of strangeness that wakes us

anonymous asked:

Gradence: in canon Credence was promised by Graves that he could live with him when they proved to the wizarding world that Credence was a wizard. Credence spent a lot of time with Graves. A LOT. And then when Grindelwald replaced him he knew something was wrong. He's a smart boy, an imaginative boy, his life turned upside down with magic. So why COULDN'T there be some way you could steal a man's face? (1/2)

So why COULDN’T there be some way you could steal a man’s face? When Grindelwald tries to manipulate him into sex Credence refuses, starts shouting that he’s not Mr. Graves, he’s not HIS Mr. Graves. And the obscurus comes out and fucking TEARS GRINDELWALD APART and reveals Graves trapped somewhere in the apartment. (2/2) 

“May I have a flyer?”

Y-Yes sir.

“Second Salemers, eh? What do your lot preach?”

There are witches, sir. They can set a curse on you, sir.  They marry the Devil, sir, and they carry out his evil deeds in the world against the good and God-fearing people.

They might steal your face and take your place. 

“And how does one spot a witch, exactly?”

I – I – Sometimes they have the mark of the Devil upon them, sir. A witch is wicked. A man or a woman.

(Ma says I might be a witch. The Devil is inside me, sir. I’m wicked, sir. You’d better get away before I turn you into a witch, too.)

Dark eyes peer back at him. There is no disgust, or incredulousness, or annoyance. They assess him for a long moment, before he sees something quite unexpected:


 “Credence, has anything – unusual ever happened to you? Something you could not explain?”

It is no use that Credence comes home empty handed. His mother sniffs his breath suspiciously and Credence awaits her verdict. Her eyes narrow.

Thief,” she hisses, and Credence unbuckles his belt. The taste of the sweet pastry he shared with Mr Graves turns sour on his tongue.

The next morning, Credence’s palms are dry and unmarked. There has been another gas leak in one of the factories.

 Mr Graves heals his hands, heals his back, heals his legs. He takes him to diners and repairs his clothes with a swish of his wand. When Credence still has a quarter-stack of pamphlets in his grip and the shadows of the skyscrapers shroud the streets, Mr Graves appears with a swirl of misplaced air to take them from him so Credence won’t get into trouble.

“Please,” Mr Graves pleads one night, as he runs the tip of his wand along the rungs of Credence’s ribs, “Come with me. If she does this again – if I couldn’t get here in time – “

The waist of Credence’s trousers is sodden with his blood.

Credence pads through the halls of Mr Graves’ brownstone. He tries his best to be a good houseguest; he makes the bed each morning, he irons Mr Graves’ shirts, he sets the table for their dinner each night. He reads all the books Mr Graves suggests and whispers the information back to himself, determined to learn, determined to fit in. In the evenings, he converses with his host about everything he’s learned that day – Magical History at first, and then all manner of creatures and plants and potions and spells that are so wild and fantastical he knows he isn’t dreaming, because he couldn’t possibly have dreamt of them.

He very determinedly doesn’t think about the little frissons of joy that explode in his chest when Mr Graves’ eyes widen in surprise, the way he smiles when Credence asks him little questions about wandwood and charmwork and magic. Guilt settles behind his lungs, but he likes making Mr Graves’ life easier, likes to thank him through little actions and services.

Steam billows out the open door of the bathroom. Inside, Mr Graves stands at the sink, frowning as he turns his head this way and that, examining his reflection. A straight razor and a brush sit on the counter. Credence twists his fingers anxiously in the doorway.

“Mr Graves,” he says, shyly, “Won’t you let me do that for you?”

Percival adorns Credence’s body with a dozen lovely bites and soft bruises that Credence will later trace with a sweet smile, every mark treasured. His caresses are roses blossoming across his skin, his palms the trellis from which they bloom. He savours the way Percival’s eyelashes tremble, how his hands cradle him reverently.  Each kiss against his skin is baptism, every brush of his fingertips is communion, and the look on his face when Credence sinks onto his thighs is absolution. If the worship of his body is religion, Percival is the high priest, guarding the temple of his body jealously for himself alone.

Credence has no more nightmares. There are no more mysterious gas explosions. Sometimes he wakes up, three in the morning, the pillow beneath his cheek wet and a monster sitting atop his chest. He imagines there are white eyes staring down at him from the darkness.

Percival nuzzles him sleepily, tugs him a little closer, presses a soft kiss to the skin of his bare shoulder. Credence winds his arms around him and closes his eyes.

Credence spends sunsoaked afternoons curled in the armchairs of their living room, long limbs tucked up and dripping curls of hair hiding his face as he sits engrossed in a textbook.

He has signed the forms Percival brought him; his name is now Credence Jones, an acknowledged Squib. Only he and Percival know better; Credence could probably power every spell in the Woolworth building for a week before feeling even the slightest drain on his magic. But he finds he quite likes being hidden away in Percival’s apartment, safe and secure and high above anyone who desires to hurt him or use his immense power for their own gain.

His eye catches on something long and complicated. Polyjuice Potion, it reads, and he skims it disinterestedly before flipping across to the much friendlier sounding Dragonfly Brew, which promises to give the drinker wings.

When Percival doesn’t come home one night, Credence doesn’t worry overmuch. He is used to his strange hours, waking up as the sun rises and Percival stumbles into bed.

His side of the bed is still cool in the morning, the sheets still carefully drawn up.

Credence spends the day fretting, at first burning breakfast, then attempting to wipe down the skirting boards. He manages to set the curtains on fire and has a heartstopping moment of terror when he can’t remember the Aguamenti spell and Percival isn’t there to help. The sun sinks over the horizon and Credence is pacing the hallway, agitated.

The key rattles in the lock and Percival walks in. Credence rushes at him with a cry, peppers him with kisses and soft touches. “Where were you?” he cries, clutching on the fabric of his coat, tears shining in the corners of his eyes.

“There was a case,” Percival says, oddly, stilted. “I’m sorry, dear.”

Credence sleeps fitfully that night. There is a knot wound tight behind his breastbone; it swells each time he inhales, crushes his lungs and his throat.

When he wakes up he is exhausted. The New York Ghost speculates on recent magical currents running the length of the island of Manhattan. Credence worries over Percival, pouring his coffee and packing him lunch. Percival looks at him blankly, presses a cool kiss against his forehead, and swirls away with silent Apparition.

Percival’s hands are heavy as they bracket his upper arms. He looms over him, caging him in against the back of the sofa. No, Credence thinks, heart thudding heavy in his chest. Blood rushes in his ears. Percival kisses him, but their teeth click together and Credence cries out, pulling away and bringing his hand to his mouth.

