your skull, bouncing around your head like the echoes in a grand hall. He has a deep voice, but it is not unpleasant, nor is it pleasing.

“What?”

The snail sighs deeply, slowly crawling over to you before stopping a healthy distance. “I will provide you physical safety, riches beyond your wildest beliefs, and you will not succumb to death unless,” he pauses and glances back to where Aruru had just perished, “unless it is by my hand.”

You blink, still clearing the tears from your eyes

“I understand that this is a lot to take in,” he continues, his voice soft, and almost understanding. “But it’s what she would have wanted.”

Something about the mention of Aruru makes your heart ache, and through the clouded fog of newfound grief, you make a covenant with him. You learn that if you are caught by him, you will succumb to death. It will be painful, and entirely different from how Aruru perished. It changes with every person he touches.

You accepted this covenant with grace.

The world blossomed and bloomed around you after that.

Things changed, exponentially. You and your family were able to move from the slums to a richer neighborhood, provided for on all fronts and it had never been questioned once. You kept Aruru’s bakery and hired other people to take care of it in lieu of you. Though, you do like stopping in once and while to actually help and ensure things would be up to Aruru’s standards.

More years passed, and besides the occasional crossing with the snail, you’d lived in luxury.

You continued to live in luxury for centuries later, losing your loved ones along the way. No human would ever live as long as you have, and that would be a cold hard truth you’d discover and rediscover with every human you’d ever loved and will love. Living in that great civilization was no longer great once the years started rolling by without anyone you loved to really call your own. You’d had spouses, and children, watched as they all grew estranged to you as the generations continued.

There was one notable point in which you’d tried to take your life.

“Is this necessary?” The snail asked, his brown shell glowing in the setting sun as he sat next to you on the top of the mountain.

You nodded, “I’m tired,” you replied. “I don’t want this anymore.”

The snail reached out towards you, in which you strongly pulled away. He laughed. “You’re not ready to go yet.”

You kept your distance from the snail and shook your head once more. “I’m just not ready to go by you.” You stepped off the mountain, your body falling towards the earth. You closed your eyes and took in a deep breath, praying death would accept you.

But when you reached the bottom, you found yourself standing upright, eyes still glued shut waiting for the impact that would never come. Your body certainly felt the pain as if you’d fallen all that way, but you were left unscathed.

Looking down at you from the top of the mountain was the snail, already making his way to your space.

Your heart was heavy, and this land would no longer be called your home.

You watched as the Mesopotamian empire and world fell and ran off to Egypt. You saw pharaohs, deities walking the earth, and civilization modernized before your eyes. Time and time again, you had been compensated. Egypt was a foreign land compared to your original home, and technically under the ptolemies. What an odd bunch. Cleopatra, one of the most alluring women of her time for her intelligence, killed by an asp. Or so the story goes.

When Egypt had lost your interest, you moved into Europe to Rome. The Roman empire was everything and more, and so too were the surrounding civilizations that attempted to grow but were quickly stamped out. You watched somewhat from a distance as the rest of Europe did its thing, getting involved with various lifestyles along the way.

You travelled to South Asia, East Asia, made it out to the islands in the south and so on, all back in time to see the Medieval Ages in their highest point. Courtly love, religion, you saw it all experiencing history as it was being built.

But nothing could make you forget the pain you felt of feeling alone, oh so alone.

There was one time you’d managed to become nobility right around the time of the bubonic plague. The snail hadn’t shown his head for a few years and you’d been worried, perhaps he’d been taken out by the plague instead. But he came to you one cold winter morning, a curious little mask on his face in the shape of a bird’s beak.

“It’s nice to see you,” you hummed, looking out at the town below you. There’s houses on fire and you can smell death in the air.

“Are you tired yet?” The snail inquires, cocking his beak covered face over to you.

You take in a deep breath and watch as the smoke rises high in the morning sky. It’s black, billowing like soured prayers to a god who does not wish to answer them. “No.”

The snail pauses. “No? Not after all of this?” He looks out as the ash mixes in with the falling snow. “Why?”

