#like I may not not much about american accents but I know enough to know they’re different

[andrew-dramaqueen-minyard]

Okay but if Andrew grew up in California most of his life, and Aaron grew up on the other side of the country, surely this means that when they met they had completely different accents? Like exposure alone would mean they would sound different? But the foxes still got them mixed up for a very long time, even Nicky did. So does this mean they picked up on each others accents and started mirroring it subconsciously or did they match accents on purpose to fuck with people? Alternatively did one of them (most likely Andrew) fake his real accent to match the other?

#aftg #all for the game #tfc #the foxhole court #andrew minyard #aaron minyard #twinyards #aftg hc #the kings men #the raven king #nicky hemmick #the foxes #like I may not not much about american accents but I know enough to know they’re different #so like SURELY this was a thing

[caraphernellie]

cowboy like me // e.w. [chapter one]

summary: a modern day princess living under outdated royal protocol in which your own existence is forbidden. in a typical state visit to strengthen your country's relations with the united states, you find it harder than ever to keep your sexuality secret when you meet the president's daughter, ellie williams, and sparks fly.

wc: 2.1k masterlist

content warnings: fluff, angst, eventual smut. homophobia, governments, monarchy, politics. reader is specified as lesbian with she/her pronouns used for plot purposes i sorry, smoking, making out, femme! reader. u-haul lesbians fr. reader plays piano. ellie is a disaster lesbian lmaooooo. she's also super privileged and a bit of an ass. mostly based off of the british royal family in terms of royal protocol and all that shit, don’t kill me if things are inaccurate i’m not american, this chapter is more an intro to ellie's character and establishing tension

authors note: i'm so excited about this fic... but i might hate it in the morning so we'll see!! i've never read/watched red white and royal blue but it did inspire this fic (do not expect it to be anything like rwrb as i said i don't know what happens in it lmao). ellie's the president's daughter obvs. if your country doesn't have a monarchy just pretend there is one. if you're from the us then L 💀 play pretend

converse sneakers pelting across marble tiled floors with an onslaught of urgency, ellie makes her way through the halls. she stops at a mirror for a second, a muse in her mind– eh, good enough.

smoothing down flyaway hairs, ellie realises spending free time in the courtyard outside may not have been the best idea on a cool spring day such as this. the winter is still lingering, breezes battering the flag of red, white, and blue on the roof of the building as warm temperatures are still fresh. still- she needs as much a distraction as anyone else. as if procrastinating on something like homework, assignments, except the only thing ellie has done is make herself late to the introductory banquet of the royal family. all she knows is the president won’t be happy with her. 

bringing her wrist to her nose, ellie sniffs, though it’s less sniffing and more inhaling, trying to figure out if she has masked the smell of the cigarette she wasted or if she needs more cologne.

ellie’s caught by a housekeeper with her face stuck awkwardly into her suit jacket, furrowed brows as she inspects her own scent. pausing, a strained smile takes its place on chapped lips.

“he–”

“goodness, miss williams, you’re terribly late,” the housekeeper says, quickly approaching. “staff have been searching everywhere for you.”

“right,” ellie mumbles, straightening up her posture. “sorry. i’ll be on my way to the state dining room right now.”

approaching said room, ellie can already hear the fuss– loud and polite conversations, the snapping of photos, subtle classical playing over the speakers. christ, ellie thinks, how do i render myself invisible?

ellie’s worries ease the minute she steps inside, however, as the commotion isn’t around her own family today. it’s the royal family. and that realisation almost sparks up yet another mini freakout in ellie’s mind. she’s been looking forward to this for weeks, of course she has, a hot princess living in her home for an entire month..? that’s something she could get used to. but it’s real now, and just staring at you is sending a chill down ellie’s spine.

flash photography and yelling of the invited press is suffocating ellie as she ventures further into the room. she hasn’t even been noticed yet, thank god, so she decides to humbly busy herself at the table of finger food. until–

“ellie williams?”

a delicate voice smooth and sweet, ellie’s ears prick up to the sound of an accent unique and she knows exactly who this has to be.

fuck.

ellie makes quick effort to swallow the stupid cocktail frank she was eating and turns around, wiping her clammy hands on the ass of her slacks.

a princess standing right in front of her, of course these things only happen to ellie in her most cringeworthy moments. demolishing a table of finger food… what can she say? she’s an anxious snacker.

“ah-” ellie’s eyes meet your own and she gulps, extending a hand. “a pleasure to meet you, princess…”

get your head in the game, ellie. she clears her throat, putting on her famous, confident smile. and as you place your hand in hers, she acts purely without thinking, lifting your hand and pressing a kiss to the back of it. nobody was watching, but ellie drops your hand in an instant- is flirting with a princess the right move? even if it’s humorous?

your brain just about short-circuits, and ellie’s reeling. that was stupid, so stupid. acting on total whim.

the collar of ellie’s shirt feels too tight as she observes the split-second utter shock in your eyes, though she relaxes as you reward her a smile. and it isn’t that typical, media-trained smile, either.

“charming,” you murmur in response, eyes fixed on ellie’s piercing greens. however delighted you might be to be treated in this way by a girl like ellie, the way in which you hide it is effortless.

and charming, of course, is exactly what ellie is. messy, shirt creased and hair tousled and she honestly reeks of expensive cologne and faint smoke – but she has that handsome smile and that confident demeanour that the girls of washington d.c. fall for so easily.

“i hope so,” ellie says with an awkward chuckle, shoving her hands into her pockets. “that’s the aim of the game.”

you laugh similarly, politely, and make it as clear as possible to glance ellie up and down. “i’ll play.”

and the look on ellie’s face is plain silly at the least, her brows furrowed and eyes wide. “wh- uh..”

“say, it’s a little stuffy in here,” you say, gently fanning yourself, “you wouldn’t happen to know of any quiet spaces we could disappear to?”

ellie’s lips form a small o-shape as she processes the question. you want to be alone with her. a smirk crosses ellie’s face and she nods, “absolutely, your highness. my office.”

“would you be so kind as to show me to it?”

“of course, follow me,” ellie nods her head to the direction of the door. “we’ll have to sneak around.”

your heels click against the floor while ellie leads you down the hall, the sound a constant reminder to her that you’re actually walking alongside her. approaching a large door adorned by a gold plate with ellie’s name carved into it, she pulls a key from her pocket. and yet her eyes are on you the whole time.

the door clicks open and ellie holds it for you, only for her face to turn red when met with the sight of her office.

“excuse the mess,” she mutters, closing and locking the door behind the two of you. “i was uh, in here late last night. i had a speech to work on.”

“it’s alright,” you say, “some organised mess makes it homely.”

“right,” ellie nods. she’s beyond sensical thought now, just going along with anything you say. try harder. this is ellie’s issue, she eggs herself on too much, gets too overzealous, does things for the sake of doing them because her life has quite literally no direction if she doesn’t set herself these impossible dares. “just take a seat anywhere if you like. the couch is pretty comfy.”

ellie makes a pointless attempt to tidy some papers on her desk. she doesn’t necessarily do a lot of work here, though she enjoys being an activist, often writing speeches and finding causes to help others. though it did only begin in the first place as a way to increase the votes for her father’s party during the election- that doesn’t mean it isn’t genuine!

it’s just that ellie’s lazy ass needs pressure to do these things.

she gnaws her lower lip between her teeth for a moment, watching as you sit on the two-seater, eyeing the guitars along the wall of the office. “you play?”

“hm? no,” you say, watching ellie take a warm toned acoustic and sit beside you. “i’m a pianist, though.”

“pianist?” ellie chuckles, thumb stroking over each string of the guitar. “you’ll have to play for me sometime.”

you nod, watching intently as ellie begins playing a quiet tune. she can’t help but notice your rigid, straight posture. she can’t tell if you just have great posture, or if you’re uncomfortable.

but, noticing your eyes lingering over her nimble fingers as they pick at the guitar, ellie’s lips curl upwards just slightly.

she knows well when she’s got a girl worked up. she’d never expected the princess to be this easy.

“music is just beautiful,” you say with a small nod, again, that genuine smile small as ever on your lips insecurely. “nothing like it.”

“you think so?” ellie muses, and when you manage to finally stray your eyes from her hands, you meet ellie’s own soft gaze. “because i think… even the most beautiful ballad couldn’t compare to the solid view i got right now.”

you scoff, turning quiet as heat fills your cheeks. your brows furrow as you tilt your head a nod to the side, studying ellie’s features, searching for any hint of dishonesty. and it’s like she can tell that, with your gaze silently begging her to not be messing with you- she turns her expression more serious.

“you’re something else, williams,” you retort, though adjusting yourself a little closer. knees touch, and you don’t flinch away.

“yeah?” ellie grins. the room goes silent, ellie no longer continuing to play her tune. the guitar on her lap, she rests her chin over it. “something good, or something bad?”

there’s a more subtle smirk on her face now. she begins to move, setting the guitar down and leaning it against the couch as she shifts even closer.

“mmm…” you think for a moment, a smaller expression of interest visible across your features. “something that my head tells me is not a good idea, but my heart says is just fine.”

how the fuck did i get here, ellie wonders? she’s running on pure luck at this point. stumbled in late and somehow she’s got a princess way in over her head.

and ellie doesn’t leave you waiting a moment longer– the second you lean closer she’s grabbing your head and meeting your lips in a fervent kiss, one you gasp into and immediately lean into, hands falling into place with one on her chest and the other on the back of her neck.

pulling away breathlessly, ellie chuckles a bit and shrugs her shoulders, “eh- oops?” she looks almost embarrassed by her own reckless act. “sorry.”

there’s too much going on for you– just too much in your head. your first kiss, the first other lesbian you’ve ever met. her words get you weak in the knees, yet she gets just as flustered by her own actions which seem to only ever work on impulse. so you start laughing, and you can’t stop.

ellie herself laughs a little, watching you giggle at her pink face as you lean into the back of the couch and hold up a cushion to hide your face. it’s all snorting and snickering and ellie’s face is getting redder.

she snatches the cushion out of your hands and raises a brow at you, “if you keep being that cute i’m gonna–”

“sorry,” you laugh, “sorry-”

ellie can’t help but notice how much it seems like you really needed this laughing fit, the way it’s instantly relaxed you…

“that’s it,” she mutters with a chuckle, grabbing your hips and pulling you closer. “c’mere.”

the yelp of surprise that ellie’s movement elicits has her beaming, holding you on her lap. she rests a hand on the back of your head, the other cupping your ass. it’s indecent, indelicate to touch a princess like that, and yet you’re not stopping her. ellie’s already found herself addicted.

because this time ellie lets herself just go, pressing her lips to yours. she swipes her tongue over your bottom lip, grunting as you gasp. with your lips parted she slips her tongue into the kiss. she isn’t just kissing you, she’s devouring. she’s making sure not to leave an inch of your mouth unexplored, nor will she allow it for your body, getting rather handsy. every pretty little sound you breathe motivates her to continue, pulling you back in every time you pull back for air.

a hand slides under your dress, gripping your thigh, the other squeezes your breast before gliding to the curve of your ass, and she slumps into the couch. her boxers are growing uncomfortably wet and she needs to do something about it, hold you down on her desk and–

a key turns in the door and her eyes snap open, as do yours. not a single word is said but the panicked look you share tells all as you move back onto the couch beside ellie, smoothing down your dress. she grabs her forgotten guitar and moves it onto her lap.

and in mere seconds, the door opens to reveal a housekeeper who had used the master key to get in. and she’s clueless, though a little discomforted by the taut smiles you and ellie offer.

“sorry to interrupt you, ladies,” she offers awkwardly. “nobody has seen either of you in a long time, it was requested by president williams that we search the place.”

“ah,” ellie muses, clearing her throat before her voice can come out as weak as it feels. “i understand. we’re alright, yes, sorry, um… we needed a quiet place.”

sitting there with that prim and proper posture once again, your leg crossed over the other, you stare at ellie, resisting the urge to reach over right now and fix her hair after having ran your hands through it with desperation.

this is going to be an interesting state visit.

tag list (msg me or find my tag list in my pinned post if u want to be tagged!!): @dinasvampgf

🙈🙈 omg this fic..

#ellie williams x reader #ellie williams #tlou2 x reader #ellie williams x fem reader #fem reader #⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ fanfic #ellie williams fanfic #ellie x you #ellie x yn #ellie williams x you #ellie williams x yn #ellie fanfic

[sanzaibian]

I'm loving the stories! I'm heading to Mexico in a few weeks with work, but hoping to immerse myself in the culture a bit. Can you help me out?

You find yourself in front of your local Spanish-language association. You thought that taking a few classes in Spanish would help you recover some of the long forgotten classes you took in high school… though in all honesty, it won’t likely do much. You’re quite old, now, so it means that your brain cannot learn new languages as easily as it used to...

As you enter, you see the Mexican flag front and center, along with flags of many other Latin American countries, as well as that of Spain. You walk up to the receptionist, and she tells you, directly in Spanish :

“¡Bienvenidos! ¿Cuál es el motivo de usted venida? (Welcome ! What is the reason you came here ?) - Er…” You try to conjure some of the very old memories, and only manage a “Hola !” Before going back to English. “I’m sorry, I don’t really know Spanish… I’m here to take classes, in fact.”

The receptionist nods, and thinks a bit before taking out a timetable.

“Okay, well, you see, I have a... beginner’s course of Spanish in a few hours… It’s not perfect because they already started in January, but I think you can still catch up if you work hard enough.” She says, with a perfect American accent. She is visibly bilingual. - Oh, in a few hours ?”

You are quite interested, considering that you did want some beginner-level courses, but in a few hours… That’s too short to just go back home and come back later, but that’s also too long to just stay here and wait without getting bored !

The receptionist notices your embarrassment.

“You know, we are also a place where Spanish learners and native speakers can hang out. If you want, you can go to the hangout room while waiting ?” She offers sympathetically. - Well yeah, I could do that.” You nod. It may be geared towards more hard-core learners, but you can always try to immerse yourself…

You go to the room she waves you to. It isn’t loud, but there’s quite a lot of people in it, all speaking Spanish. You go and find somewhere to sit, when, on your way, someone hails you.

“¡Hola! ¿Cómo te llamas? (Hello ! (...) ?)”

Your long-buried memories start churning, as you recognize the second sentence as meaning something like “What’s your name ?”. You think a while, and then, flash of brilliance.

“Me llamo Charlie.” You answer, giving out your name in the most American of accents.

Your conversation partner smiles, and speaks quite slowly to let you understand what he means.

“¿Cuántos años tiene?” You understand the sentence to mean ‘How old are you ?’ - Er… Soy… cuarenta y dos… años ?” You try, but he shakes his head. - No, ¡es ‘Tengo ventidós’ o ‘Tengo ventidós años’!”

You blush of embarrassment as he corrects you. Yes, you now remember that to mean “I am x years old” you say “Tengo x (años)”… you even remember the worksheets from way back when… Huh, it seems like it was less far of a memory than you thought.

“Lo siento…” You excuse yourself with sentence that came back strangely fast. - ¡Jajaja!” He laughs. “¡No te preocupes! ¡Hablar español es difícil! (Don’t worry ! Speaking Spanish is difficult !)”

You are surprised how easy it is to understand him. Visibly, you had more memories than you expected ! Then, that guy continues.

“¿De dónde es? (Where are you from ?) - Soy de… Mexico… Nuevo Mexico. (I’m from… Mexico… New Mexico.)”

You almost stumbled on yourself. There seems to be something wrong with that statement. You know you’re American, but something seems wrong…

“Ah, de... ¿Nuevo México? Pero tu acento no suena asi… (Ah, from… New Mexico ? But your accent doesn’t seem like it comes from there...) - Si, es verdad… (Yes, it’s true...)” You’re about to tell him that it’s because you’re American, but then you say : “La gente dice que tengo un acento de la Ciudad de Mexico. Sabes, Mexihco Hueyaltepetl. (People say that I have an accent from Mexico City. You know, Mexihco Hueyaltepetl (?).)”

Wait, why do people say that ? You never went to Mexico City ! Okay, yes, you did go there for the holidays, after all, your father lives there… Wait, your parents aren’t separated !

You get more and more confused as multiple versions of your history start competing with each other.

“¡Ah, tenía razón! Puedo verlo en tu cara que eres… eh… ¿mexiqueño? (Ah, I was right ! I can see by your face that you are… er… from Mexico City ?) - ¡Jajaja!” You laugh. “¡No se dice ‘mexiqueño’! ¡Se dice capitalino, o chilango si estás familiarizado! (You don’t say “Mexiqueño” ! You say “Capitalino”, or “Chilango” if you’re familiar !)” You don’t quite know where this knowledge comes from. It seems like something only locals would know… - Perdón, soy chileno, no lo sabía… (Sorry, I’m Chilean, I didn’t know...)”

You smile at him. Of course, he couldn’t know that, you’re familiar with these terms because you’re a Chilango through and through ! Born in the city, lived in the city ! Yet you furrow your brows, as something still feels off.

Somehow, you’re convinced that you’re American, even though it seems to be a more and more distant fact. Well, when you look down and see those tan arms, you know that you aren’t, like, a total gringo, you’re at least part Latino…

“¿Cómo es la vida allá? (How is life there ?)” The Chilean guy asks you, a torrent of memories coming back (?) to you. - ¡Es complicado de describir! Pero México es muy dinámico, ¡entonces siempre es interesante! (It’s difficult to describe ! But Mexico is very dynamic, so it’s always interesting !)” You think back to how frantic life is over there… and how much you love that. “Especialmente comparado con aquí, parece que esta citudad está muerta… ¡En México siempre hay un xochitzin con el que te puedes topar! (Especially when compared to here, this city seems dead… In Mexico, there’s always an xochitzin (?) you can run into !)”

As the Chilean nods, you keep getting quite confused. You know you’re from Mexico City, you know you’re American, yet somehow there is like… a piece of the puzzle missing. You keep on thinking strange words like “Mexihco Hueyaltepetl” or “ihni”, and you know it’s not Spanish, nor English – not that you would know too much of that language.

