These are the words written on a post-it (a human invention) in Persephone’s bedroom. They’re written in what she fondly calls New English, aka the English that her mother still doesn’t know, even after all these years.
Every morning, when she wakes, she sees this post-it stuck onto the stone wall and makes herself read it out loud.
“Stop checking on him,” she says, arms wrapped tight around her knees. “He doesn’t miss you.” The words bring the familiar sting of pain, the familiar tightness in her chest, the accompanying breathlessness. There’s still a part of her that rebels at the thought, that clings to what he said before and not after.
She thinks she might have been happier loving a mortal, which is so in fashion these days that her mother is gallivanting about Earth like she hadn’t spent centuries chastising Persephone for the same. If she loved a mortal, she could bind them in ways that it’s impossible to bind a god.
She gets up and gets ready for her day. Being an immortal means that she can’t just spend all day in bed. That path leads to centuries of apathy and she’s still young. So very, very young.
“Go back to Olympus. I should have known better than to let a child into my kingdom.”
There was no “letting” about it. She’d been younger still and in chains and in captivity and in love. She’d beguiled and coerced so that he’d take her with him, made him free her.
She’d thought she was shedding her chains, choosing new ones that better suited her, but she didn’t see the way her discarded shackles slipped onto him. She didn’t see what a burden she was, what a burden she would become to him, how limiting, how heavy, how stupid.
It’s been five years now and she’s still counting seasons like she has a chance of being let back in. Summer and winter, summer and winter, summer and winter, ad nauseum. Her mother had said that she’d stick to the cycle, that the Earth actually benefited from winter, but Persephone sees the way the summers are growing longer and hotter, the way the winters are short but so sharp she could cut her teeth on them.
Spring? She stopped that a long time ago. The melting of winter is good enough for mortals and gods alike. They don’t notice and, therefore, they don’t ask.
“When you’re depressed (or anxious, or triggered), staying in all weekend, not answering the phone, binge-watching TV, and not getting dressed sounds great. It might even sound like “self-care.” And aspects of it can be self-care. But self-care is not just about soothing yourself in the moment, it’s about setting up the supports and structures that let you be okay enough in your day-to-day life. So while depression says “let’s watch Buffy instead of doing the laundry” the reality is that tomorrow you’re going to wake up to clothes everywhere, nothing clean, and one more thing you haven’t done–which will add to the guilt and shame that seem to come hand-in-hand with depression.
On the other hand, depression-challenging behaviours are hard and not fun in the moment, but set you up to a) have small victories (SO important when dealing with mental health issues), b) have some structure and routine in your life, and c) set up the support and structure to let you deal with the root of your issues or cope with issues that aren’t going away anytime soon.”—
yes yes yes!!!! omg!!!! i feel like i gave into this “self care dont do anything” culture so much that i didnt realize how damaging it is. sometimes self care is doing what’s best for yourself in the future, not just in the moment.
*valid does not mean healthy, or good, or to be privileged above common sense and kindness
A distinction for anyone who is young and hasn’t figured this out yet:
You are allowed to have whatever emotions you want. No one can control your emotions. Emotions are healthy responses to things.
You are not allowed to have behaviors that are harmful just because you have certain emotions. Your behaviors are what you can control, and they are far easier to control than your emotions.
You can be jealous about someone or their talents until you turn green, but it is harmful to yourself and to that person if you try to sabotage them because of it. You can be so angry you can literally feel your temperature rise, but this does not give you permission to rage at others.