You shrug your shoulders slightly and smooth the ruffles of your clothing. You do still have appearances to keep up despite it feeling like the end times. You know far too much about the book of revelations thanks to the monks of this time period. You sigh and rest your hand on your cheek. “Maybe next century,” you say to the snail before calling for a guard. You realize that you mustn’t keep the king and queen waiting any longer.

You’ve met so many historical figures throughout your life it should be a crime, and some of them you’d just barely missed.

The snail watches in slight confusion as the guard enters the room, picks him up with just as much confusion, before he’s ferried out on a traveler’s horse to some other part of the world.

It goes on like this for far longer than you care to admit. You pick up during the night, money to spare, and start again and again and again and again. It’s painful, but it offers you a fresh perspective in every sense. You try to take your life a few more times, and somehow the snail appears directly at your side whenever those moments happen. He looks at you, asks you if you’re ready and you always say yes.

“But you’re not,” he says. “I know you’re not.” He slithers closer to you. He’s teetering dangerously close to you on the branch he’s overlooking you on.

“Why’s that?” You ask as you look out at this fresh new land they call “America”. You arrived on the Mayflower not that long ago. The air here smells sweet but is tinged with iron. You assume it’s foreshadowing for history. It always carries that same smell.

The snail crawls closer and closer still. “You’ll never be ready. You’re a runner.”

You hold the pistol up to your head. The river rushing below would be enough to finish the job on anyone if the gun didn’t. “I’m not.”

“Yes, you are,” he says in a matter-of-fact tone, “if you weren’t, you would have let me claim your life by now.”

You can’t tell if he’s being facetious or he actually cares about you.

Not dwelling on the thought any longer, you watch as the sun rises high in the sky and pull the trigger. The bullet bounces into your skull, sending you flying down into the water. You hit the rocks, tumbling like a ragdoll, before finding yourself safely lying on your back on the muddy shore. You look up at the blue, cloudy sky, and take in a deep breath before chuckling the pistol into the raging river.

Maybe he was right.

You watched as this nation grew, and rapidly at that. You’ve never seen a civilization grow as fast as North America. You watched as the British attempted to take it back, how the colonists fought them off, watched as the native people spilled their blood in a home that’s always been theirs, the religious revivals, a civil war, the first of many civil rights outcries - it’s loud.

This is a loud piece of land that was once as quiet as the moon sinking into the sea.

Humans always mess things up, that much you know for certain. Through the centuries that you’ve lived and the history that you’ve seen, everything bad has only happened because some humans forget how to act. Honestly, it’s made you more than cynical, and you hate to admit it. When you were a young person, living in what’s now known as an ancient piece of land, life was simple and sweet. There was a binary of good and evil where the lines only somewhat crossed and you were more than happy to exist the way you did. Aruru and your family treated you well and you had love.

Who knew being immortal would be so painful? You’ve asked that question so many times and still have no proper answer. You’ve tried seeing therapists, talking to deeply trusted friends, but none of it works.

No one understand immortality like an immortal.

Of course, the snail is in this country too. He watches the birth of America and how it develops alongside you, all the while you evade his touch. You see mankind take flight like the goddesses of old, hear the roar of the 20s and the sadness that follows when the party's over. There’s not one, but two world wars - and you participated in both.

They called you unbreakable. You were heroic.

But by the 2010s, they’d forgotten you. A name once again lost to time. It’s almost incredible how fast people will forget.

The snail catches up with you a few times. He almost touches you, nearly robbing you of your wealth. Apparently, Aruru has become a household name from one of her distant descendants you thought deserved the business more than you did. You still hold a share in it though, so somewhere in the back of your head, you think you’re doing right by her and wherever she resides in the great beyond.

Humanity progresses even faster. You and the snail watch as humanity survives yet another pandemic, and you eventually see them head off for the stars. Mars was amongst the biggest talking points, and you wonder if you should focus your own interests there. You have more than enough money to provide for it, make your own company, reach for them yourself. The snail has never let you live in poverty from the moment you struck your covenant with him. You are cared for beyond your wildest dreams.