You continue thinking as your body starts feeling strange, as you feel it shifting. You put your hand on your forehead and sense your wrinkles relaxing. You feel quite queasy…

“¿Estás bien? (Are you alright ?) - Me siento un poco mareada… (I feel a bit dizzy…) - Sólo tienes que ir al baño. ¿Quieres que te ayude? (Just go to the toilets. You want me to help ?) - No, estará bien. Tlazohcamati. (No, it’s gonna be alright. (???)) - Okay… eh... ¿Eres indígenas? (Okay… er… Are you a Native American ?)”

You don’t answer the Chilean, only giving him a small wave to thank him. You find your way to the toilets, still queasy, and look at yourself.

You’ve got your usual short black hair, your nascent beard that doesn’t want to come along, your brownish tint, as well as your light muscles. Nothing looks out of place, yet something seems wrong.

Is it the fact that you are so youthful ? You know you’re quite twinky. Is it the fact that your skin looks weird ? You know that it’s clearer than the other’s because your mother is gringo.

You feel even more queasy, as you feel your entire body tensing. Memories come back of your time in the gym, but also of the time with all your xochitzmeh (bros)… Yes, you now remember how you’re the son of an American linguist and a Nahua man. How you grew up speaking Nahuatl along with the other kids from around Mexico City. How you started going to the gym to prove that gays aren’t cuiltemeh (sissies/fags). How you now cringe to that line of thought, yet continue doing it to attract guys.

As the pieces of your life go back together, your queasiness dissipates, and you feel better. You drink a bit of water, and then you go back to the hangout room. As you go in there, the Chilean hails you once again.

“¡Charlie! ¿Esta mejor? (Charlie ! Doing better ?)”

Laughable, “Charlie” is only the nickname your grandparents use when you’re at their house… Why does that guy even know it ?

“¡Mi nombre no es Charlie, es Carlos! ¡Carlos Zopiyactle! (My name isn’t Charlie, it’s Carlos ! Carlos Zopiyactle !)” You say in a very matter-of-fact fashion. - Lo siento, pensé que te llamabas Charlie… (Sorry, I thought that you were named Charlie...) - No es nada. (It’s nothing.)” You answer with a very Mexican accent, aspirating your ‘s’. “Pero, tengo que irme ahora. ¡Adiós! (However, I need to go now. Goodbye !) - ¡Adiós, Carlos! (Goodbye, Carlos !)”

You leave the room, go past the receptionist who smiles at you a bit weirdly, and make your way back to your grandparent’s home. You don’t really like going there, because you’re not very good in English, but eh. Pleasing your mom is a good enough reason.

Suddenly, you hear a very familiar-sounding sound from your phone. You open it, seeing a notification, smile, and answer it before calling your mother.

“¡Cualli teotlaltzintli! ¡Amo niyaz tlacualpan! (Good evening ! I’m not going to be there for dinner !) - Pff… ¡Aic timotlamahzehua nanmonahuac! (Pff… You never come eat with us !) - Nomati, pero tengo cosas que hacer. (I know, but I have things to do.)” You say, switching back a bit to Spanish. - ¿Zannima tihual mocuepaz? (You will come back soon ?) - Quema. Nantli, nimitz nequi. (Yes. Mom, I love you.)

- Ohuihqui nimitz nequi. (I love you too.)”

You finish the call and smile. She doesn’t have to know that you’re missing the family dinners to be pounded. Those jocks on Grindr don’t know what your pseudonym “Moiztactlaca” means, but it sounds foreign, and they love it.

Soon, you’re going back home to Mexico City, but it doesn’t mean that you can’t take advantage of all the hot guys here in the meantime !

#male transformation #male tf #twink tf #twunk tf #twinkification #twunkification #age reduction #latino tf #mexican tf #nahua tf #mental change #reality change #transformation #tf story #ask

[alwaysonf1]

beauty and brains?

Pairing: Charles LeClerc x Hamilton!OC

Genre: Slice of Life; Fluff

Word Count: 3.6k

Warning: Mild Language.

Rating: PG-13

Author's Note: N/A

Though the game the night before had them arriving at their hotels late production had them up at what felt like the ass crack of dawn.

Charles fought for his life to wake up and was happy he’d thought through pre-ordering room service because it arrived not long after his shower. He ate his food in silence, sleep still clinging to him and the coffee they sent not doing much to help bring him back to life. A late night didn’t usually do this to him, but he thought maybe despite his early arrival to Louisiana the jet lag may still have gotten to him.

He tosses the covering for his breakfast back onto the plate and sits back on the couch. His phone vibrates and though he’s half asleep and wanting to stay that way he picks it up, barely noticing it’s a call before he puts the phone to his ear.

“Hello?” he asks, voice cracking.

“Hello?” Daniel mimics. “Open your door.”

If Charles had it in him, he’d roll his eyes, but he hangs up and pulls himself off the couch with a groan. He undoes the locks and the door swings open, nearly knocking him over as the three men walk into his room like it’s their own space.

Daniel takes his spot on the couch while Carlos and Alex take the other two. Charles gives them all a look, but besides Alex, who looks sheepish, they look as if they’ve done nothing wrong at all. It’s a losing battle, so he sighs and plops down into the love seat perpendicular to the couch.

“What are you doing here?” he asks.

Carlos shrugs. “We were up and restless, thought we’d come here and wake you up if you weren’t.”

“Well, I’m awake.”

“And we’re bored,” Alex says.

A second eye roll in what has been less than two minutes. He enjoys spending time with these guys, more so with how much closer they’ve become due to filming. But they were also annoying in the way friends could be.

“You cannot entertain yourselves?”

“We can, but we were talking, and we know you’re still as mind blown by this as the rest of us. Who knew Lewis had a secret sibling,” Daniel says.

Carlos nods. “And that she’s American.”

All of them nod in agreement, because even if that isn’t at the forefront of Charles’ mind it is something that they couldn’t have seen coming. They got to speak to her a little after the game before she was whisked off elsewhere and her accent threw him off. It wasn’t the one you default to for Americans, but it was clear that it belonged to some section of this country. Her mother’s was the same, which is why it was a little silly that they weren’t prepared to hear it come out of her.

To be fair to them there was a lot to keep up with this.

“Yeah, that shouldn’t have been a shock. But hey, there was a lot going on. That dancing though, it’s like things I’ve seen before, but not. Ya know? I asked Lewis and he said they’re called majorettes. I looked it up last night and it’s almost always this good. Especially since little Hamilton became captain, people sing her praises. There’s one that has millions of views on twitter alone. I’ll send it later.”

The others speak amongst themselves, and Charles feels his mind wander off. He thinks about how confusing and brilliant last night was. Every part of it. He’d never watched American football on a college level, and it was as entertaining as at a professional level. Then the band was in peak form. It got his brain working on music again in a way it hadn’t in a while. And of course, the dancing. If that was what the majorettes had to offer, then he was eager to see what else they had going on. 

“I’m a little surprised that’s how they decided to let us meet her. Lewis seems to be the protective type and that could have gone either way,” Carlos says.

“He trusts us not to be weirdos, even if he didn’t, we wouldn’t have been stupid enough to say anything on camera for everyone to see. You know F1 will put out anything, even if they have to apologize for it later,” Charles says.

Daniel snatches a bottle of water from the table and nods. “Plus, I’ve seen that man win multiple championships and I have never seen him prouder and happier than that. He clearly supports her and would want to showcase her talent.”

“True, but I wonder what that means for today. I’m guessing it’ll be something school related. If they have me do school work under pressure,” Alex says.

“Like Carlos when he forgot that he should be able to drive an F2 car.”

“Hey!”

They all descend into laughter, while Carlos glares at them, arms crossed, and eyes clearly showing he’s not here. Probably imagining how he panicked himself so much it was like someone asked him to drive Nascar.

A knock on the door puts a stop to the laughter and without a word they all gather their stuff and head toward it. Their main producer, Anne, is there and she looks worried. Then she notices the number of people and Charles watches her relax.

“Time to load into the van, everyone.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Daniel says.

They head out of the room, and with the weird speed of the elevator, are in the lobby in less than a minute. Lewis and Lance are huddled together laughing and some of the production crew linger around talking in groups. When everyone sees them, they head out to the vans awaiting them. 

When they get in Daniel and Lewis take the first row of seats while Alex takes the front and the other three in the back. The moment the seat belts click the cars are moving and Charles watches Daniel lean over to Lewis with a mischievous grin on his face.

“Any clues?”

Lewis looks contemplative and then he laughs.

“Hm… prepare to feel dumb.”

Daniel laughs. “So regular day at work?”

“You have no idea.”

From there it’s silence, but the kind where you can tell everyone is still a little tired. All their starter energy exerted, so now they need a moment.

It’s being tired and wanting to prepare himself for Charles. He went in yesterday with so little and he knows it showed, but he wants it to be a little different this time. There can be shock, but he doesn’t want to seem like anything they do and what she’s there to show them is something he didn’t expect of her. He’d hate to seem like he has any preconceived ideas of who she is. People who don’t like him would latch onto that and misinterpret, and there’s a possibility Lewis might too, but mostly he doesn’t want to offend. 

After twenty minutes of mindless scrolling, they pull up to a building. From their surroundings it’s clear that this isn’t where they should park, but it’s clearly been made so that if one needs to it can. 

Everyone piles out of the vehicle. And despite being the one who should get up first of the three, his friends are children who push him down and get out before him. Charles is on his third eye roll of the morning and the last to get out. And just as he does Iman emerges from the building and stands at the top of the steps with a smile. Today she’s in utility pants and a shirt that has a familiar emblem on it. 

“You're late,” she shouts.

“You told me eight, it's seven forty-five,” Lewis yells back.

“True, but I’ve had a man in here squealing about meeting a seven time champion and multiple F1 drivers. Have mercy on a girl who was forced to take an eight a.m. in her last semester will you?”

Everyone laughs at that, and they walk up the stairs toward her. She waits and then turns toward the building, but she pauses and turns around to face them.

“Where are my manners?” she asks, then points at Lewis, “And yours.”

“What did I do?”

She rolls her eyes and turns toward the other five drivers with a smile that makes Charles give her one of his. 

“I know all of you know my name and I yours, plus we kind of met last night, but let me properly introduce myself. I’m Iman Hamilton, little sister of this dweeb, captain of the SU Dancing Dolls, and a college student on her last semester close to losing her mind.”

She steps toward Carlos, hand out, and she shakes his. He gives a small greeting, and she goes down the line to each of them doing that. As Charles takes her hand, he notes her hands are soft, but the shake is firm.

“I’m Charles, it’s wonderful to meet you.”

“You as well.”

She also greets all the staff individually and then retakes her position in front of the door.

“Are y’all prepared for the horrors and wonders of an eight a.m. hands on class?” Her voice is fake cheery, and it makes Charles and Daniel laugh.

“Speaking of what would this class be?”

Iman throws her head back and laughs, then glances toward Lewis. “He is smooth.”

“Don’t let him get you.”

“Ooh, they talked about me,” Daniel jokes.

That sends laughter through everyone, and it lifts a weight that Charles didn’t realize was there. He was a little nervous, but he couldn’t understand why. But at least he could feel with the shift in everyone that it was a mutual feeling.

Without another word Iman turns and pulls the door open. Charles ensures he’s in after Lewis and catches a glimpse of someone rocketing back into a classroom. It must be the man that Iman was talking about. The excitement is flattering.

As they walk down everyone, especially the cameras, take in the space. There are pictures and many didn’t contraptions lining the walls. Probably as a representation of what goes on in this building. There was a sign on top of it, but it was too high to see where they parked. So, Charles looks up at the wall at the end of the hall and there he sees: School of Mechanical Engineering.

His eyes go wide unintentionally, but he reins it in and nudges Carlos. It takes a moment before the Spaniard sees what he does, and his reaction is very much the same. The others have already seen the sign and they look from the sign to the woman leading them and back. 

The smile that forms on Charles’ face reflects the pride he feels. Of course, he knows what it’s like to be happy and proud of his siblings' success in their fields, but in that moment, he understands why Lewis feels it. He understood last night, but when his mechanics and friends spoke about how engineering as a degree takes a lot out of you, he was sure. They spoke of sometimes struggling with it and normal life, so he couldn’t imagine an extracurricular that was probably as consuming.

The feeling dumb was definitely already starting.

When they reach the door to her class it’s wide open and in the center of the only space without tables stands a man old enough to be a teacher and students in similar clothing to Iman. Most seem giddy, some seem mildly interested, and there are one or two that look like they don’t care at all. Good for the ego.

Iman leads them to the center, standing directly across from her class and the drivers so she’s facing neither. Her hands go wide, gesturing to either group.

“Everyone, I’d like you to meet drivers currently a part of the F1 grid. F1 drivers, welcome to Advanced Internal Combustion Engines. We’ll be here for three hours, so I’ll leave the more personal introductions to you.”

She pauses and there’s a chorus of greetings that come from both sides. Charles watches as her lips part to presumably say something else, but then the man who is obviously the instructor takes center stage with a giddy smile. It’s a little amusing, but mostly nice to see him so excited about this. Worry about how roping siblings in this would disrupt their lives, even for a short time, has been a thing since the beginning. Especially when they may not have people to work for or with that would love this kind of thing.

“It’s nice to meet all of you. My name is Dr. Malcolm Johsnon. I’m a big enjoyer of F1 and racing in general, just as many of the students in this class are. My industry background is predominantly in IndyCar, which is why this class focuses a lot on the types of engines used in those kinds of race vehicles. Today as much as you’ll be getting a peak at Iman’s life, you’ll see what the students learn here and a glimpse at the parts that make your cars go. I’m open to any questions you might have at any time. 

Alex raises his hand. “Oh, if you worked or work for IndyCar, how did you end up teaching? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“I don’t mind at all.” He hitches a thumb in Iman’s direction, “Her mother can be very persuasive. She’d also taken a stint teaching as a break from working with IndyCar teams, so she had much to rave about. Plus, she wanted me here to make sure they taught her child right.”

That earns a few laughs, but Charles sees the odd look from a few students who are displeased but already knew this knowledge. Though it doesn’t feel like they’re displeased with their instructor, just Iman. An expected response to someone who uses the connections she has or in this case the connection just stepped in for her.

Which makes Charles pause. Wait, did he say Sherri?

“Your mother works in IndyCar?” he asks, his eyes on Iman.

“Has since before I was born. Racing is a family affair. Though more of us are on the engineering side than in the driver seat.”

When she says it, a fist extends out toward her from the corner of Charles’ eye and she bumps her fist against Lewis, smiling wide and winking at her older brother.

“But enough of that, though we’ve all agreed to this we still have a project to work on. And surprisingly multiple three hour classes aren’t enough time.”

There are several mutters in agreement and with that students disperse to the tables scattered throughout the massive room. Iman goes to one in the back with three other people. They get to work without a word and production and Dr. Johnson step closer to the drivers, forming a circle.

“Our focus is Iman and her life and what she does, but we don’t want all of you to just crowd her. As much as we want shots of what she’s doing and your interaction, we want this to be a learning experience just like the other times were. Engage with the other students without crossing any boundaries and maybe even see if any of that knowledge you get from your own mechanics is familiar here, okay? We’ll move you guys if we feel you linger here or there too long, but just go where you feel pulled. Also, there are some students who have little flags attached to their tables to signal they are most comfortable with questions, so look out for those but don’t shy away too much from the others. Got it?” Anne asks.

Everyone nods. She then gestures for Dr. Johnson to take the floor.

“And things get a little hectic, so over there is some PPE for y’all to use. I want this to be safe for them and for you. Cool?”

“Yes, sir,” Lewis says, and identical sentiments follow.

“Then let’s get started!”

Lewis is the first to break off and head toward the table. He grabs the goggles, a dingy rag, some sort of apron, and a pair of gloves and then makes a beeline for Iman’s table. Lance follows suit and that makes the first decision for everyone else. Charles sticks with Carlos as they grab their PPE and then head toward the closest table. There is a flag over it, but neither of the men say anything. They watch as one of the students takes apart their engine. It looks around the size of the ones inside of their cars, but something is different about it. Something off.

“Wait, did you grab the wrong piece?” A man, whose shirt has the name Stephen on it, asks.

Everyone pauses and looks to him and then to the engine.

“Uh, I don’t think s… Oh for fuck’s sake,” says the woman, Jennifer.

The curse is said so softly that almost all of them have to stop themselves from laughing, Charles has to cover his mouth and Carlos turns away, but you can see his body vibrating with silent laughter. Jennifer catches all of them and glares before walking off toward what looks like a storage space at the back of the room.

When shes out of sight they all laugh out loud. It takes a minute to pull it together, but they manage it.

Stephen turns to Charles. “You noticed it too? I saw you looking at it weird.”

This isn’t really his wheelhouse, so Charles feels himself get a little unsure of how to answer, but he reminds himself that these are students, and they expect some sort of failure when learning so even if he sounded silly it wasn’t like they’d look at him too harshly. At least he hopes.

“Um, yes. It looks like the one we use, I’ve seen it a few times and though it may not be the same, something about it didn’t seem right. Though I’m not fully sure what.”

Stephen nods.

“It’s definitely something that would stand out if you’ve seen them enough. It’s why she’s mad, she’ll usually catch it when we do it. But if ya want we can walk y’all through it. This is just us kind of playing around with ideas at this point, so we have the time.”

Charles finds himself excited again and he takes a few steps closer to the table.

“We’d love that. It’ll impress and confuse our mechanics if we come back knowing more than we did before,” Carlos says.

All the others introduce themselves and when Jennifer returns, they dive deep into what they’re trying to do. Though they only planned to half take it apart they disassemble it completely and get Carlos and Charles in on putting it back together. How they explain it is half dumbed down and half with the understanding that the pilots would have some knowledge of what they’re doing. Though everyone else has rotated, an hour passes before a producer pulls them away from the table. It’s with a little grumbling from both of them, but they get why.