“You hurt me,” he says.

Percival blinks at him and his eyes narrow. His grip on Credence’s arms tightens and he draws himself in. “I’m sorry, dear one,” he croons. “You’re just – you’re so beautiful, you know I can’t possibly control myself around you. I’m sorry. Won’t you forgive me? Don’t you love me?”

Credence feels like the flame of a candle in a church, suffocated.

No, he thinks. This is not right.

– the Polyjuice Potion, which is a complex and time-consuming concoction. It enables the consumer to assume the physical appearance of another person as long as they have first procured the part of that individual’s body to add to the brew –

Credence closes the book slowly. His hands are shaking.

Oily smoke curls up from beneath his fingernails. Credence eyes it calmly, cold and unafraid.

anonymous asked:

Would you say a game begins with "the protagonist wakes up in a unknown place to them" too cliché/too lame?

Only if you don’t use it properly.

The protagonist waking up in an unknown area can be a weak set up if you don’t give the player a reason to keep going and/or a goal to achieve.  

Pocket Mirror is the first thing that comes to mind with this: the player character wakes up in a room and has no idea what’s going on or how she got there.  From here, the player solves a series of puzzles with no other reason than “this is a puzzle game, do this to go on to the next room.”  Sure, there’s a mystery, but you’re not sure if you’re anywhere closer to solving it by doing these puzzles or what you are achieving by doing these puzzles in the first place.  You don’t have much context for what’s going on either.  All you know is that you’re playing as a young girl in a…castle?  Mansion?  Who knows (you figure it out at the end of course).  Heck, I didn’t even realize she had amnesia until she told someone she didn’t know her name 20 minutes into the game (other games have the character’s name never be revealed with no amnesia).

Speaking of amnesia, Amensia: The Dark Descent has a pretty good set up.  You wake up as this dude with amnesia who has a note from his past self saying “Lol hi present you it’s past me, I gave you amnesia. I did this so you can  go kill this guy in the castle for me.  Please and thank you, Past Daniel”.  Straight off the bat you’re given a goal (kill Alexander) and a specific mystery to solve (why did Daniel give himself amnesia?).  You have other small goals you got to do leading up to it.  So you’ve got a sense of what you’re doing.

The protagonist waking up in an unknown area can be pretty helpful to a game.  When a player starts the game, they’ll have no idea what’s going on. The player character will ask questions the audience wants to know the answers to, like “where am I?” and “how does this work?”, so you can give your players clear explanations to things you want them to know.

I think the Player Character should also be reasonably intuitive for this kind of thing to work to - they can start saying “Oh, so that’s what’s going on with this…” when you feel like your players will start connecting some dots based on the stuff the protagonist knows.  You can also have the protagonist provide alternate theories like “Oh, so I’m here because of this reason” when later it’s revealed that no, the protagonist was here for a different reason.  This way, you can still have your player character be a thinking human being without having them solve the mystery of why they’re there for the player.

I ended up asking @ralphrius about this since he likes to talk about video game design a lot.  Here’s his opinion: 

Make sure that there is a REASON they wake up there and make sure the reveal is SATISFYING

Don’t use “they wake up in a strange place” as a start of your story.  at least, don’t start WRITING from there.  make sure you have an AMAZING idea as to WHY they wake up there.  and make sure that when it gets revealed, every player will go “holy SHIT”

I think that’s good if you’re basing the plot off of the mystery of why they’re there.  I remember playing Ravenwood Horror and the reason why the protagonist was there was revealed pretty early: he was there to tend to someone as a doctor.  It was a simple explanation, and the game kept the mystery going by trying to figure out what happened to the patient and how to get out of the castle and not die.  So a big reveal isn’t always necessary, just something to aim for if it’s the crux of your story.

Sorry if the answer is kinda nebulous - cliches can be an opinion kind of thing rather than a set in stone kind of thing.  You can make anything work in a game as long as you use it right.  I hope this helps you a bit!  

Do any of my followers out there have any other opinions on this? Feel free to shout ‘em out.

The Other Stilinski

Originally posted by martabuzz

Characters: Y/n, Stiles, Peter, Derek, The Pack

Pairing: No pairing. Stiles x Brother!Reader (MALE!READER) 

Warnings: Fluffiness, happiness…sorta angst, mentions of death, traumatized child, fluff!!!

Word Count: 1043

Summary: Stiles takes his brother to meet the rest of the pack, but no one could’ve guessed he’d bond with him.

A/N: Ok, requested fic from anon-StilesxBabyBrotherReader? Like the MR is the 3-4 y/o Baby Brother of Stiles who is Mute (he can still do some sounds, but not often bc it will hurt him) so Stiles have to take care of him and the Pack just comes over & meet his Brother for the first time, so they help him & a lot of fluff. Ok, I changed the hurting part and made him selectively mute. Hope that’s ok, and hope u like it!!

Tagged Peeps: @sallyp-53@salvatorexwinchester@helvonasche@chelsea072498@the-latina-trickster@aingealcethlenn@lucifer-in-leather@p–trick@crackedclown@kumaartz@sinceriouslyamellpadalecki@mogaruke



Stiles rushed around upstairs, falling and thudding onto the floor, before he pulled the bedroom door open.

“What? Why?”

“I need to go. And the day-care cancelled”.

Stiles groaned, shaking his body exaggeratedly.

“Daaad! You know I was meant to go and meet the pack”.

The sheriff sighed, knowing that they’d been planning to hang out for the holidays.

But he needed someone to take care of y/n.

“I know, son. But, there’s no one else. And your brother needs you”.

When he put it like that, Stiles felt a sense of guilt, but also joy.

His brother needed him.

He’d still not gotten used to having a younger brother. Especially one who always relied on him.

But that feeling of having someone look up to him always made Stiles happy to have y/n.

“Fine”, he sighed, watching as his dad left the house.

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Grey is the new definition of sexy

Hey, hey! This is my involve in Malec week 2017. Hope you’ll like it.

Day one: Future scene


Summary: Alec sports his first grey hair, but Magnus reassures him it’s fine to have them. 

Alec woke up strangely relaxed this morning. None of his sons had woken him up, demanding food or something else. Angel knows, Rafael and Max had strange ideas at the early morning hours. Alec was used to wake up with the sun, but lately, as he reached his mid thirties, he liked to sleep in. Especially, when Magnus’s body kept him warm in their big bed.

Alec looked at the electric watch standing on Magnus’s night stand. It showed a little bit past eight. It made him confuse even more. Were his boys still asleep at such late hour for them ? Or were they up doing Angel knows what.

