#how do you interact with your old employer who thought she took in some family-less teen

[dato-potato]

The Lost Son pt. 4

Took too long but here it is after being written, rewritten, deleted on purpose, deleted accidentally, glitching and then disappearing and finally being written again. Part four of the AU where Talia leaves Damian in an orphanage in Gotham when he’s five.

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Five

Part Six

Part Seven

Part Eight

——————————

Damian sat awkwardly in silence, Bruce Wayne in front of him and Alfred Pennyworth to his right. Mr. Pennyworth seemed to be enjoying his time, watching the two others as he grinned. Damian sipped carefully at his tea when Bruce Wayne cleared his throat, Damian nearly choking on his drink.

Damian hit his chest with his fist a few times, “Are you all right?” Bruce Wayne asked him, concern clear on his face.

“Yeah,” Damian managed as he coughed a few times for good measure.

Bruce Wayne nodded, “Right, well, I was going to apologize for my sudden intrusion on your visit,” he started, directing his gaze at the butler, “I hadn’t been made aware that we’d be having guests over.”

Mr. Pennyworth smiled pleasantly back at his boss who continued to glare, “I don’t believe it’s stated anywhere that I cannot invite guests to the manor.”

Bruce Wayne mumbled something under his breath and Mr. Pennyworth cocked an eyebrow at the man. Damian wasn’t sure what he was to do in such a situation, he had been in plenty of incredibly awkward positions but that was by far the worst. 

Mr. Pennyworth turned back to Damian, “Apologies young sir, I doubt you expected to see such a sight when you accepted my invitation.”

Damian gave him a polite smile, “Not exactly, but it’s interesting to see Mr. Wayne and Mr. Pennyworth interact naturally, almost as if you’re related and not an employer and his butler.”

The two men glanced at each other and Mr. Pennyworth smiled kindly at Damian, “I wouldn’t exactly describe our relationship as a simple butler and employer, sir.”

Bruce Wayne nodded as he sipped at his tea, “Alfred has been with me since before I was even born and he’s stuck with me through my parents’ unfortunate deaths.”

Damian held his teacup in his hands and inspected it. He felt out of place watching the two of them. 

Mr. Pennyworth cleared his throat, an apologetic smile on his face, “What about you, Mr. Alistair?” Damian raised an eyebrow at the old man, he was sure he had told Mr. Pennyworth about the circumstance of his parents but the man just smiled innocently, “What did your mother do?”

Damian froze mid-drink and swallowed hard. Since Janet never bothered to ask questions about his mother and father after the first night, he never really thought about how he’d have to eventually answer such questions if he planned on hiding his true identity.

“Well,” Damian started, trying to stall as he thought up a satisfying reply, “I’m not really sure,” he said, defeated.

Mr. Pennyworth nodded and Bruce just stared, clearly not convinced, “Well, what was she like then?”

Damian fidgeted in the seat, the questions were making him uncomfortable and he was desperately trying to relay that message to the two men but they either weren’t getting it or they simply did not care.

“I’m not sure,” Damian repeated. When neither Mr. Pennyworth nor Bruce Wayne spoke, Damian sighed, “She wasn’t exactly around much. She was usually with my grandfather.”

This seemed to pique their attention, “Grandfather? I’m assuming it was your maternal grandfather. What was he like?” Mr. Pennyworth asked. Damian glanced at the older man for a long moment, so he did remember their conversation about his parents at the orphanage.

Damian sighed again, “Yes, he was my maternal grandfather,” he thought for a moment. He wasn’t sure what the best way to describe his ‘family’ was, if you could call them that. “He was a leader, and I was supposed to succeed him.”

Bruce Wayne and Mr. Pennyworth seemed to get quite serious, “Where is your grandfather?” Damian tried to focus on the heat of the tea in his hands, the hum of the lights above them, anything but the thought of his family.

“I don’t know,” he said lamely, eyes not meeting either man in front of him, fidgeting slightly in the overly large chair. He had attempted to search for his grandfather before, but nothing ever came up.

After Damian made it clear that he didn’t like the personal questions, the three of them moved on to small talk about other meaningless things. Alfred looked out the window, noting that the sun was setting.

“Master Bruce,” he said, catching Bruce Wayne’s attention, “I believe it’s about time to send the young sir home.”

Bruce Wayne glanced out the window, “Right, of course. Shall we head out then?”

Damian nodded and followed after them through the maze of a mansion. Outside, a car was already waiting, the same fake mustached man leaning against the car. He waved when he saw the three of them come out and opened the doors with a deep, exaggerated bow. Bruce Wayne looked disapprovingly at him and Alfred simply sighed and chuckled. As Damian got in the car, he glanced up at the man, his mustache slightly askew. Damian raised his eyebrows and mouthed that his mustache was off and the man nodded his thanks as he fixed it. As for why he was even wearing a fake mustache, Damian had no clue.

——————————

Alfred watched the car drive away before hurrying back into the mansion. He knew he didn’t have a lot of time so he quickly gathered the cups from the sitting room and headed down into the cave. He sat at the computer, inputting his access code and swiping a cotton swab across both teacups. Alfred placed the cotton swabs into the compartment to process them. He sat in the chair, waiting for the results, watching the bar fill as the DNA gathered on the swabs was analyzed. 

Too soon, the car pulled into the driveway, alerting Alfred to Bruce’s return home. He glanced between the screen with the outdoor cameras and the nearly completed loading screen. As soon as the green bar filled, he printed the result, deleted the history and then logged off before he could see the result and making his way to greet Bruce. Alfred couldn’t tell Bruce unless he was certain about his suspicion.

Later, after Bruce and Tim had left the cave, Alfred carefully brought out the hastily folded paper. Reading over the information given, he sighed deeply, “Master Bruce, what have you done?”

——————————

Damian stared up at his ceiling and sighed heavily. He couldn’t shake that uneasy feeling. Giving up trying to sleep at a reasonable time, he swung his legs over his bed and got dressed. It had been a long time since he had gone out, not since before Aurora was kidnapped in August and October was already half over. The sun had long set over the horizon but Damian was feeling restless after his earlier meeting with Bruce Wayne and Mr. Pennyworth. Why did he care about his family from before? Could they even truly be called that? His grandfather who groomed him to take over the League of Shadows, his mother who trained—more like tortured—him, and his father who Damian had never had so much as a glance at. That couldn’t be family.

As he slipped his shoes on, the foyer light flicked on, “Going somewhere?”

Damian glanced down at his watch, noting the late hour, and then behind him at Janet who looked less than impressed, “Yeah, I shouldn’t be gone long, just want to get some fresh air.”

Janet didn’t move from her spot leaning against the wall as she watched Damian carefully, “You know I gave you a cellphone for a reason, right?”

Damian sighed, “Yes, I do know. I used it, didn’t I?”

Janet pursed her lips as she remembered only a handful of weeks before when Aurora was nearly taken for good, “I want you to use it more. I want updates, ya hear me?”

Damian chuckled as he zipped his coat on, “Yeah, I hear you. I’ll send you a message when I’m on my way, so go to bed, please don’t wait up.”

Janet stood for another long moment before shaking her head and sighing, “I make no promises.”

She stepped quickly and caught Damian in her arms. There was a slight tremor in her embrace that he couldn’t help but notice.

Damian grabbed his bike from the side of the house and headed into town. That uneasy feeling still eating at him. What was it that was making him feel so anxious though? Damian huffed and pushed the bike forward, trying to distract himself from his thoughts.

Once he was in the city, he stored his bike safely, double-checking the lock before he continued. He walked down the street, glancing this way and that, the feeling still there. He could feel it, someone was watching him. He just didn’t know who.

Ignoring the feeling, he continued through the streets. It was Gotham, someone was always watching. Damian walked, watching his breath form clouds in front of him, although it had been a while since he had last gone out, he couldn’t say he didn’t miss it and he could probably use the exercise. He felt stiff. Damian soon found a nice building and scaled it, sitting and looking out at the city. 

His thoughts all returned to the same thing: family. When he thought of family, Janet and Aurora and the rest of the kids at the orphanage came to mind, and as if as an afterthought, his mother and grandfather came after. The more his life from before was brought up, the more uncomfortable he became. He felt guilty, mostly to Janet who had been supporting and raising him for nearly eight years and yet she still knew little to nothing about him, not even his real name. Was that really an issue, though? Did Damian have to tell her about his mother? 

“Hey, been a while.”

Damian glanced lazily behind him at Robin who sat down beside him but didn’t say anything to the older boy. Damian realized he had to have been sitting for a while, judging by how his fingers had begun to numb from the cool night.

“You seem kinda, I dunno, perturbed?” Robin smiled sheepishly.

Damian chuckled dryly and shook his head, “Kinda.”

Robin watched the younger boy carefully for a long moment, “Why don’t you actually talk about what’s bothering you for once?” Damian considered his proposition for a moment longer than he usually would’ve.

“Were...” he trailed off, resigning himself to the fact he’d probably come to regret saying anything but continued regardless. Maybe talking about it might actually help, “Were your parents good people?”

Damian realized he didn’t know much of anything about Timothy’s parents. Richard Grayson was well-known as to why and how he was adopted by Bruce Wayne and the second son was known to have lived on the streets, abandoned by his own parents, but Timothy’s case wasn’t something Damian ever really thought necessary to look into. He was pretty sure that Timothy’s parents were dead, though.

Robin gave Damian a tight-lipped smile, “I think so.”

Damian let it sink in a moment before turning to the cityscape and standing up before Robin you continue the conversation. He wasn’t fast enough, “And yours?” Robin called out to Damian who had reached the fire escape, “Were they good people?”

Damian glanced over his shoulder to the caped boy, his lips forming a hard line, “No. I don’t think so.”

His thoughts raced in his mind, thinking about his family, his previous one, and his current one. Maybe it was time to tell Janet. If anyone deserved to know who he was and where he came from, it was her. 

He decided it was time.

As his thoughts wandered through his mind, much like Damian wandered the streets, police cars with sirens blaring passed him and he watched as they went, a faint outline on the night sky of a boy, Robin no doubt, swinging to another building, chasing after them. Damian watched until they were out of sight before continuing down the road. He walked for another twenty minutes until he came across Mrs. Williams’ store and figured he’d stop in and grab a water or maybe a snack, he’d already stayed out much longer than he had thought and Janet was surely going to give him a stern talking to for staying out so long.

 As he made his way across the street, deciding to buy something and head back so he wouldn’t worry Janet, two unnecessarily huge guys entered the store. Damian scoffed and shook his head; just his luck.

As he opened the door, the chirp sounded above his head, alerting to a new customer. Mrs. Williams glanced up to see Damian. “Evening, Mrs. Williams,” Damian nodded to her.

She beamed back at him, “Oh, Damian, I haven’t seen you in ages! Janet keeping you busy?” she chuckled.

“You know it,” he rolled his eyes, the old woman smiling and waving a hand to dismiss him to continue his shopping.

Damian strolled through the aisles, keeping an eye on the two other guys. They didn’t seem to be doing much of anything and Damian was just about to grab some sweets for the kids and head back when one of the guys knocked one of the display stands over.

“Whoops,” he smirked smugly over at Mrs. Williams who didn’t look anything more than annoyed at his behaviour. As the other guy knocked a second stand over, Damian intervened, standing in front of the two men.

“If all you plan on doing is causing a disturbance, I’m going to ask you to leave,” he told the two of them in a threatening voice. Damian could hear Mrs. Williams behind him, telling him to let it go and not get involved. There were only two and, although they did have the advantage of their size, they moved torturously slow. It wasn’t as if Damian hadn’t done this before.

The two thugs looked at each other and then back at Damian before cracking up. Mrs. Williams was visibly worried, but Damian just flashed her a quick, reassuring smile before turning back to the two men in front of him. He had just been thinking about how stiff and out of practice he felt, this was just too perfect an opportunity.

Damian contemplated asking them politely to step outside, but as the two men began to stalk towards him, he figured they’d be led outside much faster if he didn’t. Instead, Damian whipped a packet of skittles at the bald one’s head and sprinted out the door, the angry shouts and footsteps from the two men following quickly after him telling Damian he was right in not asking. Damian turned the corner into an alley and spun around to face the men. 

The one with hair flicked out his wrist, a blade glinting in the light, “You’ll pay for that one, boy,” he told Damian in a threatening voice. 

Damian smirked and chuckled softly, “For the skittles?” he asked with a raised eyebrow.

The man growled lowly and lunged, knife first at Damian who easily dodged his clumsy attack. Damian grabbed the man’s wrist and brought his opposite elbow down, the hand holding the knife going limp and dropping the weapon.

The man with hair cursed at Damian as he turned to the bald one, but as Damian turned, a heavy fist came down to meet his face.

Damian groaned on the ground, it had been a while since he had been hit, especially so hard. He shook his head and attempted to get up as a foot was sent into his side.

“What now, kid?” his voice was muffled, like someone was covering Damian’s ears, “Not so tough now, huh?”

Another kick to the ribs and Damian was sent back, hitting the wall of one of the buildings. His head was ringing as he did all he could to block the strikes but they just kept coming. It felt like nearly forever before they finally left and Damian straightened himself out, everything aching. He groaned and got up on his knee but decided he’d take a moment to rest as he slid down the wall behind him. Damian touched his temple when his vision began to blur, edges fading in and out, and examined his hand with squinted eyes. Blood. Shit. 

Damian continued to curse as his eyes got heavy. Footsteps began to come close, but Damian could barely stay conscious.

“Shit,” a low voice groaned above him. Damian did what he could to stay awake, “Let’s get you to a hospital, kid.”

Damian’s heart nearly leapt out of his chest as he grabbed the person’s arms, “No,” he pleaded, his voice awfully pitiful and weak even to himself, “No hospitals.”

The other person cursed again, scooping Damian up as he slipped into unconsciousness. 

——————————

Damian woke to the sound of steady beeping and hushed voices. As he cracked an eye open, he wasn’t sure what he was looking at exactly. The place had a ridiculously high ceiling, in fact, the entire room was enormous. Damian glanced around, was it a cave? He looked around some more, noting the many different variations of Batman and Robin uniforms in glass cases. 

Damian went to sit up but gasped from the pain in his ribs and chest. He looked down at his dirtied clothes, dried blood on his sweater. Janet’s gonna kill me. 

“Oh, shit, B,” the low voice Damian had heard before he passed out said, “He’s awake already.”

As Damian turned towards the voices, he was quickly blocked by the large, looming figure of the Batman who began to carefully examine the boy, shining a light in his eye and telling him to follow it, asking him simple questions like the date, the last thing he remembered and such.

Damian pushed the Bat’s hand away as he tried checking his injuries, “I’m fine, it’s not that big of a deal,” he told the man who just continued to scowl down at him.

Suddenly a finger jabbed into Damian’s ribs, causing him to double over in pain, “Doesn’t look ‘fine’ to me,” the voice sang behind Damian.

He turned, as well as he could with his injuries, and was met with a fully helmeted head. 

“Hood, stop that,” Batman scolded the, what was he? A villain? He was known to have killed more than a few people but he was with Batman so what did that make him? Just trying to figure out something simple like that was a pain, literally, Damian thought bitterly as a throbbing began through his head. 

The Red Hood put his hands up in defence, “All right, all right, even though I was the one who brought him here,” he grumbled as he busied himself over by the computer.

Batman sighed as he turned back to Damian, “Were you injured anywhere else?”

Damian took a deep breath, trying to focus and assess his injuries himself, “It’s fine, I can handle the rest on my own.”

“No, he can’t!” Red Hood shouted from across the cave.

Damian glared at the back of the red helmet, “Let’s see them then,” Batman said crossing his arms across his chest.

Damian held his gaze for a long moment, waiting for the old man to give in. Finally, Damian caved, “Fine.”

“Atta boy!” Red Hood shouted again, earning a glare from both the Bat and Damian. Red Hood simply shrugged it off and continued to inspect something under a microscope.

Damian sighed and gingerly removed his sweatshirt and shirt, with some help from Batman. After his top was bare, Damian shivered against the cold of the cave. Batman continued to examine the wounds, pressing around the bruises and suspicious lumps that shouldn’t have been there and every so often he’d stop and stare closely certain spots. 

After he finished examining Damian, Batman bandaged Damian up and watched as he delicately pulled his sweater over his head. Once Damian was fully clothed again, he looked over at Batman, “Thank you,” he nodded to him and turned to Red Hood, “And thank you, for not leaving me in the alley and not bringing me to the hospital.”

Although Damian couldn’t see, he assumed Red Hood was smiling as he walked over to Damian and ruffled his hair, “No problemo, little dude.”

Damian hopped off the medical bed and shook his legs out a bit to get blood flowing a bit and feeling back in them before turning back to the Bat, “You uh, wouldn’t mind giving me the directions out of here, would you?”

Batman stared at Damian before moving to the Batmobile and getting in. When Damian didn’t follow, Batman grunted, “I’ll give you a ride.”

Damian glanced at Red Hood who shrugged and turned back around. Damian sighed and made his way to the vehicle, aware of the aching in his left leg, now that the feeling had come back, where a bruise was surely blooming beautifully.

Damian watched out the window as the Bat drove through the streets of Gotham. Batman forced Damian to wear a blindfold while they were leaving to protect the location of the cave and neither had spoken since.

Batman cleared his throat, “So,” he started awkwardly, “those scars...”

Damian was confused for a moment before he realized he had seen the scars that littered the boy’s body. He looked out the window, uncomfortable, “What about them.”

“Where did you get them?” he asked gently. Damian realized he wasn’t using his normal, gravelly Batman voice, but something closer to his Bruce Wayne voice. Damian didn’t feel any more comforted by it.

“Training,” he stated flatly.

Batman clearly didn’t like his answer, “Who trained you?”

It was something he had been asked before, “My mother.”

There was a tick in the Bat’s jaw, “Your mother gave you those scars?”

“Yes,” Damian looked back out the window.

Batman was silent again for a moment, and then he asked something Damian never planned on telling him, “Who is she?”

Damian snapped his head towards the man driving, “What’s with all the questions?”

Batman didn’t look at him, nor did he make any move, he just kept driving, “It’s not exactly a common thing for mothers to do, scar their own children. And with such deep wounds too.”

Damian shook his head and returned to gazing out the window, “She wasn’t like other mothers.”

“Clearly,” the Bat muttered. “Who is she?” he asked again, this time with more force, as he pulled up to the orphanage.

“No one,” Damian said opening the door of the Batmobile, “She died.”

Damian pushed the door closed and walked up to the front door as the Batmobile sped off back through the city. Damian sighed and opened the door, immediately attacked. Trembling arms held him tight, too tight for Damian who was wounded all over. He winced and Janet released him from her embrace.

“Damian, what the hell!” she shouted, wiping a stray tear from her eyes, “Where were you? Why are you so beat up?”

Damian chuckled and took her hand, “It’s all right, Janet, I’m fine, I just ran into some no-goods at Mrs. Williams’ store and I got a little overwhelmed,” he told her.

Janet was definitely not all right, “Where’s your phone,” she demanded angrily.

As realization rushed over him, Damian hung his head, “I’m so sorry, Janet, I completely forgot,” he groaned.

Janet took his face in her hands and began to inspect him, gently touching his bruises and the bandage on his head. “Next time you do this,” she started seriously, “I will call the cops. And I won’t bail you out.”

Damian laughed until he winced from the pain, “Got it.”

——————————

Bruce removed his cowl after returning from dropping Damian off and sighed, “Long night, Master Bruce?” Alfred asked, handing a steaming cup to him.

“Man, it was nonstop action, huh?” Tim sighed loudly from his spot at the Batcomputer.

Alfred eyed Tim carefully before turning his back to him, facing Bruce fully and lowering his voice, “Master Bruce, I have some... Concerns.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow at the tone of his butler but nodded and followed after him quickly. 

Once they reached the study and closed the door, Bruce turned to Alfred, “What’s wrong?”

Alfred gave Bruce a look that the detective couldn’t decipher before handing a piece of paper over to him. Bruce scanned the document, stopped, and read it again. Then read it once more, just to be sure.

“Alfred,” he started, “This says that—”

“Yes, Master Bruce,” Alfred interrupted, “I checked it myself.”

Bruce fell back into the chair behind him, staring blankly at the paper, “But then who—”

“I was hoping you could enlighten me,” Alfred interrupted again. He watched Bruce carefully, arms crossed in front of his chest.

“Damian is my son?”

——————————

I uhhhh I don’t have words... I’m not dead? Yet? Idk, it took way too long but the next part shouldn’t be too far behind. 

#im not dead #yet #...again #fanfic #damian wayne #bruce wayne #batman #alfred pennyworth #tim drake #robin #jason todd #red hood #batfam #batfamily #my fic

[cadcnce-archived]

          BIG ASS CHARACTER SHEET FOR                    FANTASY VERSE WYLAN

I found an image while going through my files for cursed pics to send @spiritmaiden​, they had the audacity to take it and fill it out for the fantasy verse of their sky-zel, so I of course have to match the effort for Wylan because I’m not about to be shown up. It’s hella involved, nobody’s getting tagged but damn if you want an exercise in hitting your character then give it a shot. Most is under the cut because of length.

Character’s Name: Zachary Reis (Born) Wylan Rechtur (Used) Character’s nicknames: Ze (by his sister) Wy (by his friends and preferred) Zephyr (mercenary name, also what you’d see on any wanted posters) Gender: Male Righty or Lefty: Righty Age: 25-26  Height: 6′-0″  Weight: ~180 lbs Eye Color: Emerald green, bright and wide filled with a mix of confidence and playfulness. Hair color: Dark brown, messy and falling to his ears. Unkempt may be a good descriptor, but he generally keeps it down flatter at the least.  Distinguishing marks: His body is pocked with marks and scars from fights and other disagreements, but the ones most easily discerned are knife scars on his hands, and a short arc above his left brow. Describe physical traits in one passage: A good way to view him is concealed strength and agility. He’s toned and in good shape but doesn’t often dress or carry himself in ways that would flaunt this. His posture and pose are loose, and his expressions can be lazy and playful. So the moment he flips that switch and uses the full brunt of his power? It’s a surprise. He’s also a bit on the lanky side, his body size doesn’t fully compliment the size of his limbs. 