The rest of their adventure is much the same, though for shorter bursts. Even the tables without the flags are more than open to answering questions they may have and as time goes by Charles realizes that with each table, he’s able to understand what the hell they’re talking about. And it makes him think back to all the times he’s been confused listening to his mechanics about a million things. It’s all clicking for him.

“Hey Sharl!” 

The voice startles him, and he turns toward it to see Lewis back at his sister’s table. The man is waving him over so Charles excuses himself and walks over. Daniel is making the table he’s at laugh at something and it’s probably some off the wall joke that sometimes has Charles looking at him like he’s lost it.

“Hi,” he says once he reaches the table.

“Hey. Saw you haven’t been here yet,” Lewis says.

“It was the next stop.”

“Mhm.” When Lewis says that there’s a look in his eyes that Charles can’t quite decipher so he doesn’t try to. He’s used to him keeping things a little close to the chest.

“Are you harassing that poor man, Lew?” Iman asks, without looking up.

“I’m not doing anything?” 

“Mhm, sure you’re not.”

“I’m not! Tell her I’m not harassing you, Sharl.”

Charles finds himself laughing at the two. It’s like something he and his brother’s would do. High pitched voice while defending themselves and all.

“He’s not harassing me. I promise,” he says.

Iman finally looks up, a mischievous grin playing on her lips.

“You sure you’re not just taking up for him, Charles? He’s not that big and bad, I promise.”

“I’m sure.”

“Let me know if he does, I’ll deal with him.” 

She winks at Charles and then gets back to her work, explaining why she felt the need to lubricate a piece more than is usually called for. Her partners look unsure, but they go with it. As she does it, she explains out loud what it should do to the two pilots and Charles is having a hard time splitting between Lewis’ pouting - which is losing steam by the second - what she’s explaining and watching her. She’s so focused and even when the piece gives her problems she keeps going, barely getting frustrated. 

And when she works, her smile is genuine and bright. 

#charles leclerc x black reader #charles leclerc x reader #f1 x reader #f1 x black!reader #formula one x black reader #formula one x reader #formula 1 x reader #formula 1 x black!reader #formula 1 fanfiction #formula 1 fanfic #charles leclerc fanfic #charles leclerc fan fiction #f1 fanfic #f1 fan fiction #f1 imagine #formula one x oc #formula 1 x oc #charles leclerc x oc

[arseholism]

[ Wow, you're seriously going to attempt reading about me?? Alright then, before we begin this long and tiresome charade, let's go over the basic information you NEED to know and understand.. ] [ NO! i do not want to subscribe to your OF] [ I don't "want" you. I don't "need" you. I don't want to "come see you". ] [ Please for the love of whatever you love most, do not bother telling me this post offended you]

[ Aw you look beautiful when you’re smiling! Love those shoes too ;) ]

[ Alright, get comfortable my darling ] [ I love people, i just don't find many interesting. So technically, the law of averages works against you.] [ You might be awesome.. please, feel welcome to change my mind ] [ Okay, Lets go. ] [ My name is Arias ]

[ You pronounced that wrong! ] [ I like coffee ] [ I like people. I wouldn't be able to live without people.] [ I love talking ] [ You don't know me ] [ You probably wouldn't understand me even if you did ] [ I'm From London ] [ I also live in Los Angeles, Sydney and New york ] [ Because i can ] [ I travel a lot ] [ I'm 6'3 ] [ I like short girls ] [ Not midgets. Short girls ] [ My dad's white, my mum's spanish .. Incase you wondered ]

[ I love American accents! They’re so fucking cute!! ]

[ I'm English ] [ Yes i have an accent, it's london with a hint of sydney] [ I like it.. ] [ No you probably will never hear it ] [ I've played Piano, Guitar and Violin since i was 4 ] [ I write lyrics and music when i'm bored ] [ No i will not write you a song ] [ Yes i can sing ] [ No i will not sing for you ] [ I love to cook ]

[ No i will not cook for you ] [ I'm blunt so i can be an arsehole ] [ I'm quite nice in general ] [ I'm passive, i really don't give a fuck ] [ Unless i care.. then I absolutely give a fuck ] [ I won't suck up just so you like me ] [ I do what I want ] [ I do not like cameras, in case you’re wondering why my page isn’t littered with selfies ] [ No i will not be your trick monkey ] [ or your human puppet ] [ enough. ] [ Make me smile, make me laugh, i'll get addicted to you ] [ I'm a cuddle whore ] [ I'm attracted to pretty faces and beautiful smiles ] [ I'm a dreamer ] [ I love to plan dreamy dates and sensational moments] [ I have sleep issues. I like my issues ] [ I love to read ] [ I think you're spiffy because you're still reading this ] [ I'm bored right now, so i may NEVER stop. ] [ I LOVE to cook. I even bake my own bread haha ] [ If you tak lyke dis, dun fuhkin tak 2 me mkay? ] [ Right. got that off my chest ] [ I swim, i run, i eat unhealthy, my body is so confused, but it's pretty to look at? ] [ I love music, i have way too much music for one guy ] [ I love kids, i have 3 god children and they rock my world ] [ I'm opinionated and judgemental, however, i will listen to your opinion and i will listen to your side of the story] [ I'm hopelessly romantic ] [ I'm very very very picky ] [ No. I'm not looking for anything or anyone ] [ Romance.. is so misunderstood ] [ I'm broken ] [ No. You can't fix me ] [ Wow. I didn't stop. You didn't stop. We're still here and we're meant to be *gushes* haha ] [ I'll probably adopt. ] [ I'm always bored ] [ I like conversation ] [ I love to read ] [ I don't like pictures, i figure that if there is something beautiful enough, it'll burn into my memory ] [ I however, do not want you to hit on me ] [ I can be very perverted ] [ No, this does not imply i want to talk dirty ] [ Or.. that i want you to talk dirty ] [ Please try not to be too creepy.. PRETTY PLEASE? ] [ I'm also very moralistic ] [ I love my imagnation ] [ I have a major oral fetish ] [ Do we have things in common? ] [ No, You could probably never be my dream girl ] [ I have never had a one night stand ] [ Yes, i'm very picky and fucking frustrating ] [ Are you Captain Entertainment? Sent to rescue me from the trescherous depths of boredom? ] [ Didn't think so.. ] [ I love cookies, they make me happy ] [ I love cold miserable rainy weather ] [ I'm cheeky ] [ I'm complicated ]

[ I'm curious ]

[ Did the brackets annoy you? ]

[ Stupid word count ]

[ Go on.. Judge me! ]

[ Message me if you still want more ]

[fools-task-force]

random cod hcs #2 - graves pt2

more headcanons of everyone's favorite little american asshole. after this i'll try posting some other characters. also peek the pricenikgraves at the end, i may post about that ship only at some point. anyway hc time

since i mentioned him cooking in the last post, this man loves to barbecue just as much as he loves making breakfast. usually it's steaks, ones that he's marinated. he'll cook corn on the grill with the steak too. he puts on music when he's barbecuing, and this is one of the times he's most relaxed. it reminds him of his dad (because my dad does this)

he definitely has a small food garden, nothing fancy but he enjoys it all the same. when asked why he has a garden he'll say it's because fresh food is better, which he does believe, but he also just likes gardening. i imagine he has things like tomatoes, basil, cilantro, etc

he also grows flowers but he doesn't talk about it. people he cares about will randomly have a small vase of their favorite flowers on their desk. he never mentions it at all, though

on this, he would be constantly gifting his s/o their favorite flowers, flowers in their favorite colors, etc. whole bouquets, that he's grown, just for them

more on him and his s/o, he's definitely a morning person so his s/o would wake up to find breakfast on the table and coffee/tea ready (whatever their preference is). he would learn what time they usually wake up just to have breakfast freshly made for them

one more thing on him and his s/o, he will call them "doll" all the time. of course he uses "darlin" too, as well as "sweetheart". if his s/o is fem presenting, he'll call them "princess" too

so i mentioned that he's a morning person, but when he's still waking up his accent is a bit more prominent (from part one, because this is a country boy). when he's getting ready for bed, too, he's tired enough for it to slip out some

he hums to himself when he's working, it's something he doesn't even realize he does. he'll have a song stuck in his head and absentmindedly hum as he works on whatever he has to do. occasionally he'll sing quietly, but again he's too focused on his work to really be aware of it. none of the shadows will tell him, either, they enjoy hearing him and don't want him to stop

and as promised, here's some pricenikgraves as a bonus

price and nikolai both are constantly finding new vases of flowers around their offices/whatever. usually their favorite flowers, i'm talking top five favorites. they don't even know how graves figured out their favorite flowers, or what ones they look best paired with. they also don't know when he puts the vases in their places. they just walk in and find another vase has appeared, usually with a little note reminding the two to take care or that graves loves them or whatever else

graves also has learned both price's and nikolai's favorite foods as well as their favorite treats/desserts. he will spend all day in the kitchen on their birthdays so they can have the perfect birthday dinner and dessert. but also, if he notices one of them has been having a hard time, he will suddenly show up with their favorite snacks and treats, and make them take a break

#phillip graves #cod graves #pricenikgraves #nikpricegraves #cod headcanons #cod hcs #cod #call of duty modern warfare

[sl-newsie]

American Woman (Thomas Shelby x American OC) Ch. 1: Stuck

Birmingham, England, 1919

Much like America, it is an empire of industry. Giant factories tower over the slums and shacks, with drunks, thieves, and whores alike all sulking in the shadows. Smoke and ash cloud the sky and block out what little sun there is, as well as fill everyone’s lungs with foul air. With sparks flying everywhere it’s a miracle nothing catches fire. The gloomy and dreadful atmosphere is enough to make anyone faint, vomit, or lose hope altogether.

But I’ve got something these folks do not. 

I am an American.

While that may not be astonishing to some, to me it means that I’m independent, as well as rambunctious and a bit of a rebel even for my culture. My family always says I’m too rash and stubborn, and that it will diminish any chance of me finding a husband and settling down for a proper life. But I’m in no mood to marry, so sue me for actually enjoying my life.

However, at the moment I seem to be in a bit of a pickle. You see, I don’t travel much. Yes there’s the occasional trip out of state, but never in a million years did I think I’d ever go to England. Of all places, my family chose to vacation in Manchester, England. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a beautiful country with gorgeous countryside views and polite accents… that is until you reach the deep city. Then it gets bustling and dangerous, which is how I came to be where I am now. We decided to travel by train, stopping in Birmingham on the way to London before we headed home. Lord knows why I decided to stray away and get a better look at the intriguing shops, but after an hour of desperately searching for my family it finally sunk in that I was, quite frankly, alone. Talk about a dumb-headed move on my part. I passed back and forth through the train station for hours as night fell, growing more and more worried about what kinds of danger Small Heath, Birmingham has hiding in the darkness. 

Right now, people are giving me mixed looks of pity, confusion, and judgment. I know I’m not much to look at, with my messy blonde hair stuffed under a simple hat and my slim figure dressed in a gray dress with black heels. I probably look much richer than I really am, which makes my fear of criminals spike even more.

“Might I help you, young lady?” A sinister voice calls out.

He's a drunk, I’m sure of it. A man in a ragged overcoat staggers over, and he’s reeking of alcohol.

“No, I’m waiting for someone. Please leave me alone.” 

“Oh, no. You’re all alone? Perfect…” He licks his lips and starts reaching his hand out-!

“Back off! She’s with me.”

I look over and see an older man wearing a trenchcoat and bowler hat. He’s got a simple mustache, is smoking a pipe, and carrying a briefcase. Is he a cop?

“Says who, old man?” The drunk slurs.

But instead of answering, the man slugs the drunk in the nose and ushers him off. When he turns back to me the bowler hat man extends a hand to shake.

“Excuse me, miss. I’m Inspector Chester Campbell. Who might you be?”

“I- I’m Verena, Verena Steenstra.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Verena. I’m here for private matters, sent by Churchill on account of a BSA munitions robbery. I am here to weed out prime suspects and possibly recover some stolen items that belong to the Crown. You wouldn’t happen to know an Arthur or Thomas Shelby, would you?”

I shake my head. “Sorry, can’t say I have. I’m new to these parts, just having arrived from America yesterday.”

He nods. “Well it’s best if you don’t, miss. They’re ruthless, the lot of them. Gangsters, bookmakers, racketeers. The gang they’re part of call themselves the Peaky Blinders. You best be getting indoors instead of wandering these dreadful streets at this hour.”

When Campbell sees my uneasy expression he frowns. “You do have a place to stay, right?”

“Actually sir, I was… left here by mistake. My family left hours ago and I’ve been here ever since.”

Campbell’s eyes soften a little. “I’m sorry to hear that, miss. If I knew the area I’d find you an inn or hotel, so the most I can do is guide you to the desk clerk in the train station.” He gestures for me to follow him and leads me over to the back desk, where a middle-aged lady is typing. “Hello, would you happen to know where this young lady might find any lodgings?”

The lady gives me a once-over and tilts her head. “Maybe ask Harry at the Garrison. That’s a local pub nearby. You can’t miss it. Just ask for Harry.”

We thank her and head back outside, where it’s starting to get dark.

“I’m sorry to leave you here, but I’ve got my own appointments to attend.” Campbell grips his briefcase and waves to signal a passing cab. “You’ll be alright?”

I try to give a convincing nod. “Yeah, as good as I can I guess. Good luck with your investigation.”

“Best of luck to you too, miss. You’ll need it if you want to survive this wicked city.”

And with that, the inspector climbs into the cab and is driven off. Leaving me, once again, alone. But at least this time I have an idea of where to go and what to do. I tightly grip my small suitcase and begin walking down the bustling streets, trying my best to ignore the… less than Christian crowd that hovers around. 

“God does not care if you live in a slum or in a mansion!”

A man’s voice draws my attention, and I look to find the source coming from down the street. He sounds Jamaican, and seems to be a minister of sorts. 

“God does not care if you are rich or you are poor!”

I approach slowly, not wanting to interrupt. “Excuse me, sir? Where would I go to find the Garrison?”

The man frowns at me, confused. “What’s a lass like you doing in this part of town? Don’t you know it’s dangerous?”

“I understand that. I’m looking to find a place to stay, so I’ll ask again. Where can I find the Garrison?”

The man looks at me as if I’ve signed my own death note, then points to the building down the street. “There. But God be with you if you want to persevere with what kind of men go in there.”

I thank him and walk towards the building. It’s definitely a pub, because there’s drunk men staggering out and vomiting everywhere. 

“Look out!” Someone shouts.

Without warning, a small person plows into me and sends us tumbling into the dust.

“Dear God, what on Earth…?” I gather myself up and get a look at the person, or should I say kid. He’s a young boy with a conservative haircut, wearing dark pants, a white shirt, and gray vest. One might say he dresses just as professional as any stockbroker. 

“I’m sorry!” He says in a worried manner and looks as if I’m about to slap him. “I didn’t mean to, I swear!”

I gotta say, seeing this boy speak in an English accent is downright cute!

I kneel down to seem less intimidating and hold out a hand. “Hey hey, it’s alright, kid. It was an accident. I’m not gonna hurt you.”

He nods and shakes my hand, now looking at me differently. “You sound different.”

“I’m American, from New York. Now what was it you were running from?”

“Oh, right!” He points to the alley he just ran from. “I’m playing hide-and-seek with my aunt.”

I frown. “And you’re out here, in the dark, at this time of night? It may not be my place to say, but you should probably go back inside. Where’s your aunt now?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well that’s not going to get us anywhere. You got a name?”

He smiles and nods eagerly. “I’m Finn, Finn Shelby. I’m 10 going on 11!”

“Wow, that’s old! So Finn, how about you head inside with me and we can find a way of contacting your aunt? That sound alright?”

“Finn! We were looking for you!” A man comes walking up, wearing dark clothes and a cap. When he sees me next to Finn, the man’s eyes darken. “Who are you?”

I ignore his question and look at Finn. “Do you know him?”

“Yeah, he’s my brother John.”

Now I know that I can trust this man. “I’m nobody. Just a lost tourist who’s looking out for Finn.”

The man looks confused. “Why? You don’t know him.”

“That doesn’t matter. I’d look out for him as if he was my own child because no kid should be wandering around at this time of night.”

He scoffs. “What are you, some nun or midwife? Doesn’t matter. Come on, Finn.” John takes the boy’s hand and starts walking away. 

“Nice to meet you!” Finn calls before they’re out of sight.

“Goodbye!”

Now to get back to the task at hand. While being as inconspicuous as possible, I sneak past the gruff men and enter the strangely quiet bar. I gotta say, it’s surprisingly clean. Compared to the filthy world outside you’d think the king himself would eat here. But I know better. I can tell this place has seen its fair share of violence, but I give credit to the barman for keeping it spiffy. Gruff and sketchy-looking Brits sit scattered all over the room. Murmured conversations ghost around the room, confirming that this is yet another place I shouldn’t be at. A few turn their heads, but seem uninterested… for now. I hold my suitcase close and discreetly make my way to where the barman is standing.

“You don’t know me, but the desk clerk at the train station said to ask for someone named Harry.”

The barman, just like everyone else, seems to think I’m a fish out of water. “I’m Harry. What do you want?”

“She said you could tell me where to find a place to stay. I’ll pay what I can, I swear. I just need somewhere to sleep until I can find a way to get back to America.”

His face changes. “America? You mean you’re stuck here?”

“For the time, yes.”

First Harry goes to say something but then seems to look over at someone behind me. This changes his demeanor and he gestures for me to sit.

“Can I get you anything?”

I shake my head. “I don’t drink.”

“I do,” a woman’s voice says behind me.

A dark-haired woman wearing a gray suit sits up next to me, her face being shielded by a hat.

Harry nods respectfully at the woman and pours a shot of whiskey. “On the house, Polly.”

She gladly takes the glass and downs it, looking at me with calculating eyes.

“Name’s Polly, love. Polly Gray.”

