#I think about that bit in whichever book it was where he described the morning sun as like molasses all the time

[ahopelessromantic]

31% ➳ S. Reid

Pairing: Spencer x neutral! Reader (if I missed something please tell me!)

Word count: 2,4k

Warnings: Suggestive content, Spencer and reader really have the hots for each other

The nature of your friendship with Reid has been flirtatious from the start. So flirtatious that the team thinks it’s all a joke... right? (A/N: Please don’t ask me what this is. I wrote this in one sitting while suffering from PMS, I don’t even know anymore.)

“Look at that walk.” Morgan chuckled to Emily for everyone but especially you to hear. You rolled your eyes, yet couldn’t help the smug grin on your face. Like girls in high school ready to hear the newest gossip your two colleagues and closest friends leaned over your desk. “You, sweetie, got laid.” You let out a happy sigh and leaned back in your chair. Last time you had been this relaxed had been… god, you couldn’t even remember it.

“What’s their name?” Emily grinned, stealing a sip of coffee from your mug. “And do they have a brother? Sister? Cousin?” You lifted your brow. “A respectable, decent human being like me doesn’t kiss and tell. But it’s a he. And he’s all mine.” Both Morgan and Emily lifted their eyebrows in surprise. “(Y/N)? Getting territorial? We love to see it.” Morgan teased. You squinted at him. “You know what? I loved flaunting my post-coital bliss in front of you, but quite frankly I’m starting to feel attacked now, so I’ll go hang out with Garcia.” Emily feigned a pout. “Come on! At least give us some details!” You just winked at her after getting up from your seat and disappeared down the hallway. On the way to Penelope’s office, you didn’t miss Spencer’s searing hot look on you, a hint of the same smug smile on his lips that had been on yours when you had entered the BAU this morning.

“(Y/N), this is bad. We’re breaking at least three policies just by being here together right now. Also, relationships between colleagues are rarely a good idea.” You chuckled and pressed another kiss to Spencer’s neck. “Then why does it feel so good, Spence? And, actually, workplace hookups are way more common thank you think. About 31% of them even end up in marriage.” “Are you using my own weapons against me right now? That’s hot.” He murmured and pulled you further into his lap. You looked down into his eyes, your gaze dropping to his lips momentarily before wandering back up again. There was just something about him that made you feel like you were on fire, as if an electric current ran between the two of you. You bit your lip and played with his tie. “You have to know how I feel whenever you’re spitting your facts at least once, too.” Your eyes met again, and then your lips were on his.

Spencer and you had gotten along like a house on fire from the day you had joined the BAU. Somehow the two of you had clicked right into place after just a short period of Spencer warming up to you. Before anyone could even tell what was happening you had become the team’s new dynamic duo. Your sharp wit matched his, and what he was too shy to say you spat right out. And that everlasting tension between you had been there from the beginning, too. It had almost cost you your sanity, the way the air in a room would change as soon as Spencer was in it, the way his mere presence made you want to either pounce on him or rip your lashes out. For a while, it had been enough to just bury that attraction where everyone could see it, in plain sight beneath heaps and heaps of slightly inappropriate flirting. Spencer would blurt out how your new heels gave you just the right height to make out with him, you would blurt out how you would like to see him in his glasses and nothing else. Everyone had taken your remarks as jokes, and you had always laughed with them. But there had never been anything funny about the shocks of electricity jolting through your fingers whenever your hands accidentally met or about the warmth seeping through you whenever you slept propped up against each other on the jet. All that tension had unloaded one day after an unusually hard case. Spencer and you had been taken hostage by an Unsub on a psychotic break, and it had only been due to luck and good timing that you had made it out alive. After debriefing, you had found yourself in an abandoned hallway of whatever precinct you had been in, and then your eyes had met. The look in them had been the same. Slightly frazzled, pupils still widened from the adrenaline pumping through your veins. You had both been so high on the incredibleness of still being alive that suddenly, you had decided to just fucking do what your body had been telling you to do for so long already. “I think I’m going to kiss you now.” You had breathed out, barely audible. Spencer had leaned against the wall behind him and lifted his chin as if he had been daring you to do it. “Okay.” He had whispered back. And then your lips had met in what you could swear had been the best kiss of your life. Your hands had tangled themselves in his hair as if they had been supposed to be there all along, and his hands had fit in the groove of your waist as if they had been made for it. Maybe you had both been made for each other.

“It looks like the unsub is citing the karma sutra.” JJ’s gaze wandered over the book excerpts up on the case board. “A sexual sadist maybe?” Spencer shook his head almost excitedly, a familiar gleam in his eyes which he got whenever a case was particularly interesting to him. “See, that’s the interesting part. 80% of the karma sutra is actually just love-related philosophy and how to sustain desire. There is no sexual component to his murders, so I think he might either be trying to throw us off or create some sort of bizarre scavenger hunt.” While chewing on one of the fries Emily had brought you all for dinner you let your eyes wander over the pictures of sex positions and quotations on the board, then to the copy of the book lying right in front of Spencer on the table. “Well, it’s definitely an interesting choice to make for a book. Spence, you’ll keep it memorised for later, right?” You spoke, mostly out of habit. Spencer winked at you in response and Morgan choked on his burger. “There’s people eating here!” He spluttered out, pointing at Hotch, who looked like he wanted to die, and Rossi, who was watching the scene unfold with an amused smile on his face. All he was missing was a bucket of popcorn to match the level of detachment he was displaying. Prentiss just laughed and turned her attention to you. “(Y/N), does your boyfriend know about your workplace flirting buddy?” She knew exactly what she was doing, a mischievous glint in her eyes. You felt your face fall for the split of a second but immediately regained your composure. “Nice try, honey. I’m still not telling you about him. Also, for what it’s worth, he’s not the jealous type. So he doesn’t mind.” You deliberately avoided Spencer’s gaze, praying to whichever deities out there that you weren’t blushing.