Your emotions are valid. They are always valid. You are a person of value. However, you behaviors are not always justified just because of those emotions. You may not be able to control you emotions, but you can certainly control your behaviors.
and this one, i beg you to learn before you become right-wing fundamentalists: just because something gives you revulsion feelings does not mean it’s morally wrong.
you may be sex-repulsed; that doesn’t mean sex is dirty and bad. maybe you were bullied by teenage girls; that doesn’t mean teenage girls are a force of evil. perhaps a villain in a work of fiction reminds you of someone who abused you; that doesn’t mean people who enjoy that character or that fiction are abusive. your feelings about those things are absolutely valid, and it’s not right for people to tell you you shouldn’t feel that way. but it’s also not right for you to act out against others based on those feelings.
that instinct to generalize served our species well when we were hunter-gatherers living in small bands in a hostile wilderness. you nibble a delicious-looking berry, you throw up, you know that berry is BAD and you make the yuck face whenever you see it so the other hominids know it’s a bad one. but in the modern world, in the information age, there are so many complex things you might encounter, you’re going to have badfeels about a lot of things that aren’t actually across-the-board bad.
you need to not be ruled by your hominid yuckberry instinct. that’s where bigotry comes from.
You need to not be ruled by your hominid yuckberry instinct. That’s where bigotry comes from.
This is a beautifully succinct summary. Thank you very much.
Headcanon that an outraged 6-year-old Charlie Weasley writes to an elderly Newt Scamander wanting to know why Gringotts keeps a dragon locked up underground and begging him to fix it. Newt writes back saying that sadly he’s been fighting that fight for years and no one ever wants to listen to him because the powerful families whose money is being kept safe by the dragon always shut him down, and that Charlie is the first person he’s heard of who’s as angry as he is about it. Charlie decides that day to dedicate his life to finding out everything he can about dragons so that one day he can free the poor Gringotts dragon. After the war, when they hear that Harry, Ron and Hermione freed the dragon, they celebrate and immediately begin petitioning to have it made illegal to imprison dragons so that nothing like that ever happens again. It’s only when Hermione becomes Minister that it’s finally signed into law.
This is the best Harry Potter headcanon I’ve ever seen
EXR--Point of No Return from Phantom...or really anything from Phantom. I saw it last night and all the sudden it's sophomore year of high school again for me...
Not gonna lie, baby, I have not…actually seen Phantom of
the Opera, but I googled the song and Tried.
Yeah, yeah, I’m a heathen, I know.
I am Trying. And this. Oh god.
I make SUCH a rule about not writing smut except on specific request, so
I just…stopped before it progressed to actual sex. But rest assured that’s where this goes, and
if you’re interested I’m glad to write it.
“Combeferre, make sure our weapons are
prepared,” Enjolras was saying, the sort of rapid-fire rattle that commanded effortless
attention. He’d worked his way through
every present member of Les Amis and then some by now, even little Gavroche
getting instructions as they readied themselves for the next day’s march. That just left… “And where the hell is Grantaire?”
“Madame Houchloupe commandeered him as
waitstaff,” Courfeyrac said with a wicked grin.
“What?”
“He means that she asked him to fetch more
wine from the cellar, it’s crowded tonight,” Combeferre translated with a
sigh. “He’s probably still down there.”
“We are—this is not the moment for his antics,” Enjolras snapped, a scowl writing
itself deeply into his features.
“He’s been gone barely ten minutes,” Joly
said, waving a hand. “If you’re so
thrice-blasted worried, go find him yourself.”
Actual Director of Magical Security Percival Graves is going to be able to get away with anything, literally forever, with everyone else in MACUSA
“Graves, your paperwork’s piling up.”
“Is it? I’m trying to work through the backlog that Grindelwald left. You know, when he stole my life, here, and worked with all of you. For months.”
“Graves, Goldstein is out of line again.”
“That’s funny. I could have sworn I’d given her a commendation. Oh well. Maybe it was Grindelwald. Who can tell the difference, right?”
“Hey, sir, uh, Picquery wants to make sure you’re briefed properly for the meeting.”
“Hey, remember when I was Grindelwald and no one noticed? Fuck you, Abernathy.”
HAHAHA YES. HE WOULD NEVER LET IT GO.