“You seem to be a woman who knows what she’s doing, and how to conduct authority,” I reply.

“And you seem to be a woman who has nowhere to go. Am I right, love?”

I look away and become more interested in staring at the table. “Yes, ma’am. I’m currently homeless, jobless, penniless, and on the verge of hopeless.” I look back up. “But I’ve got a song in my heart and a gleam in my eye, so that’s all I can do for now.”

Polly laughs and twirls the shot glass in her hand. “Well a song and dance isn’t going to take you far, love. It’s best if you come with me.” She stands back up and starts pulling her coat back on.

My thoughts freeze. Did I hear that right? This person, this complete stranger who has no inkling of who I am, wants me to go with them? Where? And what for? Inspector Campbell said to be careful.

“Wait- what? What do you mean?”

Polly walks to the door, unfazed by my questions. “I saw you interacting with Finn. You treat him as both a child and an adult, which is something I respect. You’re not too sour but still know when to show a firm grip. I’d like to hire you as his tutor. He needs help studying, as well as someone to make sure he doesn’t shoot his eye out.”

My jaw drops. “Shoot his… But how-?”

“Don’t ask. I have to deal with the most ridiculous idiots this side of England, you have no idea!” She scoffs as I follow her back into the inky night. “The fact is that I need a tutor, and you need a roof over your head. So, do you want the job or not?”

I try to form words but all that comes out is a babbling mess. My thoughts are fried! What reason do I have to even trust this Polly character?

“You’re conflicted,” Polly states plainly. “I can understand why.”

“Yes! Because- because I’m alone! I- I have no one to help, but everyone says I can’t trust anyone here, and then you happen to be passing by… I don’t know what to make of it!”

Polly puts a hand on my shoulder. “Love, one of the things I always go by is my faith. If fate had it so you would be here to help Finn and get my attention, then God has spoken. My trust is not so easily won over, so I suggest you consider this chance very seriously.”

She’s right. Everything’s led to this. Besides, she’s right. I need a job.

“Yes, I accept your kind offer.” I hold out a hand and we shake. “Thank you, Mrs. Gray.”

“I may be your employer but there’s no need for that formality. Polly’s fine, love. And yours?”

“Verena Nora Steenstra,” my name flies right off the tongue. 

“That’s Dutch, I’d imagine?”

I nod. “Yes, after my great grandmother. My father’s Dutch, my mother’s Irish.”

“Ah yes, you Americans and your mixed heritages.”

She doesn’t seem upset by it, and I’m glad she doesn’t inquire further. My family isn’t cruel, but we’re not exactly the most wanted people in New York. My uncle on my mother’s side is part of the Irish mob in Brooklyn, so our reputation is a bit strict.

Polly leads me through the dark streets and people seem to be aware not to test her. Crowds scatter away to let us pass, not even daring to meet her eye.

“You have authority here?”

“Of sorts. People know better not to start a quarrel. Here we are.”

The house itself is simple-looking on the outside, something I admire. Polly opens the door and shows me inside, which displays a traditional cross hung in the hallway. I follow her past a kitchen and into a small room near the back, one containing a simple bed and vanity as well as a single window.

“Bathtub’s down the hall. I’ll leave you here to settle in, I trust the lads will guide you through the house. Now if you’ll excuse me, I must attend a family meeting. Finn’s around here somewhere if you wish to chat.”

I set my suitcase on the bed and look at Polly with sincere gratitude. “Thank you so much. You really saved me from a tight pickle, and I promise I will do everything I can to repay you.”

Polly smiles and, to my uttermost surprise, comes over to give me a hug. “No problem, love. You seem like a decent girl, even if you are American.” She snickers and goes to walk out, then turns to say: “One more thing: when you meet Thomas, just know he’s a bit rough around the edges.”

I squint in bafflement. “Thomas? Who’s-?”

But she exits before I can finish. So just to be clear: Now I need to teach a boy from a family I just met and am expecting to meet someone who’s ‘rough around the edges.’ Yay?

#peaky blinders #peaky blinder fanfic #peaky blinder imagine #peaky fucking blinders #peaky fookin blinders #thomas shelby x reader #thomas shelby #tommy shelby #polly gray #arthur shelby #john shelby #finn shelby #grace burgess

[max1461]

can you explain what’s happening physically when i stress a syllable? like when i say bag and then big what’s changing is the shape of my mouth, position of my tongue, etc. and when i say obasan and then obaasan what’s changing is the amount of time i’m spending making the a sound. what changes between donde and dónde? physically i mean?

So, the phonetic realization of stress (in other words, what's physically happening you stress a syllable) differs by language. It can be quite complex, and involve a variety of factors such a pitch, volume, duration, phonological conditioning, and prosodic effects.

In English, the primary phonetic marker of stress is that stressed syllables are both longer in duration and louder in volume than unstressed syllables. There may also be some sort of "inherent" (i.e. non-prosodic, I'll get to that in a minute) pitch component, but I'm not sure. These are the only phonetic differences between, say, the noun permit and the verb permit, as spoken in isolation. In the former, the first syllable is stressed, so it's longer and louder; in the later, the second syllable is stressed.

There's also a phonological component; stress interacts with the individual sounds in a word and my change the way they are realized. English has different sets of vowels which occur in stressed and unstressed syllables, and so stress will often be accompanied by a vowel shift, such as the way the final vowels differ between the words record (noun) and record (verb). More subtly you might get other rules; for instance American English has flapping of /t/ and /d/ to [ɾ] following a stressed vowel.

Finally, there's a sentence-level prosodic component: English prosodic events such as pitch accents attach themselves to stressed syllables, and thus in an actual sentence the shape of the overall pitch contour will often be enough to locate the position of the stresses within words, even without e.g. volume information.

The summary is basically that English stress is "inherently" realized as an increase in volume and duration, and in addition interacts with the rest of the phonological system so that there may be more elements to the realization than this in context.

I can't answer in nearly as much detail for Spanish, but what I can say is that Spanish stress is primarily realized as pitch, with some amount of increased duration as well. I don't know if there's a volume component, nor do I know anything at all about Spanish prosody (although presumably it respects stress in some way). There are almost certainly phonological rules that interact with stress too, but I don't know them.

#linguistics

[inurecity]

Exhausted

Hey!! This is my first ever fanfic I’ve written,, I’m extremely sorry about any mistakes I made </3

I struggled to capture Soap’s accent in this; I hope you all won’t mind!! He’s an American for the time being 🥲

Minor Warning: Shitty spelling/grammar mistakes, most of it is fluff though 💕

This is also pretty short!! If this writing seems to be well received, I may add on to it or make more chapters :)

Please let me know if you have any suggestions for future fanfics, I love to write and I love my 141 and KorTak babies even more <3

The mission went swimmingly. No casualties (on their side, anyways), little to none injuries. A miracle, honestly—the task forces assigned were biting off way more than they could chew. As Simon Riley, or “Ghost”, heaved his weight onto the back of the truck, the yells of what he assumed to be of Price’s echoed around the area. Close behind followed John “Soap” Mactavish, who plopped himself right next to where Ghost had chosen to sit.

With a cocky smirk spread across his face, Soap leaned his body weight against Ghost. “Heard you roughed ‘em up pretty good, LT.” He slid his hand along Ghost’s shoulder, hugging him closer.

Ghost let out a grumble, shoving him off of his body. “Heard you got fucked yourself. How’s the arm?” He returned the smirk (which Soap could just barely make out with the balaclava Ghost was wearing covering it), poking Soap’s arm.

As Soap flinched away—and Ghost swears he heard a hiss as he did so—Price eyed them both from the opposite side of the truck. When had he gotten there? Ghost hadn’t realized. Weird.

“It’s just fine.” As Soap massaged where Ghost had touched him, Ghost took the chance to scoot farther away from him.

As the truck began its rocky pace back to HQ, Ghost (whom had previously snapped at Soap for falling asleep on him on the way back from a mission) couldn’t help but occasionally rest his eyes before he fully began to drift off onto the unsuspecting shoulder of Mactavish himself. He was spent, Price had put more weight than usual on him: assigning two god damn squads filled to the brim with militia. It was an easy win, obviously. That didn’t stop him from being exhausted by the end of it.

Soap, who had now began to realize Ghost’s proximity to him, cracked a smile, careful not to disturb the moment. He nudged his free arm in the direction of Gaz, who was sitting next to him, and the two shared a moment of pure excitement. It was shocking in itself that Ghost let his guard down enough to actually manage to drift off, but on someone else? Completely unheard of. Ghost, full of surprises to say the least, nuzzled his head into the crook in Soap’s neck, mumbling incoherent bullshit. Gaz (whom has been waiting to witness a moment like this) smiled innocently at Soap, batting his eyelashes. “Looks like you two finally got together, eh?”

This caught the attention of Price, who had been trying to ignore his.. well, children at this point, and he pulled his head up slightly to get a better view.

Soon after Ghost was fully asleep, Soap carefully placed his hand on top of his, eyes distant and longing. As much as he was enjoying this, he didn’t want their first time properly holding hands to be when Ghost was asleep. So, he retracted his own, the corners of his mouth twitching downwards.

Seeing what Soap had did, Gaz leaned in closer and hissed in his ear. “It’s not every day you get to hold his hand, ya? Go for it.” He smiled at Soap, holding eye contact for a second with an encouraging look in his eyes before shifting his attention back to the chaos going on in the other side of the truck.

With a flinch of awkwardness, Soap reached out again and laced his fingers with Ghost’s own. He knew Ghost’s hand would be limp, and that it wouldn’t be like the real thing, but he still felt beyond euphoric to do something so intimate with Ghost.

“I swear to god, if either of you tell him this happened, it’ll be the last thing you do.” He spread his pointed glare to Gaz and Price, whom agreed via a nod of the head and a knowing smile.

Throughout the ride, Soap had forgotten he was holding Ghost’s hand; he had been holding it for too long to not see it as natural.

But Ghost? He had woken up halfway through the ride, not moving a muscle. He kept his place on Soap’s neck, hearing the hum of his vocal cords as he talked with Gaz. He would never admit it, but the sound relaxed him; his hand laced with Soap’s even more so. Slowly but surely, he inched his fingers to close over Soap’s with a soft smile under his balaclava.

As the truck lurched to a stop, Soap looked down to both his and Ghost’s hands. He smiled to himself before loosening his fingers. Ghost, who realized what Soap was doing, huffed into the warm skin on Mactavish’s neck and squeezed his hand.

With a wide-eyed Soap staring at him, Ghost took the chance to stroke his thumb across his palm. “Ya gonna just sit there lookin’ pretty, or ya gonna hold my hand again, sergeant?” His voice was gruff from not talking for hours, the hum pressing into Soap’s neck.

With an excited side glance to Gaz, he tightened his grip on Ghost’s hand. “Jus’ keepin it warm for ya, LT.”

“Likewise.”

Thank you so much for reading!!

Typed this all out on my phone lol, sorry if it sounds lazy 💕

#john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #soap x ghost #ghost x soap #ghost mw2 #ghost cod #soap mw2 #soap cod #soapghost #ghostsoap #simon riley #john mactavish #cod mw2 #call of duty mw2 #mw2 #gaz #kyle gaz garrick #captain price #captain john price

[aparticularbandit]

Instigation: Chapter One

Summary: Steve sends Wanda to seek out an old witch he once knew, and eventually, Wanda brings said old witch back to meet her family.

Wanda Maximoff/Agatha Harkness

Chapter Rating: T. Fic Rating: T.

AO3

next chapter

Mid-May, 2015.

Wanda stands outside the New York Sanctum.

It’s an impressive building.  Huge.  Gorgeous glass with a shape that might as well be mystical etched into it in shining gold.  The top is a dome, which is even more impressive given its age.  It literally gleams in the sunlight, which is odd, given how many pass it by without even stopping to look.  But, then, they’re probably used to it.  They see it every day.  If she lived here, maybe she would be used to it, too.

But Wanda doesn’t live here.  Even now, she only lives on the outskirts of town, and live is an interesting word.  She has no American citizenship, nothing to say she deserves to be here, nothing to say she can stay if the government—

The government isn’t going to send her away because the Avengers, that superpowered super team, has decided to keep her here.  With them.  It’s the same as before: she becomes immune to government interference because a more powerful political opponent takes her under her wing.  Never mind that these Avengers are apparently good.  She’d thought the same of Hydra.

It’s easy to believe when she wants to believe.

Wanda stands outside the New York Sanctum with a slip of paper in her hands, looks down at the address on the paper, reads it for what feels like the millionth time, looks back up at the Sanctum, squints, and then walks past the Sanctum to the apartment complex next door.  It’s shabby.  Old.  Probably as old as the Sanctum itself, if not older, and probably more expensive to live in, even with what are likely horrible apartments.  She knows a thing or two about those; when they could afford it, she and Pietro lived in plenty.

“You have got to be joking,” Wanda murmurs in her thick accent.  She glances down at the address one more time – and, yes, there’s an apartment number on there, so it’s definitely the apartment complex Steve meant and not the much bigger and more impressive Sanctum.

“When I was a boy,” Steve had said, “there was a woman with power similar to yours who lived here.  We didn’t see her very often; Mom told me to have nothing to do with her.  But every now and again, when she was desperate enough—”

“Sounds like an old fairytale,” Wanda had cut him off.  “I don’t need a cottage witch.  I don’t do magic.”

But Steve insisted Wanda at least go check the place out.  Seventy years might be a long time, but she could still be alive.  She’d be in her nineties, but with her power, he was certain she’d still be around.  Or maybe a new “witch” lived there, someone who took on that woman’s place in society.  Vision looked up the apartment and the records of ownership, finding that whoever lived there in the forties still lived there now.  Wanda chalked that up to rent control and an apartment that got passed down to a son or daughter or gifted to a family friend, and for a while, she adamantly refused to check things out.

Eventually, though, Wanda grew so tired of Steve’s insistence that she agreed to go.  Nat even offered to join her, although Steve’s stories reminded her of so much folklore that it made her uncomfortable, but she told her there was no point.  She wasn’t going to find anyone there and didn’t want anyone else to waste their time going with her.  Now, though, standing in front of the apartment complex, she decided there was one good thing about being here: if she struck out at the apartment, she could always check out the Sanctum next door.

Not that she believes her powers have anything to do with magic.

Wanda walks into the apartment, only to find that it smells of dust and mildew, and walks along the very, very long hallway to a door waiting at the very end, one situated on the side that looks out on the Sanctum.  She checks the number, checks her paper again, and then steels her face before climbing three floors of stairs, all the way to the top of the building.  It doesn’t matter how high up she gets, the Sanctum next door is still taller, and what’s worse is that the smoke that she hadn’t smelled on the first floor seeps into the air on the second and grows stronger with each floor.

Dirty, dank, and disgusting.  Just like the apartments she’d lived in with Pietro.  But that doesn’t make this smell like home.

On the top floor, at the apartment that holds the same space as the one she’d checked previously, Wanda reads the number, reads her paper again, and sighs.  It matches.  Well, then, this is her stop.  She steps forward and knocks on the door twice, not as loud as she could, but not too soft either.

“Whatever you’re selling, I don’t want any!” comes calling from within.

“I’m not selling anything,” Wanda says, cheeks flushing quickly with frustration.  “A friend of mine sent me to see an….”  She checks the paper again, trying to read Steve’s not so tidy scrawl.  “Agatha Harkness?”

There’s some shuffling inside the apartment before the door cracks open.  “Who wants to know?”

Wanda stares at the woman standing in the doorframe.  “Um.”

See, Wanda wouldn’t have really cared too terribly much about the woman’s appearance in and of itself.  She’s attractive, sure, and there’s something about how wild her dark hair is that makes Wanda want to tangle her fingers in it, to pull her to her, and, in an attempt to tame it, make it excessively worse.  But she can ignore that, she can ignore the woman’s pale skin, she can even ignore the light smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose, but what she can’t ignore is that the woman is dressed in a t-shirt that barely makes its way down to her bare thighs because she isn’t wearing any pants.

“Hey, hon.”  The woman’s voice breaks through Wanda’s thoughts.  “My eyes are up here.”

Wanda jumps.  “Sorry, sorry.”  She runs her fingers through her hair and draws her eyes back up, trying not to linger on the woman’s body any longer than she already has, but then she meets her eyes, thinking that will make things easier, and has to stop again.  “Um.”

It honestly is not at all fair, how this woman looks and how she should be wearing more clothes.  This is not her fault.

The woman smirks.  “You’re not so bad yourself, toots.”  She breaks eye contact with Wanda, lets her eyes wander the way Wanda’s already have, and deepens that smug look.  “You wanted something?”

“You’re Agatha Harkness?” Wanda splutters out, refusing to believe it.  Agatha Harkness was an adult when Steve was a child; she’s got to be ninety or a hundred or something like that.  There’s no way this woman – this very attractive woman – is any older than her mid-thirties.  She’s got to be a new resident.  Or a hot daughter or grand-daughter or some sort of extended relative.  This can’t be—

“Who wants to know?” the woman asks, eyes dropping to the paper now held tight in Wanda’s hand like a lifeline.  “You said something about a friend, hon?”

“Uh, right, yes, right.”  Wanda’s accent grows thicker as she grows more flustered, and she mutters in Sokovian under her breath with the assumption that the other woman can’t understand her.  “Steve.  Steve Rogers.  He said his mother used to visit a witch here when he was a child.”  She can’t help but roll her eyes.  “He did not call her a witch, but she sounds like a fairytale to me.”

The woman listens to her words and gives a little nod.  “Steve Rogers,” she echoes.  “You mean that hunk they’re calling Captain America?  Isn’t he a hundred years old?”

Wanda’s gaze shifts away from the woman.  “Eighties.  He’s in his eighties.”  She bites her lower lip.  “I told him she wouldn’t be here anymore, but he was so insistent that she could help me.”

“You got tired of his nagging, hon.  Don’t try to shortchange it.”