Alerted by the mysterious silence going in their home, Alec got up and went to the living room. His boys weren’t there, only Chairman Meow, their old cat was sleeping on the red plush couch, Magnus conjured from his apartment in London. He deemed it worthy again, after five years of not using. That, or he actually listened to Alec, when he told him that the couch was good for the shadowhunter’s back, when he got back from long training. It was just amazing.

There were some sounds coming from the kitchen. Alec went there, suspicious as hell. His boys, despite being fifteen and twelve didn’t have a hand in the kitchen. They were just as hopeless as their other father and aunt. Though, you had to give it to Max, he could conjure any food he wanted, from where he wanted, as he was skilled warlock.

As he entered the kitchen, he found his both sons eating bagels and drinking fresh juice. When they spotted Alec, they smiled widely, and Max conjured the same food and drink for Alec.

“Morning, dad! ” They said in unison, flashing him wide smiles. Alec smiled back, before he kissed the top of their heads. “Papa still asleep?”

“Yes,” Alec confirmed, biting down on a bagel. It was good. Alec felt Rafael’s eyes on him. “What?”

“What’s that in your hair? Did papa make you highlights?” Alec’s confusion grown more, as he went to the hall, where the oval mirror from the sixteenth century hung on the left wall. He looked closer at his hair and then he spotted.

A few strands of grey hair were decorating his right part of hair.

Alec couldn’t believe in what he was seeing. He had the first grey hair. He was getting old. The realization hit him hard, tears built-in his blue eyes. He fought so hard to not let them escape.

“Dad? ” He heard the deep voice of Rafael behind his back. The young boy placed his hand on his arm. “Are you ok? Daddy?”

“You haven’t called me that in years, Rafe.” He replied, blinking twice to not show his son the weakness he had for a moment.

“Good morning, sweet peas! ” Magnus’s honey voice filled the hall, before he came to stand next to Alec and Rafe. “Oh, Alexander, I know you’re beautiful and all, but why do we stare at you in mirror? Shouldn’t we like eat breakfast?”

“Papa, dad has some highlights in his hair. Did you magic them up? ” Rafe asked, looking questioningly at his other father. Before Magnus could answer, Max joined them and looked at Alec’s reflection.

“It’s grey hair!” The blue skinned warlock pointed out. “Dad, you have grey hair, like grandpa Robert. You’re so old!”

Two kids laughed remarking Alec about his old age. They didn’t see, how this remark was hurting him, but Magnus saw. He scolded them both and sent to the kitchen. When they were alone, Magnus pulled Alec into his arms and kissed the top of his head, where the grey hair remained.

“My Angel…”

“I’m getting old, Magnus. They’re right.” He sighed in Magnus’s black shirt, which Alec could have sworn belonged to him. “Soon, I’m going…”

“If you finish this sentence, you’ll be sleeping on the couch at least for a month. And I’m not talking about the red couch you like so much, I’m talking about the couch in my study. The one you hate.” Magnus warned him, tickling his sides. “You’re getting older, but I can promise you, Alec, you’re getting older just like a fine wine. With age you’re even better.”

“Oh really? ” Alec bickered. “Soon, I won’t be able to keep up with you in bed.”

“That’s not possible,” Magnus ruffled Alec’s hair. “You will always be my match in bed, darling. Even without your stamina rune. You can always…” Magnus trailed his hand down Alec’s chest, until he stopped it at the line of his sweatpants. “keep up with me.”

“Perv.” Alec nudged him in his ribs. “Our sons are behind the wall, Magnus. I don’t want to scare them for life. They’re just little kids.”

Magnus just laughed.

“And so what if you’re getting old, Alexander. Your grey hair are sexy.” Magnus turned Alec in his arms so they could see their reflection in the mirror. “Just look at you, so gorgeous, handsome, sexy as hell. Mmm…I thought that you were beautiful before, but now, you are so drop dead gorgeous. You make me hot inside, Alec.”

“Is there anything else in your mind besides sex?”

“Nope. When I see such a hot man in my arms, with the trace of his fine age, I can’t stop myself.”

“Fine age?” Alec asked, raising his eyebrow.

“Mhm,” Magnus once again, trailed hands over Alec’s chest. “The finest. And I can show you, how much I love your fine age, Alexander.”

“Papa! ” Voices of their sons interrupted them their subtle fun. “We’re still here!”

“And I believe it’s time to see you off to the Institute. Your grandmother will give me grey hair, if she won’t see you in the morning.” Magnus laughed, as he ruffled hair of his sons. He snapped his fingers and he created a portal in their living room. He kissed Rafe and Max’s foreheads, telling them to be good for Maryse and Robert and waved them goodbye, as they stepped through the portal. “Now.” He said, as they were alone. “I believe I promised to show you, how I love your fine age, dearest.”

“Yes, you have. “Alec licked his lips, as Magnus walked him to their bedroom, shutting the door behind them.

Maybe Alec was getting old, having his first grey hair. But as long as Magnus still loved him and found him good for himself, he could live with it.

For Us (Edward Nygma x Reader)

Tagging : @queencobblefreezestuff   @multi-villain-imagines  @awordwhichmeans  @aya-fay  @moaningvaleska  @dv8n666ways

A nice human (can’t find a name written in my notes so I am guessing it was anonymous, I do remember discussing it back and forth a little before I caved and decided to write something for it) suggested an Edward Nygma fic based on the song Meant to be Yours from Heathers the Musical. I let the song influence the story loosely, if you look hard enough you’ll probably find lyrics from the song, some tweaked a bit to make better sense in the context I used them. 

Setting : Basically, after having a big fight with you, Edward overreacts. Which is putting it lightly.

Contains : an explosion, mentions of a corpse, implied casualties and death, kidnapping, a brief moment of near choking. brief mild violence

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HC: During the first few weeks Sasuke moves in with Naruto, he always climbs out of bed in the middle of the night and sleeps on the floor. Years living at Orochimaru’s den makes him accustomed to nothing but cold, hard surfaces. To him, mattresses and pillows are just too soft and comfortable, and Naruto - he doesn’t want to admit it - but Naruto has a warmth he still isn’t used to. The strange thing is, every morning he wakes up to find Naruto on the floor next to him, close enough to make him feel safe but not at all intruding his personal space. So little by little, Sasuke tries to stay in bed longer than the previous night, because he is convinced that both of them longs for each other’s presence.

Out of Time

Did this thing for Que based of this amazing picture by Promsien!


Out of Time


To say that Danny was used to waking up in strange locations was an understatement.