“Sir, we have the warrant for Credence Barebone’s capture and execution prepared as per your report.” “You mean GRINDELWALD’S REPORT, because does this look like my writing style? It sure the hell doesn’t look like my writing style. Do I look like a moron who cannot recognise a magically gifted child who needs to be RESCUED from idiotic no-majs?”
hello! have you seen the post floating around abt the national museum of american jewish history in philly? they are apparently looking for queer jewish stories and i was not sure if it applied to you? the post is a bit old but anyway~
Okay, so, the not-so-complicated story of my religious history is: I was raised Jewish for years, but I converted before I reached the age of studying for my bat-mitzvah. It’s still a really big part of my identity because…like…it just is, you know? I still have teachers and rabbis to make proud, even though I’ve fallen out of touch with most of them and the others have since died. So…like I don’t know if that post applies to me either, tbh.
sometimes you fight, not because you think you can win, but because you need to be able to look back later and say, “i fought.”
“In King Lear (III:vii) there is a man who is such a minor
character that Shakespeare has not given him even a name: he is merely
“First Servant.” All the characters around him – Regan, Cornwall, and
Edmund – have fine long-term plans. They think they know how the story
is going to end, and they are quite wrong. The servant has no such
delusions. He has no notion of how the play is going to go. But he
understands the present scene. He sees an abomination (the blinding of
old Gloucester) taking place. He will not stand it.
His sword is out and pointed at his master’s breast in a
moment: then Regan stabs him dead from behind. That is his whole part:
eight lines all told. But if it were real life and not a play, that is
the part it would be best to have acted.”
You know what line gets me every time I watch MAD MAX FURY ROAD?
“Do not, my friends, become addicted to water. It will take hold of you, and you will resent its absence.”
Think about that. “Addicted to water.” It makes it sound like water is an extra luxury that people don’t need but are greedy for, something they should be able to go without, and if they are desperate for it, it’s their own fault, and not the fault of the man who has all of it, and withholds it.
Think about how the people in power tell us not to be greedy for the things we need, like healthcare, like a living wage, like the right to be free of fear and violence in our own communities. The people in power tell us not to be greedy for these things, when they themselves already enjoy them freely, and withhold them from us.
Don’t trust the narrative that tells us we’re being greedy by asking for things that we need.
Don’t trust the asshole sitting on a grassy hilltop with his hand on the spigot telling us not to be greedy for water.
Lurker again. First of all, I'm sorry I pissed you off. No, I absolutely did NOT realize that that would be the reaction. If I did I would have gladly STFU'd. I am sorry I added additional stress. As for why this particular post/explanation, I guess I've just read too many things about sexual assault recently and was in a bad mood myself (not excusing, just explaining). Again, I'm sorry I shat all over your day. I will refrain from commenting in future and remember to watch my tone elsewhere.
Hey, friend, I appreciate the apology. I totally get where you’re coming from, I have days like that too, and I think it was really adult of you to acknowledge it, so major props, my friend. Apology accepted, and I’d like to extend my own for getting cranky about it. I hope your mood cycles up again, and don’t hang yourself out to dry for this, okay? Like, for me. It’s not on you that I reacted badly–I’ve just had…a long damn semester. A long damn year if we’re all being honest, 2016 continues to kind of kick the shit out of me and everyone I love. And you too, it sounds like! So, like, don’t crucify yourself for a slip of temper, and make yourself a warm drink and here, have a video to improve your day.
Lurker here. I saw that post about "Baby It's Cold Outside." I still hate that song, because when you know the history, it just makes it more obvious why evil old farts think women are lying in the modern day about date rape. Because back in THEIR day, that was what consensual sex had to look like. TL,DR: Still hate this song.
Okay, look buddy, I’m not disagreeing with your ABSOLUTE PREROGATIVE to hate the song. You 100% have the right to stand by that, and I would never disagree with it. Your statement here is also completely accurate, and speaking as someone with a long ugly history of sexual assault (do you lurk enough to know that too, or are you just losing your temper?) I even agree with it. It was this attitude that you had to at least claim that you’d resisted in order to protect your reputation (”At least I can to say that I tried”) even if the sex was consensual that feeds into our modern culture’s total denial of date rape claims.
