#and just in case the full mice and men saying is that they often go awry fjfjfjfj

[calamity-jam]

Is it possible to be divorced without being married

#rise of the tmnt #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #rottmnt #rise splinter #rise draxum #rise lou jitsu #unpause rottmnt #whatever these two having going I want to study it in a lab fjfjfjdjd #the bottom is the divorce selfie redraw gjfjf #doctor delicate touch is the lawyer of course as he deserves #and just in case the full mice and men saying is that they often go awry fjfjfjfj #jam going ham

[motsimages]

This is going to be a bit long but I feel linguistical today. This will be an article about languages, leave aside all political questions because this is about language acquisition, focused mainly in the use of singular and plural. I am also using English as an example (with some other languages for comparison) because it is the lingua franca of the internet and because, well, I am writing in English.

I am using the example of the sentence "Inuk is singular, Inuit is plural" because I see it very often and I think people will be familiar with it. It belongs with the misconceptions of "Ha, silly English speakers saying chai tea, they don't know other languages". However, this is not exclusive of English speakers because, as I will explain later, languages tend to do that. I have read full articles in Spanish about how you should say paparazzo in singular, and not paparazzi, but it is pointless because now, the Spanish word for it is "paparazzi" and its plural is "paparazzis", it is not Italian because the moment it was used in Spanish for the first time, it was Spanish.

It is virtually impossible to have one set of grammar rules for everything and then, randomly, sometimes, for a very new and specific case, another. In English, suddenly bringing greek plurals out of the blue makes native speakers doubt or even say it "wrong" and this is why. It doesn't fucking make sense and it is very hard. They have to artificially remember "what is the plural for octopus?". And everyone who has studied English as a foreign language has had to specifically study many irregular plurals (foot-feet, mouse-mice, etc.) and probably still gets it wrong. There may be some hidden English grammar intuition behind man-men but, unless you study it or develop it, it will just be two random words that for some reason are related.

When people say "Inuk is singular, and the plural is Inuit" seems like it is simple and easy if there is 1 singular and 1 plural, more or less like English does. We tend to assume that's how it works for most languages so yeah, no problem. Plus, we have seen that English has irregular plurals, so what?

Thing is languages are fucking hard, they are very complex systems that require a lot of memory, deduction and inference. It is not as simple as "the singular is patata, and the plural is the same with an s, so patatas". For that to happen, you have to actually learn two different words, the grammar rule for how the plural is formed (and what plural means) and remember when each one of them is used. It is easier if you use it often, if you see it often because it loads the mental database of examples but if you don't use it, it's just not there, all those skills are not used. Think of babies. How do babies speak when they are one or two? Do they even have full sentences? Do they use the plurals at all? When do they use the plurals? Which plurals? Do you think that because someone is 43, their knowledge of a language they have never been exposed to is better than a native speaker aged 2? (Hi to you, learners of foreign languages being frustrated because that language doesn't make sense).

And I used a very easy example with Spanish. It seems logical, right? Singular = no s, Plural = -s. Much better than whatever is going on in English with ox-oxen or sheep.

Russian has declinations (like verb conjugations but for nouns, pronouns and adjectives). When you count, the declinations change depending on whether it's 1 thing; 2-3-4 things or 5+ things. This gives Russian "two plurals" (so to say). There is also a whole set of endings for singulars and plurals, just like in Latin, depending on the syntactic part of the sentence. Are you expected to know this when using Russian words in English? Is every single English speaker in the world forced to study Russian so that they can specifically use the correct plural according to this rule? I don't think I've ever read about "bolsheviki" in English (plural for more than 5) or even less so "bolshevika" (for 2-3-4 of them) or any other of the plural cases (bolshevikov, bolshevikax, bolshevikami) that could be used because it would require actually knowing Russian and because it wouldn't make sense in English (sometimes the syntax would have to be changed too, it would be a mess), people would be confused if they were reading about Russian history and suddenly were faced with "Two bolshevika met here" or "A lot of bolshevikov marched to the palace". How did it feel reading this? Very likely, many people would think it is a different type of bolshevik or that there is something they don't know (I mean... there is, but it is irrelevant in English).

Now let's look at "person" in English and the plural "people". I guess you could use "persons" but who uses that and when? One person, many people (not "many persons"). Let's make a rule out of this. Imagine that is the only information that you have about English. One deduction could be "if person is singular and people is plural, and they both share "pe-", it means that "pe-" is "person" and "-rson" is the marker for singular" and "-ople" is the marker for plural." So when faced the word "apple", I could think that the singular is actually "applerson" and the plural is "applople". Or I could get very confused and create a new rule: "the singular is the word as it is, and there is another different word for the plural, so I only know the singular for "apple" and if I had to say "more than one apple", I wouldn't know how to". In this case, how do I know which one is singular and which one is plural?

All of these deductions, btw, are automatic the moment you are faced with new information about other language. I am making them explicit but if you think of your foreign friend who makes some mistakes when speaking, or any toddler you've met, you will notice that this is the usual in language acquisition.

Again, what is the plural for "octopus"? Why? Did it come naturally to native speakers or did they have to artificially learn it? And in languages that are not English? If you have to deduce what is the plural for "pulpo" based on the English rule for "octopus-octopi", what would be the plural? And based on the Russian rule I gave above (assuming those endings are the only endings)?

All of this if we sit to figure out singulars and plurals. But if, like with paparazzi, I'm only faced with plural because they're often seen together in groups, how can I know the singular?

And since you all like so much to complain about naan bread and how silly the English are:

The answer is: I just don't know the singular (think of the deduction I made about person-people). I take the plural as is and use it in English, with English rules. It will now become an adjective.

With nationalities, it can be a noun, but isn't a group of people plural? Isn't it more likely to speak about "the Inuit" than "the Inuk"? Isn't it more likely for people to hear about all of the people who are affected about the same thing? When would it be used in singular? Probably, with less frequency than the plural. People will make a rule out of what they know. When English speakers say "this Inuit singer", the English word might actually be "Inuit" which is coherent with the grammar and syntax of the whole sentence "this Inuit singer will hold a concert on this date". They are, after all, speaking in English, not Inuktitut, so they could very easily create "Inuits" and that would be correct... in English. Of course, it is interesting and important for many people to show that that is not the Inuktitut way, but it is linguistically counterintuitive so it will be hard to incorporate. Also I may know the difference between Inuk and Inuit, but if nobody else around me does and I speak of "an Inuk village", they might logically assume it's a different group of people with the knowledge that they have. They will be inferring this information based on other similar phrasings they have actually been exposed to like "a Russian village", given that in English adjectives do not show difference between plural and singular. "A Russian village" and "Many Russian villages" so, logically "An Inuit village" and "Many Inuit villages" OR "An Inuk village" and "Many Inuk villages".

And this is all just the very simple concept of one vs many, that I think most cultures have. We can see, like in Russian, that there are different manies (many-s? manyes? what's the plural and why?) or different ones, but overall everyone has been faced with one thing and with more than one thing so generally speaking, it's easy to grasp and adapt to your native language. However, some languages, even when faced with several things do not have plural and have to find alternative ways to show that.

In short, while it is fun to mock colonialists for whatever the reason, please remember some things are not done on purpose out of pure evil, some things come along with how the brain is wired to understand it and to adapt to it, with more or less cultural influence. And while some people will use this as an excuse, most people are really just not linguists and not aware of all these processes. Think of your own native language and you will probably find examples of weird turns like this too, with foreign words.

I also hope that this article shares some light into why some people struggle to even acquire language and to communicate with more than just some words.

#languages #linguistics

[radiosandrecordings]

There’s the person in me who loved psychology before I dropped out of that class and the one who currently studies moving image who really wants to run some kind of study on how fandom interprets things.

I’m gona take The Magnus Archives as a point of study for this. Say we have four test group:

Group 1 has watched every episode of TMA as it came out, episode one to two hundred as it airs, the full four year+ timeline. They have never interacted with the fandom and do not know anyone in real life who has listened to it.

Group 2 has also listened in real time, but interacts with fandom and talks about it regularly, consuming fan content like art and fics

Group 3 did what so many did and have binged all four seasons available to them before catching up and listening to season five in real time. They do not engage with fandom.

Group 4 does the same as group 3, but engages with fandom in the same way as group 2.

Readmore in case you don’t want to read 1000 words of me talking about media. 

I really want to see how this shifts their interpretations of canon. My theory being, group 1 would probably have the clearest view of canon by itself, while group 4 would have the most warped. I’m not saying any of these have better interpretations the source, just that group one would view it more clearly as it was presented in its original format

The thing that prompted this was the treatment of the character of Martin Blackwood specifically. He’s one of if not the most popular character, and is often simplified in fan spaces as the soft, caretaking love interest, or in some interpretations popular in fandom during the airing of the fourth season, the ‘sassy gay’. I’d really want to test how much of that interpretation comes from canon itself, or how people warp canon to fit how they want to view the text. 

I think it’s kind of similar of english class. Your teacher hands you a copy of Mice and Men and you read the book. As you go through, you discuss only what is in the text. You read and re-read the book until you have a good enough view of it that you can recall facts from memory and write an essay on it. What you don’t do, is read half the book, spend two months talking with your friends about it and reading and writing fanfiction about Lenny, George and Curly living on their ranch, just to be horrified and call it ‘OOC’ when somebody dies. 

Back to the study of TMA, Martin specifically is a character who has grown and developed a lot over the four and a bit seasons the show has been running. At a certain point halfway through the series, it becomes clear that he has a romantic interest in the protagonist, and this is later reciprocated. I started listening to the show during it’s season break, with S3 being finished and S4 about to release. At the time it was implied that Martin had feelings, but it was unclear if this would be further expanded upon in canon. I want to know how far fan opinion of him differs from before and after this event, and further when his feelings are returned and the relationship becomes canon. Did the establishment of him as a romantic lead create a softer view of him in the listeners mind?

This is prompted by the fact that, after the relationship became official, his actions have been under much more of a microscope from fans than previously. Things that would be brushed off before, especially if said to another side character, are now scrutinised when he says them to his partner. Would this view be shared by someone who listened to the show in isolation, or is it purely a construct of a fan base who are more used to their own fan comics and fic of him where he’s the soft, doting boyfriend who would never offend his partner? 

Because he has said things previously that are similar to how he is acting now, as episodes are released. He has been impulsive and inconsiderate with his words and missed cues in conversations, such as impulsively trying to touch some plastic explosives, or not getting a piece of self deprecating sarcasm and pointing out that the protagonist had just referred to himself as an idiot. This is where I would want to examine group 4 specifically. As people often listen to the whole four years of backlog in as short as a week, they often miss details such as this. They power through the source text, and then spend a longer amount of time immersed in fan interpretations, and my theory being that this long exposure overrides their memory of what his actions are in canon, and instead give a fan’s mental picture of him more of a fan created personality. They are more likely to remember something when it’s included in ten different fanfictions they read, all bouncing off each other, than an episode they listened sandwiched between two other episodes. 

Fan headcanons are also a slippery slope, because often you can end up with things being perceived as canon which have little or no basis. This is usually all in good fun, but chasing rabbit hole after rabbit hole from au to headcanon to interpretation can often create something entirely indistinguishable from the source (Hell, remember the Onceler thing?). Plus, the creation of one interpretation of a character that inspires another will spread if it gains enough popularity, possibly even seeping down into the bare bones of the fan base until it’s somehow everywhere. An example of this is the almost always used design for the protagonist as a south asian man with long, dark hair, glasses and a largely green colour scheme. Someone with no fandom knowledge like groups 1 or 3 would have no idea this popular design for the man exists, but it is likely whenever listening to the show, groups 2 and 4 would picture a variant on this base design. 

An added aspect of groups 1 & 2 that 3 & 4 don’t have is the fact that they get time to sit and theorise between episodes, whether alone or with a group respectively. When listening to a backlog like 3 & 4 you don’t need to sit and go ‘I wonder why he said that?’ because you can move on to the next episode and see why. 

Basically, TL;DR: It’s here’s my hypothetical proposition for a psychology/anthropology study on how people’s perspectives on a media are shaped by the nature of how they consume it, focusing on the timeframe in which they consume it and their exposure to outside influence. 

#My Post #I was trying to write this from an unbiased TMA fan perspective because I know I myself am subject to this just by being someone who listene #but I just wanted to examine this theory as a whole with TMA as the example study since it's something I know well AND has a clear example #CAN YOU TELL MY PARENTS HAVE ANTHROPOLOGY DEGREES #It doesn't even touch on web martin. i will write that sequel some day #neither of them have jobs to match but the curiosity rubbed off #The Magnus Archives #Martin Blackwood

[writingrailroad]

idea for a gregor the overander/tuc sequel series:

after the events of book 5, gregor’s family and the underland go their separate ways. The underland never reaches out to them, and gregor’s family tries their best to just forget the whole thing. A couple years after their return, they even move to a whole new city (the whole farm plan didn’t work out; too expensive).

boots grows up feeling like her entire family is hiding some big, dark secret. they never talk about anything that happened before they moved, taking special care to avoid boots’s baby years.

her mom wears long sleeves and jeans, even in the summertime. once, boots accidentally walked in on her dressing and found that she was covered in faded, circular scars.

sometimes, her dad wakes up screaming, only for her mom to soothe him back to sleep. her sister has nightmares too, only she wakes up in a panic attack, muttering about rats and codes and gregor. every once in a while, boots has nightmares too: drowning in a surging river as someone reaches out for her, a pit full of dancing mice who suddenly go still, the heat of fire and choking blindness of soot. she has nightmares about other things too, just like any other kid, but those are the ones that come back again and again, just a bit too vivid, and fill her with a strange feeling that lingers just a bit too long.

whenever she told her mom about these dreams, she assured boots that they were just that: dreams. but every so often, she could hear her parents argue. most of the time, they were happy, almost a little too happy. but they would have hushed arguments late at night, safely behind closed doors, and boots would listen through the vents. it was difficult to understand, and it didn’t help that they seemed afraid to even mention what they were actually talking about. sometimes they argued about boots, how not telling her about “it” was for her own good. sometimes they argued about lizzie, how they couldn’t get her anxiety treated in case she mentioned “it” (they ended up taking her to therapy after a particularly bad panic attack landed her in the hospital). but most of the time, they argued about gregor.

gregor was a good kid, and he tried to be a good brother too. he tried really, really hard. he dropped boots off from school and picked her up every day, even after she was old enough to take the bus on her own. he took her wherever she wanted to go, chaperoned all her field trips, and became a counselor for the summer camp she went to every year. he worked through high school to help pay the bills, even picked up a second job to help pay for lizzie’s college, and he always treated boots and lizzie to something nice when he got his paycheck.

and yet, despite all this, he was always so distant. he went off on his own more often than not, never told any stories about himself, and didn’t seem to want to do anything with his life but go for long runs and take care of their family. like their mom, he preferred long sleeves over short ones, but every once in a while boots would catch a glimpse of jagged scars that he refused to acknowledge exist. he had the worst nightmares of anyone, but instead of talking them out, he disappeared to who-knows-where in the middle of the night. sometimes his eyes got this glossy, distant look, and someone would have to snap him out of it before he remembered where he was or what he was doing.

every once in a while, boots tried to talk to him about it. figure out what he was hiding. but he just brushed her off. he brushed a lot of things off; gregor never got angry or upset with anyone. whenever things started to get heated, whenever he would get pushed towards his breaking point, he went on one of his long runs. to boots, it seemed he was always holding part of himself back, almost like he was afraid of what would happen if he got angry.

not that she could blame him.

there have been two times in boots’s life when gregor got angry. once was when she was about ten years old: gregor and boots had caught their landlord putting up a fumigation notice on their way home from school. apparently, there was a cockroach infestation. gregor argued that it was inhumane to just kill a bunch of bugs like that, but the landlord wouldn’t budge, getting more and more irritated by gregor’s protests until he said “what do you care, kid? they’re just a bunch of cockroaches, they don’t matter.” boots could practically feel the anger emanating off of her brother, and a dazed look crossed his face before he punched the landlord—almost. missed the guy’s jaw by centimeters, diverting his throw into the wall. it took a few minutes of controlled breathing on gregor’s part and placating the landlord on boots’s, but they were able to work out an agreement: gregor would door to door to gather and release the cockroaches by himself.

that incident had scared boots more than she wanted to admit, mostly because of an incident before that, where gregor hadn’t held back.

she was maybe eight years old. gregor had had one of his nightmares and disappeared into the night; only this time, boots had followed him. she tried to keep her distance so she wouldn’t be caught, and turned around whenever he checked behind his shoulder (later, she realized that he definitely knew she was following him; her bright purple raincoat wasn’t exactly the stealthiest choice of outerwear). as she crossed the opening to an alley, hands snatched her, pulling her into the darkness. two men held her tight, their acidic stench and gnarled, toothy grins overwhelming her senses, and she let out a brief cry before one of them clamped his hand over her mouth.

then, she saw gregor. his fearful look twisted into something much more dangerous, and he lunged.

it was over before she could blink. gregor tore the men off of her, throwing one against the wall hard enough to make his skull to crack and knocking the other one to the ground, mercilessly punching as boots wailed for him to stop. only, he didn’t stop. he was like a machine, tearing into the guy with deadly precision until boots grabbed his arm and pulled him away. and for a split second, she caught sight of a dazed grin stretched across his face before he snapped out of it, hoisted boots onto his back, and ran.

he must’ve ran for twenty minutes before he slowed down in some park, far from home. he let boots go, checked her over for any sign she’d been hurt, and when there weren’t any, he sat beneath an old tree and cried. boots sat next to him, not sure of what just happened, not sure of what to say. so, she checked him over too, making sure he wasn’t hurt either. he wasn’t, except for that distant look on his face as tears rolled down his cheeks and his bloodied and bruised knuckles. boots wiped his hands with some tissues she found in her pocket and kissed them better—she had to pry his left hand away from his chest, as it was holding tight to the little bat figure he always kept strung around his neck.

“how come you always wear that necklace?” she had asked him, mostly because she wanted to distract him from whatever was making him cry. it worked, somewhat; he seemed to come back from whatever far-off place his mind wandered to.

“i guess you don’t remember, huh?” he asked in return, still sniffling a little. she shook her head. “you gave this to me, back when you were just a baby.”

“really?”

“mhm. that’s why i wear it all the time. and it... it reminds me of a friend.”

with that, he returned to that far-off place. she tried to ask him more, but he brushed her off and took her home. with that, her first and only story from the life her family had lived before they moved was over.

later that same night, boots had a nightmare of her own. but it wasn’t about the two men—it was about gregor. a younger gregor, surrounded by absolute stillness, sword dripping with blood, bearing that same grin.

as much as she hated to admit it, and as much as she hated herself for thinking it, but ever since that day, boots couldn’t help but feel a tiny bit afraid of gregor. at least, the part of him that had smiled. the part of him that he always tried to keep hidden. the part of him that boots suspected resulted in those nightmares and scars.

something happened to their family. something big. and the fact that boots didn’t know was driving her crazy. so who could blame her, really, for wanting to get to the bottom of it?

boots was 13 years old when she lied to her brother. she said she had filled out all the forms for summer camp, but the day the bus arrived, she wasn’t allowed on. so gregor the camp counselor had to leave the unregistered boots behind with a promise that she wouldn’t go anywhere without telling mom or dad and she would always be home before dark. lizzie hadn’t come home from college this summer, something about an internship, and her parents wouldn’t be home for hours.

so, boots got to work. she found a file with her family’s old address, stashed her family’s rainy day fund into her suitcase, and bought a bus ticket for new york city.

the trip there was an exciting whirlwind and agonizingly slow all at once, and she almost got hit by a car after getting off the bus. it was still early afternoon by the time she arrived, and with her printed-out mapquest directions in hand, she made the long trek from the bus stop to their old apartment building.

the family that lived in their old unit didn’t know anything about anything. neither did the next five doors that she tried. but just as she was starting to get frustrated that she came here for nothing, she knocked on the door of an older woman by the name of mrs. cormaci.

as soon as she said their family name, mrs. cormaci recognized her as boots, gregor’s little sister, and sized her up in all of two seconds. she ushered her inside, chastised her for running away, and left a voicemail for her parents before boots could say another word. finally, she sat boots down at the kitchen table with a heaping plate of lasagna—which boots was, undoubtedly, grateful for, as she hadn’t factored lunch into the equation.

“so,” mrs. cormaci said as boots wolfed down her serving. “you wanna tell what exactly you’re doing here?”

“i can’t. it’s top secret,” boots replied with a shrug. mrs. cormaci narrowed her eyes and frowned.

“uh-huh. and i don’t suppose this secret of yours has anything to do with the underland?”

boots froze with her fork halfway up to her mouth. did mrs. cormaci know her family’s secret? and what did she mean by the underland?

for now, she decided to play along. “so what if it does?”

“well, i’d say you’re halfway out of your mind if you’re thinking of going back to that place.”

“but i have to!”

“no sweetie, you don’t,” mrs. cormaci sighed. a softer look crossed her face before she reached out and took boots’s hand. “there’s nothing but tragedy down there. and there haven’t been any messages from ripred or luxa or any of ‘em. believe you me, if anything came out of that laundry vent, you and gregor would be the first to know.”

the phone rang, but mrs. cormaci didn’t make a move to get it.

“i bet that’s your mother right now, and she’s probably having a fit knowing you’re here,” she said. “but before i answer, i want you to promise me you’re not going anywhere.”

boots shook her head. “i’m sorry. i can’t do that.”

the phone went to voicemail, and mrs. cormaci huffed.

“you and your brother, i swear. so stubborn!” she chided. the phone started ringing again. “how ‘bout this: you don’t go anywhere right now. but one day, you and gregor come back here, and he can take you to the underland himself. keep you safe.”

“okay, fine. i promise,” boots relented. but she knew full well her parents would never agree to that, not after the stunt she pulled. and even so, they were never going to tell her about this underland place, let alone allow her to go anywhere near it. but if this place had the answers to her family’s past, maybe it had some way of fixing their problems, too.

