#ankh voice He's worse than the other one

[asanjou]

we're now 8 episodes away from finishing ooo and the drama is more heated than ever

#i hope everyone knows that dril tweet or im gonna look insane here #its become permenantly lodged in me and didis vocabulary this month #hope its clear enough that thats hina and not a genderbend #anyway ill miss date but im glad goto is getting his moment in the spotlight #really enjoyed him going ham on the greeds when he thought date had beefed it #ankh voice He's worse than the other one #kamen rider ooo #shintaro goto #akira date #hina izumi #eiji hino #ankh kamen rider #ankh #post tag #art tag #long post

[lamuradex]

Discworld Fanfic: The Other Trouser Leg

Based on Jingo, it tells the story of the other Vimes.

Wordcount: 3065

In Jingo, Sam Vimes' Dis-Organiser begins to malfunction, getting confused and giving him the schedule of the Vimes who stayed behind in Ankh-Morpork. He hears the horrors of what could have been. He hears as the Dis-Organiser reports the deaths of his men.

But, in theory, another Vimes would have gotten his schedule. A Vimes who was having a much worse day.

Please enjoy this tragic fanfiction.

The Other Trouser Leg

Vimes wandered down the street, puffing on a cigar. It wasn’t his usual walk. And even if it was, it hadn’t been for a while. The ceremonial truncheon in his belt saw to that. But someone needed to make sure this all didn’t go to-

Bingley-Bingley-Beep

Vimes groaned. “What is it now, you blasted thing?” he swore as he pulled out the Dis-organiser.

“6:34am Meeting with 71-Hour Ahmed in ruins of Tacticum,” the demon wittered, though it sounded unsure of itself.

“What are you on about?” Vimes stared at it. “I’ve never even heard of Tacticum, and why would I be meeting with that madman Ahmed?”

“Um… I don’t know…” the demon confessed, then went back inside the box.

Vimes put it away and got back to what he was doing. Organising the supplies to build defences. Someone had to, and Vetinari was gone, Lord Rust was abroad, thankfully, so there was only The Watch Regiment left to oversee things.

Captain Carrot, meanwhile, had essentially left by himself to get Angua. He’d come back to inform everyone of the mission, unlike any other valiant rescue in history, but Vimes had let him go. He’d wanted to follow. He’d been moments from sodding this whole war effort and leaving. But someone reminded him he was needed here. He was Commander of the Watch, and both Sybil and Carrot said he needed to delegate more.

So he had. Carrot would rescue Angua. Meanwhile he’d stay and look after Ankh-Morpork.

The decision didn’t sit right though. He should have been in the thick of it. Going after his corporal. Going after that bastard Ahmed. And the damned Dis-Organiser hadn’t been working all day. Less than usual. It was like it was giving him someone else’s appointments.

It was strange too, because Nobby and Colon had gone missing. So, with all his best men down, though best felt like an odd term, he had to take up the command himself.

So much for delegation.

“Alright!” he yelled to Detritus, who was carrying an entire cart of lumber rather than pulling it. “You, put the wood over there. We can make barricades along the roads.”

“And what should we be doing, sir?” said the smooth voice of Constable Visit beside him.

“Keep fighting to a minimum before the actual fighting starts,” Vimes commanded. “People might not be happy we’re blocking up their streets. And you, Littlebottom.” He looked around, then looked down.

“Yes, sir?” she answered.

“Make sure the barricades are being built. We put some of the dwarves on it, but you know how ornery they can get.”

“Yes, sir,” she agreed and hurried off.

Everything was going to plan… and that worried Vimes a little.

* * *

The barricades and many other defences were built. Fences and walls and barriers. It all looked a bit ramshackle, it was Ankh-Morpork workmanship after all, but hopefully it would hold.

Vimes wasn’t massively hopeful. All the same, men and women milled about, weapons readied, as Cut-Me-Own-Throat Dibbler went about selling sausages to the troops. Some of them were even nervous enough to buy one.

Bingley-Bingley-Beep

Vimes groaned, but took out the Dis-Organiser anyway. “What is it now?”

“7:00am. Charging the armies of Klatch and Ankh-Morpork,” the demon said, stuttering slightly.

“But we’re Ankh Morpork. Why would we be charging ourselves?” Vimes asked, hoping to make the demon see sense.

It didn’t. The imp merely flapped its mouth a moment, scrunched up its lips, then gave up and vanished.

“Bloody thing,” Vimes cursed.

“Commander!” came a cry from the docks.

Vimes hurried down, not quite running, not quite strolling. It didn’t do to show how nervous he was. He even lit a cigar to show how casual he was being. Remarkably, it wasn’t an attack. A boat had pulled up to a jetty by the river gate. A boat with two occupants.

“Good morning, Commander Vimes,” Captain Carrot greeted brightly, stepping off the boat. “How goes everything here?”

“Captain?” Vimes stared in befuddlement. “What are you doing back?”

“Oh, mission accomplished, sir,” he said officially. Behind him, Angua stepped off the boat.

“But… how?” Vimes spluttered. “She was on 71-Hour Ahmed’s ship, wasn’t she?”

“Yes, sir. But when I got to Klatch, she was waiting by the shoreline. Says a metal spike poked through the bottom of the boat, she broke free, then she swam to shore. Ahmed’s people never came after her.”

“Wish he had, the little…” Angua trailed off, rubbing a red band on her neck.

“Well… Impressive, Captain. And you too, Corporal,” Vimes floundered.

“Thank you, sir,” the pair answered.

“Now, if we can just tighten up everything, we might be-”

“Sir?” Captain Carrot held up a hand politely.

“What is it, Captain?”

“We might have been spotted as we left Klatch,” Carrot said worriedly. He pointed out to sea. “It seems they might have followed us.”

Vimes followed his finger. He stared out to sea. The cigar fell from his mouth.

The horizon looked like a small forest. One in winter without a single leaf, as a field of masts poked up over the horizon. Hundreds of them.

* * *

Bingley-Bingley-Beep

“Everyone, fall back! Get to Sator Square! Shore up the defences!” Vimes yelled.

“7:48am. Meet with Prince Cadram and Lord Rust.”

“Just shut up, you daft thing!” 

It had all gone wrong. It had all gone wrong so quickly.

The boats had arrived on mass, with Morpork’s own navy having left with Lord Rust. Nets had been put up to stop them at the river gate, but the Klatchians cut straight through. The people of Ankh-Morpork were used to a scrap, but that was mostly broken bottles in taverns. Actual organised fighting was outside their comfort zone, and it showed. People ran, abandoned their posts. Others got stuck in, and immediately killed. The Klatchians were organised. With a shout of Klatchian words, presumably “For Prince Cadram” or some such, they were in the ports, in the streets, and cutting down anyone in their path. Vimes had been forced back with everyone else, fighting his way up Peach Pie Street with a sword and his ceremonial truncheon. The Dis-Organiser had also taken that moment to say he should be fighting enemy soldiers alongside 71-Hour Ahmed, so now he was sure it was broken.

But every armed man had met the Klatchians at the river gate. Now every armed man was falling back, with Vimes desperately trying to hold everything together.

Sator Square was a good gathering place, but it wasn’t exactly a defensible position. Too many entrances, too many paths, too many rooftops. But as soldier and civilian alike ran for their lives, it was still a good place for everyone to gather.

There weren’t as many people as there should have been.

“Alright everyone, we can hold our ground,” Vimes called to everyone. “Carrot, Angua, make sure there’s a man on every road in. Warn us if anyone’s coming. Detritus? If you hear someone call out, open fire. That should scare them.”

There was a clang as Detritus saluted, then he hefted his siege bow into the best spot.

“Everyone else! Build up those barricades. We need a way out, so suggestions are welcome.”

He had run this way hoping for a better way out. Perhaps to head into the Unseen University. Unfortunately the gates were sealed. Locked, bolted, and likely enchanted. Wizards didn’t do war, and that may have been a good thing. The palace was the next best bet, but that was some distance. Then there was the Watch House, but it would be a bit cramped with so many. But in terms of buildings they could defend…

Bingley-Bingley-Beep

“Thing to do today: Arrest Enemy Armies.”

“Enemy sighted!”

THWACK

Detritus had done as instructed, and fired a bolt like an oar down a road. The Klatchian at the other end would have been pinned to the wall, if the arrow had stopped. It was likely two streets over by now, even as Detritus reloaded.

“Fall back!” Vimes yelled. The Watch House it would have to be.

A crowd of terrified people, and rightfully nervous soldiers, and even more anxious guards all hurtled across town. Klatchian patrols surged along parallel streets, the sights of scimitars and turbans down most alleys. Vimes stopped at the Watch House door, and funnelled people inside. A few civilians, though most kept running. Some of the soldiers, though many were dead. Each of The Watch fled inside, some dragging injured people with them. Detritus was last, firing one last bolt up the street, and taking out eight men with one shot. Once the troll was in, Vimes closed the door and barred it.

This wasn’t a plan, hiding in the Watch House. They should be out there helping. But they’d really be out there dying. He counted off his corporals, his sergeants, his captain. Still no sign of Nobby or Colon, but there wasn’t time to worry. He just had to hope they were safe.

He even hoped Nobby was safe. It was an odd realisation.

He got back to the problem at hand. The enemy were literally at the door. Part of him cried out that they shouldn’t have an enemy. That Klatch was no better than them. But this thinking wasn’t helpful right now. He stressed for a plan. He needed a plan.

The wood of the front door began to bend, as shoulders battered it from the other side.

“Dorfl!” he called out. “Hold that door shut!”

“Yes, Commander,” the golem appeared, pressing his clay body against the door.

“Cheery?” Vimes beckoned.

“Yes, sir?” the dwarf emerged from a side room, axe in hand.

“Anything alchemical we can use? Burning, acid, lightning if you can make it.”

“I’ll do my best, sir.” She darted into her lab, which was an old latrine.

“Carrot?”

“Yes, sir,” the Captain was helping some civilians who’d followed them in.

“You’re one of our best fighters. Any weapons you can find. Arm everyone.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Angua-”

“Bingley-Bingley-Beep. Force ceasefire of Klatchian War.”

“Would you shut up?!”

CRASH!

There was a smashing sound. The sound of masonry. Brick and stone and-

BOOM!

The door to the alchemy lab exploded, the wall behind it demolished. A small shape, axe still in her hand, launched through the door and landed with an unpleasant crunch at Vimes’ feet. There was a dent in her helmet like a hammer had hit it.

“Sir…” she gasped, as the last air left her lungs.

“Cheery!” Angua screamed.

“You make big mistake!” Detritus roared. As he charged, three Klatchians came through the broken door. One of them was about half the troll’s size and wielding a sledge hammer.

“Bingley-Bingley-Beep. Welcome Vetinari for peace talks.”

“Detritus, wait!” Vimes yelled. But it was too late.

Detritus charged and grabbed the two men to either side. The one in the middle leapt clear. He then reeled back his sledgehammer and brought it down on Detritus’s skull.

“NO!”

Bits of stone fell like shrapnel to the floor, as Detritus collapsed onto the last man, crushing him. But there were more. A dozen more, all pouring through the gap.

“Upstairs now! Everyone!” Vimes yelled.

Everyone sprinted up the stairs. Surging past him, he counted them off as they passed. In the lobby, he saw Reg Shoe struggling to help Dorfl with the front door, only to get pinned to the wall with a scimitar, which barely seemed to inconvenience the man. Constable Visit came sprinting, a sword in one hand and pamphlets in the other. An arrow whistled past his ear and embedded in the stairs, with Visit veering to avoid it. He missed the stairs and wound up around the corner… where there were more Klatchians.

“Sirs, have you considered leaving your false religions and accepting the love and care of Om?” Vimes heard him say.

“Bingley-Bingley-Beep. Watch Captain Carrot’s Football Match between Klatch and Ankh Morpork.”

There was a gurgling gasp.

He’d been trying to convert them to the end. Vimes could almost respect that.

“Dorfl!” he yelled to the golem.

Dorfl answered, moving away from the door to follow. This proved a mistake, as the door collapsed and three men with hammers followed the golem in.

“Behind you!”

“Bingley-Bingley-Beep. Meet with Sergeant Colon and Betty.”

The hammers came down and took off Dorfl’s arm. He kept fighting, but two hammers took out a leg. As he balanced, the three hammers synchronised and met either side of his ceramic skull.

“Blast it all!” Vimes swore and sprinted upstairs, Klatchians hurrying towards him.

He hurried up a flight and found Carrot and Angua waiting. They had a large table, and bookcase, and pushed them down the moment Vimes was past. The furniture hurtled down and crushed three Klatchians on their way up.

“Where now, sir?” Carrot asked, somehow not sounding panicked.

“I… I don’t know. Up. Out my office window,” Vimes guessed. It had all gone so wrong.

They sprinted to the top floor, and towards Vimes’ office. Below, the bookcase had been made short work of, and the table thrown aside. Footsteps were running up behind them, and as they rounded a landing, a stray arrow flew up from below. It caught Angua across the arm, sizzling as it did.

“Silver! Bloody silver!” she swore. “71-Hour Ahmed had it too. They’ve done their research.”

“You two, get in there. I’ll hold them off,” Carrot said calmly. In the confusion he’d picked up Cheery’s axe, which while usually quite the faux pas in dwarf circles, didn’t seem to bother him too much here. He’d also drawn his sword, wielding both, standing wide across the corridor.

“Captain! Don’t be a fool!” Vimes ordered.

The footsteps were getting closer. Carrot tensed and readied.

“Captain!”

“Bingley-Bingley-Beep. Return home to Ankh-Morpork,” the demon chimed like a death knell.

Vimes’ heart sank. He could see the horrible pattern unfolding around him. Carrot turned, gave him one last nod, and then charged at his approaching enemy, screaming like a dwarf.

“Carrot!” Angua leapt towards him, only to find Vimes’ arm around her waist, dragging her into the office. She struggled, but he threw her in, then bolted and barred the door with a chair.

“We need to go,” Vimes growled, marching to the window.

“But Carrot-”

“He’s dead. They’re all dead,” Vimes hissed. “They’re all dead because of that damned island. Because of this damned war. Because of-”

“Bingley-Bingley-Beep. To do today-”

“AND YOU CAN SHUT UP AND ALL!” He hurled the Dis-Organiser at the wall, its case splintering against the brickwork.

He marched to the window and looked down. There were soldiers all over the yard, the street, and every one of them had gathered around the building. There was no way out. He looked back into the office, where Angua was on the floor. She looked like she should be weeping, but she was just staring at the door.

“That stupid, stupid, hero of a man,” she cursed him, eyes filling with tears. “Always having to do the right thing.”

Vimes slammed his hands into his desk. No way out. No hope. No survival. And then his eye landed on the Dis-Organiser. The broken, confused, annoying little…

Like a parting cloud, like the eye of the storm, he remembered. He’d been in this room. He’d had a choice to make. And after that, the Dis-Organiser had been wrong. Something about that moment. That choice.

He nearly didn’t stay. What if he’d have gone instead of staying?

They might still be alive.

Vimes breathed a sigh. In a way, being doomed felt quite liberating. No way of changing it, no more worries, no more reason to panic. There was just whatever life he had left to live.

But he did still have responsibilities.

“Angua,” he addressed, pulling her off the floor.

She couldn’t answer.

“I need you to get out of here. Find Sybil. Find Vetinari. Find anyone really, make sure they’re okay.”

“What about you? I can fight?” she tried to rally. She failed.

“With silver in their weapons, you’re as mortal as me. But you’re faster than me. You can get out that window and get away. I need you to find them, Angua. Maybe there’s hope yet.”

Angua went to argue, but couldn’t. She just looked him sadly in the eye.