Later that evening, back in your apartment, you could tell that something was on Spencer’s mind. He had taken some paperwork home that, under normal circumstances, wouldn’t have taken him longer than an hour. But it had been two and a half hours already, and the subconscious mumbling he only did when he was extremely anxious set you off. “Spence, baby, are you okay?” You had been his roommate for long enough to know that he needed someone to be there in moments like these. The two of you sharing an apartment had been a decision for practicality’s sake more than anything. You had slept over at each other’s apartments half of the time before that anyway, and this way, you were even able to save up some more to hopefully soon buy the house of your dreams. The team probably didn’t even know about the two of you living together, and if they knew, they had probably just added it to the list of weird things Spencer and you did. Spencer hadn’t even heard, and it took you placing your hand on his shoulder for him to return to reality. He looked up at you with a conflicted look, his eyes horribly sad. “Are you alright?” You asked again, sitting down next to him. He nodded and closed the case file he had been working on with a sigh. “I’m okay. I just keep on thinking about what Prentiss said.” You frowned. Emily tended to say a lot of things in just one day. “Back in the conference room. The…” He trailed off to take a deep breath. “The boyfriend thing.” You were still looking at him in confusion. “Am I?” “What?” You asked stupidly. Apparently, your brain had suffered a sudden case of non-functionality. You could feel his frustration get even worse. “Am I your boyfriend, (Y/N)?”, Spencer finally explained for you to catch on. Suddenly, a laugh escaped your lips. “Well, I mean I hope so.” Now it was he who looked like his mind was failing him. “I mean, to be honest, I hadn’t really properly thought about it, but I definitely bragged about my hot, intelligent FBI boyfriend to my friends from high school. So, I guess it would be really nice if you actually were. I mean, I think I haven’t slept in my own bed in weeks.” A smile had spread across Spencer’s face, a light pink hue dusting his cheeks. “I uh… I described you as my partner in the letters to my mom, too. I didn’t know how else to describe it to her. Because I … I guess I was hoping that this wasn’t just us sleeping together from the start. I trust you, (Y/N), more than I’ve ever trusted anyone. And I like having you by my side.” Not able to stop yourself, you closed the distance between the two of you to press your lips to his. Keeping your relationship with Spencer undefined for any longer than that would have been a huge waste of potential.

Somehow, you had always expected that Spencer would one day expose the two of you by taking it too far with your flirting. He hadn’t been all too experienced with dating, sex and everything beyond that before you, that was something he had told you himself once after a few glasses of your favourite red wine. But what you really hadn’t expected was running into Emily in an IKEA, of all places. Ever since once and for all defining your relationship you had moved into his bedroom for good, which left room for creativity in your old room. The two of you had been walking around the furniture store hand in hand, Spencer with a potted plant already under his arm, when you’d suddenly heard Emily calling out your name. If it hadn’t been for Spencer’s hand firmly in yours you would have booked it down the aisle of Malm closets, but this way all you could do was turn around with a deliberately composed expression. “Hi, Em.” You smiled as if you hadn’t just run into your colleague slash best friend while holding the hand of your also colleague, slash boyfriend. Prentiss looked like she was trying to make sense of the situation, her eyes fleeting back and forth between you and Spencer. “Is this something you do now? Hold hands and buy plants together?” You had to suppress a laugh and almost pitied her for her confusion. Spencer was forcing himself not to smile as well, swaying your still intertwined hands back and forth. “It’s not a big deal Emily, we just need some things for our apartment.” Her eyes looked just about ready to pop out of her skull at that. “Your apartment?! (Y/N), what about your boyfriend- oh.” Her eyes widened even more if that was even possible. “OH!” She almost yelled, and now you couldn’t help the giggle that escaped your lips anymore. “No one will ever believe you.” You grinned, pressed a kiss to her cheek and pulled Spencer back to your shopping cart with you.

The next day, Emily sat at her desk with her head in her hands when Spencer and you entered the bullpen. She looked positively traumatised and now you were all the more glad that you had bought her a breakfast muffin on the way to work. “Hey, Em.” You greeted her hesitantly, you tone causing Morgan to look up from his screen. He always immediately knew when something was off. “So, Spencer, huh?” She mumbled instead of a greeting, mustering the two of you up and down. It wasn’t abnormal for the two of you to constantly be glued to each other’s sides, but now she was probably starting to see that from a whole new perspective. You could hear Morgan get up and trip over his chair in his haste to get to Emily’s desk, but your whole focus was on her at that moment. You smiled. “Yup. Don’t ask me how, or why, but I’m sure about him. He’s also just really fucking attractive.” At that, she laughed, and Spencer pouted playfully. “You only like me for my body, (Y/N).” You rolled your eyes and nudged him with your elbow. “I’m trying to make a point here, honey. But yeah, it’s Spence, and I’m happy it’s him.” “You know, I feel like I should probably be more surprised by this, but it’s not really much of a change from the way you behaved already. Kinda saw it coming.”, Morgan finally spoke up, and you couldn’t be more grateful to him for being so cool about the whole situation. “Aren’t you guys worried about the pressure of all of this? You know, workplace romances and everything?” Emily mused. Somehow, she had already switched back into concerned friend mode. But much to your surprise it was Spencer who spoke up and pulled you closer to his side with an arm around your waist. “Someone once told me that workplace romances are actually really common and that 31% of them even end in marriage.” You felt the biggest smile grow on your face and turned to look him in the eyes. “I don’t really know anything, about any of this. But I trust (Y/N), and I trust what we have. I’m just hoping that maybe we’ll be up in those 31%.” You couldn’t help it. You just had to press a kiss to his cheek for that. “I’m hoping for that, too.” You mumbled. Despite Morgan’s and Emily’s theatrical gagging at your public display of affection, you couldn’t help but feel like this was a significant moment. You were really doing this. And boy, were you serious about it.