Ever since he had first received his ghost powers unusual things had certainly become a normal occurrence in his life. Such as fighting ghosts, being able to fly, and, of course, waking up in strange places with no idea of how he got there. The glowing chains wrapped around his wrists and ankles, unfortunately, was also not new. In fact, that had become rather common, as well, after meeting Vlad and Skulker.

Now, opening his eyes to see hundreds of Observants? That…that one was new. As was the council members that were all staring at him with varying degrees of disgust, and in a few cases, pity. He couldn’t say he was a fan of the looks, nor the way he had been tossed on the floor like some criminal.

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Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Featuring: none

Words: 840

Warning: I think one swearing word and mention of sex but not the act itself. Fluff.

Tags: @vashanatasha

Request: requested by Anonymous:

“18 with Buck please😃”

Note: it came out more like a drabble than a imagine but I like it so I hope you like it too!

Originally posted by winghead--shellhead

When Bucky first opened his eyes that morning, what he did was closing them again. Damn sunlight. Once again, he had forgotten to close the curtains. Sighing, he turned around on the bed, facing the other side of the room and opened his eyes again, smiling immediately. There you were.

It had been the first night you two slept together in ages since he had been away on a mission. It had been a long one: almost a whole month, and he had missed you like crazy. He missed your scent, your laugh, your smile, your warmth, but what he missed the most was sleeping by your side. When he was away and before he met you, he used to have the worst nightmares but you changed everything. So every time he was away, even if it was for just one night, he was eager to go back to you.

So there he was, watching you sleep with the first morning lights. You were as peaceful as always, with a tiny smile plastered on your lips letting him know you were having a nice dream. Slowly and carefully, he moved his hand and placed it over your cheek, rubbing it slowly. It was as soft as he remembered.

“You’re gorgeous”, he whispered to himself.

It was then when you moved closer to him and wrapped your arm around his waist, making his heart melt. He knew you were waking up since you were doing all those strange and adorable noises you used to do when you were waking up.

“Morning babe”, he said against your head.

“Mmm…” you mumbled making him laugh.

“I missed waking up next to you” he told you as he wrapped his own arms around your body, bringing you closer.

“You’re so freaking cheesy, Barnes” you mumbled.

Your comment made him laugh. As adorable as you were to his eyes, you were also so grumpy in the morning that it was funny. Most of the times, he tried to keep a straight face so you wouldn’t be grumpier but it was hard.

“You’re a sweet in the morning, you know that?” He laughed against your head. You pulled away enough to look at him with narrowed eyes.

“Of course I am a sweet in the morning. This is not morning. It’s midnight”, you complained making him laugh again.

“It’s 8 a.m.”, he informed you.

“Aka midnight”, you said smiling a little.

You had missed him as well, so so much it had been almost painful. Days, and nights, weren’t the same without his company. You loved waking up against his chest, feeling the warm he irradiated, his comfort. He was your other half and you had known that since the moment you first kissed him almost two years ago.

At the beginning it was a complicated relationship. He had a huge lack of confidence and he was always afraid of hurting you. Actually, it took you two months to convince him that you trusted him and you knew he wouldn’t inflict you any kind of pain. He loved you and you loved him, that was enough for you to know that you could go through everything. As long as you were together.

“You’re such a sloth”, he laughed before kissing your temple. “C’mon, we have to go to the gym. I bet you haven’t trained since I left”, he said.

“Oh I have…” you nodded laying now on your back as you looked at him with a half-smile. “Wait…going from the couch to the fridge to get more food while I do a How I Met Your Mother marathon doesn’t really count…does it?”

“Get up. Now”, he commanded you slapping your thigh which made you laugh as he got out of bed

“You’re such a gym freak”, you mumbled rolling over the bed, hugging the pillow as you looked at him playfully. “There are other ways to make exercise”, you said seductively.

“Don’t tempt me…” he mumbled looking at your body covered by one of his t-shirts. You had been separated for a month and sleeping with you wasn’t the only thing he had missed and needed.

“You know you don’t want to leave this bed, Sargent”, you said smirking.

“You’re evil” he said taking a deep breath.

He looked at you with lustful eyes as you looked at him with a huge smirk. You knew he was about to give in and that would be the way to spend the morning in bed just like you wanted. Biting your lip, you rolled over once again and lifted the t-shirt up enough for him to see your panties and your belly. That was the end of him.

“Damn woman, you’re gonna be the end of me”, he said taking of his t-shirt and laying on the bed just on top of you, kissing you and taking off your t-shirt.

“What about the gym?” You asked playfully.

“Fuck the gym. I need you”, he mumbled against your skin before you two got completely lost in each other.

[C]alligraphers delight in creating mazes of embellishment in which meaning is secreted like a treasure. The deciphering of the text proves the worthiness of the reader.


Is Celan’s work too obscure, as some claim? Is it too hermetic? Too difficult? Real poems, Celan wrote, are “making toward something … perhaps toward an addressable Thou.” I would argue that, for any poet writing toward such a subject, regular words and syntax soon become inadequate. Celan is an extreme case though, because he also had to contend with the inadequacy of the German language to express the experience of the Jewish poet, post-Holocaust. His is the lyricism of privacy (prayer is private, no matter with how many fellow congregants it is uttered or in how many prayer books it appears), not of hermeticism. In fact, Celan insisted to Michael Hamburger that he was ‘ganz und gar nicht hermetisch.’ Absolutely not hermetic.


Celan chose to protest from inside German, in “death-rattling,” “quarreling” words. Though he spoke numerous other languages (Romanian, Russian, French) and though he had written previously in Romanian, he nevertheless decided to remain in German, which he broke and reclaimed. German, for Celan, was the language that had to “pass through its own answerlessness, pass through frightful muting, pass through the thousand darknesses of death-bringing speech.”

Why break a language? To wake it up. “We sleep in language,” writes Robert Kelly, if “language does not come to wake us with its strangeness.”


Theodor Adorno: “It is barbaric to write poetry after the Holocaust.”
Adorno, when confronted by others, repeated: “After Auschwitz to write poetry is barbaric, I would not want to downplay this remark.”
Adorno, after reading Paul Celan’s broken and reassembled German, reconsiders: “It may have been wrong to say that after Auschwitz you could no longer write poems.”


And there was light let there be God and said waters. The language acquires a strange agency, a weird reversed reality: “And there was light let there God.” There is more poetry in reading the text we know by heart backwards. (We sleep in the language, if language does not come to wake us with its strangeness.“


Celan, writes Anne Carson, was "a poet who uses language as if he were always translating.”