“But what about you?” she finally said.

Vimes nodded. He looked over to the broken device on the floor.

“Dis-Organiser?” he beckoned.

“Y-Y-Yes, Insert New User Here?”

“To Do List.”

“Please enter To Do List.”

“To Do Today: Die.”

The machine gave a little affirming beep then fell silent.

Angua just nodded. As Vimes approached the door, there was a noise, and when he looked back there was a wolf at the window. With its jaws it threw open the window and leapt out onto the sill, and then along until it could jump to another house. Arrows flew up at it, but none met their mark.

Vimes turned back to the door. The wood buckled. Vimes readied his weapons. Finally, in a surge of splinters and blades, Vimes met his enemy.

“Bingley-Bingley-Beep. To Do Today: Arrest Vetinari.”

COMMANDER VIMES?

Vimes looked around. There was a body on the floor at his feet.

“How did I survive that?” he wondered.

YOU DIDN’T.

Vimes looked up. He looked up into hollow sockets and tiny blue pinpricks.

“Oh. I see.”

I BELIEVE THAT YOU DO.

“I guess that’s it then,” he accepted. “Tell me, are Sybil and Vetinari alright? Nobby and Colon?”

THAT ISN’T REALLY MY DEPARTMENT, MR VIMES.

“No. I suppose it isn’t, is it… But that means you haven’t seen them recently?” Vimes said hopefully.

NO, BUT THIS HAS BEEN QUITE A BUSY DAY. I WOULD LIKELY STILL REMEMBER THEM THOUGH.

“That’s good. That’s good,” Vimes sighed, as his form began to fade. “And what about that other Vimes? The one the Dis-Organiser was talking about?”

TIME AND SPACE ARE QUITE ODD, COMMANDER. WHAT COULD HAVE BEEN BUT WASN’T. AT LEAST NOT HERE.

“But is he alive?”

OH, I BELIEVE SO.

“And he ended the war?”

IN A SENSE, YES.

“And did he live happily? With Sybil?”

IT IS NOT MY PLACE TO JUDGE, BUT I THINK SO.

“That’s good,” Vimes accepted. “That’s good too.”

Finally, his form faded, and Death moved on to the next person in the building.

#Like brainrot this took root in my brain #I wrote it in a single day #I'm sorry #The bit in Jingo where it reports their deaths is chilling #This was too big an idea for me not to do it #Again I'm sorry. But I'm also kind of proud. #discworld #gnu terry pratchett #writeblr #lamura dex writes! #discworld fanfic #sam vimes #angua von uberwald #carrot ironfoundersson #Sergeant Detritus #cheery littlebottom #jingo #This is a lot of tags #fanfic

[creator-chaos]

I posted 1,041 times in 2022

That's 880 more posts than 2021!

54 posts created (5%)

987 posts reblogged (95%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@cyrusstarchaser

@sastheforestspirit

@skajador

@carmypen

@parad0xymoron

I tagged 886 of my posts in 2022

Only 15% of my posts had no tags

#kamen rider ooo - 297 posts

#kamen rider build - 43 posts

#kamen rider w - 27 posts

#art - 25 posts

#kameme rider - 17 posts

#lol - 17 posts

#zexal - 17 posts

#ace attorney - 10 posts

#personalchaos - 9 posts

#kamen rider ooo 10th core medal resurrection - 8 posts

Longest Tag: 133 characters

#what if we didnt ask if these monsters are human but made it clear the only monster is the person who wont acknowledge their humanity

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

Tiger & Bunny S2 really made the right choice in giving all the men a few more levels in himbo

27 notes - Posted April 12, 2022

#4

Thoughts on the OOO movie, starting with things I liked (obviously spoilers):

.

.

.

I actually really enjoyed the Goda plot. "Eiji gets possessed by a Greed" is a fun premise, it was great getting to watch Shu's amazing acting (being just off enough to be uncomfortable before the reveal), and I liked what characterization we got of Goda even if it wasn't much. He felt like a kid playing Kamen Rider and I would have loved to see more of him.

Goda is voiced by goddamn Vector from YGO Zexal. With lefty Ankh being voiced by Astral, it's too funny.

Similarly, the midpoint around the Goda reveal and people dealing with it was imo quite good.

When Ankh said "Goda" for the first time and did that little spin, made the whole movie worth it.

Ankh's character development was shown in lots of ways, most obviously him actually crying(!) but also things like stopping "Eiji" from breaking Uva's Core.

Ankh!Eiji and Tajador Eternity were hot.

Even if the scenarios weren't great, it was fun to see all the characters reacting to them. Just seeing everyone again was great ❤️

Things I didn't like:

They seriously just went full palpatine on the King/Greed plot huh.

Why the hell would the Greed be willing to work with the old King. And they just killed off the Greed before they did anything interesting.

Total disregard for character development--mainly erasing Eiji achieving a will to live, but also making Goto straight (I half kid)

Eiji's death didn't even feel good narratively? Like I already knew I hated the choice to kill him off, but they didn't even try to sell me on it, it was just unsatisfying.

NO ONE ADDRESSED THAT ANKH IS STILL POSSESSING SHINGO. THIS IS A PROBLEM. This was literally what the entire conflict between Ankh and the others was about at the end of OOO, and they just, shoved him back in there? And didn't address that Ankh would still have only Greed senses, be unable to feel satisfaction in his Greed body, etc? No problem was solved here?

All in all, it was like watching the actors act out a semi-decent fanfic, and since I'm used to OOO movies being bad, this one doesn't feel much worse. I just hope the actors got what they wanted out of it and are satisfied with this ending for their roles.

29 notes - Posted March 24, 2022

#3

I'm in loved with every version of Eiji

See the full post

29 notes - Posted April 20, 2022

#2

Denji Chainsawman and Eiji OOO are at two different ends of an "ability to desire was fucked up by extreme trauma and they get roped into some supernatural bs to deal with it" scale. And Iruma Demonschool is in the middle.

36 notes - Posted October 23, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

Oh you know 💁🏻

44 notes - Posted June 23, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

#tumblr2022 #year in review #my 2022 tumblr year in review #your tumblr year in review #Omg my OOO tag ratio is embarrassing

[kittenshift-17]

Hi! I've really been craving some snamione fics, and your writing has made me picky 😬 do you have any fic recs or authors you go to when you're wanting something good? (the spicier the better)

Girl, you came to the right place. My Snamione loving heart is all aflutter. MY TIME HAS COME!! 

*scampers off to fetch list to all her fave Snamiones in no particular order*

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Pet Project by Caeria Hermione overhears something she shouldn't concerning Professor Snape and decides that maybe the House-elves aren't the only ones in need of protection.

FALLING FURTHER IN by kaz2 Hermione begins to learn something of the man behind the dark sarcasms of the classroom.

Chasing The Sun by Loten AU, from Order of the Phoenix onwards. Hermione only wanted to learn Healing; she discovers that Professor Snape is a human being after all, and his actions dramatically shape the course of the war as events unfold. Complete.

Pride of Time by Anubis Ankh Hermione quite literally crashes her way back through time by roughly twenty years. There is no going back; the only way is to go forward. And when one unwittingly interferes with time, what one expects may not be what time finds...

Inkspots by mezzosangue When you are a double spy with two masters, no one is a friend. But the war ended last May, and Severus is now his own man. An owl brings a letter of change, but is it a good change? Canon Compliant, disregards Epilogue. Eventual SS/HG romance.

Splintered and Broken by A plus He had watched as the thin wood snapped across her knee with a violence he had not known she possessed. He had been her teacher for seven years and had never seen this girl give up at anything. Voldemort wins, Hermione leaves, Severus waits.

The Tattered Man by Aurette I was once asked to write a Marriage Law Challenge fic by someone who loves a sad tale. This short story is it. Angst, Character Death. Tissues recommended. COMPLETE

Saving your life by lilmisblack  When Hermione is captured by Death Eaters, Severus knows there's only one way to save her. 'What are you doing? ' she asked, her voice shaky. 'Saving your life,' he said, just as he started kissing her neck.

A Murder of Crows by Hogwarts 91 14 yrs post-war: Hermione’s teaching at Hogwarts when an un-aged Snape awakens from stasis and returns to the school. Sparks fly when they meet. Can they learn to trust and love in time to defeat an evil plot bent on changing the wizarding world forever?

Advanced Floriography by Viridiantly Snape's first question to Harry about wormwood and asphodel in the Language of Flowers means 'I bitterly regret Lily's death'. Harry never gets the message behind the question, but what if Hermione does, years later? Mostly set in HBP, DH and after. A story of messages with flowers, the wizarding war, and different kinds of love. Slow-burn. Not canon-compliant, but canon-inspired.

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Synergy by Laurielove Hermione is being followed, and she suspects she knows by whom. But when they come face-to-face, how will she react to him and his startling request? SS/HG. M readers only, please. Written for the 2011 LJ SS/HG Exchange.

Post Tenebras, Lux by Loten "After Darkness, Light." A chance meeting ten years after the war may not be just a coincidence, and may prove to have very far-reaching consequences. A story of many things, but primarily of healing. SS/HG; rated M for later chapters. Complete.

For the Potions Master's Amusement by snape.submiss Now Complete! Severus Snape is not a kind man, but Hermione Granger is past caring. She wants his approval and will do anything to get it. How far will she go? Even she has no concept of the depths to which she will fall in her quest.

Latent Loveliness by Ladyreason Bellatrix gets in one last curse before her defeat which causes Hermione to fall into a deep sleep... She'll only awaken to one man's kiss. And boy, will she awaken. eventual SSHG pairing

Babble On by Aurette One person's nervous tic, is another's nervous joy.

Liminal by Cybrokat Severus Snape keeps running into a student playing piano. Why does he stop to listen, and how does she respond when she is asked to invite him when she plays? And what about Voldemort? Here there be fluff, romance, drama, and angst.

Sins of the Father by Emmaficready 9 Months after the end of the war, a destitute Severus Snape, practically living rough, gets news that will change his life forever. Severus Snape Lives! / POST DH / EWE WARNINGS: Abuse, Neglect, Character Death, Rape, Sensitive/taboo topics.

The Marriage Law by teshara 020 rewrite and update! When Hermione Granger and Severus Snape are thrown together by the ill-conceived Marriage Law, no one doubts they'll make a good undercover team for the Order. No one suspects that they'll find mutual respect, love, and a plot to destroy the world. A story in 3 parts.

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The Prisoner and the Occlumens by duskywolfdaemon Hermione's plans to spend her seventh year on the run with her friends are shattered when Severus Snape shows up with a proposal she cannot refuse. *AU 7th year with Hermione attending Hogwarts. Eventual SSHG. M for reasons. ***COMPLETE***

Unintentional Inveiglement by onecelestialbeing Takes places during the summer after OoTP, the Golden Trio is forced to stay in hiding at Grimmauld Place. Hermione (who is of age!) begins gravitating towards Snape without knowing why, and he attempts keeping her at arms length, but will be able to remain doing so? AU

Innocent Shadows by IShouldBeWritingSomethingElse "You'll sort everything. Gods, Hermione, you fought five Death Eaters to a standstill *and* defended and saved Snape."/ "Professor Snape."/ Harry rolled his eyes. "Yes. That." He waved his hand at the bed. "So this? Piece of cake." /Marriage Law /ss/hg HEA...always *grin*

Turned Over by IShouldBeWritingSomethingElse Severus Snape inherited Hermione Granger at three o'clock on a rain-soaked Saturday morning in March. SS/HG HEA...Always :) COMPLETE

The Irony by awakethelion Hermione Granger gets stuck in her Animagus form and is put in the care of the only one strong enough to control her - Severus Snape. The over-achieving know-it-all Gryffindor, is, in the eyes of Hogwarts student body, home taking care of her ill parents, while in reality she is now living life posing as Professor Snape's familiar. J.K. Rowling owns all the characters.

Camerado by MillieJoan Hermione seeks knowledge from a reluctant Snape in order to help the War effort. What she receives is more than either of them expected. Set beginning in Hermione's sixth year, continuing into a slightly AU post-DH era.

Unto Their Own by CRMediaGal The Light has fallen, Darkness abounds, and Hermione Granger is struggling to survive in a far more sinister Wizarding world. When she is sentenced into Snape's charge, Hermione begins to wonder if everything is truly as it seems. For better or worse, their worlds are about to collide, perhaps even unite them against a common enemy. AU, Post-Hogwarts, Rated M.

Vixen by SLovingLecter After her parent's deaths Hermione is bound and trapped in her Animagus form, first for her own safety, then to ensure the safety of others during the war. Who is she bound to? Severus Snape, of course.

Another Dream by dragoon811 Due to his injuries, Severus is unable to resume his old life. He's determined to be lonely and miserable, but the yearly Order Christmas party becomes a bright spot, thanks to Hermione Granger. Complete. 

The Prisoner and the Occlumens by duskywolfdaemon Hermione's plans to spend her seventh year on the run with her friends are shattered when Severus Snape shows up with a proposal she cannot refuse. *AU 7th year with Hermione attending Hogwarts. Eventual SSHG. M for reasons. ***COMPLETE***

Entangled by IShouldBeWritingSomethingElse No doubt, she'd been showing off obscure spells she found in the archives, again. Apparently, she did that whilst drunk. Hermione never yet had any memory of it. / SS/HG HEA...Always :)

Time Immemorial by FawkesyLady Hermione loses it after the Battle of Hogwarts. Unfortunately, she still had that time turner and she uses it, sending her back in time, a mystery for the denizens of Hogwarts, circa 1976. OC's are important. Please note, chapters 21-26 could be considered crossovers with JRR Tolkien's Return of the King. In for long haul, y'all. Nominee for Marauder's Medal 2018, Best WIP.

The Offer of Just One More by IShouldBeWritingSomethingElse The feeling in her chest twisted. Tightened. Ronald Weasley didn't want children. SS/HG HEA...Always :) This one's a slow burn.

Time's Hammer by IShouldBeWritingSomethingElse She was about to break the time stream. Not just break it, but take a bloody hammer to it. SS/HG HEA...Always :)

Clash of the Conjurers by llorolalluvia In a world where the mere flap of a butterfly's wing can cause a hurricane on the other side of the globe, can one simple glance save a man's life? When Hermione and her professor are forced together against their will, can they overcome their differences, find order amidst the chaos, and save the Wizarding World? not Cannon compliant. Rated M for sexuality and violence. DUBCON!

Turned Over by IShouldBeWritingSomethingElse Severus Snape inherited Hermione Granger at three o'clock on a rain-soaked Saturday morning in March. SS/HG HEA...Always :) COMPLETE

One Step Forward, Two Decades Back by corvusdraconis AU/AO: [HG/SS] What-if Story. Hermione Granger gets erased due to a badly phrased, vague, and bitter wish. She is Hermione Granger no more. Now, thanks to Ron, she is Hermione Ankaa Black, sister of Sirius & Regulus Black, & member of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. Now what is she going to do? Multiple pairings in later chapters, and JP starts out as a rampaging jerk.

Absinthe by Aurette A dark deed on a dark night sends two lives spinning out of control. To forge a future, both must confront their pasts. AU, EWE, SS/HG, HEA

The Love You Take by Subversa Hermione is cursed by the Death Eaters, and Dumbledore believes Professor Snape is the only one who can help her and keep her safe. Hermione is 18 years old in this story, but she is still a student.   

[toku-fangirl-2015]

The outpouring of OOO content has reminded me of the stories I wrote last year. Been re-reading them today.

This bit is from the first scene I wrote, which ended up being towards the end of the story as a whole. It's basically the second half of the series, told from Ankh's perspective, with the assumption that he and Shingo are able to talk to each other mentally. Shingo (reluctantly, at first) becomes Ankh's older brother/mentor figure. This scene is from right after the other Ankh has been destroyed and Ankh possesses Shingo again:

If only Eiji had listened and just handed over the rest of my Medals, everything would be perfect. Why did he have to be so difficult?