FAMILY/ RELIGION

Parents: Mother and father were disappeared/dead when he was just a bit over 6 years old and his sister was an infant. They were involved with the church but not royalty themselves. Wylan never spent much time figuring out what. They had a life left for him and his sister that he threw away as well. His father was a gentle soul while his mother was razor sharp and firm. Siblings: Younger sister, Katelynn Reis, but goes by Lyn with her friends. Wylan calls her Kat. She’s ~5 years younger than he, and remains with the church training and working as a healer. Whereas Wylan ran away from being a Paladin, she stayed strong to become a Cleric.  Significant Other: Verse dependent, Wylan typically is averse to romance and prefers casual encounters.  Children: None, nor is he open to them initially in his canon.  Other relatives: None remain living that he is aware of. He and his sister were raised by his grandmother on his father’s side, but she passed away shortly after he left the knight’s academy, when Wylan was roughly 16-17.  Pets: None. But he does enjoy talking to cats. Friends: Wylan is the type who ‘knows a guy’, he’s close with many tavernkeeps and makes nice with the adventurer’s guilds and their members as well. His work as an informant necessitates things like this. Wylan is also the type to consider most anyone he encounters and converses with a friend, whether they like it or not. His best friend though would easily be a wandering adherent by the name of Emke. I don’t care what the thread is about in some way she’s involved in his life. They’re platonic soulmates. Enemies: As a mercenary and hunter, some others in his craft would consider Wylan to be their rival, and in many cases he would view them just the same. It’s hard to say he has any enemies outside of pointedly evil factions however! Relationships (other): His relationship with his sister is an odd one. They’re still in touch via letters and the occasional visit, and he does what he can to support her with his money, but they’re not close like conventional siblings. There’s a strange codependence between them. Wylan depends on Lyn as a ‘rock’, and she depends on him as the ‘sea’. Ethnicity: Human! His origins are mostly a mix of Germanic/Portuguese if you wanted a comparison to Earth races/ethnicities. Religion: He recognizes the existence of higher powers but his relationship with them isn’t the best. As if being rebellious to his parents wasn’t bad enough he has to be tsundere towards The Light. This is noted when he uses holy magic such as wards and smiting spells and getting rebound into his own body upon use. Superstitions: He’s incredibly wary around the undead and spirits. So catch him spreading salt when he has to camp somewhere less than lively. Also give him a moment to sharpen his silver weaponry...  Diction, Accent, ETC.: His dialect is pretty clean, though this depends on who he’s speaking to, being the travelling sort he is he’s capable of lightly ‘faking’ various accents, or just being lazy with his own manner of speech. Traces back to proper speaking that was drilled into him as a child and then his own rebelliousness. SCHOOL/ WORK / HOME Education (Highest): He was well learned with the academy work that he actually accomplished. While he never finished and never put his all into his studies, it was clear to his teachers that he had a gift for learning but a problem with conviction.  Degrees: None! But just so I still have something here, one of his informal titles is ‘The Gale’s Fang’. Vocation/Occupation: Jack of several trades, wrapped up best as a mercenary informant, and a monster hunter. He’s good at tracking both people and monsters and taking them down- lethally or not so much. Employment History: Wylan was fully involved with the knight’s academy from the age of 6 to 16, so for those 10 years he had his hands full dealing with that and trying to figure out himself (poorly). Upon leaving the academy after the accident, he took up arms and was given tutelage by the thieves’ guild which taught him how to use his senses and move quietly through the shadows. Wylan didn’t make a good pickpocket, but he was good at reading other people and exceptional at duels. It wasn’t long before he took the advice of the guildmaster and made better uses of his talents. Not necessarily for good, but for more profit. By the age of 22 he was an accomplished and well connected informant, bartering information as well as putting his swordwork to use headhunting and slaying monsters that made issue outside the cities in which he frequented. This continues to current/canon start of interactions. Salary: He’s affluent enough not to worry too much about his state of living, but he can be prone to splurge spending that puts him in a bind for a few weeks at a time, at least until the next job puts money back on the table. Status and money: Continuing off the above, he’s decent enough with his funds (after sending money back to help out his sister) but wouldn’t be well off enough to be considered rich compared to his modern verse. Fortunately he has enough renown that jobs aren’t too hard to come by for him. And many barkeeps and friends are willing to open a tab for him. So he’s not too desperate.  Own or Rent: Wylan typically rents inn rooms when he stays in the cities, and camps when he’s out in the woods. Technically he also owns if you count helping his sister keep her own place running (thought it’s really about 30-70, with his sister funding most of it)  Living Space: Wylan never stays long at the room. It’s a place to go back to and sleep. Personal belongings? Very few. Most things he owns that he wouldn’t want to lose stay back with his sister kept in a basement or separate room that he uses on the rare times he’s back in the capital/holy city from which he originally hailed. As you can imagine, this isn’t very often.  Work Space: N/A! He doesn’t have one! Given his work is almost entirely in the field. Main Mode of Transportation: CATCH A RIIIIIDE. Though he’s apt to have a horse around for transport if he isn’t going too far. Long voyages for when he changes locales would probably be hitching a ride with a caravan. He also doesn’t mind voyages on foot too much. PSYCHOLOGY Fears: Externally he has an aversion to ghosts and spirits. The concept of the dead coming back to haunt you isn’t something he much cares for. Having access to light magic should mostly assuage this, and yet it can give him goosebumps anyhow. Ironically he has a fear of large mammals in his modern verse but that shit doesn’t apply here given he’s a monster hunter! Internally he fears being forgotten, not making a name for himself, and dying before he can truly feel alive.  Secrets: His birth name, Zachary Reis, isn’t something he will bring up with anyone. It’s not necessarily a ‘dead name’ for him, but it’s one he threw away the same time he decided he was going to toss away his ‘fate’ as a paladin. Taking the name of Wylan was another way he took his life for himself in his mind. Despite this being a path of self destruction. His sister is also something he doesn’t often bring up unless he very much trusts that person.  IQ: Surprisingly high. He picks up a lot of information doing the work he does, but you wouldn’t be blamed for not believing this. Eating Habits: They could be a lot better. He eats enough to get by, but his diet isn’t as varied as it could be. Wylan hunts small game when he can, but he isn’t an exciting cook so ALAS. This boy prefers hitting up taverns and getting basic meals like stews, jerky, sandwiches, etc etc. Sleeping Habits: Wylan is a very light sleeper. Typically if you so much as step into the room he’s sleeping in he’ll snap into awareness. It takes a loooong day of exertion to keep him sleeping deep otherwise. Frustrating is how he ‘fakes’ being asleep. So someone could come in and start rummaging and he would still breathe and move as if he were still sleeping. Up until he sits up and stares or cracks a joke. Dare you to kiss him when you think he’s asleep.   Book Preferences: History tomes every now and then. Wylan doesn’t read much fiction and prefers any time he spends reading to be somewhat productive! Make up for other education he missed as part a result of running on the academy. He also reads up on magic and sorcery to work on the wind affinity he also has.  Music Preferences: Wylan doesn’t play any instruments but he DOES love love love to dance and sing. He’s an entertainer at heart and loves to rally people however he may. Suffice to say he’s amusing to go drinking with. And not just because he starts bar fights to amuse himself. Groups or Alone: He’s primarily a lone fighter. Some hunts he will of course work with a team of other hunters, he’s not stupid enough to take on the larger beasts by himself, but there’s a preference for doing things on his own terms. He’s self aware enough to know that his ways and methods can be grating, but ah... how all of that clashes with his desire to show off and have an audience. Being Wylan is suffering. Leader or Follower: He’s both, but prefers to be a follower if he can help it. Let other people make the plans then nudge them this way and that to better fit your own methods. He’s a prankster and a good compliment to most parties after all, so you’d be wise to utilize him! Lest he utilize himself... but that said, he’s an anti-hero, so there’s possibility in there for him to be a leader as well and take charge. It just isn’t his default nature and he’d rather not. Planned Out or Spontaneous: Wylan is chaos incarnate. Most everything he does outside of necessity/work is spontaneous. All his mischief and plans are cobbled together and thrown out there. Sometimes he’ll do a bunch of things at once, like throwing a bundle of darts at the wall to see which ones stick. And oh my fucking god don’t get me started on being romantic he can’t plan for shit in that department. Journal Entries (Do they keep one?) Nope. Not a daily journal at least. He’ll keep notebooks and the like for jotting down intel and what have you for jobs he takes up. But most of the time he’ll just have little notes in his pocket, and not really chronicle his life. He may also make ‘fake’ entries to tease people or trick them. See what he did to Zelda the one time. Be careful what you believe... Hobbies, Recreation: Tricks!! Sleight of hand!! Cards and dice!! Part of growing up and learning with a thieves’ guild is getting involved in lots of things that make use of your hands and dexterity. He likes playing random games with folks and oh! People watching. Stalking. Not the cutest thing but Wylan makes a hobby out of ‘testing himself’ and exercising his talents. His hobby is unfortunately annoying people, to summarize. How Do They Relax: His hobbies help him to relax! Also, if you can believe it, sitting back in a group conversation and watching the conversation happen and move forward. Learning about other people is something he likes doing, which is hypocritical since he can make himself so difficult to learn by contrast. BUT THE REAL THING HE DOES.. is practice sword fighting. Slow rhythmic swings of his blade, almost like a dance. He focuses his thoughts and calms his soul when he practices. It’s like a mix of swordfighting, dancing, and yoga. Controlling himself. Feeling himself. It’s multiple things.    What Excites Them?: PEOPLE. Things! Happenings! The unknown and pushing himself to new limits. Honestly one of Wy’s biggest drives is doing something or becoming something that will make him ‘Feel Alive’. Because for all of his antics and frivolity he’s very much fighting an encroaching darkness in his soul. So he’ll search out bizarre things to get involved in. It’s one of the reasons he’s bugging Zelda, because her involvement in witchcraft and his own suspicions have him interested huehue. Pet Peeves: Being ignored. Like perfectly disregarding his existence and whatever he’s getting up to. If you’re not reacting to him being him then that means he’s not being effective and he’s losing. It’s his only real weakness...  Prejudices: None. He’s not the most respectful person so most everyone, royalty or important or otherwise gets subjected to similar treatment. If anything, the more important you are the more likely you are to get annoyed! Attitudes: He’s usually with a front, a mask if you will. His general attitude is curious and nosy, but that’s fronted with a playfulness and proclivity for being annoying. Don’t be fooled, he’s usually something more pensive and calculating underneath that exterior. Wylan actually quiets a fair bit once that mask is taken away, his mood swings down and his tone is a touch deeper. Stressors: Things going awry and his friends being put in danger. He absolutely does not do well with people he cares about being hurt. One of the worst things that can happen to him is his sister dying for example, and has lead to one of his most self destructive plots I’ve written, in this verse especially. Lovers? Don’t hurt them. Don’t endanger them. The idea of rivals or enemies going after people he cares about.. hoo. MAN. None of that please. He can be SO damn possessive. In relationships he’s very self conscious as well of fulfilling their needs. So if his partner remarks, regardless of how offhandedly, they’d like more of something he will TRY TO MAKE THAT HAPPEN.  Obsessions: Being an absolute pain in the ass. And in cases where someone has wronged him or someone close to him? Tracking them down and getting closure/revenge. That shit takes him to the brink of killing himself. Addictions: None to the point of being problematic, but he does love eating pickles.  Ambitions: To make a name for himself, to be renowned and respected. To feel alive and accomplished as a person. He’d also like to take down a dragon someday. Get some armor from its scales and a sword out of that shit. As Seen by Others: Capable and dangerous, but impossible to work with for long periods. Keep a tight lip around him lest he use that information against you and learn things you’d rather keep secret. A lecherous womanizer. As Seen by Self: A body of broken glass, encased in a shell, covered in masks. Who are you? What are you? Where are you even going? You’re lost. You’re aimless. You’re swimming and swimming and eventually you’re going to be tired, aren’t you? ASTROLOGY/PHISIOLOGY Birth Date: October 10. Time of Birth: Evening. Western Astrological Sign: Libra Traits Associated with Western Sign: Social, Clever, Unreliable, Diplomatic Traits Associated with Chinese Zodiac: N/A, seeing as I don’t age Wylan with the years this doesn’t really apply. Handwriting: Clean when he needs it to be, but otherwise a quick script with lots of pen strikes. He’s capable with drawing diagrams and the like as well! This boy can throw out monster diagrams with weak points and other ecological notes oh yes yes. Sexual History: Wylan was already exploring that sort of thing before he left the academy, so yes... as early as 16 he’d already lost the v-card. He doesn’t really do relationships and enjoys casual encounters. Many a maiden at the bar or elsewhere has taken him for a spin. Typically partners aren’t reoccurring in fantasy verse, however. He’s... well, very good in the performance category.   General Health: A+ healthy aside from the sleep and subpar diet bits. Strong and good stamina. Medical History: He’s nearly died one times too many. Been stabbed, cut, poisoned, bitten, but hey he’s still alive! And that’s what he’d argue matters with this business. Allergies: SHELLFISH. Chronic Illnesses: None to speak of. Handicaps: He’s somewhat of a type B tsundere. It’s awful.  OBJECTS Purse / Bag: He’s got a coin purse that he’ll carry spare gold around in for spending on what have you. Supposedly food but he’s weak to splurge purchases. Most everything else he keeps on him in his pockets and his belt. Wallet: Uhhh see above, coin purse!!! He’s got enough for the week or so!! Don’t try and pickpocket him because he will catch you and you will feel stupid. Fridge: He doesn’t keep food around. He more or less has to scavenge for everything he eats either through buying or hunting. That’s kind of the life for the vagrant he is, isn’t it? Medicine Cabinet: N/A, but he does keep bandages and salves at his room.  Glove Compartment: N/A!! Junk Drawer: NNNNNN/AAAAAAA Kitchen Cabinets: Wylan get a house so I can fill this out challenge. Bedroom Hiding Place: Behind a wall panel or somesuch if he can manage. Otherwise in the floor or outside the window. Closets: His wardrobe typically includes tunics, coats, leather armor and harnesses for his weaponry! He’s got a couple swords in fantasy verse, and he’s got throwing knives and a grappling hook!!  Backback: Yeah uh see above, what a question. Locker: None Desk: WYLAN KEEP ITEMS AROUND CHALLEEEEENGE.  Clothes pocket: Daggers, notes, maybe a writing implement and paper so he can jot things down. He’s also got little knick knacks like a gem or a monster tooth to show off. Isn’t it cool??? Also lint.

OTHER Halloween Costumes: Werewolf!!! Get him in either just a lazy one with gloves and ears or deck him out in the whole garb. Love that idea on him. In one verse Big Bad Wolf is his nickname, and in another he flat out IS a werewolf! So yeAH. Tricks: He’s very skilled at sleight of hand!! Card flourishes and dice rolls. Cup games. Illusions and dexterity... he’s a slippery one! He’s also likely to catch you in words, using things you say against you. He gets really meta and oh how annoying that can get... Talents: SWORDPLAY- He learned from a very early age at an esteemed academy where only the best knights get trained. He mixes that style with a more ‘street’ type that he picked up with the thieves’ guild and even further as a monster hunter and mercenary. Suffice to say that all mixes together into multiple stances he can switch between depending on what he’s up against. Strong sweeping strikes, vicious stabbing and leaping, poised dueling and parrying... he’s a TOUGH fight. MAGIC: Wylan is at odds with his use of holy magic that utilizes the light to bless and heal. Until he comes to terms with himself and the power he wants to channel it’ll have ‘blowbacks’ on himself. Fingers will burn, head will ache, and his stomach will flip. But it’s still undeniably effective for where it is! Aside from that he knows some wind magic to supplement himself. He’s not known as ‘Zephyr’ for nothing after all! Gusting steps, slashing winds, REALLY BIG JUMPS!!! If you throw him he’s a fantastic projectile! And lets see- DANCING! He learned it first as part of his etiquette as a knight, but it’s something that’s evolved with him and oh does he enjoy festivals for that reason. Ballroom styles are what he’s most familiar with. Dance with him. Please dance with him. Politics: Indifferent! Doesn’t care for authority figures to begin with so in any case or kingdom with a monarchy he’s very buh about it. He’s very self-accomplished and his beliefs would push him towards meritocracy over anythign else if you ask me!  Flaws: Suspicious, possessive, and very persistent. This could be a strength too but for the most part can be seen as a detriment because of how it ends up being applied. Which is in self-destructive tendencies WOO. He’s also very lustful, and can be distracted by a fine woman and let himself be swayed by his desires over time. Have I mentioned he isn’t the most reliable? He’s apt to lie to people and give intentionally wrong impressions just to make it easier for him to slip away. You gotta go up a few levels to unlock that... So yeah, sins are WRATH, LUST, and ENVY. Strengths: NONE. Okay if you earn a solid place as his friend there is almost NO limit to what he’ll do to protect you. Wylan has a ridiculous amount of determination and mental fortitude and he can and will strike down a GOD to keep those things that are precious to him. He’s also an amusing character to have around, if you are feeling bummed he is almost guaranteed to find a way to cheer you up and support you if only so he can not feel as guilty teasing as he usually does HUE. He’s got a very up beat personality! Sure, a lot of it is a mask but he WANTS it to be real and that’s what really matters if you ask me. His reckless optimism can be endearing. There’s a lot of other surprising mental qualities such as how clever and quick witted he can be. Part of that mental fortitude lets him think and fight on his feet regardless of how much pressure he’s under. It takes a LOT to dampen his thought processes. Drugs/Alcohol: He drinks frequently, but he wouldn’t be counted as a drunkard. Wylan rarely drinks to excess, and prefers to do so among friends and good company. Passwords: Uh, do ritual prayers count? Magical spells? Heh. Email Address, Home Page, Blogs, etc.: Oh if only this were for modern verse... Time and place: Medieval fantasy! Magic and creatures! I also love throwing Monster Hunter vibes in for the big monsters he goes up against. Special Places: For him? Cliffs overlooking the ocean. Abandoned temples he can just chill at. For all he enjoys being around people now and then he really appreciates quiet isolation. Special Memories: Lots of memories with his sister before they more or less split ways. There’s one in particular where he was trying to teach her swordplay when she was just a little girl, and she about stubbed his toe when the wooden practice sword fell right on it. Her panicked attempts to try and heal him were something that really stuck with him.

#musings :: about #verse :: fantasy #dash :: games hc #THIS TOOK FOREVER #but was so satisfying to write and get out there #hell fuckin yes #if you actually read this? props tbh

[minsugapie]

Soulmate

pairing: namjoon x reader

genre: soulmate au, fluff

words: 4039

a/n: YIKE i’m late on 4/7 bday specials this year but here’s joon’s lmao happy belated, sexy boi 😂💕💜

• • • • • •

2 years ago

In a world where soulmates exist, there were always people falling in love, rarely out of it. In a world where soulmates exist, you hadn’t found yours. 

Matching, incomplete tattoos. 

That’s what distinguished soulmates. They completed once you really looked each other in the eye for the first time. Yours was placed between your breasts, which was probably the first thing that made finding your soulmate hard. The second thing, was the fact that you didn’t like going out and meeting people. There was a tree without any leaves. It was honestly depressing. It didn’t even have any colour. 

You had to look at it every time you got dressed, and you hated the sight of it. Sure, it meant that there was somebody out there for you, but it was still not the most pleasant sight to behold. 

You were getting drunk at the bar with your friend because earlier that day, you got fired from yet another job. You just wanted to make some money to go back to school. Was that too much to ask for?

You knew you never should have taken that gap year and travelled, completely draining any money that you had effectively saved throughout high school. The excuse that your employers all had was the same. There were budget cuts, and you were the last hired. That meant that you were the first to go.

You were the epitome of bad luck. 

On the other hand, your best friend was the best best friend that you could ask for. He was always the greatest support and constantly told you how much he loves you. Really, who needed a soulmate with a friend like that?

Unfortunately, he had found his soulmate a few years back, and they were the happiest couple. His boyfriend preferred staying in and looking after their two cats, so he wouldn’t be showing up any time soon. 

“You’ll find something!” He smiled, taking a sip of his drink. It had already been pretty busy in the bar, so whatever the two of you said, it almost needed to be shouted. 

“At this rate, I’ll have to go work in grandpa’s restaurant, and it’s kind of the last thing that I want to do. I hate working in food and dealing with people all day long.”

“Oh, you’d be fine. Honestly, you can’t really be picky at the moment.”

You were people watching during your conversation, and a thought flashed through your mind. “Listen, what if I just need to spice up my life a little? I’m in a routine. I’ll do something that will shake up the mix of things!”

Your friend sat straight up on his seat and clapped. “Yes, henny! Like hook up with some guy at  this bar tonight?”

You scrunched up your face at his suggestion. “Not exactly where I was going, but it’s not an entirely bad idea…”

“And hey look! That guy just got up to get another drink! He’s hot and not here with anyone but his buddies!” Your friend always did that. Talking to people you didn’t know was entirely out of your comfort zone when in social settings, so how did he think you’d just be able to walk up to this guy. He wasn’t wrong, however, because from afar, that man looked exactly like your type. 

“But what if he has his soulmate already? That’ll be just embarrassing for me!”

“What if you’re his soulmate?”

“Doubtful.”

• • • • • •

Namjoon was at the bar with his old schoolmates to celebrate his last night before heading to the army. Actually, both he and Hoseok would be going. They were normally all keen to hangout at one of their houses, but not tonight. Tonight was special. 

“So what do the soulmates think about our night out tonight?” Taehyung asked. He and Namjoon were the only ones out of the seven that hadn’t found theirs. Namjoon was about to give up and cared less about it now. He was convinced that his soulmate lived across the world because there was no way that she lived here. He would have found her already. Taehyung was ever the optimist, so he was always on the lookout. 

“Honestly, mine is just sad that I’ll be leaving for two years,” Hoseok commented, taking a sip of his water. He was driving tonight. He probably wanted to do some things with his fiancée when he got home. Come tomorrow afternoon, he and Namjoon would be on a bus and headed out. 

“That’s a bonus to finding your soulmate, Tae, they have trust in you,” Jimin had found his soulmate the day that he got his tattoo. His soulmate was his girlfriend at the time. He simply didn’t know what it was like to live and have to find the other person. 

“Well, I wouldn’t know now would I?” Tae countered, downing the rest of his drink, spilling his shirt. It made the group of guys laugh. 

“I think Joon will find his soulmate soon,” Jin announced with a knowing look. He always said random things out of the blue and a lot of times, they came true. 

“Yah! How could that be? I’m going away for two years?” Namjoon asked Jin, looking around at the others and finding their expressions similar. 

“Well, cheers! Because if Jin said it, it must be true!” Jungkook laughed, patting his hyungs on the back. He was sitting between Jin and Namjoon, effectively able to reach them both at once. 

“Maybe you’ll find her at the bar tonight,” Yoongi joked with a straight face. Namjoon watched as he looked around the place, spotting anyone who looked to be looking for the soulmates. That was common, going to the bar after work to see if one’s soulmate was trying to find them as well. 

“Pfft, okay, sure,” Namjoon replied, getting up from his seat to get another drink. If he was going to have to deal with this soulmate talk all night, he needed more alcohol. However, what he didn’t expect was for some girl to walk up to him before he could even make it there. 

“Listen. Do you have your soulmate?” You asked, looking anywhere but into his eyes. He could tell it was on purpose. 

“I do not,” was all he could muster. He’d never seen you before, and he couldn’t help but admire your courage. By the looks of it, you weren’t one of those people without soulmates that frequently went to the bar simply to hook up with other people without their soulmates. 

“Do you think I’m hot?” You bluntly followed, taking him by surprise. 

Who was this girl? Namjoon took a step back from you and looked you up and down. He definitely thought you were. In fact, he’d argue that you were the most beautiful person he’d ever seen. Taking a deep breath, he replied, “Yes.”

“Good. Then let’s go,” you urged, taking his hand and leading him to the bathrooms. He still hadn’t been able to meet your eye. You were looking anywhere but at his eyes. Did you not want to see if you two were soulmates?

“Where are we going?” He asked with a laugh. You were quick at pulling him away from his friends. He wondered what they were talking about, and if they had seen what just happened. 

You dragged him right into the girls’ bathroom, pulling him into the nearest stall. You didn’t waste another second before you kissed him. 

Namjoon was in no position to deny what you wanted from him. He hadn’t hooked up with anyone in a long time. He had been worried about what his soulmate would think, but after this long without any new developments in the soulmate department, he thought it was about time to break his dry spell. 

The fervour he put into the kiss surprised him. Just how much he liked the feeling of your lips on his also surprised him. He had you pinned against the wall of the stall, using your hair to angle your head how he pleased. You only responded exactly how he wanted to how aggressive he was being. 

It didn’t take long for the two fo you to pick up the pace, tongues dancing, teeth clashing. It was intense, hot, and he could only think about the heat of your hands on his back. You were wearing a button up, and he was quick to undo them, exposing your chest to him. Your hands gripped his ass, pulling him flush against your waist. Namjoon already blatantly wanted you; every inch of you was his for the taking at the moment, and he couldn’t wait any longer. 

He backed away from you forcing you to look into his eyes. He wished you’d have let him look into them before because they were beautiful. You were breathing quickly, not letting go of your grip on his waist. However, he wasn’t about to waste any more time. He looked down, taking in the swell of your breasts before noticing the outline of a shape, mostly covered by your bra. 

“What’s this?” He asked, hooking his finger underneath where the wires connected to pull the bra away and get a better look.

“Oh, th-that’s my soulmate mark. It’s not completed yet if that’s what you’re wondering,” you breathed. Namjoon barely heard what you said because what you were saying definitely did not match what he was looking at. 

What he saw was a tattoo in the process of being completed. A cherry blossom tree with leaves and blossoms in beautiful pinks and greens. 

It couldn’t be this? You couldn’t be his soulmate. There was absolutely no way that this could have happened like this. He didn’t want to find you now. Now wasn’t the time. He was leaving. He had given up finding you. 

“Something came up! We have to go!” Namjoon heard a man call out after he barged into the bathroom.

“Oh, that’s me,” you whispered, pushing him off. Namjoon was reluctant to let you go, but what could be done? 

You were out of his sight in a matter of seconds, the button on your shirt done up like what just happened between you two wasn’t actually real. It hadn’t happened. 

• • • • • •

Present day

You were cleaning the tables at your grandfather’s restaurant, exactly what you hadn’t wanted to do. But he was family, and you had time to help out. The extra tip money didn’t hurt either. When your grandfather had fallen and sprained his ankle a while back, you came in to help out, and even though he was now better, you hadn’t left. 

As much as you hadn’t like it at the beginning, you loved your job, and you loved interacting with the regulars. This restaurant was like a big, extended family. 

“Hmm, it’s about time Namjoon comes back, don’t you think?” you heard your grandfather say from across the restaurant during the afternoon lull. 

“Who’s Namjoon?” It didn’t surprise you that he was talking about some random customer. He loved them all like family. 

“Oh, right. You were never here when he was a regular. His parents used to come in every week, and then when he grew up, he used to come in with his sister every week for coffee. When she moved away, he started coming by himself and bringing a book or homework or simply to chat with me.” This Namjoon guy seemed like a nice dude. You wondered briefly what had happened to him. You’d been working here for a year and a half now, and he hadn’t been in once. 

“Where’s he been?” You blurted as you swept the floors. 

Taking a seat, your grandfather sighed before replying, “He’s doing his military service.”

That would make perfect sense if he was someone around your age. “When’s he coming back?”

“He should be back any day. I wonder if he found his soulmate yet. He was looking pretty hard for a few years there.” Your grandfather stared at the fading tattoo on the inside of his arm. Your grandma had passed a few years back, and he’d been lonely ever since; you could tell. There was a reason he kept himself busy with this place and all the people. 

Seeing him staring at his tattoo made you think of yours. You still wondered why and how it was complete. You couldn’t even miss him or long for him because you had no idea who he was. There was no way you met your soulmate and didn’t realize. 

“Well maybe when he comes back, he’ll be with his soulmate.”

Later that night, when you were wiping down the tables after the dinner rush, you heard the bell above the door jingle. Nobody ever came in at this time. Looking towards the door, you noticed a man dressed in a camouflage uniform and a duffle bag. 