#criminal minds #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #spencer x reader #mgg #mgg x reader #Matthew gray gubler #Matthew gray gubler x reader #BAU #BAU Team #BAU x Reader

[ladykysmet]

A quick ficlet inspired by a prompt in the Labyrinth FanFic Lovers FB group. Prompt was a comic of Sarah walking through a garden and stumbling on Jareth hiding inside of an Easter egg - I may have gone just a tad off-book lol. Hastily written and only barely edited.

*****

'But They Don't Fall Down'

His Royal Highness Jareth, Fae King of the Goblin City, Ruler of the Labyrinth, overlord of the Second Underground, First of His Name, was stuck. Undeniably, claustrophobically, stuck. What was worse was that he didn't know where he was or how he had gotten there in the first place.

"I swear to Oberon, if those nit-witted, insolent, horrid little biters dosed me and put me in the oubliette again, I'll have a whole new batch of Cleaners when I get out!" He muttered viciously under his breath, then winced. Rousing himself to consciousness had also awakened the beginnings of what he could tell would be a wicked hangover. He had a vague recollection of some peach wine, along with flashes of raucous laughter and...goblin punting?

"Oh no...Sarah and her new Goblin's Right's group will be less than pleased with me." He thought, as he attempted to clear the painful fog in his brain long enough to figure out if he could move at all.

His wiggling was mostly futile, he soon realized. He could move his fingers and toes a bit, and rock back and forth just a millimeter or two, but he was stuck in an upright fetal position inside what seemed to be some sort smooth enclosure. What little mobility he could muster in his fingers failed to reveal any cracks or weaknesses in his prison, and he soon abandoned that endeavor. When he shook his head in frustration, however, he noticed that the whole structure wobbled, just a little. A glimmer of hope appeared in his mind, as he began furiously rocking every which-way he possibly could.

After what seemed like an eternity, he gave up his frantic motions. While the structure moved in whichever direction he threw his weight, it wasn't enough to help - the whole thing righted itself immediately after every movement, and never reached a tipping point.

At his wit's end, he took a deep breath and started to shout. Every obscenity he could think of, and some that he was certain he'd just invented, flowed from his lips at a volume that could only be described as a roar.

In the middle of a particularly uncouth phrase, he heard a slight tapping from somewhere around his forehead.

"It's about time! Get me out of here quickly, and maybe I won't send you straight to the Bog!" He said in a normal, if a bit hoarse, voice. The tapping continued, and seemed to be moving in a circle around the area in front of his face. A few seconds later, harsh sunlight blinded him. "Aaah! Never mind, put it back!" He screeched, hot stabbing pain shooting straight through his eyeballs into what he thought must have been his very soul. He closed his eyes, shook his head to clear it, and slowly opened them again. As his vision cleared, he saw Sarah grinning at him mischievously.

"Good morning, darling. Did you enjoy your wine?" She said sweetly.

"What in the seven Undergrounds is this infernal thing? Why am I inside of it?!? And..." this last sentence was said with a bit of confusion, as he hadn't realized that he was almost naked until the outside air had hit him, "...where are my clothes?!?"

Sarah unsuccessfully stifled a giggle before arranging her features into a stern look. "All in due time, my love. First, what have I told you about the peach wine?"

"Oh, don't be ridiculous, I can handle my wine just fine!" He stated haughtily. Sarah had a strong impression that he would have crossed his arms and stamped his foot, had he not been confined.

"Hmm. And what did we discuss, in regards to your treatment of your subjects?" She asked, adding a chiding tone to her query.

Jareth immediately blushed, lowering his eyes. "That they are people too, and deserve to be treated with the dignity."

"Aaaand?"

"And that goblin-punting, while fun, is not conducive to running a peaceful and prosperous kingdom." He added, somewhat mournfully.

"Good!" Sarah said brightly. "Now, let's get you out of there." She disappeared, and Jareth heard a loud *thwack!* somewhere above his head. His prison shattered, suddenly as delicate as an eggshell. He stood slowly, working out the muscle cramps from his prolonged and uncomfortable position. Sarah wrapped her arms around his waist and kissed him playfully.

"No harm done!" She said cheekily, threading her arm through his and leading him back towards the palace. "Let's go find your clothes, my love."

As they walked, he looked down at her and asked, "What was that thing? It was fragile and shaped like an egg, but I couldn't rock hard enough to knock it over! It would make a genius addition to the Labyrinth..." he trailed off thoughtfully.

"Oh, that? It was a weeble. Such a wonderful invention...they wobble, but they don't fall down!"

[kiatheinsomniac]

Sooooo I know that we don't know each other that much but I had this thought and the first blog to come to my mind was yours, I was in Pinterest reading aus and found one that said you stop aging at 18 if u don't find ur soulmate and I thought about what if ur not from the same decade and that person lived all those years til now, imagine having a romantic dinner with the person and somehow when they were born comes up and damn I knew I was into older people but not that old and afagajhabwjahan

(Y/n) sat down hurriedly as she took her seat, already having missed the very opening of the play. She looked at her date who had new hope in his eyes at her sudden presence.