“I got tired of his nagging,” Wanda admits.  She glances up.  “But you don’t look to be her, so—”

“Help you with what, doll?” the woman interrupts.  She gives Wanda another onceover, and her smirk returns.  “Don’t tell me you mean this attraction between us.”

Anyone else, and Wanda would grow so frustrated that she would have left without another word.  But this woman….

She’s attractive, and Wanda can’t help it.  She wants to show off.

“With this,” she says, lifting her hand and letting her power out.  It turns the paper she’d been holding to ash, and as she turns her hand, letting the power thread through her fingertips, she lets the ash dump out onto the floor.  For all that the complex smells horribly of smoke, her addition doesn’t hold the same scent.  Then she brings her hand up, that scarlet power still snaking around her fingers.  “He thought his old witch would be able to help with this.”

The woman’s eyes focus on the power, and its light reflects scarlet in her pupils.  Surrounded by her bright blue irises, it seems like there’s a thin ring of deep purple between them.  “What’s your name, hon?”

“Wanda,” she says, drawing her power back and letting her hand drop.  “Wanda Maximoff.”

The woman takes Wanda’s hand in hers and squeezes.  “Agnes Harker.”  Then she tugs on Wanda’s hand and pulls her into the apartment, shutting the door behind her.  “And I can teach you everything you need to know.”

#bandit fic #december banditnanza 2023 fic #instigation with wanda and co #mcu #wanda maximoff #scarlet witch #agatha harkness #steve rogers #natasha romanov #vision mcu #mcu vision #harximoff #wandagatha #wagatha #agatha harkness x wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff x agatha harkness

[a-shakespearean-in-paris]

about that guy I met on my European vacation--

OK, don’t get too excited, nothing that crazy or illegal happened. But I learned a few things about myself in the process that I thought I’d share. GET READY BECAUSE SHE A LONG ONE

So here I am on my 35 day European tour of a lifetime, starting in Barcelona and ending in Greece. When I get to Barcelona I have to meet my tour director after driving from the airport because he has the keys to our rooms. I knew he was Greek beforehand in the group chat--I’ve seen My Big Fat Greek Wedding about a million times and also I’ve played Assassin’s Creed Odyssey, and his accent confirms it. “I like your name,” he says when I introduce myself, and it’s from this point onward that I have two missions for this trip. Number one: have an amazing time. Two: avoid this man at all costs, except when necessary for the tour. 

Avoiding him is simply about survival, even if he seems personable and truly wants to get to know all of us on the tour. I know I’m not that interesting a person and he is quite good looking and also really charming. If I’m not careful, I’ll catch feelings. I know me. He’ll just be doing his job and I’ll mistake it for attraction. I’ve lived through this song and dance before. It’s the curse you wear when you’ve grown up in a body that society doesn’t deem as good enough. Even if time has made me what society would call “prettier,” old thoughts of you’re not pretty enough for him are going to linger, lines forged by the likes of my grandmothers and casting directors. I am the funny side character, not the romantic lead. Hell, in college I wasn’t even on the stage. I remained in the backstage area as the helper. The funny side character stays on the sidelines. She provides funny banter, not the romance arc. She has to protect herself. 

Yet there’s a moment after Barcelona before we head to Paris where he ends up having dinner with me and my friend, myself terrified when he plops down at the same restaurant we’ve chosen. I don’t do much of the talking, my friend does, asking him all sorts of questions about his life I wish I could have asked, and some brazen ones in my mind anyway like are you married or attached? he’s not, come to find out. I glean he’s sort of a wayward traveler and content with that, but he admits he’s getting a bit too old for this tour directing thing. He also lets me try his food. It’s a small kindness I wouldn’t have expected from an American man. I feel brave. I tell him I like the way he says my name. 

“That’s what I said,” he says, twinkle in his eye. (No, it’s not. I let it be. I like the way he says it. To Europeans I even begin introducing myself via his pronunciation.)

Time passes without incident. I follow my promises in Paris, London, and Amsterdam. I know my other friend L likes him a lot and says she danced with him in Paris where they connected. It’s probably true, but I don’t know--I also can’t help but feel there’s something in the way he looks at me. A glimmer of something or other that some part of me recognizes, but doesn’t think can be the case. Not for me. I know my place. Then Prague happens. 

A lot of things happen in Prague. The morning of our tour through the city I get an email asking if I’m still interested in joining the company I applied to before my trip. I can’t believe it. I’m in Europe, and when I come back there is now the possibility I won’t have to go back to teaching. The day goes on, a terrible heat wave in the city. He takes the group out to a medieval dinner--sort of an interactive renaissance fair. We’re all as a unit, very drunk and ready for more drinking and dancing. It may be one of the best days of my life. Here I am in Europe, a world away from last year in the deepest pits of my depression and anxiety, drinking beer with an amazing group of travelers who I get to call my friends. We hit one bar, and then another, an Irish pub where he is, of course--he loves his Irish pubs and makes no secret of it. He flits around and some of my friends chit chat with him, but I of course don’t say anything. Of course we want to keep the party going--so we head out to this eighties dance club where he follows. I admit my eye is on him during the night--he helps out one of my friends who gets so drunk she can’t walk. (And he avoids her attempts to hit on him as well) but mostly I dance and I dance and I dance and I drink and I let loose in a way I don’t think I ever have. I feel beautiful. I feel free. And hell, when I see myself in the mirror--I am beautiful. Later, my friend tells me how cute I was drunk. I let loose. She’s right. Everything is perfect, except for the nagging realization I have to pee.

Upon what I call the pee test, wherein you get to see how drunk you are in the bathroom, I am moderate. I can stand but things are a little wobbly. Not the drunkest I’ve been, but pretty drunk. I emerge from the bathroom. There he is. 

He grabs my hand. He doesn’t let go. He stares into my goddamn soul. One of my friends is prattling on about going to another bar, I think, but it’s so loud because “Here Comes the Rain Again” or something is playing. He is insistent I come along too to this other bar with them all, still looking into the depths of my soul and holding my hand. In my drunken, yet still somewhat lucid state, I ask him why on earth he’s standing outside the girl’s bathroom. No answer, but my hand is still in his, and his eyes are still looking into the depths of my goodman soul. I feel really fucking pretty. So pretty, part of me realizes a good looking man is holding my hand. I hold on tighter.

We don’t end up going to another bar, we end up staying, but still holding my hand he takes me away from the girl’s restroom, finally, and eventually a tentative arm is places around me, something I reciprocate until more people crowd around. Shots are bought. We take a shot together before back to the dance floor we go. He dances with me, our backs turned in this shoulder-to-shoulder sort of shimmy, and I am vaguely aware of my ass grinding against his. When it’s over I am horror-stricken. People definitely saw me grind with our hot as hell Grecian tour director. But I’m in it too deep. I want to dance with him again, and I throw out some joke as I shake my hips about how they are going to hurt tomorrow--to which he laughs. It’s at this point another girl notices and literally throws herself on him. I watch with my mouth agape as he fights off her advances, and watch as he eventually untangles himself and leaves. 

I can’t sleep that night. Number one there’s a heat wave and I’m on the top bunk, and two, I’m swimming with thoughts of what the hell just happened. He started it, but why? The funny side character shouldn’t be treated like the romantic lead. The morning comes and the girls in my room mention his behavior from previous cities after noting how the other girl danced on top of him. They mention behavior I haven’t seen, and are concerned about his professionalism and if tour guides should go out dancing with tour groups. “I think I danced with him,” I say. “You did,” my friend replies. I  can’t help but feel judged. 

We move on from Prague in our trip. In Switzerland I decide to accept the new job. I see more glances from him here and there. He watches me get hit on in Venice. Then there’s this one particular look he gives me before we drive to Florence that I can’t shake away. I tell him good morning and the way he replies, you’d think I made his morning. 

Once in Rome I end up crying. We are deep into the trip and I want to talk to my Mom about my new job and also what happened. It’s confusing and I don’t get it and is this lack of professionalism true or something that should bother me? My friend L tells me a rumor he kissed a girl in Barcelona in our group and confessed his life story to her--and she says she doesn’t like him anymore, albeit for different reasons. I never ask. But there’s something ingrained within me that senses shenanigans will happen, even that night after I kiss an Italian boy. 

I’m right. It’s the second night in Rome. I go to a bar with two other friends. Apparently this is his favorite Irish bar in the whole of Europe, and of course he’s there. He plops beside me, deriding my choice in drinking Heineken when I should get an Italian beer. He asks me what I’m going to do when I come back to the states. I joke about ice water. He teases me. I tell him the truth, that I want to talk to my mom about a few things. I think about Prague, but leave that out and tell him about my new job, and how it’s everything I wanted but I’m nervous to leave teaching and also take a decrease in pay, but it’s also exciting because my head will be clearer to write more during the day, and I get a foothold in a career that’s interesting to me. He’s happy for me. 

From there, we talk, and we talk, and we talk and do occasional shots with the others I came with. The night is a blur, I can’t say everything we talked about--movies for one where he’s impressed I know who Laurence Olivier is. (”Of course I do! I’m a Shakespearean!”) and places he’s been to. he loves architecture, and tells me I could pass as Italian, and even Greek. (He’s right, I get mistaken for Greek a lot a little later) I show him a picture of my grandparents, and when my friend next to me starts showing pictures of the various colors she’s dyed her hair, I casually mentioned I stopped dyeing my hair. “Why would you?” he asks, “it’s a pretty color.” Once, he offhandedly mentions he’s self-conscious about his accent. I tell him I like it. Rather bashfully, he thanks me.

He takes a picture of us in the bar and posts it to the group chat. More people arrive. We kind of remain by each other’s side. He buys me a beer separate from the rest of the group. At some point I have to pee. On my way back from peeing I end up smooching another Italian man. He uses too much tongue too quickly for my taste. On my way back, he follows me. You know who sees this whole exchange and is very amused I got hit on, apparently. I think I mention something or other about my therapist telling me to kiss boys in Europe. Then he’s gone--gone without saying goodbye, and I’m a little upset but mostly I’m elated. I talked virtually all night with a man I find attractive, and not once did I run away. My good mood is only spoiled by the fact that I learn when I call home that my grandma was placed in the hospital.

The next day after the Vatican I’m eating with my friend L and a few others, and she casually mentions how he tried to get her to party with him yesterday. Driven by tiredness and also my news from the previous night, I go to my hotel room and cry. I don’t feel like he played me, but more so that I played myself. I’m just the funny side character after all. Why would I think I’m special? We’re going to Greece in the morning, and my body is just so tired I have no desire to go. 

But go we do, and once in Athens I just feel very, very happy. I can’t even really describe why the city makes me so happy. but I feel safe there. I feel like maybe the past life reader I emailed back in April was right, Greece was once my home in a time before. One thing is sure, I am not wasting my time on my tour director anymore. I’m just going to enjoy the rest of the trip. 

Except he’s eating lunch the same place me and my friends decide to eat at. We leave him be but he’s as amiable as ever. And then later that night when me and another group of girls decide to go for drinks at a rooftop bar---he tags along. I don’t really speak to him much, other girls in the group dominate the conversation, but I try my best to look wistful and unbothered. He lets me sip from his beer, and when I ask my smoker friend for a cigarette puff  he beats her and gives me a puff of his. He mentions the Irish bar in Rome and how I was there with him. I feel a sort of electricity when he plops by me to smoke and he’s pointed toward me. 

The next day at the Acropolis he gives me this sort of playful, dreamy look I don’t see him give anyone else, and I ask if he thinks I look silly in my hat. “Yes,” he says, and I laugh. Another dreamy look in Paros when we’re by ourselves by the sea for the briefest moment. He looks at me like I’m a revelation. It makes me laugh. It makes me feel like the romantic lead. One last wistful look the next morning before we return to Athens when he tells me “good morning.” Again, I feel a sort of revelation. My friend tells me later there’s a rumor he slept with a girl in our group. I kind of don’t care.

At our last dinner in Athens before we all must leave, I give him his tip. We embrace, we take a photo. He wants me to send it to him. I do, and he gives it a little heart. He comes out dancing with the group, one last time. I don’t see him for a bit, but when he bumps into me in the club he asks me where my drink is. I ask him if he’s going to buy me one to replace it. He teases me before agreeing, and then more people crowd around and suddenly we’re taking shots. It’s at this point I see the rumored girl he slept with in our group cuddle up near him, to which he doesn’t reciprocate. I give a certain look of disgust, one he mirrors. “What happened to the Irish bar?” he asks me. I am possessed. I put my hand on his cheek and I tell him I’ll always remember it. He will too, he says. That’s his favorite in all of Europe. 

I remember that souvenir I bought in Athens a few days ago, my name on a necklace in Greek. He’s supposed to give it me at some point, and when I ask he says he’ll just keep it if he forgets. YOU’RE GOING TO KEEP A NECKLACE WITH MY NAME? I ask, and he just looks sheepishly at me. I know I have to leave soon, so I say my goodbyes. “If I don’t see you, when I leave in the taxi to the airport,” I tell him, “I will kill you.” And then I embrace him again. I kiss his cheek. 

Such a simple thing, a kiss. I always thought I would have to be deliberate about it, because I imagined kissing his cheek in parting before. I wasn’t so. I was possessed, automatic. When he kisses me back on my cheek, an immediate response, it feels like an I see you, you were beautiful, I enjoyed my time with you. It feels romantic. 

So we part a few hours later with an embrace--nothing too crazy. But when I’m home, I message him because he asked us to let him know when we’re home safe. I thank him in Greek, and thank him for everything. I tell him I’m glad I stopped waiting around for someone and did what I always wanted to do. He thanks me. Am I going to leave it there? He lives in Greece, I live here. He told me he wouldn’t live in the US. Fuck, I’d move to Europe for true love, though the chance of him being it for me are very, very slim. I do know he said he’d mention if he was in the US, and asked me to mention if I was in Europe. Of course I’ll go back to Europe. I’ll always return. And I may need to message him. Some of my stories take place partly in Greece. I need research help.

In my therapist’s chair upon my return, she tells me who cares if the rumor about him sleeping with someone is true or not, I know what happened between him and I. He’s a tour director and he probably lied when he said he would never do something like that in Athens. At the end of the day, he’s European, and Europeans have different sensibilities. Good for me for kissing him, and after all, it’s not really about him. It’s about how I felt confident, I felt beautiful, and I held a man’s attention. She’s right of course. She’s always right. This story isn’t about a romance, it’s about the funny side character coming into her own, and knowing she can be the lead. It’s about how I got to know this amazing, incredible woman, and now I know I can’t be without her. And, my therapist says, it’s time for me to write my book. 

I used to be sad I didn’t have a partner, how I would look at pictures of my cousin’s family and be jealous. But I see them now, and I see how beautiful it is, but I also see how that’s not what I want. Not quite yet, I still want to travel. I must, for me. For my soul. For the art that I will make. 

And as for my tour director, I waffle back and forth now that I’m home. I know I can live without him. I’m ready for the man I will marry, but I also don’t want him yet, weirdly enough. There are things I have to do. I learned that in Europe. I learned that with my tour director, talking with him, exchanging heated looks with him he didn’t give anyone else. I was careful to observe that. I admit, there are parts of me that have this knowing that there’s more and I haven’t seen or heard the last of Nikos.  

I guess time will tell. I’m happy either way. I’m still the lead.

#personal #DO NOT REBLOG PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF EVERYTHING THAT IS HOLY #FUCK WHY DID I WRITE AND PUBLISH THIS #this is long #warning

[wherethewolfsbaneblooms]

Okay so I caved into @zeroinvador and made another siren OC. So here she is, big ol’ gator mommy Dominga. She was inspired by my recent trip to Florida. My apologies, Tumblr ruins the quality. Tap for a better image. Some info —

Freshwater siren. Amphibious reptilian clade.

American Alligator

About 15 ft long and THICK. A big gorl.

Lives in a dense Louisiana bayou the locals call the “Gator’s Smile”. It is named for the main river’s jagged shape. Her territory is expansive, but she resides mainly in an abandoned fishing hut directly in the epicenter that is only accessible by boat or bravery.

She is extremely charming but lazy and self indulgent. Eloquent and enticing words tend to manipulate her victims into doing her bidding, whatever that may be, on the promise of something special in return.

Practices ancient voodoo magic. Her dark, mysterious services are sought out by wayward fishermen and river-folk alike.

Rarely encounters other sirens. Has only met a handful in her life and usually only when she travels through brackish rivers closer to the sea.

Not inherently kind or generous but has a “help me and I help you” attitude.

Loves to lounge in the sun on the river bank.

Cannot breath under water but can hold her breath for up to two hours depending on her activity level and the temperature of the water. Has the ability to slow her heart rate down in colder waters to conserve energy and oxygen.

Does not do well in cold climates. Becomes slow, sluggish, and, in severe cases, almost catatonic.

Very old but it is unknown exactly how old she is. Appears to be in her late 30s-40s.

Has a deep, raspy voice. Slight Cajun accent. Can growl and bellow like normal gators.

Obsessed with piercings and has many. Even some explicit ones. Much of her jewelry was given to her as compensation for her witchcraft — for which her clients either pay in gold, their lives, or both.

She has a single reoccurring client that keeps her legend alive on the mainland and brings in more visitors to her. Her engraved gold “D” necklace was a gift from this client.

Sometimes is referred to as “Dom” for short, though she rarely allows it.

Has a natural flair for dramatics.

Egotistical but personable. She is a very good conversationalist and could talk you out of your last dime while making you feel like the most special person in the world.

Has a silver tongue 👀

Very inviting. She makes you want to get to know her better despite the fact she’s most likely playing you like a fiddle.

Most who seek her out are men and they make up the majority of her diet. However, on rare occasion she is visited by a woman and these are the visits she enjoys the most. Dominga jumps on the chance to have her other appetites satisfied — she very rarely consumes the women who visit her. Instead, she spends a few days enjoying them while they become hopelessly attached to her before she sends them on their way.

BIG Mommy vibes

Protective in nature for what she cares about (usually material things — hardly ever living individuals). But if someone were to win this gator’s love truly, she’d go to extraordinarily great lengths to keep them safe.