I suppose he didn’t want you to take control of me again, said a familiar voice in the back of my mind.

Ah, Shingo-kun, you know me better than that, I said. You know I’d never give this body up willingly.

Oh, so I’m Shingo-kun now? His voice sounded amused. You must have missed having me in your head.

Tch. Better you than someone trying to eradicate me.

Imagine that, he said. A worthless, idiotic human is better company than one of your own kind.

Aside from Gamel’s obsession with Mezool, none of us have ever liked each other, I told him. We’ll work together if we have to and then turn on each other the moment it’s convenient. I would never trust the other Greeed. They’re worse than humans.

And you’re better than both them and us, I suppose, Shingo said.

Of course. With a Greeed’s power and a human’s enhanced senses, I can drink in everything this world has to offer.

You seem…different, now, Shingo said hesitantly as we flew through the air.

Good, I told him. Before, I had gotten weak. I was starting to forget that the only way to get what you want is to take it.

Is that why you nearly choked me to death? There was an emotion I couldn’t identify in his voice. We’re right back to you needing to prove how powerful you are.

I won’t lose again.My voice was steel. Not to the Greeed, or Eiji, or anyone else.

I would have offered to help, you know, Shingo said gently. If you’d given me the chance.

Tch. Would you have volunteered to give me this body?

He was silent for a long moment. I don’t know, he said finally. But…I might have. The way things are now, though…I don’t know if Hina and Eiji will ever forgive you.

Eiji’s an idiot, and so are you! I snapped. I don’t need him anymore.

If you want to read the rest, here's the AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24108166/chapters/58034059

#shameless self promotion #kamen rider ooo #sometimes i want to write again #but i was only able to write so much last year because i started during the pandemic #and i was only working part time #now i don't have the energy to get back into writing

[anemonenemerosa]

The Spare - Chapter 11

And the story continues. This one is much less angsty. As always, a big thank you to @lumosinlove

Chapter 11

Regulus was woken by a heavy thud and someone swearing loudly. He was completely disoriented, his brain sluggish and not quite connecting what happened last night and how he ended up ...here. N’importe quoi… Whatever…

Blinking blearily, he spotted someone hopping on one leg, clutching their other foot in their hands, still generously swearing. Erm... He snorted at a remarkably colourful curse and the head of the girl, so it seemed, snapped up.

She looked him up and down through dark-rimmed glasses and the floppy top of her ashy-brown pixie-cut, presently sporting a rather impressive bed head, while gnawing her bottom-lip like Ben sometimes did.

"Sorry." But her barely concealed grin belied the soft mumbling. She wasn't so sorry.

He slowly began to comprehend what was amusing her. Regulus was sprawled on the couch, his feet tangling off one end, drool sticking to his cheek, half-entangled in the chicken-blanket and clad in a hideous shirt with cow pattern that barely covered his midriff. Short, he was the epitome of sophistication, grace and elegance. Ouais, enfin… c’est naze. Yeah, well... that sucks.

          He could feel himself turning beet red and sat up, violently scrubbing his cheek.

"Good morning, you want Tea?" she asks. Regulus nodded without listening to what he just agreed to. Maybe I won an Alpaca... Okay... I'm not awake yet. That is not an awake-Regulus thought.

While she turns to... get whatever he agreed to, he stood up and stretched in an attempt to wake up properly, feeling like he had barely slept at all. A glimpse on his phone confirmed his feeling: Half past five in the morning. He had about two and a half hours of sleep. He allowed himself his internal eyeroll, stretched again and winced, rubbing his stiff neck.

Then he took a look at the girl coming back from the kitchen with two steaming cups in her hands, a bottle of milk wedged between her upper arm and her ribcage and a paper bag of sugar pressed with her chin to her chest.

Regardless of the rather odd way of transporting stuff he notes that she is, no other way to say it, minuscule. Her shirt was reaching over her wide hips below mid-thigh and was most likely even smaller than the one he... clearly pulled off.

The girl -Josephine, he assumed- probably was around 5'2'' as she just reached the height of Regulus' shoulder, making him around a foot taller. How does she get to, like, half of the stuff in this room?

After briefly considering the height of Ben and Mateo, he wondered whether the door to the flat was a portal to the shire and he was now surrounded by friendly hobbits. Definitely mad. He snorted again. Since when did he even do this?

Jo dropped her cargo on the living room table without spilling anything, plopped down the couch and busied herself with the tea. When he settled down beside her, a cup was pressed into his hand while she poured milk into her own, gesturing for him to help himself. Concerning tea, Regulus had always been a purist. A bit of Lemon was acceptable in Earl Grey and that's about it. He eyed her milky-tea. Wasn't she british? Païenne. Heathen.

"I'm Jo. I sort of live here. Had an OK night?" she asked, not facing him.

"No" Regulus sore neck began to give him a tension headache and rubbing at it did not help at all.

At first, she just huffed at his deadpan answer but then looked up at him and he got a first look of her face. She was as pale as her brother, her face slim with a gentle jawline and high but not overexaggerated cheekbones. Her eyes were framed with very dark lashes, a dark blue borderlining green with hazel flecks around her Pupils similar to her brothers but also very different, open and sparkling, the bridge of her slightly broad button nose was sprinkled with pale freckles and the tip sported a silver septum-ring. Her full lips were currently being gnawed at, paired with a raised eyebrow. This soft and expressive face was about as different from his mother’s as possible and Regulus' stomach gave an undignified churn.

"Quoi?", he was suddenly very irritated, "I had about two hours of sleep and my brain is pounding through my skull! I have no nerve for idle chatter and polite exchange of pleasantries."

Jo gave him a second glance, put both their mugs at the table and sat down on top of the back of the couch, directly behind Regulus.

"What-" he started again but was curtly interrupted "Oh bloody hell, belt up!" What?!

"I am not nearly as socially gifted as the other two himbos. I do not beat around the bush, I do not small talk, I was a nice and considerate host, offered tea and stuff although I prefer my mornings calm and solitary. I do not have the patience to deal with snappy dudes on my couch so hold still. I'm gonna fix your neck and we try again." So, bullying people into feeling better runs in the family...

  That said, she pulled his shoulders back so that he was sitting straight and began carefully kneading his neck up to his hairline. I hurt. A lot, but somehow her hands tingled on his skin in a completely irrational matter. Then, Jos hands reached up to the base of his skull and her thumbs very precisely and firmly pressed on two rather sensitive spots he didn’t even know were there. Regulus gasped and tensed up.

"I know, but it gets better soon. Ben used to twist his neck all the time. I know what I’m doing." her voice was much softer now. Then, she pressed into similar tender spots on his shoulders and shuffled back to sit beside him.

"Better?"

He took a few breaths to realise that, indeed, the pain was almost gone. "Yes."

"Nice. Shall we have a civil and less snappy conversation now?" It came over rather rude but there was a smirk in her eyes and a corner of a lip was twitching slightly.

"Why are you even awake now?" Regulus mumbled after sitting in silence for a while.

"Just am. I've always been an early riser and as resident introvert I do genuinely enjoy mornings on my own to prepare for a day full of dealing with people and have other exasperating encounters."

Regulus turned his head towards her. "Are you always this plain about things?"

By now, Jo had tucked herself in the corner of the couch, sitting cross-legged and playing with a hole in her sock.

"As I told you, I do not beat around the bush. I mean, I am capable of cordiality but interaction with people is bound to lead to miscommunication. Why make it worse by hidden meanings, hinting on things or even expecting that the other one is a mind reader... People are hard work as is; Many of them are daft, stubborn or worse, both. I prefer to keep strangers at an arm’s length."

Instead of a witty remark, Regulus gave an embarrassing little chuckle. How very eloquent... He liked her view on society. "You are a little overdramatic now, don’t you think? Besides, you just gave me a neck massage. That was closer than an arm’s length."

"No and no." He risked a side glace at her, caught a short smirk and smiled into his tea, realised what he was doing and gave an internal admonishing glare at his composure.

"I suspect you know the difference between literally and metaphorically, too. So m'just gonna continue in the belief you're shitting with me. Here you go with the literal answer: The massage was self-preservation. You're an unbearable little git when in pain."

Regulus raised his eyebrows in a mock expression and leaned in the opposite corner of the couch "I see. Am I now of decent demeanour, your grace?"

"Surprisingly tolerable." She returned the with a smirk.

They bantered and talked about random stuff (A great amount of time was put into determining the best Disc World Series – Truce between Ankh-Morpok City Watch and Death) for what felt like hours and seconds at the same time. Regulus profession was not even part of the conversation and he didn't think he had ever talked for so long with someone without getting to hockey and the mess that came with the name Black, eventually.

He felt strangely at ease here, catching himself paying less attention to his meticulously established guard. He barely scanned Jos words for hidden implications or concealed prying, like he was so used to do. It became so much second nature to him that, until now, he didn't even realise how exhausting this habit was.

What the hell? Reg asked himself not for the first time since meeting Ben in the rink-showers and he was starting to freak out a little.

After an uncommonly long silence he noticed Jo looking at him again while gnawing her lips. It seemed to be a giveaway that she's about to ask something uncomfortable.

"Reg?" The use of the pet-name felt like a slap. He should really tell them to stop this.

"How do you know my name?" Apparently, Regulus was still not used to being known.

"The note this morning only read: The guy on the Couch is Reg, be nice." Jo really tried to sound light-hearted.

Regulus was starting to get suspicious again. "Ah. What?"

"I do not want you to feel like shit so tell me if you do not want to answer: Why are you here?" Jo shiften unconftably in her corner.

"I do not want to answer." Regulus prepared himself for the inevitable interrogation.

"OK." Here we go… Wait.

"That’s it?"

"Sure, why would I pry?" The girl furrowed her brows while looking at him over the brim of her cup.

He felt strangely content until now, that he remembered why he was here and asked himself what these people actually wanted from him. The knot in his stomach was back with full force as he felt the waves of guilt washing over him.

He ruined his brother live and was sitting on a couch, drinking tea and joking around with strangers? He got up abruptly, plucked is clothes from the heating unit and changed quickly, not giving a flying fuck about giving the girl a prime view of his naked arse. Jo stood between him and the couch, her brows still furrowed.

"I need to go." With that he was out of the door and only just heard her calling

"Hey idiot, you can come back this evening if you want to" before the doors of the elevator closed. Smooth, Black. Real smooth.

#the spare #regulus black #lumosinlove sweater weather #my oc's

[aion-rsa]

The Watch Episode 4 Review: Twilight Canyons

https://ift.tt/3q4thtV

This The Watch review contains spoilers.

The Watch Episode 4

“Twilight Canyons” embraces The Watch’s theme of being “inspired by,” but not adapting, Pratchett’s Discworld novels through its blink-or-you’ll-miss-it references to several of the books less closely related to the adventures of Vimes and company. In that, it progresses its own plot much further, and only delves into the over-the-top silliness of the previous episode briefly, making it feel as though this series may come into its own in the next few episodes.

At the end of the last episode, Carcer, his union-forming goblin entourage, and female wizard companion Wonce, had realized that the key to controlling the dragon was a sword in the hands of a former member of the Assassins’ Guild. Vimes and company, having not yet connected the dots, are a step behind. Lady Sybil, used to vigilante work, has gone on her own to track down Wonce and managed to snag some of the woman’s hair, but not much else. Knowing Angua’s keen sense of smell could lead them to Wonce, Sybil joins up again with the Watch, who follow the lead. Unfortunately for them, Wonce has laid a trap, and several “drag goblins” (which seems to be a reference to the makeup worn on top of the underfunded prosthetics donned by the actors) nearly do them in. They’re only rescued by a smaller goblin to whom Cheery was kind earlier in the episode.

Meanwhile, Carcer and Wonce have traveled to Twilight Canyons—a place of grave danger and rage, according to Wonce’s contact. But when they enter, Carcer and Wonce are surprised to find that it’s a retirement home, full of elderly people with various states of memory loss. They find Jocasta Wiggs, the former-assassin who stole the dragon-controlling sword from the Assassins’ Guild. Now aged, her memory faded, she can tell them nothing—but they discover a mural the woman once painted on her wall, telling the story of how she and another woman stole the sword and traveled the world with it, finally reaching the very edge. 

“What magic is so powerful that it can drive two women to the edge of the world?” Wonce asks. She and Carcer interpret from the mural that Jocasta was betrayed and the other woman took the sword for herself. When Jocasta says a single word—Perpetua—the villains realize that it’s the name of the woman, who was buried above Jocasta’s empty tomb in the cemetery for traitorous assassins. They retrieve the blade and head to the area where children are “thrown away” to a life on the streets, intending to summon the dragon—but nothing happens. The sword’s hilt has been swapped out.

The Watch are out of leads, until retired Sergeant Swires (no relation to the novel watchman of the same name), sends them a lead from Twilight Canyons, where he now lives. Through Carrot’s continued use of real detective work (mainly looking at actual files for information), he realizes that Perpetua is the one who put Jocasta in Twilight Canyons, leaving her with a cane. When the Watch interprets the mural, they see it differently: they see two women traveling the world, seeing all its wonders, even as they run from the assassins pursuing them. The missing hilt, they realize, is the handle of Jocasta’s cane, which she entrusted to Swires once she stopped walking. Sure that Carcer and Wonce will realize their mistake, Vimes makes a plan to trap the two, battling over the sword. When Swires begins to raise an objection, Vimes interrupts, standing his ground, insisting that the others follow HIS plan for once instead of going off on their own.

But of course, things don’t go as planned. When Vimes and Carcer begin to battle (at the same time that Wonce and Sybil face off), the magical security system traps the two pairs of combatants, locking them in a dance number (to the disconcerting accompaniment of Wham’s “Wake Me up Before You Go-Go”) the ends with Carcer being teleported elsewhere and Wonce losing the sword to Sybil and retreating. With the sword and hilt now in the possession of the Watch, Vimes has Jocasta place her hands on the hilt as they put it back together, only for the sword—Wayne, stage name Gawain—to inform them that it doesn’t remember how to control the dragon. It does, however, reveal that only lovers can hear its voice (to the resounding protests of all the Watch members who aren’t Cheery, who seems to view herself as a lover).

The Watch brings Jocasta to Unseen University in an attempt to restore her memory of the sword’s abilities. Meanwhile, Carcer is in the interdimensional space of the auditors, a group of seemingly omniscient and extremely powerful beings who support order and science—and none of that dream or hope nonsense—who view Carcer’s dimension’s Watch, who are beginning to believe in themselves, as a cosmic threat. They send him back, saying it’s his last chance—and he and Wonce enlist the disgraced head of the Thieves’ Guild to steal the sword.

Read more

TV

The Watch: Why Did the Discworld Adaptation Do THAT to a Major Character?

By Juliette Harrisson

TV

The Watch Controversy Explained: How Different is the Show From Discworld?

By Juliette Harrisson

The episode features a number of nuggets for Pratchett fans. Early on, Vimes, irritated that Sybil has taken matters into her own hands instead of letting him do his job, gives her a rousing rendition of the “Captain Sam Vimes Boots Theory on Socioeconomic Unfairness,” including this gem:

VIMES: Eyes closed, I know just where I am in this city just by the feel of the stone beneath my toes.