A sigh leaves your lips and you found that Earth was damn near uninhabitable. Humans made it to the stars but their travels were finite. You knew that, and of course, the snail knew that too. How he managed to get on the exact same star ship as you you will never be certain of.

“And how are you this evening, Runner?” He asks, his small form on the windowsill of a large window that looks out at that cosmos. Runner is a nickname he’s taken up to calling you right around the time the 60s rolled in. It’s stuck ever since much to your chagrin.

You take in a small breath and gaze out at the stars burning, burning brightly and oh so far away in the cold, vastness of space. “How are you so sure that it’s evening?”

He hums. “Time passes differently for me than it does you.”

“Is that so?” You catch him nodding in the corner of your eye. “What do you think about this new planet we’re heading to?”

“It will be the same as the one we have just left.”

He’s right. Of course, he’s right. You and these others that have taken to the stars colonize this new planet and history slowly repeats itself.

These are the millenia that pass as a blur. It’s the same thing, over and over.

You watch as humanity loves and loses, war and famine, the rains that come after, it happens again and again. Humanity is forever doomed to repeat what it’s always done, which is quarrel and love. You grew numb to the feeling, emotions passing as a blur, but yet, you could not stop running.

You paused when the sun of your home galaxy burned out. You watched as she grew hotter and hotter before finally burning the last of her fuel. She’d died, and the home you once loved had been no more.

You spent a while in a cave on some hidden planet living a hermit lifestyle after that. All of human history as it had once been, now lost forever and only kept in your head and your head alone. It was a sad bedtime story you’d repeat to yourself when the nights were the closest and the double moons were highest in the sky. And sometimes? Sometimes the snail would stop by to hear the story as well.

Even though he was there to take your life, you’d always had the feeling that he too, was yearning for a home the two of you could never return to.

Eons continued to pass, years blurring into each other as the galaxies and star systems began to use the last of their fuel and burn brilliantly to their deaths. Stars grew darker and darker in the night sky, their light no longer gifts from the gods but corpses that burned coldly in the depths of space. Planets are discovered time and time again with extensive histories and you watch as every single one of them crumbles in the same predictable pattern. Humanoid life form or not, we all succumb to the same story. Just change the names, languages and species.

There’s only one constant in your life and that’s the snail. He follows you through the vastness of space, through the graveyards of galaxies and attempts to take from you currency that you don’t even know the name of.

And he continues to do this until the last of all intelligent lifeforms dry up. In fact, you were there when the final creature perished. You held her wheezing form as she choked on toxic water, glassy eyes and sharp maw, frilled lungs attempting to take the air from the liquid she was surrounded in. She was in so much pain, the last of her kind, the last of anything besides you and the snail, stuck on a planet that would be burned from an exploding star.

“Let go,” you said, watching as her fins fluttered helplessly in the water. “It’s over. It’s all over.”

Her multiple eyes glared at you, a shrill shriek leaving her mouth.

You hummed softly and looked at her gently. Your gaze said it all.

And slowly, in your hands, the last creature closed her eyes and joined all the others who rest eternally.

It’s been a damn near lonely existence since then. You pick up the skeletons of objects made by intelligent creatures. Like your fellow humans once did, you take to the stars.

“You’re bringing me with you?” The snail asks as you hold the doors open. “I could kill you in your sleep.”

“You’ve been saying that for the past millennia,” you chuckle, “if you really wanted to, you would’ve by now.”

The snail slowly crawls up the ramp. “Point taken, Runner.”

The two of you became really nomadic for a while. You saw a lot of stars die during that time. And eventually, none of it was exciting anymore.

Throughout the years, you and the snail have done a lot of talking. You are each other’s only company in the entire universe. He’s your worst enemy and your truest friend all in one breath.

Eventually, your ship broke down, a metallic floating graveyard. The universe had never been so dark before. Things deteriorate.

Now there is nothing. Nothing but the two of you.

“It’s almost time,” the snail says, his voice soft and low as he floats in the emptiness around you. He’s close to you, oh so close but not enough to lay his lethal touch on you. “You and I both know that.”