Likes to flip unsuspecting fishermen who’ve travelled too deep inside her territory out of their boats. She finds their fear amusing. And delicious.

Loves to eat and is a fantastic cook. Eats in BULK. If you please her well enough, she will likely cook for you.

HUGE BOOBIES

If you think you’ve found all her piercings, no you haven’t.

#siren #siren oc #siren au #mermaid oc #mermaid #gator mermaid #alligator #american alligator #lousiana #voodoo #witchcraft #witch doctor #magic #bayou #Dom’s Bayou #merfolk #the siren squad

[randombush3]

Floss Got Hot II

florence pugh x reader

[series masterlist]

summary: things changed after you and florence slept together.

words: 8930 (was gonna be 10k but that is WAY too long for one part)

warnings: alcohol, smut, mentions of drug use, foul language, general mature content

notes: GUYS this was such a stop and start thing to write, so maybe it’s choppy?? i cannot bear to reread it once more so complain to the wall

New York is shit. Not the city itself, though you don’t like it nearly as much as Oxford, but rather the fact that American accents were annoying enough before they started to inquire about buying your business. A business that is very much not for sale.

Though your brother stood up and conducted the choir of ridiculous bidding, he scarpers back to London to avoid the wrath of one pissed off you. No one else offers to help quiet the aggravating Americans, so New York becomes shit because it’s just you, alone, dealing with things you ideally shouldn’t have to deal with. You hate the feeling settling in the pit of your stomach, you hate the idea of becoming an island.

Except, you’re not quite drifting away from land, because someone calls you everyday — the same someone — and tells you she wishes she could see you (and you believe it). The first time she called you, she asked where you were staying. You didn’t answer, waiting for her to get it, and when she did she was glad you couldn’t see her embarrassment. But you always make her embarrassed, because if it’s not the way you make her brain cease to function, it’s the fact that she wishes she could worship everything you do. Your instagram has been flooded with her fanpages because if she loves you, they love you, and while you’re not opposed to an extra six hundred followers you find it tiresome that your relationships aren’t just yours anymore. It’s not her fault that she’s famous and that you’re well-connected and that the media are either deeming you a power couple or a match made in honour of capitalism. Your favourite description of yourself is ‘socialite turned businesswoman’ (the Sun, 2nd May) because they love to mention the features in Vogue — your hotels, not you, and even then they technically belong to your father — and the friends who are friends with friends of A-listers. You usually think aloud when the papers get plonked on your desk; “when did I ever do that?” and “who?” are the most common mutterings. Your life hasn’t changed drastically, but now more people look out for you when you’re sitting in a coffee shop because there is a chance you’re waiting for someone they’d know. Usually you’re sitting at a coffee shop because you need to cry and can’t in public.

Florence wonders if she may scare you off eventually. You meet her almost every week, sometimes postponing to a fortnight in order to get your life together before escaping for the briefest of evenings of blissful nirvana, and she marvels at the realisation that your world is larger than she used to think it was. In her naive, obsessive youth, she would watch you disappear into a faint summer memory and assumed you would leave Greece and return to your own life in Kensington (and with that assumption she believed your persona was completely different with Kensington people though she decided she’d continue to adore you either way), but your most frequent texts to her are to do with taking off and landing and she realises you are ultimately global. It feels like her girlfriend’s pit stop is a night or two at her place where you drink and kiss and fuck and sleep, before she becomes a figment of one’s imagination. She calls you to remind herself you’re real, most often when she’s tired and in need of your humour and your laughter and your voice, and she always forgets you’re in a different time zone because you never fail to pick up. You’ve never broken a promise you’ve made to her, throughout one whole month of dating.

Is it dating?

“Of course we’re dating,” she says as she opens another bottle of rioja, lips cherry red from kissing and cheeks the same colour from the drink. “Do you want me to start talking about you more?” She doesn’t want you to feel ignored, and she doesn’t want to keep you a secret. You haven’t come up in conversation in a way she’d like to discuss you, but she instantly resolves to find a way to fix that.

“No,” you tell her, “because then I’d be hounded like you’re hounded and I’d hate that.” You hate that she’s never left alone. “I was just wondering because…” She waits. “It doesn’t matter. Don’t worry about it.”

Instead of pouring the wine into a glass, she tips the bottle back between her lips. You kiss the residue from them, licking your own before going back in for more, this time tasting a version of rioja you’d only access through her mouth. “I think we should go to the bedroom.” You chuckle, low and steady, drunk on her more than anything else.

- - -

“You know that phrase, ‘drunk on love’?” you ask Scarlett as she keeps you company while you trudge on through paperwork. She was passing through Lisbon when she spotted you two-hundred metres away on FindMyFriends.

“I think you’re actually drunk when you’re with her.” It happens slowly; she offers a glass and then another, until you find yourself completely intoxicated and on top of her with no top on. There’s nothing wrong with that.

(There is so much wrong with that.)

You gather the documents and tap them against the desk to make the stack tidy, pressing a button to call your assistant to come and collect them. Scarlett steps aside to let her in, surprised to find you’ve fired her predecessor. “These need to be with me on my flight tomorrow, along with you and one of your interns. I don’t care which.” New Assistant nods enthusiastically, a bit much considering your monotonous tone. “Make sure they know I’m coming and they have my apartments ready. I’m not having a repeat of my visit to Agadir.” Flo’s already there, reporting back about the new competitor; she likes to fancy herself a secret agent on an undercover mission. She finds it nice, says the layout’s genius but it does indeed lack an element from its atmosphere.

“Jesus,” Scarlett mutters, keeping to the side so as to not get in the way of business. “Y/n, are you going to have a break?” You could rephrase that to ‘Y/n, you are going to break’. Both answers would be ‘no, I’m not’ of course.

“I have breaks every week where I get drunk and sleep with Flo.” She laughs, shocked. Appalled. You decide to take it as humorous as to not defeat your bubble that tells you everything is okay how it is. “The bad thing about owning hotels is that you can never go on holiday, because I have to stay at our resorts and therefore I have to work. Ibiza feels neglected.”

“Won’t Flossie feel neglected?” She makes a good point, but so do the managers who call you up to warn you of strikes and lack of funding and love. “She thinks you’re going on your first couples’ holiday.” You leave your desk as it is (messy and unworkable) and walk out of your office, your worried friend hurrying after you.

In truth, you’d very much like to sleep for a week and never do anything again. A coma seems like your idea of a holiday nowadays, though you’d hate to do all the catch up once you wake. If it’s not work-related it seems to be unimportant, bar Flo and her wonderful ability to keep you happy without pushing too hard. She feels like you won’t want her if you really get to know her, and being incomplete (wasted) means you don’t view her as your best friend’s little sister.

“It will be fine.” You try to convince yourself as well as her. “Like everything ever, I will figure it out and fix it.”

Your assistant appears before you can fully leave, slightly scared of you, with a teenager who closely resembles Raffie due to the fact she emulates the same ‘vibes’. She slouches when she walks, looking uncomfortable without a phone in her hand. When she sees you, she stiffens, quickly and professionally, and you wonder if she’s about to curtsy.

Scarlett catches your eye and you’re both thinking the same thing: are you really that scary? Self-conscious, you glance at your reflection in the dutifully polished windows of Chaos Lisbon’s office (it’s a sizable room in which one can try to leave and still not manage to get out). In your reflection you see a tired little girl whose father is an arsehole and mother is a cunt. Everyone else sees a stern businesswoman (apart from Scarlett, who knows you too well to see anyone other than a lost teenager who doesn’t quite know what to do with so much money).

“This is Bella,” says your assistant in a similar tone she once introduced herself to you with (“I‘m Millie”). She was chirpy, but not too much to give you a headache, and she already knew your schedule for the next two days by heart. “I personally selected her and another girl to fly to Lisbon, and I think she’d do brilliantly in Ibiza.” You hadn’t even noticed two extra faces following you around with iPads loaded with mass amounts of emails.

“Good evening, Ms L/n.” Scarlett bursts into a fit of laughter. Bella looks awfully alarmed.

“Call me Y/n,” you inform the deer-in-headlights. “How come you’re here then, Bella?” You gesture to the armchairs surrounding a coffee table that you’re pretty sure your father used as a makeshift bed for numerous affairs, kicking your friend discreetly to get her to shut up. Bella gladly sits, in awe of the office now that she’s not just peering through the glass door.

“I’m taking a year out before university.” She's well-spoken. She sounds like the product of an all-girls’ private school somewhere in London – no wonder she’s not at uni just yet. “I got all A*s and everything,” she hurriedly explains, “but I wanted to be able to write more than just my grades on my application.”

“That’s a smart plan,” Scarlett contributes. Bella questions who she is silently, glancing at your assistant for an answer. “Oh! I’m her friend. Well. You know the Greece resort? Funny story: I’m dating her best friend who she met while he was staying there. I was also staying there, but I don’t think your boss liked me very much until my boobs grew.”

“That is not true!” you protest. “I’ve always been on your side. I told Toby you were so far out of his league that you were in mine.” Millie laughs, giving her mentee the okay to copy her. “Bella, do you know what we’re doing in Ibiza? I don’t.”

She seems surprised that you’re not a statue. You like that you’ve proven a personality, but don’t like how out of place she thinks it is.

Frankly, it’s embarrassing to be considered so formidable.

“I, um, wasn’t told exactly—”

“Bella is a big fan of… While I think she can handle herself respectably, I didn’t want to tell her just yet.” You nod, and it means more than just acknowledgement. From the movement, Millie is given permission to delve into your private and personal life that she gets to know better than anyone else alive today. Apart from Toby, perhaps, but Millie has met your family far more as she’s paid to work for you and doesn’t have the option of leaving if she thinks they’re monsters. “In comparison to most visits, they’d simply like to meet with you for multiple changes they wish to make. A few investors have shown interest in Ibiza exclusively, your approval is necessary. I’d estimate your working hours to be averaging at four a day.” Usually you have an additional twenty.

“So am I allowed to try out the pier cabanas?” you ask. Best feature of the resorts and five-year-old you’s idea (back when your father listened to you).

“You own the pier cabanas.”

“Yeah, but she’s bringing her friends and I’m not sure they’d want me to hand them everything on a platter.” Bella whispers to her boss (not you, Millie), wondering who ‘she’ is and asking if she gets the pleasure of knowing. “It’s Flossie.” You pause. Rethinking your answer. “Florence Pugh.” She grins the way every teenage girl does when they hear her name.

- - -

Flo’s texts flood through, buzzing your phone out of your pocket the moment you land. You chose to spend all of one hour and forty-five minutes conversing with Bella, grappling to understand why a TikTok account for your hotels would be a perfect business move. She threatens to create one there and then, using the Business Class wifi to full effect.

Her excessive notifications help you locate a very lost text chain. Bella suggests Snapchat. You scoff.

Flossie: We arrived two days ago but they won’t let me stay in your room.

Flossie: Dw - been staying with L + W

Flossie: Greece is better than this one Y/n

Flossie: Can’t believe this one doesn’t have a waffle bar

Flossie: Nvm found the waffle bar

Flossie: Ok waffle bar trip turned into actual bar trip

Flossie: I love all inclusives

You expect to walk through the lobby quickly and without too much hassle, but it seems the hotel manager is too eager to please you and has lined up most of the staff. It blows your cover.

“Miss L/n,” he says with a thick Spanish accent. You’re surprised he doesn’t kiss your feet with the welcome he’s provided you with. Two platters of fruit get offered to either assistant, to which they shake their heads and watch you closely. “It’s a pleasure.”

Most of the guests are staring at you, wondering why you deserve this and not them. Flo and her friends are sitting at the lobby bar when Will taps her and mutters, “has royalty just graced us with her presence?” He doesn’t know you. He thinks it’s rather pretentious, the way you walk down the line of workers and greet them all.

“Oh my god.” Your back is to her. “Unbelievable.” Most of the guests take offence in the fact that the staff serving them left them mid-sentence to be addressed for a singular second by someone she doubts they know. “One of my family friends would get that kind of welcome. It’s too much.”

The manager then walks you to the check-in desk, cutting in front of an exceptionally long queue (a good sign — people are actually staying at the hotels). “Your apartments are ready.” His dark eyes pierce through the forming crowd, finding a bellboy. “Is there anything you need before my friend escorts you there?” You shake your head, slightly scared of Señor Hotel Manager. He reminds you of the sous chef in Ratatouille, but Spanish, taller, and more intimidating by tenfold.

“Perfecto.” You turn to your assistant, asking silently for a drink. It’s in your hand before you start walking; a bellini that you’d rather was just the prosecco.

Flo, Livvy, and Will watch the exchange like a captivating movie, not close enough to catch the conversation. Will makes a point to imitate what he thinks is going on; “your extremely luxurious suite is on the small side, your highness. Would you like me to carry you upstairs or would the elephants be your preferred mode of transport?”

“Don’t worry, my queen, I won’t let you walk on the poor people floor,” Livvy adds before you turn to face them directly. “Oh, fuck me.”

“Y/n!” Flo squeals, jumping off the bar stool, forgoing all elegance and poise, running up to you. Everyone else looks alarmed at the fact she’d dare. Her legs wrap around you as she practically leaps into your arms, making you stumble. “I didn’t think you were that important, to be honest.”

Your suit is now crumpled and creased and you’re sure some damage has been done to your very expensive shoes, but you hold her like the loving girlfriend(?) you are. She buries her face in your neck, suddenly very aware of the amount of people in the lobby.

“Thanks,” you reply, registering what she said. “The apartments are ready. Do you want me to have your things moved? Do you want to come up with me?”

“Fuck yeah. I want to see— Did you say apartments?!”

You nod. “The owner’s apartments.”

“I thought it was a suite.” Yeah, it’s not quite a suite. “Like we have a suite, Will, Livvy, and I. Sea view. Will got a discount; he’s got so many points from that Chaos Club thing.” You’re flattered that he stays in your hotels. “Does your apartment have a sea view?”

You put her down. “Floss, babe, I said ‘apartments’ plural.”

- - -

The owner’s apartments are a staple of your childhood. Every one of your hotels has one, featured on the top floor and solely for the private use of your family. They’re obnoxiously decorated to fit the theme of wherever you’re staying, with large rooms and comfy beds in abundance. Toby once came up in the lift with you in Greece, but even he hasn’t been inside. There’s a private lift with doors that open into the living room and a second lift that takes you from the CEO’s conference room and office to the lobby. The office anchored your father during your childhood, meaning you mostly had free reign over the place while your brother partied and your mother lived at the spa. The place does have its own spa features, but your mother enjoyed being as far away from you all as possible.

“I’m going to tell them you can bring whoever you want up here, okay? And if they don’t let you or there are any problems, call me and I’ll sort it out. They’re snobby up here.”

Your bags have been unpacked already when she fiddles with the remote that controls your wardrobe. She finds the button for your underwear drawer, and smirks profusely at what she discovers.

“You are a filthy, filthy flirt,” she mumbles, blushing. Everything in there is either lace or very tiny. You’re planning to put that big, fat bed to very good use.

She finds her way to the bedroom, memorising the route for future use. Her suitcase is in there, placed in the corner and… cleaned?

Millie clears her throat, making the inquisitive blonde jump. “I don’t think we’ve met,” she says, knowing they definitely haven’t. Jealousy surges through Flo before she sees how the woman is dressed. “I’m Y/n’s assistant.” She wonders why you’ve brought her on holiday with you, until she realises you’ve disappeared because you have a meeting. “She asked me to make sure you had everything that you needed. She’ll find you in an hour or so.”

“Oh, no, I’m fine. I left my friends in the lobby, I’ll probably just go back to the beach with them.” Will and Livvy are going to think you’re shagging if she stays any longer, which is far from the truth seeing as you’re not on a holiday but rather a business trip. They stand there awkwardly, until Bella walks in with a sprite and hands it to her boss. “Hi.” The teenager almost falls over.

“Hello, Ms Pugh.” God. Millie laughs quietly. “Sorry. Y/n said to call you Florence, but I didn’t want to offend you. I’m her assistant too. Well. Her assistant’s assistant. Millie’s my boss.”

Flo finds it daunting that your assistant has an assistant, even if she looks like she’s very under-qualified and plucked from the nearest school you could find.

“It’s nice to meet both of you.” She wishes you were here. “Could one of you show me out? I need to get to the beach.” She texts her friends to meet her there, saying you’ve gone off and that she’ll be joining them for the rest of the day.

Will and Livvy quickly decide to get Flo drunk. She comes back with her tail between her legs and is thrust a bottle of champagne that Will got for free from a yacht that docked while Flo was with you. “Rich people are unreal,” he says, “but I’m sure your rich person isn’t bad. Where is she?”

“Working.”

“Oh.”

“I don’t know why I thought she was allowed holidays. That was stupid, wasn’t it?”

“I bet you’ll have good makeup sex,” Livvy comforts, four glasses in.

Flo pouts, whining. “She’s so good in bed that I hate her.” Both her friends whack her with whatever springs to mind first. “Just because you don’t get to shag your childhood crushes—”

“Childhood crush?” Will isn’t particularly close to her in respect to knowing everything she’s ever done. She’d easily vent to him, and she does, but he has a tendency to forget facts and get lost. Livvy can draw a timeline of Flo’s life with a smudgy ink pen and her eyes closed.

“Y/n was Flossie Rose’s gay awakening. If you were to pinpoint the exact moment, I believe Flo told me it was when she was thirteen and Y/n asked her to tie her bikini. It slipped ever so slightly.” Flo reminds herself to never let Livvy drink champagne if she wants to maintain any dignity from her quickly depleting stash. It really loosens her lips.

“You’re not straight?!” She shakes her head. “That makes so much more sense.”

“Thanks.”

“No, as in, like… No! It was a compliment, I swear.” Will was last updated on his friend’s love life when they filmed Midsommar. He’s very behind. “So you and Y/n are…? And you’re not with Zach.”