“good,” mrs. cormaci smiled as she headed for the phone. “and when you do come back, make sure gregor stops by for a visit. he must be so tall by now—hello?”

mrs. cormaci disappeared around the corner to answer the phone, and boots decided it was now or never. she silently sprinted for the front door and bolted to the stairs. the older woman had mentioned something about the laundry vent, and boots had every intention of investigating for clues. but a cursory glance around the laundry room revealed no such vents. she thought that maybe she had heard wrong, or was in the wrong laundry room—she passed a laundromat on her way here—before thinking to check behind the machines. luckily, no one was in the room with her as she frantically searched machine after machine, every little noise making her think that mrs. cormaci had found her.

then, finally, she found the vent. it took some muscle, but she managed to scoot the machine out far enough so she could stick her head in to investigate. the dust made her cough, and a lint bunny stuck to her curls, but it was quickly pulled out by a current.

that current grew stronger, and boots was sucked into the vent.

she expected to be compressed by the walls of the air shaft. she also expected to free fall straight into the ground. neither happened. instead, the vent opened into a vast, pitch black cavern, and she was carried down by the same current that pulled her in. she landed on the ground gently, not metal like she had expected, but cold, smooth stone.

“hello?” she called out into the darkness. nothing. she felt around the ground the get her bearings and found a slab of stone with a small opening, through which she could hear scuttling sounds. she pressed an arm through, feeling around for any danger, and her hand brushed a smooth, solid, but unmistakably alive surface. the creature reared back from her touch and let out a series of hisses and clicks.

and, to boots’s immense surprise, she understood what the creature was saying.

#tuc #Gregor the Overlander #whoops i did Not mean for this to get so long #oh well lmao #@ suzanne collins hmu bc i have Ideas

[opalmaplehibiscus]

Love of a Fox and a Hunter

Hello @ tellmesomegoodstory!! I’m so sorry that this request took so long ˚‧º·(˚ ˃̣̣̥᷄⌓˂̣̣̥᷅ )‧º·˚ I really hope that you enjoy this and hope I actually wrote Rook well. I’m terribly sorry if he seems OOC though OTL

·       When he first stumbled upon her, he was mesmerized

·       Though it was an accident, he couldn’t believe how soft and silky her fur was, eyes bright and clear as well-cut gems

·       To be able to see such a beautiful fox in the forest behind the school… He never felt so thrilled in his whole life. Heck the feeling of excitement he was feeling could rival the times when he’s watching le Roi du Lion

·       But when he accidentally steps on a twig from where he was hiding, the fox snaps her head towards his direction before running away

·       Disappointment and regret filled his heart as he watches her disappear, thinking she was lost and that their meeting is a mere fleeting moment

·       Who would’ve thought that wasn’t the case though?

·       The next few days, Rook continued to meet the fox in the woods, never once getting tired from how beautiful she was

·       The fur that always shines under the sunlight with those same beautiful eyes – très bien! Beauté!

·       He used his hunting skills to try to get closer to her, trying to get to see how she behaves, moves, and appear up close

·       Yet, who would’ve thought that this fox was very sensitive to her surroundings? As if she could sense him when he’s 10 feet away, her eyes would meet his before she left again

·       Rook couldn’t help but think that the fox was teasing him, challenging him to try to get closer to her if he can. And as a pure, honorable hunter, of course Rook took up the challenge

·       His visits to the woods became more frequent as he already memorized the times the fox would appear. He even prepared the foods he often saw her ate and lay out traps, not to actually catch her though! Just to keep her stay in one spot so he could try to approach her

·       The determination to get close to her was to the point that Leona and Ruggie, for once, didn’t get spied on him for a whole week

·       Leona: I can finally nap in peace Ruggie: As much as I appreciate not getting my tailed pulled on, you shouldn’t be napping in the first place Leona-san!

·       Soon, a month passes and the day he succeeded was a day he couldn’t forget

·       He didn’t think the apples he used that day would’ve been so delicious as the fox, for once, got lost in eating it

·       Rook quietly gets closer to her, concealing himself and his aura until he was actually a foot away from her

·       He could hear his heart beat in his ears as crouched down and watched her, only to freeze when he noticed something strange

·       Was it because of how well-kept her fur was? Nope. How she was smiling when eating the apples? Nope

·       A hint of perfume coming from the fox and how elegant she was eating the apple, so clean and organized as if she was a human made the gears of his brain screech to a stop

·       Know that one meme with the lady and all those math equations? That was Rook during the moment. Just…with a confused smile

·       Hein? Hein? C’est quoi? Is she really a fox ????

·       His curiosity gotten the best of him as he tried to reason why the fox smelled and behaved like a human, not realizing how he was subconsciously reaching out and about to grab her, until he snapped out of it when he feels the softest fur he had ever felt in his whole life

·       Right after he touched her, the fox froze and turn her head toward him, finally realizing his presence

·       Rook tried to make himself look friendly in the eyes of the fox, waving a hand with a “Bonjour~”

·       He really shouldn’t be surprised that the fox bit his hand and ran away like usual. Doesn’t mean it wasn’t painful though

·       The fox doesn’t visit the forest for some time, putting Rook under the weather. By that, Rook often mentioning to the people around him how his cheri, seul et unique l’amour went missing

·       Rook: Ah~ Mon amour! Celle qu’a volé mon cœur ! Where are you ? Epel : Uuuhhh…what’s wrong with Rook-senpai ? Vil : Ignore him. He’s just crying over his fox again. Epel: Fox? Rook: Mon amour!!! I beg of you, come back!

·       As he waits for her to come back, Rook starts preparing another trap, this time to temporarily catch her as he knew that the next the two meets will most likely be the last

·       What seems like forever, he finally saw her again as he found her napping under a chestnut tree

·       Quietly setting the trap (yeah, he carried it with him after he completed it because he’s extra like that), he waited for her to wake up and fall for it

·       Good news, she fell for it. Bad news. Er, if it should even be considered bad news….The fox turned into a female human. With fox ears and tail.

·       It took him a while to finally realized what had happen as the now female human continued to struggle getting out of the trap

·       It was his first time seeing such beautiful person - perfect skin, clear eyes, and luscious hair

·       When she yelled at him to let her go, Rook snapped out of his thoughts before freeing her

·       Giving her a minute to rest, Rook grabbed her hands and looked at her with sparkling eyes

·       The way her eyes widened and ears perk looked cute in his eyes as he asked her if she was a beast-person

·       He ended up blushing when she was able to get out of his grip and ran away without answering his question

·       To meet a beautiful beast-person and strong, physically and magician-wise too! Merveilleux! Magnifique!

·       Soon enough their relationship changed to that of cat-and-mice, where Rook would try to get close and learn more about her while she would run away

·       During the chase, he would often ask her questions non-stop as he tried his best to get to know her more

·       Heck, he would appear and corner her at every single hiding place she knew of, making it harder for her to get him off her tracks

·       Yet, for some reason, he didn’t like it when someone was close to finding out about her existence in the forest, leading to be the reason of how she escapes him as he blocked anyone that was close to seeing her from actually taking a view of her

·       Overtime he realized that he actually fell for her

·       It became clear to him that he liked her when someone nearly saw her in her human form when she tried to get out of one the traps, he lied on the forest’s floor again

·       One thing led to another and he hid behind a tree with her in his arms, trying to keep her quiet as he waited for the student that was walking through the forest to leave the area they were in

·       When it seemed safe, he released a sigh before looking at her

·       He never would’ve thought that he would see her blush. And the fact that she was blushing made her seem adorable to him

·       He felt his heart beating faster as he saw her struggle to stay quiet and calm – her ears pressed against her head while, surprisingly, gently gripping the sleeve of his coat

·       When she finally noticed him looking at her, he couldn’t help but think that she was très mignonne

·       In fact, he could arguably say that she was more like baby fox than a full grown one

·       It was obvious that he was lost in thought as he got caught off guard when she shoved him and ran away but this time, not bothering to transform back into her animal form

·       Blinking a couple times, he blushed before his lips curled up after realizing that he, Rook Hunt, the hunter of love, is in love

·       It leads to the current situation, where he’s chasing after her again like usual. Only this time, he’s trying to get her to accept his feelings for her by carrying a bouquet of roses while running after her

·       “ Mon cheri! Attend-s’il vous plaît !!” He yells, only for her to yell back that he stop chasing her

·       It’s obvious that she was getting frustrated as he doesn’t stop, but instead, continues chasing her

·       Though he does wishes for her to accept his feelings despite getting rejected, but would’ve respected her answer had it not for the flash of fear and hurt that he saw in her eyes

·       The broken look she gave him, though only lasting for a second, made him worried and gave him warning bells. Especially, after being around her for so long, he knew something bad would happen if he were to let her run away like usual

·       It doesn’t make him feel any better, never thinking she would’ve experienced something so painful to the point of making such expression….

·       He could still feel his heart break when remember it

·       When she suddenly stops and turns towards him, he slows down and tries to walk towards her with the bouquet but ends up freezing from where he’s standing when she threatens to burn the forest if he takes on more step

·       His body feels it was poured with a bucket of ice-cold water as she growls how she hated men, especially those that were like them, going on how it was men like him that ends up just using women as they please and for their own ulterior goals

·       Feeling wronged, Rook tries to say something to her, how his feelings for her were genuine and honest

·       But, he ends up getting snapped at as she calls him a liar

·       Rook ends up going quiet, watching and listening to her past in between the insults she throws at him

·       And while doing so, he can’t help but for once, get angry

·       He rarely gets angry, as he was a hunter and hunting require patience in order to catch the best prey. Yet, he could feel the grip on the bouquet tighten while his free hand twitches no thanks to the feeling of wanting to hunt….something

·       C’est pathétique for man to abuse the love, the most beautiful thing in the whole entire world. And as a hunter of love, he is very. Offended.

·       The anger soon turns into a simmer of fury as his eyes are looking at the crystal tears rolling down her cheeks while she, now sobs, about the amount of hurt and betrayal she faced from her previous lover

·       The minute she mentions how she was a youkai, it makes Rook freeze and accidentally ask what she meant by that out loud

·       To him, who thinks laughter is also another form of beauty, he didn’t think her broken, heart-wrenching laughs are beautiful. Especially when she clarifies that she wasn’t a beast-person like he assumed but a Japanese fox-demon and ends up asking that, after finding out what she was now, is he going to hunt her too like her ex-lover

·       All patience Rook had disappeared in one go as he lets go of the bouquet, grab her hands and proclaims how he would never do that to her

·       Keeping a tight grip on her, preventing her from escaping and ignoring the threats she throws at him, Rook looks at her right in the eyes

·       His clear forest green eyes glows from the flames of anger, sadness, and the desire to heal her as he tells her that despite being a hunter, he’s a hunter of love not a hunter of killing people

·       He does his best to tell her how much he loves her, telling her how he actually fell in love with her since they day he met – loving her fox appearance very much only to fall deeper for her when she showed his humanoid side to her

·       He subconsciously shows desperation of trying to show his honesty and sincerity to hear as he continues to reveal how he much he adores her, that all his praises for her were all from his heart not from lip service

·       He never realized that he had gotten on a knee until he tells her how even if she were to reject him, he would’ve devoted himself to protect her even if it meant betraying whomever wished for him to catch her. Because to him, she was a precious and most beautiful existence he had ever seen

·       Rook could feel his heart beating pounding ferociously against his chest as he once, in a long time, felt nervous on what her reaction would be to his confession (first one didn’t count. He refuses to let it count)

·       Soundlessly, he gets up and brushes the tears from her eyes with his thumbs only to end up cradling her head between his hands as he gently tries to get her to stop crying

·       Once she calms down, he warmly smiles at her, asking if she was feeling better

·       His smile grows bigger after seeing her nod slightly, daringly kissing the crown of her head

·       At first, he didn’t catch what she said as she had whispered her answer

·       But, after hearing her reply the second time, he asks for permission before kissing her on the lips with joy and passion he felt for her

·       It only made him feel happier when he feels her kissing him back with her own free will while knowing that she actually felt the same way

#twst #twisted wonderland #rook hunt #hc #headcanon

[yandere-daydreams]

I’d def love an oc concept sheet for the subjects like yes please give me some good fucking food

Behold, the Core Curriculum!!! I thought I may as well start with the most important boys and girls! (Picrews Used Here: x x x x)

Subject: Mathematics

Name: Milo Brooks

Type: Possessive and Sadistic, and whiney about both. 

~This guy. Fuck this guy.

~He probably started as your bully, or the average, every-day jerk you had to put up with. He’s not very tactful with his aggression, always cornering you or pushing you into walls, but never knowing what to say when he has you pinned. He wants to see you cry, and he wants to hear that cute little voice of yours pleading with him to stop. Milo doesn’t really think about it, beyond that.

~Milo skips feeding you, a lot. He wants you to think of being alive as a privilege, even if it’s a privilege you don’t care to have, on his worst days. You’ll have to beg for water, for a bed, for his attention when you begin to think you’ve been left in his basement to rot. He isn’t very nice about it, calling you needy, pathetic, but you weren’t the one crying into his chest last night. 

~The type of asshole to go on and on about how much smarter he is than everyone else. He probably took Calculus. Fucking Nerd. 

~You’d say he wanted to frustrate you, if you didn’t know better. There’ll always be a rule he ‘forgot’ to mention, something he wanted that you didn't give him. You’re the one who failed, the one who let him down, the one who isn’t good enough. He doesn’t take an opposing view very kindly, either.

~His punishments are as damaging mentally as they are physically. He’ll guilt you as he picks a leg to break or a patch of your skin to burn, telling you how this wouldn’t be happening if you behaved, how you should’ve done that earlier or asked for his help with something you didn’t know you were doing wrong. By the time he’s putting your newly fractured ankle into a splint, you might start to believe it, too.

Subject: Science

Name: Elizabeth Bennett

Type: Obsessive and Voyeuristic, but stolen pens will be the least of your worries.

~She’s very sweet! I mean, you might not like her, considering all the torture, but she really is very, very sweet!

~Mental Health is one of her many divisions, so you’ll only receive the up-most care. Your room is always spotless, always sunny and open, and there’s plenty of toys for you to play with! She makes sure you have the newest gaming systems, all the books your little heart could want, and something new is only a smile and a kiss away. 

~She takes you outside, too, but only under strict supervision. Usually, she’ll be happy with holding your hand or being able to see you, but if her lovely, lovely lab rat wants to make a run for it, she won’t be opposed to getting you a new leash. 

~Can’t cook. Like, at all. That being said, she would adore watching you make something for just the two of you. If you don’t want to, it’s fine! The kitchen is full of all sorts of sharp things she can use to encourage you.

~Elizabeth is the kind of girl who loves everything about you. You can’t throw anything away without asking her, just in case she treats it as a ‘keepsake’, and there will always be a camera on you. One of her favorite things to do is to take you into her ‘special room’, sit you in her lap and re-watch of her favorite moments with her favorite sweetheart! If you don’t seem happy, she’ll be very sad, so it’s better to put on a smile and act as excited as she is.

~Of course, she wants to know everything there is to know about you. She doesn’t like hurting you, but if keeping you under her scalpel as she takes you apart brings her closer to you, how is she supposed to resist? It's so... intimate, to her, how your blood stains her skin, how she'll know every part of you like the back of her hand, soon enough. Your screams are just so pretty, and she’ll take really good care of you, afterward. Just don’t blame your injuries on her. She tends to get… emotional rather quickly.

Subject: History

Name: Rin Hirota 

Types: Possessive and Jealous, but mostly annoying.

~Look at that face. He probably only reads fiction if it’s based in World War Two. He is, at the risk of repeating myself, a nerd. 

~He’s seems normal, and for the most part, he is normal. It’s just… Rin gets jealous, and he gets jealous easily. It’s who he is. You’ve known it since your first date, when he clung to your side a little tighter and spoke a little louder whenever your attention strayed, like he couldn’t stand to see you thinking about someone else. He’d never say such a thing out loud, but he isn’t all that subtle, either.

~Praise is going to be necessary, if you don’t want to deal with a temper tantrum. He wants you to comment on everything he does in that sweet, sugary tone, regardless of how honest you’re being. It’s addictive, how you treat him so highly. But, he’s willing to make everyone else seem awful, to achieve this. Sure, he’s not the best, but he’s not a monster, unlike them. Just look at how they’re eyeing you up, how disrespectful they are. Obviously, he’s the only person worth spending time with.

~Gaslighting is going to be extremely common, by the way. Whenever there’s an argument, or he says something you don’t like, he’ll let you yell and fuss for a few minutes before he walks away, only coming back hours later to go on about how wrong you were, and how he forgives you, even if he was the one being irrational. It’s not worth the energy it takes to correct him, he’s so persistant when it comes to his version of things, so just… grin and bear it. He isn’t very happy when you don’t. 

~You caught him jerking off to a picture of your ankle, once. This is an example of when he begins gaslighting you. 

~He won’t kidnap you, if you’re looking for a silver lining. He doesn't have to. You can't risk being with anyone else, you’ve heard such terrible things about them, but Rin never lets you believe the awful, awful rumors people spread about him. He never lets you go, even if there are rough spots, and you’re sure that’s more than all the people you used to talk to would do for you. Rin told you that himself

Subject: English

Name: Oliver Laurent

Type: Obsessive and Delusional, which is just another way of saying he’s clingy.

~He’s soft, he’s so soft. He’ll faint if you hold his hand too tightly, and that’ll never change.

~He doesn’t think of himself as a stalker, but he absolutely is. Oliver just thinks it so romantic to leave those hearts drawn on your hand for when you wake up, or cuddle up to you when you’re sleeping too restlessly for him to do so. He spends a lot of time with you when you’re asleep, come to think of it. You’re just so beautiful, in any state of consciousness.

~Love letters will be important, too. Oliver likes it when you read them, when he gets to watch as you experience so many different feelings, all focused on him, but as long as you touch the envelope, he’ll be happy. He’ll remember to make a spare, next time, just as loving and just as beautiful as the initial copy.  To leave on your bed, in case you’re too embarrassed to read his confessions in public and tear it up, again.

~’Reading Time’ is required and it’s never pleasent. All his favorite books are Classics, and he reads them again and again and again, to the point where you’ll have Of Mice And Men memorized by your second month with him

~You can hurt him, if you want to. Punch him, bite him, call him a freak... he doesn't like it, but craves your attention like a drug. It doesn’t matter whether it’s positive or negative, painfully of blissful, he needs something, and he needs it often. He’ll be smiling as long as your skin is on his, even if your touch leaves such nasty marks.

~I don’t think he’s ever seen the sun. He just doesn’t see the appeal. The only time he ever really gets mad is when you ask to go outside, because he’s read The Collector and he knows what you must be planning. There’s nothing outside, you don’t have to go outside. If you aren’t happy with your room, then you must not be happy with him, which means you don’t love him and I don’t think he can take that, either.

#yandere #yandere love #yanderecore #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere imagines #yandere scenerio #yandere scenarios #yandere headcanons #yandere headcannons #yandere oneshot #yandere drabble #yandere prompt #yandere oc #yandere ocs #yandere oc x reader #yandere classes #possessive #obsessive #obsesion #jealousy

[zorilleerrant]

If you think children of color don’t need books telling them that they’re people, you’re underestimating the impacts of structural white supremacy. In the same way that girls benefit from books saying that women are people with agency and full lives, in the same way that poor kids benefit from books saying that poverty is not a just punishment for some perceived inadequacy, in the same way queer kids benefit from books that say hey some people do this and it’s fine: nonwhite kids need books that confirm their personhood.

Now, the main difference here is that, in the Western Canon/common schoolbooks, books about women tend to be written by women, books about poor people tend to be written by poor people (or people who grew up poor), and books about queer identity tend to be written by queer people (until recently, where there is a noticeable drop in quality). Whereas schoolbooks about nonwhiteness and racial marginalization tend to be written by white people. Sympathetic white people, maybe, but still.

And if you want to make an argument that those should be replaced by similar books written by poc, absolutely! That’s been, you know, an idea gaining traction over decades. But you have to understand, most of these still are written to a presumed white audience, at least in part. (In the same way so much of women’s fiction is written to inform men, and so much of queer fiction is written to inform straight people, and fiction about poverty must necessarily appeal to the sensibilities of the middle class and above to be traditionally published.) And to some extent that’s necessary to combat a worldview that always appeals to white authority even among poc, and in a much more real sense it’s necessary to make it into a mainstream curriculum at all.

Now, there are a lot of books that are just racist without a lot else going for them, or that contain a lot of racism that doesn’t add anything to the text. And, sure, nix them. (For example: nobody but nobody needs to read The Good Earth.) But, of course, a larger overhaul is really necessary there, because most sort of Classic Literature no longer fits its intended purpose. Much of it just isn’t socially salient anymore, regardless of what bigotry is or isn’t included. Did you know that most white kids who read To Kill A Mockingbird grow up thinking Atticus Finch isn’t a racist? So obviously cuing is not always clear, and I think a good amount of the curriculum can be replaced with contemporary literature that’s reevaluated every few years and achieve the same goals more effectively.

However, there’s an additional problem, which is that the school curriculum needs to have touchpoints in common to allow a sort of casual interpersonal connection in an academic environment. There need to be educational experiences in common across schools for people to be able to talk about their school experiences and work together. This is an important thing for cooperation in higher education! But that means that the “representative” authors are limited to a select few everyone has already heard of and agrees are Real Literature (Toni Morrison, Amy Tan, Sherman Alexie), which kind of serves to reinforce bias against signal boosting more obscure works. Or, on the other end, you pick a work by any author of color at random, but use only curated white authors, which leads to. Well. The appearance that authors of color kind of suck.

There’s no clear answer there (although the answer, for sure, is not just ‘assume everything currently assigned is fundamentally worthless’) and there’s a lot of work to change the system wide approach to teaching literature in schools, something which probably needs to reassess its goals anyway. But there is something useful in each individual case, regardless of its place within a racist system, which I hardly ever see mentioned in these arguments.

Elementary school teachers should be changing early literacy education. They’re allowed to curate their own classroom libraries and pick the books they read to the class, and they should pick things with more racial diversity. This is especially important in picture books, where kids can literally see the physical appearance of a variety of people. In chapter books and read-aloud books, too, though, there tends to be a weighting towards ‘oh I loved this as a child!’ and I’m sure you did, but all those stories have white protagonists. (Or the teacher intentionally curates them to only have one specific race that mostly makes up their class, leading to a sense of ostracization, like each race has different, separate but equal, books. Or, worse, reads the white book to most of the class and hands the nonwhite student a different one.)