This direct reference to the novels is one of the few in this episode, though there are smaller nods throughout. Cheery admits that when all the Watch lost their eyebrows, it wasn’t the “little blue men” at fault (a reference to the Nac Mac Feegle introduced in the “Tiffany Aching” books). The villainous (though not imaginative enough to be evil) Auditors of Reality play a role in several Discworld novels. The loudspeaker in Twilight Canyons mentions the name of resident Cohen the Barbarian, Discworld’s greatest warrior hero. And the name “Twilight Canyons” is a reference to an unfinished Pratchett project, in which the aging community of a retirement home, many in states of memory loss (a subject close to Pratchett’s heart; Pratchett had early onset Alzheimers and was vocal in raising community awareness). 

The episode also nicely refers to “The Wat,” featuring Vimes playing guitar to Good Boy, Sybil’s small dragon, during the episode’s opening. Should the musical skill of the members of the Watch continue to be relevant in future episodes, some of my previous complaints about “The Wat” may diminish.

While “Twilight Canyons” does a lot to move forward the season plot, with Vimes in possession of an artifact, a reveal about other artifacts that Vetinari wants under her control, and with the big reveal about the powers behind Carcer’s reappearance, the episode also has a strong internal theme about love. Opening with Carrot trying to ask Angua if she’d be interested in doing something social (and abjectly failing), the episode moves to Vimes almost recalling to Cheery his vision from “The Wat,” in which he was married to and happy with Sybil. Gawain—Wayne—the talking sword can only be heard by lovers. 

The secret behind unlocking Jocasta’s memories is in helping her remember the love she shared with Perpeuta. And Cheery, revealed as fully a romantic, encourages Carrot’s feelings for Angua, referencing her own lost love as a reason not to delay. (Jo Eaton-Kent’s Cheery is really the star of this episode all together; their fantastic comedic delivery throughout reduces the overburdened earnestness of the previous episode and allows some of the humor to come from the characters themselves, not rely on the world’s delve into sheer absurdity.) Even Death is revealed to be someone lonely who’d love a friend to have drinks with—much to Carrot’s surprise when the offer is made.

While the silliness of the dance number in “Twilight Canyons” works less well than it was clearly intended, the interplay between the characters and the forward momentum of the story raises this one above its predecessor. The makeup work remains atrocious (possibly even worse than in previous episodes), and despite references to Koom Valley reenactors, we’ve still seen none of Pratchett’s numerous dwarf-sized dwarves in Ankh-Morpork. (The Librarian curiously looks slightly more like an orangutan in this episode.) Though the characters remain departures from their book forms, the clear reference to other versions of the Watch by the very strange and ominous auditors pulling Carcer’s strings seems to be a justification for this very different version of Discworld.

If it can find its stride in the next couple of episodes, the series will be worth bingeing once it’s complete. But the key word here is still “if.”

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#aion-rsa #Den of Geek

[firebirdsdaughter]

Over Analysis ‘The Gawas will be the Death of Me’ Stage 1: The (1st) Fight

Okay. So. This is gonna be a long post, so I will condense it immediately. Are we ready?

Who am I kidding. Absolutely not.

Warning: rambling be below this point.

We start out w/ Hiden Manufacturing being blown up. Not much to say here other than Fuwa being fond big brother is sweet, Yua looks awfully chill for standing in the ruins of an exploded building, and Jin is doing his best Ankh impression (Nakagawa, honey, I love you, but there is only one Ankh). Until Aruto says:

Jin is surprised a complete stranger is showing more concern for his family than he has been.

I know I complain about Aruto’s characterisation a lot, but I liked this (enough that I think it should have been what Jin brought up when talking to MBR). Ignoring, for the moment, my other issues and pretending that this friendship developed how it could have, this would be a really great scene, esp considering the stuff Jin did previously. Aruto wanting to save the other three in contrast to Jin’s decision to just sacrifice them would be an interesting thing. I wish we got more on it, honestly. It was one of the ways they could have developed from each other. Either way, this comment has an effect on Jin, and when shit starts exploding, he takes off on his own.

MetsuBouRai, meanwhile, are brooding about the MBJR base bc the Ark isn’t talking to them. Raiden’s angry, Naki is dejected, but Horobi is just… Sitting there. Watching, I believe, the same thing Yua is watching on her phone during this stuff, going by the animation.

Naki says this, but it cuts to each of them. Horobi’s head actually turns slightly, while Raiden looks morose for a moment before laughing bitterly and taking out his frustration on that mind hacking helmet (which breaks yet again). Raiden’s always been the most expressive of the three, but Horobi’s reaction also feels import bc of how long he’s been under the Ark’s control, brainwashed into believing that the Ark was the path to saving HumaGear. He’s never once been able to consider the Ark might turn on them or abandon them. Naki and Raiden haven’t been under so long, so while they’re still hacked, they don’t have the same mindless devotion. Naki can question and Raiden can be mocking. But this feels very much like a ‘wait, what?’ moment for Horobi.

… That his conditioning has to immediately reject, insisting that the Ark will come back for them, is really going to save HumaGear. Oh, sweetie.

*I know that the show (? Or at least most sub groups) are referring to the Ark as ‘he,’ I’m just stubborn and like saying ‘she.’ Being voiced by Charden Flamberg won’t stop me.

Jin shows up, announcing, ‘you’re wrong’ and that the Ark can’t be trusted (when did we stop saying ‘the’ Ark?), and it looks like he didn’t stop to shower or anything en route. Come to think… How would he repair that suit? Anyway, he spends the majority of this scene looking right at Horobi, who…

… Doesn’t react. It’s Naki who says something. Jin and Horobi just… Stare at each other. Raiden looks like he thinks he’s interrupting. Lots of tension here. It’s up in the air whether Horobi doesn’t know how to react, or if he actually can’t in the state he’s in at this point. The Ark’s being going at how he processes situations w/ a chainsaw for years, he may be completely unable to figure out how to respond.

Horobi doesn’t even move… Until Jin starts apologising. I don’t we ever saw Baby Jin apologising for anything? Not even when he didn’t get the Mammoth Key back. All three of them seem confused by the apology, but it’s enough to get Horobi out of his game of statue. Obviously he doesn’t think raising the Ark is something to apologise for bc of his enforced loyalty to her. But he doesn’t seem to consider Jin to have to done anything worth apologising for.

As for Jin, this is a moment that makes me inclined to buy that he’s realised he fucked up. I would have appreciated going into that a little more, bc wtf dude, that plan was a clusterfuck even aside from the whole ‘murder my dad for being brainwashed,’ but this ep heavily indicated he realises what he did. And boy is he paying for it.

Jin talks about the plan to destroy the Ark, then goes very quiet and walks up level w/ Horobi, and the shot closes in on the two of them again. It takes him a second to actually look at Horobi… My guess is bc he knows what he’ll see.

… And the award for an absolutely terrible plan goes to… But in all seriousness, Nakagawa Daisuke, everyone, the kid can act. The way he says it, and how he kinda seems to be wavering on his feet, gives the impression he’s just barely keeping it together. I’ve debated about him saying this point blank like this, and on one hand, ouch, on the other… Given my interpretation that Horobi views lying as a human thing and absolutely detests it… Jin might be hoping being straight up w/ him will work better. Or maybe he’s hoping to gauge Horobi’s reaction, bc rather heartbreakingly…

… Horobi doesn’t seem bothered in the slightest. In the hopes of keeping images to a minimum, I didn’t include another thing I noticed while going through—Naki doesn’t look back to Horobi until he starts talking, but just seconds before Horobi speaks, Raiden’s gaze switches to him, w/ that kinda concerned look. Just before he talks, Horobi’s head also turns like he’s glancing at the other two, but it’s hard to tell, he’s out of focus (oh, so painfully much), which is actually a little interesting considering he’s being totally calm about his son saying he was trying to kill him. Is it bc the idea of the Ark failing never occurred to him? Or… Does he have so little self worth that he’s completely indifferent to the idea of his death? To me… Probably both. Horobi has lived his entire life for other people, has been brainwashed into a tool of the Ark—and we see what happens when he wavers or tries to be something else later in this ep. While the idea that the Ark would betray them has never been able to occur to him, he’s shown multiple times to be completely calm about the possibility of dying, and this is Jin saying he was going to kill him. But Horobi doesn’t even seem surprised. He just accepts it.

Which I have to feel like is the reaction Jin expected. Why he was so reluctant to look up, bc he knew Horobi would just be… Blank. Bc he knows what the Ark has taken from Horobi, and now he’s actually facing the fact that he made it worse.

When you tell your dad you were planning to kill him and he doesn’t even care. But seriously. He doesn’t even remark on it. Horobi doesn’t care about his own life to the point Jin can point blank say he was planning to kill him and Horobi won’t even blink, much less get upset. Jin’s guilt here, to me, likely isn’t just ‘I helped the Ark rise and now everything is shit,’ but also facing the fact that he’s… ‘Re-reduced’ Horobi to being the Ark’s mere puppet again, esp right after Horobi was actually starting to have some clarity. Gotta wonder if he’s flashing back to that ‘why did I do that?’ moment in episode 35?

I made a comment about Horobi being out of focus when talking about Jin planning to kill him… He comes abruptly into focus when Jin brings up Aruto. Is this about Soreo’s data? Aruto talking about him wanting to be Jin’s father? I have opinions about the way Aruto is talked about in this scene and the things Jin chooses to bring up, and mainly… I just thought this was curious. And… Sunagawa has a very nice profile, so sue me. ^^; (you have no idea how many of these shots just turned into ‘I think this shot is cool! I may share some at the end of this).

When Jin says Aruto can defeat the Ark, Horobi isn’t happy. But he… Looks around weirdly while talking? Starts out looking at Jin, then looks down like he does when he’s thinking, then back up at Jin by the end.

… I have nothing else for this. What? An excuse to use more pictures of Sunagawa? … Leave me alone!

Look at Nakagawa hunching again. Is that to fit everyone in the shot, or is he just doing that?

Jin persists and Horobi… Shouts. And then he doesn’t just shout, he dives forward and grabs Jin’s collar. It’s hard to see in my crappy screen shot, but Jin seems surprised by this, and w/ good reason, Horobi’s not usually emotional. I believe this is only the second time we’ve ever heard him shout… And both times were at Jin about humans. Trying to reject what he possibly sees as their growing influence over his son.

… I wonder. What makes him so desperate to make Jin stop in this moment? Their dynamic may have shifted w/ Jin’s revival, but Jin’s still the person… Well, second to the Ark, he’s the person w/ the most influence over Horobi. Aruto and Fuwa both made slight headway, but when it comes down to it, Jin is Horobi’s, well, singularity point. Why react this way? Even at this point, neither Naki or Raiden were jumping at it. Did the Ark’s engrained influence just want to reject the words, some personal experience w/ humans. Is it the words themselves, or the fact that they’re coming out of Jin? It’s more emotion than he showed on the subject of his own death. Honestly, maybe more emotion than he’s ever shown. Is he rejecting blasphemy against the Ark… Or what he perceives as human influence and control over his son?

But then something interesting happens.

At first, Horobi is clearly furious—but then…

… The Ark… Abruptly stops hacking? Not… Technically weird, but pretty suspicious considering that immediately after…

… Horobi abruptly… Goes back to being passive. He even lets go of Jin’s suit. Did the Ark do something? Giving direct orders or not, he’s still connected. Or did he just not know what to do once he got in there? He and Jin stare at each other for a moment. Did his soft spot for Jin kick back in?

He keeps this much calmer attitude, and is even still looking down when he speaks again.

Who are you trying to convince and why, Horobi?

Jin has apparently forgotten how ‘hacking’ works. Being right on the second point doesn’t excuse the first one, sweetie.

Is it important that it’s just them in this shot? I’d like to think so. My theory is that this whole scenario actually stole something very personal from them that’s never going to really come back, the chance to be a proper family, for Jin to grow up as a child and for Horobi to actually be a proper father. Is the implication that they are ‘HumaGears’ to each other? Until pried from my cold dead hands (break my fingers, Takahashi, break them, I dare you), my interpretation is that Horobi’s actions next time are centred around wanting a world where Jin will be completely safe (someone please tell him there’s no such thing, bc there isn’t, before it gets him killed), that while the goal is safety and peace for all HumaGear… It’s his personal motivation to do it for Jin.

Either way… Putting aside the question of whether Jin is actually as free as he seems to think he is… I was waiting for him to say this to Horobi. Bc hell yes, Horobi deserves to be free of the Ark, and Jin should know that better than anyone. She had Horobi under closer control than anyone else, bc she wanted/needed him to manipulate Jin. He was her tool to move her pawn. And that’s fucked his mental state to hell and back.

Horobi isn’t even able to respond to the concept of ‘free,’ It’s Naki who steps in again.

Jin keeps going, and eventually brings up dreams. I don’t know if that specifically has to do w/ Horobi’s reaction… In my theory, assuming he actually remembered a bit about his past, I can def see ‘our own dreams’ setting of ‘Ark bells’ and making him compulsively reject the notion.

Interestingly, he turns slightly to face the corner before speaking further.

… Well don’t that just sound robotic. ‘Brainwash victim’ alarums go off again.

Jin has another small somber moment. This one feels less ‘messy emotions/wracked w/ guilt’ and more just… Sad. Regretful, too, but not the same exactly? This isn’t so much ‘what have I done?’ anymore as ‘I did this.’

He failed to try at all before. That’s not me being mean, that’s me saying I think that’s what’s going through his head. He might not be thrilled about fighting Horobi as Horobi, but bc he let them down before, he has to power through.

Naki: Do you think they’ll notice if we back towards the door?

Raiden: Trust me, I’m thinking about it.

They fight and Jin loses. Horobi’s got experience, a positively self-destructive lack of self preservation, and I do think Jin was holding back. Making himself fight Horobi as the Ark is one thing, he can just tell himself it’s the Ark, probably easier to be like ‘Horobi can’t be saved’ like that, too (even though Jin bloody reconnected them), but fighting Horobi as Horobi… That’s something else. Esp w/ the knowledge that Horobi is so blankly devoted to the Ark right now bc of something he did.

Jin kinda tries to shuffle away as Horobi approaches… I don’t blame him, that’s Takaiwa Seiji. Don’t fuck w/ Takaiwa Seiji.

Horobi says… But then just stands there, perfectly still, giving no indication that he intends to move, for another ten whole seconds (yes, I counted). He says that, but then doesn’t do anything. Almost like he’s hit a wall. And he has, hasn’t he? The Ark’s influence over him wants to erase anyone who defies it… But Horobi himself has shown multiple times that his actual instinct is to protect Jin. So what does he do when he has a chance to destroy someone vocally against the Ark, but… It’s Jin? He freezes, apparently.

Jin looks up at him like this, kinda pleadingly, and I like the idea that he’s looking… Essentially, for his father. Hesitation, feeling. Any reaction. But while I do see Horobi freezing as a sign of his inability to follow through w/ the threat… It also shows he has no idea how to follow that up. He can’t get beyond the instinctive ‘don’t do this.’ So he just starts playing statue again. That’s gotta be rough for Jin to see, esp w/ the knowledge that he contributed to rendering Horobi this messed up. Again.

When he sees nothing, he looks away again. Maybe trying to gather nerve in the face of the nigh zombie-like state he’s seeing his father in. We cut a few times between him and Horobi as he starts talking, between Jin being more emotional, and Horobi’s continually blank countenance.

Jin doesn’t look back up until he asks if killing him is something Horobi wants. This expression doesn’t read hopeful either way. Does he want Horobi to indicate it’s not, bc he wants his father to still care about him, or does he want Horobi to be upset that he tried to kill him, to show some sign of self worth/preservation? Hard to know, but it’s definitely pleading again.