Maybe this was Namjoon? It was too much of a coincidence for it to not be after what your grandfather had told you this afternoon. 

“Grandpa,” you heard the man call, sitting down in a booth like he’d been doing the exact same routine his entire life. You watched as he looked down at the table and traced something in the wood. It was a carving that you’d noticed before. Maybe he was the culprit. 

Your grandfather was busy in the backroom with some calculations, so you walked over to the table to greet the man. “He’s in the back.”

The man looked startled to see you, taking his hat off and bowing quickly. “You scared me.”

When you finally made eye contact with the guy, a spark of recognition passed between you two. You’d seen this guy before. 

• • • • • •

Namjoon recognized you the second you walked in front of him. He was sure he would have noticed you earlier if you would have been facing the door when he walked into the shop. 

You were simply staring at him but not in the way that he wanted you to be staring at him. He knew that you were his soulmate, but obviously you didn’t know the same. How could you? You weren’t the one that say your tattoo change in front of your eyes. You weren’t the one that knew that his tattoo, which had previously only been flower petals, was complete. It was now two branches with beautiful buds all around going across his collarbones. 

Actually, he’d been quite annoyed with you for the last two years. For one, he didn’t know if he’d be able to find you again because he didn’t even get your name. And then on top of that, whenever he was asked about you after some of the guys had seen his full tattoo, he had nothing to say because he had no idea who you were.

“You’re that guy from the bar that night, right?” You asked, and he noticed that you looked a little shy. You had a menu in your hand, but Namjoon didn’t need it. He knew it like the back of his own hand. 

“You mean the one that you dragged into the bathroom and made out with?” He attempted to joke, realizing that you were easily embarrassed when you blushed as soon as the words left his mouth. 

“The very one,” you laughed, still visibly embarrassed about what had happened that night, whether you wanted to be or not. “How do you know my grandpa?”

Namjoon’s whole body froze. The man that he’d always considered to be a part of his family was actually a part of your family. “I’ve been coming here since I was little. How come I’ve never seen you here before?”

You sighed, taking a seat in the booth across from him after looking around to see if there was anyone in the restaurant. Namjoon didn’t understand it, but he felt very comfortable with you, and he hoped you felt the same way about him.The only thing was, he didn’t know how he was going to be able to bring up the whole soulmate thing without freaking you out.

“I never liked coming here because I hated seeing people that I didn’t know. I was really shy,” you admitted. “Although, I did spend time in the back a lot. You probably never saw me because I was always back there.”

Namjoon opened his mouth to form a reply, but nothing came. You continued, “So why is this your first stop back after getting off?”

“Grandpa makes the best coffee and feel good food so here I am, wanting to cheer myself up. But, it seems something else has done it this time instead of the food.”

Namjoon would be lying to everyone, including himself, if he didn’t acknowledge how beautiful you’d become in two years. Your hair, which had previously been very long, was chopped just above your shoulders, your face matured, your body just as beautiful as he remembered. Only this time, he got a good look at you. There were no hindrances like bad lighting and kissing to stop him from fully looking at you now. 

You scrunched your eyebrows together, seeming to process that information that he’d just spewed. When he noticed you feel awkward and stood abruptly, he kind of felt bad. 

“I should get back to work.” 

“But there’s nobody else here…” He tilted his head, putting on his best flirty face. “Listen, do you want to continue what we started at the bar?” He knew he was reaching, but he thought that maybe the best way you could find out about the tattoo would be if you found it yourself. 

You seemed taken aback by what he’d suggested, so he quickly stood and added, “You don’t have to. I just think it’s a shame that neither of us really got what we wanted that night.”

You squinted your eyes at him. “Are you sure you’re not just lonely after being away from girls for so long? I’m trying to focus on school and graduating in the next couple of years. I don’t need any kind of distraction, let alone some guy, who’s not even my soulmate wanting to hook up with me even though I’ve technically met my soulmate. I have no idea who he is. Plus, I doubt he’d be fine with it since it’s clear we know of each other’s existence.”

“I’m sure he would be very okay with it, happy even.”

“Are you some sort of sadist or something?” 

Namjoon wanted to continue this playful banter with you because he thought it was hilarious. Your reactions were exactly what he was expecting. However your grandpa came out of the back. “Namjoon! I thought I heard your voice! You’ve grown up so much!”

Namjoon’s face broke into a smile at the sight of the old man. He instantly went to him and hugged him. “I’m back for good now, Grandpa.” It was emotional, seeing this man for the first time in years. 

“Are you bugging him, honey?”

“Actually, grandpa, he’s the one bugging me. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go to the kitchen and clean.”

Namjoon watched as you retreated, completely interested in you. Everything that you were was what he wanted. 

“She’s my soulmate,” he whispered, loud enough for Grandpa to hear, but not loud enough for you to have heard it form the back. 

“Don’t joke about things like that,” Grandpa laughed, sitting in the booth with Namjoon. 

“I’m not joking. We met the night before I left. She doesn’t know it’s me.” After saying the words, he was slightly sad, but he knew it would be fine, since you were working in his favourite place in the world. 

“Well, then I’ll let you two figure it out. What did you say to make her mad?” 

Now that was something that Namjoon would not share with the kind old man. It was just too much.

• • • • • •

A few weeks had passed, and your grandpa was out on an errand that afternoon.

While twiddling your fingers because no one was around, you realized that you had almost had it with Namjoon. He was coming into the shop at the same time every day, and every day, he was charming you. 

In reality, it wasn’t him that you were frustrated with. It was yourself. 

You couldn’t not look at him. 

When he had first walked into the shop, he was gorgeous, fit, just done his military service. How could someone not be attracted to him? Now, whenever he walked into the shop with his everyday clothes and the books that he was reading, you couldn’t help but stare at him when you thought he wasn’t looking. 

He flirted with you when you served him, and as much as you were resisting his charms, you knew he was going to wear you down. 

Ever since he suggested finishing what you’d started in the bar, you’d been thinking about it. Whenever he spoke, you remembered the feel on his lips on yours. Whenever he moved, you imagine his muscles while they held you. 

It was an intense desire for something, or more someone, that you’d never experienced before. 

So it was on that fateful day, when he walked in, wearing a v-neck and glasses, that you’d had enough of your own emotions. 

You swiftly walked by the door after he walked in and turned the open sign to closed. Then you grabbed his hand and pulled him away before he was able to sit down. “Come with me,” you whispered. 

Namjoon simply followed you without hesitation, dropping his book on the table. “Woah, this is what the back room looks like,” he laughed once you’d pulled him out of window shot.

You looked at him directly in the eye as you then said, “Do you still want to finish what we couldn’t at the bar?”

He tilted his head comically to the side. “I thought you were waiting for your soulmate.”

“Well, he’s not coming along, and you’re…tempting.” Normally these words would have embarrassed you, but this time, didn’t feel any kind. 

“I’m tempting?” He teased, tucking a stray piece of hair behind your ear with a smirk. 

“Are you going to answer my question?”

Namjoon shook his head, going down to meet your lips. Kissing was familiar with him, but a really good familiar. He was warm and hugged you to him as soon as he could. Your hands mussed his hair as you deepened the kiss. He sat back onto the edge of the desk, bringing you with him. 

You let your hands fall down to his chest, feeling the muscle underneath your fingertips. You upped away, wanting to see what you were feeling. Peeking out from his v-neck was a tattoo, probably his soulmate mark, so you pulled the shirt completely over his head to inspect it further. It was similar to yours. 

From the corner of your eyes, you could see he was waiting for your reaction. Really, you didn’t know how to react because it all made sense. What had happened between the two of you the bar was destiny. 

“Why didn’t you tell me that it was you the day you came in?” You asked calmly, not taking your eyes off the tattoo. It was beautiful and accentuated his chest nicely.

“I was going to tell you, but I chickened out. If I knew you were going to be this calm about it, I would have told you so long ago. We’ve wasted so much time.”

You smiled at his words. “I don’t know. I kinda enjoyed our little game that we had going on. We wouldn’t have been able to get to know each other the same way if you’d straight up told me,” you explained. How could you have no realized that it was him? It was obvious. No wonder he was so tempting. 

Namjoon smiled, eyes glistening as he silently agreed that the game was fun. “Well, either way, I guess we should make up for lost time. Wanna come over after work? I should go before grandpa comes back from the market and finds us like this…”

• • • • • •

MASTERLIST

#happy birthday joon #bts au #bts soulmate au #soulmate au #bts imagine #bts scenario #bts fluff #bts fic #bts fanfic #bts fanfiction #bts one shot #bts namjoon #namjoon au #namjoon soulmate au #namjoon fic #namjoon fanfic #namjoon fanfiction #namjoon one shot #namjoon imagine #namjoon scenario #namjoon fluff #rm au #rm soulmate au #rm fic #rm fanfic #rm imagine #rm scenario #rm one shot #rm fanfiction #namjoon x you

[bramblepatch]

the stranger who sojourns with you

(November’s featured character story from Patreon - an encounter between Pastor Rosemarie, chaplain of the salvage ship Uncertainty, and a cousin of the ship’s captain. You can support my writing and art, get behind the scenes and bonus material, and vote on what characters I write and draw next by becoming a patron!)

Rosemarie had been onboard the Uncertainty for nearly two years before Jim Meqaem ever spoke to her.

This, in itself, wasn’t really so strange. Graey Jim – as she’d been known by most of the crew ever since James “Human Jim” Chang had signed on a decade ago – wasn’t the only graey on the Uncertainty to keep her distance from the rest of the crew and associate mostly with her own family. And as far as Rosemarie was aware, all of the graeys on the ship were Jim’s family; she was a cousin of some sort to the captain of the ship, although far enough along a branch of the family that Rosemarie wasn’t sure what the exact relation was between Jim Meqaem and Captain Aem III. Common wisdom held that graeys had difficulty relating to anyone who wasn’t a direct blood relative – but then, common wisdom held that humans were criminally reckless and could survive practically anything, so perhaps common wisdom ought to be taken with a grain of salt.

Most humans, to Rosemarie’s knowledge, had never even said the words “Hold my beer and watch this,” so probably there were a good many graeys who saw aliens as something other than interesting creatures to observe in their not-so-natural environments. Rosemarie had no complaints about Aem III as a captain or as an employer. But although Rosemarie mingled easily with the rest of the crew, she rarely interacted with the captain or most members of the captain’s family on anything other than official business and she wasn’t entirely sure what Jim even did, professionally speaking, so it was a little surprising to come into the ship’s small, rather utilitarian chapel one morning and find the little alien sitting crosslegged on a bench next to the door.

To tell the truth, it took her a moment to recognize Jim. Rosemarie was good with faces, even across species – a skill she’d spent no little time cultivating – but to say that the family resemblance among House Aem was a strong one would be to dramatically understate the matter. One smooth gray-green head and set of large dark eyes looked pretty much like another, although she’d be embarrassed to admit it.

Graey Jim apparently had no such problem in recognizing the human, though. “You’re the one supposed to keep people in one piece emotionally, right?”

Rosemarie lifted a brow. Jim didn’t particularly seem like a person in crisis, although graeys in general were notoriously hard to read for most other intelligent species. Abrupt and detached was more or less their baseline. “That’s one way to put it, I guess,” the human said. “Can I help you?”

“Probably not.” The words were accompanied by a slight narrowing of those huge dark eyes, an expression that Rosemarie thought was the graey equivalent of a wry smile. Jim sobered quickly, though, as she added, “I thought probably someone should make sure you’d been told about the family-house that Three’s approved to join up on the ship, though.”

“I’m not usually involved in hiring crew or booking fares around here,” Rosemarie pointed out. Still, this seemed like it was going to be a whole conversation – not least because she couldn’t remember any graeys other than those of House Aem ever being in residence on the Uncertainty before - so she took a seat next to Jim in the back of the chapel. “Assume that I don’t know.”

Jim was, apparently, unperturbed by the admission that Rosemarie was not entirely current on whatever this was. Shipboard news? Politics? Gossip? “They’ll be in a couple of adjoining suites on Deck C. Two adults – siblings, I think – and three children. They’re a remnant house, that’s why they’re so few.”

Five individuals had struck Rosemarie as an unusually small graey family group, but… “I’m not certain what that means.”

“It means all of their House-Named heirs are dead,” Jim explained flatly. “Which usually would mean that the house would reform in place under a different name, or maybe get absorbed into a related house since there aren’t many of them? But they aren’t our cousins.”

Rosemarie frowned thoughtfully, trying to chase down the implications of this, still feeling like she was missing a rather important piece of the puzzle. “Are you worried about having an unrelated family on your house’s ship?”

“What? No, we’ve got plenty of space, and anyway I’d hardly have room to complain, huh? Orphaned childless branch-born screw-up and all,” Jim said quickly, with a dismissive wave of her hand. This seemed like kind of a lot that deserved unpacking in its own right, if you asked Rosemarie, but the graey was already barreling ahead to subjects other than her own apparently rocky standing. “No, I’m just worried about them because if House Sae Remnant can’t go to their own family or keep their old home that means that something big happened. Probably something traumatic. I don’t know what, which is also odd… a small house losing their House-Named wouldn’t be headline news or anything but I should be able to find out what happened and I haven’t been able to find anything and -”

She seemed to run out of words abruptly,  and picked sheepishly at the hem of her sleeve.

“And just because the Uncertainty is safe doesn’t mean they’ll feel safe,” Rosemarie supplied.

“Yes,” Jim agreed, and the affirmation seemed both abrupt and subdued after the earlier flood of words.

The silence stretched for a moment, as the graey seemed to be collecting her thoughts again; Rosemarie didn’t hurry her. “I don’t know how to… welcome them. Support them,” Jim said eventually. “It’s not really my place? I asked Three what happened to House Sae and she just said I shouldn’t bother them. But the kids, you know? They have to be scared. And it’s just two generations, so the parents can’t be much older than I am. I think they probably just lost their own parent...”

Another, shorter pause. “And then I remembered that’s kind of why we have you around, right? Part of it, anyway. I know some of the other aliens talk to you when they’re in distress, even if they’re not part of… your… star spirit thing.”

Rosemarie couldn’t help chuckling a little. “Universal Galactic Soulism,” she supplied. “I can’t make them come talk to me, but I’ll keep an eye out for them when they get here, and offer help if they seem like they need it.”

Jim nodded once, decisively – Rosemarie wasn’t sure if that was a gesture typically used by graeys, or if Jim had picked it up from the ship’s human crew members – and got to her feet. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” Rosemarie said, and then, because she couldn’t avoid worrying a little, “If you ever want to talk about anything else, my door is open, Jim.”

The suggestion seemed to take Jim a little by surprise, but after a moment she narrowed her eyes in a smile. “I guess I might take you up on that,” she said. “Some time.”

“When you’re ready,” Rosemarie agreed.

In the meantime, she thought maybe she ought to do some review on graey psychology and family structure, though.

#writing #science fiction #unlikely uncertainty #patreon #rosemarie holt

[a-bear-at-hogwarts]

answer everything on the talk about the muse asks uwu

LEE I HOPE YOU KNOW I WOULD DIE FOR YOU thank you so much oh my g o d Literally every ask; all about Dahlia Goldman!! :>!!

🍯 for a food headcanon

Dahlia is allergic to a substance called theobromine!! Usually the biggest trouble it causes her is chocolate, as anything much stronger than a white to very milky usually has enough to cause her trouble, but it would take an astounding amount to actually kill her - same story with caffeine!! It’s linked to how her biology is affected by the Sítheach curse, giving her physical traits usually associated with bears

🥛for a drink headcanon

Dahlia cannot stand pumpkin juice -  it’s not the taste or anything, but it just feels so slimy and pulpy and gross and she absolutely loathes it

🐢 for a mental health headcanon

Dahlia’s environment growing up instilled in her the belief that she can’t fully trust anyone - not her friends, not her family, nobody. Her heart is open and she grows to care for people almost too fast, but she just can’t shake the voice in the back of her mind that’s a constant reminder she doesn’t know for certain that she’s safe around these people. In large part this is due to her mother -  from childhood she enforced that people hid things, and that could be highly dangerous.  In addition, her father was killed by a man he had thought was his friend - in actuality he’d been a sleeper agent for the Death Eaters. 

Knowing everything she does, it takes her a long time to relinquish anything that can’t be reversed.

🦄 for a physical health headcanon

Okay. The Goldman’s?? Buff as hell. 

From the fact that martial combat is something Sítheach legacies are raised into so that they can defend themselves, to the specific Goldman wariness that encourages the family to maintain their physical condition, to the fact that the curse increases their mass both muscular and otherwise in order to make the transition from human to beast less straining on the body, its a rare Goldman that doesn’t look like an extra from a Viking documentary. In addition, there aren’t many who don’t have a story-map of scars across their skin from various misadventures.

⌛for a sleep headcanon

Up until year three, Dahlia was trying her very hardest to just not sleep. There were too many people around for her to risk transformation, and she just plain didn’t want to. Why should she sleep and risk all the negative that came with it?

But then Talbott appeared, and gave her an option - and she became an animagus.

It was such a huge risk, considering Sítheach legacies were completely outlawed from becoming animagi centuries ago. There would have been no trial for her if she had been found out. But for the chance to rest peacefully, to sleep through the night without the gnawing fear that she would have hurt people or destroyed the life she’d built in the magical world, for the way it muffled the Call to the quietest whisper at the edge of her consciousness - it was more than worth it to her. And she gained a confident along the way :>!!

💕 for a love headcanon

Oh What a disaster she is. On one hand, Dahlia is a master of under-the-table flirting that leaves you breathless and asking questions. If she’s interested romantically, she lets you know in actions rather than words - singing a specific song in your general area, dressing slightly differently around you, making special note and adjusting accordingly. But the second you actually do something overt in response?? An absolute mess

All of a sudden words aren’t working and she can’t look anywhere without flutters - she has no idea what to do with her hands, and often seems almost scared to touch whoever she’s interacting with even if she was holding their hand or dancing with them only a moment ago

(remind me to talk about my ideas for how she and Merula first begin to realise their feelings because it’s a thing I wanna expand on :>!!!)

💣 for a stress headcanon

Unfortunately Dahlia’s approach to stress is pretty similar to her approach to most emotions she doesn’t want - repression. Just ignore it and it’ll go away eventually!

When she can’t deal with a buzzing mind, too full of thoughts and worries, she does something until she’s exhausted - fistfights the dummies in the duelling room, runs until she can’t anymore, anything really. Just so long as it drives her out of her head.

😵 for a sickness headcanon

Oh Dahlia is almost always in the hospital wing - before she learnt episkey, she was a regular due to her constantly getting scrapes and bruises she just paid no attention to at all until the teachers forced her to get them looked at. She doesn’t get viruses or bacterial illnesses very often, but when she does it’s denial city - what do you mean I can’t go to class it’s just a runny nose and a cough I’m fine

🤲 for a religious headcanon

The Goldman’s aren’t religious per se, but there are some folk-superstitions that stick. There’s a horseshoe over their door, and lavender in the pillows - and not one of them will ever set foot in a faerie circle.

🏡 for a home headcanon

When they first bought their property, the family house was in shambles. Dahlia’s mother and father worked on it together, her mother doing the physical placing of new beams and other physical elements while her father handled the magical parts. It became sort of a patchwork tower, adding bits as they needed them - it doesn’t make sense per se, but it’s still home. And at the end of the day, it was the only place Dahlia felt secure for the longest time. 

🍬 for a family headcanon

Mama Goldman is a 7′2 absolute beast of a lady who can and will kick your ass if you give her reason to. She’s known as one of the most dangerous members of the Sítheach legacy, constantly alert and never unarmed.

She’s also the dork who looked at a florists son, a big nerd who would Not Stop Rambling to the pretty and ripped lady who agreed to go get coffee with him about how muggle understanding of plant families could influence potion making and thought “Oh I can’t not marry him”

Dahlia is very much a mamma’s girl in a lot of ways

💼 for a work headcanon

In the future, Dahlia finds employment as an instructor for an elective course available to aurors in training! Hand to hand, escapism and muggle interactions are all handled in her classroom ^-^

⛈️ for a sadness headcanon

Okay so

At the beginning of the canon storyline, it’s been two years since Jacob has vanished. The likelihood of missing persons returning to their families decreases by the hour - something the Goldman’s would definitely know.

Dahlia believes Jacob is dead all the way up until he appears again. They all do. They buried an empty grave for him, they mourned, and as the years passed they moved on. 

It utterly destroys Dahlia to know Jacob is alive, for two reasons; the first is that she stopped looking for him, they all did - during her investigation of the vaults all she was searching for was a body to bury. The second is that he reappears right as there’s strife amongst the family that he knows nothing about. Hell the summer before he’s found she buries her uncle.All she knows is that she couldn’t handle mourning him again.

😡 for an anger headcanon

Anger isn’t something Dahlia feels like she’s allowed. It’s too dangerous, too much of a risk for her to hold on to something like that because anger leads to adrenaline, and adrenaline leads to the change, and the change leads to bloodshed-

but oh, sometimes she just can’t help it.  There’s so much anger that simmers below her constraints, bitterness at how she’s treated by ministry and adults and frustration at herself for her fear and closed-off nature. Sometimes she just can’t bottle it, and when that happens she usually takes it out of a training dummy. Better than taking it out on a person.

💩 for a ridiculous headcanon

The real reason Dahlia never actually met her DADA teacher before Rakepick was because it always took place during the time of the day she was most tired, so she would just sleep through it every time. 

What? She’s got teachers permission and already knew basically everything being taught. It was fiiiiiiiiiine

🌼 for a happiness headcanon

In quiet moments alone in her room, Dahlia enjoys playing the guitar. She can play half a dozen love ballads, a handful of old folk songs, a couple popular pop songs. It’s what she does when she feels safe to lose herself.

After a couple of years of friendship with Talbott, he’s the first person she feels like she can play in front of while he’s visiting over the summer. He’s quiet as she does so, usually absorbed in whatever else it is that he’s got in his hands, most often a piece of writing. It’s a part of their mutual understanding that they don’t interrupt each other, but that they’re simply content in the company.It’s nice, after spending so long afraid of contact, to just share one of the tiniest parts of yourself that never ordinarily sees the light of day

#Asks!! #long post tw #jkbhjv . he c k thank you so much for enabling me this was so fun ;A;!!!