That being said, the specific song “Baby It’s Cold Outside” is radically different if you evaluate it as a song written in “their day” as opposed to the way most people do it, as a song written in our day. Culture is written in songs and stories, and this song speaks to a part of culture that is different today, that’s why it’s interesting. I’m not saying you have to like the song, nor am I questioning any skeeved-out feelings you have toward it, but there is a lot to be said for knowing one’s history in order to progress forward rather than backward, socially speaking.
Finally, may I ask why you felt the need to tell me specifically this thing? Because if you do lurk so often on my blog, as your intro implies, I don’t know what in particular you hoped to convey other than making me a little ill-tempered, because regardless of how you meant it, this ask comes off as fairly rude. And, as I have so frequently mentioned over the last few days, I am tired and stressed out about my family and generally exasperated with humanity. Like. You had to know I’d be inclined to take something like this a little poorly.
I couldn’t give less of a shit about Kylo Ren but good god if it makes General Leia Organa Founder of the Resistance, Last Princess of Alderaan and Hero of the Rebellion happy for once in her life then I will THROW HIS ASH-SNORTING EMO ASS ONTO THE FALCON AND DRAG HIM BACK TO D'QAR MYSELF
Alright nerds, today we are going to discuss headphone etiquette.
You walk into your favorite hang out joint and you see a dear friend. How grand! However, you see their headphones are in use and you have not the slightest clue how to approach them. Here is a helpful guide on how to decipher the code.
Both headphones on/earbuds in: Leave them alone, especially if they are hunched over a laptop, a book or their phone. This means they do not want to be disturbed. It is okay to give a small wave, head tilt or smile as acknowledgement.
One earbud is out: This means said person is listening out for something and not fully engaged with what is being listened to. You may approach, but watch for body language that says ‘leave me alone’. Examples are: crossed arms, little to no eye contact, short one word answers.
Headphones/earbuds out: You may approach! This one is not enjoying music/audio books on their device currently, and it is deemed okay to talk to said person.
Note: If someone sees you, and takes off their music delivering device from their head, that means they desire to talk to you! Smile, and enjoy a lovely conversation.
You taking off my headphones/earbuds: Run. Because no jury will convict me.
I see you trying to trip me up and all I have to say is:
I hope this is as weird as you expected it to be. I feel like it fits the tone of the song. Two OTP’s, even though only half of each
pairing is present, and I guess this is more like…the start of plot than just an OTP thing.
“Once upon a time, there was a girl,” the
girl with the long hair murmurs, “and what no one knew was that the King of the
Goblins had fallen in love with the girl, and he had given her certain
powers. Which I thought included a sense of direction, but clearly not,” she adds
with a scowl, her helmet tucked under one arm and her hip propped against the
motorcycle behind her. “Snickers, where
are we?”
The goblin in question peers out of her pack—where
she firmly stuffed him out of sight because wow
she is not explaining that to any cops who happen to pull her over—and stares,
wide-eyed, up at the town in front of them.
It looks…odd. The town, not the
goblin, Snickers looks pretty much how he normally does except slightly less
chocolate-smeared, because it’s been a good six hours since their last stop at
a gas station and his beloved candy bars have since run out. But the town…
Well.
Sarah’s not going to call the Arbys with the glowing lights overhead,
the park in the distance surrounded by a twelve-foot fence topped with barbed
wire (helpfully labeled ‘Dog Park: Do Not Enter, Look At, or Think About’ to
Sarah’s unusually good eyes), or the house apparently under a pillar of divine
light the weirdest thing she’s ever seen.
But she’s maybe considering adding it to the list.