Naturally, the first words that come to Horobi’s mind. And, yes, it is. The Ark wants detractors to disappear. But in this situation… That conflicts w/ what Horobi himself truly wants. And he reacts. He’s directly confront ed w/ a contradiction, w/ the realisation that the Ark’s will hasn’t completely replaced his own. He’s conditioned to follow the Ark’s will no matter what, he doesn’t want to kill Jin. He’s in disagreement w/ the Ark’s will. Big no no. What he’s saying ‘no’ to is a little unclear, but I like thinking that he’s realising he doesn’t want what the Ark would want. It’s also interesting how the focus shifts from him to Naki and Raiden. Presumably, they are effected by seeing Horobi be uncertain about the Ark’s will, and that contributes to everyone’s reactions.

I love Jin’s reaction to Horobi lowering the bow. He makes this emotional little sound, and watches the bow for a moment before looking anxiously up at Horobi—looking for a reaction again, if there’s anything more. But Horobi’s just… In a daze. I still don’t know if Jin is relieved by this, or if he was hoping Horobi would be personally angry at him. Kind of puts me in mind of a moment from Prince of Persia where Dastan tells his brother that the dagger rewinds time and then stabs himself, and when his brother uses it and tells Dastan he died right in front of him, Dastan’s reaction is a breathless ‘you used it!’ from the relief that his brother cared/trusted him enough. Jin’s reaction kind of makes me think of that, amazement and relief and even kind of gladness that he matters enough to Horobi that this would actually cause his father to waver from his brainwashing. Which, while really sweet and a testament to what Jin genuinely means to Horobi, is also heart breaking and shows off just what the Ark (and thus Gai, by creating it) took from them, that this is how we see that Jin is important to Horobi. It should just be bc he’s his dad, bc hugs and family times. But the Ark took that from them. It shows that Horobi cares about Jin, but it’s also glaring show of what they lost/missed out on bc of the Ark.

There’s also something else about Jin’s reaction if you look closely at his hands.

His right hand shifts, lifting up slightly, like his first instinct was to reach out to Horobi, try to solidify whatever’s happening—but in the end, he doesn’t commit, and…

Horobi wanders off, in some sort of confused trance. We don’t see his face at all here.

It’s been pointed out to me that these two are always reaching out to each other and never quite making it, and… Accurate. Feels like yet another example of just how badly they’ve been fucked over and what was taken from them. I just really hope they finally get to connect before… Whatever happens.

#Kamen Rider Zero-One #Kamen Rider Zero One #Zero-One Spoilers #Zero One Spoilers #my precious evil stoic scorpion dad #Zero-One Over Analysis #The Gawas will be the Death of Me #there's probably so much more I can say that escaped my brain #but I started feeling really sick part way through this #still do so #we'll take it easy #Binary Retro Rider

[mostfacinorous]

Whumptober 21st

[1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11] [12] [13] [14] [15] [16] [17] [18] [19] [20]

Today’s story will be continued tomorrow.

Whumptober 21st: Laced Drink

Crowley was fantastically, tragically committed to aesthetic. 

None of this would have happened, had he not been. 

It all came down to absinthe. 

Crowley’d managed not to have any, during the height of its popularity, primarily because he’d been nursing a wounded ego from a run in with Aziraphale’s morality-slash-temper, and he knew that where the brightest poets and artists and writers were, he’d find the angel. 

Unfortunately, at the time, that was also where you’d find the drink. 

And sure, he could have gotten his hands on some, but why bother, when there were other alcohols in abundance, and ones that hadn’t been medicinal to start? 

To be honest, he didn’t trust anything a human doctor claimed could cure ills, even if it did end up being sold in bars. 

That said, the moment it was banned, his interest became a good deal more piqued. Nothing was quite so tempting as what authorities said you couldn’t have. He knew that better than anyone. 

And so he’d tracked it down. Oooh, illegal absinthe, only drunk by the poshest, the wickedest, the most adventurous. Poison green, and rumored to make you see things-- Crowley couldn’t argue with the marketing campaign. It was right up his alley.

And as he and Aziraphale were currently fairly close, he thought this was the perfect time to indulge. 

So he gathered what he needed: edgy, suggestive, outright tempting outfit; invitation to the most difficult to find club; one angel, reservations for the evening, and his flair for the dramatic, which, fortunately for him, he never went without. 

He knew he liked the place the moment he walked in. It felt like where sex parties might happen, very dungeon-y, stone wall treatment and yellow lights that cast each table in just enough illumination to see by. Dark. Mysterious. 

It also had seating that managed what very little of his own furniture could, and straddled the line between imposing and incredibly comfortable. He’d be suspicious about Aziraphale’s hand in the latter, if he hadn’t been the first one into the club, and the first to sit down. 

Once they were seated, the order he’d placed ahead of their arrival came out. Wine and a charcuterie board for the angel, absinthe for him. He’d made sure they thought him enormously wealthy, important, and influential. 

“Goodness, I thought that was illegal now.” Aziraphale commented, already placing aged beef on a tiny round of sourdough. 

“Human laws.” Crowley scoffed, adjusting his slouch for maximum visual indolence. 

He was actually very excited for this, and glad that his favorite audience was here to watch him being dreadfully fashionable and impressive.

The drink itself was pretty enough, the green a lovely shade and the sugar cube delightfully alight, which, when he held it up, lit him infernally from below. It was all very theatrical, and he knew Aziraphale was impressed, even if he wouldn’t say as much. 

“I haven’t had any myself in a long time,” Aziraphale mentioned, off hand, and Crowley wrinkled his nose, temporarily annoyed at the reminder. 

“Yes, but that was when it was allowed. I’ve never tried it.” 

Aziraphale’s eyes lit up and he looked so incongruently delighted that it gave Crowley pause. 

“Oh, in that case, I’m so glad you invited me! Give it a go, it’s something quite unique.” 

The earnest urging somewhat ruined the performative mood, but of course he should have realized that Aziraphale would be entirely too indulgent in Crowley’s experiments with flavor-- goodness knew it was the angel’s favorite vice. 

Crowley blew out the fire and dropped what was left of the sugar cube into the drink below. He swirled it slightly, raised the glass towards Aziraphale in a small salute, and knocked it back. 

The flavor was awful. Noxious, almost, and worse, it stung, burning its way down his throat. 

He completely ruined the aesthetic by coughing, gasping, and dry retching. 

“Really, it’s not all that ba--” Aziraphale began, but Crowley had already realized what was happening. 

“Anise.” He gasped, hands coming up to grab his throat, as if that would help. 

“Yes, it’s a rather distinct flavor, I--”

“Anise for exorcisms.” Crowley choked out, and Aziraphale’s eyes grew wide and round. 

“Sober up.” He instructed sharply, and Crowley did his best, refilling the drained glass, but it was too late-- the effects lingered, even once the anise itself was out of him. 

Crowley’s eyes swung wildly around the bar, and lit on the bartender-- a woman, stylish and chic, who was mixing the drinks that the waiter asked for. She had an ankh around her neck and a protection sigil tattooed on her shoulder, and bore all the hallmarks of a modern pagan.

His eyes narrowed. 

“Witch.” He nodded in her direction. 

Aziraphale groaned.

“Of course, it wouldn’t work if the person using it didn’t believe-- what can I do for you? Shall we leave?”

Crowley had broken out into a very un-aesthetic sweat, and Aziraphale couldn’t help but notice he seemed a bit… blurry round the edges. 

“Oh dear-- hang on.” Aziraphale said, mouth firming into a determined line as he stood from the table. 

He approached the bar, breaking some unspoken taboo of service, he was sure, and flagged down the witchy bartender. 

“Excuse me,” He began politely, “But I’m an angel, you’re a witch, and I believe your drink is in the process of exorcising my demon friend. I don’t suppose you have something to counteract it?” 

“I-- what?” She looked around the bar, eyes lighting on Crowley and widening. “Is that-- what.” 

Aziraphale sighed.

“You believe in anise as a demon banishing agent, and it is doing its best as a result. But I must ask you to reverse the effects, please.”

“I don’t-- I didn’t actually think demons were real! And that shouldn’t have worked-- it’s alcohol!” The woman protested. 

Aziraphale gestured back at Crowley.

“Perhaps you should have considered that before memorizing ways to be rid of them. Now, is there a means of-- I don’t know, binding a demon to a body, or allowing a spirit in or something? I can promise you the body is his own, he isn’t simply having a ride along.” 

Aziraphale was somewhat sympathetic, naturally, but he didn’t precisely have time to waste on this. 

“Now, please.” He demanded, and the tone of his voice spurred her into action. 

“Uh-- Cinnamon for evocation of a spirit and quick success--” She pulled Fireball from the shelf and poured some quickly into a glass. 

“Dandelion for grounding and healing and Burdock for counter magick--” A slosh of No Name gin followed. She ran her hands along the bottles, thinking quickly. “Oh! Björk is birch bark, perfect!” 

She poured while she talked. “That’s new beginnings, psychic protection, and binding.” She looked at what she’d made and wrinkled her nose. 

“That’s going to be gross.” She told Aziraphale, but handed him the drink just the same. 

“I hardly think he’ll mind, so long as he’s around to complain about it.” He called back, already bearing the drink towards where crowley was visibly shaking apart at the seams. 

Aziraphale paused, unwilling to just pour it down his throat when there was nothing to specify that Crowley was the spirit to be bound. 

Thinking fast, he dipped his finger in the liquid and traced it over Crowley’s tattoo-- he couldn’t remember the proper summoning sigil at the moment, but that ought to devote the drink to Crowley well enough, according to the bartender’s beliefs. He just hoped that she truly believed that this would do the trick. 

“One way to find out,” he murmured. “Down the hatch, old friend.” He plugged Crowley’s corporation’s nose, tilted his head back, and let the liquid drizzle into his mouth. 

He swallowed, thank goodness, and Aziraphale hovered there, waiting for a response. 

Slowly, Crowley stopped vibrating quite literally out of his skin, and leaned back, panting, against his chair. 

“That--” he groused, “Was disgusting.”

Aziraphale let out a relieved huff and turned to look back at the bartender, waving at her gratefully. 

She gave him a shaky smile and flashed him a double thumbs up. 

“Wine?” He asked, turning back to Crowley, only to find that he had already finished half the glass. He looked on, amused, and made himself a sourdough round with meat and cheese. 

Crowley surfaced for air and the glass refilled miraculously as he passed it back to Aziraphale. 

“I’m not sure whether to tip the witch or curse her.”

Aziraphale frowned.

“Now, none of that.” 

Crowley made a face. 

“I hate to say it, but maybe we should go. I’m not feeling… quite right.” Crowley spoke slowly, and though he seemed solid enough, he sounded a touch distant, too. 

Aziraphale sat a little more upright in his seat.

“Shall I go ask for more help from our friend at the bar?” 

“Nah. Think I’m coming down with the exorcism flu. Happens sometimes.”

Aziraphale frowned, wondering when the last time it’d happened was, but stood just the same and offered his hand to help Crowley to his feet. 

He waved, settling the bill with several large notes tucked neatly beneath the meat board, and managed not to look longingly at it as he helped his friend out of the bar.

#whumptober #whumptober2019 #good omens fic #alcohol cw #witchcraft #canon typical magical handwaving #that writing thing I do

[patricianandclerk]

Will that be all?

My Ask | My Ko-Fi | On Ao3 | Requests always welcome!

VetVimes. 

At the behest of Lady Winesta Sexton, there is a great ball, and Samuel Vimes hates it. There is a peculiarity to the Ankh-Morpork ball that makes it even more unbearable than anything Vimes could imagine in his wildest dreams. It’s a mix of a few factors, really. The tinkling nature of the music on the air, which contains no personality at all and somehow manages to echo off the ceilings and walls, ringing around the room and insinuating itself inside one’s skull. Even when Vimes finally leaves, he knows the waltzes and little ditties are going to be stuck in his head for the next few weeks, and he wouldn’t mind, if they were only any good.

Which they are not.

The average composition of the Ankh-Morpork musician comes somewhere between “brain-numbingly bland” and “desperately commercial,” meaning that it clings long after you’ve hoped to have forgotten it.

And what’s worse is that the Lady Sybil Vimes, née Ramkin, has fallen ill. Vimes does not doubt that she is ill, either – Sybil is not the sort to let Vimes wander into some awful soirée and not be there to make it bearable. Unfortunately, by the time the message of Sybil’s abrupt flu and confinement to bed with one of the ridiculous (and yet specially designed) bowls that is made especially for the purpose of vomiting in it (the rich and powerful of Ankh-Morpork believing in specialised crockery for every purpose imaginable in two to three colours, so that they have something to put in the dozens of storage closets that make a manor a home), Vimes had already arrived, and been announced.

Vimes isn’t one for rules, or for social etiquette, or appearing in public except for in his official capacity as a watchman (albeit, Vimes thinks with a sense of vague disgust, a Commander), but once you’re announced, you need to stay for at least an hour, unless you are called urgently away.

Unfortunately, despite his best efforts, no one seems willing to call him urgently away on anything.

Captain Carrot had assured him, in his brightest tone, that he would handle absolutely everything, and unfortunately, Captain Carrot is a man of his word. Unfortunately…

Noting a curious gap in the waves of ridiculously dressed lords and ladies milling around the ballroom, the majority of them absently swaying from side to side or fluttering fans or swinging canes, Vimes arches one eyebrow. A natural parting occurs in the crowd, and Vimes beholds the slow moving figure of the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork. His ebony cane held neatly at his side, he moves delicately through the crowd, seemingly incognizant of the way that everybody naturally gives him a gap of around six feet on each side.

“Good evening,” Vetinari says mildly, and Vimes gives him a dutiful salute as he comes closer. Unlike the average member of the aristocracy, Vimes does not especially fear Vetinari: to do that would amount to about the same lot of good as being afraid of the moon, or the sun. You can be frightened of it if you like, but it isn’t going to go anywhere, and if it wants to harm anyone, it probably won’t go to the bother of harming you specifically.

And if it does?

Well. It’s not as if you can do anything about it. What’s the point in being frightened?

“Is it?” Vimes asks, unenthusiastically.

“I notice the Lady Sybil is absent,” Vetinari says, with a sort of wooden sympathy. His expression is entirely neutral, displaying its usual blank-eyed stare that would make most people flinch, fluster, or perhaps break out in a flopsweat. There are some on the Disc that might retort to this stare with a cheery grin that might annoy Vetinari; others might respond with blank incomprehension; Vimes’ riposte – well-practised after all his years of service – is something rather different.

Vimes’ method is to retain an expression of dutiful service, the lips pursed, the eyes staring forward and not crossing the gaze of the Patrician’s own, his fingernails still touching against his forehead in silent salute.

“Yessir,” Vimes says.

“Put your hand down, Vimes,” Vetinari says, in a tone of some boredom.

“Yessir,” Vimes assents, and he does, his hands settling behind his back. He’s still wearing his Commander’s uniform, although he had been convinced to exchange his cardboard boots for some “handsome” ones. “She’s caught ill.”

“What a shame.” With the familiar stiffness to one side, Vetinari moves to stand beside Vimes, so that the two of them are shoulder to shoulder. Vetinari stands slightly closer to Vimes than is strictly necessary, and Vimes can feel the dusty, stiff fabric of his sleeve against the bare patch of arm where his breastplate gives way before his gauntlet begins. It’s summer in Ankh-Morpork, a dreadful, sticky heat lingering on every street, and causing the river to concentrate its smell on the air at large instead of just the air beside the river. This means that Vimes is even less inclined to wear the full livery of his poshed up uniform than usual, as it’s simply too hot to bear.

Vimes is aware of the looks being sent their way.

Ordinarily, Vimes is the subject of a great many looks – these looks ordinarily happen along the lines of, “he doesn’t belong here, the jumped-up little oik,” and such sentiments as that – these are sentiments, in fact, that Vimes would agree with. He does not belong here. He is of the opinion that nobody belongs here. This is nonsense.