“She wouldn’t be fucking someone else if she was still with him,” Livvy sighs, frustrated with his incompetence. “And who knows what’s going on with those two. Have you guys ever slept together sober?”

“Yeah!” Flo is very quick to defend herself. “Yeah, we have.” She pauses for a moment, finishing the bottle before she continues. “I think we’re dating. She asked me, and I said we were.”

“Is this a ‘never meet your heroes’ situation?” Will asks slyly. “Are we liking the fact she’s, like, loaded?”

“We’re more scared that she will stop finding us attractive and go back to seeing us as her best friend’s little sister.” Her friends nod; it’s a totally valid point. You’re quite good at separating Flossie and Flo however. “And I don’t care if she has but a penny to her name.”

“Point out her suite.” The three of them stare at the main building. “With the amount of points Will has, it must be near us.” You’re on the top floor. The whole of the top floor.

She points there.

“We’re only two floors below her,” Will says. “It’s not weird for her, right? Chaos Hotels are really nice. They use lovely bed linens.”

“That’s… not normal. Don’t tell her that.” You’d be flattered, to be honest. Sometimes you convince yourself that all one-hundred and twenty-eight hotels are completely empty, no one likes them, and that you’re a failure who should retire to her sofa never to be seen again. “But she has the whole floor. Owner’s apartments.”

Livvy really wants to see. “Fucking hell. Where’s my childhood crush? I need a new fridge.”

“Her assistant has an assistant.”

“Sounds expensive.”

“Sounds like you’re a stress ball,” mutters Will. He hasn’t solidified his dislike for you yet, but the disappointment in his friend’s voice saddens him a lot more than he thought it would. “If she completely ignores you the whole time we’re here then we’ll go out clubbing like the celebrities we are and stir up some drama. I can’t guarantee that I won’t stop staying at her hotels though.”

- - -

Millie complains about the sand ruining her shoes, saying she’s not at all dressed for the beach and that you won’t find her in the crowds. You reply that you will, tell her that her intern is outshining her, and offer her your sandals. Sighing, she accepts, taking your bag and carrying it for you (so far you’ve insisted on being independent because it’s genuinely embarrassing to be so pampered in front of a woman who clearly is not fond of that lifestyle). “Pretend it’s your bag,” you instruct her as you spot her friends. They’re sunbathing in a quieter area. You can smell Flo’s cigarette smoke. Millie doubts anyone would assume the Birkin is hers.

Every time you glance behind you, the entourage acts busy with other matters. You know that the five or so waiters and waitresses are hovering, listening to your conversation. If you so much as mention a slight desire for, say, strawberry gum, it’s their job to fetch it. Again, that’s embarrassing. Millie disperses them when you’re looking, but calls them back once you’re not. One day you will not only blush tomato red but grow a stalk and fatten until you are the damned fruit.

Flo sees you trudging through the sand with heels in one hand and your phone in the other. You seem to be talking to someone (your brother — “how come you’re partying without me?”) and she wonders if you’re walking towards her or doing rounds of the resort. It’s a bit of both, but the space beside her looks too enticing to move on so you sit down. Every person other than Flo looks shocked that you didn’t click your fingers, call ‘garçon’, and demand a throne.

“Hi,” Flo says brightly, happy that you’ve chosen her over what you were supposed to do. You subtly shoo Millie and Bella and all five members of staff, and they retreat to the nearest set of sun loungers. She tells them that they are to spread out and look like they are not only waiting on you. “How was your meeting?”

“Boring.” You have a view of the beach from your office. You played Where’s Flossie. “Top secret information: the Standard hotel’s prospective customers saw this place and rethought their bookings. You’re our lead woman on this case, Pugh. Your service was greatly appreciated.”

“This is the part of the movie where you’d pull a knife out and stab me.” She leans on you, getting sand all over your linen trousers. Her fingers brush the grains off, resting on your thigh once she’s finished. “And while that sounds incredibly sexy, I’d rather you didn’t.”

“Mm.” The noise kisses her ears. It sounds familiar. You’re a tease. “You sound pretty into it,” you whisper, lips almost touching her ear, your breath stroking her skin and giving her goosebumps.

Her friends try not to look at the two of you as Flo sprawls on your lap, sunbathing in a better position. You run your fingers through her hair as she lights another cigarette, holding the pack up to you. You take one, feeling Millie roll her eyes from her stakeout a hundred metres away. “Here,” she says, pulling you down to her by the chin, bringing the lighter to the end and igniting it. You mumble something about being able to light your own fags, but it comes out croaky and half-finished because she is turning you on by being so touchy and close and… “See. Now everyone knows you’re mine.” Possessive.

You exhale your smoke in her face to get her back for the way she’s made you feel. “Wanna play a game?” Flo has lost sight of everyone else in the world who isn’t you. She nods slowly, cautiously. “Okay. If you guess what I’m wearing underneath my clothes, you get a kiss.” You’re being childish. It’s funny.

“What are we thinking for dinner?” Will bursts the sexual tension with such a mundane question that you almost laugh. “The buffet’s quite good. Have you tried it?” Flo ashes into the sand and flicks it at him.

“I’ve tried all one hundred and fifteen the buffets.” The remaining thirteen don’t have them. “Personally, I believe the experience isn’t properly had unless you go at peak time. If we eat at 6.30, we can drink until tomorrow.” You’ve noticed the empty bottle of champagne, and you’ve smelt it on Flo’s breath. Loudly, you announce, “the answer is nothing,” looking a bit like a madwoman to her friends. She tenses in your lap, trying her best to not go bright red.

“Can we go?” Flo asks you, voice weak and hushed and desperate. She speaks up; “I’m going to help Y/n unpack before we eat. See you in an hour?”

She knows she’s forgetting something when Livvy frowns and nods to Will.

Remembering once she’s stood up and not as close to you, she goes, “fuck. Sorry. Y/n, this is Will. Will this is Y/n. You’ll get on splendidly. Y/n owns hotels, Will. Will acts, Y/n. We were in Midsommar together, but you both know that so there’s no point in telling you.” She senses the two shadows behind her, readying themselves to leave. You shake your head once, not turning round to look at them, focusing on the fool Flo is making of herself. It’s rather cute. “Y/n really needs to unpack because I can’t stand her living out of a suitcase.” She makes you keep clothes at hers. And a toothbrush. Sometimes the clothes will smell of her instead, so you take her sweatshirts with you when you leave as payback.

Good thing Will and Livvy don’t know that your things were sorted and placed in the wardrobe the minute your bags made it to the room.

“Hasta luego,” you say, chuffed.

Flo restrains herself from sprinting to your apartments with you in tow, walking awkwardly past the line of staff who wait for you to be two metres ahead before trailing after the two of you.

You are clear with Millie about what is going to happen. After a few run-ins with previous assistants, you’ve realised that being open and feeling embarrassed for a second is far better than when they walk in and can’t look at you the same for months.

“I hate how tall your building is.” The lift has a security camera that you’ve warned her is very much monitored. She almost ignores you, but the second the thought seriously crosses her mind is the second the doors ping open and you pull her inside.

You’re pressed up against the same doors the moment they close.

She kisses you hard, hands fencing you in as they thud against the metal. You grin. This is what you wanted to do.

- - -

“You guys really thought you got away with being late,” Will laughs, not drunk, but not tipsy, “by Y/n coming from the kitchens because she had to ‘check something’. Was she checking you out, by any chance?” It was a good plan in the heat of the moment. Seemed believable.

“Was it my acting or hers?” Flo asks, faux secrecy, leaning into the middle of your round table. After dinner, most guests migrate to the rooftop bar because they can smoke and get drunk and be away from any children at the resort. Your table overlooks the sea, a similar view to your place.

“Honestly?” You both nod, eager to see if you’ve outdone the actress. “Your cheeks go red when you lie, Flo.”

“Ow! That was my foot,” Livvy shouts, obviously having been kicked under the table by accident. It must have hurt. Flo’s wearing heels.

“I’m a good liar,” you proudly announce, wanting to piss off Flo even more. You’re about to delve into an anecdote about one of the many times you lied through your teeth to get out of being cut off, disowned, or (and you will defend the fact that you were a typical daughter of a billionaire with this one) taken into custody, when you hear a squeal that sounds like its home is in a boarding school dormitory accompanied by a very familiar ‘oh my gosh’. A chorus of them, actually.

Three girls wave at you from the bar, and now that they’ve locked onto their target, you know that they won’t stop until you go up to them. You want to strangle yourself with their alarmingly abundant necklaces.

“Oh god,” Livvy says, amused at your terror. Flo questions you silently, offended when you get up abruptly and approach them. It’s like you’ve stepped into a role. You walk differently — standing up straighter, more purposefully — and you replicate their condescending tone with your own shrill greetings.

Each girl embraces you. One holds on a little too long for your girlfriend’s liking (you still haven’t discussed the label, but Flo feels like declaring she’s your wife when you’re hugging her like that). They haven’t yet stopped partying and started working, so they smell of the usual champagne/fags/cocaine combo. Your brother smells like that, too, but you forget because you haven’t hugged him since you were ten.

After excruciating small talk, they wave at the three you left behind. “Is that Florence Pugh?”

“Yeah, she and I—”

“Y/n, why haven’t you introduced us yet?” She says it loudly, that one. She’s the most annoying. Her volume causes a few others to turn around but they quickly return to their chatter. Florence, however, is seething at the fact that her hand is resting so comfortably on your waist.

Now unavoidable, you walk them over to the table, grimacing at the steely look Floss gives them all. “This is Hattie, Mattie, and Lottie.” You look at the three witches from Macbeth; “this is Will, Livvy, and Florence.”

“Flo,” corrects one very unimpressed blonde. “It’s lovely to meet you.” It’s not.

“Also a pleasure! You might know my father…”

You tune them out, quite experienced and very used to it. What you don’t realise is that they’ve been looking at you expectantly for the past thirty seconds as the conversation falls into your lap. Flo whispers in your ear a brief summary.

“How did we get to bodycounts?” you ask, wide-eyed. You don’t want to talk about this near Witch One, Two, or Three, because…

“Yeah, so mine isn’t actually that alarming once you hear hers.” Lovely. “It’s in the triple digits, right?”

Flo’s mouth falls open, about to comment. You notice that she’s sort of… impressed? And so is Livvy, but she’s an animated person who never learnt the art of emotion concealing.

Before your brain can catch up with your mouth, you say, “yeah, but it wasn’t all one-at-a-time.” That seemed like a good defence until they’re all looking at you. “Don’t.” You’re addressing the uninvited guests at the table.

Lottie has had far too much to drink, because she shares with the group that you were her first and a bloody good one at that. You decide three things there and then:

You are too sober to not care.

Florence is so hot when she is jealous.

Never let old friends meet new friends, because you have changed too much for them to get along.

“Have you all slept with Y/n?” Will asks curiously, earning a kick to the shin from Flo.

“You know what, Will? There are only so many people in a boarding school.”

“You don’t have to shag them all.”

“Some people sleep with every living, breathing thing they see, some live alone in East London,” philosophises Livvy. Ever since the champagne earlier, she’s been knocking back quite a few long island ice teas (you told the bar to stop serving her after her third). “And some people pine for their childhood crush for so long that they actually pull them.” She looks at Flo. “And s’all okay! If Y/n’s had her hands down hundreds of pants, why does it matter? What’s important s’that the only pants they go down now are Flo’s.”

“Hear, hear!” Lottie shouts. Drunk people tend to get on quite well with each other. You know you’re blushing, and that they can see it. You know that Will is going to take the piss. You know that Flo is going to ask you questions later. Surprisingly, you don’t care. Being with friends (they are your friends, even if you can’t bring yourself to call them that) has made you feel weirdly elated. It’s easy to ignore the part of you who argues that you’re working way too much and that it’s going to blow up in your face.

It will, inevitably. Maybe you’ll handle it better than those before you (your father fucked off for a good few years – he might have mentioned you have a half sister, you’re not too sure), and it’s not like you don’t have people behind you. Supporting you. Like Toby and his family. Very much Toby’s family, particularly his little sister.

- - -

For some reason, you and Flo don’t pounce on each other the minute you get into the living room. It’s not like she’s had enough of you – she was horrified when you suggested you cut your earlier activities short so as to not miss dinner altogether.

“You okay?” she asks as you begin to form a sentence and forget it the minute she looks at you. She walks towards the corridor adjacent to the one you showed her. “How come I never looked round here?” All the doors are closed.

“That’s…” Her hand curls around the first door’s handle, pushing down but not opening the door before you tell her she can. “Have a look.”

The corridor is a mixed bag, Flo finds.

Her first discovery is a boring spare bedroom, decorated similarly to the one you’ve had made up for the two of you, which sparks the question of where your actual room is. It isn’t the next door down, nor the one opposite, because they are a games room and a cinema respectively.

She hums in approval at the posters lining the cinema’s walls once she sees her face (Midsommar) and sends a wink your way when you attempt to splutter out an explanation. And this is you before she gets to the last door.

“This was thoroughly disappointing. A cinema: expected. A games room: expected. Your brother’s wine room with a bed: expected.” She frowns when you remind her that ‘wine room with a bed’ is his bedroom. “Bedrooms have bedside tables and bookshelves and, for normal people, their desk and dressing table. It’s a wine room with a bed, Y/n.”

When she opens the supposedly disappointing final door, you are already in position to shut the mouth that hangs loosely. Without your hand supporting her chin, she returns to her jaw-dropped state.

“Whose bedroom is this?”

Sheepishly, you say, “mine.”

“This is like walking into Sleeping Beauty’s arsehole. It’s amazing!”

In all fairness, her description is quite spot on. They had the floor stained hot pink for a demanding five-year-old Y/n, and the walls painted a matching shade. The bed used to be your claim to fame in year one because it’s shaped like a castle, turrets and all. She runs to climb it, wanting to try out the slide that entertained you for hours. It was a step down from your original request of a waterslide that took you from your bed to the swimming pool, but once they added in a carousel, you were sold.

The slide bores Flo after a few tries because it’s not made for an (albeit small) adult woman, so she moves her focus to the ornate fairground ride, smirking because this glimpse into your childhood is so very entertaining. She sits on your favourite horse out of the three, and begs you to turn it on.

“It plays music,” you groan, sick of the same tune having heard it thousands of times before. She gives a look that you stupidly can’t say no to, so you plug your ears and hit the on button. Flo informs you that this is the best place in the world.

After she has gone on every horse and quizzed you about the names and personalities you gave them when you were younger, she asks if any other room beats this one. “I am never leaving.”

“You better leave, because I’m not fucking you in here.”

Suddenly she is not so enthusiastic about staying. In fact, she declares she hates the bloody place and pushes you out of it, not stopping until the route that she knew would come in handy leads you to your bed (adult you’s bed). You sit down on the edge of the mattress as she straddles you, teeth crashing messily against your own, hands tugging at the dress you had to change into for dinner. She pulls it off, moaning at the sight of your dangerous decision to only wear a thong.

“Not fair,” she grumbles.

“Suck it up, buttercup.” She doesn’t hear you, too busy staring at the curve of your breasts, wondering how long it would take for you to beg her to touch them. You notice that she’s not touching you, sitting up in your lap. “Go on then, Miss Ravenous.” It doesn’t work. It usually spurs her on. “Flo.”

“Y/n.”

“Flo.”

She copies your tone again, “Y/n.”

You have to try other methods. “Did you know I have a strap in my drawer?”

“Which drawer?” You smirk. She can’t stop herself. “Which one?” she whines, eyeing the bedside table.

“Not that one.”

She gets off you, taking off her top because that may convince you to tell her. You’re offended at her perception of your self-control, but enjoy sitting back and watching her rummage through each and every drawer. Occasionally, she makes a face, having found something suitable for that emotion, and slowly but surely she gets through the drawers it could have been in.

“Getting hotter,” you say as she retraces her steps. She raises her eyebrows and confidently yanks open a drawer that contains a singular hair bobble. Flo realises your comment was more of a cat-call than a clue. “You’re never going to find it.”

“I so am!”

Smugly, you pull on the handle of the bedside table. Florence has never wanted to maliciously choke you until that moment. And then her anger fizzles out.

Arousal hits her like a tsunami, and you can tell. She hates that you can tell, but she’ll bring it up later because you’ve managed to wriggle her out of her shorts and underwear until she’s fully naked and standing dumbfounded in the middle of your bedroom.

How you get her like this is a mystery.

She is shameless in the way she kisses you; hungry, fast. It’s almost too fast, considering the state of undress you are both in (the thong really doesn’t count – it’s that small), because when you knock against the corner of a shelf there is nothing to stop you from yelping as it makes sharp contact with your back. You hear a mumbled ‘sorry’ from Flo as she guides you back to the bed, taking care to lie you down on the egyptian cotton.

Her hands go to your chest the minute she’s sure you’re not going to get injured again, kneading the flesh before sliding down, permitted by the sheen of sweat that makes you glisten under the dimmed lights, to the apex of your thighs. You grab her wrist before she can press a finger to your clit, using her surprise as an opportunity to flip the two of you. She sort of fights this decision, being energetic and intense and the one who usually takes the wheel (only because you let her). You tell her that if she is patient, you’ll have a chance to actually use the strap rather than both of you ogling at it. “I can’t put it on if I have to pin you down,” you mutter, despite finding her devotion to your pleasure adorable.

She’s adorable.

She’s also very horny. To the point where watching you blow your nose would turn her on. As long as it was you. You turn her on really easily, really quickly, and too much for her to not feel like a teenager. Especially when your hair is damply sticking to your face and your chest is rising and falling quickly. And the best thing about you turning Florence on, is the fact that she knows she has the exact same effect on you.

You’re not going to hide it.

Flo moans when you join her again, kissing you because she missed you and not allowing you to push her flat against the bed because she is not about to let you win your little power battle for control. (Technically, you’ll always win – your intentions are to be doted upon and that is exactly what you get.)