AU where Grantaire is a hugely famous and successful fashion designer aged thirty (like, Alexander McQueen famous), who owns this international multi-billion dollar fashion house, but is also hugely famous for the fact that he’s anonymous, like, only ten trusted people at the top know his real name (one of them is probably Eponine, no, its definitely Eponine, she is his PA), everyone else knows him just as R, most of the people working for him have never even seen him. Outside of his fashion house he lives with Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta (he also owns their building which is why the rent is so low but shush they don’t know), who just think he’s their little cynic artist, like, they have no clue what he does because he’s just so vague when asked, ‘sell art shit’ is his usual response. And they keep asking him to come to Les Amis meetings but he just refuses every time.
And so one day he’s working on this really big collection that’s based on the Greek Gods and Eponine rings him one day and is like ‘we’ve found Apollo’, and texts him pictures of Enjolras (whose parents cut him off as usually happens in fanfic, and who Courfeyrac pushed into modelling part time because ‘you are the most beautiful human to exist you’ll make enough doing a week to retire for life’) and Grantaire’s just like ‘Eponine how much photoshop was used no one is that beautiful’ ‘Well see if he lives up to the photos yourself he’s over to your office’ ‘I’m not even at my office’ ‘well get the fuck over there’. And of course Enjolras doesn’t really want to be there because, even though R’s house is really famously progressive and actually does plus-sized stuff it’s still the fashion industry, it’s still a steaming pile of elitist shit. So they get arguing and it gets incredibly heated and after half an hour of outright yelling Grantaire just plays a klaxon noise on his computer and shouts ‘you are hired’, pressing the intercom ‘Eponine I’ve hired the guy, go show him the ropes’.
So begins a month of sexual tension, incredibly argumentative flirting, or flirty arguing, clothes designing and angst. (Grantaire also just keeps gifting Enjolras clothes and Courfeyrac just whines that its not fair that Enjolras gets all that couture when he doesn’t even appreciate it ‘look at this leather jacket Enj, it is one of a kind, it has been perfectly tailored for you, this is the bespoke of bespoke, we do not leave it on the floor!’)
And finally one day after the Joly-Bossuet-Musichetta trio have wheedled and whined and poked and prodded Grantaire for a week he finally throws up his hands and says ‘if it’s at a bar and I can drink I will come to your stupid activist meeting’. So they head off and its all nice and the leader isn’t there yet so they introduce him to everyone and they all chat and make friends and Grantaire thinks ‘this isn’t bad, I may enjoy myself’. Then Courfeyrac looks towards the door and says brightly ‘ah here comes our fearless leader’. And Grantaire looks over as well and the fearless leader is, of course, Enjolras and Grantaire just thinks ‘of all the activist groups in France my friends frequent the same one that my crush and employee who I argue with on a daily basis runs, of course’. And Enjolras comes over and stops still, Combeferre starts to introduce him and Enjolras just stops him and is like ‘R what are you doing here!?’ and everyone’s like ‘you know each other?’ and Enjolras turns to Combeferre and Courfeyrac and says ‘this is my boss’.
Everything goes to shit for an hour.
The meeting never actually happens.
They’re too busy interrogating Grantaire.
‘You own R? You’re R! We’ve lived with you since college and you never told us!’
‘You’re R! Your clothes are works of art I am not worthy!’
‘How did you keep this secret for ten years!’
‘I am going to kill Eponine I can’t believe she never told us!’
*Courfeyrac is cannot evening*
‘Grantaire I am legitimately impressed by your ability to maintain a double life, have you ever considered fighting crime?’
‘How did you not know I ran this activist group! How!’
‘You own our fucking building! You give us rent money every month! You pay yourself to live in your own flat!’
Eventually things calm down. Eponine is not allowed to live down the fact that she knew everything and never told anyone.
Everyone begins operation ‘get E and R together’. Chaos ensues, Enjolras and Grantaire get together, life is good.
Grantaire ends up hooking Courf up with clothing that hasn’t even reached the stores yet.
Courf also models part time because Of course Courf always puts on his best clothes and practically poses whenever Grantaire comes in a room and eventually he just sighs and is just
“If I let you model my new line, will you please stop acting like a tool?”