And people don’t discuss this, because they don’t think of children’s literature as part of the Real Canon, and because they think, oh, that’s just what people read as children, it’s not really going to impact how they perceive Grown Up Literature once they reach adulthood, because everyone knows you can compare Nobel Prize Winners to Shakespeare, but no one’s going to compare them to Clifford or Amelia Bedelia. But pre-literacy and early literacy education really do set the foundations of what people expect out of a book, even regardless of the other social factors at play.

So, yeah, “racism bad u guise” is a bit simplistic for a modern high schooler, and often written by people without firsthand knowledge, and often written for people without firsthand knowledge. But I think it’s a bit telling that those are always the books people want to argue if we “really need”, when half of what people read in school is books telling you that WWI was violent or the Great Depression sucked, which seems markedly less relevant to the modern child, and yet their place in the canon isn’t questioned. Because if we’re going to pick books to toss, I think we should start with Of Mice and Men, not Huckleberry Finn.

[weshallc]

This is so exciting, can’t wait to see what happens next! (No, I honestly do forget)

Berns Night (Revisited) 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿

Call the Midwife AU (Crown Jewels, everyone but Paddy and Bernie at Mount Busby)

Chapter Three: OF MICE AND MEN

“The best laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men. Gang aft agley. An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain. For promis’d joy!”  To A Mouse by Robert Burns 1785.

“Liars and Lovers Combine Tonight, We’re Gonna Make A Scene.” The Captain by Biffy Clyro 2009.

The largest reception room at Mount Busby Farm would have once been very grand, with Queen Anne furniture and Regency coffee tables. The only thing that remained unchanged was that the original fireplace still gave up warmth and light provided by nature, and the windows let in the light from the same star constellations and the same moon.

The Two Loves preferred antique furniture of a later period and in their 80s comfort was paramount. The room was stocked with love seats, chesterfields, recliners. bean bags, generous cushions, and a rather charming gold settee that suspiciously looked pre-war. Just no one was sure which war. Everyone mocked it, but everyone fought to sit on it as it was very comfy. Patsy often talked about replacing it, but Delia wouldn’t hear of it. “You don’t throw your memories out with the rubbish and there are more memories than just ours hidden within these cushions, Cariad.” That was always the end of it.

The most current occupants of that particular settee to be making memories were Tim Turner and Lucille Anderson. Phyllis looked over at the awkward teen, who was no longer as awkward as he had once been. He sat comfortably chatting to his companion, both of them laughing at intervals. Lucille often finishing Tim’s sentences or him proclaiming, yep that’s it or knew you’d get it when they appeared to reach a level of understanding.  Of course, when she asked the student nurse about her new friendship, she would just reply, brushing the older nurse off. “Oh, he is a dear boy; He makes me laugh.”

He was certainly doing that from where Matron Crane was sitting on a leather tan Whitworth dining chair, probably by Frank Hudson.  Years of heavy lifting before the introduction of patient hoists and transfer boards had taken their toll on the matron’s back. It was why she had found herself in a more managerial role much earlier than she would have planned. She looked at Student Nurse Anderson and thought maybe the NHS was in more tender capable hands than the shitstirrers would have them believe.

“I am wondering if we should start,” youth minister Tom Hereward was on his feet. “I am not sure how long baby will sleep in a strange house.”

“I have been called many things in my time, but not sure strange is one of them,” laughed Delia.

“Oh, I have Deals, it’s fine,” reassured Patsy.

Tom turned pink. Trixie leaned over to him, “They are joking,” and sat back onto the giant purple pouffe she was sharing with Valerie. “I know, I live here. I have to put up with it all the time.”

“So. Erm who is in charge, who has the most authority here.” Tom was still trying to create some sense of order.

“Well, Julia is the vicar,” chirped in Bobby, trying to offer her husband some support.

“But this is not the church,” Rev Julia responded with a warm smile.

“Another shock there then, it’s all coming out tonight, Patsy.” Delia couldn’t help herself when she had an audience and a bottle of Prosecco was being passed round.

“Matron Crane is on the council,” Lucille reminded everyone.

“No, I don’t think that matters lass, it’s not a council matter.” Phyllis shook her head.

“Well, someone needs to take the lead,” Tom said with a hint of irritation.

“I will!  On the authority that I am a young woman on her only night off of the week,” struck up Val, “but I have agreed to come here and discuss plans for Bernie’s birthday instead of having two for one sex on the beach.”

“It’s a cocktail, and its happy hour in the Fourteen Teacups on a Tuesday,” Trixie interpreted for everyone.

“That’s ambitious having a happy hour in the Teacups, isn’t it?”  said Fred, who had managed to wedge himself into a deep red Chesterfield.

“Yeah, apparently Ursula gives you the right change, that’s why they call it happy hour,” Tim smirked.

“As I am representing the Crown. I will continue,” said Val and she did, “we want to put on a Burns Night for Bernie’s birthday like in the old days. Now Tim has told us Paddy is half Scottish.”

“Why isn’t he here?” asked Bobby.

“Well, he said it would look suspicious if he left Bernie on her tod behind the bar on a Tuesday night,” Vi explained sitting on a scarlet love seat next to Fred.

“Yep, in case our two Tuesday night regulars rush the bar at once,” snorted Val.

“I think it’s more that it would look suspicious if he actually just left Bernie alone for five minutes,” Trixie corrected.

Lucille felt Tim squirm in the seat beside her. She knew he thought the world of Bernie, but didn’t like to hear her relationship with his father discussed in public. This was inevitable being a small village with one pub, one church and two of the village's most popular inhabitants linked to both. She tried to ease his tension.

“I think it’s lovely, just shows as my grandma used to say there may be snow on the roof, but there is still fire in the grate.”

As everyone surrendered to laughter, Matron shared a smile with the vicar, both of them confirming Lucille might be familiar with the saying, but maybe not its meaning.

Delia was the first to keep a straight face, “But they are only bairns, wait until they are mine and Pats age then the fire may need a little bit of stoking.”

“Yes, Deals, but remember we have never required the use of a poker.”

Val swiftly continued, “Paddy doesn’t wish to be involved.”

“Why?” Reggie asked, perched on his wooden stool.

Val motioned towards Tim, who was still recovering from the last topic of conversation.

“Because it would look ridiculous, his words not mine.” Tim continued, “and I quote, Wilf had the works, I would look like I was trying to pull a stunt to impress Bernie by looking like I was dressing in drag and taking the piss.”

Tim looked at his knees, and Lucille gave one a quick squeeze. She knew this wasn’t easy for him.

Everyone else also looked at their knees. The mood was solemn.

“We can all understand Paddy’s reasons.” There were a couple of nods and sighs in response. “But we aren’t putting up with any of that nonsense,” Val added with a grin.

This was met with a very large and unanimous cheer.

“Well, I’ve already looked up the Turner tartan,” Trixie handed an iPad over to Patsy via Val.

“That’s very smart,” approved the artist.

“Sorry I hate to throw a spanner in the works, but how are we going to afford all this?” butt in a pensive Vi.

“We’ve already thought of that,” grinned Delia, ”Mount Busby will cover the cost of the costume.”

“That’s very generous,” sniffed Evie, who had nearly dozed off in a leather recliner.

“Not really,” explained Patsy. “I have a friend that works for Kilts 4 U and they are very interested in looking into the possibility of making an alpaca lined sporran.”

This was news to Reggie who followed anything relating to his charges with great interest, “What’s a sporran?”

“It’s where he keeps his spare change,” Fred enlightened, or at least tried to.

“It’s the little purse that men wear at the front of the kilt, Reggie,” Violet elaborated. He seemed reassured by this.

“So anyway, in return for a few samples,” Patsy continued, “my friend will be happy to hire out the full regalia for the evening.”

“It’s not long now until Burns Night have you got some sort of prototype ready?” quizzed Evie.

“Lady K is working on them as we speak. She loves nothing better than fiddling with a bit of alpaca wool,” Delia replied gleefully.

“Lady K?” Phyllis queried.

“Yes, she is very creative,” reassured Trixie.

“I don’t doubt it, Trixie, but she is one of Bernie’s clients. What if the lass sees what she is up too”

“Don’t fret Phyllis,” Patsy interjected, “I find that Antonia is much less forgetful when she has an occupation to challenge her and I am certain she won’t let the cat out of its proverbial bag.”

Jack sat on the floor accidently banged his head against the fire surround he was leaning against, “Can’t imagine Berns thinking; oh look Lady K is sticking bits of alpaca wool to a man’s bag he hangs in front of his todger. That must be something to do with Paddy and my birthday”

Vi was quick to admonish Jack, but when even Tom started to laugh, she decided to let it go.

“What about the little knifey thing they keep in their sock that he stabs the Haggis with?” Fred was beginning to get excited.

“Sgian dubh,” corrected Vi.

“All part of the traditional dress,” Patsy added a tone to her voice to reassure everyone that she had thought of everything.

“So that’s the gear sorted. Me and Reggie are in charge of the beer. What else?” Fred’s eyes were wide, thinking they actually might be able to pull this off.

“Well, myself and Evie have created a menu, pretty much on the lines of what we used to do in Wilf’s day.” Violet opened a small notebook and put on her reading glasses.

Clearing her throat she read, “Cock-a-leekie soup, Scottish salmon and tattie scones or scotch egg for starters.”

“Cock a what?” shouted up Jack.

“Chicken and vegetable soup to you, young man. There will be a just vegetable option too.” Violet’s voice began to take on the air it adopted when addressing an audience. “Then we have the Haggis or vegan Haggis, neeps and tatties and a whisky sauce.”

“What about those that might not wish to partake in the Haggis?” Tom asked nervously, as he might.

Evie spoke up before Vi could respond. “There is always the Fourteen Teacups for the likes of those that don’t wish to have Haggis. It’s a Burns Night. If you don’t want Haggis, then stay at home and order in a pizza.”

“What’s for pudding?” Bobby struck up, squeezing her husband’s hand.

“Cranachan which is raspberries, cream, oats and whisky, or Clootie pudding with whisky sauce or whisky ice cream or a Scottish cheese board with oatcakes.”

Murmurs of approval were aimed in Violet’s direction.

“That’s a lot of whisky?” Lucille remarked.

Violet agreed, “Yes, we need just a house whisky for everyone for the toasts Val, I will leave that to you, but you need to pay the piper with a good quality malt.”

Silence broke out in the previously buzzing, over occupied living room.

“Piper!” Several people groaned at once.  

Fred, who was not going to let anything get in the way of this Burn’s Night declared, “Look, we will just have to bung on a recording.” Turning to Tim and Jack, he said, “You lads look up the Red Hot Chilli Pipers on your phones.”

Tim reached for his phone, swiping the picture of Lucille and him with Alpaca Colin. But Lucille touched his hand, making him hesitate.

“I don’t think that would be very suitable, Mr Buckle going to all this trouble with such a delicious menu and Mr Turner all dressed up in the finest regalia and then having some squeaky din coming out of an iPhone.”

“Your right lass, it just won’t do,” supported Phyllis.

“Well, does anyone know a piper?” Fred replied wearily.

“Surely we can find a professional one online?” contributed Julia

“A professional piper that’s free on Burn’s Night at this late notice,” chided Phyllis.

“I know a piper.”

The voice came from the back of the room. Everyone turned to look at the slight dark-haired woman sat on a dining chair. “Well, I think we all do.”

“Do we, Jane?” Julia asked.

“Yes, the busker that stands outside the town hall in Appleby Thornton.”

Everyone started talking at once;

“I only go into town every second Tuesday to get my hair done.”

“Same here I only go through if I have a doctor’s appointment.”

“Well, it’s the cost of the parking isn’t it, it’s free at Tweaven Retail Park and more shops.”

“You can get it on t’internet delivered to your door.”

“I haven’t been since Marks and Spencers closed.”

“Debenhams is closing next week such a shame, that shops older than me, always been a department store in Appleby Thornton.”

“It was one of the first in the country to have a lift, you know.”

Jane cleared her throat. “There are a lot of good things about Appleby Thornton that are not always obvious.”

“Here, here!” chimed in Val, “there is still a Primark.”

“Oh well, let’s be grateful for small mercies,” stung back Trixie.

Much to Delia’s disappointment, Val bit her lip. The ex-nurse and market gardener loved a full house. She cherished her quiet times with Patsy too, but she was the more sociable of the pair. The farm was large enough for Patsy to have her office and art studio and not be disturbed while Delia fussed the alpacas with Reggie. Trixie moving in had been Patsy’s scheme, but Delia was the one who had benefited most from their new project, even if she would never let their new employee know she was a project.

Delia enjoyed listening to Trixie’s anecdotes and gossip. She felt reconnected with a world that was moving so fast. The Two Loves were business women and technology hadn’t passed them by.  It was the music, the celebrities, the trashy telly that Patsy despised and Delia loved that made having Trixie and her friends around delight Delia.

Delia’s carer probably wasn’t as up-to-date with pop culture as Trixie and her friend. Val was now a frequent visitor to Mount Busby, as she and their new lodger had struck up quite a friendship. Nurse Bernie always looked a bit behind the door when the other two were in full flow about some reality TV show.

But since Trixie had moved in, Nurse made Delia’s blood pressure check the last visit on her rounds and she drank tea, sitting and chatting with Trixie. Bernie didn’t need to watch Love Island. She had her own romantic paradise in Poplar-on-Tweaven and Delia couldn’t be more happy for her.

Val had bitten her lip, her new friend was still a bit of an enigma to her. She did know Trixie might talk as if she had been born with a silver spoon in her mouth, but in the last few months she had gleaned enough to know that spoon had been tarnished sometime ago. So in spite of all her bravado, Trixie was as familiar with Poundland as she was with Prada.

It was Julia who cut through the chatter. “I believe I am familiar with the young man you are referring to. He has a small dog with him if I am right?”

“Yes, Reverend.” Jane was beginning to believe she had dreamt the piper and maybe also Appleby Thornton.

“He’s rather good, as I remember.”

Jane was beaming as she nodded.

“So problem solved,” Fred rubbed his hands together with glee, “tot of whisky, a bowl of water for the pooch, bob’s your uncle, sorted”

“No, it certainly is not.” Trixie’s tone caused everyone to alter their gaze, “this man is a professional musician surely, if he has a regular spot he has a license. I am sure Chummy is well acquainted with the gentleman and his story. We can ask her.”

Inspector Noakes had been unable to attend the meeting because of work commitments, and Peter’s Tuesday evenings were spent running a youth football team that Jack and Timothy had both enjoyed being a part of. Alas, Tim had become too rangy and prone to injury, and Jack had become too lazy and prone to chips.

Trixie continued, “He deserves an appropriate wage for his efforts.” She turned to Val. “I believe the Crown has an entertainments licence.”

Val nodded and smiled reassuringly at her friend, “Paddy does, leave it with me and I will also make sure he and the mut are fed and provided with transport both ways.”

Trixie relaxed and shared a smile with the aromatherapist sitting at the back of the room. “Do you know his name?”

“Kevin.”

Fred let out a huge sigh. “So we are all sorted then?”

“It would appear so,” replied Lucille, grimacing at Tim.

“Apart from Dad.” groaned Tim.

Followed by an echo of sighs.

“Leave your dad to me, Chick.” winked Val.

#call the midwife #berns night revisited #january 2020 seems like a lifetime ago #hope it has a happy ending #hate those angsty slow burn au fics

[silverncrimson]

( oscar isaac, 39, cismale, he / him ) Was that EZEKIEL ‘ZEKE’ MARCOLAS ? I heard a rumor they work for the O’SHEA family, but who knows for sure ? They can be a bit CALLOUS & UNETHICAL, but I also heard they can be METICULOUS & PERCEPTIVE. You’ll usually find them at SKYFALL in their spare time, when they’re not being the OWNER OF MALNATI PIZZERIA. You may want to keep an eye on that one !

- B A S I C -

Full Name: Ezekiel Miguel Marcolas Nickname(s): Zeke Age: Thirty-Nine Occupation: Owner of Malnati Pizzeria Affiliation: O’Shea Birthday: February 12th Zodiac: Aquarius

Sexual Orientation: Heterosexual Alignment: Chaotic Evil

- F A M I L Y -

Father: Miguel Marcolas (deceased) Mother: Ruth Marcolas (deceased) Siblings: Constantine (35), Uriel (30), Isaiah (28), Yesenia (24)

Ex-Wife: Lucia Daughters: Stella & Stefania (15) Son: Raul (8)

- A P P E A R A N C E -

Height: 5′9″ Hair Color / Type:  Dark brown  Eye Color: Brown Piercings / Tattoos:  No piercings. Five tattoos - the Chi Ro symbol on his left shoulder, being one of them

- H I S   Q U I R K S -

He wears black leather gloves at ALL TIMES

He carries around with him pocket rags / handkerchiefs and disinfectant spray, for wiping down surfaces if he needs to

He burns EVERYTHING he gets dirty, usually from blood splatter - whether it’s his fancy jackets or his gloves (he’s got about a hundred backup pairs - several of them he keeps in his glove compartment). 

He’s super meticulous about his clothes - they must be clean and tidy at all times

He often repeats himself, or counts out loud to himself

Does things in repetitions, especially if he is stressed about something

He will avoid cracks in the sidewalk

He will NOT shake your hand, or touch you at all...unless you’re his target

He drinks a shit lot of bourbon

Smokes a shit ton of cigars and cigarettes, alike

Very antisocial and a loner, but will talk to people if they initiate a conversation

- P E R S O N A L I T Y -

(+) Fiercely Loyal, Calm, Meticulous, Observant, Perceptive (-) Callous, Unethical, Intense, Inflexible, Perfectionist

- H I S   D E M O N S -

He suffers from: OCD, Mysophobia, Claustrophobia

Excessive thoughts (obsessions) that lead to repetitive behaviors (compulsions).Obsessive-compulsive disorder is characterized by unreasonable thoughts and fears (obsessions) that lead to compulsive behaviors. 

OCD often centers on themes such as a fear of germs or the need to arrange objects in a specific manner.

compulsive behavior

agitation

hypervigilance

impulsivity

meaningless and persistent repetition of own words or actions

repetitive movements

ritualistic behavior

social isolation

Mysophobia, also known as verminophobia, germophobia, germaphobia, bacillophobia and bacteriophobia, is a pathological fear of contamination and germs.

- B I O G R A P H Y -

Life long resident of Chicago, IL

The oldest of five kids. He’s got three younger brothers and a younger sister - they’re not all that close.

He suffers from OCD and Mysophobia, and a mild case of Claustrophobia - all of which developed when he was a very young child. 

He had spent the summer with his aunt in Springfield, while his parents went to Mexico to visit his paternal grandparents. His Aunt Marina, unfortunately, turned out to be a massive hoarder. Her house was an absolute nightmare - disgustingly filled to the max with literal garbage, and other useless, dirty junk that she’d collected over a good ten or so years. There was no livable space anywhere, not even a proper bed, except for a very small nook in the corner of the house. He remembers vividly, to this day, the infestation of roaches, mice, rats and dead carcasses of rodents and cats, and not to mention all the fecal matter of said animals, that he’d come across that summer. The smell alone...

Even to his then four year old brain, it had been more than enough to traumatize him for life, despite not remembering much else about it.

Nowadays, he wears a pair of black leather gloves wherever he goes.

He's the owner of Malnati Pizzeria - has owned the place for ten years, his dad owning it before him. When his papi passed away, the business was then passed to Zeke.

Is divorced. He's got a vindictive ex-wife, two teen daughters (twins) and an 8 year old son - all three of whom he hardly sees these days because his ex-wife's such a bitch and has gotten the court to deny him visitation rights. So he's bitter, and angry, and HATES that woman with a passion.

His childhood was not terrible, but it wasn’t all that great, either. Especially for a kid who did suffer from OCD and who was a germaphobe.

For a good portion of his life, his family always struggled with income, and growing up in poverty in a large city like Chicago was not exactly a blast. They lived on the north side of the city, in a small, cramped, rundown apartment - it had two bedrooms, one bathroom, and it was always infested with cockroaches and mice, and spiders. His literal nightmare.

The walls were super thin, the floor tiles loose or broken, and the AC and heater rarely worked, so it was often way too cold or too hot, but never comfortable. With a family of seven living within it’s walls, it was...claustrophobic to say the least.

Things started to change gradually when he was around 12. His papi got fired from his job as a taxi driver due to him being a liability after being in one too many road-side accidents, which desperately drove him to search for work elsewhere. Somehow, and Zeke never did get the full answer from him, Miguel Marcolas wound up working for the O’Sheas. He was eventually given Malnati Pizzeria as a ‘gift’, a place of business that he could call his own, so long as he stayed loyal and did his part to keep O’Shea business running smoothly.

Zeke had always been a highly intelligent individual, scarily so, so he was quick to pick up on the changes in both his father and their financial situation. They went from barely having anything to eat or any clothes to wear, presents to give out for Christmas or birthdays, to having all that and more...more than any of them had ever had before. Of course, he wasn’t one to knock a good thing like a newfound well of money. Questioning where the pizzeria came from and how his papi was able to afford ownership wasn’t something Zeke cared to do, or know the answer to. It didn’t matter.

Though he knew deep down that whatever it was his papi was dabbling in, definitely wasn’t honorable or lawful...but again, the kid didn’t care. It eventually got him and his family out of that shit apartment, and that was a godsend in his eyes.

The older he got, the more he started helping out at the pizzeria, and by the time he was 14, Zeke had met a fair share of the members of the O’Shea gang. Because he wasn’t just another stupid and naive kid, by that time he’d already figured out exactly who his papi worked for; instead of being scared like most kids might have been, what with being surrounded on a daily basis with some of the worst criminals that the city had to offer, Zeke had felt safe in their presence. He felt in awe of those men and women and the power they held.

The uppers that passed through Malnati had their eyes on him from day one, it seemed. They clearly saw the keenness in his eyes, and the idolization, but also a great potential, because they kept him around. His father, not an affectionate or loving man by any means of the word, watched on proudly as his associates took an interest in his eldest son, quickly shaping and morphing his impressionable young mind.

At the age of seventeen, Zeke proudly received his Chi Rho, joining the O’Sheas as a sentinel. Like many, he’d have to prove to them all that he was worthy of the tattoo, and boy was he ready...and he sure as hell proved that, to.