You can hardly see him, but you know his image very well. The light of a dying, lone star light years away is the only thing offering a glimmer of light that allows you to see the faintest brush of him. A part of you wants to hold your hand out to touch him, to get it over with and see what’s awaiting you in the ending you’ve cheated yourself out of all the way from Mesopotamia to now. “I know,” you reply.

The vastness of space is so empty and cold. If you glanced around and weren’t so focused on the only living being left in the entire universe that floated in front of you, you’d get the sense you were in the same place that the Milky Way used to exist. Your home, your humble planet, perished eons ago. It is but a ghost in your memory, a place lost to thought. And you are one of the only two beings to have intimately lived that experience.

The star in the distance flickers, and with it, your attention. It’s so far, so lonely, its light is getting weaker and weaker.

“Is it… Is it dying?” You ask softly, voice fragile and soft. You’re waiting to feel your parent’s arms wrap around your form, take you into their arms and pepper your face in kisses. They’d tell you it’s all a bad dream, and the things you’ve seen, the things you’ve outlived and outrun, were nothing more than fantasies conjured up in a head that’s reverted back to a child-like state. How you long to feel the touch of another person who genuinely loves you, but they’re gone. Humans as you have known them have been dead for billions of years.

The snail somehow floats a little closer to you. “It’s been dead,” he says.

You look out at the star, watching as it fizzles brighter and brighter. You recognize it as a dance of death. “She’s leaving us, isn’t she?”

“It’s been dead for a long time. You’re technically looking at a white dwarf.”

Tears well in your eyes. “What?” You croak as you reach your hands up to wipe away the beads of pearling liquids. The ones that you don’t catch float off into the icy chill of space.

“When those gamma rays pass us, and alarmingly fast they come,” he begins, inching just a little closer to you, “gravity will pull the corpses of the universe as we know it back inwards to the center as she knows it.”

You bring your knees up to your chest and nod for him to continue. Lonely, you feel so lonely.

The snail looks at you gently, almost as if after all these years he still hates seeing your heart break. “The universe will fold in on itself, and reality as you know it will cease to exist.”

It’s not the first time you’ve watched the universe “die”, in fact, it must be the third. The snail had waited those times out with you as well, voice low and soft as the two of you waited out what felt like eternity in the vast nothingness. You know that this is truly it.

He hasn’t ever posed this question to you ever before, not in the trillions of years the two of you have been running, this is truly it.

“Are the rays close?” You ask in a small whisper, for the first time in years feeling fear at the unknown.

The snail nods, watching as you draw closer to him. “Closer than you could ever imagine.”

“And will it hurt?”

He nods again. “The worst pain you could ever imagine, or,” he hums, “a gentle mist. It changes for every person I have ever seen.”

A cold laugh escapes your lips as the universe is plunged into darkness. There is nothing here but the two of you, floating in an eternal emptiness.

He cocks his head at you but you do not see it. You feel it instead. “Trillions of years learning to love and let go, seeing the birth of nations and galaxies alike, taking to the stars, all to avoid you and here we are in the end,” you cruelly mumble. You can feel heat surging in the distance. The hair on the back of your neck raises.

The snail sighs and nods. “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it, Runner?”

“That it has,” you reply.

A silence falls between the two of you. The heat is growing closer and closer. Sweat is beginning to bead on your brow. “It’s time, isn’t it?”

“I’ve waited so long for you to say that.”

“Will it happen instantly?”

“No.”

“And this isn’t some cruel joke?”

“I do not jest, and have never in all my years of service.”

“This is the end?”

“This is the end.”

A deep breath leaves your lips as you hold your hand out, a nonverbal acceptance that he’s allowed to touch you after all these years of distance. You can hear shuffling in the dark. He hovers over your hand.

“Whenever you’re ready.”

You take in a sharp breath and listen as your heart thumps thickly in your chest. The fear that grips you is almost suffocating.

“What troubles you so?” He asks.

You take in a shaky breath. “You won’t leave my side, will you?” You ask quietly, voice a hair above a whisper.

“I never have in all these years,” he offers as a reply.

You gulp thickly. The tears begin to surround your head like the rings of planets you once loved. “Okay.” It’s a decision you’ve been seriously thinking about for eons. One that’s been held in the back of your head, dangling over you like a storm cloud that would never clear.