If Celan’s poems feel like strange translations, clearly the translation of Celan into English should give the feeling of foreignness to our own language.

I would argue that most piercing lyric poets don’t speak in the “proper” language of their time. Emily Dickinson didn’t write in proper English but in slant music of fragmentary perception. Kit Smart’s endless lists and Whitman’s numbering of months in Leaves of Grass are hardly in the language their contemporaries knew. Cesar Vallejo placed three dots in the middle of the line, as if language itself were not enough, as if the poet’s voice needed to leap from one image to another to make – to use Eliot’s phrase – a raid on the inarticulate.


If by this point you are thinking about the witches from Macbeth or any of Shakespeare’s fools’ riddles, you aren’t alone. Here is Cid Corman (who was Celan’s first English translator) describing Celan: “poetry OF language – but of language AS livingdying … a tale told by an idiot.” A tale told by an idiot, signifying nothing, as we all know, signifies a great deal and is at the heart of Western literature. It is not something we should dismiss as obscurity or nonsense, though it may employ nonsense to reach its goal – which is, perhaps, to find “the addressable Thou." 

Incantation is just one such device. There are others. Many critics have commented, for instance, on how surreal Celan’s images are. He was influenced by his friendship with surrealists, but his art is much older than that particular movement. The first real surrealist was Ovid, not Breton. The first American surrealist was Emily Dickinson: "I felt a Funeral, in my Brain.”

One could call “Deathfugue” a ballad, a secular Kaddish, fugue, but what then? It’s not the literary devices that matter but how a poet confronts them.


But how do English/ American poets confront our own tradition? Yeats famously said that he only revised toward a more “passionate syntax.” John Berryman said “nouns, verbs do not exist for what I feel.” I think of King Lear saying “Never, never, never, never, never,” or Whitman saying “Death, death, death, death, death,” when the words lose meaning and become just sounds of themselves, opening into a territory of less guided, more given meaning.


To come back to the question of the privacy of a lyric poet and how this is manifested in the tensions of  his or her language: for Celan, it seems, this attitude toward German came from trauma. He had seen the Holocaust and its aftermath. “No one / witnesses for the / witness,” Celan said, and in his work “a tension is held in the fragmentation of  language, of  being and of extreme solitude” (Julia Kristeva).

Note the choice of word: solitude, not loneliness. In the end, it does not matter whether this “tension” in a poet’s speech comes from a place of trauma or from somewhere else (Catullus? Mayakovsky? Niedecker?). Whatever the source, the central fact remains — the privacy of a lyric poet. The lyric poet is a person who says, “I am not sure the language 
I write in is spoken here, or anywhere.” Alone with unintelligible language, he sings “in front of strangers.”


In the solitary lines of Paul Celan, one hears this inaudible language.

A great poet is not someone who speaks in stadiums to thousands of  listeners. A great poet is a very private person. In his or her privacy this poet creates a language in which he or she is able to speak, privately, to many people at the same time.

—  Ilya Kaminsky, excerpts from “On the Strangeness that Wakes Us: On mother tongues, fatherlands, and Paul Celan”

fierylittleniece  asked:


💙 Friend x Best Friend’s Significant Other

Pietro sat up sleepily, he’d been staying at a friends place for the night, his friend and his friend’s girlfriend had both been drinking with him the night before, not too much to get a hang over but enough for him to not be arsed to go home so he’d slept on the sofa. His friend had left for work and now he was alone, he knew his friends girlfriend was probably still in bed so he just sat there for a moment, looking around the room, getting used to waking up in a strange place. 

anonymous asked:

What are a few of your favorite essays?

A few…

On Truth and Lies in an Extra-Moral Sense (Nietzsche); A New Refutation of Time (Borges); From Work to Text (Barthes); The Task of the Translator (Benjamin); The Discourse on Language (Foucault); Of the Strangeness that Wakes Us (Ilya Kaminsky); A Lyric Voice: A Lyric Essay on Osip Mandelstam (Ilya Kaminsky); The Uncanny (Freud); What is an Author? (Foucault); Labyrinths (Borges); Shibboleth: For Paul Celan (Derrida); Edmund Jabès and the Question of the Book (Derrida); Can I Die? Derrida on Heidegger on Death (Iain Thomson); For the Love of Things Themselves: Derrida’s Hyper-realism (John D. Caputo); The Rejection of Closure (Lyn Hejinian); Against Interpretation (Susan Sontag); Performative Acts and Gender Constitution (Judith Butler); Walking in the City (Michel de Certeau); Death as Possibility (Maurice Blanchot); Language [from Poetry, Language, Thought] (Heidegger); On Not Wanting to Live (Cioran); Melancholy (Cioran); Fallacies of Silence (Hayden Carruth); Coming to Writing (Cixous); The Resistance of Poetry (Jean-Luc Nancy); The Graven Silence of Writing (Richard Stamelman); Can the Subaltern Speak? (Spivak)

Are you done? (Jay Park x Reader)

This is for my bitch at @khiphoponeshots. I love you bitch!


You met Jay at his apartment building. Your bestfriend was moving next door so you helped her move, since she helped you move you owed her. He saw you at the elevator, well sort off, whne the doors opened, he just saw two hands, a big box and two long legs. He walked in and saw you were going on the same floor

“Moving in?”

He asked you. He got a glimse of your face, you were sweating and biting your lip

“My best friend”

Your replied to him. The doors opened and as you were about to walk out, he stopped you and took the box from your hands

“No no no, it’s okay”

“I got it, just show me the way”

He said. You smiled gratefully at him and walked out, with him following you, you stopped infront of your bestie’s open apartment door and turned to him

“I’ll take it from here, thank you so much”

You thanked him, taking the box back to your arms. He smiled a beautiful smile, with his pearly white teeth

“You are welcome”

“I’m Jay by the way”

“Ari, I would shake your hand but i’m a bit full”

You joked, he chuckled and said his goodbyes.He started to walk away, thinking if he should turn around or see if he meets you again. He cursed in his mind, turning back to your direction.

“Hey ummmm me and my friends are having a party tonight, would you and your friend like to join?”



It didn’t take long for Jay to claim you as him. To him you were absolutely perfect from the inside and out, your soft long dirty blonde hair that went down your butt, your hazel eyes. Your full bottom lip, your strong thighs, your slender arms, your introver habits, the love for dancing, your interesting past, everything was so exciting to him.

You trusted Jay 100% and no one could change that. You knew he was extremely loyal and he always considered your feelings, so at first you didn’t really pay attention to the late texts or his strange behaviour, you just thought it was stressed. But it started to happen often, you were starting to get anxious

One night he comes home and he is a bit tipsy, so you help him get to bed, you take of his pants and all that. A receipt fell out, it was from a gas station and it was regular gas, that’s strange cause he doesn’t use regular gas.