"I'm so sorry," She whispered to avoid disturbing anyone else in the café théâtre, "There was a delay at the Cité stop."

"It's alright, you're here now." He smiled, "I was worried that you weren't going to show up."

"I could never." She replied with a soft smile as he waved a waiter over.

"The usual and a (favourite coffee), s'il vous plaît, Victor." He spoke in a polite tone, proceeding to describe any other details of (Y/n)'s drink to the man, the employee nodded his head and went off to make them both.

(Y/n) had met Arno here at his café théâtre, she went in most mornings seeing as she worked at the florists just down the street. She was enchanted by the place when she first found it, often leaving the house earlier to enjoy a coffee and a chapter of her book there before her first shift of the day. There were often performers on the stage too and it was her favourite thing when a violinist or pianist was playing on the stage as she immersed herself in the pages of whichever novel she had been reading that month. Quite often, when she went in, Arno was the one working behind the counter. It wasn't uncommon for the two to flirt with each other at all either.

In fact, he didn't realise how much he liked seeing her in the mornings until she was put on an earlier shift at work and no longer had the time to visit his café in the mornings. When her shifts returned to normal, he asked her on a date the very first chance he got, and she readily accepted.

So, that's what brought them here.

"It's sweet to know that you remember my favourite drink." She smiled softly, feeling a slight heat on her cheeks.

"How could I not? You come in almost every morning." He teased, "But, I must admit, I usually take care to make sure I get it right for you." He watched her look down at her lap shyly, her smile tugging at her lips despite her trying to hide it. It was a small gesture but in a world full of so many thoughtless people, it meant a lot to her.

"So, (Y/n), what sorts of things do you like? Other than reading, I know plenty of Mary Shelley and Jane Austen by now." He replied. (Y/n) recalled to where he would often ask her how her book was going and she'd share her thoughts and favourite quotes with him.

"Well. . . I really like history and the arts. I think that there's always so much to learn from the people who came before us." At her choice of words, his face became painted with an amused smile, "And we have so many sources to look to now, to see the error in our past and current ways, to change things for the better. I'm particularly fond of the Renaissance and the French and American revolutions."

"The French revolution?" He raised a brow.

"Absolutely!" She replied with a grin and sparkling eyes, "I can understand why people aren't fond of it - it was bloody, ruthless, some instances were horrifyingly shocking and so many lives were lost. But how many lives would have continued to fall to poverty if that had not happened? I love the politics behind it, how easily Robespierre, the seemingly untouchable man, fell to corruption and, eventually, the guillotine. Also, movements like that are important became it gave many women the chance to show their worth - the women's march on Versailles, Charlotte Corday, Theroigne de Mericourt. . ."

"Ah, yes, I knew her."

"Oh, you've studied her?" (Y/n) replied, thanking the waiter as he placed their coffees down on the table before them. Arno laughed heartily, watching her confusion with amusement, the way she furrowed her brow and tilted her head, looking much more adorable in his eyes than she should.

"No, I met her. I helped her to get some food to the poor and get rid of some Jacobins too." He watched her face fall into shock, hardly able to drink his coffee with the smile on his face.

"How long have you been looking for your soulmate? When were you born?" She raised her brows. In this world, looks could be very deceiving: an eighteen-year-old could be a five-hundred-year-old. (Y/n) had even heard stories of people who kill their soulmates so that they never die.

"I looked for around two centuries, stopped after the first world war, then starting looking again," He hesitated, "recently." In truth, he had given up altogether until he met the (h/c)-haired woman sitting opposite him, "And I was born in 1768."

"Wow. . ." She breathed out, "You've lived through a good portion of history then, huh?"

"You could say that." He shrugged, "I take it that you're actually eighteen?"

"Twenty-six, actually." She replied, taking a sip of her favourite coffee, "So, I'm on a date with a two-hundred and fifty-two year old?" She tutted at him and shook her head teasingly, all in light-heartedness.

"All jokes I've heard before, chérie." He replied.

"Must be a lot of birthday candles." She continued to tease with a childish grin as he rolled his eyes playfully.

"Cut the old jokes and I’ll let you see some of my memorabilia from the revolution, how does that sound?" He cut her a deal. She lifted her hand to mimic zipping her lips and throwing the zip away.

"If it's not a sensitive subject, would you mind telling me if it's been difficult? Trying to find a soulmate, I mean." She spoke in a more serious tone.

"I always thought that my first love was my soulmate. Her name was Élise. My parents. . . weren't really in the picture when I was a boy so I was raised by Élise's father. We grew up together and we fell in love as teenagers. We both thought that we were perfect for each other but. . . neither of us aged after eighteen. It didn't make me love her any less, though. But, one day. . . She died in a fight." She could see that he was still upset by her death, though, the time passed since had clearly made him accept it and learn how to talk of it openly. "I've had a few lovers since then and many went the same way: three serious ones in the 19th century who left when they met their soulmates. One in the 1910s who died in prison-" He saw the look of shock on (Y/n)'s face "- she wasn't a criminal, she was a suffragette; as was I." He paused a moment more, "I gave up after that until recently."

"What made you change your mind?" She propped her chin on her hand, hanging onto each little detail of his stories. Was that the hint of a blush she could see on his cheeks?

"Not to be an old-fashioned romantic. . ." He joked, making (Y/n) smile at him joining in with her old jokes, "But it was you." Her back straightened a bit with surprise.