But the fact of the Patrician standing beside him means that many of these looks stop in their tracks, and are abruptly softened (or, more accurately, strangled) on the faces of those delivering them. It’s one thing to send a withering look to Sir Samuel Vimes, who should not be here anyway, and who couldn’t give a toss who looks at him, withering or no, but—

Lord Vetinari?

Well.

That’s a very different matter.

“You don’t sway to the music,” Vetinari says mildly.

“This ain’t music,” Vimes scoffs.

“Isn’t it?” Vetinari asks, “Curious that you should say so, Vimes. It meets many of the descriptors of music. Instruments, a rhythm, chords—”

“It’s like,” Vimes starts, wrinkling his nose and crossing his arms tightly over his chest, “clay. It’s cheap, easy to reproduce, and it doesn’t matter that it looks nice for five minutes, because it’s sticky and it clings to your boots.” Vimes glances at Vetinari, and he sees Vetinari’s thin lips twitch slightly into a smirk.

“I see,” Vetinari says. “You dislike popular music.”

“Don’t see the point to it.”

“There is no point to it, Vimes. One hears it, one listens to it while it is playing, perhaps one dances, and then one goes home.”

“What time is it?” Vimes asks.

“Bingly-bingly-bong!” comes the resulting chime from his pocket, and Vimes feels his mouth twist into a scowl. “It is precisely about half seven!”

“Can I have an actually precise figure, if you please?” Vimes demands. There is a sort of stiff growl in his voice that rings on the air, and the demon in the Dis-organiser hesitates for a second or two as it evaluates the potential of this growl being a threat.

“It’s thirty-six past the hour.”

“Right,” Vimes says. He has been here, then, for thirty-two minutes, meaning he has to pass another twenty-eight before he can leave without Sybil calling him impolite. It isn’t that Sybil will mind, exactly. Sybil doesn’t like any of these people any more than he does, really, and she doesn’t want him to have to withstand it either, but—

She’ll be pleased, if he sticks it out. She won’t say so, outright. But as much as Sybil will playfully call him impolite, if he goes home early, she’ll also be delighted, if he is polite, for once. It’ll make her smile.

He likes those absent smiles of hers, when she is focusing on other things, and when it’s something Sam’s done. She does it like she doesn’t know she’s smiling, her expression faraway and focused on other things, and it’s—

It’s lovely, is what it is. She’s lovely.

“You like it when I piss ‘em off, don’t you?” Vimes asks. His voice is quiet, meant for Vetinari’s ears – the benefit of a room like this, with this tinkling music and the chatter of all these toffs, is that you can be in full view of everybody, and still say what you like.

“I’m sure I have no idea what you mean,” Vetinari replies, his tones smooth and oily. “Nothing you do, Vimes, gives me pleasure one way or the other.”

Vimes feels his lips shift into a slight smile.

“As intended then, sir,” he says cheerfully. A little while ago, he’d been looking back on the times where he’d been a little bit more reliant on the bottle, and missing it – he’d wanted for a drink, and had been glancing at the trays of champagne as they’d passed him by, but Vetinari…

In a completely different way to Vimes, Vetinari is seemingly incapable of getting drunk.

“What’s this music for then, my lord?” Vimes asks.

“I believe I told you, Vimes.”

“Oh, I see,” Vimes says. “Dancing.”

“Quite.”

“You ain’t dancing, lord.”

“I am not.”

“You ain’t even swaying.”

“No.”

“’Cause you’re too tall, is it?” Vetinari’s blank expression—

It would be unfair to call it a falter. If we are to use the terms of the music Lord Vetinari is so fond of, we might say that a falter lasts too long: it would need to last at least a beat. The shift in Lord Vetinari’s expression is so marginal that it does not even amount to a quarter of a beat, so we can’t call it a falter.

Vetinari’s blank expression, instead, flickers.

A light seems to shift in his icy blue eyes, so small a change as to scarcely be noticed, and then he gives Vimes a sideways glance that Vimes has seen before. This glance communicates a great deal of information in one easy shift of the heavy eyelids and the dark eyebrows, in the glacier-cold colour of the eyes: it says, Explain. Explain now. Explain with expedience. And maybe, all will go well for you.

“Well,” Vimes says, conversationally. “It’d look silly, if you were to sway, wouldn’t it? You could tap your foot, maybe, or flick your nail against your cane, but if you were to sway, well. You’re just too tall, and too thin. You’d look like some Uberwaldian tree in a low wind.”

A pause spans between them.

The rest of the ball continues around them, the music irritatingly pleasant (Vimes can just feel it needling its way into his ears, to worm about as much as it pleases over the coming weeks and rot his concentration), the people dancing. Ugly men dance with ridiculous women; ugly women dance with ridiculous men. One couple that is equally ugly and equally ridiculous are better at dancing than everybody else, and Vimes decides he likes them, based on the fact that Lord Rust is giving them both a disgusted stare, meaning there must be something about them worth liking.

“Am I to understand, Vimes,” Vetinari says in a poisonous whisper, the best the Assassins’ Guild knows how to train into a man, “that you are teasing me?”

“Don’t reckon it’s up to me to decide what you understand or don’t understand, lord.”

A beat passes (not a falter, you understand), and Vetinari laughs, and for a second, the entire room freezes.

The music stutters, and stops: dancers stop dancing with one another, and people turn to look at their Patrician as he chuckles quietly, his teeth showing, his head leaning forward slightly. “Very droll, Vimes,” he finally rumbles out, and at a sudden glare, the music starts back up with a hurried stumbling over notes and scrambling for instruments. “Do you know how to dance?”

“’Course, sir. Sybil insisted.”

“I see.” There’s a measure of doubt in Vetinari’s voice, and Vimes frowns at him, looking slightly up at Vetinari’s expression, which reveals nothing at all, but… Well, Vimes can dance. He’s got a sense of rhythm, and he knows how to hold himself at least as well as any of these toffs.

The thing is, sometimes, Vimes does things just to cause a spectacle. It’s because, at heart, he’s an angry man, and the fact of the matter is that anger can only get you so far with truly upsetting some people – you can yell until you’re blue in the face at one of these nasty, gold-plated bastards, and they’ll just laugh. But a spectacle? Well, that sort of thing needles right into the heart of these ugly people and rubs sparks together, makes them pop and shudder and make indignant noises. Indignation is the weakness of any lord or lady – when you’re indignant (and that’s trulyindignant, not just putting on a show of indignation for the sake of it), it’s hard to remain superior. It rips the rug out from under you, in that respect.

“Can you dance, lord?”

“Yes,” Vetinari says, in the mild tone of someone making small talk, but not exactly clear on the path it’s taking him on.

“Nah. Bet you a penny you can’t.” Vetinari glances at him again.

“I beg your pardon, Vimes?”

“Bet you a penny, sir. Legs’re too long: bet you can’t dance a beat.”

Vetinari stares at Vimes, uncomprehendingly, and then his icy-cold gaze flickers downward, to Vimes’ hand, which is outstretched, palm up. The golden shine of his gauntlets catches the ridiculous candlelight. Vetinari blinks.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Vimes,” he snaps out scoldingly, and Vimes holds his position for just a second longer than another man might. “Take those gauntlets off. Drumknott.” The last is added in a sort of automatic way, and Drumknott materialises out of the air beside Vimes with astonishing alacrity.

“Were you there this whole time?” Vimes asks, and Drumknott arches his eyebrows at him, his hands out. Vimes sets each of his gauntlets down on Drumknott’s soft palms with one quiet clank and then a second, and he looks to Vetinari, raising his eyebrows in expectation.

Vetinari’s hand is inhumanly cold in Vimes’, but his grip is firm, and Vimes moves faster than Vetinari does: his other hand settles on the firm, flat rivet of Vetinari’s hip, gripping loosely at the black cloth. Something shifts in Vetinari’s expression, a kind of brightening, and Vimes thinks – or he imagines, more accurately, because he can’t possibly actually be seeing this – Vetinari’s breath stutters just slightly as his hand settles on Vimes’ shoulder.

Sybil would love this, and Vimes wishes she was here to see it. Gods, Sybil will be delighted, just hearing about it.

“I’ll lead, shall I?” Vimes asks.

“For once,” Vetinari replies, and Vimes takes the first step.

Dancing with the Patrician is not like dancing with Sybil. For one, Sybil is a good deal bigger than Vetinari – they’re about the same height (taller than Vimes), true enough, but Sybil is a stout woman with a prominent chest, and when she and Vimes dance chest-to-chest, they dance chest-to-chest. You could fit Vetinari’s biography, sideways, between his and Vetinari’s chests right now. For two, Vetinari’s movements are—

Look.

The moves are correct. Vimes couldn’t argue with that. The bastard has perfect rhythm (and probably perfect pitch and all), and his movements are completely in time with the music, but there’s a sort of clockwork element to them, a little too perfect. His body is held stiffly, his steps quiet against the ballroom floor, and unlike Sybil’s body, which moves with the music, her bosom shifting, her hips swaying, her frame seeming to sing, Vetinari just moves.

It still works. Vimes can’t deny that it still works, and that there’s something hypnotising about the ramrod straightness of Vetinari’s spine as they take themselves through the one-two-three, about the smirk on his face, about his bone-dry hands under Vimes’, but—

It’s not Sybil.

Then again, if Vetinari did manage to move like Sybil, somehow, Vimes supposes that’d be more unsettling.

They don’t speak, as they dance. He and Sybil usually do, her chattering away about what the dragons need this week, or him saying which lords and ladies in the room he dislikes the most, and Sybil patiently agreeing or disagreeing, depending on which of them likes dragons. He and Vetinari don’t speak: instead, they retain a perfect rhythm, dancing one way and then dancing the other, Vetinari seemingly content not to lead, and it’s—

It’s almost fun.

The music suddenly doesn’t seem quite so grating.  

People are staring, but that doesn’t matter – Vimes expected them to stare, and to be indignant, and the best thing about the indignation is that it’ll be like these people’s withering looks. In the face of the Patrician, they have nowhere to go. No one is going to tell Lord Vetinari that he can’t dance with the Watch Commander, if he wants to, no matter that the Watch Commander isn’t a real gentleman, or that the Watch Commander is a man, or that the Watch Commander is—

Well.

Sam Vimes.

“Think anyone’s gonna cut in?” Vimes asks when he feels his feet getting a bit tired in his disgustingly expensive boots. Vetinari, almost unsettlingly, has had a slight smile on his face the entire ten or fifteen minutes, and now, it only deepens.

“I don’t think they’d dare,” he says, with no small amount of fascination, and he neatly releases Vimes’ hand, letting him step away. They bow to one another, Vimes a bit deeper than Vetinari, and then Vimes glances at the big clock on the wall.

It’s a quarter past eight.

“You will be taking your leave, then, Commander Vimes?”

“Yessir,” Vimes says brightly, with an easy salute. “Good evening, sir!”

“Is it?” Vetinari replies smoothly, and Vimes brings a cigar to his mouth as he filters through the crowd, to make his way home.

It doesn’t matter that Sybil’s taken ill – he’ll sit up with her anyway, rub her back, brush her hair before bed… It’s a rare morning off tomorrow, as he’d expected for them to be up late, and Sybil will be glad to hear all about Vetinari, and about Vimes pissing off the toffs. Hopefully, she’ll feel better soon.

This’ll distract her, anyway. This’ll make her smile.

Gods, he loves that smile.

♕  ♕  ♕

Standing in an anteroom, Vetinari allows his thumb to stray over the delicate skin at his wrist, pressing tightly to the pulse point. Ordinarily, his heart beats in a slow and orderly manner, even in times of great crisis, but now, it has taken up the slightest speed, a disruption to its regular beat.

Vetinari’s mouth is slightly dry, and he feels the warmth in the smile he does not bother to force from his mouth in the privacy of the little room.

“Another glass of water, my lord?” Drumknott asks, sounding faraway.

“Please,” Vetinari says, and he hears the door open and click shut behind him.

Vimes is married, of course – it wouldn’t surprise Vetinari if Vimes had never even spared a thought to the idea of any man wanting another man, let alone the idea of a man wanting him, or wanting a man himself, but that isn’t the point, is it? Vetinari is a man of singular focus – he lacks the time for dalliances with young men, or even men his own age, nor the real inclination to want time to pursue such things, but that isn’t the point either.

The point is the ridiculous smile tugging at Vetinari’s lips, and the speed of his pulse that even now is evening out, smoothing to a fine, even pace.

“Up the budget for the Watch this year,” he says cleanly, when Drumknott returns with his water.

“An extra fifty dollars, my lord?” Drumknott asks.

“That should do it,” Vetinari says, inclining his head before taking a sip of his water.

“A very bold man, that Sir Vimes,” Drumknott says. Vetinari does not believe he imagines the slightly dreamy tone to his voice. “But now, that Captain Carrot…” Drumknott trails off, his eyebrows raised in inward, appraising thought, and then he coughs delicately against his hand, seeming to remember himself. “Will that be all, my lord?”

“Yes,” Vetinari says, drawing his thumb away from his wrist, and putting his sleeve back. “That will be all.”

#as defined by dictionary #discworld #vetvimes #havelock vetinari #sam vimes #fanfic

[indigoire]

hi! i saw your discworld post, and it's something i'd really love to get into but it looks kinda complicated? do you have like a preferred reading order you could recommand to me, or like a website that explains it? if you got the time of course!

Hey, sorry for the late response, work has been killer. 

As I’ve said a bunch of times already, there really isn’t a standard reading order. There are groups of people Pratchett focuses on, and depending on what sort of stuff you like to read you might prefer a certain set of characters to another. 

For example, I see on your blog that you’re into Brooklyn Nine Nine. If you like police procedural stories, or buddy cop stories, or even murder mysteries then the Watch books are right up your alley. It mostly centers on Sam Vimes, grizzled Captain of the Watch, and it starts with Guards, Guards! There’s drama and humor and a lot of exploring of Ankh-Morpork, my favorite fictional city-state. 

If you like magic and fairytales and folklore (and feminism) I’d suggest reading the Witches books, which starts with Equal Rites. Equal Rites is also short enough to give you a taste of Pratchett without being too much of a slog. 

You could also give the Death books a try! Death is one of my favorite characters. He speaks in a voice that sounds like slamming coffin lids and it’s STYLIZED LIKE THIS (technically small caps, but if I try that on here tumblr will probably break my post). Death’s books mostly focus on metaphysical concepts: Death, obviously, but also time, memory, music, holidays, belief. The big stuff. Death himself is a lovely character, and Pratchett has fun playing with all the standard tropes. Death also has a granddaughter named Susan, and I love her to bits. She’s technically fully human but she “inherited” some of Death’s powers and she uses them to amazing effect. Mort is the first Death book, but I’d go for Soul Music first if I was you. It introduces Susan as a character and it’s a very fun romp. 

The shortest “series” of books is the set of Moist von Lipwig books, or the “Post Office” books. Moist is a conman who gets a second chance to do right, and ends up becoming the new postmaster, then the new head of the Royal Bank, and in the third book he takes control of the new railway. His books are very focused on civic matters, and I enjoy them immensely. Moist goes up against criminals far worse than himself…capitalists. Seriously. In my last Discworld post I ended up grouping Moist’s books with the “industrial revolution” books (Moving Pictures, The Truth) because they have a lot of the same themes. I’d start with Going Postal for this group, one of my absolute favorites. 

There’s the Wee Free Men books, which feature Tiffany Aching, and which I actually have not read much of. Tiffany’s books are more young adult oriented, and focus a lot on the Nac Mac Feegle (little blue men, Pictsies, think the pixies from Harry Potter but the tiniest bit more intelligent and very Scottish) and other supernatural creatures. Tiffany’s stories start with The Wee Free Men. 