Zeke was as loyal as one could be to the O’Sheas, and despite his OCD and Mysophobia that he had to contend with, he had his ways of working around that, and he quickly became a deadly killing machine under the close training of his General handler at the time. He rose rapidly through the ranks, until he reached his desired position among the gang - Bonebreaker.

He’s been a Bonebreaker for going on fifteen years now, and he was still thriving. He was a stone-faced killer, a psychopath with no emotions, no qualms about taking out whatever hit he was assigned. There was no remorse for what he did, and he doubted that there would ever be...he wasn’t capable of that kind of emotion.

- W A N T E D   C O N N E C T I O N S -

Ex-Wife - He didn’t get worked up over a lot of things; it actually took quite a bit for him to even show that much emotion, but his ex-wife was certainly capable of pushing all of his buttons. He absolutely hated her, and the only reason she wasn’t dead, was because of his children’s sake. Despite not outwardly showing his love for his daughters and son, he did love them...as much as he was able to. They were about the only thing he truly felt any sort of positive emotions towards.

O’Sheas / Affiliates

Bonebreaker Interactions

Reaper Interactions

Malnati Pizzeria customers

Malnati Pizzeria employees

Anything!

#crimson.intro #zeke:intro #again it's not the best thing ever #again it's not the best intro ever #dropped muse

[thestarwrites]

City of God pt III (Finan x OC)

Fic Summary: Finan the Agile meets a Celt-Saxon woman, and for once he can’t think of anything else. What do you mean they won’t see each other for years? The continuing story of the love between Celts.

Part Three

Rating: PG-13

Please don’t plagiarize!

Tag list; (please DM me if you’d like to be added!)

@nxrdist @joyofbebbanburg @medievalfangirl @bookworm925 @buckysskye @jcalpha1@sprinkles617 

word count: 2,774

Once back inside Uhtred’s city dwelling, his cheeks were red and his face was a wide grin, that is until Sihtric and Clapa slipped inside after him with grins. “Look at that Sihtric, a lovesick Irishman.”

The shorter man smirked, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so smitten, and blushing too! Like a virgin.”

“Oi. Shut up.”

The men chuckled before Uhtred’s voice cleared from the front of the room, “Off to bed with you trouble makers.”

“Yes, Lord.” Both men said quickly before scurrying off like mice.

Letting out a breath Finan nodded, “Thanks for tha, Lord.”

Nodding, Uhtred smiled, “How did it go? Get a kiss, my friend?”

“Tha I did. Several in fact.” He quipped cheerfully.

Uhtred clapped his friend on the back and laughed softly, “I told you that you had nothing to worry about, she is as taken with you as you are with her.”

Finan shrugged, “There’s somethin’ about her, Uhtred. Somethin I can’t quite explain. Somethin’ I daren’t tell anyone but you. When I look at her, I feel…”

“Home?” Uhtred said softly. Finan looked up and could only nod, “That’s how it was with Gisela. The first time I saw her. It was as if I was struck by Thor in that instant, and I knew that if I didn’t have her in my future, I didn’t want to live. It was my visions of Gisela that kept me through the rowing.”

Finan took a deep breath, “I need ‘er.”

Uhtred put his hand on his friend’s shoulder, “And I regret to inform you, you will not see her for a while. There are many enemies which Alfred needs ridding, And I am bound now that Kjartan is dead to serve him. We are to march onto Coccham and then to the ships.”

Swallowing, Finan nodded, “And I am bound to you. My duty before my heart, Lord.” “You will see her again.” The Irishman nodded, feeling doubtful, “I think… I should write ta her.” “Good idea, my friend. I’ve often been told girls love sweet words.” He chuckled. And with that, Finan walked to compose the first love letter he had written in over five years.

When Hild had come to tell her the news that Uhtred and all of his household had left to Coocham on business- Kelly was devastated, “I do not know how long he will be away, it may be only a few days?” She said hopefully, though she knew how many enemies haunted the waterways. She looked down and then took a deep breath, resolving that if he was gone, then he was gone, a tear rolled down her cheek, “He told me he would call on me today.” Maybe now that he’d gotten his kisses, he was finished with her. Hild nodded and frowned, “That is why he wished me to give you the letter. Did something happen between you two?” She flushed, “We kissed.” The Abbess smiled warmly, “I am happy for you. Read the letter, I pray you find comfort in it. I must go on to Coccham.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hild gave her Finan’s letter, but she could not bring herself to read it for months. Thyra did her best to reassure her friend that Finan would come back for her. That he was head over heels for her and he was sure to return. But that night beside the fire, the stolen kisses behind her home, haunted her. “It has been nearly a year, Thyra…” She cried, “He’s never coming back, and if he ever does…” She whimpered. It was almost her twenty-first birthday. “Read the letter, my dearest,” Thyra urged, “Tonight, alone in your room. See what thoughts your Irishman wishes you to know. Imagine him speaking them to you in confidence. Imagine him coming home to you and only you.”

Angel, I have been told I am to away to for an indefinite period, but my duty is to Uhtred and to the King. My heart shatters knowing I must be away from you, after we’ve only just begun to truly see one another. I do not know how long, I do not know what fate awaits me, but I do know that in making Wessex safe, I make it safe for you.  I wanted you to have in writing that I belong to you. And that I will replay your silver laugh over and over in my mind until I pray God allows me to hear it once more, and the vision of your beauty will be my guiding light in the days and possible weeks to come. Not a moment will go by that I do not think of you. The ghost of your lips on mine will be my only comfort here on this journey. My body may be on the water and on the battlefield, but my heart remains in Wintecester, with you. I hope to be back soon, and I hope you aren’t on another man’s arm when I return. Until we meet again my beautiful girl, Your Irishman, Finan “Oh Finan.” She sighed dreamily, tears rolling down her cheeks. That night, she lay down to sleep, clasping her hands in prayer, “Heavenly Father, please protect Finan. Keep him safe from harm and deliver him home to me. Please guide his steps and keep him on your righteous path. Help me to be good and do what’s right. Amen.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Two Years Later… It was early summer when a knock came on the door of Urlworth’s home. The woman who answered the door was Kelly’s mother Brienne. They looked alike, except Kelly had more of a Saxon build to her, “Finan! How wonderful it is to see you back safe and sound with us.” Her own Irish accent was thick as he remembered, “Are you finally here for good?”

Clearing his throat, Finan stood straight, and tried to stop his hands shaking, “Good afternoon, Ma’am. Ah, back at last for long enough that I can finally come to call after so long… Is the Lady Kelly at home?” “Oh- no, Finan, she is not, I believe she is out in the western fields picking flowers, shall I leave a message?” The woman gave him a gentle, yet sly, smile. She knew how her daughter loved this man, and how she’d missed him. “Uh- no need, Lady, thank you.” He bowed low and moved to get back on his horse, riding west of the walls of Urban Wintecester— he saw her. Close by the gates, in case. She was just as beautiful as she ever was. Picking flowers, as close to a faery as Finan ever imagined he would see. She was full of Old Magick, that he knew for sure. And he knew he was head over heels for her, for he dreamt of nothing else while away. Oh he had gotten his fair share of ribbing from the men. Fearsome Finan the Agile bowled over by a maiden. But he didn’t care. It had been three years since he lay eyes on her, and he hoped to never leave her behind again.

Kelly smelled a wild rose, sitting to pull out the well-worn piece of parchment written in Finan’s own hand. She had kept tabs on the events of the day, heard from the King and priests that Uhtred and his men lived, but they were endlessly fighting the Danes and the Northmen. Even if Finan never returned to her, she was proud to know a man who was so brave and so loyal. Finan watched her as she folded the parchment and kissed it gingerly before tucking it in her pocket once more. His smile was lopsided as he sighed, jumping down off his horse. When she heard rustling and the breathing of a horse, and the brush of footsteps in the grass, she jumped up. Spinning, holding out her dagger, she squinted up into the sun, confused as to the tall bearded man before her — and then gasped, “Finan!” “Honestly, woman, are ye gonna point a weapon at me whenever we meet?” Putting down her flowers and the dagger she set off at a run. Finan laughed and opened his arms, ready to embrace her. Running into his arms he picked her off the ground to spin her around, and she laughed in delight, “Oh Finan! You’re alright! You’re here! Its really you!” His response was only laughter. They did not speak for a long while. He just held her in the warm sun, “Miss me?” He purred in her ear. “Not really.” She answered and looked up at him. Finan grinned, “Ye know, one a’ these days, girl, yer gonna get a beatin’.” “Don’t promise me a good time.” Leaning down, Finan pressed his lips to hers. Their first kiss in years. They were sealed together by fate, the two of them. And fate is inexorable. Pulling back he looked down into her eyes and he smiled, “There is no greater felicity than this,” He cupped her chin and chuckled, staring into her eyes. Those beautiful blue orbs. After a few moments he kissed her again, and she responded, her lips playing right along with his. His kisses became hungrier, and then after a moment he pulled apart from her, looking down at her with shaking breath, “I’m sorry lass.” Kelly took a deep shaky breath herself, “Don’t you dare apologize. I’ve dreamt of nothing else but your lips on mine.” She admitted softly. “After all this time?” He smiled. The Twenty-three year old grinned up at him, “You said you were mine— but I didn’t get to tell you… I am yours. I kept abreast of your travels as much I could in town… I heard Sihtric is married- that Uhtred has two little ones…” “And what of me?” He smirked, “What did you hear of me?” “Your fighting prowess.” She sighed and ran her hand over his face, “Look at this beard.” “Don’ like it?” He frowned. “No I love it… your hair’s all evened out… your scars are faded…” She smoothed her hands over his face, “Yet you are the handsome man I met… the man I longed for.” “Ye’re still an angel,” He sighed dreamily. After a few minutes of silence, swallowing he grinned, “Come ta Coccham wit’ me. Say ye’ve been invited to stay with Abbess Hild in her new Abbey in Coocham. I can’t be apart from ye any longer. That’s why I’ve come, lass, I need you with me, so in between going out you will be at home with us- with me. Uhtred doesn’t much want to come into the city anymore... t’at’s why I haven’t had a moment ya sneak off and find ye. But I can’t spend another moment without ye.” She looked at him with a sly smile, “You intend to ruin me for another man, hm?” “I wouldn’t t’ink of it.” He said sincerely, “You will be stayin’ in a spare room. I just want ta spend time wit’ ye. Talk an’ do the thin’s I dreamed of whilst I was fightin’ these last years.” Kelly stroked his beard gently, “You must tell me of your journeys.” “I’ll tell ye all about it, and I have gifts to give you.” “Gifts!” Kelly gasped. He laughed softly, “Of course! Now— come lets get ye home, and pack for a stay with us.” He winked. “Yes, Lord.” She purred. He chuckled low in his throat, “Ooh, Lord, I could git used ta tha’, my girl.” He was silent for a moment as they walked toward his horse, and he cleared his throat, “Would ye… want another man?” He called back to her earlier comment. “What?” “Ye said… do I intend ta ruin ye for another man?” She huffed and hugged his arm, “Oh Finan! I was just teasing. You’re the only annoying Irishman for me, three years loyalty should prove that.” He smirked and nodded, “Come on.” He held out his hand for her, “Ye can ride on my horse wit’ me.” Her cheeks flushed as she was helped up onto the stallion, before Finan got up behind her. “If my father catches me on this horse with you…” “He’ll probably t’ank me fer takin’ his old girl off his hands, what are ye now, forty?” He smirked. Kelly gasped and looked behind her, “Finan!” The man leaned forward and kissed her again, “I love t’at fire in yer eyes. Never stop lookin’ at me like t’at.” “I never will if you keep being a pig, and besides! You’re the old man, what are you now seventy?” She smirked and kissed him again, lovingly. Pulling back he wrapped his arms around her and spurred the horse on. Kelly laughed and put her arms out with a shout of bliss. Finan grinned at the woman before him, joining her with his own shout of freedom- Hild and Thyra were right, as always, she was a wild thing.

After a good long ride through the countryside, Finan made it into town and stopped his horse a few blocks from her home, getting off the Stallion, and helping her down. Holding out his arm he smiled, “Yer escort, my lady.” She chuckled and took his arm, “Thank you, my Lord.” He growled softly, licking his lip, “I can’t wait to be alone wit ye… jus’ you an me… I want ta sit out wit ye under tha stars, and bathe you in moonlight, with kisses,” he whispered. It took everything in her not to swoon there in the middle of the palace courtyard. “Ah, Finan, you have returned to Wintecester at last—  and I see you are with Miss Kelly.” The cool voice of their King behind them, sounded surprised. Kelly spun around and bowed her head, cheeks red, “Lord King,” Finan repeated the action of bowing his head and he put a hand over his heart, “I hope you are well today, Lord?” She asked.           “Quite well today, praise God.” He smiled. He liked Kelly, she was smart and full of the good light of Christ, “You two seem to be getting along well. I’m a little surprised to see you two strolling arm in arm, I did not know you were acquainted, I haven’t seen you in the city for years, Finan.”           “Uh- Lady Kelly was invited to stay at Coccham, Lord— By Hild! I’ve been- been sent ta fetch her.” Finan managed. Kelly smiled bashfully, “Finan and I are indeed friends, Lord King, from years back.”           “Friends, I see.” A long look at the girls bashful face and Finan’s guilty eyes told him what he needed to know about the young people before him. He gave a smile. Finan was a great warrior and a Christian to boot. He was pleased. This would make a good union, “Well, then, enjoy your stay in Coccham, young lady, I’m sure you will find an excellent traveling companion in Finan.” “Thank you, Lord, I believe I will.” Kelly smiled and bowed her head. “I shall be sure to recommend Finan as a person of great esteem to your father.” Kelly’s eyes widened as the King bid them farewell and moved into the palace. Looking up to her Irishman, she noted he looked panicked, “What’s wrong?” “I—“ He stuttered, “I’ve never been recommended ta a lass’ father by a King.” “You have promised me nothing, I know.” She said gently, touching his hand. Finan sighed and kissed her hand, “It’s not tha. Tha’s no what I meant at all.” “Then what?” He took a deep breath, “Listen my girl, I’m not… good. I’m a devil on tha battlefield, an’ I’ve been a lecherous pig an’ a lover a’ whores. I’ve been a slayer a’ men and, God help me, lass, I’m a sinner.” She took his hands in both of hers, “As am I, Finan. We are not perfect. If God had made us perfect, we wouldn’t need him and his salvation and love.” Finan looked at her and smiled a little, “Aye girl… you’re right. Yer so right.” He leaned down and kissed her head, “Remind me ta always come to ye when I need ta be set straight.” Nodding she squeezed his hand, “I will, always.” He nodded in return, knowing he wanted to be entwined with her always, never letting go, “Ye’ll come wit me on our next journey? If its no’ too dangerous?” “If it is appropriate, lord.” She chuckled. “Good. Cause I never want ta be away from ye tha’ long ever again.” Kelly smiled warmly, shifting to hold his hand, “Nor I.”

#finan #finan the agile #finan x oc #the last kingdom #last kingdom #i try to stick with events in the show so forgive if i deviate a little

[riviae]

ppl i think regis would get along w/ really well despite never officially meeting them (not counting yen or ciri bc obviously regis would get along w/ them): 

note: under read more due to length

eskel: 

they’re both level-headed & are very familiar with the feeling of being the only sane person in a room. now when geralt or lambert say something incredibly absurd, they just give each other the look™ 

because of how similar eskel & geralt are, regis immediately feels at ease around the witcher. they were different, of course, but many of the fundamental principles which endeared regis to geralt could also be found in eskel. their friendship comes across as quite natural despite having not known each other for long. 

regis is delighted to hear about what geralt was like as a child. eskel tells a bunch of stories, reminiscing upon their childhood & all the trouble the two wolf-school witchers got into. pretty good times all around. 

they also both like animals so eskel introduces regis to his goat, lil’ bleater, while regis introduces eskel to his... ominous conspiracy of ravens. eskel’s admiration of regis increases tenfold after that. 

when eskel returns to the path at the start of spring, he fondly notices that he has three ravens trailing him every now & then. he starts feeding them seeds & grain when he stops in villages for supplies/lodging. the ravens return the favor w/ gifts, starting w/ giving him dead mice or shiny pieces of metal & ending w/ runestones & other witcher-related supplies (likely at regis’s behest).

they also exchange letters every now & then thru the ravens, which eskel enjoys more than he’d admit out loud. unlike his usual clipped speech & monotone, eskel is much more expressive & open in his writings, to regis’s pleased surprise. there are a few times where eskel’s letters are even longer than regis’s--a feat, truly. 

one full moon, the wolf school witchers (eskel, lambert, and geralt) get so incredibly intoxicated on mandrake hooch that they bet regis that they’d be able to land at least one hit on him as a trio... in regis’s giant murder bat form. humoring the three men, regis complies and transforms in the courtyard. lambert immediately passes out at the sight of regis’s teeth. geralt suddenly recalls a vivid memory of regis’s attack on stygga castle & in the case of self-preservation, forfeits entirely by dropping his sword. he then throws up in a nearby bush & joins lambert on the ground. eskel drops his sword but not out of fear--instead, his animal-loving nature comes out full-force and he ends up drunkenly patting regis’s head and scratching his chin. regis gives a happy churr of approval in response.

when vesemir wakes up early the next morning, completely unaware of the previous night’s events, he finds it odd that the keep is so quiet, but goes on w/ his routine. when he goes to the courtyard to check on the horses, he instead finds the 3 witchers asleep--with regis, /still/ in his bat form, acting like a fluffy pillow for the 3 men, one wing wrapped protectively over them as they slept. upon closer inspection, he sees that lil’ bleater is wrapped up in regis’s other wing, sleeping soundly. 

vesemir: 

rocky start at first bc uhhh why is there a higher vampire in our keep, geralt? but after actually getting to know regis, vesemir becomes quite fond of the vampire. being a fairly old witcher, he enjoys being able to chat w/ regis about things that were popular in their youth. at one point vesemir realizes that regis was actually the same vampire he’d heard of back when he was first starting out on the path--that vesemir had even seen contracts for the vampire’s head but he ignored them bc while he was young, he wasn’t idiotic enough to actually go after a higher vampire (lol @ geralt). they even share a laugh about it. 

old slang words!! they both get to use ‘em in colloquial speech w/ each other & laugh at their jokes while the other witchers just roll their eyes. 

regis helps update the keep’s knowledge on both higher & lower vampires, penning his own bestiary of sorts on his species, but focusing on techniques & concoctions that could keep witchers safe from harm. 

regis’s curiosity regarding the trial of grasses becomes apparent & vesemir gives the vampire whatever books still remain on the process. regis is delighted to see that witchers did have vampire genes in them (from bruxae tongue, specifically). 

bonus points for vesemir trying to “sweep up” all the vampire-hunting paraphernalia the keep has, attempting to hide the (lower) vampire skulls, fangs, tongue, claws, etc., that  they had displayed like trophies. regis isn’t all that offended to begin with (his inner scientist was actually intrigued by the vampire parts that the witchers kept preserved), but he does break into a fit of laughter when he stumbles upon vesemir trying to shove an entire stock of black blood potions into a cabinet & ends up dropping all of them at hearing regis approach--the room smells horrid to regis for weeks after tho. 

“did you... did you really think geralt never drank black blood in front of me? he was contracted to hunt down a higher vampire.” “...i just didn’t want you to think i was worried about you attacking us.” “hmm, the more i learn about witchers, the more i wonder how your reputation as heartless monster killers has persisted over the centuries.” 

priscilla: 

it’s an immediate friendship that blossoms between them. dandelion feels a bit jealous that regis feels comfortable to laugh & joke about his nature in front of priscilla when it took regis months to even reveal he was a vampire to the hansa in general. regis reminds him that the first time he so much as smiled and showed his teeth, he had let out a scream and nearly fainted. 

regis does his barber-surgeon magic™ and provides priscilla w/ a medicinal concoction to add to her hot tea every morning. it helps incredibly well and lets her speak/sing for longer. similarly, regis also gets a salve for priscilla to put on her scars that help them heal a bit more. eventually, she no longer wears a scarf around her neck and regis is thrilled at the sight. 

regis is a big fan of priscilla’s singing. as he himself is not the greatest singer, he finds that he loves listening to her singing as he journals/reads/etc. one time he even dozed off, having been so relaxed, that when he wakes, he finds that priscilla had draped a blanket over him & even managed to prop a pillow behind his head w/o waking him. 

priscilla confides in regis when she first thinks that she may be pregnant. given his abilities, he was able to smell the change in her hormones & was able to give her the good news. he goes into barber-surgeon mode™ rt after tho & gives priscilla (and dandelion, once he gets over the shock that he’s becoming a father) a bunch of notes on what sort of diet, exercise, etc., she should do while pregnant. dandelion goes to oxenfurt at regis’s behest to ‘borrow’ more accurate anatomy textbooks and they both pour over the info., wanting to make sure that if he was for some reason predisposed when priscilla was giving birth, dandelion could at least handle it/know what to expect. 

shani: 

they’re both practicing physicians & it’s a shame cdpr didn’t let them meet (even if they were in diff dlcs).

both get to teach each other different medical-related things!! 

regis is more self-taught (but i do headcanon that he learned a lot of his abilities as a barber-surgeon while in the Humanist’s company) & relies on a mix of experience, textbooks (some even written by other higher vampires), and general word-of-mouth (i.e., herbal remedies he’s learned from different villages along his travels) in his practice, tho his specialty is surgery... and haircuts lol 

shani actually attended medical school at oxenfurt academy so her knowledge is much more /by the books/ so to speak. bc of this, she’s able to help regis ‘catch up’ on human anatomy terms that aren’t as commonly used by higher vampires (which is where regis got most of his knowledge). also, what shani lacks in experience she makes up tenfold in skill and problem-solving. for instance, she’s able to show regis a sewing technique to close up a wound that she created to save thread since she worked on battlefields for the most part

they both enjoy academia and learning in general, so besides medicine, they also chat about things ranging from politics to philosophy. shani eventually becomes the dean of medicine at oxenfurt in the series, so it’d be nice to imagine that this decision was influenced by regis, who noted that she would make an excellent professor/researcher 

regis normally gave haircuts to men, but got the chance to give shani a haircut when she lamented that her bangs were falling into her eyes too often during surgeries and she didn’t want to wear a headband (they shared a laugh thinking about geralt and the headband he used to wear).

anyway, they remain great friends and shani even manages to rope regis into giving a few guest lectures at oxenfurt after she becomes dean. while he frets a little about the possibility of the students, all curious and bright, realizing he isn’t human, the lectures end up being a big hit. and regis can’t deny that he enjoys the attention... it’s not everyday that he gets to ramble about medicine & certain surgical procedures and have a full lecture hall of students eagerly jotting down his words. 