“Okay.” His touch hovers just above you, eyes gazing at you softly through the darkness. “Goodnight, dear Runner.”

You laugh before dissolving into choked sobs, “goodnight to you too.” You reach your hands up, finally resting that tiny snail on your palms, and just like the universe will in a few moments, you collapse and fold in on yourself.

#the immortal snail #the snail #assassin snail #meme #this was again a meme I took too far #Anyways I spent time on this plz read it #reddit snail #tiktok #tiktok immortal snail #just chatting #original writing #meme writing #snails #x reader #reader insert

[nanshe-of-nina]

Interesting extratcs from The Masochistic Pleasures of Sentimental Literature, re: Elsie Dinsmore:

"To be sure, on the surface Horace’s severity toward Elsie is censured, and eventually he bitterly repents of it and begs God to forgive him. But who is more charismatic and attractive in the Elsie novels? Her stern, abusive father or her future gentle, kind husband, Edward Travilla? Horace’s abusive streak is part of an undercurrent making him appear attractive, not because we love arrogance and cruelty, but because we love power. Like the prototypical male hero in the contemporary Harlequin-type novels Janice Radway discusses, the hero of the Elsie novels must be transformed from a tyrant into a strong and virile crusader for justice. But the initial streak of despotism is the key to his desirability, because it establishes his strength and vitality, which remain part of his permanent psychological profile. Goodness without power is boring. Even before Horace’s change of heart, Finley paves the way for seeing his abusiveness as a sign of attractiveness by linking his severity to God’s severity. It enables us to see in him “the lineaments of the divine Master.” After all, his brother is equally cruel to Elsie, but lacking the allegorical connection to God, Arthur simply comes off as a bully, whereas Horace never does."

"In consolidating this pattern of eroticized paternal violence, Elsie Dinsmore is a masochistic influence upon its young readers, urging them to associate female submission with erotic pleasure. But its masochism may not be completely oppressive. It may indeed foster in female readers an attraction to a man who demonstrates his love and affection in acts of violence and discipline and in male readers a belief that they need to be authoritative in order to be attractive to women. But just because Elsie Dinsmore preaches the ecstasies of informed submission is no reason to think that its readers accepted that message. Indeed, the interplay between the text and a potentially resisting reader authorizes anger as well as passivity. Berliner observes that the desire to express unacceptable anger is one of the principle causes of masochistic behavior: “Suffering is the weapon of the weak and unloved where undisguised aggression is dangerous. The masochistically exhibited suffering excuses the [masochist’s] aggression, partially conceals it, serves its new repression, and disarms retaliation. Masochism is a way of hating without great risk”. Many recent studies of masochism have similarly addressed the way that fantasies of suffering constitute an indirect form of hostility for the person who cannot express anger directly. In the eyes of a just God, the superego, or an implied reader, the victim of unmerited suffering looks blameless and pure, while his or her abuser looks detestable. Projection into that onlooker’s mind affords indirect access to anger, since the onlooker speaks on behalf of the fantasizer, who can remain mute in accordance with social proscriptions against the expression of anger. Relating a case history in support of Berliner’s thesis, psychologist Robert Stoller describes a masochistic female patient who routinely implied that his own behaviors were sadistic, and he realizes that being positioned as sadist made him feel manipulated by her and uncomfortable with what an implied onlooker might make of him. Masochism, he observes, was his patient’s effort to express hostility indirectly."

"This indirect expression of anger toward abusive authorities may well have played an important role in the popularity of the book, enabling readers to feel their own repressed anger toward oppression. And boys, I suspect, could take as much pleasure in that circuitous expression of rage over parental subjection as girls. This is the nasty side of sentimentality, the aspect that rouses the ire of sophisticated readers, who recognize the hypocrisy in its sentimental celebrations of paternal authority and unqualified affirmations of a conservative status quo. But we might also recognize in that hypocrisy a certain, albeit limited, avenue toward agency. Disabled perhaps, by Calvinist prohibitions upon the expression of anger and hostility, the sentimental author found in masochism an indirect avenue toward such expression. And readers anxious to experience release from similar constraints found in masochism the pleasure of venting anger without having to face the causes and the consequences of that anger."