There are a whole bunch of one-offs that I love to pieces and which can be read and enjoyed on their own. I love Monstrous Regiment, which explores gender identity and presentation and has trans characters, women disguised as men, religious prophets, lesbians, vampires, and oh yeah there’s a silly war on can’t forget about that. Small Gods is also a fun one, involving a god who’s lost his powers because his believers no longer really believe, and because of this he is turned into a tortoise. 

Last but not least we come to…the Wizards. Or Rincewind, if you like. In my prior post, the infamous one, I made mention of the fact that when recommending books NO ONE recommends The Color of Magic or The Light Fantastic, the first two books in the entire Discworld series. I certainly don’t. I was given those books when I was very young and The Color of Magic was not very engaging to me. It’s a fine book on its own, and it definitely lays a lot of groundwork for what the series would transform into, but Pratchett is mostly parodying other fantasy works and a lot of the good stuff comes later. There’s also a bit of eighties misogyny going on in the early works, from before Pratchett grew out of that, and it’s a bit jarring. 

Now, I love Rincewind. And Twoflower, and the Luggage, and the Librarian, and all the crazy wizards at Unseen University, BUT I still stress that if you want to get to the good stuff right away and want to avoid some of the tropes Pratchett strays into, come back to TCoM and TLF at a later date. If you really are interested in the Wizards and their antics I’d pick up Sourcery first, which has a frankly hilarious moment involving Rincewind facing the forces of evil wielding a sock with half a brick in it. 

I think that pretty much covers it! Here is a pictorial guide that rather simplifies things (updated version, yaaay!) aaaaand here is another post of mine detailing a fun way to choose where to start if you’re still at a loss. In addition, here is the list of all the books and the characters they feature. 

Hope this helps! Happy reading! :D 

#awkward-star-lord #Discworld #Discworld reading order #Terry Pratchett #I might put this post in my faq or something lol #long post

[limejuicer1862]

*

My goal in life is the destruction of 5G masts. I cut my sandwich into triangles as a lower-middle class pretension. Back outside, my window, one time, a cream room, a view of the street’s antenna. The problem with David Lynch is how he makes too much sense. Back in the simulacrum, a boy, my age, rangers in North America, first as tragedy, then as… ironing out our balaclavas, filling out our milk bottles; backpacks unattended on park benches, on the bus.

*

A page of Baudrillard, hides the truth to view witnesses fraying little by little into ruins, discernible ruined empire, rotting carcass of the soil double ends simulation, this fabled second-order no longer that of a territory, no longer saturated, a hyperreal map one must

return without origin, shreds unusable a questionable sovereign difference – the charm abstraction, the coextensivity of poetry, the representation produced no imaginary. Operational, in fact, no longer memory radiating synthesis, no space without atmosphere, no worse

curvature. Imitation, nor duplication; leaving room for simulated liquidation.

-Alex Mazey

.the title changes.

there is too much interference things could be left alone things were alright anyway

the battery is low yet plugged in the radio buzzes.

things are distorted

so i did what he says, whilst running up and down the stairs.

source to av, only there aint no av, not on that one anyhow.

press my scart lead, that is probably it.

press the sky button, the sky does not respond.

we still has television snow.

mine are bifocal and can distort gently if i concentrate poorly on the centre i have had help a while grateful at least that i can see unlike some of my family

yesterday I watched a documentary about monkeys

-sonja benskin mesher

The new starboard

Our larvae split their skin in the signal-fry, warmed over by the wire-witched currents of one filigree moon in a hundredweight sky

and if we no longer see the stars how do they counsel a chart for a new grub, or pull a blood’s spirit-iron toward the dissolving north

and if we no longer feel these waves how may we know our own water, what deeps us for the giddy bubble of this sailing. And I know

there are rocks here still, they make chimneys of it to vent everything we can’t burn railing sparks against the sky- silver that meshes none of our tides true

and it will rain hot tonight, the sizzle pelting the new hatchlings

-Ankh Spice

Of Forest And Stick

Foe forest, faux forest fee-fi-fo forest. Where giants hurl their broken stories from broadcast heaven to stone cast ground. Real, this least of things.

Inarticulate metal arms pluck down your dreams, to place within the flakes of soul slow dying desiccation.

Sick insects wave. These metal poles sway clamped to roof and breast.

All point as one, their martyr fingers show. As minds walk psychotic in their circular days.

To stars and planets that orbit our night sleep late night drunk deep on their celestial milky ways.

Antennae wave hello. Behind smudged glass walls as we sit and stare into this aquarium hell of our own making.

As we spread across our furniture of forked cartons, plastic and messy despair We start to take on our corrupt story.

https://thewombwellrainbow.files.wordpress.com/2020/05/of-forest-and-stick.m4a

© Dai Fry 4th May 2020.

Reception

Quiet the cluttered airways. Listen. Too many voices reaching skyward, Clamoring for reception, Propelling selfhood upward,

Destroys collaborative Synergy. And interference causes failure. After all, Man-made towers were only Ever meant to fall.

https://thewombwellrainbow.files.wordpress.com/2020/05/reception.m4a

-st

Every Stem Is

an aerial, antennae whose signal carries an image and a sound of growth and bloom.

Leaves are directors, flagellum, reach out, test the air and vibrations.

Listen can your hear the messages, or is it distorted,

image overlaid on image, sound overlaid on sound?

It processes fake news, phishing and cyber attacks. discerns real from false. scents and trails.

A filter bubble, an information sceptic decides what diminishes it, what makes it grow.

what makes it turn towards warmth, towards brightness.

More than a conduit.

-Paul Brookes

effluorescence

concrete flowerbed: aluminium amaranths dream of fecund earth

-Rich Follett

These gray structures loom Like a dead alloy forest A mill’s epitaph

-Carrie Ann Golden

The Arrival (EEN)

Blue eclipse sudden shudder silver vibrations strange sensations mauve hues silent screams shattered dreams rainbow screams black void bleak skies pink cries identity hides no way out seek beware who goes there wait stop where no here why there marble hush turquoise crush hide smile cry illusion confusion static wailing connections failing conscience melting blood moon a light alight powder dawn seek destroy rebuild regenerate no rescue failed sight emerald night pyramid flight incoming yellow tongue purple feast horrible sightings a drone atone leave us alone lavender glass chards charge cut chaos comet rush – Reverse

https://thewombwellrainbow.files.wordpress.com/2020/05/the-arrival-een-mp3.mp3

The Arrival (TWEE)

Falling earth new birth cosmic boom blast break away descend evacuate take position brace brave pathetic beast eject object reject investigate attack no way back hold blinding strobe light up get up move no room fire storm go swerve dive testing resting make haste chase erase record a face strange days delete reboot reverse rethink incoming homecoming survive surrender sharp solar bursts the thirst implosion ration succession orchestration new nation sinking earth toxic rebirth black hole tar soul screeching silence severed signals strange sour suns

https://thewombwellrainbow.files.wordpress.com/2020/05/the-arrival-twee-mp3.mp3

-Don Beukes

Bios and Links

-Alex Mazey

(b.1991) received his MA (distinction) from Keele University in 2017. He later won The Roy Fisher Prize for Poetry with his debut pamphlet, ‘Bread and Salt’ (Flarestack, TBA). He was also the recipient of a Creative Future Writers’ Award in 2019. His poetry has featured regularly in anthologies and literary press magazines, most notably in The London Magazine. His collection of essays, ‘Living in Disneyland’, will be available from Broken Sleep Books in October 2020. Alex spent 2018 as a resident of The People’s Republic of China, where he taught the English Language in a school run by the Ministry of Education. His writing has been described as ‘wry and knowing,’ with ‘an edge that tears rather than cuts or deals blows.’

Twitter: @AlexzanderMazey

Instagram: alexmazey

Here is my interview of Alex:

https://thewombwellrainbow.com/2018/12/18/wombwell-rainbow-interviews-alex-mazey/

-Rich Follett

is a High School English and Creative Writing teacher who has been writing poems and songs for more than forty years. His poems have been featured in numerous online and print journals, including BlazeVox, The Montucky Review, Paraphilia, Leaf Garden Press and the late Felino Soriano’s CounterExample Poetics, for which he was a featured artist. Three volumes of poetry, Responsorials (with Constance Stadler), Silence, Inhabited, and Human &c. are available through NeoPoiesis Press (www.neopoiesispress.com.)

As a singer-songwriter, Rich has released five albums of independent contemporary folk music. His latest. Somewhere in the Stars, is available at http://www.richfollett.com. He lives with his wife Mary Ruth Alred Follett in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia, where he also pursues his interests as a professional actor, playwright, and director.

-Ankh Spice

is a sea-obsessed poet from Aotearoa (NZ). His poetry has appeared in a wide range of international publications and has twice been nominated for the Pushcart Prize. He truly believes that words have the power to change the place we’re in, and you’ll find him doing his best to prove it on

Twitter: @SeaGoatScreams or on Facebook: @AnkhSpiceSeaGoatScreamsPoetry

-Carrie Ann Golden

is a deafblind writer from the mystical Adirondack Mountains now living on a farmstead in northeastern North Dakota. She writes dark fiction and poetry. Her work has been published in places like Piker Press, Edify Fiction, Doll Hospital Journal, The Hungry Chimera, GFT Press, Asylum Ink, and Visual Verse.

-sonja benskin mesher

born , Bournemouth.

now

lives and works in North Wales as an independent artist

‘i am a multidisciplinary artist, crafting paint, charcoal, words and whatever comes to hand, to explain ideas and issues

words have not come easily. I draw on experience, remember and write. speak of a small life’.

Elected as a member of the Royal Cambrian Academy and the United Artists Society The work has been in solo exhibitions through Wales and England, and in selected and solo worldwide. Much of the work is now in both private, and public collections, and has been featured in several television documentaries, radio programmes and magazines.

Here is my interview of sonja benskin mesher:

https://thewombwellrainbow.com/2018/10/16/wombwell-rainbow-interviews-sonja-benskin-mesher/

-Samantha Terrell

is an American poet whose work emphasizes emotional integrity and social justice. She is the author of several eBooks including, Learning from Pompeii, Coffee for Neanderthals, Disgracing Lady Justice and others, available on smashwords.com and its affiliates.Chapbook: Ebola (West Chester University Poetry Center, 2014)

Website: poetrybysamantha.weebly.com Twitter: @honestypoetry

Here is my 2020 interview of her:

https://thewombwellrainbow.com/2020/04/08/wombwell-rainbow-interviews-samantha-terrell/

-Don Beukes

is a South African and British writer. He is the author of ‘The Salamander Chronicles’ (CTU) and ‘Icarus Rising-Volume 1’ (ABP), an ekphrastic collection. He taught English and Geography in both South Africa and the UK. His poetry has been anthologized in numerous collections and translated into Afrikaans, Persian, French and Albanian. He was nominated by Roxana Nastase, editor of Scarlet Leaf Review for the ‘Best of the Net’ in 2017 as well as the Pushcart Poetry Prize (USA) in 2016. He was published in his first SA Anthology ‘In Pursuit of Poetic Perfection’ in 2018 (Libbo Publishers) and his second ‘Cape Sounds’ in 2019 (Gavin Joachims Publishing). He is also an amateur photographer and his debut Photographic publication appeared in Spirit Fire Review in June 2019. His new book, ‘Sic Transit Gloria Mundi’/Thus Passes the Glory of this World’ is due to be published by Concrete Mist Press.

Here is my interview of Don Beukes:

https://thewombwellrainbow.com/2019/11/02/wombwell-rainbow-interviews-don-beukes/

-Dai Fry

is an old new poet. He worked in social care but now has no day job. A keen photographer and eater of literature and lurid covers. Fascinated by nature, physics, pagans, sea and storm. His poetry seeks to capture image and tell philosophical tales. Published in Black Bough Poetry, Re-Side, The Hellebore Press and the Pangolin Review. He can be seen reading on #InternationalPoetryCircle and regularly appears on #TopTweetTuesday. Twitter. @thnargg Web seekingthedarklight.co.uk

Audio/Visual. @IntPoetryCircle #InternationalPoetryCircle Twitter #TopTweetTuesday

-Paul Brookes

is a shop asst. Lives in a cat house full of teddy bears. His chapbooks include The Fabulous Invention Of Barnsley, (Dearne Community Arts, 1993). The Headpoke and Firewedding (Alien Buddha Press, 2017), A World Where and She Needs That Edge (Nixes Mate Press, 2017, 2018) The Spermbot Blues (OpPRESS, 2017), Port Of Souls (Alien Buddha Press, 2018), Please Take Change (Cyberwit.net, 2018), Stubborn Sod, with Marcel Herms (artist) (Alien Buddha Press, 2019), As Folk Over Yonder ( Afterworld Books, 2019). Forthcoming Khoshhali with Hiva Moazed (artist), Our Ghost’s Holiday (Final book of threesome “A Pagan’s Year”) . He is a contributing writer of Literati Magazine and Editor of Wombwell Rainbow Interviews.

-Mary Frances

is an artist and writer based in the UK. She takes a few photos every day, for inspiration and to use in her work. The images for this project were all taken in the last two years on walks during in the month of May. Her words and images have been published by Penteract Press, Metambesen, Ice Floe Press, Burning House Press, Inside the Outside, Luvina Rivista Literaria, and Lone Women in Flashes of Wilderness. Twitter: @maryfrancesness

-James Knight

is an experimental poet and digital artist. His books include Void Voices (Hesterglock Press) and Self Portrait by Night (Sampson Low). His visual poems have been published in several places, including the Penteract Press anthology Reflections and Temporary Spaces (Pamenar Press). Chimera, a book of visual poems, is due from Penteract Press in July 2020.

Website: thebirdking.com.

Twitter: @badbadpoet

Here is my interview of James Knight:

https://thewombwellrainbow.com/2019/01/06/wombwell-rainbow-interviews-james-knight/

-Sue Harpham

is an admin worker, currently not in work Married, 2 sons. Loves poetry and words. She considers herself a writer of scribble rather than a poet. She has written a novel and is using her spare time to finally get it published (self-publishing) which has been an ambition of her for the last 10 years.

Welcome to a special ekphrastic challenge for May. Artworks from Mary Frances, James Knight and Sue Harpham will be the inspiration for writers, Alex Mazey, Ankh Spice, Samantha Terrell, Dai Fry, Carrie Ann Golden, sonja benskin mesher, Rich Follett, Don Beukes and myself. May 5th. * My goal in life is the destruction of 5G masts. I cut my sandwich into triangles as a lower-middle class pretension.