"Me?" He reached for her hand across the table, watching him nod his head as he idly twisted her fingers around his.

"You give me hope." He smiled simply.

♡♡♡

Quite a few months had passed since then - as had many more dates and Arno asking to ‘court’ her (that earned him both a ‘yes’ and many old jokes) - and (Y/n) was currently laid with Arno in his room, it was early in the morning and they were half-dressed, tangled in the bedsheets with half-drank coffee on the bedside table and a tray of various snacks laid by them: different cheeses, sweetmeats, cut fruits. Arno had his head laid on her stomach and she was propped against the wall, a pillow cushioning her back. One of her hands was running through his hair, his eyes closed as he listened to her voice and lavished in her gentle caresses. Her other hand was holding a copy of Frankenstein: they'd both read it before but shared a love for it.

" 'How can I describe my emotions at this catastrophe, or how delineate the wretch whom with such infinite pains and care I had endeavoured to form? His limbs were in proportion, and I had selected his features as beautiful. Beautiful! - Great God! ' " She glanced down to her lover, lips pursing as she laid the book down.

"Have you been stressed lately, amour?" She furrowed her brows, making him open his eyes.

"Having to change suppliers for the café has been a bit difficult, yes." He sighed, "What makes you ask?"

"You have a silver hair." She commented. His hand went to his head rapidly as he sat up, finding the culprit hair with shock. His mouth fell agape and (Y/n) was confused for a moment before she realised what this meant for both of them. He turned to face her, watching the smile creep onto her lips as he lunged forward to cup her face, pulling her into a deep kiss and holding her body as close to his as possible, skimming his hands down her spine as hers went up to rest on his shoulders, the two of them having to pull apart from smiling too much. He held her tenderly and rested his forehead against hers, lips brushing featherly over hers when he said:

"You took your time, didn't you?"

#ac #assassin s creed #self insert #assassins creed unity #arno dorian #modern arno dorian #arno dorian imagine #arno dorian x reader #soulmate au #modern au

[stahlop]

Making a Memory (3/?)

Once again, a big thanks to my betas @profdanglaisstuff and @thisonesatellite. This chapter was a bitch to write.

And thanks again to @gingerchangeling for her amazing artwork above!

Chapter 1 2

Ao3

The next two days felt like torture for both Hope and Alice. They had been told by the directors that they were lucky to be allowed to go into town and that they’d better behave themselves as they were representing the camp, to which Hope and Alice solemnly nodded. Henry had sent a text through Lori’s phone (another extra dollar to deliver the message) to meet at a coffee house in town at 11:00 to which Hope replied that she and Alice would be there (another dollar to text back).

 Hope had told Alice that Henry had confirmed they were sisters but nothing else, citing that this wasn’t something he could tell them over the phone. 

 “Maybe they both got amnesia and only remembered the last relationship they’d been in and that’s why they think our other parent is different?” Alice had suggested. Hope had thought that could be a possibility but then…

 “But what about the fire? Or is that where the amnesia came from?” 

 “Could be?” Alice said. “Maybe they both got amnesia from the fire and forgot the other and we just went with whichever one saved us.”

 “But that doesn’t explain Henry.” Hope said, which was also the fly in the ointment to every theory they came up with. Henry was the outlier. The only thing that didn’t make sense. As far as Hope knew, she and Henry both had the same father and Henry had never said anything different. Why would he lie to her for so many years about having a sister and potentially a different father?

 “I definitely think their memories have been altered or erased in some way.” Alice said. “My gut usually tells me if a person is lying, and Papa hasn’t lied to me once about thinking Milah was my Mama.” She frowned at the prospect that her gut could have been wrong about her Papa all these years.

 “Is it always right?” Hope asked. “I mean, you told me that it seemed to hate me on sight when we first got here, but it’s calmed down now, right?” Alice nodded. “Wait! Did you say it mainly tells you if someone is lying or not?” Hope asked, realizing what else Alice had said. Alice nodded. “My mom has that same thing. She can tell when someone is lying. I’ve always chalked it up to being able to read people well, but maybe it’s something you’ve inherited from her!” Hope got really excited about that prospect. Another piece of the puzzle being put together.

 “What was it like growing up with a brother?” Alice asked, changing the subject. Her whole world had been turned upside down and hearing about things she may have inherited from a mother she never knew existed still felt a little weird.

 “It…” Hope paused looking for the right words to describe it. “It was different. He’s 15 years older than me so we weren’t close. I mean, we were close, but not the close that two siblings would have if they were only a few years apart. I know he tried to help out mom with me as best he could. He lived at home during college when he could have lived at the dorms, and he lived at home until I was around 10 before mom kicked him out. He only lives a few blocks from us and he’s been real busy with the book writing lately. But he always makes time for me when I need to get away from mom for a little bit. In fact, he paid for me to go to camp this summer because I’ve wanted to go for forever.”

 There was a bit of silence after that. Neither one knowing what to talk about next. They’d exhausted their theories and both of them were a little leery about learning about the other one’s parent without finding out why they’d been separated and potentially lied to for their whole lives.

 Hope spent the next day reading through Henry’s novel, as if it might hold potential clues for her, even though it was a work of fiction. Alice spent them drawing pictures of various things, everything from characters in the book to things that had happened around camp. Hope was a little jealous at how good Alice was. 