*excited Courf noises*
Chetta convinces R to make a sexy sleep wear for both men and woman AND OF COURSE HE HAS THE TRUSTY POLY TRIO MODEL DOWN THE RUNWAY IN IT BECAUSE FUCK IT //Enjolras also models, but he ends up not wearing it long after he gets off the catwalk//
He gifts feuilly so many different kinds of comfortable and stylish work clothes.
He also makes Bahorel fitted and high quality work out gear
Marius gets socks as an inside joke, but does end up giving him the occasional suit for dates
Cosette gets dresses. All the dresses.
Entertainingly someone asked me for more headcanons (yours are awesome btw) when I originally made this post, so I came up with the story of how Cosette managed to blackmail Grantaire into designing her a wedding dress for free.
And this is like, the most beautiful Disney princess dress.
It is something along these lines:
But definitely once Grantaire is outed as the fashion designer R he just throws clothes at everyone.
Especially Jehan.
He has been holding back on it for so long but Jehan needs someone who can actually fashion to do his clothes.
Grantaire doesn’t particularly care that Jehan dresses in an outlandish, loud and ridiculously flamboyant manner, he just cares that Jehan has the fashion sense of a blind raccoon, so designs an extensive, coherent wardrobe of snazzy, flowy, loud and flamboyant clothes.
It also explains several things, such as ‘I knew the van Gogh in the hall was real! Grantaire you little shit you convinced me it was a copy for four years!’ for the trusty poly trio.
Life with them is just ridiculous for R for several weeks after the big reveal.
Because they keep just asking him shit ‘what else didn’t we know!’ ‘Do you have a long lost twin?’ ‘Are you married?’ ‘Is Grantaire even your real name?’ ‘If you own the building why don’t we live in one of the biggest flats, Mrs. Simplice from No. 55 has a motherfucking ballroom, why can’t we have a ballroom!’ ‘What do you even do with all your money!’ You lied to us for ten years, how can we ever trust you again!’ *Joly looks at his coffee* ‘I don’t even know if this is actually decaf, I don’t know anything anymore, my best friend has been lying to me for all these years!’
They are so melodramatic and R is so done with their shit.
Once they come out, Jack starts wearing a tshirt that reads “My boyfriend is a hockey player”
Okay but just imagine with me…Jack comes out but doesn’t introduce Bitty to the public at large. And when he wears the t-shirt…like oh my god, the gossip and speculation! People are throwing out all kinds of names! Crosby, Seguin, Mashkov, and even Parson! Every day it’s some one new! (The Falconers, who are very familiar with Bitty, take great delight in informing Jack as to who the media thinks his boyfriend is that day).
snowy: yo Zimmboni, you didn’t happen to have dinner with Malkin last night, did you?
Jack: yeah, Geno and I were catching up, it’s been a while
Tater: why you not invite me? I thought I was your sexy Russian boyfriend
poots: hold on guys the wifi won’t connect and we need to see who’s in the top boyfriend spot today
snowy: i got 4G, how the hell am I not ahead of ovechkin he’s ancient and I have most of my teeth
Tater gets “I am Zimmermann’s boyfriend” t-shirts made and raises a LOT of money for charity, because a bunch of very famous NHL players all wear them at once in an I am Spartacus situation that brings Instagram to a grinding halt for three days.
i don’t understand what people don’t understand about harry becoming an auror. he spent his whole adolescence not being able to trust the ministry to do their jobs properly and having no power to change things for the better. do you really think he’d just be able to kick back and live a normal life, putting his trust in the government after all he went through? do you think there are any lengths he wouldn’t go to to make sure his friends and family were safe? if you want things done right, do them yourself. did you all read the same books as me? because i’m pretty sure that the harry potter who i read about would never just stand back and watch other people run things when he could be directly involves in making positive changes for making the world a safer place.
He’s always been a doer, not a speaker - he’s got a saving people thing - he hates being stared at (unless he’s playing Quidditch) - he would want to actively help take down evil, not stand in a classroom every day. It’s so obvious to me, IDK.