[readbookywooks]

The spells were alone inside their Octavo. Alone, at any rate, apart from the Luggage. They looked at it, not with eyes, but with consciousness as old as the Discworld itself. 'And you can bugger off too,' they said. '— bad.' Rincewind knew it was himself speaking, he recognised the voice. For a moment he was looking out through his eyes not in any normal way, but as a spy might peer through the cut-out eyes of a picture. Then he was back. 'You okay, Rinshwind?' said Cohen. 'You looked a bit gone there.' 'You did look a bit white,' agreed Bethan. 'Like someone had walked over your grave.' 'Uh, yes, it was probably me,' he said. He held up his fingers and counted them. There appeared to be the normal amount. 'Um, have I moved at all?' he said. 'You just looked at the fire as if you had seen a ghost,' said Bethan. There was a groan behind them. Twoflower was sitting up, holding his head in his hands. His eyes focused on them. His lips moved soundlessly. 'That was a really strange . . . dream,' he said. 'What's this place? Why am I here?' 'Well,' said Cohen, 'shome shay the Creator of the Univershe took a handful of clay and —' 'No, I mean here,' said Twoflower. 'Is that you, Rincewind?' 'Yes,' said Rincewind, giving it the benefit of the doubt. 'There was this . . . a clock that . . . and these people who . . .' said Twoflower. He shook his head. 'Why does everything smell of horses?' 'You've been ill,' said Rincewind. 'Hallucinating.' 'Yes . . . I suppose I was.' Twoflower looked down at his chest. 'But in that case, why have I—' Rincewind jumped to his feet. 'Sorry, very close in here, got to have a breath of fresh air,' he said. He removed the picture box's strap from Twoflower's neck, and dashed for the tent flap. 'I didn't notice that when he came in,' said Bethan. Cohen shrugged. Rincewind managed to get a few yards from the yurt efore the ratchet of the picture box began to click. Very slowly, the box extruded the last picture that the imp had taken. Rincewind snatched at it. What it showed would have been quite horrible even in broad daylight. By freezing starlight, tinted red with the fires of the evil new star, it was a lot worse. 'No,' said Rincewind softly. 'No, it wasn't like that, there was a house, and this girl, and . . .' 'You see what you see and I paint what I see,' said the imp from its hatch. 'What I see is real. I was bred for it. I only see what's really there.' A dark shape crunched over the snowcrust towards Rincewind. It was the Luggage. Rincewind, who normally hated and distrusted it, suddenly felt it was the most refreshingly normal thing he had ever seen. 'I see you made it, then,' said Rincewind. The Luggage rattled its lid. 'Okay, but what did you see?' said Rincewind. 'Did you look behind?' The Luggage said nothing. For a moment they were silent, like two warriors who have fled the field of carnage and have paused for a return of breath and sanity. Then Rincewind said, 'Come on, there's a fire inside.' He reached out to pat the Luggage's lid. It snapped irritably at him, nearly catching his fingers. Life was back to normal again. The next day dawned bright and clear and cold. The sky became a blue dome stuck on the white sheet of the world, and the whole effect would have been as fresh and clean as a toothpaste advert if it wasn't for the pink dot on the horizon. 'You can shee it in daylight now,' said Cohen. 'What is it?' He looked hard at Rincewind, who reddened. 'Why does everyone look at me?' he said. 'I don't know 107 what it is, maybe it's a comet or something.' 'Will we all be burned up?' said Bethan. 'How should I know? I've never been hit by a comet before.' They were riding in single file across the brilliant snow-field. The Horse people, who seemed to hold Cohen in high regard, had given them their mounts and directions to the River Smarl, a hundred miles rimward, where Cohen reckoned Rincewind and Twoflower could find a boat to take them to the Circle Sea. He had announced that he was coming with them, on account of his chilblains. Bethan had promptly announced that she was going to come too, in case Cohen wanted anything rubbed. Rincewind was vaguely aware of some sort of chemistry bubbling away. For one thing, Cohen had made an effort to comb his beard. 'I think she's rather taken with you,' he said. Cohen sighed. If I wash twenty yearsh younger,' he said wistfully. 'Yes?' 'I'd be shixty-sheven.' 'What's that got to do with it?' 'Well – how can I put it? When I wash a young man, carving my name in the world, well, then I liked my women red-haired and fiery.' 'Ah.' 'And then I grew a little older and for preference I looked for a woman with blonde hair, and the glint of the world in her eye.' 'Oh? Yes?' 'But then I grew a little older again and I came to see the point of dark women of a sultry nature.' He paused. Rincewind waited. 'And?' he said. 'Then what? What is it that you look for in a woman now?' Cohen turned one rheumy blue eye on him. 'Patience,' he said. 'I can't believe it!' said a voice behind them. 'Me riding ith Cohen the Barbarian!' It was Twoflower. Since early morning he had been like a monkey with the key to the banana plantation after discovering he was breathing the same air as the greatest hero of all time. 'Is he perhapsh being sharcashtic?' said Cohen to Rincewind. 'No. He's always like that.' Cohen turned in his saddle. Twoflower beamed at him, and waved proudly. Cohen turned back, and grunted. 'He's got eyesh, hashn't he?' 'Yes, but they don't work like other people's. Take it from me. I mean – well, you know the Horse people's yurt, where we were last night?' 'Yesh.' 'Would you say it was a bit dark and greasy and smelt like a very ill horse?' 'Very accurate deshcription, I'd shay.' 'He wouldn't agree. He'd say it was a magnificent barbarian tent, hung with the pelts of the great beasts hunted by the lean-eyed warriors from the edge of civilisation, and smelt of the rare and curious resins plundered from the caravans as they crossed the trackless – well, and so on. I mean it,' he added. 'He'sh mad?' 'Sort of mad. But mad with lots of money.' 'Ah, then he can't be mad. I've been around; if a man hash lotsh of money he'sh just ecshentric.' Cohen turned in his saddle again. Twoflower was telling Bethan how Cohen had single-handed defeated the snake warriors of the witch lord of S'belinde and stolen the sacred diamond from the giant statue of Offler the Crocodile God. A weird smile formed among the wrinkles of Cohen's face. 'I could tell him to shut up, if you like,' said Rincewind. 'Would he?' 'No, not really.' 'Let him babble,' said Cohen. His hand fell to the handle of his sword, polished smooth by the grip of decades. 'Anyway, I like his eyes,' he said. They can see for fifty years.' A hundred yards behind them, hopping rather awkwardly through the soft snow, came the Luggage. No-one ever asked its opinion about anything. By evening they had come to the edge of the high plains, and rode down through gloomy pine forests that had only been lightly dusted by the snowstorm. It was a landscape of huge cracked rocks, and valleys so narrow and deep that the days only lasted about twenty minutes. A wild, windy country, the sort where you might expect to find — Trollsh,' said Cohen, sniffing the air. Rincewind stared around him in the red evening light. Suddenly rocks that had seemed perfectly normal looked suspiciously alive. Shadows that he wouldn't have looked at twice now began to look horribly occupied. 'I like trolls,' said Twoflower. 'No you don't,' said Rincewind firmly. 'You can't. They're big and knobbly and they eat people.' 'No they don't,' said Cohen, sliding awkwardly off his horse and massaging his knees. 'Well-known mishap-prehenshion, that ish. Trolls never ate anybody.' 'No?' 'No, they alwaysh spit the bitsh out. Can't digesht people, see? Your average troll don't want any more out of life than a nice lump of granite, maybe, with perhapsh a nice slab of limeshtone for aftersh. I heard someone shay it's becosh they're a shilicashe – a shillycaysheou – Cohen paused, and wiped his beard, 'made out of rocks. Rincewind nodded. Trolls were not unknown in Ankh-Morpork, of course, where they often got employment as bodyguards. They tended to be a bit expensive to keep ntil they learned about doors and didn't simply leave the house by walking aimlessly through the nearest wall. As they gathered firewood Cohen went on, Trollsh teeth, that'sh the thingsh.' 'Why?' said Bethan. 'Diamonds. Got to be, you shee. Only thing that can shtand the rocksh, and they shtill have to grow a new shet every year.' 'Talking of teeth—' said Twoflower. 'Yesh?' 'I can't help noticing —' 'Yesh?' 'Oh, nothing,' said Twoflower. 'Yesh? Oh. Let'sh get thish fire going before we loshe the light. And then,' Cohen's face fell, 'I supposhe we'd better make some shoop.' 'Rincewind's good at that,' said Twoflower enthusiastically. 'He knows all about herbs and roots and things.' Cohen gave Rincewind a look which suggested that he, Cohen, didn't believe that. 'Well, the Horshe people gave us shome horse jerky,' he said. 'If you can find shome wild onionsh and stuff, it might make it tashte better.' 'But I—' Rincewind began, and gave up. Anyway, he reasoned, I know what an onion looks like, it's a sort of saggy white thing with a green bit sticking out of the top, should be fairly conspicuous. 'I'll just go and have a look, shall I?' he said. 'Yesh.' 'Over there in all that thick, shadowy undergrowth?' 'Very good playshe, yesh.' 'Where all the deep gullies and things are, you mean?' 'Ideal shpot, I'd shay.' 'Yes, I thought so,' said Rincewind bitterly. He set off, wondering how you attracted onions. After all, he thought, although you see them hanging in ropes on market stalls they probably don't grow like that, perhaps peasants or whatever use onions hounds or something, or ing songs to attract onions. There were a few early stars out as he started to poke aimlessly among the leaves and grass. Luminous fungi, unpleasantly organic and looking like marital aids for gnomes, squished under his feet. Small flying things bit him. Other things, fortunately invisible, hopped or slithered away under the bushes and croaked reproachfully at him. 'Onions?' whispered Rincewind. 'Any onions here?' 'There's a patch of them by that old yew tree,' said a voice beside him. 'Ah,' said Rincewind. 'Good.' There was a long silence, except for the buzzing of the mosquitoes around Rincewind's ears. He was standing perfectly still. He hadn't even moved his eyes. Eventually he said, 'Excuse me.' 'Yes?' 'Which one's the yew?' 'Small gnarly one with the little dark green needles.' 'Oh, yes. I see it. Thanks again.' He didn't move. Eventually the voice said conversationally, 'Anything more I can do for you?' 'You're not a tree, are you?' said Rincewind, still staring straight ahead. 'Don't be silly. Trees can't talk.' 'Sorry. It's just that I've been having a bit of difficulty with trees lately, you know how it is.' 'Not really. I'm a rock.' Rincewind's voice hardly changed. 'Fine, fine,' he said slowly. 'Well, I'll just be getting those onions, then.' 'Enjoy them.' He walked forward in a careful and dignified fashion, spotted a clump of stringy white things huddling in the undergrowth, uprooted them carefully, and turned around.

#LightFantastic

[norihisahyuga-archived]

Attention.

Kazari/Maki Kiyoto Kamen Rider OOO 1100~ words. Sfw.

Kazari is a cat, and as a cat he demands attention. Maki really has no choice but to go along with it.

Kazari may be an ancient creature the likes of which modern humanity has never seen before, but he is still a cat at heart, and it shows. It shows far too much for Maki’s personal comfort.

He had always thought Date had a tendency to overstep his boundaries and cross over into the personal space of others often without a second thought as to what he was doing, as if it was so natural that it needed no thought process. In much the same way, Kazari has come to figure out just how much of Maki’s personal space he can encroach on, when he can do so, and what he can get out of the deal. It makes sense, Maki supposes. If Kazar retains any feline traits, surely he must also retain some of the needs and desires that such animals also have.

Of course, he had never thought of large predatory cats as actual cats. They were predators designed to stalk, hunt, and capture prey with large claws and larger teeth. They had their own ways of living in the world, and so Maki worked with his knowledge of such animals in order to make sure his temporary partnership with the cat-like Greeed went about as smoothly as it could.

And then the book he is reading is swatted out of his hands, tossed carelessly onto the floor while a familiar platinum head thunks down in his lap, dark eyes looking up at him expectantly.

“Kazari.” Maki doesn’t know what to say or how to feel, but having Kazari blink up at him like this is slightly unnerving. Having him this close is unnerving, too. “What exactly are you doing?”

In answer, Kazari stretches a hand up and swats at Maki’s fingers. “I want attention.”

If cats could speak, Maki has no doubt they would say such things when they wanted attention; cats can be just as warm and friendly as people often give dogs credit for, or they can be fickle creatures who maintain a respectful distance from their owners until they want attention and decide that respectful distance be damned until they get the pets they want.

But cats are one thing. And cats certainly do not slink around in the bodies of human beings. “I don’t know what you mean by that, exactly. Would you care to explain yourself?”

In response, Kazari huffs up at him, lithe fingers catching Maki around the wrist so quickly he doesn’t even see Kazari’s hand move to complete the motion. “Honestly,” Kazari mutters under his breath, dragging Maki’s head down to the top of his head. “Now give me attention.”

“I see.” Maki remains still, his hand resting on top of Kazari’s head. “You want me to pet you.”

Kazari snaps his fingers. “Yes, that,” he says, then relaxes his body so completely that even his head feels heavier on Maki’s legs. “I wasn’t sure I had the correct phrasing to ask.”

Date certainly had never thrown himself into Maki’s lap and demanded to be pet quite like this, but Kazari is generally less intrusive. Maki isn’t sure which one of them is worse now.

It takes him a brief moment of thought process and a deep breath to calm himself before he slowly, awkwardly tries to find a way to pet Kazari’s hair that will satisfy his desire.

It had never occurred to him that Kazari would ask for this, and certainly not from him. It would have been more in form for him to go hunt down someone to do it for him, wouldn’t it?

For the sake of their partnership and their cooperation— Maki does need Kazari’s assistance after all, his plans can’t simply go off without a hitch if he has no Greeed to be a vessel for the Core Medals— Maki keeps petting Kazari’s hair until his dark eyes slip closed and he sighs softly.

He had never liked animals, not even cats, too absorbed in his work to think about caring for one.

But still, this is fascinating enough, he thinks. To study the way Kazari relaxes even more with each additional stroke to his hair, the way he tilts his head into the touch a little. Greeed are characterized by their sadistic and violent nature, if anything else. This is the exact opposite.

“Did someone in your former life comply with this when you needed it?” he asks.

“Ankh.” The answer is quick and apparently automatic because Kazari wrinkles his nose as soon as he seems to realize he’s said it. “And I preened his feathers. Obviously, that stopped.”

“Obviously,” Maki echoes, remembering the volatile relationship between the two of them.

Kazari rolls his shoulders. “After Ankh, there was no one. We were too busy fighting the King.”

That… Would make sense. Maki doesn’t ask any more questions out of Kazari though, sensing he had touched on a sensitive spot of the cat’s and not wanting to annoy him or anger him any more than he already has by probing in the first place. Truthfully, they know so little about the Greeed and their past lives that he can’t help but wonder what it must have been like back then, what the original OOO was like and how the Greeed had essentially almost ruled the world.

“This is nice,” Kazari murmurs, his voice soft and hazy as he stretches his neck.

“Cats seem to like being pet,” Maki observes, and Kazari smirks. “At least, domestic ones do.”

“Have you domesticated me?” There is an edge to the question, dark eyes fluttering open in challenge, though the spark of intensity is overshadowed by how heavy his lids are. He’s tired.

The question is an interesting one, and Maki takes care to think it over before he gives an answer because Kazari would expect nothing less of him at this juncture. Domesticating an animal takes time and effort and breeding to hone the perfect features for the animal as well as removing the more feral traits that make them untrustworthy. But Greeed are far more than a simple beast, far more even than a human. Could any human ever truly handle taming someone like that?

He thinks of Eiji Hino, and his relationship with Ankh, the banter, the bond between them.

“You aren’t an animal to be domesticated, Kazari. I don’t think anyone who tried could succeed in such a venture.” Kazari’s lips twitch upward just slightly; he must like the answer. “Rather, you have chosen to be my companion for the time being. That is all this is.”

“A good answer.” Kazari frowns at him, pushing his head up into Maki’s hand, and Maki resumes petting him, not sure when he stopped. “A partnership. I will never be anyone’s pet.”

“I would assume not,” Maki agrees, pushing Kazari’s hair back out of his eyes.

Kazari’s eyes drift closed again, and when Maki’s fingers brush the skin behind one of his ears, he’s startled when a low, almost but not quite rumbling sound answers the touch.

He makes a note to remind himself later on down the line that Kazari can purr.

When he’s working later on and Kazari has disappeared for the night, he compiles his observations on Kazari’s behavior into something he can work with. And if Kazari drops a dead bird down on top of his lab table, startling the hell out of him in the process, well… He earned it.

#kamen rider ooo #kazari #kiyoto maki #*f: mine #*f: krooo #*f: kazari #*f: maki #look i don't know what this is either #but i love them