Next day Jay wakes up with a headache, thank god for him he didn’t have to work today. Since he had planned everything for you, but as soon as he walks out of the room and sees you mad as fuck, with a tea mug on your hand he knows something is wrong

“Good morning babe”

He said, touching your hand. You push it away and turn your back to him, your hair slapping him in the face

“Don’t touch me”

He started thinking what he has done, his mind went in on anything you could be mad. Did he let the toilet seat up again? He remembers that he took the trash out, so what was wrong?

“Baby what did I do?”

You put the tea mug down, turning back to face him. Anger written all over your face

“Yesterday you came home and you were tipsy. So as a good girlfriend I helped you get to bed, but as I was putting your clothes away a receipt came out. It was regualr gas, that’s funny I’ve never seen you put regualr gas, I’VE NEVER SEEN YOU PUT REGULAR GAS, you know who put that regular gas? that regualr bitch you was with, the one you are texting and calling these past few weeks”

You were snapping, you were legit pissed, your eyes were all wide and shit, you were yelling to emphasize your invalid point. He tried to hide his laugh, most of the time you were right, you were always right, but now you were wrong, he was waiting all this moment for this one motherfucking time he can prove you wrong. He started laughing, making you even more mad

“Are you done? no… are you done? You’re done right? You sure? okay….”

You were confused. Why was he laughing, you just accusted him of cheating, and he was laughing like you told a joke

“First off, you are stupid cause the regular gas was put from Seonghwa because he was driving, yesterday I was drunk and I knew you would get mad at me if I drove so I gave him the keys, I was out of gas so he quickly put gas before anyone saw us. Now the calls and texts were to your best friend, cause I planned a two day getaway to a spa resort for your stupid ass, since you are whinning I work too much”

You were looking at him, blinking rapidly. He kept laughing at your face, he finally had this moment! you were the one that didn’t know what to say, that was wrong. Your mouth was slightly opened, you honestly looked like a cartoon

“I…. you”

“You are dumb and i’m the best boyfriend”

He said. You looked down at the well polished floor, blushing like crazy

“Now next time you want to accuse me of cheating try to look into it”

He wrapped his arms around your defeated figure. Enjoying the moment! I mean this doesn’t really happen often, it was time to celebrate this

“i’m sorry”

“What did you say babe?”

“I’m sorry, I was wrong”


He threw his fist in the air, smilling like a chamption. he started running around the kitchen, chanting and yelling like a maniac making you laugh

“Babe get off the kitchen table, I cook here”

You told him. He got down and hugged you one more time, his arms on your waist

“Now pack your bag, we have to go celebrate my triumph by getting a massage and other shit they have there”

You giggled and walked to the bedroom. Him smacking your ass when you walked by, you were used to it so you didn’t say anything. You packed everything you needed, but Jay had one more surprise

“Pack these two”

He ordered you, handing you a box. You took it and opened it slowly, inside of it there were a bunch of thongs and bras, in different colours. You quickly closed the box and looked at him

“What? You didn’t think we are just going to get massages there did you?”

Originally posted by ygnj

My family's really goddamn weird

So I’ve been reading sixpenceee’s blog (which is an amazing paranormal blog btw go check it out), and I read some stories about people’s glitches in the matrix out to my Nanna, and my Grandad just told me this amazing story that happened to him so I thought I’d contribute. There’s a few more stories about my family that I’ve got, so I’ll mention those too.


So, my Grandad works away a lot, and this one time he was in a hotel in Abu Dhabi. It was Christmas Eve and he was still working in the Middle East, and they work Christmas Eve there, so he’d been working all day. 
He’d arranged to go out for a Chrismas Eve party with some of  his workmates, so he went back to the hotel to get ready. 
Seen as it was Christmas, the company he worked for gave their employees little gifts like paperweights, and my Grandad had cards from my Nanna, my Dad and his siblings, so he lined everything up on the bottom of the mantlepiece that was in the room. He stood, with his hands in his pockets looking down at them feeling a little isolated because he should’ve been with his family.
So he left the room and went to the bathroom to have a shower. Twenty minutes later, he walks out of the bathroom, rounded the corner and stopped dead. There was a guy standing in the room, and of course, my Grandad’s first instinct was to punch him, so he moved to protect himself but then he realised he recognised the guy. Thinking it was a friend from work, he waited for him to turn and talk to him. 
The guy didn’t, so Grandad stepped forward only to realise that he was staring at himself, staring down at the items on the mantlepiece with his hands in his pockets. 
Grandad was immobilised, naturally. He stared at himself for about half a minute, and then he dissolved from the head down. 


Grandad’s tried to figure this out, and he can’t think of an explanation. He was stone cold sober because he’d just got home from work. Nobody knows, and no paranormal ‘expert’ he’s ever talked to has been able to come up with anything.

Okay and next up, an instance with my Great-Grandma (the aforementioned Grandad’s mum). I refer to this woman as White Nanna, because I don’t remember her name, and my dad called her White Nanna because she was the nice grandmother they had. 


White Nanna had always been a little weird. I only have one picture of her, and I believe that is the only photo that exists of her. 
That’s not important so I don’t know why I’m talking about that. Anyhow, White Nanna. 
She’d always been kind of psychic, on top of the evasiveness, but she was a lovely woman and my dad and his siblings loved her totally. Now, funny thing about White Nanna, she had a drawer full of paper. 
Each piece of paper was an envelope with a name of a relative on it. Upon opening the envelope, a slip of paper with a date would be found inside.
Turns out, the date would be the date of death for the person whose name was written on the respective envelope. 
After she died, her drawer was cleared out and someone opened the envelope that had her own name written on it.
It was right. To the day. 
She never met me, so I don’t have an envelope, I don’t think. Though, I was born while she was still alive, so I might do. 
My dad has an envelope, and so do his siblings. They don’t want them.
Today, the envelopes reside with my family up in Yorkshire. 
A strange woman was my Great Nanna. 


Okay last one. My dad. Now, I don’t know if this is anywhere near what could be true, but he believes it with all his heart so I’m not gonna deny him what he thinks. 