 Finally, the day to go into town arrived. Alice and Hope had woken up early and were the first ones on the bus. They’d be getting into town around 10:00 so they’d have a little time to shop around before meeting Henry. They were both so antsy the entire trip there. As they got off the bus, Mrs. Hatfield remarked about how well they were getting along with a knowing look. If she only knew her initial assumption of them being sisters had been spot on, and that was the reason they were getting along, not because of the stupid Get Along Cabin.

 -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 Henry had not been all together surprised when he had received the phone call from Hope. He had been expecting it after all, just not so early. He’d thought he’d have another 4 weeks, once camp had ended to figure out how to explain the situation they had all found themselves in. It wasn’t every day, after all, that one meets their long lost twin sister that they never even knew existed (although Disney would have people believing it, but they messed up most of their retellings of fairy tales, why would this be any different). But here he was, with only two days to figure out what he was going to tell his sisters, one of whom he hadn’t seen since she was two.

 He knew the situation was a mess.  It had been a mess since the twins were born. It wasn’t as if any of them had wanted this situation to happen, but it had and they’d been living with it for the past, almost twelve years. Well, Henry had, anyway, it wasn’t as if anyone else involved in this knew what the hell was going on besides him.

 The whole situation was bittersweet. He had checked up on Killian and Alice over the years, not that they knew that. He’d been discreet. Just happening to be in the same park as them even though it was nowhere near where he lived; jogging near Alice’s school as she grew up to be able to see her during recess. It had pained him to see her playing by herself in a trove of trees near the back of the playground away from everyone else. As she got older, she had the drawing pad, and he was happy that she had something she enjoyed doing. Henry had even gone to a few of her art shows and seen just how much like Killian she was in the drawing department.

 It was a lot harder to check up on Killian, as he worked at the docks and it wasn’t like Henry could just hang around the docks for no reason. He’d thought about getting a job there when he was old enough, but his mother would’ve thrown a fit. She would have given him a talking to about wasting the scholarship money he’d been given for his fancy Creative Writing Bachelors to go work, what she would have considered, a dead-end job at the docks. He had to make it part of his morning run, except that when Killian moved into management, he couldn’t get a look at him at all.

 Deciding to go into Creative Writing in college was a no-brainer. He knew he needed to get his story out, but he needed to do it in sections. Become one of those writers that had a book series instead of just one book. He wouldn’t have been able to get everything into one book as it was. The problem that he hadn’t anticipated was that no one wanted to publish it. He thought the alternative fairy tale genre would have still been a big seller, but it seemed that book publishers were more into dystopian societies again (a resurgence from when he had been a kid). It had taken him a lot longer to get Once Upon a Time out to the masses than he’d intended. The sequel would just barely be released before Hope and Alice’s fourteenth birthday and that was cutting it really close for what needed to happen.

 Henry had done the best he could in helping his mother raise Hope. He knew it was not the life she had imagined when she’d found herself pregnant. He still remembered with distinct clarity when she’d come rushing out of the bathroom waving around the pregnancy test. Explaining to Killian what the two lines meant, and then forcing Henry to go buy her a digital test just to make sure the cheap ones she’d bought over the internet weren’t faulty.  They’d been so excited to start their family together. And when they found out they were having twins, well Killian had practically spun Emma around in excitement (a little hard because they didn’t find out about the twins part until she was almost five months along and she was already huge. Alice had apparently been shy even in the womb as she was hiding behind Hope in the ultrasounds; their heartbeats always perfectly in sync with each other). And then...everything happened.

 Maybe it would be better if Henry tried to write what he wanted to say down. He’d always done better with an outline, a plan, an operation. Operation Gemini was on!

 -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 The girls were already waiting at a table in the coffee shop when Henry arrived; three hot chocolates set at each place, all with whipped cream and cinnamon Henry noticed. As soon as Hope noticed him, she immediately stood up and ran to give him a fierce hug. 

 They stood there, hugging at the entrance, for what seemed a long while. Had it really only been two weeks since she’d gone off to camp? It felt almost like a lifetime. Even though Henry had moved out of the apartment, he still came by to see his mom and Hope every day. It was just the kind of family they had. Very close. 

 Henry had moved them off to the side so as to not block the entranceway, and he felt Hope shuddering in his arms. She was silently crying Henry realized as he stroked soothing circles on her back, something that always calmed her down as a little girl. He looked over to the table and noticed Alice sitting at the table waiting for her world to drastically change and all she looked like she was feeling awkward while she waited for them to finish their emotional reunion.

 “I don’t even know why I’m crying.” Hope wailed softly. “I just have so many questions and emotions from discovering that I have a sister, and it has finally hit me now that you’re here, Henry.” He was making this all real. And no matter the answer, no matter what he told her, Hope and Alice had to keep an open mind, because Henry knew the reality of this situation was going to change things forever.

 “It’s okay, Hope.” Henry whispered into her hair, something else he’d always done when she was younger. “I promise, everything is going to be okay.” He kissed the top of her head for reassurance. Hope seemed to snap out of it, and she broke away from Henry and dried her eyes on the back of her hands. Henry pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket and gave it to her.

 “Always a gentleman.” Hope said as they walked over to the table. Alice, who had watched the whole exchange, looked at Henry with wide eyes. Henry wasn’t sure how either of them were going to handle what he was about to tell them, but Alice, despite the wide eyes, seemed overly calm about the whole situation. 

 “It’s nice to meet you, Henry.” Alice said, putting her hand out for him to shake it as he sat down at the table. Henry could tell she wasn’t quite sure what else to say. He could only imagine how she must feel, having grown up an only child and now she supposedly had a twin sister and an older brother.