[dammitadolfnomorecake]

Caramel Skin Under A Vanilla Sky prt 2

Lance plagued his dreams, his name on Keith's lips as he woke momentarily disoriented before realising just why he'd woken. Clumsily stumbling off his thin cot, he yawned widely as he moved to the cockpit deal with the ringing noise emanating from the area. Dropping down heavily into the pilot's seat, he pulled up the call that had been chiming for his attention "Keith?" Using a hand to wipe at his eyes, he had no idea why his mother was interrupting his sleep "Hey, mum. What's going on?" "I hadn't heard from you and was just checking in" "I was sleeping. It's a long flight" "You left 8 vargas ago, I thought you would have checked in once you were close" 8 vargas? It felt like he'd only just closed his eyes "Yeah. Sorry. Everything's ok here..." Dragging the call to one side, he opened up the ship's navigation "... and we're still about a varga out" "Good. As long as you're ok" "I'm fine. You don't need to worry so much" "We have an operative missing from the same coordinates we've sent you to, I think I have a right to worry" Rolling his eyes at his mother, Lance came back to the front of his mind. Tapping on the navigation screen he pulled up Erathus on the screen, the planet only a hop skip and a jump away from the Ghazex quadrant... maybe he could... "Keith?" "I'm here. I'm just looking at the planets surrounding those quadrants. Erathus seems to be the closest with the biggest trading centre" "There were no signs that Guile made it to Erathus" "There were no signs of him making it anywhere" Keith regretted the words the moment they slipped from his mouth "I mean, I'm just thinking here, but it does seem to be the main trade hub for its quadrant" "It's also highly populated with those less than desirable. I doubt he would have landed there, not unless it was a dire emergency" Erathus was that bad? Then what the hell was Lance doing there? It didn't sound like the kind of place he should be "What if they seller moved the meeting place?" Now he was simply manipulating facts to suit his curiosity. Lance obviously didn't wish to see him, so why was he deviating from his original mission and slightly praying that his mother would agree that he should in fact head to Erathus? "He would have notified us" "Not if he wanted to keep a low profile... You said the rebel camps had received no word from him..." "Keith..." "Look. I'm approaching the coordinates. I'll scan for any traces of his signature, but it could potentially be a lead. You mentioned this quadrant had seen a lot of activity, is it possible a new faction has arisen?" "From the intel we have, it is possible. A number of ships have been attacked or simply gone missing..." "Is there a salvage moon near here?" "On Thatus. It's two quadrants over. With Erathus being marketed as a tourist planet, the main source of income comes from the tourists making it there alive and in one piece" It sounded like a fucked up rich playground. The perfect place for less than legal things. So again, why the quiznak was Lance there? "Keith, something is obviously on your mind. What is it?" Biting the inside of his cheek uncharacteristically, he knew there was no escaping his mother's prying "I called Hunk earlier. Lance's family on Earth are worried about him" "You're thinking about Lance?" His mother knew something had transpired between the two of them, but not the details. She seemed to like Lance well enough, but they had barely interacted before she decided to return to the Blades rather than to Earth "Hunk said Lance is on Erathus" "Oh..." "Yeah" "Keith..." "I know. The mission comes first, but he..." "He's your friend" "Yeah. Don't worry, the mission comes first" "I trust you'll get it done. I also trust you'll make use of all the resources available to you" Wait. What? "Mum..." "Erathus is a tough place to make a life. It's not suited to long term living and draws in all kind of transients. If you think he can help, or if he can shed light on what's been happening in the area... We don't currently have any operatives in the area who can provide fresh intel on Erathus, so you'll be going in blind" Kolivan must not have been in the room. He'd damn near have a heart attack if he heard Krolia giving Keith permission to deviate on his original mission plan "I... I don't even know if he'll speak to me. He didn't even tell me he was in space. I thought he was still back on Earth spreading Allura's message" His mother's face softened "I can't tell you what to do. I trust you'll complete your mission, but I also know how much you miss your old team. If your scans come up with nothing, then... Lance may be able to help. I'll leave it your discretion" "Kolivan's going to be pissed" "Leave him to me" Feeling a smile tug on his lips, it was interrupted by another yawn. Shaking himself in attempt to wake up, he pushed the smile to his lips "I always do" "Be safe" "You too, mum" Signing off the conversation meant having to get ready for action. Showering and dressing left him feeling somewhat human as he pulled his hair back into his usual ponytail. Did he really want to see Lance? That was a no brainier. He missed fighting along side him. The constant attempts to one up each other, and knowing Lance had his back completely. But would Lance even see him. Placing a hand on Kosmo's head, he ruffled his fur affectionately "What am I supposed to do? Maybe I should have brought Axca along after all? But if Lance is working on finding himself again, then should I really be interrupting him out of nowhere?" Kosmo looked at him like he was an idiot. His wolf forced to sit through many a long night of self angsting over how things had played out "Ok. We'll scan the area, check in with the rebels, then hit up Thatus. Then... He didn't want to take my call, but he can't turn me away if I show up... right?" His wolf definitely thought him an idiot. He was acting enough of an idiot for to be justified... "I'm the freakin' Black Paladin of Voltron. It's just Lance. Why am I making such a big deal about this? I'm just checking to make sure he's alright. That's all..." Kosmo huffed, not convinced. Done with his wolf, he turned his attention back to his mission. Guile needed to come before his laughable love life. * Thatus was a complete bust. The junk moon negative for any residual radiation signature left by Guile's ship. None of the rebel camps had any new information for him, nor did several smaller planets he stopped by during his investigation, though they had also been affected by whatever was happening in the sector of space. Calling this through to his mother, he was given the lecture of watching his back on Erathus, and to notify her if anything at all should happen, which she felt likely it would given his status as the Black Paladin and his human appearance. Forced to leave his ship at the docking station, setting foot on Erathus was a trip and a half. It was just like the images of Earth from before the Third World War. The architecture right out of one of the Garrisons boring history books, while the vehicles were even modelled to match the era with a touch of space in the fact that they all hovered. Making his way into the city past the station, Kosmo started pulling against his hold, his wolf clearly excited by all the noise and colour, but none of it was close to what he'd seen in those few snippets of phone call with Lance. Wracking his memory, he could vaguely remember catching what seemed to be the letters "GE", which meant nothing. After spending so long in space, having English brandied everywhere was like a slap in the face. Even time seemed to be measured by Earth standards. Keeping his hand firmly on Kosmo, he pulled up how communicator's browser, trying to think of how to search for what he wanted before realising he was making things far more complicated than he needed. He was looking for a club on Erathus that ended with "GE". The device taking a fraction of moment before loading the results. Swapping to image view, he had more success. The thousands of results dropping down to more manageable number. Only a few ticks later, he was looking at the same "GE" he was sure he'd seen glowing in the background. "The Guilded Cage". Listed as a club, it fitted the bill, and wasn't as far from the station as he'd expected. Bringing up the directions, he steeled himself as he started moving with the ever steady flow of tourists. Reaching the club, Keith had had to avoid more people than he'd like to have. While each store was set up individually, it didn't mean that they didn't have all sorts of employees out the front trying to peddle business, or stopping him for an autograph. Unfortunately wearing his Blade hood would have only served to draw more attention to himself, leaving him to grin and bear it all. Lance would have howled with laughter had he been there to witness Keith's failure with his people skills, and now he'd come this far, his hand shook as he pushed on the golden door handle and entered the club. Being early in the morning, he'd thought trade would have died down as patrons nursed their hangovers from the night before. Instead he was submerged into the thick of the club where the music was deadened by a shimmering forcefield that allowed the ongoing lightshow above the dance floor to cast its glow over what seemed to be some kind of entrance. With no real idea were to move next, he walked over to what he took to be the reception, manned by a rather annoyed looking alien who sat before a wall of keys. The description only listed the club as a club, yet the keys led him to believe that the place may also double as a hotel. If it was a hotel, it would explain why Lance had opted to stay here rather than finding himself an apartment or such... though, if he was working, shouldn't his employer have provided accomodation? "Can I help you?" Clearing his throat, Keith really hoped he could "I hope so. I'm looking for a friend" Sighing, the alien lowered his dataslate "Does this friend have a name? Or am I supposed to guess" "His name's La..." No. One of the people he was with called him "Leandro", not "Lance" "His name's Leandro" Picking the dataslate back up, the alien lent back in his chair "Leandro isn't taking customers at the moment" Customers?! Why would Lance be taking customers? "I'm not a customer, I'm his friend" "Look, if I let everyone in claiming to be his friend, it'd never end" Anger prickled under Keith's skin, the man clearly implying more than Keith was comfortable with "Just what are you trying to say?" "That he's a popular guy. Real heartbreaker" "I'm his friend from Earth. I just want to talk to him" "In that case give him a call. Until then, why don't do you what every other broken heart does and drink your sorrows" This couldn't be right. Lance wasn't that kind of guy. He was a ridiculous flirt, but faithful to a fault. Biting down an annoyed growl, he looked towards the bar doors. When the alien failed to say anything else, he figured he might as well check the club out in hopes of finding Lance inside, however slim the chance. Kosmo wasn't a fan of the music, and Keith wasn't a fan of the scene. Suspended in cages just above the dance floor, dancers of all races bared almost everything they had. Ordering the first drink off the list, Keith skulked his way over to the corner of the room, spying a staircase that seemed to lead to an upper level. The only problem was the two huge bouncers at the foot of it... and the fact he didn't know if Lance was actually up there. Having come this far, the logical thing to do would be to call Lance, but the thought of being rejected again cut a little too close to home "Can you get me up there?" Looking to the stairs, Keith wasn't quite ready when his wolf decided to teleport right off the bat. The second level of the club was like stepping into another world with its plush red carpeting and black walls. The doors almost hidden along the hall and by the lack of light "Ok... let's see if Pidge's hacking program works here" Moving into the shadows with Kosmo, Keith pulled up the program, letting it run its course as it sought out the clubs security system. He had intended to run the program downstairs while blending in, but Kosmo's enthusiasm at seeing Lance again had ruined the mission before it'd even begun. Softly urging the loading green bar to hurry up, there was a soft ding as it completed and his device was filled with the clubs information. Nothing beat Pidge. Even on the otherside of the universe she was still just as formidable as if she'd been by his side. He totally owed her big time for this. Scrolling through the excess of information, he found a room booked under the letters "Lea" which had to be Lance. Room 727... looking for a number on the closest door, he realised it was bare. His small victory not quite as victorious as he'd hoped, leaving him to rely on Kosmo again "Can you track Lance down? No teleporting you big doof" Kosmo led him to the very end of the hall before sitting in front of another annoyingly plain door. Raising his hand to knock, panic once again struck. They hadn't left things on the greatest of terms. Phone calls were one thing, but it was nothing like speaking face to face... and god his sad pining arse wanted to. Whether responding to his presence outside the door, or a sensor he couldn't see, Lance's door slid open silently. Maybe there was no need for security with the two bouncers looking like they could easily snap a mere human in two without breaking a sweat "Lance?" Cautiously entering the space, he knew he had the right room when he sighted the photo of Allura on the rooms small kitchenette counter. The whole place had a pay as you go kind of vibe, yet still held traces that this wasn't that kind of space for Lance "Lance? Are you here?" Receiving no answer, Keith wasn't sure what to do next. If Lance was working, it could be vargas before he returned... "Lance, its Keith..." With a whoosh, a door opened to the left of him, Keith nearly jumping out of his skin as Lance walked out what appeared to be a bathroom and promptly froze mid ruffle of his wet hair "Keith?!" Almost shrieking his name, it was nice to know he wasn't the only one shocked "Hey, man" "Wha... how... wha... How did you get here?" Spluttering, Lance was just as handsome as he remembered him... then it hit him... his friends marks were absent from his face. The marks that Keith hadn't been able to look at intially now gone, leaving behind Lance's beautiful face "I was in the area and thought I'd drop by" "But... what... why? How did you even know where to find me?" This wasn't quite the reunion he'd planned in his head, even though he hadn't actually planned out what he'd say or do. Lance seemed annoyed by his presence "I called you the other night, and happened to see this place in the background" Facepalming, Lance groaned "That's right. Look, I'm sorry I hung up on you. You called in the middle of work. I'm actually on my way to my job..." Was Lance politely trying to throw him out? After all he'd gone through to find him "I actually need your help. I'm looking for someone, and thought you might know them. I mean, you have been here for the last 5 phoebs" His tone held far too much accusation to be comfortable. Lance looking pretty damned uncomfortable as he draped his towel over his shoulders "Keith..." "A Blade member has gone missing. He was supposed to meet with an arms dealer so we could trace the source, but he failed to check in" "Man, I'd really like to help you, but work..." Was Lance hurt? The light in his eyes seemed to have dimmed "Can you just take a quick look?" Closing his eyes, the Cuban took a deep breath before exhaling as he opened them "Keith, I'm sorry you came all this way, but I really need to get to work. Why don't you send me the files and I'll take a look for you" "Or you could look now" Walking further into the space, Lance walked right past him and over to what seemed to be a walk in robe, the wall sliding away with another soft hiss "I can't" "Lance" "Keith" "Drop the bullshit. What are you doing here? Here in space? And why didn't you tell me you were here? Your family's been calling Veronica nonstop. Hunk says not to worry, then I find you in a what? A strip club? Where you're not taking clients? What's going on? This isn't like you" Turning on him, Lance glared "Isn't like me? What do you even know?" "I know..." "What?! We haven't spoken in months. Phoebs! Now you show up asking for a favour. No. I have to get to work" "Lance" "Don't even bother Keith. I'm sorry your friend is missing, and I hope you find him. But you need to leave" Where was all this coming from? The Lance he knew would talk it out before leaping to anger. Snatching a jacket out his walk in robe, Lance went about getting ready in front of him "Lance, I came here because I missed my friend" "Right. Sure you did" "You didn't even tell me you'd left Earth! I would have..." "You would have what? Dropped everything to come visit me?" "I thought you were with your family on Earth. You made it pretty clear you intended to stay there" Giving a dry laugh, Lance picked his communicator up and moved towards the door "Lance..." "Earth... Earth isn't home anymore. It's not the same planet we left. When we left, no one knew about all the races out there. And now... it's changed too much. Don't get me wrong, I'm happy all those people are safe, but Earth isn't the same. Besides. The Holt's have already started training the next generation of Paladins. They're even working on their own versions of the Lions. Coran and Romelle are happy on Altea. Hunk is always travelling across the universe with Shay. Shiro's retired to find his happy ever with Curtis. You're running Daibazol with your mum, and Kolivan... All I had left was Earth, but it's not home anymore. I don't recognise the streets. The beaches. The people. Nothing can ever be like it was before. In the castle, all I had were my dreams of going home... and now I have nothing. So thanks for stopping by, but you need to go" Grabbing him by the sleeve, Lance forced him over to the door, opening it than pushing him forcibly into the hall. Whether by accident or not, his friend's communicator slipped from Lance's hand as he withdrew his grip "I haven't seen your friend. Go home Keith. I know what I'm doing" Kosmo teleported out just as the door was closing, the pair of them left standing in the hall shocked at what had transpired. This wasn't the Lance he knew... but did he even really know him anymore?

[storytimewithcort]

Fresh Start (Part 7)

FRESH START PART 7

Fandom: Marvel, MCU

Basic Summary: Everyone’s favorite ol’ AU where we forget Infinity War ever happened! Loki and Thor are living with the Avengers because why not. Reader is hired to work for Tony and Pepper, and she and her son soon meet Loki. Etc Etc Etc - Part 7, reader starts to miss her daily interactions with Loki, while Loki expresses his feelings with help from Thor

Pairing: Loki x Reader (Single Mom Reader)

Warnings: nothing to report this time around

A/n: I have been been both busy with work and then super sick this past week. So, I have replayed certain conversations and scenes in my head multiple times, but have been able to write in a many days. Sorry for the wait. I do have part 8 partially done.

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7

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The next three weeks flew by and you never had a chance to really talk to Loki about what had happened between the two of you that night you spent in the tower. You had started to the morning after, but you were only halfway through your cup of coffee when Pepper called you with questions about Jonas' typical breakfast routine. That broke the mood for sure, and you didn't know how to bring it back up. Loki seemed more than content to allow the topic subside. He quickly started to ask you instead about your plans for the day.

You wouldn't say it was awkward, it really wasn't or so you thought at first. When you did get a little time to spend with Loki you two were back to how you had been for weeks. You comfortably discussed books, old earth legends, or your four year old's naive yet uniquely philosophical views on everyday life. However, you were starting to think that you were seeing much less of Loki than you were now used to.

At first you didn't have time to take note of it. You were taking a class to get re-certified in CPR and first aid as well as working with Pepper to get Jonas into an unbelievably prestigious preschool program for the upcoming spring session. So you blamed the lack of Loki on your own schedule and didn't think too much of it. You barely had time to think for yourself anyway.

That changed starting two days ago when you felt like your life was winding back down to it's normal amount of crazy. You set both the kids down for a nap and were blessed that Jonas actually wanted to nap since he was starting to grow out of wanting to nap at all. You left the nursery hoping to find Loki in the kitchen area or outside on the balcony per usual, but he wasn't in either spot.

The same happened yesterday. And again when you went looking for him today. You sighed to yourself. Maybe he was avoiding you, or maybe you had been unintentionally avoiding him and he was now bored of you or upset with you. You decided a quick trip upstairs would be okay, you just had to make sure to avoid Tony as he didn't particularly like you leaving the floor with the kids.

As you entered to large common room upstairs you literally ran into the object of your search.

"Oh...Hi" you mumbled as you took a step back, trying to not focus on the hand Loki placed on your arm to help steady you.

"Can I help you with something Y/n?" He asked, looking down at you.

"Well, I just put the kids down for a little bit...Are you busy right now?" As you asked you were certain for a moment his eyes lit up in excitement, but he simply shook his head slowly at you. You notice how he's dressed in a warm jacket and scarf, even holding a pair or gloves in one hand and your stomach sunk.

"I'm afraid I am busy, Thor is taking me to see...something...I honestly wasn't paying attention to what, but he insists." Just then Thor comes around the corner and when you see him dressed for the weather too, you can't help but slump your shoulders a bit. "Rain check?" Loki offers in a more gentle tone.

"Only if that's what you want...I..uh..never mind then." You slipped back into the elevator and hoped you didn't look too disappointed in front of Loki. Just then the brothers entered into the elevator with you and before you could say anything else the doors shut and you forced yourself to stand up straight. Thor was as bubbly as ever and even offered you to join them on their trip, but you obviously had to decline.

As you made your way to step out of the elevator your hand brushed against Loki's unintentionally. His reflexes were astonishingly quick and he grabbed your hand in his before you could walk away. He held you in place for a brief moment making eye contact with you. Rubbing his thumb across your knuckles he repeated, "Rain check, I promise."

You nodded with a little smile and slipped away.

Outside the wind was harsh but it didn't really bother either brother as they made their way through the city. Thor led Loki through streets as if he knew they place as well as Asgard. A fact which Loki couldn't decide was impressive or a bit sad.

"Do we have to walk there through all these people? You're just going to get stopped every few feet by some adoring fan." Loki pouted as a group of teenagers practically tripped over themselves as Thor smiled in their direction.

Thor continued to smile and nod towards each passing onlooker. They were in fact stopped by a few people. To Loki's alleviation, not one of the fans seemed to notice much less recognize him. Once the men were more secluded street. Thor turned to Loki with a look that Loki dreaded. This was Thor's patented I know something face. It always caused Loki a headache.

"So..." Thor started, tone sickly sweet. "Y/n?"

"What about her?" Loki said flatly, the dull ache of annoyance settling in.

"You two seem...close." Thor commented, "Are you two together?"

Raising his eye brows, Loki scoffed, "I'm not talking about this with you."

"And who else would you talk to? I'm your only friend." Thor added, smacking Loki's shoulder lightly.

Loki simply walked a bit faster, putting a little distance between them as he tried not to acknowledge Thor's words. The cold weather suddenly as cold as the most arctic parts of Jotunheim. Or maybe it was just him. After all, there was truth behind Thor's statement, among other reasons. After a few minutes of silence, Loki reluctantly turned his head towards Thor.

"I don't know."

"You don't know if you have any friends or if you're with Y/n?" Thor teased.

Loki glared in Thor's direction, but continued anyway, "I don't know how to categorize my relationship with her."

"That's not hard to figure out. You obviously enjoy spending time with her. And she obviously likes spending time with you." Thor beamed.

"So you're saying I do in fact have another friend." Loki laughed hollowly.

"Loki..."

"Look," Loki sighed, "We have had...moments...of flirtation and romance. However, there will not be anymore in the future. I assure you."

"Does she know that? She seemed excited when she came upstairs specifically to find you today." Thor's voice grew at bit more interested.

Loki took a moment to gather his words correctly, "I think it's best for her if I leave her alone. She's clever, inquisitive, charming, and quite possibly has the kindest heart I've ever known."

"All of that sounds like good reasons to be with someone..."

"All good reasons for a good person to be with her. Not me."

"You're not a ba-" Thor started.

"I am a bad person." Loki cut Thor off with a side glance that emphasized his seriousness. "As honored as I am for your restored faith in me. I'm still viewed as a monster by most of this planet including Y/n's own employer. She has too much going for her to be bogged down by an association with me."

Thor's shoulders slumped a bit, unsure of how to argue Loki's sad point.

"Plus," Loki added, "She has a son, a family. I have a horrible track record with family. I've failed every one in my family at least once." He only paused to raise a finger in Thor's direction, cutting off Thor's words of encouraging disagreement before he could even voice them. "I've even failed you countless times, brother. I like Y/n far too much to hurt her or Jonas in the ways I know I'm capable of."

Thor made a noise of solemn disgruntlement and Loki thought for a fleeting moment that Thor might actually understand what he was feeling for once.

"So..." Thor started quietly, "When do you plan on telling her any of this."

"I've been trying to distance myself from her for a couple weeks now. However whenever I do see her, I forget all about distancing myself. I swear I can't say 'no' to her and I can't keep myself away from her. I hate it." Loki looked down at the ground as he spoke.

"That's because you like her." Thor mused, drawing out the word 'like' longer than necessary.

At the comment a small rock came flying out of nowhere directly at Thor's face, hitting him in the temple. Loki sent another pebble towards Thor, this one hitting him on the side of his left arm.

As Thor looked around the street to find where the rocks came from, Loki let out a small chuckle. "I already told you I like her. Weren't you listening?"

Brushing his arm as if to remove the nonexistent dust the second rock left behind Thor spoke, "I think I understand your concerns. But, you cannot make this decision for her. If you like her and she likes you. She deserves a say in whether or not your relationship moves forward. I say you tell her your concerns and see how she feels. I have a feeling she doesn't see you as a monster at all."

"I did not ask for your advice."

"Ah but you get it! It's my privilege as the older brother to impart my wisdom." Thor boomed, giving Loki another strong pat on the shoulder as Loki rolled his eyes.

After Thor finished showing Loki an museum exhibition on viking history, they finally made it back to the tower in the early evening. It turned out Thor's only interest was the few references on various artifacts to each of them, proving that at least at one time many humans saw both Thor and Loki as godly heroes, not monsters at all. Against his better judgment, all Loki could think about while they wandered around the exhibit was how you'd enjoy seeing it yourself.

As they entered the lobby the elevator was opening to you and Jonas making your way to leave.

"Hi Mr. Snake! Hi Mr. Thor!" Jonas chimed excitedly when he saw them.

"Why hello Master Jonas! How are you this fine evening?" Thor returned in a matching level of excitement.

"Momma says I can have noodles for dinner!" Jonas explained.

"That sounds lovely, I always loved noodles myself. I've got an idea." Thor offered, "How about I get Natasha or Bruce to order us noodles. They understand phones better than I do. Then you both can stay here for dinner. I could even let Jonas play with my helmet." Thor looked at Loki with a huge grin.

You shifted in your shoes, "I don't want to impose. There's a Thai place a block from our apartment, we can just pick something up there. Plus, I'd rather get Jonas home before it's any darker out."

"But Momma! Mr. Thor promised to show me a super hero helmet!" Jonas pleaded, tugging on your shirt sleeve.

"If your worried about traveling too late, Loki would accompany you home make sure you all made it home safely." Thor continued, eyeing Loki excitedly.

You glance between Jonas and Loki for a moment before relenting. "Ok."

"Yeeessssss!" Jonas screamed, running back into the elevator. Once inside he turned back and waved his little hand in his direction, "come on come on."

"You guys heard the boy," you laughed softly. Turning back to the elevator.

Sure enough, Natasha was around when you all reached the common area upstairs. She seemed surprised to see you, but was pleased. After ordering a impressive spread from a local Italian restaurant, you all just had to wait about half an hour. Thor kept his promise and brought out his armor and helmet. Jonas thought it was the coolest thing he's ever seen and proceeded to wear the way to big helmet with glee as he fumbled around the room.

You settled into a spot on a side of one of the couches to watch as Thor played well with Jonas and even somehow convinced Bruce to join in. Once food arrived you all ate as one odd, disjointed family.

By the time Jonas had eaten enough alfredo rotini to rival Thor, you saw the telltale signs of a toddler ready to pass out asleep at any moment. You quickly thanked everyone and started to gather your belongings. Ignoring the puzzled looks from Natasha and Bruce as he got up from the table to follow you, Loki made his way to you across the room.

"I can escort you home." He said as he reached your side.

You turned to face him and instantly blushed at his proximity. This is the closest you had been to him since you were literally in his lap and you couldn't stop your self from thinking about just that. He obviously noticed your blush, because he smirked and raised an eyebrow at you. You shook your head in a way to calm your self and nodded more directly to Loki.

"I'd love that."

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Lovely people: @1v-kayla , @unicorniorosacomefrutillas, @jessiejunebug, @hiddlestonstansworld, @hey-liz-hey, @fortheloveofallthatsholy, @perceptorxbrainstorm, @kinghiddlestonanddixon, @ godhateskyleigh, @illogicalfangirl and hopefully I didn’t miss anyone.

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#loki x reader #loki fanfic #loki odinson #mcu imagine #loki laufeyson #loki imagine #marvel fanfiction #storytime #fanfic #fresh start #marvel au #marvel imagine #imagines #loki fluff #thor #thor odinson #tony stark #fresh start part 7

[texanredrose]

Family Business

@antonslavik020 made a suggestion and I did my usual thing and ran with it.

Winter stared at the shop, straightening her tie by rote and watching as the last customer left the waiting area, taking his sweet time clamoring into his vehicle and driving off. The sun had already set and the lights were being shut off, everyone except the head mechanic and her sister having gone home for the day. It would be ideal to corner the woman alone, enough shakedowns had taught Winter that limiting her target's backup always provided results, but it would be hard to separate the siblings without direct intervention. 

"You two stay in the car," she said, popping open her door. "I'll handle this." 

"Winter-" 

"This is my job." She turned to look into the backseat, meeting her sister's gaze evenly. "You run the branch, Blake's your bodyguard, and I'm your enforcer. Ideally, no one will even know your name, much less your face." With a nod to the Faunus behind the wheel, she exited the car. "Go grab something to eat. This'll take an hour at most; meet me at the motel on the corner." 

"Be careful," Blake said, amber eyes darting towards the mechanic shop. "Valens don't intimidate easy." 

"That was before they met me," she replied, settling into a role she'd been trained to embody since birth. She didn't have the enigmatic charm Weiss possessed, the sort of imperiousness that could be endearing, but she did have the kind of set to her jaw and tilt to her shoulders than would make men twice her size back down, an unspoken sort of dangerous intent that even a blind man could see. Without lifting a finger, she could inspire fear, but not loyalty- not the way Weiss could. So, she would not be a leader in that sense, but she would lay the foundation for her sister to build an empire over her own in this country. Whatever it took.

ding 

"Sorry, we're closing up shop for the day!" A cheery voice rang out as the younger mechanic rounded the counter, a smile on her lips that faded as she noticed no cars out in the lot and no recognition sparked by the pristine white suit Winter wore. "I'm, uh, sorry. Is there... something I can help you with, though?" 