#emiel regis #witcher headcanons #eskel #vesemir #priscilla #shani #lol enjoy even tho literally no one asked for this

[angelaiswriting]

The Assistant (6 of ?) | Vladimir Ranskahov x reader

[original picture: pinterest]

✏️ Pairings:

(eventual) Vladimir Ranskahov x fem!reader

Anatoly Ranskahov x OC (Paulina)

probably other pairings in the future

✏️ Requested by @kellydixon01  : Y/N–hacker, big mouth, even bigger attitude–is the new addition to Fisk’s team. Sent to help the Ranskahovs, she immediately gets on Vladimir’s nerves. But as time passes, they start to take a liking to each other, even if none of them is willing to admit their feelings. Yet.

✏️ A/N: we’re finally inside Y/N’s mind in this chapter! Btw I hope this story doesn’t suck and that it makes sense.

✏️ Warnings: mention + talks of murder, death in general, probably angst (but isn’t this story a pile of angst?) and I think that’s it. Tell me if anything triggers you and I’ll add it.

✏️ Word-count: 4,200 

REQUESTS ARE OPEN IF YOU WANT ME TO WRITE FOR YOU 💛

📚 To read the previous chapters, click on the MASTERLIST link in my bio (unfortunately I can’t put links here if I want my post to come up in search results. I apologize.)

CHAPTER SIX: TRUST ISSUES

“What the fuck?”

Y/N’s choked scream came as a surprise. On one thing, Vladimir Ranskahov had been right: she had never seen a corpse and now that she stood just meters from four, she couldn’t help the trembling in her legs.

When the men turned around, diverting their attention from the four criminals at their feet, they saw she had left the security of the car. Surprisingly enough, she had been the first to react and as she stared at them with eyes full of shock and fear, Vladimir was the second.

His brain was working a thousand miles an hour and as his fingers tightened around the grip of his gun, he thought he could shoot her down. A bullet between the eyes and all would be over with. But the more he stared, the more his rational mind fought that urge, and the more his anger boiled and screamed throughout his whole body.

How was it that the first–and hopefully last–time they brought her along, they almost got played like some kids? She comes, she does her juju with the phone signal and Dobos is ready to try his luck and overthrow him.

Before his rational mind had the time to realize it, he had her pinned against the side of the car, the hot muzzle of his gun just a breath away from kissing her temple.

And suddenly, all was calm once again. His mind had stopped racing, his blood had stopped boiling, his breath had evened out. His hold was gentle on the gun, the coarse surface of its grip a soothing caress against his cold palm. There wasn’t the sudden surge of adrenaline he got during a fight, nor the buzzing enthusiasm of anticipation coursing through his muscles. There was calm. He was calm, for the world had gone silent and all he could hear was the soft whisper of her breath against his chin.

“Do you have anything to do with this?” The tone of his voice burned harder than the still warm muzzle of his gun near her skin, but she didn’t dare move away. Nor speak up.

“Let her go.”

Anatoly had finally entered her peripheral vision and even though his presence calmed her enough to distract her from her churning fear, she couldn’t but stare in Vladimir’s gaze of steel. “No,” she eventually whispered, wishing she had just stayed in the car–that she had just stayed at Wesley’s side, for she knew, no matter how much she disliked him, that he’d protect her somehow.

“You knock out phones and then they come and Dobos has new men. Money he gives us is fake. Why shouldn’t I shoot you?”

“You have already made up your mind about me, even though I told you I’m here to help. Why are you asking, then?”

“Because you spy on people,” he casually answered. “And I do not trust you.”

“I guess you either shoot people in the head or you trust them, then. You don’t give anyone the benefit of the doubt. But if you’re waiting for me to confess you that I somehow knew of their trick, you’ll be left waiting forever, even long after you’ve killed me.”

“No one will kill anyone tonight,” Anatoly intervened, tearing the gun from his brother’s grasp. “Why you have to be so paranoid, I truly do not know,” he added as he pushed Vladimir backward. “What we must do now is dash back to garage before police come here.”

*

Y/N couldn’t understand Vladimir and still, at the same time, she could. She had spent the majority of her life not knowing who to trust, or if trusting that person was going to make her end up in trouble, and at the same time she had never stopped hoping she could stop, just for one minute, and give the people that stood in front of her the benefit of the doubt.

To give a chance had always felt stupid–and dangerous. It had always made her whole body shiver in fear and anticipation, her muscles ready for the jump of her life in case things went downhill. But she had tried, and so far Fisk and Wesley had yet to fail her.

But now, as she stood in a corner of the garage as the Russians argued together, she felt small and insignificant under Vladimir’s accusatory glare. That and the silent treatment he had reserved her in the car scared her more than a gun pointed at her head.

Silent was… terrifying. It was the unknown slowly but surely transforming itself into a ghostly body of its own and she could almost feel its icy breath trace the line of her spine.

Vladimir Ranskahov was predictable when he screamed, for he would never attack as long as his mind was busy yelling at somebody. She had learned that long before she had actually met him, his past had been an open book once she had found her way in, and it had been easier to read than Anatoly’s. When his anger got the best of him, he was the only one at risk of dying as the scorching emotion burned him alive. But when he went silent and his body got as still as a predator stilled before it lunged at its prey–that was the moment you should be scared, the moment you should pray your fight-or-flight instinct kicked in and self-preservation brought you to safety.

Vladimir was easy to read when he let events take the best of him, for then he was still a man. But when his survival instinct surfaced and he couldn’t even feel the wound on his arm left behind by a flying bullet, the same wound Sergei was now sewing up, that was when he turned into the animal that got out of Utkin.

She wasn’t sure whether he knew it or not, or if maybe it had just turned into an instinctual behavior when he felt like his life was at risk, but he still knew how to use it in his favor. That version of him scared him more than the sight of those four men left dead on the pavement, back at the piers.

Had she gone through what Vladimir had been forced to live, she wouldn’t trust herself either.

But she was here and she was willing to help–willing to put her own life in the spotlight of the unknown and of the risks it threatened her with–and she couldn’t but feel like the stupid kid that had hoped too much when hope had never entered her house.

And as she eavesdropped those criminals talk and reason together, she wished she had been honest from the start–at her own risk. She spoke Russian and therefore understood every ill and every nice word they had ever said about her, the things they said during their Russian-only meetings, the insults they threw at Wesley and Fisk when they thought she didn’t understand shit. It had all been a game so far and she had always thought she was the cat and they the mice, when it had always been the other way around. She had learned the meaning of Vladimir’s tattoos and had always laughed at them, but now that he had her life in his hands–now that she had been foolish enough to move into the apartment across from his–she wished there was still time for sincerity.

“Y/N, come here!”

But now, as her body obeyed Anatoly’s order before her brain had the time to process it, she knew her confession could only do more harm than good–and it didn’t matter that she had nothing to do with the Hungarian and his plans. Nor that she was deliberately ignoring Fisk’s orders to give him inside info on the Russians so that he could control them better.

And with each step she took, she could feel herself shrink and get smaller, almost as if she could disappear so as not to face Vladimir’s wrath. He was her biggest fear, but as the saying goes, keep your friends close and your enemies even closer.

She had most likely overestimated herself.

Sergei was applying the last stitches, but Vlad never flinched, not even once. It was almost as though he couldn’t feel it, almost as though he were still in beast-mode. She had never wished she had Wesley at her side as much as she wished for it now.

“Why did you want us to change place for meeting?” Aslan’s voice wasn’t as threatening: it was calm, soft, and even though she suspected he was anything but, she was still thankful.

“Because you’ve always been stupid enough to give your clients the upper hand.” It was almost an out-of-body experience, or as close as she could get to one: part of her wanted to cower away as her self-defense mechanism finally kicked in, and another part of her welcomed it as her muscles started to slowly relax.

It didn’t matter that she had done her best to focus on Aslan’s face because she had kept Vladimir in her peripheral vision and her mind had been more focused on him than on his man. And so, when he tightened his jaw, she didn’t miss the movement.

“We never give anyone upper hand,” he growled.

She sighed, half in exhaustion and half in contentment, for he was slowly slipping back into his angry self, burying the beast deep inside his mind once again. It didn’t mean complete safety–to think that meant you were only a fool–, but it also didn’t mean immediate death, either. It was a dangerous yet comfortable middle ground that Y/N knew how to handle–sort of.

“We keep eye on them,” Anatoly agreed, forcing her to sit on the chair in front of his brother, who was sat on the desk Sergei often used as his accounting office.

“But you still trust their choices too blindly. What would have happened if tonight’s meeting had been held where those people wanted to?”

“I don’t know, you tell us, spy.”

Vladimir was stubborn. She thought she had known it before she had started to work with him, but being in his presence had proved her wrong. He had turned out to be more inflexible than anyone she had ever met–and she was used to working with Wesley, who was only happy if and when things were done his way. Working with him should have been the right training to be able to manage Vladimir Ranskahov, but either it wasn’t the case or they weren’t as similar in their stubbornness as she had previously thought.

“The guy could have had more men.”

“They cannot bring ‘more men’,” Vladimir mocked her, yanking his shirt out of Anatoly’s grasp. “It’s deal.”

“Yeah, like paying you with Monopoly cash, apparently.”

“It had never happened. Maybe it was you who tried to work with vengry and play us.”

She scoffed. “I work for you, and therefore for Wesley and therefore for Fisk. Fisk is the one who signs my checks, not your cheating friends. Why would I side with them to trick you and risk getting shot and then dumped into the Hudson? I thought you were stupid, but I swear to God, you’re on another level! If you stopped being this paranoid for one second, you’d realize I just made you a favor.”

“A favor?”

“Volya, zamolchi,” Anatoly threatened. He wasn’t in the mood to play the peacemaker, not tonight, not after the flop with Dobos. He just wanted to go home, fuck Paulina into tomorrow, and then spend the next day sleeping to avoid coming to work and deal with his brother.

He was tired, but neither Vladimir nor Y/N seemed to realize how close to combustion he was.

“And you,” he pointed at her, “no more insults.”

“You all still doubting my loyalty after me trying to help you is an insult, me stating the truth is not. If your brother would just get his head out of his butt and use his brain for something that’s not murder, for once, he’d see I’m not the spy he thinks I am.”

And she wasn’t going against Fisk’s direct orders just to be called a liar and be stepped onto by some criminals.

“I don’t doubt you,” Tolya sighed. Aslan had quietly distanced himself from them and was now checking the rest of Dobos’ money with Sergei, both sitting in a cab. “You tried to help and Hungarians did shit. It was just coincidence.”

“Of course it was not!”

There was a fight, then: Anatoly had to stop himself from attacking his brother and Vladimir had to do the same. Y/N simply estranged herself from the scene and with the fact that they had switched back to Russian, she was able to cut their voices out of her mind without much of a problem.

She understood paranoia–she really did–, but she didn’t understand when someone just wanted to be an ass. And she wasn’t in the mood to put up with it, not now that the surge of fear-induced adrenaline had died down and all she could see before her eyes were the corpses of four criminals lying on the pavement.

It had all happened so quickly that she had barely had the time to register what the heck was going on. One second Vladimir was checking the money in front of her and the next, dollar bills were flying in the air as the Russians shot the Hungarians down. They had been quick and she hadn’t exactly understood how Tolya, Sergei and Aslan had known they had to open fire that their guns had already shot.

It didn’t matter. Only Dobos had the luck to fire a blind shot, grazing Vladimir’s arm, before he went down like a trunk. Even above the sound of the echoing shots at the pier and now, above the Ranskahovs’ heated argument, she could hear Miklos Dobos’ body thudding against the asphalt. She didn’t know how, she didn’t even want to know why, but that was the sound her brain had put on a loop as all she could see was the perfectly centered hole in the man’s forehead.

She didn’t know who had gunned him down, but she knew that if Vladimir got pissed enough with her, that was how she was going to go down–a bleeding hole in the middle of her forehead, brains splattered everywhere as she fell down to the floor.

Dead. Lifeless.

This wasn’t the first time she feared for her life, but it was definitely the first where she felt like she was so close to the end of her life and to meet the Creator.

Fuck.

She had been so dumb. Moving in next to a criminal? What had she been thinking? Now that she found herself in the company of murderers–not that they hadn’t already been before, it was just that now she had seen them at work–that unplanned decision suddenly didn’t feel like a good one anymore.

If Vladimir decided that he really didn’t trust her and that he was tired of her, he could… He lived mere feet from her: he just had to cross the hallway to…

She couldn’t think it. She couldn’t form that thought in her mind.

And yet, it was an easy one. Death was easy. You go down and you leave this world and it all happens in a fraction of a second. All the rest is just torture–or torturous wait. All she needed was an unexpected millisecond to leave this world for good. And all Vladimir needed was the previous millisecond, before he opened the door of his apartment and drilled her body with bullets.

Y/N had thought that working with Wesley had been torture. Do this and do that and dodge his advances and play deaf when he told her anything that could be interpreted as sexual. And it wasn’t just that, it wasn’t just that all he wanted to do was fuck her and that he didn’t waste any occasion to remind her that. It was that he wanted her to do things a certain way, even when there were way easier and faster ways to do it, and when he was pissed, he got prissy and intolerable and she had to tiptoe her way around him.

Working with actual criminals had felt like a nice change in the wind’s direction back then, when Fisk had first proposed it–or rather told her she was going to do it without giving her the chance to say anything. It had felt like freedom in a way: no more Fisk, no more Wesley, no more suits and high heels and tight buns because there wouldn’t be another Wesley that wanted her to dress that way.

She found herself hoping the Russians would ask her to dress more formally now, to come to work with freshly manicured nails and spot-on make-up. It would have been easier. And yet, she had come to work with the knowledge of all the research she had conducted on the Ranskahovs, with slightly less information about Sergei Yurchenko, who she felt was almost as important as the other two kingpins… and with her lies. She had come with white lies: she had to inform Fisk of anything that could even remotely be useful and she had to keep a close eye on the Russians–headstrong and therefore dangerous Vladimir in particular.

Technically, Vladimir was right: she was indeed there to spy. But she had done no such thing. The first couple of days it had been because she wanted to get to know them–she hadn’t succeeded. The next days it had been because she was trying to help them with the shipment–she hadn’t succeeded. Then it had been because Vladimir doubted her too much, while Anatoly seemed to at least be okay with her presence as long as she didn’t annoy him, and the other Russians were just either uninterested or they chatted a bit before they went back to work.

There technically was nothing to report–or this was the excuse she brought up when Wesley bugged her for intel. There wasn’t an exact reason why she kept her mouth shut when it came to spying on the Russians, but all she could think of was that her silence meant more time away from her usual office, job, and colleague.

“Vladimir will accompany you home.” Anatoly’s words felt like a punch to the stomach, one that left her breathless–and one that brought her back to reality.

She moved on her chair, the muscles in her back suddenly tense and heavy. Was that how she was going to die? In a kingpin’s car?

Vladimir didn’t say a word: there was no way he could escape his brother–and he was tired. So tired he felt like going to bed and sleep for a century, willingly embracing nightmares and spasming muscles as he waded his way through a memory lane he could not elude. So, he groaned as he jumped down from Sergei’s desk with the grace of an elephant.

He didn’t wait for her: he headed towards the exit, suit jacket thrown over his left shoulder as he retrieved a packet of cigarettes from one of its pockets.

“If he does anything, you call me, da?” Anatoly softly ordered her, but Y/N didn’t turn even when he put his hand on her shoulder. “At any hour.”

“Will he kill me?” She didn’t really want to know, but at the same time, she did.

“No.”

“Why doesn’t he trust me?”

“You didn’t give him reason why he should.” The man shrugged his shoulders, his gaze fixed on her face.

“Why do you trust me, then?”

“I don’t exactly trust you either,” he confessed. “But you haven’t given me reason why I should accuse you of anything, so I’m good, for now. You don’t trust us either.” There was a smirk then, one that proved her there was more to him than what his tattoos could say.

“You are unpredictable and I never know what to expect,” she stated, and that confession seemed to cost her more than she’d ever thought.

*

The ride in Vladimir’s car was weighed down by a tense silence. She didn’t dare ask him to put out his cigarette, just as he didn’t care to ask her if him smoking was alright with her.

(It wasn’t.)

The radio was turned off and just as with his cigarette, she didn’t dare ask if she could turn it on. This was his territory and she was afraid of what he might do.

But the late-night traffic was thick that day and they both thought back at the Hungarians they had abandoned by the Hudson. The police had probably found them already, Y/N thought, not knowing Anatoly’s men had already taken care of them.

“Why did you move in next to me?”

Vladimir’s voice was tense, rougher than usual–probably because of the smoke or the anger, she didn’t really know. It took her a couple of seconds to convince herself to turn her head to look at him: he was staring ahead, his right hand gripping the wheel so hard his knuckles had turned white, almost as though the tattooed barb wire of his trips to jail had robbed them of their color. His jaw was clenched and she could see the sudden leaps of muscle underneath the skin when he gritted his teeth.

She opened her mouth, left it hanging like a fish out of water, and closed it again with a sigh. “It seemed like a good idea back then,” she answered then, gaze traveling back down his arm, skirting over the blood stain on his otherwise immaculate shirt.

“You should have not done that.”

“I guess I got it now.”

He remained silent for a while, until he finished his cigarette and threw the butt out of the open window. “My brother says I should give you chance,” he said. “‘Benefit of doubt,’ as you called it.”

She nodded, eyes lifting up from his barbed knuckles to the side of his face. For a second she was about to stretch her arm out and touch the scar that ran down from his right eyebrow to his cheek, but she tightened her fists in her lap and kept still.

“But my trust comes with price.”

“What do you want?”

He turned to stare at her then, and it scared her both because he wasn’t minding the street and because his eyes had turned to steel, to rock-hard hatred. “I want to know if you’re spying. I know you are.”

Y/N swallowed, and the movement was slow and thick and almost painful as she tried to swallow down her own fear, too. She was stronger than this. She had put up with Wesley and with Fisk–and with her family–and she was not going to give Vladimir Ranskahov the power of making her feel minuscule and insignificant, so small he could step on her and put her out the way she had watched him put out endless cigarettes, back at the garage.

But she had lied enough and there was no reason why she should continue, not now that he knew. He had always known, she had never deluded herself into thinking Vladimir was some stupid ass that could be tricked without much effort–he wasn’t like James, whom she played like a doll.

“I should be,” she found herself correcting him. “But I haven’t.”

“Why not?”

What was the reason? Was there a reason? She didn’t know.

“Why not?” he insisted. He parked in his usual lot, but the engine was still roaring under the hood of his expensive car.

Was that-? No, it couldn’t be his BMW.

“I like it, at the garage. No one bothers me. You’re stubborn and we fight a lot, I know, but I’d rather be locked up in a room with you than with Wesley.”

How had he found out she had moved here?

“If I find out you spy, I kill you.”

Was he waiting inside?

“Okay.” Her hand was trembling on the door handle, but it wasn’t out of fear nor was it because of Vladimir.

He followed her gaze, eyed the white BMW she was staring at, and eventually shrugged one shoulder as he opened his door.

Y/N’s feet weighed like lead as she walked to the elevator with Vlad at her side.

What did he want?

“Don’t come up now,” she said just before the doors to the elevator opened. “Wait a few minutes before you go up.”

“I take no orders from you.”

She stopped him with a hand in the middle of his chest, right on his sternum, and under the thin cotton of his shirt, his warm skin and hard muscles, she felt the faint thudding of his heart.

“I think Wesley is upstairs.” And she really didn’t want him to realize she lived right across from Vladimir Ranskahov.

How was this? Hopefully okay... As always, feedback, requests and suggestions are welcome and appreciated :) Thank you for reading  💛 I feel like I’m not doing this story justice, but hopefully it’s just bc of the swamp my life is these days.

TAGS (to be added to or to be removed from any list, shoot me an ask. Same goes for ‘Bratva’)

Everything: @idhrenniel @saibh29 @fuckthatfeeling @aya-fay @pebblesz892  @mblaqgi

Bratva (people not on the lists but that might still be interested): @sweetvengeancee @theranskahovs @brobachev 

#Vladimir Ranskahov #vladimir daredevil #vladimir ranskahov imagine #vladimir ranskahov fanfic #vladimir daredevil imagine #vladimir ranskahov x reader #vladimir daredevil fanfic #vladimir daredevil fanfiction #vladimir daredevil x reader #reader insert #vladimir marvel #angelaiswriting

[quickeningheart]

One

     When the trio rumbled up to the Last Chance Garage, they were greeted with the sight of Charley setting a box on the curb, just beside a pile of other boxes. "Hey, Sweetheart! Didja miss me?" Vinnie called with a cheeky grin.

     Charley snorted. "Oh, sure. It's been a whole twelve hours since I saw you. I've been pining away for your obnoxious self ever since," she retorted, brushing off her hands.

     "Ouch, babe. That cuts deep." Vinnie dramatically pressed a hand to his heart, shaking his head sadly. Charley's lips twitched as she rolled her eyes and turned to stalk back into the garage.

     "Doin' a little housekeeping, Charley-girl?" Throttle dubiously eyed the teetering stack of boxes over his field specs.

     "As a matter of fact, I'm cleaning out all the junk stored in the spare room. You guys are just in time to help," she replied sweetly.

     Vinnie didn't even try to hide his dismayed groan, and was rewarded with a smack across the back of his head, courtesy of Modo's metal hand. He yelped and glared, rubbing his skull as he followed the big gray mouse into the garage and up to Charley's apartment.

     "We'll be glad to help, Charley Ma'am," Modo rumbled. "But why the sudden clear-out?"

     "I'm expecting company." Charley riffled through a shoebox, wrote something on the lid with a black Sharpie, and stacked it in a corner with a few other boxes. "She'll need a place to crash, and this is the only spare room I've got."

     The mice glanced at each other. "This the part where you tell us to get lost for awhile until the coast is clear?" Throttle asked.