When my dad was a kid, he used to have interrupted sleep, so he often used to wake up at strange times. My dad still does this now, and so do I, occasionally. 
One particular night, dad woke up and immediately sat bolt upright for no apparent reason. 
At the end of his bed, he saw a dark figure, and he squinted to get a better look. As his eyes adjusted to the light, it became apparent that it was a kid sat cross-legged. The kid had short blonde hair and was sitting there, smiling at him. 
He sat and stared at the kid for what must have been a minute or so before he gathered himself and rubbed his eyes. When he took his hands away from his eyes, the kid was gone, but to this day, he’s certain he heard a giggle. 


So yeah my family’s really fuckin’ weird. It’s only the people on my dad’s side that this stuff has happened to, so I’m just waiting for my turn. Being an avid fan of the paranormal, honestly, I’m rather looking forward to mine.

Waking up in strange places was certainly something she was used to by now, especially when she had no recollection of how she’d gotten there in the first place. It seemed like so long ago that Prince Chrom and the Shepherds had found her lying in that field, as if it was the most natural place to take a nap. 

At least now it seemed like she was in an actual bed. That was a start…but where? A cursory glance around the room brought familiarity–there were her belongings, the massive amount of books and tomes she’d collected, as well as all the maps she used in her strategizing. Yet this room was also unfamiliar. 

Slowly, she eased herself off the bed, joints aching. Briefly she wondered how long she’d been asleep, but that thought was pushed aside at the knock on her door. “Yes? Who is it?” No answer, for a moment, and then…a sheep’s bleating? The tactician paused, eyes widening. What? That couldn’t be right. 

Still not believing it, she couldn’t help but stare at the fluffy sheep standing on the other side of the door when she opened it, holding a letter. Quickly rousing herself, she took the offered letter and skimmed it–though it seemed some of it had been a bit blurred and smudged. But she got the gist of it, at least. This was not Ylisse. 

The sheep waited patiently while Robin moved to her desk, writing a letter in return. That was only common courtesy, was it not?

Dear Aries & Stella,

While I’m pleased for the hospitable welcome, I must admit I’m rather confused. Does this mean I’ve died and this is the afterlife? But then again, I’ve heard nothing of the afterlife being full of sheep…

If that’s not the case, then what of the Shepherds? Are Chrom and the others alright?

I’ve no idea how you got your hands–er, hooves, perhaps? on my belongings, but I must at least thank you for that. It’s helpful to wake up to somewhat familiar objects.



Honestly, her mind was still spinning. But she folded the letter up and offered it to the postal sheep, who was more than happy to take the letter and go on it’s merry way. But the silver haired woman was left standing in the doorway, feeling more than a little lost as she watched it go. 

“What have I gotten myself into this time?”

University Life; Jeon Wonwoo

A year of adventure and more with Jeon Wonwoo.

Word Count: 1.1K

(a/n): haha ok another svt scenario bc both mingyu and wonwoo have my heart atm. idk this isnt rlly a scenario at all but let me live ok

You at first only knew him as that one tall guy who sat in front of you in your philosophy class who would draw instead of take notes but somehow got A’s on all of his exams and you’re lowkey struggling in the class so you ask him one day to help you out and the grin on his face is the next thing you come to learn about Jeon Wonwoo.

Wonwoo’s an art major and he comes with you to the library to study but he’s just drawing you behind his textbook. You find out and are like “I thought you were studying?” and he’s like “I am. I’m an art major. I’m studying art,” he gestures to you and that makes you hide behind your own textbook because you’re blushing so damn much.

He sneaks one of those ramen in a cup things into the library and he shares it with you even though you’re not allowed any food in there.

You’re always over at his dorm after your three o'clock class because your lecture hall is close to his dorm building so you just barge in (he started leaving his door unlocked around that time just for you) and plop down on his bed as if it were your own, waiting for him if he wasn’t there.

You’re tight with his roommate Mingyu too so when Wonwoo would come back from wherever, he’d sometimes find you and Mingyu eating some of his snacks and he scolds the both of you.

Keep reading

Fuzzy Morning After

The first thing Jim registered was a very heavy, toasty weight against his back. It would have been comforting had he not realized he was very much naked and suffering from a migraine the size of Texas.  And, he was not in his own bed, in his own quarters.

Now Jim was used to waking up in strange places, or naked in a stranger’s bed, but this room looked slightly familiar. Jim shifted, trying for a better look, but an arm found it’s way around his waist and held him in place. Hot breath tickled the hairs at the back of his neck. He tried to pry himself loose, but Jim found himself firmly incapacitated. 

He studied the arm for a moment. Pale skin, dusted with dark hair, obviously very strong but slender. Jim would have thought it was Bones if he hadn’t threatened to “hypo him into the next quadrant” if Jim bothered him last night. The curvy Betazoid on Bones’ arm made Jim pout and slump back to the crowd of dancers.

So Jim had gotten hammered and apparently, gotten laid too. Take that, Bones.
The body at his back shifted, face pressing into Jim’s hair. They snuffled, and Jim grinned.
Jim shimmied carefully till he was able to turn and face his partner. His eyes slowly adjusted to the dark and Jim looked up at…


A very, very naked Spock. A very naked, warm and cuddly Spock at that. 

After the initial shock, Jim took a better look at him. Spock looked much less intimidating and harsh in the dark. Peacefully sleeping, sharp eyebrows relaxed, his soft mouth slightly parted instead of it’s usual tight line. Jim almost felt as if he were intruding on something extremely personal. 

Spock’s arms tightened again, and Jim found himself wrapped up and pulled close to the Vulcan’s warm chest. He let out a small noise in surprise as Spock nestled his face against his neck, sighing softly. Jim smiled, bringing one arm up to tangle his fingers in Spock’s soft hair. 

Jim laid there, curling his fingers through his hair and scratching his scalp, grinning as he listened to the soft rumbling sounds coming from the Vulcan. Jim would have to tease him about his purring later.

The rumbling stopped abruptly and Jim froze. He’d been caught in the act! No line of escape; he was firmly trapped in Spock’s arms and even if he could escape that, he didn’t particularly want to be seen running the halls of his ship stark naked. And covered in questionable body fluids. 

Hopefully, Jim thought, he’ll only nerve pinch me a few times before he kicks me out.


Captain? Goodness, they were in bed, curled around each other completely naked. And he called him Captain?

“Hey there,” Jim whispered, heart thudding in his chest. He was probably seconds away from his death. Goodbye, cruel world! Spock unwound himself and pulled away to stare down at Jim.

“May I ask why you are in my quarters, Captain?”

“I thought you might be able to tell me that.”

“It seems my memory of last night is as you would say, fuzzy.”

Fuzzy? Did Spock get drunk? I thought Vulcan’s couldn’t get drunk.

“Well…what do you remember?”

Spock raised an eyebrow. 