"Where's your sister?" The icy edge to her voice made the young woman flinch; between the two, the little sister seemed the least keen to interact with others, always a touch shy unless suitably distracted, rambling on about whatever caught her interest. "She's closing up." And then she seemed to steel her nerves, a frown coming to her lips. "I'm sorry, Ma'am, but you'll have to come back tomorrow." 

"Hey, Rubes, what's the-" Then the elder sibling appeared, jumpsuit stained with oil and who knew what else, grease smudged on her cheeks as lilac eyes fell on the newcomer. "Hold up... I'm sorry, Ma'am, but we're closed." 

"Yang Xiao Long." Winter clasped her hands behind her back. "I'm here regarding a business proposal from my employer." 

"Look, if you're part of that chain trying to buy us out-" 

"I assure you, I'm not some corporate lackey." Her eyes narrowed. "And you have much worse than being bought out to consider as a potential future." 

They held each others gaze, silence stretching thin in the shop's little waiting area. 

"Ruby, go home," Yang said, a note of urgency in her tone.

"But-" 

"Go on." The blonde nodded towards the door. "I'll take care of this."

Although reluctant, the younger of the two complied, grabbing the hooded cape she wore everywhere but at work and throwing it around her shoulders, the door bell ringing out as she exited the shop. 

"Smart move." 

"Shut up." Moving around the counter, Yang went and locked the door, closing the blinds along the way. "I'm not the sharpest knife in the drawer but I'm not deaf. I've been hearing all the little whispers about a bid bad mafia family moving into town." 

"Then you're well aware of the wonderful opportunities I can offer you. On behalf of-" 

"Shove it." Now more or less in privacy, the mechanic turned back towards her, brows drawing together as she scowled. "I'm not rolling over, shilling out protection money to a bunch of crooks." She reached up, pulling apart the top portion of the jump suit to reveal a threadbare yellow tank top beneath, chiseled muscles of her arms on display as the sleeves were tied around her waist. Her core- just as defined- became visible with every breath, the tight material stretched to its limit as she settled into a fighting stance, both fists raised. "I don't know how many of you there are, but I know how many I'm gonna take down. All of you." 

"I'm not here to start a fist fight. You're an investment-" 

"Like Hell I am!" Anger and pride ignited in her lilac eyes, making them dance. "This is my terf, not yours. I'm not some cash cow for you to milk." 

"You're insisting on doing this the hard way, is that it?" Her expression didn't break, even with the little lilt in her voice. "You're willing to start a fight with me... with the hope that your sister will be waiting for you at home, safe and sound, when you're done."

Panic flashed in the blonde's expression, all her bravado thrown aside as real fear crept into her voice. "You wouldn't- she's my little sister, you wouldn't." And then the anger came back. "Don't hurt her!" 

Winter had done far too many intimidating shakedowns to count but this marked the first time she heard those words, and the first time she was snapped away from the present to relive a memory she'd thought she'd buried. Her entire life revolved around fear, intimidation, and manipulation- it would surprise no one that it extended to her home life as well. But she remembered, clear as crystal, the day their father gave Weiss her scar, the day she tried to be a real big sister and protect her... and she remembered saying those words just before she learned the hard way that doing the right thing meant paying a very steep price. 

"She won't come to any harm," she said, the words leaving her lips before she had a chance to process them, and she had to bite back a curse as she effectively dug a hole for herself. Too much emotion had slipped out- the words sounded honest and genuine and she meant them, and Yang didn't miss that fact. "If you cooperate." 

But it was too late. She'd shown too much of her hand and now the mechanic felt emboldened. "Oh, so somewhere in there lurks a real person, huh? You got a conscience under all that blood on your hands?" 

"I do exactly what you're doing now- I protect my family." 

"Bunch of criminals make for a lousy family." 

"So you weren't born to a mechanic?" She took a few steps away, shifting her attention to a picture on the wall- a father, and two smiling daughters, in front of the very same shop. "You came to this life of your own volition?"

"It's not the same-"

"Yes, Yang, it is." Winter looked back at her, trying to recapture the intimidation she'd had before, inspire the same fear. "This is the life I was born to live. I'm an enforcer- I work for my family to protect their interests. Become one of those interests, and I'll protect you, too." 

"What kind of family requires a weekly joining fee, huh?" Yang jabbed a finger at her. "Don't sell this as something it's not. You'd rather bleed us dry than get your own hands dirty." 

"Oh, I'll beat you bloody, if that's what you'd prefer." She brought her hands around to the front, made a show of cracking her knuckles. "Getting my hands dirty is my job. And the fee is just... upkeep." 

"Upkeep?" 

"Keeps police and inspectors away, encourages business- everyone who joins the family helps each other out. That's how it works." 

"And anyone who wants to move away gets erased from the records, permanently," Yang said, settling back into her stance once more. "I'm not that dumb." 

As much as she didn't want to admit it, she could admire the fire she saw shining in the woman's eyes. The courage, the drive- how could she not? But she had a job to do. 

"We're looking to build a... different sort of family here." She settled into a stance of her own. "We'd much rather handle things amicably." 

"What part of extortion is amicable, exactly?" 

"Do you know how they do things in Atlas?" Winter began to circle, keeping herself loose and watching for an opening. "First, they pick a place they like. Then, things start to go wrong there- all sorts of things. Slashed tires, broken windows, mysterious fires- enough to put a place out of business. And then someone shows up, and it all goes away... for a price." She offered a small shrug, as if the whole thing bored her. "I always thought it a bit extreme." 

"Oh, so this is the kinder, gentler mafia?"

"If you'd rather, we can go things the old school way." 

"How about this?" Yang shot forward, throwing a punch that moved as fast as lightning, and if she hadn't been anticipating such, she would've been laid out in one hit. However, Winter didn't expect the second strike- didn't think the woman could move quite that fast consistently considering her solid build, but she managed to block or dodge effectively. She'd been in too many fights by this point to be taken entirely off guard, and despite the elbow to her gut, she managed to sweep Yang's legs from beneath her. With the blonde landing solidly on her back, winded, Winter quickly put her forearm across the woman's neck. That should have been the end of the fight. Most people would stop there, because what was keeping Winter from killing her? But Yang saw the restraint and exploited it, used her superior strength to roll both of them over until she found herself trapped beneath the mechanic, arms pinned to the sides of her head. "No one's coming in to save you, huh?" Lilac eyes narrowed, anger still in her voice. "If one hair on Ruby's head-" 

"There's no one else," she said, struggling and failing to dislodge the woman atop her. "I came alone. I told you; we do things differently." 

"Why? Why did you come to Vale?"

Winter remained silent for a moment but caught in that lilac gaze... the truth poured from her lips. "We can't change Atlas. We can't save it. But if we set up a foothold here, we can stop it from happening again." 

"You didn't like the way your bosses did business, so you decided to come do it yourself?" The woman rolled her eyes with a sour frown. "How enterprising of you." 

"It's not that simple." 

"Than simplify it." The grip on her wrists tightened. "Or else."

"Or else what?" Winter raised a brow. "For all your disdain of criminals, you'll become one yourself and kill me?" 

"It's self defense." 

"Of course it is." She sighed, irritation plain in her voice. "It's almost like I ensured you'd have that excuse." 

"... what do you mean by that?" 

"If I'd come in broad daylight, spoke softly, let your anger be seen by others, would you have the same defense? Would anyone believe your word over mine?" Winter glanced down at her suit. "As far as the public's concerned, I'm the daughter of a businessman. And you're a mechanic who got mad at a customer- you do realize this could've gone very wrong for you, yes?" She tilted her head. "But now-" 

"Now I could just dump you outside and call the cops in the morning. Act like I didn't know a thing- you just got mugged and left on my doorstep." Her grip relaxed a little. "You're really banking on me not killing you, huh?" 

"I'm betting on you having a better conscience. You'd be surprised how few morals are instilled in children who grow up as part of the family." 

Slowly, Yang's grip relaxed even more as her expression smoothed out. "You don't mean you were just the kid of some low level thug. You were up there." 

"My father is the boss in Atlas. He took my grandfather's idea of building an alliance between businesses and perverted it into what you hold such a great disdain for," Winter said, weighing her options. She might regain the upper hand, regain her feet, but she couldn't beat the mechanic in a fair fight. And she'd really rather not shoot the woman. "My sister and I came to Vale because we know this is where he's coming next. If we can build up before he gets here, we can stop Vale from becoming another Atlas." 

Slowly, the pressure on her wrists disappeared entirely, though she couldn't quite get up yet with Yang hovering over her, lilac eyes searching her expression. "Lord help me, but I think I believe you." She sighed. "What would joining your family mean for me and mine?"

"We need a place to start laundering money. An honest business- you keep doing what you're doing and we'll just be using your books on occasion."

"And what's the price?" 

"You're one of our first partners." This part Weiss had explicitly ordered her to abide, despite her arguments that it would set a bad precedent. Still, she had to obey if they were going to get anywhere in Vale. "You can name your price." 

Yang seemed to mull the thought over before nodding. "Fine." And then she reached for Winter's tie, yanking on it to pull her up and into a kiss. Not rough or hard, not even that long, and it left her blinking in surprise and confusion as the mechanic pulled back. "There. Am I paid up for the week?" 

In that moment, she should've got angry. Should've lectured that this wasn't a game, that she should be taking this seriously. Should've demanded a real answer. Instead, she replied. "... no." 

One hand buried in greasy blonde locks, and she smelled of oil and sweat, but at that moment, Winter didn't rightly care. What they were trying to do was insane, she'd accepted that, but she'd yet to fall victim to the madness herself. Apparently, it would find her anyway, in her sister's insistence that they could beat their father at the game he created, in this mechanic willing to fight to protect her shop, and now in herself for wanting nothing more than those hands on her again, this time with less of an intention to bruise and more to soothe. 

Maybe madness was the only way to make sense of the world.

An hour later, Winter watched as Blake pulled up, getting into the passenger seat without a word and merely nodding for the Faunus to continue driving. "It's done; the mechanic agreed to be a front." 

"Winter, what happened? You look like you fought a grizzly bear." 

She winced, hoping that the details would be left well enough alone. "Nothing of import. Intimidation didn't work, so I had to use other means." Eventually, she sighed, passing a hand over her face. "And... the mechanic agreed to put us in touch with more places that might be open to an arrangement." 

"That wasn't part of the plan." Blake noted, those keen amber eyes drifting her way and staying for just a second too long. "Did you two decide that before or after the hickey?" 

"Hickey- Winter." Her sister leaned forward, noting that her disheveled state wasn't the byproduct of a fight, at least not entirely. "What happened?" 

"I let her name her price," she replied, reaching up to straighten her tie before remembering that she didn't have it anymore. "In hindsight, I should've taken into account that she's... very..." 

"Attractive?" The Faunus offered, that little curl to her lips indicating amusement. "Would explain why you insisted on handling it alone." 

"Don't you start-" 

"Both of you, stop it." Weiss pinched the bridge of her nose. "I can't believe this. But... she is on our side?" At her nod, the woman sat back and sighed. "I suppose that's what really matters. But be careful, Winter. You know this could be used against you." 

From the corner of her eye, she saw the way Blake's ears flicked and the pensive expression on her face. Winter felt tempted to call her sister out on being a bit hypocritical, but opted against it. After all, they'd gotten this far on madness; no sense in trying to apply logic now.

Meanwhile, at a little house just down the road from the mechanic shop, Yang stumbled through the door and plopped down on the couch, putting her face in her hands and sighing heavily. Already she could hear her sister coming down the hall, hurrying to the living room with relief evident in her voice. 

"Oh, Yang, I'm so glad you made it home, I-" And then she stopped dead in the entryway. "Yang... why are you covered in scratch marks? And bite marks? And... is that that woman's tie?" A beat of silence. "What the hell happened?" 

"Well... either the best thing to ever happen to me," she replied, turning slowly to look at her sister. "Or the biggest mistake. Jury's still out on that." 

And she really wasn't sure when she'd find out.

#TRR writes #Elderburn #Monochrome #TRR and the discord shenanigans

[emjenenla]

The Only Thing You Can Change is Your Name [A Grisha Trilogy Fic]

Modern AU/a Heavyverse fic. Through the dark and gritty streets of Ketterdam, among the worst of the worst one thing is whispered; if you need someone dead and you’ve got the money, go to the Darkling and they’ll take care of it for you. Appearances/mentions of Six of Crows characters.

Warnings: violence

Title: The Only Thing You Can Change is Your Name

Author: Emjen Enla (Fanfiction)/emjenenla (Tumblr)

Teaser: Modern AU/a Heavyverse fic. Through the dark and gritty streets of Ketterdam, among the worst of the worst one thing is whispered; if you need someone dead and you’ve got the money, go to the Darkling and they’ll take care of it for you. Appearances/mentions of Six of Crows characters.

Rating: PG-13/T

Canon/Timeline: Modern AU, same universe as I'm Holding On; Why is Everything so Heavy? but can be read separately; set a couple months before that fic (perhaps between 4 and 6 months?), the Darkling is in his mid-thirties, Alina, Nikolai and Co. are in their mid-twenties

Dominant Characters: The Darkling, appearances by Nikolai Lantsov, Alina Starkov, Jan Van Eck, Pekka Rollins, Tolya Yul-Bataar, Nikolai’s family, unnamed appearances by Mal Oretsev, Tamar Kir-Bataar, Genya Safin, Zoya Nazyalensky, mentions of Baghra, Bo Yul-Bayur, Kuwei Yul-Bo

Pairings: a TINY bit of one-sided Darklina because the Darkling wouldn’t be himself without his creepy, unhealthy obsession with Alina

Warnings: violence

Notes:

-The Darkling/Aleksander Morozova uses he/his pronouns, but the Darkling as a semi-mythical figure in the lore of Ketterdam is genderless. Therefore, if this story was in Nikolai or Alina's POV the Darkling would be referred to using they/theirs pronouns.

-The City Council in this AU is the equivalent of the Merchant Council in SoC.

-Also, there's a frustrating number of unnamed characters in this trilogy (The Queen of Ravka is literally just referred to as the Queen).

Disclaimer: I don’t own The Grisha Trilogy or Six of Crows or the song “Kira” from the Death Note Musical (the song I got the title from).

--

Some indeterminable amount of time ago, a man climbs the rickety stairs to an attic apartment. He keeps a hand on his gun, and looks left and right in fear. At the top of the stairs he knocks on the door. Crumbles of peeling paint fall away with the mild force of his hand on the door.

After a moment the door opens though no one stands on the other side. The man stands in the doorway for a moment, wondering what to do, then a voice calls from within, “Enter.” He takes a deep breath, gathers his courage and steps inside.

The apartment is utterly dark, lit only by a few small lights that do nothing to give any impression of the room. The only thing that can be seen is the vague outline of a figure sitting in the center of the room. The man makes his way across the floor, stumbling over a couple objects on the way.

“Sit,” the figure says.

He does.

“What do you request?” the figure asks. The voice is too low to be female and too high to be male.

The man hands over a stack of hundred dollar bills, and names his request. He gives a name, a description, and details. The figure takes it all with a nod and tells him to leave, and not to worry about anything.

He flees.

If the room had been a bit lighter, or perhaps just if he would have been a bit more observant he might have noticed that he and the figure were not the only people in the room. He would have noticed the small, dark-haired, gray-eyed boy, hunched in a corner, watching them both with wide, learning eyes.

But he didn’t notice, just like everyone else who had ever come into that little apartment.

~~~~

Many Years Later

The Darkling hunched on the roof of the mansion, staring down into the ornate courtyard. His booted feet were braced securely enough that he felt comfortable letting go of the tasteless gargoyle and blowing into his hands in an attempt to warm them. Ketterdam was in the grips of a coldsnap and his thin black gloves were meant to prevent him from leaving fingerprints, not keep his hands warm.

He was a little frustrated. It was supposed to get substantially warmer later in the week and he would have waited until then if his employer hadn’t been chomping at the bit.

A car pulled through the mansion’s front gates and coasted to a stop before the door. The Darkling pulled out a pair binoculars and watched as his targets got out. Alexander Lantsov, his wife and their sons, Vasily and Nikolai. By the time the night was over all four of them would be dead.

He watched while the family vanished inside then dropped the binoculars and climbed away from the edge of the building. Now he needed to wait for the right moment to strike.

Normally he would have hung out on the roof until the family went to bed, but it was really too cold for that tonight. He made his way to the doorway that allowed people to access the roof. There was no security, and the door wasn’t even locked. The Darkling snorted, people this stupid almost deserved to be assassinated. It wasn’t that difficult to slap on some climbing spikes and scale the side of the building; despite her old age Baghra had been doing it right up to her death.

The Darkling let himself into the building and hunched on the stairs, enjoying the warmth. He tried not to think about Baghra because whenever he did he was always sucked down into the bottomless pit of his own loneliness. It was a little terrifying because he hadn’t thought he would miss her. For years he had hated her as his jailer, as the woman who kept him trapped in their home in the name of safety. He’d expected to rejoice that she was gone, but that didn’t change the fact that she was the only person who he’d ever interacted with more than tangentially.

He pressed his gloved fingertips against his eyelids and tried to imagine that he was pressing away those thoughts. Those were the petty worries of Aleksander Morozova, not the Darkling. There was a reason he’d begun thinking of himself as the Darkling after Baghra’s death. It served as a way to mentally separate himself from the pathetic child who had wandered their home wishing that something would happen to take him far away.

At least that was supposed to work in theory.

He leaned his shoulder against the wall and forced himself to begin running through the particulars of the plan. He had a job to do, he did not have time to sit and mope.

As they often did, his thoughts took on the format of a conversation. He imagined he was laying out the plan for someone else and they were listening intently. Figuring out the best way to explain what he was planning to do kept him occupied until the house quieted around him and it was time to move.

He made sure his voluminous black robes and featureless hood and face coverings were all in their correct places. In his Darkling robes he was identity-less and genderless, a wraith of the night. He was visibly taller than Baghra had been, but she had been very careful and theatrical when interacting with everyone as the Darkling. He doubted there was anyone in the city who would notice that he was not the same Darkling who had begun their reign of terror sixty years ago.

The halls of the mansion were dark but there was just enough light to see the reflections from the gold details that covered basically everything. It was almost sickening. The Darkling had known that Ravka Oil made a lot of money, but he had no idea its CEO was quite this rich. Of course there was always the possibility that all this was bought with credit cards and that Alexander Lantsov, the King of Ravka Oil, didn’t have the money for this, but there was no way to tell. As a rule, the Darkling only cared out his target’s finances when that would affect the job, but that could be what the Apparat wanted the Lantsovs dead for. The Darkling would probably never know and that didn’t really bother him.

He went to the master bedroom first. Even though it was not that late both Alexander Lantsov and his wife were stone-cold asleep, overly confident in their high-tech security systems. The Darkling killed the wife first just to prove that the husband won’t notice.

When that was done, the Darkling left the master bedroom, closing the door softly behind him. There was no noise, no mess. If the rest of the job went this smoothly the bodies might not even be discovered until morning.

The next stop was the bedroom of the older son, Vasily. Since this target was substantially younger, the Darkling was prepared to face a conscious target, but Vasily Lantsov was passed out drunk and was also no trouble. The Darkling snorted as he let himself out of the bedroom, this was shaping up to be the easiest five hundred thousand dollars he’d ever made.

The last target was Nikolai Lantsov, the youngest of the family who was rumored to not actually be Alexander Lantsov’s son. From what the Darkling had heard, there was some definite truth to that rumor, but the Apparat was still willing to pay a hundred thousand dollars for his head, so the Darkling considered himself aptly paid enough not to care.

Nikolai Lantsov lived in an attic bedroom that was remarkably close to the stairwell the Darkling had been squatting in for the last few hours. Still, even though it was an attic only in name. The stairway was just as expensive as the rest of the house, though it was a bit more understated, something the Darkling’s eyes were thankful for.

He wasn’t sure how it happened. Perhaps the people upstairs had reached a lull in their conversation. Perhaps the wind blew just hard enough to cover up their voices. Perhaps he had made that fatal mistake that Baghra had always warned him about and allowed his success to go to his head. No matter what the answer was, he climbed the last stair and found himself face to face with a very awake Nikolai Lantsov and a handful of others.

For a period of time that was only a couple seconds at most, they all stared at each other. Aside from Nikolai Lantsov there were six others, two men, four women. The Darkling was massively outnumbered.

For the first time he cursed his adherence to Baghra’s “never take a gun on a job” rule. She claimed that if you carried a gun it was too easy to panic and shoot someone you could have taken out by other, quieter means. This was probably the one time that proved that wasn’t always true. If the Darkling had a gun he could have shot his target and fled before the others had a chance to do anything. As it was he didn’t have any range weapons but a couple knives that weren’t strictly throwing knives that he could still throw if he needed to.

He threw a couple of the knives in Nikolai Lantsov’s direction. The bigger of the two men threw himself into Nikolai, knocking him to the floor and taking the knife in this own shoulder. “Tolya!” one of the girls yelled.

The Darkling knew that the job was off. Without the element of surprise, even the elusive and powerful Darkling couldn’t take these odds. He turned to run down the stairs but a voice stopped him. “You! Freeze or I’ll shoot!”

It was always a good policy to avoid being shot, so he stopped and looked back. One of the women had somehow come up with a handgun and she was holding it in a way that proved that she definitely knew how to fire it.  She had a thin, striking face and dark, searching eyes. Her hair was probably platinum blonde, but it was so pale it looked white.

She was beautiful.

It took him a second it realize what he was thinking and reprimand himself. Hadn’t Baghra trained him to avoid being distracted?

“Put your weapons down!” the girl said.

“No, thanks,” the Darkling said in the mid-range, androgynous voice that Baghra had spent many, many years drilling him on until she deemed it perfect. “I’ll be going now if it’s all the same to you.” Then he dove for the stairs.

He didn’t bother going down them, he simply jumped, a trick he’d practiced on the the many staircases at the apartment as a bored teen. He heard the gun go off behind him and pain seared his left side. He was more surprised than anything else; he hadn’t expected someone that delicate to actually pull the trigger regardless of her obvious proficiency with firearms.

He hit the floor at the bottom of the staircase and rolled before coming back up running. He made for the staircase to the roof. They’d expect him to go down and attempt to get out of the building; they wouldn’t think to look up.

The roof was no warmer than it had been hours before. The Darkling hunched down behind a particularly large gargoyle to wait. Nikolai Lantsov and his friends would be out on the lawn within minutes. If he tried to scale the building now he would be seen and captured. Fortunately, it would probably be hours before anyone, the police included thought to check the roof, so he could wait here for the right moment to make his escape.

He took a moment to see to his side wound. The wound was bleeding but still rather shallow. He was lucky the girl had been shooting a handgun, her aim would probably be lethal with a rifle.

He ripped a section out of his robe, pointedly ignoring the part of his brain that was chattering out the exact reprimands Baghra would have used had she still been alive. He knew he’d messed up, but he was going to get out of it and everything out be okay.

He wrapped the strip of fabric tightly around his chest and settled back against the gargoyle to wait.

~~~~

It was dawn by the time the Darkling made it back to the apartment. He showered to thaw out, stitched up and bandaged his wound, then he contacted the Apparat to come with the rest of the money.

When the Apparat showed up, the top floor of the apartment was clothed in darkness and the Darkling was back in his robes. He’d cleaned some of the blood off in the sink but it would take much more time than he had to wash it completely and fix the ripped part.

The Apparat paid the second half of the five hundred thousand dollars without asking for details about the job so the Darkling didn’t bother mentioning that Nikolai Lantsov was still alive. He’d gotten his money and the Apparat knew better than to cross him so it would be fine.

As the Apparat left, the Darkling bid the other man goodbye using his real name, just to throw him off and make him even less likely to attempt revenge when he realized Nikolai Lantsov was still alive. Once was gone, the Darkling locked the door and opened the curtains before heading downstairs to pick a bedroom.

Most people who came to hire the Darkling assumed that the room they saw was the only one that he used, but in reality the Darkling owned the whole building. There was enough space to house many people, but he lived alone. The building was completely furnished but modestly so even though there was absolutely no reason for that either.

The Darkling was one of the richest people on earth. The fees required to hire the Darkling were so high that Baghra had been set for life before he had become a teenager. He had enough money that he and a couple others could live lavishly without ever thinking about working again.

He wasn’t exactly sure why he kept taking jobs when he didn’t need to, though he suspected it was because he had no idea what he would do with himself if he didn’t.