Ghostbusters villain:
I WAS A SOCIAL OUTCAST! NO ONE RESPECTED ME OR ADMIRED ME! THEY SAID I WAS WEIRD! THEY SAID I WAS CRAZY! THEY SAID I DIDN'T FIT IN! THEY TREATED ME LIKE I WASN'T WORTH ANYTHING!
Erin:
Uh. Hi. I'm a woman working in a STEM field...
Abby:
...likewise and not stick-thin enough for some people.
Holtzmann:
STEM too and kinda gay.
Patty:
I'd be here all day.
Ghostbusters villain:
NO ONE HAS SUFFERED AS I HAVE SUFFERED!
Due to a typo, your local store/mall/etc. put out a request for an appearance by Satan instead of Santa. He follows through with the request.
He shows up and reads through the entire job contract, notes the spelling ‘Santa’ and just corrects each one with a red pen. He eyes the mall representative, who is sweating bullets, but says nothing about the fact that the contracts he’s making are with children, or that they don’t involve souls of any kind. He signs on the bottom line in a strange, bony quill. There’s a strange red flash, and the mall rep is super reluctant to ask. Or touch the contract.
Satan wears the red suit and the hat and the boots, if awkwardly (those cloven hooves, don'tchaknow).
The elves stand well away, but he’s hardly bothered by that, casually waiting on a throne that’s far more cheerful and composed of significantly less bone than the one he’s used to.
The children are hesitant at first, until a little girl marches up, sans-parents, and plops herself on his knee, looking up at him with the set jaw of someone who isn’t interested in this farce.
“I want a pony,” she says with a roll of her eyes. She’s no more than nine. He arches an eyebrow
“Do you?” he asks. She scoffs.
“Tch, no, but you’re just a man in a suit, it’s not like you can’t get me what I want.”
He smiles at her assertiveness and steeples his fingers, careful not to jostle her from her perch.
“Try me.”
She narrows her eyes at him, studying his inscrutable face before folding her arms.
“There’s a bully at my school, and I want him to go away,” she said. His eyebrow arched a little higher and he tilted his head.
“And if I do this, I believe the standard contract is that you will be a ‘good girl’ and behave appropriately towards your most favored parent?’ he replied. The child rolls her eyes.
“Yeah, sure,” she says. He nods and holds out his hand, which curls around hers entirely when she puts hers out.
“It will be done.”
After that, the children are a lot less hesitant, although several adults attempt to leave. Several hundred bargains are made. For toys. For new family. For present family to suffer. For puppies. And kittens. For understanding. For acceptance.
He declines anything borne of pettiness - of momentary squabbles between jealous children - and redirects them towards more productive desires.
He turns away anyone over the age of eighteen, though several adults attempt to approach. Later they are plagued with horrible nightmares.
At the end of each day, he returns to the underworld and assembles teams of demons, handing out assignments to each of them, to be researched heavily and then executed the night of December 24th. The demons are confused, but do as they’re told, because the dark lord’s edicts are undeniable. His secretary gives him an odd look, but Satan is immune to searching looks, and says nothing, just retires to his room, gets up in the morning, has his coffee, and returns to the mall, donning the suit and heading for the chair.
At the end of the week, he has made more than a thousand deals. The demon hordes are scurrying back and forth between hell and the physical plane.
There are many confused parents, come Christmas morning. Some find themselves with various pets they don’t remember registering for. Others with children. Others still find that their children have undergone some sort of personality shift, to the delight of their siblings.
The first girl is bitter in her heart as she opens gifts, until a letter is personally delivered by a strange mailman, detailing the removal of a teacher from the school she attends. She reads and rereads the letter after her parents finish with it, heart beating strangely lighter in her chest. Her parents are bemused and delighted about the hugs she gives them, and about the enthusiasm with which she ravages her other presents.
They are far less bemused by the black, hellfire-maned pony that is left on their doorstep, a tag attached to the pommel of the saddle that reads, ‘To Katie, Regards, Satan’