 “We’ve met before.” Henry said sadly, taking a good look at her while he and Hope took their seats. It was like looking at a punk rock version of Hope and it was a little strange. “But I haven’t seen you since you were two and mom and Killian were still dressing you in matching outfits.” He laughed, remembering how their mother, of all people, liked dressing them the same and Killian absolutely hated it. They’re individuals, Swan, not dress up dolls! Everyone nervously took a sip of their hot chocolate.

 “Can we just cut to the chase.” Hope said. Henry chuckled at how much like their mother she was. Besides looking like her, just with a fuller face that he chalked up to still being a child, she had inherited her personality, and was always straight down to business. No pleasantries, no small talk, just get straight to the point.

 Operation Gemini hadn’t made it much past the notes phase when Henry tried to figure out how to explain things to them. Giving a speech was not the way to go. This wasn’t a book that he could plot out an outline and hope that everything went the way he wanted it to (at least not yet). And he knew these two girls were much too smart to not ask questions about everything he presented to them. He needed to know what they knew or had hypothesized for themselves before figuring out what and how to tell them about their pasts.

 Alice,” Henry said turning to her, “tell me what you’ve been told about your mother.” 

 “Uh,” Alice had not expected to be put on the spot, “her name was Milah.” Henry nodded in agreement, since he already knew that was who she thought was her mother. “She and Papa were together for about five years before they got married and had me. I’m named for my Papa’s mother. She died in an apartment fire when I was two which is also how Papa lost his hand. We…” Alice’s voice drifted off when Henry took out a notebook and started writing everything she told him down. He wrote at a very alarming rate, and it would look as if the words were magically appearing on the page, or at least, it would look like that to Alice, if she believed. 

 ‘H..how are you doing that?” Alice asked, fascinated. The pen he was using looked like an old fountain pen, the kind that required ink. Alice looked around but she saw no ink. He saw her look closer at the notebook which was an old, leather bound notebook with parchment inside. Henry held his breath. Could she see? Henry looked at Hope who was looking at Henry intently the same way Alice was, but he could tell that all Hope saw was a normal pen and notebook.

 Henry looked up at Alice with a quizzical look on his face. “How am I doing what, Alice? What exactly do you see?” From his tone, he hoped that Alice could see he truly wanted an honest answer. She looked hesitant for a moment, took another gulp of her hot chocolate, but then drew a deep breath before telling him exactly what she saw.

 “You have an old fashioned fountain pen, but it seems to not need any ink. And it’s putting the words on the parchment for you.” Alice gulped. Henry knew that what she had said would sound crazy to anyone else, but not to him. She looked over at Hope who was looking between Alice and the pen and notebook. She definitely was looking at Alice as if she just said the craziest thing ever. A wide smile crept over Henry’s face and tears sprang to his eyes. He wanted, more than ever, to just wrap Alice up in his arms like he had when she was a baby, and give her the biggest hug imaginable. He put the fountain pen and notebook aside.

 “Alice,” Henry said as he took both her hands into his, “I need to ask you something, and please answer honestly. No false modesty for my sake, please.” Alice nodded. “Now, I know Hope hasn’t read my book because she says it’s not her style,” Hope rolled her eyes at this statement, crossed her arms and mumbled “I've read some of it,” Henry gave a small laugh at that and focused back on Alice, “but have you read it?” Alice nodded, unsure of where Henry was going with this. “And tell me, my dear Alice, what did you think of it?” He continued.

 Henry watched Alice closely as she tried to figure out where to begin.  

 “It felt like I was reading about people I’d imagined my whole life. Like they’d been living in my head with no way out and then, bam! There they were on the page in front of me. And then I started drawing. Oh, I’d drawn mostly landscapes, places that were right in front of me, but I’d had these images in my head for so long of people, that about a year before your book came out, I’d started drawing them as well. And then there they were in your book. I have sketches of Snow White and Red from before your book even hit the shelves, and at first it scared me, because Papa has always said I might be psychic, just knowing little things here and there, but there it was for me to see. These people who I’d been imaging. I’d never known their story, and here it was laid out for me in the pages of your book.” She took her hands away from Henry’s and put them in her lap as a few tears, Henry couldn’t tell if they were happy or scared tears, slipped down her cheeks. Henry was still staring at her intently, his smile even wider if that were possible. He watched her put her one of her hands under her hair and rub the back of her neck, just like Killian always did.

 “Why did you ask her that?” Hope asked breaking the silence that had enveloped them after Alice had finished her revelation. Alice almost looked embarrassed about Hope asking. She’d just bared her soul about all the thoughts that had been in her head, probably for years, and how Henry’s book had opened the floodgates, and Hope’s only response had been to ask why Henry had asked that particular question? Of course Hope would be the non-believer. Like mother, like daughter.

 “That’s actually a very good question, Hope.” Henry said, his smile never fading. He beamed something that he hoped conveyed pride at Alice before looking over at his sister. 

 “I was going to start out telling you something different. I went over this in so many different ways the past two days, but I think I’m going to have to start with the storybook.” Henry said as he went to grab something out of his satchel. Hope rolled her eyes and scoffed.

 “Henry, you cannot tell us we are sisters and then just go off about your fairy tale book. I get that she’s a fan, but there are more important things going on here besides your book.” Hope said, exasperated. Henry paid her no mind. He placed two books on the table. One was a much bigger, much older looking copy of his book, made from what looked like real leather and gold leaf. Like something the publisher might sell as a collector’s edition. The other looked like his current book, only it was white with a picture of an apple tree on it in a golden frame. It also said Once Upon a Time, but not as ornately as the last book. The O was in red while the rest of the letters were in brown. Underneath the title read the words: Emma’s Story.