He pointedly did not think about these things as he picked a room with a large, soft king-sized bed, and collapsed onto it. He curled up under the blankets and slept.

~~~~

The Darkling woke up after the sun had set and stumbled groggily to the nearest kitchen to find something to eat. His side was throbbing so he took a couple painkillers and a pill from his antibiotic stash because the last thing he needed was a raging infection.

He dug through the fridge looking for something that he actually wanted to eat. He knew that he had leftover pizza in one of his multiple fridges but this apparently wasn’t the one. He considered trying to find that pizza, but he didn’t feel like wandering around checking all the refrigerators. Instead he warmed up some soup that probably hadn’t been sitting for too long.

He had just finished eating when the proximity alarms for the staircase leading to the upstairs door started going off. Someone was coming to have an audience with the Darkling.

He threw the empty bowl into the sink and bolted for the interior stairs. He made it to the room just as there was a knock at the door. He threw the still-dirty Darkling robes on, pulled the mask on and yanked the blinds closed. Then he turned on the tiny lights and settled down in the specific place Baghra had marked out all those years before. When he was sure he was ready he pressed the hidden button to open the door.

Two men entered the room. Neither was in particularly good shape and both carried themselves with the pompous poise of extremely rich and extremely arrogant men. Granted, basically everyone who came to the Darkling with jobs was extremely rich and extremely arrogant, but these two seems somehow more so than usual.

The Darkling watched without speaking as they fumbled and stumbled their way across the dark room and sat down before him. One set a stack of hundred dollar bills on the floor between them; the consultation fee.

The Darkling picked up the bills and checked them by tilting the stack towards one of the tiny blue lights. Baghra had spent literally decades fiddling with the arrangement of the lights until they only benefited her and left her customers floundering in the dark. When she’d died the Darkling had seen no need to do anything but tweak the angles to accommodate his larger form.

Two carefully placed lights gave him a view of both customer’s faces, and the Darkling studied them as he slid the money into his robes and waited for them to speak.

“I am Jakob Hertzoon,” one man said. “This is my business partner, we are here to-”

“No you’re not,” the Darkling said in the Darkling voice.

“Excuse me?” the man asked.

“You’re not Jakob Hertzoon,” the Darkling said. “You’re Pekka Rollins. And you,” he gestured at the other man, “you’re Jan Van Eck. Just because no one knows who I am does not mean that I am not knowledgeable about the inhabitants of Ketterdam.”

“I-” Pekka Rollins looked nervous now, it was obvious that he hadn’t expected the Darkling to recognize the false name. “I…”

“So we lied about our names,” Jan Van Eck said leaning forward slightly. “We still have a job for you.”

“I’m listening,” The Darkling said steepling his fingers together.

Jan Van Eck pulled a folder out his briefcase and handed it over. The Darkling took it but didn’t open it because that would reveal that he had enough light to read it. “That is a file on a man named Bo Yul-Bayur. He used to be a practicing doctor, but recently he’s been doing medical research for Ketterdam Hospital. He has some research we want. We tried to buy it from him but he went into hiding with his son. We want to hire you to find Yul-Bayur, retrieve his research and...remove him and his son from the picture.”

This would not be the first job the Darkling had taken that would require him to track down his target, but it was never a good idea to seem too interested. “Finding Yul-Bayur might take me a considerable amount of time,” he said injecting as much disinterest as possible into his voice. “You’d have to make it worth my time.”

“Is ten million dollars worth your time?” Van Eck asked.

It felt like the world actually stopped spinning, only years of Baghra’s lessons kept him from reacting. He had never been offered a job with that much payment, and Baghra hadn’t either. When the Darkling had been in his early teens, Baghra had assassinated five members of the City Council at a million dollars a head, and that was the biggest job either of them had either done. Ten million was like a dream.

“Do you actually have that much money?” he asked when he’d controlled his emotions enough to speak in his androgynous voice without emotion. “You do realize that I charge half up front which means that you’ll need to give me five million before I even start on this job.”

Van Eck reached into his briefcase and set several more stacks of hundred dollar bills on the floor. “That’s a million dollars right there,” he said quietly. “If you take the job, I’ll give you another million every two weeks until we reach ten million. It will take us five months to get there and I imagine that you’ll be done long before then if you’re as good as everyone says you are. When you finish, I’ll give you the rest of the money all at once.”

The Darkling picked up one of the stacks of bills and checked them, trying not to look as excited as he actually was.

“Do we have a deal?” Van Eck pressed in a strange tone that suggested that he might have realized just how interested the Darkling was. Pekka Rollins looked on, staring at the money like he wanted nothing better than to steal it.

The Darkling knew he shouldn’t agree right away, that he should tell them he’d get back to them and take time to do some research. The reason that Baghra had gotten that five million dollar job was because a group of people on the City Council had pooled their money to pay her. Van Eck was claiming to have ten million to pay an assassin with no help. Something was fishy, but the Darkling found he didn’t particularly care.

That realization was a little startling. It seemed that he didn’t just take jobs because he didn’t know what else to do; it seemed there was an element of greed to this too. It didn’t matter how much money he had; he liked to make more.

“You have a deal, Mr. Van Eck,” The Darkling said. “Now, what kind of research do you want me to retrieve?”

--

Hope you enjoyed. I’m not going to promise anything more in AU because I don’t want to tie myself to anything, but I am thinking about other stories.

Please fav, follow and review!

Emjen

#the grisha trilogy #grishaverse #six of crows #fanfiction #fanfic #modern au #heavyverse #That's what I'm calling this AU #hopefully that doesn't have any negative connotations #(because that would not be good) #the darkling #aleksander morozova #baghra #baghra morozova #assassin!Darkling #alina starkov #nikolai lantsov #nikolai's family #the king of ravka #pekka rollins #jan van eck #emjenenla #tw: violence #emjen writes

[easyfoodnetwork]

I’m Through Being Silent About the Restaurant Industry’s Racism

Alexandra Bowman

As a Black server and diner, I’ve seen how racism in the restaurant industry plays out on both sides of the table

This is Eater Voices, where chefs, restaurateurs, writers, and industry insiders share their perspectives about the food world, tackling a range of topics through the lens of personal experience. First-time writer? Don’t worry, we’ll pair you with an editor to make sure your piece hits the mark. If you want to write an Eater Voices essay, please send us a couple paragraphs explaining what you want to write about and why you are the person to write it to [email protected].

A few weeks ago, I watched my tattoo artist, Doreen Garner, post an Instagram video about the racism in her industry, and saw Brianna Noble get up on her horse and demand change in the equestrian world. They inspired me to go on Facebook to address the racism where I work: the restaurant industry.

As I wrote in my Facebook post, the restaurant industry is extremely racist: Its racism is inseparable from the history of dining out in this country. Restaurants here flourished after the Civil War, a period when Black people in the hospitality sector were still technically working for free due to the widespread adoption of tipping, which allowed employers to avoid paying their workers. Racism literally shaped the restaurant landscape, too: Here on Long Island, where I live, the racist practice of redlining prevented Black restaurateurs from obtaining business loans or leasing buildings in particular towns — and thus denied them the same opportunities as their white counterparts.

The effects of such discrimination have been everlasting — something that I have learned firsthand as both a Black server and diner. In the six years I worked in restaurants, I never saw BIPOC (Black, indigenous, and people of color) in management, or even a Black bartender; most people of color were forced to remain in the back of house, or as bussers and runners in the front of house. And as a diner, I’ve seen how the industry’s culture of discrimination plays out from the other side of the table, too.

I began working in restaurants in 2009, while attending grad school. The first place I served was a corporate Southern-themed steakhouse on Long Island; not long after I started there, a coworker was fired for using racial slurs about a Black family who was dining with us. The restaurant’s owner individually apologized to every Black employee, and the swiftness of his actions assured me that racism would not be tolerated. The following year, I began my career in fine dining at a popular seafood restaurant on Manhasset Bay. The staff was mostly BIPOC, and included several Black females. This restaurant had its issues, but during the two years I worked there, diversity was not one of them.

But when I returned to the industry in 2018, after a six-year hiatus, I discovered that my previous experiences were anomalies. One evening, while I was training as a server at a farm-to-table restaurant, I asked the trainer how she made recommendations. “Well, they’re Asian, so I recommended the octopus because Asians eat weird food,” she said of the table we’d just served. “Excuse me?” I replied sternly. She tried to backpedal, saying something about how “Italian guys” also loved octopus.

Months later, I caught one of the managers and two servers discussing the treatment of Black people as it relates to our work ethic: The manager implied that there were times we were treated better than we deserved because of our skin color. The two servers looked shocked, but neither corrected her. Being the only Black employee and server of color, I quit immediately. But that evening, the restaurant’s owner and I had an honest conversation. She advised me to not let ignorant people affect my wallet, and she had a point: I was broke and living in my mom’s guest room. So I stayed. But, in hindsight, I should’ve demanded that this manager be fired. Although she was eventually let go, it was for her inferior management skills, not her continued racist antics.

Although the guests at that restaurant usually treated me with respect, I was degraded on several occasions. One evening, while I was recommending wine to a table, one of the diners, a white man, winked at me and said, “the blacker the berry, the sweeter the juice. Am I right?” There was so much I wanted to say, especially to his wife, who just laughed nervously. Instead, I recommended the tempranillo and walked away. Who could I tell? If a manager wouldn’t be checked, how would a guest?

I stayed at the restaurant for a year and a half. Shortly before my departure, one of my customers, a senior citizen, grabbed me. “You know what they say about Black women?” he whispered in my ear. “You taste like chocolate.” He then attempted to kiss me. I pulled away, but I didn’t want to hurt him — I could already imagine the headline: “Black Server Abused Elderly White Man at Long Island Restaurant.” So again, I walked away. But this time, I cried in the hallway while my coworker consoled me. Others seemed to think I was overreacting, as if the customer had complimented me. I didn’t have the energy to point out that Black women are neither a fetish nor a fantasy, and that the sexual harassment we often experience is linked to the ways we’ve been hypersexualized throughout history.

Most recently, until the pandemic began, I was working as a server and marketing consultant at a new Long Island steakhouse. Three of my coworkers were equal-opportunity racists who made derogatory comments about everybody: from the Latinx staff members to a table of Black people, no one was off limits. Almost everyone who worked there was aware of it, but the attitude was one of “You know how this industry is.” One time, when I defended some guests whom one of these coworkers presumed were Jewish, he asked if I was a “Black Jew.” In response, I referenced “First they came...” and expressed that I stand up for everyone, and then politely told him to shut the hell up. He did, but continued to be openly racist towards me — the restaurant’s lone Black employee — and the Latinx bartender.

When you’re the only Black employee at a business, you realize that you’re an exception to its discriminatory hiring practices.

While the restaurant’s clientele was generally kind, there were still the middle-aged white men thinking they were Tupac, telling me I was the prettiest Black girl they’d ever seen. And the white women who felt the need to be “down” when I approached the table. “Hey girl!” one of them told me. “Your makeup is on fleek. We’re trying to get lit.” Know that I am laughing at you, I thought. You sound like Len from 30 Rock. You are 45 years old in a Talbot’s pant suit. Please stop.

When you’re the only Black employee at a business, you realize that you’re an exception to its discriminatory hiring practices. It is debilitating to constantly defend yourself while remaining professional, and exhausting to become a representative for the entire community. One elevated pitch in your tone may verify a stereotype. And so for your own self-preservation, you learn to ignore it and not react. No matter the profession, we’re conditioned to be silent.

But as a patron, I do not have the same restraint. I always inform the manager. When I do, I’m sometimes offered a discount or a free round of drinks. I appreciate that, but still wonder: Did they hear me or were they just trying to appease me?

Because ignorant servers have tells. The finger across the neck, signaling that you do not want me in your section. The “couldn’t care less” attitude when greeting my table after making me wait for 10 minutes. The interactions with me in comparison to the white people next to me. We all have bad days as servers. But I am one of you, and I know the difference between a bad day and bad behavior. And so I’d ask you to recognize that your low tip is not a derivative of a guest’s skin color, but often, the result of your behavior toward them because of their skin color.

And to my fellow Black female servers, especially those in fine dining, remember you are worthy and your integrity is priceless. I am broke and tired too, but change is no longer a request — it is an ultimatum. Many servers are currently in a position of power; as restaurants try to reopen, employers are struggling to staff up. So before you literally risk your life by returning to work, make sure your professional environment is safe from health risks and racism.

To non-Black restaurant owners, I’d ask you to be introspective. Acknowledge that you benefit from a problematic system, and that your restaurant isn’t immune to racism. And if you still haven’t developed and posted a Black Lives Matter action plan of solidarity, do so. I am empathetic to the fact that you recently took a hit from COVID-19, but racism is also a deadly virus. You cannot plead for pandemic support by posting “We’re all in this together,” but choose to remain silent now. Diversify your staff. Schedule a mandatory team meeting to discuss racism and how to personally combat it — and explicitly state that it is immediate grounds for dismissal. If you have BIPOC staff, reassure them that they are protected and supported; keep in mind that you are legally liable when employees, and guests, engage in discriminatory practices. And remember: The Black dollar is strong. It is imperative that we are appreciated and welcomed at every place of business.

I gave similar recommendations to my most recent employer. As his marketing consultant, I urged him to write a statement of solidarity; as one of his servers, I demanded that my racist coworkers be fired, and a meeting be held to discuss racism at the restaurant. Yet again, my concerns were dismissed and overlooked. But this time, I am through being silent.

Lauren Allen is an experienced marketing specialist in the live entertainment and food hospitality sectors.

from Eater - All https://ift.tt/2ZLs4vY https://ift.tt/3eeV7NA

Alexandra Bowman

As a Black server and diner, I’ve seen how racism in the restaurant industry plays out on both sides of the table

This is Eater Voices, where chefs, restaurateurs, writers, and industry insiders share their perspectives about the food world, tackling a range of topics through the lens of personal experience. First-time writer? Don’t worry, we’ll pair you with an editor to make sure your piece hits the mark. If you want to write an Eater Voices essay, please send us a couple paragraphs explaining what you want to write about and why you are the person to write it to [email protected].

A few weeks ago, I watched my tattoo artist, Doreen Garner, post an Instagram video about the racism in her industry, and saw Brianna Noble get up on her horse and demand change in the equestrian world. They inspired me to go on Facebook to address the racism where I work: the restaurant industry.

As I wrote in my Facebook post, the restaurant industry is extremely racist: Its racism is inseparable from the history of dining out in this country. Restaurants here flourished after the Civil War, a period when Black people in the hospitality sector were still technically working for free due to the widespread adoption of tipping, which allowed employers to avoid paying their workers. Racism literally shaped the restaurant landscape, too: Here on Long Island, where I live, the racist practice of redlining prevented Black restaurateurs from obtaining business loans or leasing buildings in particular towns — and thus denied them the same opportunities as their white counterparts.

The effects of such discrimination have been everlasting — something that I have learned firsthand as both a Black server and diner. In the six years I worked in restaurants, I never saw BIPOC (Black, indigenous, and people of color) in management, or even a Black bartender; most people of color were forced to remain in the back of house, or as bussers and runners in the front of house. And as a diner, I’ve seen how the industry’s culture of discrimination plays out from the other side of the table, too.

I began working in restaurants in 2009, while attending grad school. The first place I served was a corporate Southern-themed steakhouse on Long Island; not long after I started there, a coworker was fired for using racial slurs about a Black family who was dining with us. The restaurant’s owner individually apologized to every Black employee, and the swiftness of his actions assured me that racism would not be tolerated. The following year, I began my career in fine dining at a popular seafood restaurant on Manhasset Bay. The staff was mostly BIPOC, and included several Black females. This restaurant had its issues, but during the two years I worked there, diversity was not one of them.

But when I returned to the industry in 2018, after a six-year hiatus, I discovered that my previous experiences were anomalies. One evening, while I was training as a server at a farm-to-table restaurant, I asked the trainer how she made recommendations. “Well, they’re Asian, so I recommended the octopus because Asians eat weird food,” she said of the table we’d just served. “Excuse me?” I replied sternly. She tried to backpedal, saying something about how “Italian guys” also loved octopus.

Months later, I caught one of the managers and two servers discussing the treatment of Black people as it relates to our work ethic: The manager implied that there were times we were treated better than we deserved because of our skin color. The two servers looked shocked, but neither corrected her. Being the only Black employee and server of color, I quit immediately. But that evening, the restaurant’s owner and I had an honest conversation. She advised me to not let ignorant people affect my wallet, and she had a point: I was broke and living in my mom’s guest room. So I stayed. But, in hindsight, I should’ve demanded that this manager be fired. Although she was eventually let go, it was for her inferior management skills, not her continued racist antics.

Although the guests at that restaurant usually treated me with respect, I was degraded on several occasions. One evening, while I was recommending wine to a table, one of the diners, a white man, winked at me and said, “the blacker the berry, the sweeter the juice. Am I right?” There was so much I wanted to say, especially to his wife, who just laughed nervously. Instead, I recommended the tempranillo and walked away. Who could I tell? If a manager wouldn’t be checked, how would a guest?

I stayed at the restaurant for a year and a half. Shortly before my departure, one of my customers, a senior citizen, grabbed me. “You know what they say about Black women?” he whispered in my ear. “You taste like chocolate.” He then attempted to kiss me. I pulled away, but I didn’t want to hurt him — I could already imagine the headline: “Black Server Abused Elderly White Man at Long Island Restaurant.” So again, I walked away. But this time, I cried in the hallway while my coworker consoled me. Others seemed to think I was overreacting, as if the customer had complimented me. I didn’t have the energy to point out that Black women are neither a fetish nor a fantasy, and that the sexual harassment we often experience is linked to the ways we’ve been hypersexualized throughout history.

Most recently, until the pandemic began, I was working as a server and marketing consultant at a new Long Island steakhouse. Three of my coworkers were equal-opportunity racists who made derogatory comments about everybody: from the Latinx staff members to a table of Black people, no one was off limits. Almost everyone who worked there was aware of it, but the attitude was one of “You know how this industry is.” One time, when I defended some guests whom one of these coworkers presumed were Jewish, he asked if I was a “Black Jew.” In response, I referenced “First they came...” and expressed that I stand up for everyone, and then politely told him to shut the hell up. He did, but continued to be openly racist towards me — the restaurant’s lone Black employee — and the Latinx bartender.

When you’re the only Black employee at a business, you realize that you’re an exception to its discriminatory hiring practices.

While the restaurant’s clientele was generally kind, there were still the middle-aged white men thinking they were Tupac, telling me I was the prettiest Black girl they’d ever seen. And the white women who felt the need to be “down” when I approached the table. “Hey girl!” one of them told me. “Your makeup is on fleek. We’re trying to get lit.” Know that I am laughing at you, I thought. You sound like Len from 30 Rock. You are 45 years old in a Talbot’s pant suit. Please stop.

When you’re the only Black employee at a business, you realize that you’re an exception to its discriminatory hiring practices. It is debilitating to constantly defend yourself while remaining professional, and exhausting to become a representative for the entire community. One elevated pitch in your tone may verify a stereotype. And so for your own self-preservation, you learn to ignore it and not react. No matter the profession, we’re conditioned to be silent.

But as a patron, I do not have the same restraint. I always inform the manager. When I do, I’m sometimes offered a discount or a free round of drinks. I appreciate that, but still wonder: Did they hear me or were they just trying to appease me?

Because ignorant servers have tells. The finger across the neck, signaling that you do not want me in your section. The “couldn’t care less” attitude when greeting my table after making me wait for 10 minutes. The interactions with me in comparison to the white people next to me. We all have bad days as servers. But I am one of you, and I know the difference between a bad day and bad behavior. And so I’d ask you to recognize that your low tip is not a derivative of a guest’s skin color, but often, the result of your behavior toward them because of their skin color.

And to my fellow Black female servers, especially those in fine dining, remember you are worthy and your integrity is priceless. I am broke and tired too, but change is no longer a request — it is an ultimatum. Many servers are currently in a position of power; as restaurants try to reopen, employers are struggling to staff up. So before you literally risk your life by returning to work, make sure your professional environment is safe from health risks and racism.

To non-Black restaurant owners, I’d ask you to be introspective. Acknowledge that you benefit from a problematic system, and that your restaurant isn’t immune to racism. And if you still haven’t developed and posted a Black Lives Matter action plan of solidarity, do so. I am empathetic to the fact that you recently took a hit from COVID-19, but racism is also a deadly virus. You cannot plead for pandemic support by posting “We’re all in this together,” but choose to remain silent now. Diversify your staff. Schedule a mandatory team meeting to discuss racism and how to personally combat it — and explicitly state that it is immediate grounds for dismissal. If you have BIPOC staff, reassure them that they are protected and supported; keep in mind that you are legally liable when employees, and guests, engage in discriminatory practices. And remember: The Black dollar is strong. It is imperative that we are appreciated and welcomed at every place of business.

I gave similar recommendations to my most recent employer. As his marketing consultant, I urged him to write a statement of solidarity; as one of his servers, I demanded that my racist coworkers be fired, and a meeting be held to discuss racism at the restaurant. Yet again, my concerns were dismissed and overlooked. But this time, I am through being silent.

Lauren Allen is an experienced marketing specialist in the live entertainment and food hospitality sectors.

from Eater - All https://ift.tt/2ZLs4vY via Blogger https://ift.tt/2ZcBvFu

#Blogger #cooking #Eater #food #recipes

[ryall-hyena]

Blog 1 - Life in a Dustbowl

It’s a Saturday, and here I brood in a small, dark, cold room, 500 kilometres from home and 950 kilometres from love. I am stuck in hyena purgatory.

I did not anticipate this at the start of the year. I pause for a moment to empathize with Boba Fett: one moment you think you’re a total badass, and the next you go out like a punk and fall into the sarlacc pit.

This is my seventh week spent in the middle of nowhere - also known as the Karoo. I suspect Eustice Bagge lives here.

I have been given the honour or punishment - my employer’s intentions are a mystery – of auditing a business here. It is expected that I will be here until the end of November. I feel the tendrils of insanity, gently caressing my mind.

My phone salaciously vibrates in my pants, and I immediately snatch it out my pocket: a message from the outside world. A brisk smile spreads across my face: it is my dear companion. A brief exchange ensues and is ended by the text, “cat need feed.” I furrow my brow and respond, “cats are stupid.” “Why don’t you let the cat feed you for a change? Eat your fucking cat, and be done with it.”

My companion humours me with a polite ‘hehe.’ He is all too familiar with my distasteful jokes, and my contempt for his cat.  

It may surprise you to know, that hyenas are not actually members of the Canidae family, but are instead part of their own family, Hyaenida, part of the suborder, Feliformia, which includes cats and ferrets. Still, I have little love for anthropomorphic cats, let alone, non-anthropomorphic ones.

Every romantic evening spent at my lover’s abode, we excitedly stay up late, but then when we wish to sleep in the next day, the cat will scratch his room’s door and meow at 06:00 until it is fed. Its other crimes against hyena kind include:  also fond of sleeping on my electronics (it is hard getting cat dander out of your keyboard); clawing your fingers when I stroke it; and finding a way to circumnavigate locked doors, just to interrupt intimate moments. If pets are meant to piss their owners off, then my companion’s cat is an exceptional pet.

Once again I am alone. I reflect on the events of the past few weeks.

On Monday of week two, I arrived at the business’s office, expecting a set of documents I requested in the prior week to be ready. I confidently walked into one of the staff member’s offices, Ricky, and asked for the goods. He laughed nervously and told me he had not had time to compile all the information I needed. I asked him why and he responded vaguely that he had been busy. I had indeed seen him busy using a fidget spinner, and browsing the internet that week. I bet it must have been exhausting for him.

I maintained professional composure, and sternly told Ricky, “this is the third time I am requesting this set of documents, and this is now delaying the audit. I will have to send out a written notice to the chief financial officer (CFO).” “Oh, okay,” was Ricky’s obstinate response, as he turned back to his computer to check his emails.   I promptly stepped onto his desk, dropped my trousers, and unloaded a deuce onto it before he could react. The mushroom risotto with white-wine sauce I cooked for myself and my colleagues last night had congealed into a highly offensive log. There would be no question that I owned that desk. I proceeded to threaten Ricky, “this is but a taste of the shit-storm you’ll get if I don’t get my documents by tomorrow morning!” At least, that is what I would have liked to have done. I wish I could tell you, dear reader, that I knocked Ricky’s teeth out of his grin with a cricket bat, but I live in the real world, where Nicki Minaj is a celebrated artist; sleep is necessary; my country’s president openly claims his political party is more important than the country itself; and hyena auditors are not respected.

That was Ricky’s own folly however. He was suspended the other day pending disciplinary hearing on charges of gross negligence. Those charges had nothing to do with me, but my letter of complaint to the CFO - which in turn gets distributed to the rest of the directors and affects her bonus – was less than thrilling for her, and would not count in Ricky’s favour given the CFO would be chairing his disciplinary hearing. I took a moment to browse through the company’s payroll data, and saw that Ricky was being generously paid, which made me wonder about his negative attitude.  His responsibilities weren’t many either. I took a moment to sympathize with the CFO, who had just joined the business, and who was surrounded by unmotivated, incompetent Rickys.