     Charley glanced at him, surprised. "Of course not! This place is practically your home, too. I wouldn't kick you out just like that," she scolded. "Besides, she'll be staying for awhile."

     "So … you'll be telling your friend about us?" The trio glanced at each other. They weren't entirely keen on the idea of yet another human knowing of their existence. Too many knew of them already in that particular area of Chicago, no thanks to Limburger. The people they'd saved kept their mouths shut about hairy alien riders protecting the slum streets of the city, and they'd managed to remain fairly inconspicuous so far, but their luck wouldn't hold out forever.

     "Relax, fellas." Charley rested her crossed arms on the pile of larger boxes stacked on the floor, regarding them with a whimsical smile. "No need to get your tails in a knot. Alley's my cousin. She's moving out here from Florida to attend college. I offered her a place to stay to help save on living costs. Why pay even more money for boarding when I've got a perfectly good room going to waste?"

     The trio relaxed. Any family member of Charley's automatically made her an extended member of their own. "You think she'll like us?" Vinnie asked, always anxious to make a good impression. Or any impression, really, good or otherwise.

     Charley pursed her lips in thought. "Well, I'll definitely have to warn her about you three before you actually meet each other," she replied slowly. "Honestly, I have no idea how she'll react. I haven't actually seen her face-to-face for almost ten years."

     "Why so long?" Modo looked troubled; probably thinking of his own family, whom he hadn't seen in a long while, either. "Don't seem right, not seein' your family for so long."

     Especially since you're all on the same planet was left unspoken, but Charley understood, and she offered him a sympathetic smile. "Can't be helped. I moved out here to Chi-town, and not too long after that, her parents relocated to Florida so her dad could start his own garage. Our dads are brothers, and they shared the family business, but…" She trailed off, looking uncomfortable.

     "Something happened?" Throttle asked gently. Charley didn't often talk about her family, and they never pressed the issue, although they were curious about what her life had been like before Chicago. They knew bits and pieces, minor things she'd shared over the years, but they understood all too well that some things just couldn't be spoken of. They all had skeletons in their closets, as the human saying went.

     Charley ran a hand through her mussed hair. "They had … differences of opinion on how the place should be run," she replied slowly.

     "Ah. A family falling-out?"

     She sighed. "Something like that. My dad and uncle … they're both pretty strong-willed. And they both had their own ideas on how to make the garage successful. It … got pretty nasty toward the end, before they decided it was best to just sort of go their own ways. Alley's mom got sick, not too long after that. A pretty strong infection in the lungs, I think. The doctors recommended she be moved to warmer climates, so in order to save the family, and Aunt Viv, they decided it was best to move south. Uncle Chuck found a garage that was in danger of going under, bought it out, and completely turned it around. It's a pretty successful bodywork and detailing shop now. I think some of the cars he repainted even appeared in magazines. He specializes in the antiques and classics."

     "What about your aunt?" Vinnie asked. "She get any better?"

     Charley smiled. "Yeah, the infection cleared up within a few months. Last I heard, she's co-manager of a popular cafe. Let me tell you, the woman can bake. Her cakes and pastries are to die for." She sighed wistfully. "I haven't had one of her homemade whoopie pies in … forever."

     "And the brothers?" Modo asked quietly. "They still on the outs?"

     "No." She flashed him a small grin. "Since they don't actually have to work together or see each other every day, they get along pretty well. They take turns visiting over holidays, but they're all so busy, it doesn't happen a lot. Oh, my mom said they were kinda stubborn, giving each other the silent treatment and all that. Neither one of 'em wanted to apologize first, but Mom and Viv can be pretty persuasive when their men are bein' stupid." She chuckled. "The family is fine now. Don't worry, fellas."

     "So how come you don't go see 'em?" Vinnie asked. "You haven't left this city since we've known you!"

     "Oh, I haven't left it way before that," she snorted. "In case you lunkheads haven't noticed, I've pretty much got my hands full, runnin' the Last Chance. Throw in everything that's been happening with Limburger, and, well…" She shrugged. "It ain't like I never talk to them or anything! There's email, and we call each other on occasion. Alley writes me actual letters, too. Says traditional letter writing is becoming a lost art form. Sometimes I even write back, though I'm not quite as eloquent about it." She chuckled. "Anyway, when she told me she'd decided to attend college in Chicago, and asked if she could stop to visit, I offered her the guest room to live in, and here we are."

     "So when's she arrivin'?" Modo asked.

     "She's on her way as we speak, actually. But she's driving cross-country, so it'll take her a few days to get to Illinois. She thinks she'll be here by Saturday. So do me a favor and hide out at the scoreboard over the weekend, 'til I get her settled in and have a chance to talk to her."

     "Will do, Charley-girl."

     "Thanks, guys." Charley hefted a box and plopped it into Vinnie's arms. "In the meantime, there's plenty of stuff to shift around. How about you three work on clearing out this room? I've already marked where everything needs to go, either the hall closet or the curb for trash pickup."

     "And what will you be doing while we're up here doing the manual labor?" Vinnie grumbled as Charley descended staircase into the garage.

     "What else? Earning a living by fixing busted engines! This place doesn't run itself, ya know!"

     ~*~*~*~*~

     Saturday rolled around, and Charley spent most of it working on a sleek black Mustang that had met the wrong end of a truck, due to the careless driving of the Mustang's owner, who had miraculously walked away mostly unscathed. The car hadn't been so lucky.

     She'd already managed to put the mangled insides of the Mustang back together, which had felt more like assembling a jigsaw puzzle than a car. It had taken her nearly two weeks to finish, but finally she was done. When she turned the ignition key, she couldn't hold back the triumphant whoop when the engine turned over and started purring like a contented cat. She might complain about her job, but nothing beat the heady rush of pride and satisfaction she always felt over a job spectacularly done.

     Well, for the most part. The engine was finished, but now she needed to put the mangled body back together and then have it towed to a detail shop across town for a new paint job. She'd have to enlist the guys' help for the heavy lifting, but at least all the parts she'd ordered had come in. Their boxes were currently piled carefully against the wall, waiting to be unpacked. She'd start on that tomorrow.

     The purr of an approaching engine caught her attention. Well, it wasn't a purr so much as a sick-sounding rumble. Somebody seemed to be having car trouble. She glanced at the clock on the wall over the service desk. It was nine forty-five, long past closing-time. And long past due for her cousin to show up. She frowned and rose from her seat, stretching the kinks out of her back as she walked to the door. Then she stood and stared with her mouth slightly agape as a huge green, pink, and yellow flowered … monstrosity of a classic Volkswagen Bus pulled up, coughing and grinding to a halt. There was a sputter, as of the beast giving up its last, wheezing breath; a hiss of smoke and steam rose from its backside, and then the front door opened and a young woman climbed awkwardly out of the driver's seat, hopping to the ground with a triumphant "Made it!"

     Charley blinked in astonishment at the blond-haired woman, who was nearly as colorful as her ride with her mid-length hair liberally streaked in rainbow hues, and a flowing white peasant top and stonewashed jeans embroidered with flowers and butterflies. "A-Alley Cat?" she stammered.

     The girl grinned. "Well, look at you! Aren't you the regular grease monkey," she teased, eyeballing Charley's filthy coveralls.

     Charley relaxed and grinned back. "I almost didn't recognize you for a moment. Boy, you sure grew up, huh?" Alley stood almost as tall as she did, and in no way resembled the little grass-stained tomboy who had followed her everywhere and constantly tackled her into wrestling matches when they were growing up.

     "You sure you didn't just shrink?" Alley shot back, and Charley snorted a laugh and rolled her eyes. "I see your smart mouth didn't change, though."

     "Never! It's my most attractive feature."

     "C'mere, you." Before Alley could protest, Charley pulled her into a brief hug, careful not to get grease on the younger woman's clothes. "It's so good to see you! How're things in Florida? How're Chuck and Viv doing?"

     "Florida is … Florida. Hot. Sticky. Lots of old people driving around who really shouldn't be allowed to. My parents are great, though. Dad's shop is as popular as ever. You know, he refinished a Rolls Royce for some celebrity or something, and got invited to this swanky party as a thank you. He took Mom with him. They were rubbing elbows with all these movies stars and such. Mom loved it. She can't stop bragging about how she got to meet Johnny Depp," Alley laughed. "Dad's pretty pleased with himself. Mom hasn't nagged him for anything for the past two weeks!" She poked Charley in the arm. "Anyway, what about you? Ya never call, ya never write. Glad I didn't show up to find your decomposing body being eaten by wild dogs or something."

     "Yeah, yeah. I told you, it's been sorta crazy around here for the last few years." Charley chuckled nervously, scratching her arm and wondering when would actually be a good time to tell her cousin about the consistent alien invasion happening right under the government's nose, not to mention her alien house guests. She decided to change the topic for the moment, turning to the smoking bus. "So. From what hellhole did you manage to dig this thing up? You didn't pay actual money for it, did you?"

     "Shhhh! She'll hear you!" Alley lovingly stroked a stylized flower on the bus's door. "Priscilla is very sensitive, you know."

     "Priscilla?" Charley couldn't keep the bark of laughter down.

     "What? It's not like you've never named any of your cars."

     "Well, yeah … but Priscilla?"

     "It's a classic name for a classic lady," Alley sniffed.

     "Just how classic are we talkin' here?" Charley eyed the bus. "Early seventies model?"

     "Late sixties, actually. Sixty-seven, I think? I found it and Dad repainted it for me as my sixteenth birthday present."

     "Uh-huh. And how old are you now?"

     "Just turned twenty!" Alley announced proudly.

     Charley circled the bus, shaking her head. "What happened? When did the trouble start?"

     "It was doing great the first three days, but today I was driving only a few hours and it started acting up. Had to stop a few times to let it cool down. I didn't think I was actually gonna make it today, but we managed to push through. Priscilla is very good like that."

     "You probably should've taken it to an auto shop instead of going on. You might've just killed Priscilla," Charley scolded. "That smoke there? Generally not a good thing to see coming from any engine, especially an antique like this."

     "Uh, hello. I did take it to an auto shop." Alley raised an eyebrow pointedly, and Charley rolled her eyes. "You know what I mean!"

     "Look, classes start soon. I just wanted to get here and get settled so I can prepare for them. Besides, I know you won't try and rip me off and tell me there's more work that needs done on the bus than actually does."

     "I'm not so sure they'd actually be ripping you off," Charley sighed. "Well, I'll take a look at it, but it'll have to wait awhile. I've got my hands full at the moment. In the meantime, grab a couple of suitcases and I'll help carry 'em up. I've got a room ready for you. It's pretty basic, but you can fill it out with what you need. We can unpack the rest of the van tomorrow."

     "Will it be safe, sitting here overnight? This doesn't exactly look like the classier side of town."

     "It isn't, but Priscilla will be safe enough. She's not going anywhere in her condition. Unless you want to help me push her into the garage…?"

     "Right. Tomorrow it is. Can you grab Mercedes from the front seat for me?"

     "And who's Mercedes?" Charley teased as she opened the passenger door. "Your comput-Jiminy Christmas, Ally! What the hell is that?"

     Alley blinked at her cousin, who had jumped back from the bus as if she'd been yanked. "That's Mercedes. I did tell you I'm bringing a pet with me, didn't I?"

     Charley pressed a hand to her heart, releasing a deep breath. "I do seem to recall something about that," she muttered. "But I thought you were talkin' about a goldfish or hamster or something. I wasn't expecting a rat!"

     "Sorry, I didn't realize she'd bother you." Alley opened the door of the carry cage and scooped the cream-and-brown rodent into her hand. "I used to have pet mice and gerbils when I was a kid, and you never minded those. A rat isn't that much different."

     "There are some people who would disagree with that assessment," Charley replied around a dry chuckle. "Just … keep her in your room, okay?"

     "Sure, I wasn't planning on letting her run loose in the building or anything. Want to hold her? She doesn't bite," Alley offered, and added a teasing, "You're not squeamish, are you?" when her cousin hesitated.

     "Don't be silly," Charley snorted as she accepted the squirming bundle of fur, who proceeded to scramble up her arm and crawl across her shoulders. She squeaked and hunched when she felt cold little paws and twitching whiskers tickle the back of her neck, before Alley reached out to pluck Mercedes from her opposite shoulder. "It's just I know some guys who … really don't like rats. Guess I grew a bit biased without even realizing it."

     "Awww, who could not like this adorable little face?" Alley cooed as she leaned in and nuzzled her nose against Mercedes's muzzle. She got a lick in response, and Charley chuckled. "Okay, I admit she's cute. Now come on in and let me show you the place. Hope you don't mind crashing on the couch for a day or two. Still haven't gotten a bed into the spare room yet."

     "Hey, after three nights of cheap roadside motel rooms, I'd be willing to sleep on the floor at this point. It's probably cleaner than any of those beds were."

Next

#biker mice from mars #bikermice #bmfm #fanfiction #Vinnie #Throttle #Modo #Stoker #Charley #original characters

[astudyinsarcasm9]

I think I’ve figured out why Steven Universe has such pacing and writing problems.

Ok, first off, I’m not a su critical blog but I do like critical thinking and constructive criticism and so I’m doing just that for a show I love.

I really want to see Steven Universe do good but, sadly, it just lost itself halfway through. 

I don’t like saying I am a writer too often. I mean, I published a book and whatnot but I know I still have plenty to learn. 

But, while writing my book I learnt how to built a story but also how easy it can be to digress and lose your plot. 

So what’s the problem with SU?

Well, the writers of the show don’t exactly know how to WRITE. And no, it does not mean they’re stupid. I’m sure they mean well, it’s just, writing a compelling story takes more than just putting your thoughts on paper and calling it a day. Especially since, writing for tv is a bit harder, at times.

It’s knowing how to keep a plot going, how to flesh out characters, how to incorporate plot twists and all that. 

SU was a good show back in season 1 but then the writers didn’t exactly know what to do because, as they said themselves, they thought they’d end the show after Ocean Gem and Mirror Gem. 

Naturally, they had to improvise when they were given more seasons to do. 

But, even if Ocean Gem would have been the last episode it still wouldn’t have made sense because of the way they did their world building, but I digress. 

Ok, so now we are currently in SU’s 5th season and the show has lost a lot along the way because of said improvisation. The writers simply did not know what to do, and because they already introduced this magical world to the audience they had to expand on it. SO the slice of life episodes were mixed in with plot heavy episodes full with lore. The problem with this is the writers of SU are clearly not in their comfort zone when writing a heavy lore episode. And it shows. It shows in the things we lost along the way, which are: 

- The corrupted gems - they were a big plot point but suddenly no one cares about them. The CGs no longer discuss how to heal them and Steven has forgot altogether. One corrupted gem showed up in the last bomb but it was treated as an afterthought, at best. 

- The Cluster - this one was also super important but after Peridot and Steven took care of it the show forgot that thing is still in the ground, albeit bubbled.  The problem was not resolved but merely postponed for a while. HELL! We didn’t even get a full explanation of how Steven could communicate with the cluster. We know it’s because of Roses’s powers or Rose’s gem and the fact that he can go into people and gem’s minds but a little more explanation would have helped. 

- Jasper - while I am no fan of the character I don’t like the fact that she was bubbled and just forgotten. Sure, she is part of the corrupted gem plot but SU’s way of dealing with plot points is to lock them aside never to mention them again.

- Bismuth - though here I suspect it is because of two things: the plot no longer concerning itself with her, as with Jasper, and because her VA is expensive and they can’t have her reprise her role. 

So these are the things the show forgot. But why it has forgotten them? Well, because the SU writers don’t know which story they want to tell. They can’t make up their minds. 

Is it the slice of life part? About the Beach City residents? Nope.

Is it about how the Diamonds corrupted the gems remaining on Earth after the war, and the horrible experiments they conducted on gems after that, and how Steven will heal them? 

No.

Oh, ok. Then, maybe it’s about the cluster and how the hell that thing was made and how the Diamonds want it back after they discover it did not destroy Earth?

Nope.

Maybe it’s about a boy having magic adventures while also doing mundane stuff in his little town. 

No? Let’s see...

Ok. ok, maybe it’s about how someone shattered Pink Diamond and how we need to find out who. It may be Rose, but it may not. 

No, don’t know really. 

See the problem?

If we were to ask someone to explain what Steven Universe is about in a single sentence they wouldn’t be able to unless they boil it down to its premise: A teenage boy who lives with three magic lady aliens goes on magic adventures. - this alone shows us the show did not aspire to be this space epic. 

The sad part is, because of this bad writing people will slowly turn their back on SU. 

Writing for a show is similar to writing a book. If you do not make it compelling, if you do not keep me at the edge of my seat and invested I will not care. A book has twists and turns and when it picks up its plot IT PICKS UP ITS PLOT

Let me give you an example. Let’s take, for instance, a famous book, say To kill a Mockingbird.

How would the readers have felt if the author told us Atticus was having that important trial to defend Tom Robinson but kept delaying it until we got sick of it and threw the damn book away. I mean, that whole trial was the highlight of the book. 

Or, another book, if you will: Of Mice and Men.

How would the readers have felt if, at the end of the book, when we know Lennie is in trouble and he has to flee, the author instead cut to some random thing that had nothing to do with anything, took her sweet time with that, and THEN show us what happened to Lennie. 

It would be frustrating. 

This is what is happening to SU. The writing and the pace of this show it’s killing it. 

SU doesn’t know how to keep suspense long enough so we care.

Instead, it continues to keep us in the dark even after 5 seasons, only throwing information at us when it remembers too, mocks us for waiting said information and when it finally addresses its plot nobody cares any more because we would have spent at least 4 episodes in Beach City doing god knows what. 

So yeah, the problem, as far as I see it, is that the SU writers are incapable on deciding which story they want to tell and don’t know how to write a tv show in a way to keep us interested and to keep the action going while also keeping its softer parts. 

They just keep distracting themselves over and over again. As it happened in the last bomb. We were all wondering what the frick was Lars doing in space while Steven was a) forming a band, b) moping over Connie longer than he should have. He is 14, at 14 you don’t exactly mope. sure, fights seem bigger then but you’re also a teenager who is emotionally weird. Anyway, c) helping Mayor Dewey, of all people. 

For my last example: 

Think of SU this way: If SU was a Sherlock Holmes story. 

You have all the clues you need to solve the case, you have this huuuge plot point just waiting to be released but then THEN the author takes a break to show us Sherlock and Watson just going shopping and playing chess. 

Ponder on that. 

Thank you!

#su #steven universe #su critical #peridot #garnet #amethyst #crewniverse #writing #peral #pearl #steven #lapis lazuli #jasper #bismuth #problems #plot #lars #sad #cn #theories #opinion #diamonds #the cluster

[feynites]

On Flemeth, Thedas, & The Chess Master Archetype

"I nudge history, when it's required. Other times, a shove is needed." - Flemeth

Thedas is a terrible place.

There are a lot of terrible places, of course. And a lot of places that are more terrible than they might seem at first blush. But Thedas is basically the fantastical world-building equivalent of Mr. Burns from the Simpsons. Just with apocalypse scenarios rather than diseases.

It is therefore safe, in my opinion, to conclude that anyone pulling the strings behind the scenes in this setting is either:

1. Contending with one or more malevolent forces of equal or greater power

or

2. Pretty much just evil themselves

Flemeth would make a good case for just being evil, to be honest. Despite the fact that she’s saved two of the three greatest heroes to appear in Thedas in the past decade, she is currently sharing a body with Mythal (the ‘best’ of the evanuris... who were power-mad slave-owning tyrants), she is an abusive mother, and her full agenda would not need to be benevolent for her to ‘nudge’ history in ways that ensured things like the failure of the Blight, or Hawke’s survival. Saving the Warden only really confirms that she is not in favour of the Blight, and of course, Hawke’s survival was part of a bargain which resulted in her own resurrection.

But BioWare is very fond of maintaining ‘grey area’ in its characters, so it’s highly doubtful that she (or Solas, for that matter) will be revealed as complete villains in the fullness of the series.

Despite a shared history with one another, and the obvious potential for an alliance, Solas also does not approach Flemeth to conscript her voluntary aid. He instead seizes some kind of essence from her (the full details of which are still unknown) in an act that seems to result in Flemeth’s death (but, Flemeth has appeared to die before, and would seem to have created many failsafes and back-ups - whether Solas’ actions negate those or not remains to be seen). 

This would imply that Solas’ plans, and whatever Flemeth has been ‘nudging’ the world towards, are not one and the same. Or, if they are, that Solas is unaware of this.

So what is Flemeth doing?

While Solas may have gained the ultimate reputation as a manipulator and schemer in Dragon Age, being Fen’Harel himself and all, from what we know, his own machinations must pale in comparison to Flemeth’s. Solas has seemingly spent the time between the erection of the Veil and the events shortly preceding DA:I in uthenera, essentially regaining his strength and watching the world through whatever parts of the Fade he could perceive.

His plan appears to have actually been quite simple and quite devastating - tear down the Veil, destroy the world as it is, and replace it with something else. That is not a ‘chess master’ type plan. That is reactionary and brash, inelegant and probably quite emotionally-driven. This isn’t to say that Solas cannot excel at subterfuge or calculated games. Only that he doesn’t seem to have been engaging in such schemes for the past several centuries at least - and why would he? If he had already decided to scrap Thedas as it is and arrange some kind of do-over scenario, then there would be no need to tweak or nudge situations beyond ensuring that nothing interfered with his ‘wake up, get power, remove veil’ plan.

But Flemeth has obviously not just been waiting for Solas to wake up and get started on that.

The thing is, whilst Solas may have known that some form of Mythal was still out there, it’s not much of a leap to suppose that he had barely accounted for it in his own schemes. Him going after her was an obvious last resort, after the foci was broken. And, from the way he approaches the death of the Spirit of Wisdom, and the way he speaks about Mythal, we can suppose that Solas does not truly consider Flemeth to be equivalent to the person he knew. Part of her, yes. A form of her. A shape that has come from her ashes. But not the same individual.

On the other hand, we have no reason to think that Flemeth has not been entirely aware, ever since Mythal came to her, that Solas is out there. And knowing him as she did, one might also suppose that she could make a fair guess at what his own plans would be. Perhaps not down to exact details, but Solas seems to have had agents acting for him in ways even while he was sleeping (Felassan, who is probably not alone in this), and so Flemeth may well have gleaned more of his aims through spirits and elves and even just what she could infer from rumours, too.