“Why can’t you just–” She cuts you off by somehow getting on top of you, dipping her head down to your lips, and then your neck, and then your chest. She hovers above your lap. You lie back, hypnotised by her.

“I want to ride you.”

She didn’t realise that would make you moan.

“You are going to kill me one day,” you breathe as she grins at the sight of you; a complete wreck. Your eyes follow her as she slides her hand down to the base of the dildo, and your eyes shut when the movement rubs against your clit. Flo quirks her eyebrows at your reaction, finding it theatrical but wholly erotic.

She sinks down onto the strap with a sharp intake of breath, head falling backwards as she does so. You watch her as she begins to grind down, revelling in the noises she makes a point to not hold back, until it becomes insufficient to gawk. You sit up, her breasts pressing into yours, your hands gripping her hips as she begins to move faster. The strap pushes harder into your clit as she bounces up and down, drawing out whines and whimpers and a “don’t ever stop” distorted by the both of you panting.

Her hands rest on your shoulders as she increases her pace, seeking out her own orgasm, pulling you into her and kissing you. You open your mouth, waiting for her tongue to slip inside, moaning into her. She seems to melt into you, teeth crashing against your own, lips swollen once she breaks for air. When she does pause, you wrap your arms under her thighs and flip her, but she remains clutching onto your shoulders, back arching.

Once you begin to thrust your hips, she is quick to let go, head hitting the pillows with a thud inaudible over the obscene sounds flowing out of the both of you. Her nails dig into your back, adding to a map of marks made today, and you can feel her tense. It will only take another–

“Y/n, where do you keep your cocaine?” The voice is new to Flo. She hates it. She was about to come. “Also, I love that you’re fucking her on Daddy’s bed, but be quieter. Way quieter.” You yank the bedsheets over yourself and Flo, mouthing ‘sorry’ to hopefully prevent her from a heart attack.

“Go away,” you reply. He rolls his eyes and taps his watch. “There’s some under my bed.” Just to get it over with, you omit your questions of ‘how the fuck did you get in here?’ and ‘why are you asking me if you knew I was in the middle of something?’, glancing down at Flo to see how she’s doing. She’s no less red than she was before, but instead of parted and kissable, her lips are pressed together in a tight frown.

“I need to finish,” she pants, wondering how you’ve managed to turn her into a minor exhibitionist. “Y/n, I need to–” It takes one hard roll of your hips for you to make her come, Flo’s body swept up in a rush of pleasure. Her legs shake as you continue chasing a release. She’s coming a second time when you collapse onto her, head resting in the crook of her neck, being able to taste her sweat as your lips caress her skin.

She kicks the sheets off as soon as you pull out, breathing not yet returning to normal. Between her thighs she can feel the stickiness you left. You suggest a shower.

“Wait,” she says as you stand, loosening the straps on the harness. “Who was that and this isn’t really your parents’ bed, is it?” At your diffident expression, she sighs dramatically.

You launch into an explanation: “This place is super outdated because we never used to stay here, but the Master bedroom belongs to the current CEO. I’m the current CEO, therefore it’s rightfully mine, and I told you that we’re not fucking in my childhood bedroom.”

“You had no problem doing it in mine!”

She’s not cross with you, just frustrated about the interruption. “I last stayed in my room when I was six. It hasn’t changed since then. If we were at my actual house, it would be fine.”

Flo stands up as well. “Y/n, you can’t fuck me on your dad’s bed!” She moves away from the mattress, towards the door of the ensuite. “It’s weird.”

“He hasn’t stayed here in decades, and my parents can barely be in the same room together.” You toss the harness into the corner. She steps into the ensuite with a grouchy face, and you can tell she’s debating whether or not to let you join her. “We should be more worried about the fact that my brother’s here.”

- - -

Will’s first reaction to Flo’s story is to ask which one of you has worse daddy issues. “Pretty sure her dad’s girlfriend is younger than her,” Flo answers, grimacing at the thought.

“Is Y/n’s brother hot?” Livvy hasn’t really been focused on the story ever since Flo started telling it.

The trio almost get deja vu when you parade down the beach to them, right on time. You’re right on time because a fourth member of the crew is now prominent; shirtless and muscular and handsome.

“I think so,” Will whispers, patting Livvy on the shoulder when her eyes widen. Your brother doesn’t bother to stop when you sit beside your girlfriend – you’ve now talked about it: girlfriend is a yes, but beach sex is a no (the conversation was in the shower and you got carried away).

“Hello,” you greet them all, kissing Flo on the cheek because you’re still making the fact that you got walked in on up to her. “I come bearing good news!” You nudge Flo’s shoulder. “A boat is docking tomorrow morning at 10 under the name ‘Poulter’.”

‘Pugh’ would have been too suspicious. Another thing brought up in your very healthy and communicative conversation was that you were not going to treat her like she’s your sugar baby, even if she’s younger and you like buying her things.

“Are you joining us?” Flo asks, sceptical.

“Is your brother joining us?”

“Livvy, my brother is not good enough for you, and I don’t think you guys would want to be caught up in his snowstorm.” His literal snowstorm.

Will catches up eventually, realising you’ve gotten a boat for him tomorrow. “Am I now a Chaos Club Diamond member?” You laugh loudly, startling the entourage who sit behind you and hang onto your every word in case you drop the name of a drink. “Also, it’s your boat, right?”

You shake your head and now it’s Flo’s turn to laugh. She covers her mouth quickly. “I’m banned from our boats. This is my friend’s rental company. And, Will, you have enough points to own the hotels.”

“You don’t want them,” speaks another voice.

There’s a moment of silence as you feel a hand patting your head (older brothers are the worst).

“Oh, you were the chap I gave the champers to!” He’s a pretentious snob, your brother. “Small world.” Flo reaches for your hand when she notices your jaw tense. “Y/n refuses to introduce me, though I’m not sure why.” You lean into your girlfriend’s side as she presses a kiss to your temple, wanting nothing more than to throw sand in his face and kick him. “She’s always hated when I befriend her friends. Must be terrified that I’m going to nab them!”

“Enough,” you tell him calmly, not rising to his tone. He keeps eye contact with you as you hold his gaze; a challenge. A stupid one, but stil something he will not win.

After a tense few seconds, he backs down; “I’ve been beaten, my friends.” They laugh as he does. “Y/n, I shall see you later, darling, hopefully fully clothed this time.” He kisses your cheek three times, alternating and starting with the right just like the French. He’s a posh twat that is easy to love behind closed doors when he’s not embarrassing you and whoring himself out for attention.

“I am so sorry that I called you snobby and rich and stuck-up,” states Will hurriedly.

“You didn’t–”

Flo whispers in your ear, “behind your back, babe,” as the other two take in that whole interaction.

While you struggle to find a positive equally as much as they do, you can at least cross off one impactful yet traumatising person in your life that your girlfriend has to meet. The next big two are your parents, but you’re going to need to prepare her intensely for that.

tags: @pewpughpew @ridlz @jeyramarie @flosbelova @kassies-take @delfiore @yelenabelovasbxtch @sophie-xox @slut4milfs69 @sunshadesnrainbowz

#florence pugh fanfiction #florence pugh x reader #florence pugh #florence pugh x you #florence pugh x y/n #florence pugh one shot #florence pugh fluff #florence pugh smut #florence pugh angst #florence pugh imagine #florence pugh imagines

[astercontrol]

Latest news from the Asterbrain Pattern-Recognizer: How a butt joke led to a religious analysis of the whole TRON 1982 cast.

So, today, for… strange and mysterious Aster-specific reasons… I was looking for a character who could be written as Catholic.

And because Tron is always on my brain, I went straight for those characters.

Now, though I was technically raised Roman Catholic, my own family's faith and customs were pretty secular, and I certainly never developed any notion that I could know other Catholics on sight.

And, while TRON leans heavily into religious themes from the Program viewpoint, the Users don't say or do much that would indicate their own religion. All I can think of, offhand, is a few references to Christmas-- so brief and vague that they might not even be enough to imply anyone being Christian.

So, we might just have to go by character names... and the associations that an audience familiar with stereotypes and archetypes would have with them.

Alan Bradley: Both given name and surname seem to be British in origin; could be coded as Anglican or Methodist or some other form of Protestant, but in the absence of other clues I don't think viewers would give much thought to his religion or his ethnic background. He's basically designed to look like 1980's American audiences' idea of the most normal, standard everyday guy.

Lora Baines: Probably also of British origin, though that spelling of the first name is uncommon. Like Alan, there might be some vague assumption of Protestantism, but not a whole lot of thought given to it.

Walter Gibbs: Last name, again, seems to come from England, and the actor's accent sounds to me like maybe it's attempting to be British… but that might just be how older Hollywood actors had been trained to talk, back then. I hear similar voices in old movies a LOT. Again I'm not sure audiences would immediately think anything about his religion (although his line about programs and their "spirits" ties very closely into the… animism of the whole digital-world side of things).

(Wow, so far lots of names from England, and lots of reinforcement of the idea that those names are so default as to go unnoticed. Probably says something about society, and/or about me and my viewpoint on it. ...Moving on.)

Ed Dillinger: that surname seems to have originated separately in both Germany and England; going by his accent it's clearly England, so audiences would probably guess Anglican. (If they thought anything about that name at all beyond the 1930's gangster connotation.)

Roy Kleinberg: very unambiguously Jewish name, thank you Legacy and The Next Day! (as of 1982 we only knew him as Popcorn Coworker, which could have been anything, since there is, to my knowledge, no religion with dietary restrictions against popcorn.)

Kevin Flynn: ...okay! this is the most Irish name I have seen in a long time! We may have our Catholic-coded character, folks. (Although he might be primarily "luck of the Irish" coded, LOL.)

(they found him under the rainbow, like a leprechaun on his pot of gold)

And, completing this analysis, I've found that it felt much more worthwhile than the joke I had in mind when I started.

Truly, the journey outweighs the destination here.

Yes, my idea did require a Catholic and someone else unfamiliar with Catholicism-- the joke itself remaining agnostic on which of them, exactly, was being made fun of.

But it was such a silly, throwaway joke that could have been a two-line shitpost, and certainly did not NEED to be about Tron characters.

My mind, though, will go off on whatever tangents it wishes.

....the butt joke, in case you wanted it:

"So, you Catholics only listen to the Pope when he is… talking out of his ass?" "His seat, man. Cathedra means seat."

#tron #tronblr #tron 1982 #kevin flynn #headcanons #humor

[myrddin-wylt]

I thought the last part of your explanation was good, nice simple summary of the complex structures of American identity building. Using ‘American’ as an ethnicity to Americans sounds like you’re talking about Native American/American Indian/indigenous people. Most Americans don’t use it to describe themselves, because, well, it doesn’t really apply to them, ethnically speaking. American is used for legal status because you can then also be literally anything else culturally/ethnically. For example, wherever your family moved from in the past, because the chances that at some point they moved to the continent to get here are pretty high

I mean, I'm not sure that's entirely accurate, if only because there are a lot of Americans who actually will use American (meaning 'white American') as their ethnicity because 1) they are of very mixed descent, 2) they have no idea about their heritage and literally can't be any more specific, 3) their family has lived in the US long enough that they feel too distant from wherever they may have otherwise originated. like, look at this. (I'm sorry to share so many wikipedia articles but they don't have paywalls so bear with me here >_>)

In the 2014 American Community Survey, German Americans (14.4%), Irish Americans (10.4%), English Americans (7.6%), and Italian Americans (5.4%) were the four largest self-reported European ancestry groups in the United States, forming 37.8% of the total population.[41] However, English, Scotch-Irish, and British American demography is considered to be seriously undercounted, as the 6.9% of U.S. Census respondents who self-report and identify simply as "American" are primarily of these ancestries.[9][10]

like fuckin??? UNDERCOUNTED?

Professors Anthony Daniel Perez and Charles Hirschman write "European national origins are still common among whites—almost 3 of 5 whites name one or more European countries in response to the ancestry question. ... However, a significant share of whites respond that they are simply "American" or leave the ancestry question blank on their census forms. Ethnicity is receding from the consciousness of many white Americans. Because national origins do not count for very much in contemporary America, many whites are content with a simplified Americanized racial identity. The loss of specific ancestral attachments among many white Americans also results from high patterns of intermarriage and ethnic blending among whites of different European stocks."

imo hands down the people who have the worst deal are Americans who simply can't specify because they have no idea about their heritage. like we all know Americans of various 'white' ethnicities, but I have never in my life encountered, for example, a black American who identified as anything more specific unless they were second or third generation. I mean, there are also a lot of reasons why asking an American POC "haha but where are you REALLY from" is unacceptably racist and a lot of those reasons involve assumption of immigration and legal status so it just... is a rather large topic.

the secret is accents. we all judge each other based on accent. accent has the final say.

#haha final say [rimshot]

[twdmusicboxmystery]

Why I am Predicting a Beth Appearance by the End Episode 3:

@bookqueenrules:

OFC, this is TOTAL speculation based on TWDU and non-TWDU clues.  I am NOT saying that Daryl will necessarily see/know that she is alive by the end of ep. 3(or in a post credits scene), but I believe it will be revealed to the audience by then that she, or someone who looks like her, is alive. 

I’ve seen symbolic clues in “Diverged” in Season 10 and Dead City. 

DD was in the writing/development stage FAR longer than Dead City. So, Dead City writers already had access to the outlines for DD before production began. So, when Maggie showed a family picture with a person we can infer to be Beth having eyes gouged out in the shape of the surprised emoji, that was a major red flag for me.  That happened in episode THREE of Dead City.

 In Diverged, a wholly symbolic episode, Daryl takes off on his own and his motorcycle breaks down. It is in the THIRD place he looks, that he finds the knife, symbolically representing a love interest. he needs to fix his bike and continue his journey. 

Some of my belief is based on storyline conjecture. So, back to Dead City.  It was considered a success by most, but why did it do well?

Some wanted to see NYC zombies. Some wanted to see Maggie and Hershel. I would argue MOST wanted to see the development of the Negan/Maggie dynamic. How many would have watched just Maggie trying to get Herschel back?  Some, but it would not have had the same viewership, and the TWD fans actually care about Hershel as Maggie and Glenn’s son. 

So, why will people watch DD?

Some are looking forward to variant zombies, some want to see Daryl, but for how long will the average American TWD viewer tune in to see Daryl hanging out with new French characters with accents and subtitles to boot?  

Personally, I would enjoy it regardless, but I know many people that hate subtitles and won’t be particularly interested in how things went in France.  Sure, the scenery is beautiful, but it won’t hold the interest past a couple of episodes. The “cure” premise was JUST seen in The Last of Us.   TPTB should also have learned that the decline of the flagship was largely due to killing off “family” characters we cared about and bringing on lots of new characters that never became as important to the audience as the original characters of the first few seasons. Hopefully, TPTB learned this lesson. 

While I DO expect to see a Carol flashback in season 1, the show will need to bring something to the French story that will excite and surprise viewers. If MMB would have decided to be in season 1, it may have been a different story. The Daryl/Carol dynamic would have been there, and I would be predicting your typical “cliffhanger” style reveal towards the end of the first season.

That is why I think there will need to be SOME reconnection between Beth/Daryl in season 1 for the audience to care enough to tune in to Carol/Daryl finding her in season 2. I wouldn’t expect them to connect until late episode 4 or episode 5, but they will have to be separated again by the end of 6.  They will need that time to tell their story and have the audience care again about their connection. Nicotera said in a recent interview that the DD spin-off talk began 7 years ago.  It was supposed to be set in the American West where Daryl encounters different groups each week.  He referenced three OLD shows as examples.

 One was Kung Fu with David Caradine. 

I could go into detail, but each show he referenced is about a man who is searching for something/someone and encounters different people who they change and are changed by them before moving onto the next place on the search.  Yes, I had to research each one.  They were before my time!  This stretched out search for Beth would have made sense then because the audience still remembered her and their connection vividly. That will not work now. It’s been too long and these series are finite. Gimple, sort of, said as much on the red carpet at the finale of the flagship. He said he was already past the spin-offs in his planning and was now thinking about how to develop the next generation and new stories while integrating the “iconic” characters. So, I don’t think these spin-offs will go much past three seasons. Especially with only six episodes per season, it doesn’t give that much time to develop these stories. 

Some non-storyline clues are that the release of EK’s album is on the 22nd of September right before episode 3 airs.  She has been releasing singles all summer.  Why wait for the album release until then?  Norman said in interviews last year that he would, “run into some familiar faces” in the spin-off.  Who else is going to run into in season 1 in France?

Just a few days ago there has been even MORE weirdness. An extra-long first episode?  All of episodes 1 and 2 being screened in theaters in four major cities on Monday?  WHY? I almost wonder if they decided to reveal Beth is alive at the end of episode 2. The ONLY reason to prescreen is to increase buzz, but really what hasn’t already been teased about those first two episodes? I understand that they may need more publicity due to the writer/actor strikes leading up to the release, but why would “spoiling” the first episodes really increase the buzz if it is JUST about the Laurent story?

I’m excited to see how it plays out!

@twdmusicboxmystery​:

I absolutely LOVE everything you’ve said here. Love the symbolic clues you’re looking at. Love your points about Dead City. Love your research into early iterations of the DD spinoff. (I kinda wonder if all the New Mexico symbolism from 11x01 was a nod to that.) Love all your points about publicity and such.

And you’re right. I heartily agree. I don’t have much to add, but all of your conclusions are the only thing that make sense. The only other “faces” we could run into are people like Heath and Davon. And don’t get me wrong, it would be fun to see them again. But it’s not like any of those characters will do much to further Daryl’s story.

And let’s not forget that ep 1 starts with an echo of Judith’s line about Daryl deserving a happy ending, too. Which means that one way or the other, he’ll find his true love and soulmate in this spinoff.

Can’t wait! Thanks SO much for your thoughts! Xoxo!  🍁 🍂 😍

#beth greene #beth greene lives #beth is alive #beth is coming #td theory #td theories #team delusional #team defiance #beth is almost here #bethyl