  Wednesday of week two was an entertaining day. My colleagues and I finished work at 18:00, and one of them – a rather prideful lion, with whom I had some history – announced to the team that he would be going on a run as his exercise for the week. I politely asked if I could join him for the run, to which he smugly responded, “no offense Ryall, but I prefer to run at my own pace, and I don’t think you will be able to keep up with me.”

His hubris astounded me. The lion had no idea about what my athletic ability was – I could be on par with DJ Khaled, or Usain Bolt for all he knew – and he had boasted about his uninspiring running times before, yet here he was confident that I would only be an annoying hindrance to him. He had always been a bit of a strange-cat. I recalled how, in spite of our very amicable and lengthy interactions at staff functions and in the office, he had actually rejected my Facebook request, deciding that, I was not worthy of being added to his list of 900 friends, 30 of whom were mutual friends and colleagues at our firm. At one staff function, after I had gleefully grabbed a Nutella-filled pancake, and joined a circle of colleagues with the intention of mingling. As I joined in, the lion interrupted a pleasant flamingo who was regaling the crowd with a riveting story about how she won the national women’s fencing championships, and addressed me. “You know Ryall, you shouldn’t eat those pancakes: they are so bad for you and are really high in calories.” The flamingo frowned at me with confusion and I looked back at her with an expression that communicated I was also just as bemused as she was. “I am quite active, and I don’t often have such treats.” I thought that would be the end of the socially awkward conversation but I was surprised yet again. “Yeah but still they are really fattening,” he insisted. “I have always been quite skinny, and have never put on weight before: I am sure I will be fine,” I curtly responded. “Well it might become a problem soon,” he retorted. By that stage I decided to ignore him, and let the flamingo resume her story. I had no interest in entertaining this extremely inappropriate and public fascination with my weight and Nutella pancakes.

To put this into perspective, at 185cm and 72kg, I would describe myself as a slender hyena. What made the confrontation more bizarre is that most of the staff around us were enjoying the pancakes, and so why Andrew the lion had decided to single me out was a mystery.  I was determined to defy Andrew, and reaffirm my allegiance to chocolaty-goodness, and so immediately grabbed another pancake I devoured it in front of him. The second sweet, warm, nutty delicacy was just as delicious as the first. I wondered if his girlfriend – a meek and forgettable domestic cat and colleague of ours – had been pestering him about healthy eating.

Back to the Wednesday of week two at the Karoo, I took a moment to sum up Andre. The lion before me was more-or-less the same height as me; had a medium build; and admittedly was quite handsome. He had some regal features about him – like a thick mane and a chiselled jawline – but he had rather amusingly developed a rather regal belly, since that fateful Pancake Day. “He should have been more concerned with his own diet,” I thought to myself.

  “I don’t mind if you run ahead of me, and I will just trail behind,” I said. “Okay, fine” he conceded. “My pace is five minutes per kilometre: what is yours?” he asked. At that point, I had to exert a lot of willpower not to grin. “I am not sure, I have never timed myself,” I lied. “Well, look, I will run with you for the first kilometre, and we can chat a bit, but after that, I am heading off at my own pace.” “Thanks, that’s kind of you.” “Alright, get changed and I will meet you outside.” I went to my room, and opened my suitcase. I had packed my Two-Oceans Half-Marathon running shirt, running pants, and hidden socks, but that would have given the game away. Instead, I decided to dress like a dork: I put on an old, long-sleeved shirt, some regular shorts, and my work socks, which were much too long for my shoes.

I went outside and Andrew was waiting, with his smart-watch and fancy running kit. Even with his apparel, he did not make a convincing sportsman.  

He told me he had plotted out an 8 kilometre route for us, and explained it to me. I simply smiled and nodded. He paused to ask if I would like a head start, but I declined and told asked him to start. He rolled his eyes, and started to jog. I started too. His strides were a bit too small for me, and already I started to pull ahead. He quickened his pace, and cautioned me not to start too fast, otherwise I would tire myself out: I was already running at an uncomfortably slow pace. It was about a minute into the run and already he was showing signs of fatigue, trying to keep up. I decided at that point to start idle chatter. “So how is this audit going for you,” I asked casually. “It – huff- is – fine,” he panted. I continued the chatter, and at this point he became visibly irritated, and told me, between gasps for air, to go on at my own pace.  He was under the impression that I was sprinting to try show him up, and that I would tire out soon. “Okay!” I said excitedly, and I doubled my speed, and shot off. It felt great to be running again, expending some energy, after being cooped up in that office for the day. I turned back: within the space of a minute, Andre Lion was but a speck in the distance. This was my race pace. I decided to be sociable, turn around, and run back to him. “Have you run before!?” he exclaimed. “Sometimes, yes.” He asked, between his panting, if I had run any races and I told him a few. I pulled away again into the distances, and would run back to him two more times. When it became clear he no longer had any breath with which to speak, I told him I would see him back at the guest-house we were staying at.

I arrived back as my other colleagues were returning from some grocery shopping. They asked me where Andrew was, and I peered into the distance. I couldn’t see him. I told them he was still coming, and so we all waited. Six minutes later, Andrew arrived, exhausted, and with an expression of utter shock on his face.

My colleagues laughed, and one of them asked Andrew if we had ran the same distance, unaware of what had transpired. He admitted that I had run about twice the distance he had. They were surprised, as he had often bragged about his running ability in the office.

I thanked him for the run, and he thanked me too, acknowledging that he had no idea I was a runner. At that point, he decided to change his approach, and declared to my audit team that I was an Olympic-level runner – a gross exaggeration. I was not even a provincial-level runner: he just had delusions of grandeur. Pompous fool: his humiliation was of great satisfaction to me, and a victory for hyena kind, the malevolent lion species. I told him his praise was too much, but that I appreciated the sentiment nonetheless. In the evenings of that week, we would bond, drink, eat, and play games. Board games mostly, but I also introduced the audit team to the marvels of video games, and we played Quiplash. One of the quieter girls on the team – a modest mouse – surprised everyone with her hilarious Quiplash to the prompt of, “A good name for a 1940s silent pornographic film is: _______,” to which she wittily responded, “She Came Quietly.” Back in the present, I can’t help but sigh. Week two was a good week. It’s been so long since I have been here. I wonder if I will feel like a stranger in my own home when I get back. I look at the time, and notice I have less than an hour before I have to start working again. This coming week is a major deadline, so the team and I are putting in a few hours this weekend to ensure we meet that deadline. The final push so that we can go home on Friday. If all goes well, this will be the last week that my colleagues and I will have to work from this town, and we will wrap up the remainder of this work in Cape Town. The promise of returning home and being free of this place, fills me with renewed fervour.

With this in mind, I resolve to conclude my first post, and continue my story when I have the will and the time. End post 1. Thanks for reading!

#furry #hyena

[murdocklovespage]

So, when you talk about your "long-winded and disjointed list of problems" with season 2...I'm curious to ask, what's on that list?

It’s been a few months since I’ve re-watched Season 2, so feel free to correct me if I’ve misremembered something. 

My biggest problems with season 2:

The Timeline: 

Everything has to take place in the span of a few weeks? If it worked out logically, Matt wouldn’t have self-destructed the way he did. He catches the Punisher in a few days, the trial happens a week later (riiight...) and then lasts a few days. Then the Punisher gets out in less time than the length of the trial. And all of this is happening during very time-sensitive Hand discoveries? Kevin McCallister voice: I don’t think so. 

Nelson and Murdock

How in the hell do two men with expensive law degrees afford to live in New York when they are (maybe) paying the rent for their space and nothing else? You can’t ignore that fact for an entire second season. Maybe Matt could survive off of whatever money his father left him, but that seems unlikely. And I haven’t gotten the vibe that Foggy is rich like in the comics. Plus, the Punisher certainly isn’t paying them, so the best case scenario would be that hopefully their careers aren’t ruined and more (criminal) clients to show up on their doorstep after everything is done?

I know DD is a dark show, but one of the best elements of the show is the relationships. Foggy and Karen balance Matt out - they are his ties to his humanity. But the second half of the show he is off screwing them over and they barely interact with him for the last four episodes - a good 1/4th of the season. I don’t think he even speaks with Foggy in those last episodes. Foggy basically disappears from the show - and the fact that Matt doesn’t see him while he’s standing on the roof of the same hospital is so incredibly aggravating. He’s been Daredevil for a year? A year and a half? So he was a decent friend before all that and then became an asshole? Does his alter-ego have that big a hold on him? He really needed to have more conversations with Father Lantom, that’s for damn sure.

They didn’t use Foggy enough after the trial. He’s so much better than the role of sanctimonious best friend. In the beginning of season 2 he is more accepting of Matt’s nightly activities and I think that’s because he knows that Matt isn’t going to stop. But no, we need to rehash the conversation they had in Murdock v. Nelson (which is my favorite episode of S.1, btw) because Matt just doesn’t learn. Foggy is justifiably upset with his partner, but it comes off as annoying. 

Whenever Matt is an asshole, Foggy ends up being an asshole to Karen too, which is garbage. He’s like, “I’m out,” but he is her employer. She’s losing everything after all her sacrifices for their firm. I know she’s always trying to keep things together when he just wants distance from Matt, but both of their lives are crumbling and his mentality is basically, “I can’t deal with you right now, Karen. Even though you helped me get through all of this.”

The fact that Matt thinks he can promise Karen that he’ll protect her when he dodges her calls, lies to her, and ignores her is flat out asinine. And for the majority of the show, she’s just nods her head when he says he’ll protect her. If she doesn’t know that he’s Daredevil, the only frame of reference she has is him letting her stay at his apartment (which wasn’t attacked, so I guess that counts), and him telling her she needs to be more careful. But seriously, how does he even think he’s protecting her? He was ok with her going with Grotto, who was being hunted (not his fault, but a good example of failing to protect her), then her apartment is shot up. He straight up failed at what he promised (with the exception of the DA’s office) and those are only season 2 examples. I know he’s human, and he can’t be everywhere, but quit acting like you BELIEVE you’ll protect her, Matt!

He was finally willing to go off with her into protective custody - to which I was like, “YES,” even though I feel like it was uncharacteristic of him. How long would he have stuck around if she’d let him? He could have been doing this the entire time. Thank God she told him that he wasn’t hers to protect in the end. He needed that rude awakening.  

The Trial

Why would N&M let Frank wear the orange jumpsuit during the majority of the trial when they knew he needed to be humanized? They never would have done that in a real courtroom. Also, there was no way Castle was going to be a good boy and give a good testimony when he thought he was justified and LIKED killing everyone. That was a bad call, Karen. He can’t use his sex glare on the whole courtroom.

Frank was annoyed about the PTSD argument, but they should have explained that his PTSD didn’t stem from the war. He saw his family butchered in front of him, was shot in the head, and was almost murdered after surviving all of that. You don’t think you have PTSD? You think going on a murderous rampage and enjoying it is normal? There’s clearly something wrong with you, bro. And if you don’t see that, there’s the proof.

I want Matt to be a decent lawyer with ever fiber of my being. But instead, he goes off on this tangent that should have been his opening remarks (if he hadn’t slept through it.) He was testifying for Frank, not “questioning the witness.” How did Samantha Reyes let that slide?

I cringe every time they say they could “win this.” Like, how? He still killed dozens of people. Do they mean that Castle would be put in a mental institution? Is that winning?

The Villains - I feel like they made the same mistake a lot of superhero movies (and Luke Cage) make, and that is including WAY too many villains. The show felt incredibly disjointed. We have The Hand, the Punisher, The Blacksmith, Elektra and Stick for a hot minute, and Fisk. It’s ridiculous.

This is my biggest issue with Season 2. It felt like they decided to tell an incomplete story in order to set up The Punisher, Iron Fist, and the Defenders.

The Hand 

had been around since season 1 and I STILL don’t feel like I have a decent grasp of what they are/why they’re doing what they’re doing. They should have just been thrown in during the last episode, because that’s how much information I felt like I got after 9 episodes.

Even with Iron Fist, I feel like the Hand was barely explained. Now it’s also some cult that good people get swept up into (but when they try to leave, the people who cared about them are instantly willing to drain their bodies of blood and fight them… sure...) I feel like Matt whenever Stick talks about the Chaste. Annoyed and in disbelief that it even exists.

Somehow the enormous hole situation is enough to pull Matt back in? He’s like, “I’m not helping you anymore, Elektra. Oh wait, there are giant holes in Manhattan. Ok, I’m in.”

Why are centuries old trained ninjas such terrible fighters? They don’t even seem like real bad guys. They’re expendable and they suck.  

I feel like the real reason the writers had the Hand kidnap all of the people that DD had saved was to give Karen a reason to be potentially thankful when Matt reveals his alter ego. Also, why in the hell was Turk kidnapped when DD beats him up regularly? He is not one of the victims of the criminal element of Hell’s Kitchen, he IS a criminal.

The Punisher

His introduction - which, honestly, I still loved because it gave me chills, but it doesn’t make much sense. If he has this code, why would he shoot up a hospital? If he is such a marksman, why didn’t he just wait until he caught up to him and shoot him? But no, he has to use a shotgun in a hospital to chase a dude who is being protected by an innocent woman so that he looks scary. That’s the only reason.

How in the hell did the Punisher have the resources to find Grotto when he was given an alias and the police didn’t even know?

I feel like the conversations between the Punisher and Matt were some of the best acting on the show, but the Punisher won most of the arguments. Also, Matt tries to get on his level by acting like he understands the struggle of a war vet, which really pissed me off. And if DD told me that the men who killed my children IN FRONT OF ME deserved justice… Let’s just say the Punisher seemed pretty damn patient in that moment.

Also, Matt. You literally throw billy clubs at brains. Those men are brain dead. You have no higher ground to stand on.

The relationship between Karen and Frank. She doesn’t trust him, then she does, then she doesn’t, then he saves her and she trusts him again. Then this conversation happens:

Karen: The Blacksmith already tried to get me once, I really don’t want to give him a second chance.Frank: He’s not going to get it.Frank (under his breath?): Except I’m going to use you as bait a few minutes later, and technically his people will be shooting at you, but you know, you’re safe, or whatever.

Also, if she were in protective custody, why wouldn’t the police go into the elevator? Does “we’ll be right outside” mean they’ll be “right outside” the hotel?

The Blacksmith

Felt like an afterthought. Frank Castle’s family dying at a drug bust for the Blacksmith was so ridiculously coincidental. And why in the hell would the Blacksmith help him at his trial if he’s coming after everyone involved in the deaths of his family? He was the only positive element of Frank’s trial, but he could have easily said no, and his problem would disappear. He acts like he owes a debt to Frank, and then tries to kill him.

The Punisher and the Blacksmith should have been combined into one season and everything else into another. But since season 3 is happening two years after season 2, I guess this is the crazy way they decided to do it.

Elektra and Stick

Maybe you don’t think that they were villains here, but they were certainly problems that took up multiple episodes. Stick turns on on Elektra… Why? Because she chose Matt instead of him? And then Matt just jumps on his side when she justifiably attacks him. Hey dude, your douchebag sensei:

Abandoned you as a child.

Sent Elektra to ruin your life in college. 

Has a completely different code than you, and never keeps his promises. You literally can’t trust him. 

Tried to kill her because she wasn’t a good soldier - just like you. And you don’t ask questions?

I need to end this by saying that I still like season 2, it was just super flawed. I like Elektra and the Punisher. I like that Karen steps away to become her own person. I like Foggy showing he doesn’t need Matt - even though it breaks my heart and if I had a choice I would pick Matt being a decent person instead. And I loved the Karen/Matt storyline until they just gave up on it.

[presssorg]

The 8 Most Common 2019 Tax Return Questions, Answered by Experts

The 8 Most Common 2019 Tax Return Questions, Answered by Experts The most important changes to the tax code in decades have taken effect — and filers are confused. We asked CPAs and other tax-prep pros to simplify things.

This year’s tax-filing situation is the most cryptic in memory.CreditCreditMark Lennihan/Associated Press By Tara Siegel Bernard and Ron Lieber Some level of bafflement attends tax-filing season every year. But in 2019, as Americans examine their returns for the first time under the full effect of the sweeping new Republican tax law, the situation is the most cryptic in memory. Some tax breaks have been erased or capped, while others have been expanded or introduced. This is equal-opportunity anxiety. Blue-state professionals feel micro-targeted by new limits on state and local tax deductions, while filers elsewhere can’t figure out why they’re no longer getting a fat refund, if the law was supposed to be so good for them. We asked accountants across the country to tell us their clients’ most common queries. Here are some answers.

1. I thought my tax bill was going to decrease. What happened?

For many people living in high-tax states like New York, California, New Jersey and Connecticut, there’s one overriding reason their tax bills have risen: Their state and local tax deduction, known as SALT, will be capped at $10,000. This includes state and local income taxes, as well as real estate taxes. “Prior to 2018, SALT was often most New Yorkers’ largest itemized deduction,” said Tina Salandra, a certified public accountant in New York. New York City residents, for example, often have state and city taxes that total nearly 10 percent of their income, she added. So if your state and local taxes already exceed the $10,000 limit, you lose the ability to deduct any of your property taxes. As a result, some families may find that instead of itemizing, it’s better to take the larger standard deduction. “But even if you can still itemize, your total deductions will be limited regardless,” said Ms. Salandra, “which may likely result in higher taxes.” Her property-owning clients with incomes in the $200,000 to $400,000 range are feeling the most significant pinch. Though their tax rates have decreased, that usually does not make up for the loss of their largest itemized deductions. Your Taxes 2019 More news, answers and guidance for taxpayers. They’re Rich and They’re Mad About Taxes (Too Low!) Feb. 12, 2019 Small Businesses Have a New Tax Break, but There Are Many ‘Ifs’ Feb. 12, 2019 Filing Taxes on Your Phone? Insert Frustrated-Face Emoji Here Feb. 12, 2019 Smaller Tax Refunds Surprise Those Expecting More Relief Feb. 12, 2019

2. I was told there would be a tax cut for most people. So why is my return showing a tiny refund, or even an amount due?

In early 2018, the I.R.S. took its best shot at offering guidance to employers about how to change tax withholding from paychecks. In general, it suggested decreases, since the 2017 law was supposed to be a cut. That should have resulted in bigger paychecks for most people. But if you were an employee receiving those checks, you may not have noticed the increase. If that was the case, you won’t be seeing the usual April refund: You’ve already gotten it, just parceled out into slightly higher 2018 paychecks. Want to get a refund next year? If that’s your goal, Julie A. Welch, a Leawood, Kan., accountant, suggests using the I.R.S. withholding calculator to adjust your paycheck. Most people never bother.

3. Should I take the standard deduction or itemize my deductions this year?

Before breaking down what’s changed, let’s back up and explain the basics: Taxpayers are entitled to take a standard tax deduction amount, or they can itemize their deductions individually; they can deduct whichever amount is higher, resulting in a lower tax bill. Under the new tax law, the standard deduction has doubled (to $12,000 for individuals and $24,000 for joint filers), while several itemized deductions have been eliminated or limited. TurboTax estimates that as a result, nearly 90 percent of taxpayers will now take the standard deduction, up from about 70 percent in previous years. To help you figure out the best choice, the company has posted a three-step interactive tool on its blog.

4. Have any popular deductions and credits changed? What did we lose, and what can I still claim?

Dependent exemption: Under the previous law, families were able to claim a $4,050 exemption for each qualifying child, but that deduction has been eliminated. Instead, if you have children under the age of 17, you may qualify for the child tax credit, which was raised to $2,000 from $1,000 for each child. More people will qualify now that the credit begins to phase out at $400,000 in income for joint filers ($200,000 for individuals), according to Claudell Bradby, a certified public accountant with TurboTax Live. The law also introduced a $500 credit for other dependents, which could include elderly parents or children over the age of 17. Mortgage interest: If you itemize, you can deduct the interest paid on the first $750,000 in mortgage indebtedness on loans taken out after Dec. 15, 2017 (on first and second homes). Older loans are grandfathered: You can still generally deduct interest on up to $1 million in mortgage debt on loans taken out before Dec. 16, 2017. Interest on home equity loans or lines of credit are now only deductible if the debt is used to “buy, build or substantially improve” the home that secures the loan. You can no longer deduct the interest if you pay off credit card debt, for example. Alternative minimum tax: Far fewer people are expected to be snared by it because so many of the old tax breaks that set off the so-called A.M.T. have been eliminated or reduced. In addition, the minimum exemption level has increased to $109,400 for joint filers, up from $84,500; and to $70,300 for individual filers, up from $54,300. The exemption begins to phase out at $500,000 for single filers and $1 million for joint filers. Unreimbursed employee expenses: A number of employees’ business expenses that weren’t reimbursed by their employers — like classes and seminars — are no longer deductible. Moving expenses: Workers moving for a new job were once able to deduct related expenses. That has been wiped away, except for members of the military. Tax preparation fees: If you itemized, you could typically deduct the amount your tax preparer charged or similar tax-related expenses, like software bought to file electronically. This is no longer possible, unless you are self-employed.

5. Is it true that alimony is no longer deductible?

It depends, said Tyler Mickey, a tax senior manager at Moss Adams in Wenatchee, Wash. Under the previous law, spouses paying alimony could deduct those payments on their returns, while the recipients had to include the income on theirs. That remains the case for divorce agreements finalized on or before Dec. 31, 2018 (unless a couple changes the agreement after then). Therefore it’s true for returns filed this year. But for divorces completed in 2019 and later, alimony payments will no longer be deductible, and recipients will not have to include them on their returns, added Mr. Mickey, who is also a member of the American Institute of Certified Public Accountants’ personal finance specialist committee.

6. I heard that small business owners can’t deduct meals and entertainment anymore. Is that true?

It’s half true, said Carol McCrae, a certified public accountant in Brooklyn. You can no longer deduct entertainment or amusement, generally defined as taking a client to, say, a basketball game. But you can still deduct 50 percent of what you spend on meals, as long as you are dining with clients, traveling for business or attending a business convention (or something along those lines). The meals cannot be lavish or extravagant — so forget about the tasting menu at Le Bernardin. Providing meals to employees for an office party or a meeting, she added, are still 100 percent deductible. There are specific rules you may need to follow. If you paid for a show and dinner on one bill, for example, it must be itemized — and the amount paid for meals must be clearly stated. If it’s not, she added, then no deduction is allowed.

7. Do I qualify for pass-through status and its 20 percent deduction?

The new tax laws allow some business owners — those who are set up as so-called “pass-through” companies — to deduct 20 percent of their qualified business income. Cue the rush to the tax professionals. All of Mr. Garofalo’s clients at Brass Taxes are self-employed, but many of those who have asked him about the new rules don’t realize that they are already pass-throughs, where income passes through the business to the owner’s personal tax returns. “If you earn money without taxes being taken out, poof, you’re in business,” he said. Anyone like that in any profession who is set up as a sole proprietorship, partnership or an S corporation (but not a C corporation) qualifies, as long as they are making less than $315,000 and filing taxes jointly, or under $157,500 for other taxpayers. Beyond those income levels and tax structures, it gets complicated and many professions get excluded. The Internal Revenue Service, the Tax Policy Center and the American Institute of Certified Public Accounts have all published good primers.

8. I have a taxable estate. Should I reconsider gifts I’ve given to family members?

The estate tax affects wealthy people. The amount that people can pass on to heirs without federal tax consequences has roughly doubled. In 2019, it’s $11.4 million per person. But in 2026, unless Congress acts, it goes back to $5 million (adjusted for inflation), which is what it was in 2017. State estate taxes can cloud the picture too. Micaela Saviano, a senior manager at Deloitte Tax in Chicago, said that, especially, if you hold an investment that is likely to increase in value, it may be better to hand it down to the next generation now. That way, the growth accrues to the younger person’s estate. And paying the federal gift tax now may make sense. Otherwise, the estate may have to pay estate taxes later, using part of the estate itself. Tara Siegel Bernard covers personal finance. Before joining The Times in 2008, she was deputy managing editor at FiLife, a personal finance website, and an editor at CNBC. She also worked at Dow Jones and contributed regularly to The Wall Street Journal. @tarasbernard Ron Lieber is the Your Money columnist and author of “The Opposite of Spoiled.” He previously helped develop the personal finance web site FiLife and wrote for The Wall Street Journal, Fast Company and Fortune. @ronlieber • Facebook Published at Wed, 13 Feb 2019 15:06:44 Read the full article

#accountants #cpa #filetaxes #incometax #refund #taxes #TaxReturn

[tsundere-sims]

Nicole Xiao