So in one corner, we have a character who has been set up by the narrative to be a skillful nudger of history and planner of plans, who has been conscious and active for at least six hundred years (the nearest thing we have to a birth date for Flemeth - not Mythal - is 3:00 Towers, game events are currently in the middle of the Dragon Age, which started in 9:00). 

In another corner, we have a notorious trickster and manipulator who has basically been napping this entire time, and only just woke up to try and knock the chessboard over to start a new game. Upon failing that, he has since been forced to try and join into a game that has already been in session for centuries.

And in a final corner, I deeply suspect that we have at least one other party, and that this party is, if not purely malevolent, somewhat closer to that mark than either Solas or Mythal. Thedas has a problem that does not stem from either of those two - we know this because all evidence suggests that Solas is playing against time and is reacting to something, and if it were only Mythal, that need for haste would have been resolved when he seemingly neutralized her. (Unless, of course, Solas doesn’t realize that Mythal is as big of a threat as she is). 

Also, if there isn’t at least one another major player lurking in the dark, then either Solas or Mythal will have to lose their grey moral status in order to account for the fact that Thedas is, simply, as shitty as it has become. Another possibility is that Mythal is actually really incompetent at manipulating things, but that doesn’t seem to be where the narrative is leading. 

Regardless, though, the actual odds that Flemeth has just been out-maneuvered by Solas seem... really, really low. I mean, best laid plans of mice and men and all that, but she has quite simply had too much time and too many advantages for her to not have supposed that, once the orb was destroyed, Solas would make the choice that he did (the likeliest possibility for her being caught by surprise would be that she just never thought that he’d betray her, but given Flemeth’s cynicism, that also seems less likely than other options). Even if she doubted that he would take such an approach, it must surely have occurred to her as a possibility.

Here’s another point of interest - Flemeth’s first positive action in the series, saving the Warden and Alistair, is probably not a choice that Freshly Woken Solas would have made.

Though Solas is definitely no fan of the Blight, he’s also no fan of the Grey Wardens, and doesn’t seem to consider their actions to be all that beneficial. They are, in his opinion, stalling for time. In banter with Blackwall, he questions the assumption that killing all the Old Gods would stop the Blight - which also throws into question the notion that the Archdemons really do ‘lead’ the darkspawn, or are actually the source of the unifying call which the darkspawn hear.

Flemeth, of course, sends Morrigan along to fetch Urthemiel’s soul from the archdemon. But this is only a potential outcome - Morrigan offers the ritual, but she can’t force it. In plenty of world states, it never happens, and Urthemiel’s soul is lost with the warden who kills him. Such can be the outcome of gambits, but, really good manipulators rarely make moves with just one winning outcome. The best moves will net you advantages even when they seem to be losses, and Flemeth risks a lot when she sends Morrigan with the Warden. She risks her daughter, who she has obviously raised with an intended purpose and invested a great deal of time (and at least some emotion) into, she risks being killed (she’s not at all surprised when the Warden comes to slay her), she risks further awareness of her activities (if the Blight is stopped, the Warden and/or Alistair stand to become powerful figures - if not the flippin’ king and queen of the whole country - who are well aware that she is out there, probably even if they do decide to kill her).

In other words, Flemeth probably stood to gain more than Urthemiel’s soul by investing in the Wardens. She stood to gain something that she would get unless the entire endeavour failed. The end of the Blight? That’s, so far, her given motivation. But the Blight probably would have ended even if it had taken most of Ferelden down with it, and Flemeth doesn’t really seem to concern herself with the plight of the little people all that often.

But, the Warden’s survival also means that the Urn of Sacred Ashes is discovered. Haven is established and becomes easily one of the most famed locations of great, mysterious power in Thedas. 

Flemeth’s actions also mean that Hawke arrives in Kirkwall - Kirkwall, which is a hop skip and a throw away, relatively, from Corypheus’ prison. One of the only people who could open the prison of the guy who is the seemingly-perfect pawn for Solas - who is waking up, now - is freed by Flemeth’s nudging. The location where he performs the ritual to unlock Solas’ orb is also opened up by Flemeth’s nudging.

Flemeth, given her sheer age and experience, probably knows that Corypheus can hop bodies. She can, after all.

Solas’ plans are part of Flemeth’s plans. Ordinarily, I’d say it’s far-fetched to assume that Flemeth could know about stuff like the Warden’s need to find the urn, or Hawke’s father’s role in Cory’s jail time, but given how long she’s been around for and how many ‘fortuitous’ places she has turned up in, I don’t think it’s actually as absurd as it might seem. A lot of it probably is luck, but that’s the thing - if not Corypheus, Flemeth might have found someone else, someone who fit the same criteria, to tempt Solas with. Maybe the Architect. Maybe one of her daughters. Someone who could survive the destruction at Haven, someone who would reach for more than Solas expected.

Hawke just happened to present her with one option, and she seized upon it.

"Is it fate or chance? I can never decide." - Flemeth upon meeting Hawke in DA2

But what would her goal be?

Solas might disdain the wardens for only being able to buy time, but that’s because, I think, he still has a predominantly immortal perspective on things. Delaying tactics just seem short-sighted to him, especially if he doesn’t really have a workable plan beyond a do-over. In fact, if that’s all he’s got, delaying might even be actively worse because it could tempt him to put things off continually, and the longer he puts things off for, the more likely that the clock will run out and he will miss all windows of opportunity for whatever it is he needs to do.

Flemeth, on the other hand, has been living with mortals and mortality a lot more actively for the past few centuries. Decay isn’t as new and weird for her, and delaying Solas might be exactly what she needs. Delay, manipulate, distract, and trust him to do what he thinks he needs to, while he actually races down a track with barriers she’s been setting for hundreds of years. Flemeth’s actions have indirectly ensured that what Solas meant to have happen in little more than a year has now been set back by several.

But what is she pushing towards?

There’s some implication that it might be total destruction, as her desire for revenge has been alluded to. A lot of people read this line:

“She was betrayed as I was betrayed – as the world was betrayed - and I will see her avenged!" - Flemeth explaining some of her motivations in DA:I

As Flemeth having something of a ‘burn the world’ mentality. But, in that statement, she does not put the rest of the world in the ‘traitor’ category. Instead, she equates it with herself. And, unlike Solas, or Abelas, who seem to struggle with the connection between modern elves and ancient ones, Flemeth has no problems speaking of modern elves as the natural inheritors of their ancestors’ culture, legacy, and even bad habits. Which makes sense, because she’s seen a lot more of the actual transitions happen. But, the point is that if she wanted revenge against the whole world, why would she be offended at the world’s suffering?

We know of two big betrayals in the course of Mythal and Flemeth’s existence. One is Flemeth’s, which of course is Lord Connobar killing her lover and locking her in a tower, which seems to be how she and Mythal... uh, met. So to speak. The other big betrayal is when Mythal herself was killed by her fellow evanuris. If Dalish legends are at all accurate, the other evanuris were in large part Mythal’s own family, too, which probably added to the feelings of betrayal.

But when was the world betrayed?

Solas, despite having a calamitous impact on the world by raising the Veil, didn’t betray it. Raising the Veil was a last-ditch effort on his part to prevent the world’s destruction. It’s been likened to something like amputation (for obvious Inquisitor-parallel reasons) and I think that fits. Solas cut off part of the world because at that point in time, it was all he personally could do to stop it all from being destroyed. There’s a lot to unpack in that, but the ‘treachery’ part of the equation seems largely angled at the same people who betrayed Mythal, too.

So we have yet more space where it would seem a mysterious third power player - the person(s) Flemeth has truly been sitting across the chess board for all this time - to come and fill in. The other evanuris? Supposedly they’re still locked away (and the locks breaking on that prison might be the clock which Solas is racing against), but we don’t know how much influence they might still have (after all, Mythal’s supposed to be dead and Solas was supposed to be sleeping, but they still did stuff in the meantime). The Forgotten Ones? A wrathful Maker? The Titans? A titan? Or some combination of those things?

I’m honestly not sure. But, Flemeth seems pretty convinced that she is going to avenge Mythal - and has implied that avenging Mythal will avenge the apocalypse doorjam that is Thedas, too. And she knows Solas is up, about, and making plans when she tells you this vow. This vow which comes after the Well of Sorrows choice, aka a sequence which concretely introduces the concept of magical contracts and promises into the setting.

Under those circumstances, I am less worried that Flemeth might have targeted the world at large for retribution, and more worried about the collateral damage.

But, on a final note in this long rambling thought train - it’s a point of interest that unlike the Warden and Hawke, Flemeth does not seem to have manipulated events to bring someone like the Inquisitor into prominence. She doesn’t get involved with the Inquisitor until much later, and then it’s only optional that the Inquisitor will be placed under her influence. Solas is the one who decides to involve the Inquisitor in things, and in this case, I don’t think it was under a set of circumstances which even Flemeth could account for. Even Solas wasn’t expecting the Inquisitor to potentially do stuff like befriend him, romance him, jolt him out of his sleep-walking, or help convince him of the personhood of all mortals.

Of course, this might be nullified if you drank from the Well. Otherwise, though, the Inquisitor is in something of a Wild Card position.

#meta #dragon age

[likexporcelain]

A Crack in Everything (Chapter 4/8) - Jonerys

Summary: Six years after their high school romance ended in emotional ruin, Daenerys Targaryen runs into Jon Snow by chance on Valentine's Day, forcing old memories to the resurface. This sudden reunion could be cathartic, but it could also deepen the cracks already in their hearts. The question Daenerys grapples with is, will this all be worth it in the end?

Rating: Explicit

First 4 chapters up on Ao3 -- more tags/warnings/notes there

The first time Jon and I kissed, we didn't stop for thirty minutes, and when the bell rang, we walked to Chemistry together with silly smiles on our faces. We had made a nonverbal agreement not to kiss in front of our classmates, though. Our relationship wasn't for public scrutiny. It was for us.

We were calling each other boyfriend and girlfriend by the end of the week.

I fell in love with Jon almost immediately after that, or maybe I had already been in love with him and just hadn't realized it. I had always thought falling in love was supposed to happen over a long period of time and that loving someone so passionately so quickly meant that the relationship was doomed. Maybe I had been right, but when I was with Jon, kissing him, touching him, laughing with him, I thought that we would last forever. I would never have another boyfriend. I would go to school and he would follow me, we would get an apartment together and watch each other grow as people, we would get married after my graduation, buy a small house on a large piece of land and have two kids by the time I turned thirty. I would be a wildlife biologist and he would teach modern literature. I planned it all out in my head during our first couple of months as a couple, and sometimes, I would interrupt our lunch time make-out sessions to add a new detail to our fifteen year plan.

“Goats,” I said once against his mouth, to which he made such a profoundly confused face and I couldn't help but laugh at. I had been sitting across his lap and I could feel his hard on against my leg, so I figured it was time to get his mind on something other than what making out could sometimes lead to. “What do you think of goats? I've always wanted them.”

“Well. . .” Jon began, scrunching his eyebrows, mulling the question over. “I can honestly say I've never met a goat I didn't like.”

“I want goats. At least two, so they aren't lonely.”

“That makes sense,” Jon replied with a nod. “What about a dog? I've always wanted a dog. A big dog.”

“I like dogs. Can we also get an iguana? I kind of have a thing for reptiles.”

Another nod while he twisted a lock of my hair around his finger. “I'm glad you told me. It's good that we get our fetishes out in the open now before we get too deep into this relationship.”

I laughed so abruptly that I snorted and buried my face into the curve of Jon's neck.

“I'm not really a lizard man myself,” he continued in an analytical sort of voice. “However, I did used to have a thing for Nala from the Lion King.”

“Please, stop,” I choked out through my fit of laughter. I leaned away from him, flopping onto my back on the pavement and splaying my hands over my chest. “I'm going to have a heart attack.”

Turning onto his knees, Jon leaned over me and kissed the backs of my hands. My giggles subsiding, I moved one hand to his cheek and brought his mouth to mine. When the bell rang and our lips parted, I realized what a compromising position we had been in, with me on my back and Jon above me, his tongue in my mouth and his knee on the concrete between my parted legs. We hadn't yet done anything more than make out and feel each other over our clothes, but in that moment I wished we were in a bed somewhere rather than behind the basketball gym at school.

While we walked to Chemistry, Jon bumped my shoulder with his arm and asked “Do you think we could teach the iguana to ride on the dog's back? Because that would be worth it right there.”

Tapping a finger against my chin, I replied “I think we could figure it out.”

Just a week later, university acceptance letters began to filter into the mailboxes of every student at Westeros Prep. All except one. It had made sense to me that Jon would go to college because I knew how intelligent he was. I could see him hanging out on a state school campus, lounging against a thick tree trunk, reading Of Mice and Men between classes, but Jon hadn't applied anywhere, and had made no indication that he was planning on applying in the future.

The only time he ever mentioned college was in reference to my own pursuits. When he saw a college fair had popped up in the quad one day, Jon made us go during our lunch period and as we fluttered from booth to booth, from Georgetown to Duke, from Columbia to USC, from Brown to Stanford, and so on and so on, he had made a passing comment I should have paid more attention to:

“The only booth that was ever set up at my old school was for the military, and it was there everyday. Actually, the Army recruitment office was just across the street from campus, between a Pizza Hut and the Metro PCS store.”

I recall those words often, wondering how long Jon had been considering joining the Army without telling me. For a long time after finding out Jon had decided to enlist, I was sick to my stomach with worry and guilt, so it made me feel better to think that it was always something he was interested in, that maybe being in the military would give him something I couldn't, that somehow, ironically, it would bring him peace.

* * * * *

While Jon drove me home from the pier that Saturday, I watched his fingers dance absentmindedly across the back of my hand over the center console. When he pulled up in front of my building, I hesitated, wanting to invite him inside, but after a few moments silence, I unbuckled and climbed out of the car. Before I shut the car door, Jon leaned over he console and asked “Can I come see you again soon?”

I told him he could, then went inside, noticing through the glass front doors of the complex that Jon's Jeep remained parked out front until I was inside my apartment.

The next day, I had assumed optimistically that Jon would be waiting for me again when I got off my shift, but that wasn't the case. I worried that he'd changed his mind, that, after fully processing what all I confessed to him on the pier, he decided I was too damaged now.

But, Monday evening, there was a knock on my apartment door.

I was watching a Shark Tank marathon and eating Ben & Jerry's out of the pint tub – that and the two-liter of Diet Coke on the floor beside the sofa was my dinner. I really should have spent the day searching for another part-time job so that I could start making enough money to achieve my new life dream of being able to afford my own apartment, one with a dishwasher, but the overwhelming feeling of utter hopelessness kept me watching reality TV since waking up.

“Missi! Your B.F. is here!” I called out, knowing she and her boyfriend had a date that night, because she had been in the bathroom for almost two hours getting ready.

She rushed through the living room with only one shoe on, muttering something about how she thought they were meeting at the restaurant. I kept my eyes on the TV, but when Missandei opened our front door, it wasn't her boyfriend's voice I heard, it was Jon's.

“Hi, is Daenerys here?”

My eyebrows shot up in surprise and I looked to the door, but all I could see was Missandei's slender back and part of the mostly-opened front door. Then she twisted around and shot me a suspicious look.

“Daenerys,” she said with an inflection, because she'd never heard anyone use my full name before, “the door's for you.”

Moving quicker than I had all day, I stood and ran into the kitchen, throwing my ice cream back into the freezer and splashing water from the sink on my face. It occurred to me that I was in my pajamas, but thankfully they also happened to double as normal, though very casual day clothes – yoga pants and a somewhat over-sized Los Angeles Rams t-shirt. Missandei side eyed me as she sauntered back to the bathroom and I shuffled to the door while tying my hair back as neatly as I could.

“Hey,” Jon said.

With nervous surprise, I told him to come in and he did. As I moved around him to close the door I noticed he smelled more like deodorant than cigarettes. He was also holding a plastic bag.

“I'm sorry for just stopping by. We never exchanged numbers.”

“That's okay. It's the same number I had in high school, though. But, I guess you probably don't still have it in your phone.”

He shook his head. “Is this a bad time?”

“Not unless you count me sitting on my ass in my pajamas watching Shark Tank as a bad time.”

With a small smile, Jon said “You didn't used to like football.”

I glanced down at my shirt, then shrugged “I watch a few games here and there. Do you want to sit?” I crossed the room and picked up the remote where I had dropped it and flicked off the television. Missandei and I didn't have much in the way of furniture. Just a deep green sofa, IKEA coffee table and our 34 inch TV that rested on a solid wood bookshelf turned on it's side. Missandei stored her vinyls between the vertical slats. Most of our things sat in piles on the floor. Stacks of books, stacks of blankets, stacks of towels. Our living room almost always looked like we were preparing for a yard sale.

Sitting together on the couch, Jon set his plastic bag in the space left between us.

“Don't you have work tonight?” I asked.

“I actually got off earlier today. Switched shifts with someone. I wanted to give this to you. I know it's lame, but I thought I should see if you wanted it back.”

With a hesitant smile, I put my hand in the bag and removed from it something soft and familiar. Though somewhat faded from lots of wearing and washing, it looked as good as I remembered and smelled even better, because it smelled like Jon. A crimson sweatshirt with HARVARD printed across the chest. I smiled down at it as wide as I did the first time Jon gave it to me.

“You kept it?” I asked.

“Ever since the day you threw it at my head and told me to eat shit and die.”

As he smiled, I frowned. “Did I really say that?”

“It was the last thing you ever said to me actually.”

I hadn't forgotten, but I had hoped Jon had. Looking down at the big white letters, I said “I wore this thing everyday when I wasn't at school or work, you know.”

“I know.”

“I kept wearing it even after Harvard rejected me. I had this idea that I would wear it on my first day at Caltech. It was going to be hilarious and I would have made absolutely no friends.”

“I know.”

Scooting to the edge of the sofa, I straightened my back and pulled the sweatshirt on over my head and down my body. The end of my t-shirt stuck out the bottom awkwardly, but it fit.

When Missandei came out again, all dolled up and ready for her date, she eyed the word across my chest and said “I thought you went to Caltech.”

“Harvard looks better on her,” Jon answered for me and the peculiar complement made me blush nonetheless.

“Alright,” said Missandei, giving me another one of those suspicious looks that meant have fun but be careful. I had never told my roommate about Jon, even though she was the closest thing to a best friend I've had since Jon. It was sad to think of how little she really knew about me, and that it was completely my fault. Once, while we were both tipsy off cheap gin, I told her about my pregnancy as a test, seeing how far I could open up to another human being before I'd start to panic, but that was as far as it went. She asked if I'd had an abortion and I answered by pouring myself another drink and changing the subject to workplace gossip. Once again, Jon knew more about me than anyone else in my life.

I gave awkward introductions – “Missi, this is Jon. Jon, this is Missi.” –  and she was out the door a minute later, saying she may not be home until morning.

Alone with Jon now, my apartment never seemed so quiet. To quickly break the tension, I asked him once more about his face.

“Your scars. What happened?” I asked.

“It's kind of a long story.”

“Well, Missi did say she may not be back til tomorrow.”

That got him to smile a bit before going into it. “I guess it really isn't that long of a story. I served for four years, came back and didn't know what the hell to do with myself, so I reenlisted. Eight months into my tour there was an ambush and --” He finished the story by holding up his fist and popping out his fingers as he made a dull explosion sound with his mouth. “A month in a hospital later and I was discharged.”

I could tell there was a lot more to the story by the way Jon's soft eyes squinted and his body relax in a defeated sort of way against the back of the couch. I could feel him shutting down, just enough to keep the memories from taking over his mind. This look wasn't unfamiliar to me. He had the same sort of look whenever he spoke about his mother. It was the same look he had the day he brought me to the neighborhood he grew up in.

* * * * *

When Jon turned eighteen, it was a Saturday. I would have taken the day off to be with him, but he told me his family had planned a whole day of “fun” for him and that I should take Sunday off instead. I thought that I should have planned something for him as well, but it seemed like he already had something in mind. He picked me up Sunday morning in front of the Seven-Eleven and drove about ten miles South until we were in a neighborhood that made mine look like Pleasantville.  

“This is where you wanted to go for your birthday?” I asked as he parallel parked next to a boarded up, dilapidated apartment building.

“I don't really care about my birthday. I just wanted to take you here, and since you took the day off. . .”

“You wanted to take me here?”

After he got out of the car, he went around and opened the passenger door for me, like it was a real date. It was an unusually chilly morning for April and I kept my hands inside the front pouch of my Harvard sweatshirt. Jon put his arm around my shoulders and pointed up to the third floor of the crusty brick building.

“You see that window, the one on the far left side, third floor?”

“Yeah.”

“That's where my mom died. Inside that room.”

Moving my eyes from the boarded window to Jon's profile, I tried to read his expression, but it was one I couldn't dissect. He didn't look especially sad, though he certainly didn't look happy. His features were soft and unaffected, but his lips were pursed like he was contemplating something, a message written on the wall that only he could see.

We hadn't discussed Jon's mother much. All I knew about her was the probably-false rumors our classmates would mumble to each other when I was within earshot. I never pressed Jon for the truth because it would have been hypocritical of me, since I never wanted to talk about my family either.

“How did she die?” I asked gently, trying to make the question come off in a way that Jon would know he didn't have to answer.

Jon took a few easy breaths and rubbed my arm where his hand rested. It gave Jon comfort to give me comfort. “Drugs. But, I'm sure you already knew about that.”

“I didn't know if it was true or not.”

“Unfortunately, a lot of what people say at school is true. The rest, well, I don't even know enough about my life to dispute the rest. She wasn't always a junkie, though. She was actually a really great mom for a long time, but she always had this very intense, penetrative sadness that seemed to consume her little by little each day. Living where we lived didn't help. Everyone was on something and by the time I reached middle school, she was as good as gone. The rest was just watching and waiting until one day she never came home. She'd gone missing before, but only for a few days at a time. After two weeks, I just assumed she died. When the cops showed up at the front door and told me what they'd found when they raided this building, I couldn't even cry, because I'd already accepted it.”

“I'm sorry, Jon.”

He shook his head and looked at me. “I just wanted you to know the truth. I wanted you to see who I am.”

“That's not who you are, though. That's who your mom was. You're not her.”