“I recall, after being turned away by Doctor McCoy, you joined Mr. Scott and consumed an example of his very questionable alcoholic concoctions-” Jim huffed out a laugh.

“Spock, my brain can’t handle your science-talk right now. Come on, you know what I meant. Why am I naked in your bed?”

“It is only logical to assume we engaged in sexual intercourse, Captain,” Spock’s expression was even sharper than usual and Jim grimaced, “I too ingested alcoholic beverages under the pretense I would not be affected by them. I apologize for the events that followed. If you wish to report me for my actions I-”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Jim interrupted again, “I might be a messy drunk but I’m not that easy!” Jim got both eyebrows at that, and had it been any other situation, Jim might have laughed. 

“Spock,” he sighed, “don’t be so quick to assume. I don’t mind this. Actually, I wish I hadn’t been so drunk so I could remember it.”

The Vulcan looked a bit confused. Jim shook his head and chuckled, tossing the covers back and crawling out of the bed. Spock watched him carefully as he stumbled about, looking for his clothes in the piles strewn across the room. Pulling on his wrinkled uniform trousers and shirt, Jim looked over his shoulder and smirked.

Spock may or may not have been staring at his ass. Jim could have sworn he saw the Vulcan blush.

“You comin’ hot stuff?” 

Spock dressed quietly, and followed Jim closely down the empty corridors to MedBay. 

Maybe Bones can shed some light on last night.

The harsh, white lights made Jim’s eyes hurt; he squinted as the doors slid open and they walked in, finding Bones already tending to the wounded. And by wounded, he meant the fools with extreme alcohol poisoning. It happened every time they had shore-leave. Bones swiveled around and shot them a glare, pointing towards his office.

Jim felt like a puppy running away with his tail between his legs and by the looks of it, Spock wasn’t any better. He stood stiffly, hands clasped behind his back, eyes fixed on the wall in front of him.

Bones stalked in a few minutes later, breaking the silence with a grunt as he collapsed in his chair. 

“Don’t think that battin’ those pretty blue eyes is gonna get you out of trouble, Jim. Now, who wants to tell me what the hell you two were up to last night?” Jim sighed, “Oh, don’t tell me, you can’t remember can you? Well lemme tell you, I remember seeing more than I ever wanted. I contemplated burning my eyes out with acid cause of you two.”

“That seems like a highly dramatic and illogical react-”

“Don’t pull that ‘logic’ card with me, you green-blooded hobgoblin! I wasn’t the one all over him like a cheap suit!”

“Bones! Calm down!”

The Doctor grumbled under his breath and leant back in his chair, scowling at the pair.

“Bones,” Jim tried, rubbing his temples to soothe his headache, “can you just tell us what happened last night?”

He sighed.

“Scotty got you two drinking his “homemade” shit, even after I told you that was a bad idea. But since when does anybody ‘round here listen to me?” Jim rolled his eyes, “Now you were already up to your eyeballs in booze and that never surprises me, but this one here took more than he could handle and I ain’t ever seen such a mess. Don’t you raise that eyebrow at me, mister! You were all over Jim here and he wasn’t any help! Half of your bridge crew saw you two going at it.”

“Going at it?” Spock stared at Bones, looking somewhat scandalized.
Spock has different eyebrow-raises and that was definitely a scandalized one, Jim thought.

“Yes, going at it! You had that boy in your lap purring like a well fed kitten and you were lovin’ it!”

“Bones, your southern colloquialisms aren’t helping.”

Bones threw his hands up and groaned.

“You,” Bones pointed at Jim accusingly, “were straddling Spock in that club booth with your tongue down his throat and not a care in the world.” 

“And you,” he turned on Spock, “had your hands all over him, down his trousers a few times, mumbling shit in Vulcan that I don’t even want to hear translated. Thank God y'all got out of there before it got any worse.”

Spock was definitely blushing at that. Jim wanted to take a picture and frame it.

“Stop making googly eyes at him, you idiot! I don’t need a repeat of last night!” Now it was Jim’s turn to blush.

Apparently I was utterly fucked last night and I don’t even remember it. 

Bones scowled again and pulled out his bottle of scotch as he pushed a pair of hypos across his desk.

“Now take these and get out of my office. You are both off-duty for the rest of the day so don’t even try to fight me on it.”

The walk back to their quarters was quiet. Spock trailed behind Jim the whole way.


“Yes, Captain?”

Jim stuck out his hand, two fingers outstretched. Spock stared at them.

“What do you say we make up for last night?” 

Jim could have sworn he saw the Vulcan’s mouth twitch into a smile. He beamed as Spock reached out, resting his fingers against Jim’s. 

“That sounds…logical, Jim.”

Jim’s laughter boomed down the corridor as Spock pulled him by his waist into his room, the doors swishing shut behind them.

You know you have a problem when you have over 400 pictures of a video game on your phone.

anonymous asked:

ayato and uta waking up their s/o at like 4am to go do something weird like driving to the mountains or robbing a bank (probably not robbing a bank BUT)

Ayato: It was shocking that Ayato was even awake in the first place considering he was about as far from a morning person as you could be, let alone that he was trying to wake up his s/o.

If there was one thing that they agreed on it was that mornings and walking up were both terrible which was why it wasn’t a surprise that they tried to go back to bed, even as the ghoul did his best to force them out of the bed.

“Why?” They demanded.

“Road trip,” He replied, not giving an explanation as to why he chose the middle of the night for a trip as he finally convinced them to get up.

They were certain that Ayato had gone insane. 

Uta: His s/o was hardly surprised when he woke them up in the middle of the night. He had a strange habit of doing strange things and they had gotten pretty used to that, but still waking them up in the middle of the night was new, and now quite appreciated. 

“Get up,” 

They knew better than to complain and reluctantly followed him.

“Where are we going?” They asked after a while.

“Hiking,” He responded with a grin. They were in for a long day.


“James, did you hear that?” Lily asked, launching into a seated position. Her hands clutched at her stomach, and her hair fell in her face. She was the perfect blend of exhaustion and panic.

Her husband stirred next to her. “I’m sure it was nothing,” he tried to soothe.

She wasn’t having it. “There could be a Death Eater in our house, James,” she whispered furiously.

“You know that’s not possible,” James replied, talking to his pillow more than his wife.

“Magic isn’t a perfect science,” Lily retorted, brushing her hair out of her face. “Someone could have gotten past the wards. If you’re not going downstairs to investigate, I am.”

As she began to wiggle from the bed, James threw his covers off himself. “Lily, I’m sure there’s no need ––”

Something shattered in the kitchen below them. 

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