Basics Name: Nicole Xiao L’Ane she was born Xiao Nicole L’Ane but she switched her first name and her second name, her surname is luxembourgeois Ethnicity: Eurasian (father of pure luxembourgish family established in China for years and Chinese mother) (mother is daughter of Bengali father and Chinese mother living in Laos for decades) so (dad -> white & asian mom-> bengali and chinese) Age: 22 Sexuality: Straight, grey-aromantic Employment: Writer Birthday: 7 janvier 1995 Sign: Capricorn Eye Color: Amber Hair Style/Color: straigt black shoulder length hair Height: 5’03 Clothing Style: conservative, colorless (brown sometimes) Favorites Color : pale brown Animal: rodent Movie: Westerns,Japanese horror films & Asian actions film Game: pc games Music: alternative rock, blues, rocknroll, Electro pop, basically all her playlist Drink: milk tea Food: All Chinese street food involving pork Thoughts Your First Thoughts Waking Up: I don't waste time, I wake up and go no time to wander What You Think About the Most: my adoptive parents John and Authrine What You Think About Before Bed: Why Liun and I can move to welcome 3 more people to live with us You Think Your Best Quality Is: My apathy really, I love the fact that I have the ability to dissociate and be immune to what hurts others the most, the people I'm close too feel comfortable telling me anything, bc most of the time it don't phase me and I never judge nobody, I'm like a blank page….” Childhood memories/Relationships/Idols/etc. Nicole fave memory as a child is the birth of her little sister Vili as her and Liun felt lonely since brother was always at school and mom work 3 job and is only home sumdays, they took care of her like their 3rd twin. Mother (Xue Han): She was not close to her mom at all bc she was barely home working 3 jobs first at a local laundry from 12 to 4pm, in a hotel from 6pm to 10pm and as waitress from 10pm to midnight, therefore she slept at their aunt house and left Nicole,Liun and baby Vili alone with their brother who went to school from 9am to 6pm. So they barely had time to bond plus the mom had an exhorbitant love for money when she married she just did bc he impressed her with his family rich reputation in China and the fact he was half white(she was very ashamed of her Bengali heritage in a white beauty supremacy Laos & China) so she urged to marry him and weirdly she had a child shortly after as a “surprise” (huh she was pregnant before meeting him she took the opportunity by marrying what she thought was a rich man to make him believe the baby was HIS and secure the wealth she wanted) after the marriage she realized Qiang was not a direct heir of the “L’Ane” family wealth but just a cousin of the Heir he had an argument with and they cut him out of financial support, they became lower middle class, by that time she was pregnant with twins and didn't announced to Quiang, who signed paper saying that his family had just one Child and no plans of another bc China population was too much and birth had to be limited. They recieved 5,000 for accepting the “agreement” not to have children but then she announced her pregnancy after Quiang decided to hide the kids by not declaring them at birth, just the time to get a lawyer to annul the agreement. Fearing to get arrested bc Quiang didn't find a lawyer that will accept to be paid a lower middle class family revenue she declared the children, Quiang accepted but left the house not taking care of the newborn twins for 5 month, And Xue had to payback the 5,000¥ so she took a job and had her family track Quiang down they found him, homeless and hungry he came back home w no explanation and was a stay at home dad for the twins and Xue worked. To payback the money he secretly got into the Chinese mafia and sold drugs and firearms in secret places. Him & Xue never talked in that period he hated her to have put them in this situation of payback and she hated him to have lied about his wealth. Within 2 month they paid back now everybody's just acted like this never happened and the subject wasn't talked again. Xue stopped the working and rebecame the stay at home mom, Quiang continued to mysteriously bring much money home but Xue didn't question it as they became upper middle class and her lifestyle was fancy. Quiang was depressed bc he wanted out of the mafia but that's impossible unless death, he put Kein in a high private school. But 2 years later the twins were 3 year old, Quiang brutally left the house, they got kicked out their wealthy mansion and back to their lower middle class life, Xue was in the last stage of her pregnancy and Kein was not kim led out of school as it was vacations but for the rentrée Xue had to find a solution she send the twins to her aunt and went work in the capital while pregnant. And continued to work after Vili birth that she left at the aunt house and Keon still went to school. The mother was close the twins as baby but unable to bond as they grew very mature at the age of 3. And even know Xue is like a old connaissance who gave them up for Nicole. Father (Quiang L’Ane): Weirdly she gets along beat with Quiang even if he was an on and off dad she as no difficulty or awkwardness talking to him maybe because Nicole is Schizoid she really not is big on social relations so even if he don't talk to her in weeks she won't hold no grunges against him, talking is very spontaneous with Quiang and Nicole it's that personal daughter-dad bond that only them can get. After he left when she was 3, he came back a month after her sister birth and secretly took them (Nicole,Liun & Kein) with the permission of the aunt who stayed with vili and told nothing to Xue, and they stayed with him and he will introduce them to “cousins” Wen & Lam and he frequently did that half month without Xue ever knowing the only time he came see her was to file for divorce BROTHER/SISTERS: Nicole and Kein where very close he was the perfect big brother at least he tried, stealing stuff for them to eat, reading them stories celebrating their birthday by telling every neighborhood who gave them flowers, coming to take them after school everyday being the funniest and indépendant from anybody. When they got adopted he was way more depressed than Liun (who wanted her momma) and Kevin didnt understand how she felt nothing he got bullied at school bc he couldn't talk English and always fought and got in trouble after school because in China he always hang out with his dad and dads friend ( who he didn't know where mafia and Chinese Gamgsters) so he had a strong character. The bullying didn't last and he was the most feared/respected at school. So at home it had an effect on how he didn't interact with sisters or adoptive parents (who he HATES) anymore from his high school years. When he went to college he got back to his old self as he saw his dreams of big study came true slowly bc he makes himself remember how his dad made everything to have him in school and how proud his momma was so he got right to the only memory of his parents that he had his sisters. Just has everything went good John and Authrine went to Laos with all the children for vacations and they linked up with Xue, Liun,Kein and Ovi were the happiest and Nicole was very apathic with her mom but was polite. So they linked up and spent few days with her she asked about college for Kein then (OF COURSE) for some money as if what she was sent monthly by the rich family was not enough. And she revealed in an argument with Quiang that Kein wasn't his son after Quiang came out of nowhere to say hi to his kids, and Quiang revealed that Wen and Lam were his children. This was what déclenched an identity crisis for Kein he took the first plane back to New York and didn't give any news to anybody but a text to John and Authrine saying he is fine and back in college. They didn't question it. So that he was already lost to he was in high school he was back broken in the identity crisis stage with no answer to who brought him to this world and it's been 2 year he hasn't talk to any of his sisters or adoptive parents or “biological” parents nobody came after him because he sends news every month from a cab somewhere in NYC Your character’s relationship with their mother or their father, or both. Was it good? Bad? : Were they spoiled rotten, ignored? Do they still get along now, or no?: Where (and when) did they grow up? How did they view it as a child, and did that change as they matured? How do they feel about the place now? : Describe their best and worst memories from childhood : Who was their idol growing up?: What were they like as a child?: How do they feel about their family? How does their family feel about them?: Do they have siblings/cousins?: Sex/Romance What are they attracted to in a partner?: Do they have any particular fetishes or kinks?: Is there anything in particular that they won’t do?: Have they ever hurt someone they loved?: Do they fall in love easily?: Who is their current partner, and what attracted the character to them?: What kind of a relationship is it?: Misc Questions (less personal) Do they have any allergies? : What is their weapon of choice if they had to use one?: What is their preferred method of transportation?:. What kind of weather makes them happy, and what kind makes them sad?: What languages do they speak?: Do they eat a healthy diet? A varied one?: As a child, what did they want to be when they grew up?: What do they do when they need comfort?: What are they like when they are drunk?: Where in their body do they keep stress or tension?: Do they have any pet peeves or dislikes, and how do they react to encountering them?: Do they like to travel?: How well do they take criticism? How do they react to others noticing their flaws?: What are they like when they get sick? Do they have a particular system (ears, lungs, etc) that illness gravitates to?: How do they react to being physically injured or undergoing medical treatment?: 1: What’s your OC’s biggest insecurity and how would they react if someone pointed it out to them? 
2: If your OC wants to buy a firearm, what it might be for?
she owns one and it’s for protection (it was a gift from one of her brothers) 3: Does your OC behave differently around different people, if so with whom and how? 
4: Would your OC want to involve themselves in humanitarian work ? If yes, then for what? If not, then why not? 5: How would your OC generally react to someone being verbally abusive towards them for no apparent reason?
 6: Does your OC have a realistic image of their own intelligence?
 7: Does your OC have any irrational phobias? 
8: How is/was your OC’s relationship with their parents? 9: Does your OC feel a pressure to achieve or are they content and calm with doing what 10: Does your OC guard their emotions by being tough? If not how would they?
 11: How would your OC react to hearing they’re adopted? 12: What is one of the most primary things your OC feels that is missing from their life?
 13: What kind of situations does your OC avoid the most?
talking about feelings 14: If your OC gets into a fight with their best friend, would they wait for their friend to make up with them, or would they try to make up with their friend?
 15: Does your OC consider themselves a good person?
 16: Is your OC good at giving others validation of their feelings and making them feel understood?
 17: Does your OC suffer from any mental health issues?
 19: What boosts your OC’s confidence the most?
 20: Does your OC hurt others often unintentionally? If yes, how?
 21: Does your OC hurt others often intentionally? If yes, how?
 22: How does your OC usually show affection? Are they openly romantic or more restricted with their affectionate emotions?
 23: Does your OC tend to hide something about their personality/essence when meeting new people? If yes, what?
 24: How would your OC react if they got humiliated by someone in a group of people? 25: How would your OC process the grief caused by the death of a loved one?
 26: What is the most intense thing your OC has been battling with?
 27: Does your OC practise any kind of escapism? If yes, what kind?
 28: How would your OC react if a bully stole their lunch money in high school?
. 29: How does your OC behave on the face of a conflict?
 30: What makes your OC defensive quickest?

#nicole

[instantdeerlover]

I’m Through Being Silent About the Restaurant Industry’s Racism added to Google Docs

I’m Through Being Silent About the Restaurant Industry’s Racism

 Alexandra Bowman

As a Black server and diner, I’ve seen how racism in the restaurant industry plays out on both sides of the table

This is Eater Voices, where chefs, restaurateurs, writers, and industry insiders share their perspectives about the food world, tackling a range of topics through the lens of personal experience. First-time writer? Don’t worry, we’ll pair you with an editor to make sure your piece hits the mark. If you want to write an Eater Voices essay, please send us a couple paragraphs explaining what you want to write about and why you are the person to write it to [email protected].

A few weeks ago, I watched my tattoo artist, Doreen Garner, post an Instagram video about the racism in her industry, and saw Brianna Noble get up on her horse and demand change in the equestrian world. They inspired me to go on Facebook to address the racism where I work: the restaurant industry.

As I wrote in my Facebook post, the restaurant industry is extremely racist: Its racism is inseparable from the history of dining out in this country. Restaurants here flourished after the Civil War, a period when Black people in the hospitality sector were still technically working for free due to the widespread adoption of tipping, which allowed employers to avoid paying their workers. Racism literally shaped the restaurant landscape, too: Here on Long Island, where I live, the racist practice of redlining prevented Black restaurateurs from obtaining business loans or leasing buildings in particular towns — and thus denied them the same opportunities as their white counterparts.

The effects of such discrimination have been everlasting — something that I have learned firsthand as both a Black server and diner. In the six years I worked in restaurants, I never saw BIPOC (Black, indigenous, and people of color) in management, or even a Black bartender; most people of color were forced to remain in the back of house, or as bussers and runners in the front of house. And as a diner, I’ve seen how the industry’s culture of discrimination plays out from the other side of the table, too.

I began working in restaurants in 2009, while attending grad school. The first place I served was a corporate Southern-themed steakhouse on Long Island; not long after I started there, a coworker was fired for using racial slurs about a Black family who was dining with us. The restaurant’s owner individually apologized to every Black employee, and the swiftness of his actions assured me that racism would not be tolerated. The following year, I began my career in fine dining at a popular seafood restaurant on Manhasset Bay. The staff was mostly BIPOC, and included several Black females. This restaurant had its issues, but during the two years I worked there, diversity was not one of them.

But when I returned to the industry in 2018, after a six-year hiatus, I discovered that my previous experiences were anomalies. One evening, while I was training as a server at a farm-to-table restaurant, I asked the trainer how she made recommendations. “Well, they’re Asian, so I recommended the octopus because Asians eat weird food,” she said of the table we’d just served. “Excuse me?” I replied sternly. She tried to backpedal, saying something about how “Italian guys” also loved octopus.

Months later, I caught one of the managers and two servers discussing the treatment of Black people as it relates to our work ethic: The manager implied that there were times we were treated better than we deserved because of our skin color. The two servers looked shocked, but neither corrected her. Being the only Black employee and server of color, I quit immediately. But that evening, the restaurant’s owner and I had an honest conversation. She advised me to not let ignorant people affect my wallet, and she had a point: I was broke and living in my mom’s guest room. So I stayed. But, in hindsight, I should’ve demanded that this manager be fired. Although she was eventually let go, it was for her inferior management skills, not her continued racist antics.

Although the guests at that restaurant usually treated me with respect, I was degraded on several occasions. One evening, while I was recommending wine to a table, one of the diners, a white man, winked at me and said, “the blacker the berry, the sweeter the juice. Am I right?” There was so much I wanted to say, especially to his wife, who just laughed nervously. Instead, I recommended the tempranillo and walked away. Who could I tell? If a manager wouldn’t be checked, how would a guest?

I stayed at the restaurant for a year and a half. Shortly before my departure, one of my customers, a senior citizen, grabbed me. “You know what they say about Black women?” he whispered in my ear. “You taste like chocolate.” He then attempted to kiss me. I pulled away, but I didn’t want to hurt him — I could already imagine the headline: “Black Server Abused Elderly White Man at Long Island Restaurant.” So again, I walked away. But this time, I cried in the hallway while my coworker consoled me. Others seemed to think I was overreacting, as if the customer had complimented me. I didn’t have the energy to point out that Black women are neither a fetish nor a fantasy, and that the sexual harassment we often experience is linked to the ways we’ve been hypersexualized throughout history.

Most recently, until the pandemic began, I was working as a server and marketing consultant at a new Long Island steakhouse. Three of my coworkers were equal-opportunity racists who made derogatory comments about everybody: from the Latinx staff members to a table of Black people, no one was off limits. Almost everyone who worked there was aware of it, but the attitude was one of “You know how this industry is.” One time, when I defended some guests whom one of these coworkers presumed were Jewish, he asked if I was a “Black Jew.” In response, I referenced “First they came...” and expressed that I stand up for everyone, and then politely told him to shut the hell up. He did, but continued to be openly racist towards me — the restaurant’s lone Black employee — and the Latinx bartender.

When you’re the only Black employee at a business, you realize that you’re an exception to its discriminatory hiring practices.

While the restaurant’s clientele was generally kind, there were still the middle-aged white men thinking they were Tupac, telling me I was the prettiest Black girl they’d ever seen. And the white women who felt the need to be “down” when I approached the table. “Hey girl!” one of them told me. “Your makeup is on fleek. We’re trying to get lit.” Know that I am laughing at you, I thought. You sound like Len from 30 Rock. You are 45 years old in a Talbot’s pant suit. Please stop.

When you’re the only Black employee at a business, you realize that you’re an exception to its discriminatory hiring practices. It is debilitating to constantly defend yourself while remaining professional, and exhausting to become a representative for the entire community. One elevated pitch in your tone may verify a stereotype. And so for your own self-preservation, you learn to ignore it and not react. No matter the profession, we’re conditioned to be silent.

But as a patron, I do not have the same restraint. I always inform the manager. When I do, I’m sometimes offered a discount or a free round of drinks. I appreciate that, but still wonder: Did they hear me or were they just trying to appease me?

Because ignorant servers have tells. The finger across the neck, signaling that you do not want me in your section. The “couldn’t care less” attitude when greeting my table after making me wait for 10 minutes. The interactions with me in comparison to the white people next to me. We all have bad days as servers. But I am one of you, and I know the difference between a bad day and bad behavior. And so I’d ask you to recognize that your low tip is not a derivative of a guest’s skin color, but often, the result of your behavior toward them because of their skin color.

And to my fellow Black female servers, especially those in fine dining, remember you are worthy and your integrity is priceless. I am broke and tired too, but change is no longer a request — it is an ultimatum. Many servers are currently in a position of power; as restaurants try to reopen, employers are struggling to staff up. So before you literally risk your life by returning to work, make sure your professional environment is safe from health risks and racism.

To non-Black restaurant owners, I’d ask you to be introspective. Acknowledge that you benefit from a problematic system, and that your restaurant isn’t immune to racism. And if you still haven’t developed and posted a Black Lives Matter action plan of solidarity, do so. I am empathetic to the fact that you recently took a hit from COVID-19, but racism is also a deadly virus. You cannot plead for pandemic support by posting “We’re all in this together,” but choose to remain silent now. Diversify your staff. Schedule a mandatory team meeting to discuss racism and how to personally combat it — and explicitly state that it is immediate grounds for dismissal. If you have BIPOC staff, reassure them that they are protected and supported; keep in mind that you are legally liable when employees, and guests, engage in discriminatory practices. And remember: The Black dollar is strong. It is imperative that we are appreciated and welcomed at every place of business.

I gave similar recommendations to my most recent employer. As his marketing consultant, I urged him to write a statement of solidarity; as one of his servers, I demanded that my racist coworkers be fired, and a meeting be held to discuss racism at the restaurant. Yet again, my concerns were dismissed and overlooked. But this time, I am through being silent.

Lauren Allen is an experienced marketing specialist in the live entertainment and food hospitality sectors.

via Eater - All https://www.eater.com/2020/7/8/21316151/restaurant-industry-racism-as-a-black-server-and-diner

Created July 9, 2020 at 03:26AM /huong sen View Google Doc Nhà hàng Hương Sen chuyên buffet hải sản cao cấp✅ Tổ chức tiệc cưới✅ Hội nghị, hội thảo✅ Tiệc lưu động✅ Sự kiện mang tầm cỡ quốc gia 52 Phố Miếu Đầm, Mễ Trì, Nam Từ Liêm, Hà Nội http://huongsen.vn/ 0904988999 http://huongsen.vn/to-chuc-tiec-hoi-nghi/ https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1xa6sRugRZk4MDSyctcqusGYBv1lXYkrF

[theconservativebrief]

By now, you’ve probably heard the story.

Last week, an actress and photographer, Rosey Blair, asked to switch seats with a woman on a plane from New York to Dallas so that she could sit next to her boyfriend. Blair proceeded to live-tweet as she observed the woman and her new seatmate chat and eventually start flirting, discussing their mutual love of working out and subtly touching elbows, all details captured and posted by Blair. Her thread went mega-viral, racking up 900,000 likes, getting picked up by national news outlets and earning Blair thousands of new followers.

Many initially thought the story was adorable, even if others found it creepy and intrusive. Then the incident took an even darker turn.

An online hunt began to find the identities of the couple, now identified by the hashtag #PlaneBae. The man, a former professional soccer player named Euan Holden, embraced the media circus, but the woman, uncomfortable with the newfound spotlight, hesitated. That didn’t stop the online mob from tracking her down. She began receiving crass, sexually explicit messages in the comments of her personal Instagram profile.

She deactivated her social media accounts and declined an invitation to go on the Today show. Blair and Holden appeared without her. No one asked her if she had any reservations or concerns about being made part of a viral story. All she did was board a plane and chat with her seatmate. Now she is a public figure, a hashtag, and a target. Millions of strangers on the internet want to know about her personal life.

The erosion of the division between public and private has been coming for a while now. Maybe it started with reality television and the dramatic storylines broadcast to millions about people just like you falling in love. (Though those people willingly signed up to become public figures.) Maybe it was already in the works before then: People have always turned other people’s lives into public spectacle regardless of their will.

When I was 22, I wrote my first paid article for a publication on the internet. My essay, written under my own name, was about what it was like to date with genital herpes. I expected maybe a few thousand people to read it on the Women’s Health website; it wasn’t even going in the physical magazine. At the time, I was an intern at a media company, less than a year out of college, and my only brush with fame was as a 13-year-old writer of moderately popular Harry Potter fanfiction.

The herpes article went viral. Not just “few thousand retweets” viral — I mean invitations to go on daytime television viral. Two days after my essay went up on Women’s Health, I was featured in a trending article on the Washington Post website. It was aggregated from there on Yahoo, Jezebel, and eventually even The Daily Mail, where an enterprising staffer tracked down my private Facebook profile and raided it for photographs to use in their article.

There I was, smiling brightly in a picture my mother had taken as my father blew out his birthday candles. Of course, they cropped my father out, leaving me grinning and alone as hundreds of Daily Mail readers wrote comments underneath attacking my character. This slut, this shameful whore. She should kill herself for having an STI.

The next year I would find myself at the center of a new controversy when Genius, a well-funded startup that mostly writes annotations on song lyrics, launched a new tool allowing their users to annotate any website, anywhere. I wrote a blog post detailing why I thought the product was unethical, as it ignored the consent of the website creator and let strangers essentially scrawl graffiti on our intellectual property. I was also concerned it would be yet another tool in the hands of abusers, stalkers, and harassment mobs to come after me on my personal blog; since going viral, I had spent a year receiving horrifying sexual emails from strangers.

Sam Biddle, writing for Gawker, found my case unconvincing. His argument boiled down to my status as a public figure. “It’s brave and noble of Dawson to publicly try to combat the stigma of STD infection,” he wrote. “But when she writes ‘we need more voices to challenge the single narrative of herpes,’ she’s already acknowledging her place in public—it’s right there in the ‘we.’ If you want to advocate for a cause in front of an audience (and judging by the fact that her website has a ‘Press’ section, I’m assuming she does), you have to take what comes with it. Dawson says she has a blog ‘to have total control of how I write and who interacts with me.’ If only this were possible! Unfortunately, this is a fantasy, and will always be so.”

Chelsea Hassler, writing for Slate, argued the contrary position: That as a blogger with a few articles published, I was not someone who rose to the level of a “public figure.” I was an individual, an amateur. She wrote, “There’s a substantive difference between critiquing the work of a professional journalist or blogger and critiquing the writing of an individual who is using her blog as an outlet to communicate with other likeminded people.”

People like me pose a challenge to traditional understandings of the public-private divide. I write about my personal life, and sometimes I get paid to do so. I have fewer than 20,000 followers on Twitter. I’ve had a handful of short stories published in anthologies by indie houses and my blog has steady traffic, but I don’t have a Wikipedia page. Would you consider me a public figure? At what point did I become one? Would it change your mind if I told you I’ve never wanted to be one?

I don’t think there is any such thing as a “private person” anymore. The vast majority of us constantly groom our internet presence, choosing the right filter on Instagram for our brunch and taking polls of our friends about our next Facebook profile picture.

We don’t think about this as a public act when we have only 400 connections on LinkedIn or 3,000 followers on Tumblr. No one imagines the Daily Mail write-up or the Jezebel headline. We actively create our public selves, every day, one social media post at a time. Little kids dream of becoming famous YouTubers the same way I wanted to be a published author when I was 12.

But there are also those of us who don’t choose this. We keep our accounts locked, our Instagram profile set to “friends only.” Maybe we learned a lesson when a post took off and left the safe haven of our community, picked apart in a horrifying display of context collapse by strangers who we didn’t intend to speak to. Maybe we are hiding from something: a stalker, an abusive ex, our family members who don’t know our true queer identity. To some of us, privacy is vital.

A woman boarded a plane in New York and stepped off that plane in Dallas. She chatted with a stranger, showed him some family photos, brushed his elbow with her own. At no point did she agree to participate in the story Rosey Blair was telling. After the fact, when the hunt began and the woman took no part in encouraging it the way Holden did, Blair tweeted a video in which she drawled, “We don’t have the gal’s permish yet, not yet y’all, but I’m sure you guys are sneaky, you guys might…” And her followers did not disappoint.

When people called Blair out for this blatant invasion of privacy, she blocked them. Because she, apparently, wanted to control her own boundaries. Later she tweeted about wanting a job at BuzzFeed.

I don’t know what the woman on the plane is thinking or feeling. I don’t know if she’s afraid or angry or mildly amused but inconvenienced. But I know how it feels to see strangers scrawling obscenities on social media accounts and email inboxes you once considered safe, commenting alongside your friends and family members. I know the sour humiliation of knowing everyone in your life can see that strangers have written about you — your parents, your co-workers, your exes.

Even when the attention is positive, it is overwhelming and frightening. Your mind reels at the possibility of what they could find: your address, if your voting records are logged online; your cellphone number, if you accidentally included it on a form somewhere; your unflattering selfies at the beginning of your Facebook photo archive. There are hundreds of Facebook friend requests, press requests from journalists in your Instagram inbox, even people contacting your employer. This story you didn’t choose becomes the main story of your life.

There is no opting-in, no consent form, no opportunity to take it all back. It feels like you are drowning as everyone on the beach applauds your swimming prowess. What do you have to complain about? Why wouldn’t you want publicity?

It’s clear that to Blair, the violation of this woman’s privacy is less important than Blair’s growing platform and ambition. It is not a romantic comedy for the digital age. It is an act of dehumanization.

A friend of mine asked if I’d thought through the contradiction of criticizing Blair publicly like this, when she’s another not-quite public figure too. But Blair is not just posting about her own life; she has taken non-consenting parties along for the ride. While Blair uploads gorgeous Instagram photos to celebrate her body on her birthday (I say this genuinely: You go, girl), the woman on the plane has deleted her own Instagram account after receiving violent abuse from the army Blair created. As the content creator of this media circus, Blair is responsible for the behavior of its fans. When faced with the opportunity to discourage their privacy violations, she has done the opposite: “I’m sure you guys are sneaky.”

You become a public figure the instant that someone else decides you are worthy of interest, even if you are minding your damn business. Maybe you will tweet a joke. Maybe you will squint in a friend’s photograph. Maybe you will yodel in a Walmart. Or maybe you will board a plane.

This essay is adapted from a blog post that originally ran on Ella Dawson’s website.

Ella Dawson is a sex and culture critic whose writing has been published by ELLE, MTV, Women’s Health, and more. Find her at elladawson.com and on Twitter as @brosandprose.

First Person is Vox’s home for compelling, provocative narrative essays. Do you have a story to share? Read our submission guidelines, and pitch us at [email protected].

Original Source -> The dark side of going viral

via The Conservative Brief

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