“Sometimes I feel like a traitor. I'm basically being taken care of by Ned Stark, but when my mom needed help, he wasn't there. But, I actually like Ned. He's almost always working, but when he's not, he's a really nice person – annoyingly nice sometimes. I don't understand what sort of dispute he could have had with my mom before I was born to make them hate each other so much. I tried asking a little while ago, but he's even less comfortable talking about my mom than I am.”

I took my hands out of my sweatshirt and hugged Jon against me. “You're not a traitor. Some families are just too fucked up to ever understand.”

Hugging me back, he laid his cheek against the side of my head and said “One day, I want to have a totally un-fucked up family.”

“Me too,” I replied.

That was when Jon told me he loved me for the first time, but he told me as a question. “Do you already know that I love you?”

I lifted my head and answered “I had a feeling. You already know that I love you, right?”

“Oh, yeah. You're not very subtle.”

I smiled, but it was hard to be happy in a place like that. A car alarm went off in the near distance and a cat fight had broken out in front of a rotting cottage across the street. The sound of rickety shopping cart wheels grew ever louder as a homeless man limped down the street in our direction.

“Where did you live?” I asked. It couldn't possibly have been here.

Thankfully, we got back into the Mazda, but we didn't travel far. Jon turned onto the highway, drove North a couple blocks, then pulled into the parking lot of a laundromat. I followed suit when Jon exited the car once again, and I followed him across the parking lot until we stood on the sidewalk facing the highway. Sunday traffic was light, but still noisy, so when Jon spoke I had to stand almost against him to hear.

“Across the street,” He pointed in front of us, to a huge building, right up against the highway, tall and beige and rowed with small plaster balconies, clothes and towels draped over the edge of half of them. On the bottom floor, graffiti decorated the chipped paint and the windows were all barred. While it was certainly a step up from the abandoned drug-den Jon had just shown me, the building was depressing at best.

“We lived someplace nicer when I was young,” Jon continued. “I mean, it still wasn't a great area, but it was a little house with a front yard and there were kids my age who I could play with. We moved here when I was nine, after my mom lost her secretary job.”

I took his hand in mine and squeezed. “A few foster families I stayed with lived in buildings a lot like this one, but I never stayed long.”

“It's weird that we met where we did. In some fancy douche-bag school. I guess I'm just lucky you're freaky smart and my uncle is freaky rich.” His eyes were still on the building, his palm damp against mine. “I'm not going to say I'm lucky my mom died when she did, but at least something good came out of it.”

“Hey.” I gave his arm a gentle tug to get him to look at me. I had no idea how to respond to that, so instead, I said “Let's go someplace happy, alright? For your birthday.”

“Yeah.” Finally, the corners of his mouth lifted. “Can we go to your apartment?”

I sucked my bottom lip between my teeth and nodded. That was exactly what I had in mind.

* * * * *

Slowly, I raised a finger to where the longest scar started on his forehead and felt the slight crease of skin. Incredulously, I asked “You spent a month in the hospital for these?”

Heaving a drawn out sigh, Jon began unbuttoning his shirt. My pulse raced, but any excitement I felt for getting to see Jon's body again was quickly replaced by anxious fear. I couldn't prevent my gasp, and I felt tears prickle at my eyelids as soon as my eyes beheld the long, jagged scars that covered Jon's torso, one of which being right where I had placed my hand in the middle of his chest on the pier, right over his heart.

“Oh my God,” I breathed, unable to look away. I had to cover my eyes with the palm of my hand when I felt about ready to throw up. “I shouldn't have let you go,” I whimpered. “I knew something bad was going to happen. I knew you were going to get hurt.”

“You knew you couldn't stop me. And I'm fine now.”

After a hard swallow, I let my hand drop, taking in the sight again with a bit more composure. “Does it hurt?” I asked, reaching out tentatively and touching the discolored scar running down the center of his chest with my fingertips.

“Not anymore.”

“You almost died, didn't you?”

His hand raised to my face and I felt his thumb stroking the water that had spilled from my eyes. “Don't cry,” he whispered, leaning toward me. “I'm not dead.”

Slowly, but without caution, I leaned forward to rest my cheek against his. His arms went around my waist and mine draped around his shoulders. We remained like that for a short time and when I leaned back ever so slightly, I turned my head, my nose grazing against his cheekbone. I took his face in my hands and tilted his head down so that I could press my lips to the top of his most prominent facial scar, kissing my way down the permanent blemish until it stopped at the hollow of his cheek. All it took was a shift of my head a couple inches and my mouth was over his, and when I puckered my lips, they just barely touched his. Each kiss was just a little bit firmer, a little bit longer, and soon Jon was kissing me back, letting me taste his tobacco and winterfresh breath, and his warm tongue.

* * * * *

I had made Jon wait in the hallway outside my apartment door for a couple minutes while I straightened up. It was a tiny place and I wasn't exactly a tidy person. Once all the dishes were in the sink, garbage in the garbage can, dirty clothes in the hamper, and clean clothes tossed in the closet, I gave Jon the green light to come in.

It wasn't the first time Jon had been over, but it was nerve wracking all the same to watch his eyes scan my single room apartment like he was trying to spot something that wasn't there before. There was never really much to see, though, besides clutter. Just a kitchenette, a Salvation Army desk and my bed, which was just a mattress and box spring sitting on the floor under the only window in the whole apartment. There was a door next to the refrigerator that led to a small bathroom and a sliding door by my bed that was a long, narrow closet stuffed with old school stuff and cheap clothes. I never liked buying furniture because I never liked moving it, so when I did buy things for the apartment it was usually funky blankets and pillows and water cups with TV characters on them. I hung Christmas lights across two adjacent walls but rarely plugged them in, worrying it might be a fire hazard. There was no television, but I did have a laptop that I kept locked in my desk in case of a break in.

Jon took his fake-leather jacket off and draped it over my desk chair. “I like the dinosaur pillows.”

I turned to my bed, cheeks going pink as I realized I had made my bed the other day with cartoon dinosaur sheets I'd bought on sale in the children's section at Target. It probably looked even stranger that along with them, I was using a thick Christmas themed throw blanket as a comforter.

“So, I have a question,” he continued. “You're still seventeen, right? So how come you're living on your own and not in some shitty foster home?”

“It's a long story,” I said, sitting down on the edge of my bed. Because there wasn't a frame, the height was about the same as a regular couch. “The short version is that my brother adopted me when he turned twenty-one, but that turned out to be a complete nightmare, so I got emancipated when I was fifteen, around the time I started at Westeros Prep. I had been working since I was fourteen so I could already support myself enough to afford this lavish life of luxury you see here.”

With some hesitancy, Jon replied “I thought your brother died.”

“My oldest brother killed himself less than a year before I was born. I have another brother, though, who is about seven years older than me. I haven't seen him in a couple years. He must have gotten all of my father's genes, because he's not a very good person. I still love him, though, but if I never have to see him again, I think I'd be okay with that.”

Jon nodded slowly, crossing the few feet between my desk and my bed to sit beside me. “Fucked up families,” he said.

“Exactly.”

For a bit, we sat in silence, save for the soft hum of the traffic outside, until Jon broke it.

“What do you want to do?”

Nervously, I shrugged, a lie because I knew exactly what I wanted to do. It was the same thing we'd almost done the last time Jon was over, and the same thing I fantasized about most nights as I tried to fall asleep.

“Are you too warm in that?” he asked.

I glanced down at my sweatshirt and nodded, then pulled the thing off. The tank top I wore underneath rode up to just under my bra as I did so, so I tugged it back down over my hips quickly. Jon raised a hand to the back of my head and I felt his fingers rake through where my loose hair had become tangled. When I toed off my shoes, Jon followed suit and removed his Converse. While his eyes were on his feet, I took a chance and pulled off my tank top, and before Jon's eyes found me again, I was already shedding my bra.

“We don't have to,” he said, because that was the sort of thing nice guys said, and while I was glad for that, what I really wanted was to feel his hands on my naked tits and his mouth kissing me all over.

It sounds silly, but the fact that Jon had turned eighteen and I was still seventeen made me even more excited. I always enjoyed those sorts of benign rebellions because it was all I could ever afford myself. I felt this way behind the basketball gym sometimes when Jon and I would spend the entire period making out. As soon as the bell would ring, I would pull back just slightly and say “We need to get to class” and Jon would reply “Fuck class. Kiss me,” and I would kiss him for another two minutes before we'd run to Chemistry and get there just as the bell was ringing again. Little things like that made me feel dangerous and like my life was more interesting than it really was.

Jon had a condom in his wallet “just in case” and when we were both naked I watched him slide it onto himself, chewing on my fingernails until he was finished. I was a virgin and he wasn't, but I liked that it wouldn't be his first time. I needed him to be less nervous than I was.

Lying back on one of my dinosaur print pillows, I parted my legs enough for Jon to situate himself between them. When he leaned over me, I flinched a bit, thinking he was going to put his penis in me right then, but he didn't. He pushed some strands of hair from my face and asked “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” I whispered and pushed some of his curls behind his ear.

“Just kiss me, alright? And don't stop.”

That sounded easy. I'd had a lot of practice kissing Jon over the last few of months. When he closed the gap between our mouths, I kissed him the way I thought lovers kissed and tried not to focus on Jon's hand as it trailed between our bodies and touched me where no one else had ever touched me before. My hips jerked slightly and I moaned into his mouth which just made him kiss me better.

A second after his hand left me, I felt something else replace it, but instead of freaking out, I just did what he said and kept on kissing him. I had my hand behind his head, keeping him with me just in case.

I knew that it would hurt. Everyone always says the first time hurts, but the pain went away a lot sooner than I thought it would. I wondered if having used tampons for years had helped, but quickly turned my mind onto something other than periods, like the fact that Jon Snow, my boyfriend, who I loved so deeply, was in my bed, having sex with me.

Afterward, we got Icee's and pizza from downstairs and watched Lost on my laptop, pausing it every few minutes to make out a little bit. “Best birthday ever,” Jon had murmured between kisses.

* * * * *

“Daenerys,” Jon breathed against my mouth and I wanted to roll myself up and live between his lips like one of his cigarettes. But then he said “Maybe I should leave.”

I leaned back a bit, understanding but also not understanding at all, because he had kissed me back, his hand had slid from my waist to my thigh and his dark eyes were full of hunger.

“Can't you just kiss me for a little?” I asked, running my hand across his cheek and feeling his short beard tickle my palm.

Leaning his forehead against mine, he purred. “I don't know if I can just kiss you.”

I recaptured his mouth, trapping his bottom lip between mine. The kisses intensified quickly. I didn't think I'd ever kissed Jon like this. These were needy, ravenous kisses. Live-in-the-moment kisses, because in the next moment, everything could be different. Forget-about-the-future kisses. There was only right now.

I swung a leg over his lap and his hands went to my ass before sliding up and under my shirt, uncomfortably stretching all the fabric that kept my body hidden. His fingers unhooked my bra so that his palms could caress the length of my back uninterrupted. Maybe that was as far as Jon wanted to go, but I took a chance away, leaned back on his lap and peeled off my shirt and sweatshirt, all in one, albeit awkward, motion. Then I took a breath, watching Jon's dark eyes watch my chest as I slowly slid my bra down my arms before dropping it onto the floor.

From my back, Jon's hands trailed around until they were feeling the curve of my tits, not much different, I hoped, from the last time he'd held them. His calloused fingers against my nipples made me bite my bottom lip and I was suddenly feeling breathless. When Jon leaned forward, I tilted my head up and then his mouth was on my neck, pressing wet kisses that made my toes curl. Arousal boiled between my legs and I began to move my hips just enough to feel how much he wanted me too. As soon as my crotch brushed his, he hummed against my neck and slid his hands back down to my ass, pulling me firmly against him.

“I need you,” I breathed, my eyes closed, focusing on his body against mine. “I need you inside me.”

But a moment later, he was leaning away from me, resting against the back of the couch and parting his hands from my yearning body to rub his eyes, as if he thought this was some kind of dream. I could see the wheels turning in his head and suddenly felt lost. If he was mulling this over, then I knew how it would end.

“This is why you were afraid to talk to me,” I said solemnly, fingers fiddling with the bottom hem of his flannel shirt. “You knew this would happen. You knew I still wanted you.”

His hands dropped to my thighs, rubbing them like he would do to my arm to comfort me, to comfort himself. I didn't feel comforted, though. I could tell he was trying to focus on my eyes and not the fact that I was half naked and on top of him, ready for the taking. “I knew that I still wanted you,” he whispered. “I just have to think first.”

“You've had all this time to think, Jon, and it lead you here. I didn't ask you to come over tonight. But you're here now, so stay.” I was pleading now and I hated it, but I was afraid that if he left I wouldn't ever see him again and I couldn't go through that twice.

Eyes trailing down my body, I could see them flicker as one part of him tried desperately to convince all the other parts to give up on me. His hands began to tremble as they slid up to my hips, and then he was moving me off of him. Standing, he kept his back to me while he adjusted the way his jeans pressed against his erection. I didn't try to speak. I had already said all I could think of.

“I just need to think,” he said again while pulling a pack of Marlboros from his pocket.

He didn't walk away, though. He remained standing in front of the couch, fingers sliding a cigarette into his mouth and I just watched him do it, content to let him smoke in my apartment if it meant he wouldn't leave. Jon would never do that, though. His hand never even reached for a lighter.

After a minute, I stood, cautious and quiet. I picked up my t-shirt and held it to my chest, covering myself without putting it on, then moved around to Jon's front. I didn't try to touch him, but I stood close. His eyes stared at the wall behind my head, still mulling.

And then something changed. His eyes squeezed shut and he pulled the cigarette from his mouth, tucking it behind his ear. A hand covered his eyes as he inhaled sharply through his nose. I wanted to hold him but still thought it best to give him space. The next time I saw his eyes, they were pink and his eyelids twitched like he was trying not to cry.

“Okay,” he said finally, then paused again to take a series of long breaths. “You were right. You were right all those years ago when you told me that it didn't matter and that it didn't change what we had, because I never got over you, I never stopped loving you and I never stopped wanting you. I guess that's obvious. Every day since you told me to eat shit and die, I have missed you. You're still the most beautiful person I've ever seen. I would give you every single piece of me if you wanted it.” I could hear his throat swallow hard. “But, I don't want anyone to ever look down on you, or us. . . Fuck. This is hard for me. I want this so bad, but it's hard for me to accept that there's this thing between us. I wanted us to be perfect. I thought that we were perfect.”

The t-shirt was growing damp where my hands clutched the fabric. I was sweating again. Jon was too. Small beads of moisture percolated at his hairline.

Shaking my head, I whispered “I don't need perfect. I never did.” I stared at his chest. With him standing, the scars looked almost like rips in his flesh, like something trying to cut it's way out of him. “I'm sorry I pushed you. I'm sorry I made you uncomfortable. Please don't leave, though. We could just hang out. Even after all these years, I still think of you as my best friend. More than anything else, you were my best friend.”

My eyes caught Jon's green Converse stepping closer to me. I could feel the heat coming off of his body and when he laid his palm on my jaw, I thought the skin might melt off my face.

“You're my best friend, too. And don't apologize. You didn't make me uncomfortable. I did. I've got Robb Stark's fucking voice in my head.”

He had said the last bit with a breathy chuckle and I finally picked my head up to face him.

“I'm not going to listen to it anymore,” he added. “He doesn't know what this is like.”

Hopefully, I suggested “We could just get dinner and watch TV. We never did finish Lost. Well, I finished it without you, but we could start over. Get some Chinese food and just. . . start over.”

“Okay.” He nodded. “Let's do that. But, let's do this first, alright?”

A second later, his mouth was over mine, kissing my upper lip and I was quick to capture his bottom lip, sucking gently. As soon as his arms were around my waist, I wrapped mine around his neck, dropping my t-shirt to the floor without a care. He held me close and lifted me to his height, my pointed toes leaving the carpet. My eyes were shut, focusing on kissing him, relishing in the tickle of his short beard against my nose and the smoking taste of his warm tongue. When his hand hooked under my butt, I wrapped my legs around him and moved my hips against his abdomen, longing for just an ounce of pressure between my thighs. My mind could hardly register that Jon had turned us around until I was suddenly horizontal, my back landing on my plush sofa cushions, and Jon was on top of me, having never broken our kiss.

I was being consumed by hot breath and salty skin, and flexing muscles, like the one pulsing against my desperate pussy. My hands were quick to slide between our bodies, connecting with Jon's belt. The buckle landed harshly against my pelvis once I had it unfastened. Jon sat up on my knees between my legs and pulled the leather strap from the loops around his jeans and dropped it to the floor.

“There are condoms under the sick in the bathroom,” I said through shallow gasps.

Meeting my eyes, Jon nodded, then leaped up and went to find my bathroom. After a deep breath, I lifted my knees to my chest and pulled off my yoga pants and underwear. Jon was back before they hit the floor and I immediately broke out in a fit of laughter because he had brought the entire Costco sized box with him. He started to chuckle as well, but was too mesmerized by the sight of me.

Moving slower now, Jon set the box down on the floor and started on his shoes, eyes never leaving me. I thought he would undress for me, but he didn't. Once his shoes were off, he climbed back between my legs and leaned down, kissing me firm on the mouth before moving down to my neck, nibbling the skin and licking my throat. My eyes closed and my fingers wove into his hair as I felt wet kisses trail from my collarbone to my chest to my nipple – I gasped, his teeth grazing the hard nub before sweeping it with his tongue. And then he went lower, to my navel, then even lower. His arm hooked under my knee and lifted it up higher, over his shoulder, and then his lips were on my pussy, kissing me, teasing me, tasting how aroused I had become. I tilted my head back against the sofa cushion and groaned, overtaken by the sensual sound of wetness meeting wetness as he licked me.

After Jon found my clit I knew it wouldn't take long for me to cum. My pussy had sucked his two fingers into it's depth like they belonged there and my muscles clenched them tight as he persistently sucked my clit between his lips and did something with his tongue that made me whimper curse words through clenched teeth, moving my hips against his mouth. My orgasm seemed to last forever though it was probably only about ten seconds. I begged him not to stop, and he didn't, but eventually it was too much and I had to push his head away.

I was left panting, chest heaving. Jon had sat up and I closed my legs, my thighs pressed tightly together. Slowly, he removed his fingers from inside me and rested his sticky hand on my knee, squeezing it gently. When I was calm, I looked at him and blushed, realizing it was the most relaxed I'd felt in a long time.

“Hi,” I breathed, like my mind had been wiped clean and I was meeting him for the first time, naked and trembling.

“Hi,” he replied, then gently pulled my legs straight, to rest across his own.

Jon rubbed my calves and feet and after a couple minutes, I thought I could fall asleep like that, but then I remembered the box of condoms and suddenly felt a pulse between my thighs. It had been so long since someone else had given me an orgasm that I'd forgotten just how much I loved it, but an orgasm wasn't all that I wanted.

Twisting on my side, I reached down to the floor and retrieved a condom from the box before sitting up. I moved to straddle Jon's lap, knees sinking into the sofa on either side of him. I could smell myself on his face when I leaned close. I kissed him, open-mouthed, connecting our tongues and I could taste myself too among his usual Jon taste. Even better.

While we made out like we used to, but better, I felt Jon's hands between us and his hips raising against me. He leaned forward to finish pushing his jeans and boxers off his legs, but I moved with him the whole time, never breaking our kiss. His erection was against me now, flesh on flesh. Jon leaned back against the couch and I lowered my pussy to let it rest atop the underside of his pulsing cock. He moaned into my mouth, his hands squeezing my ass while I moved my hips just enough to get him slick with my cum.

I'll admit, I wanted to let him slide into me right then, but I handed the condom to him and watched him put it on himself. Once ready, I gripped Jon's shoulders and lowered myself onto him, trying to keep my breathing even while he filled me.

“Oh my God,” I groaned once I had him all the way inside. His forehead was against mine, his hands back on my ass and I simply stayed there, sitting on his lap with him buried inside me, shifting ever so slightly here and there, getting reacquainted to the feel of him.

After half a minute, I lifted up a couple inches, then lowered back down. This simple move made Jon groan and squeeze my flesh.

“Just to warn you,” he sighed, “I'm not going to last very long.”

I dropped my forehead to his shoulder, and through a breathy laugh, I said “I'm good with that,” then rolled my hips to elicit some more of Jon's soft throaty sounds.

We did end up getting Chinese food, and we also watched Lost, but only the first episode before retreating into my bedroom. Into my bed, to be specific, but we wouldn't need the condoms. We just laid together underneath mismatched sheets and blankets, making each other warm in my drafty bedroom. Then we just slept. We slept for a long time. I couldn't remember the last time I'd slept so long, and not once had Jon gotten up to smoke.

In fact, he was still asleep on his back when I dragged myself out of bed to use the bathroom. It was the late morning and I heard Missandei come in the front door while I was brushing my teeth. I grabbed a brush from the counter and started working on the tangles in my hair while I walked out to greet my roommate.

She was sitting up on the kitchen counter, eating Greek yogurt with her finger, wearing the clothes she left in last night and looking as though she had hardly slept a wink.

“Fun date?” I asked, trying to keep my tone cool and casual.

With a tired smirk, Missandei nodded, then sucked some more yogurt off her index finger. “I should ask you the same thing. You finally get on Tinder or something?”

I shook my head, bringing my own finger to my mouth to nibble on a nail. “No, Jon and I have known each other since high school,” I replied. Maybe it was time for another test. “We actually dated in high school.”

Back straightening, Missandei gazed wild, intrigued eyes at me. “You had sex with an ex-boyfriend? That is some drama, Dany,” she said in an excited whisper. For a moment I felt flushed, wondering how she'd known we had sex, but then I realized we'd left the box of condoms sitting on the living room floor.  

“You have no idea. But. . . I'm choosing to be optimistic.” I smiled a true smile, something Missandei rarely saw from me.

With a sly grin, Missandei hopped off the counter, tossed her yogurt cup in the trash, then pulled me into a tight embrace. This was also a rare occurrence so my arms were more tentative as they wrapped around her.

When she let go, she swayed off in the direction of her bedroom, asking me to wake her up for work in four hours. That reminded me that Jon had work at two o'clock, so I slipped back into my room to lay with him some more before he would have to leave. And I would watch him leave, happily, finally knowing for sure that it wouldn't be for good.

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