"The use of suffering as a circuitous method of expressing anger does not undermine the argument that Elsie Dinsmore makes paternal violence look attractive; to the contrary, this circular expression of anger reinforces the construction of masochistic desire in the book. In a study of a book that resembles Elsie Dinsmore in this respect, James Machor points out that The Wide, Wide World repeatedly produces a rebellion in the reader’s heart. “How dare Aunt Fortune be so cruel to poor Ellen? How dare John find fault in her?” But as he points out, rebellious thoughts such as these reinforce rather than subvert the dominant message, which is that all people harbor rebellious impulses against God’s law and are in need of the Christian discipline the book advocates. The reader is positioned to say, “If that nearly perfect girl requires discipline—and I see that she does—do I not require even stricter discipline?” The fact that discipline, punishment, and surveillance are rendered so attractive in the book, and the pleasures associated with them are propped onto internal experiences of painful affect, completes the circle. “Indeed I do,” the reader is prompted to think. “In fact, it is my most deeply felt desire.”

#masochistic pleasures of sentimental literature #books #elsie dinsmore #19th and early 20th

[pepperpottsandcompany]

Woman of the Week: Elsie Hughes

This week, the Woman of the Week is...Elsie Hughes from Downton Abbey!

What I like about her: She is maternal, and soft with people, but also no nonsense and stern as well. She has authority and will use it, but is also a kind woman who looks after ALL the Downton staff, regardless of personal feelings (the way she looks after Thomas in seasons 3 & 6). A hard worker, liberal-minded and tolerant, as well as an interesting character, she is favourite among all the DA characters!

#Woman of the Week #Rebecca's women #Woman of the Week 2 #elsie hughes #downton abbey

[haldenlith]

Past Life Nonsense

It’s so nice being out of Tumblr Jail, I can actually throw theories and shit out there and interact (a very tiny bit) with fandoms. Anyway, was thinking about stuff while I was in bed -- and while I was asleep, because I had a dream where I had a full conversation about lore with Byf. Anyway, I’ll chat while I eat my Pop-Tart.

Going from the note of Crow still being Uldren, but different, I want to throw out there the possibility that Guardians are always the same people they were before, in a sense, just with amnesia. Example: Crow is Uldren in that he still has all of those little tics from him. Not the asshole we always dealt with, or what the corruption turned him into, but the Uldren that played pranks on Jolyon. The Uldren that rushed headfirst, recklessly but also bravely, into battle, or any adventure, really. Or, going back even further, the Uldwyn (yeah, we're going WAY back) that got into ring fights not to win, but just to see if he could. We’ve seen a lot of those qualities in Crow. He cracks jokes, is definitely the “brave-but-reckless” dumbass, and has a certain endearment to him. Also of note, his affinity for the Eliksni, and his wiz-kid tinkering skills carried over.

We don’t just see this with Crow, either. We see it with Ana Bray, too, though in a different way, as the only way of knowing who she was is through Elsie. She was apparently always an impulsive, headstrong firecracker of a woman, and she seems to “remember” how to use/work with much of the BrayTech stuff, including Rasputin. Heck, we saw this with Cayde, too, though it’s a little trickier with him being an Exo and going through those resets.

I doubt it’ll ever happen, but it’d be cool to get glimpses into who other Guardians were before they were, well, Guardians. Like, I wonder if Shaxx was always this overbearing but somehow loveable mountain of a man, or if Zavala was always a stern, pragmatic leader type. I’d be really interested in past-life Zavala, given that he’s Awoken, and, judging from the old cinematic we saw of him being raised for the first time, probably an Awoken from the Distributary (ie when the Awoken split right after they arrived, despite Mara telling them not to go to Earth). I almost wonder if past-life Zavala helped lead the riot that preceded the exodus from the Reef.

#destiny 2 #crow #uldren sov #guardian crow #ana bray #i do wonder about the past of many of the notable lightbearers/guardians #like was Drifter always a seedy little shit? #Probably