 “Is...is that the new book?” Alice squeaked out. Henry’s smile grew even wider if that was possible.

 “It sure is, Alice.” He said quite happily. “And, actually, Hope, these books will tell you everything you need to know about your past.” Both Hope and Alice looked at him. Hope’s expression was one of disbelief. She’d always held their mother’s belief in the practical, everything had a logical explanation, even if lightbulbs tended to pop when one of them were angry, or they’d find random candles lit without any explanation for it when they really needed to relax. Alice’s eyebrows were practically in her hairline for how high she had raised them. Henry could see that she was more open to what he was trying to tell her.

 “They’re all true?” Was all that Alice could get out.

 “Yes, Alice,” Henry nodded, “they’re all true.” Alice smiled with tears starting to form in her eyes. 

 Hope looked from Henry to Alice completely confused. He could see she was trying to comprehend what he was trying to tell her, that the fairy tales he had written about were supposed to be real, but her brain did not compute that. Fairy tales weren’t real. They lived in the real world and magical things simply did not happen. And now Hope was getting angry, because Henry still hadn’t provided any explanation to how she and Alice had become separated and why they had been told lies their whole lives about who their parents were.

 Henry sighed. “Look,” he said, running his fingers through his hair nervously, “this book here,” he pulled out the larger copy of his book and placed it on the center of the table, careful not to knock over any of their half drunk mugs, “is not just some fiction I made up.” He couldn’t believe he was in this situation where he had to explain this all over again. “Every story in this book actually happened. It’s the story of our grandparents and what they went through to eventually end up in this world.” Alice took in a breath of air while Hope looked at Henry like he was insane.

 “Henry,” Hope started, “fairy tales aren’t real. What you’re saying is ludicrous, and you’re beginning to really scare me.”

 “So, the Emma at the end of the book,” Alice said in barely a whisper, “she’s your mom? She’s actually the real daughter of Snow White and Prince Charming and the savior destined to break the Evil Queen’s curse?” Henry knew it was a lot to take in, he knew it sounded insane, but he could also see that Alice believed every word that Henry was telling her. Hope just stared at both of them with a look that said she felt like she was the only sane person at their table. 

 “She did break the curse!” he said excitedly. “That’s what’s in this book. How our mother broke the curse and the various things that happened afterwards until she came to the Final Battle. And then….” Henry took a breath trying to stave off the catch that was starting to form in his throat. “We were separated. That’s how this book ends. With our separation.” He grabbed the almost empty mug in front of him and drained the last dregs of hot cocoa that were in there, grimacing at the grainy texture of the chocolate that had coagulated at the bottom. When he looked back at his sisters (he had never been so happy to add that extra ‘s’) he could see that Alice was thoroughly convinced that he spoke the truth, but Hope was still looking at him with a mix of incredulousness and a slight hint of murder. He could see her wanting to object again but cut her off when he continued with what he had to say. 

 “The final book. The final book of my series has not been written. I have no idea how it will end. Both of you need to help me write it because it’s about us, all of us. You two, me, mom, and Killian. It’s about what happened to us and a terrible danger that we will have to face.” Hope’s face immediately tensed at the word danger; Alice’s face lit up intrigued. He continued. “It won’t be easy. I am putting us all in jeopardy, but I don’t have a choice. This is something that we’ve known about since you two were born and I’m the one who has had to carry the burden of it for the past almost 12 years.” Tears were falling from his eyes and Alice handed him a napkin as Hope had never given him back his handkerchief from earlier. Alice also had tears falling as she had listened to what he had told him. Hope just looked frustrated.

 “Henry,” Hope said, breaking in again, “are we ever going to get any answers, or are you just going to parade your books around to Alice and let her fangirl over them. We’ve been here,” she checked her watch,” for an hour and you’ve given us nothing but fairy tales. Not even that, you’ve just given us the books to decipher an answer out of! We have to meet back on the bus to camp in an hour. Are you going to be able to tell us everything we need to know by then?” She gave Henry the look, the look he’d seen too many times on his mother that showed that he wasn’t telling her the whole truth and she was getting tired of it. If she’d been standing, Henry was sure she’d be stomping her foot like the tantrums she used to throw when she was younger.

 Henry thought for a minute. There was no way he could tell them everything he needed to in an hour. Hell, would they even be able to function at camp after everything he needed to tell them? Would they even believe him? Alice definitely seemed open to it, but Hope, she was so stubborn. It was like trying to convince their mother all over again. And that’s when he made the decision.

 “Look, Alice, do you trust me?” He asked, holding out his hand to her. She didn’t even hesitate, she took his hand and answered yes. “Hope, Alice, you are sisters. I am your half brother. Emma and Killian love each other very much, they just don’t remember, and I need your help to bring our family back together. But to do that, you’re going to have to leave camp and come with me. Can you do that?” 

 Alice nodded with no hesitation. Henry probably should have been a little more concerned that Alice seemed so willing to leave camp and go off with a perfect stranger who had just told her that he was her brother with no other explanation except that fairy tales were real and she needed to somehow get their family back together, a family that didn’t even know they were broken, but he saw the belief in her eyes and the trust she had toward him and Hope, and he looked past that concern. Besides, he was her brother, just because she didn’t remember him didn’t mean they weren’t blood. Both he and Alice looked over at Hope who was still looking at them like they were the craziest people she had ever met. Henry was about to apologize for ruining her camp experience when she finally spoke.

 “Well, I guess you two don’t really leave me a choice. I gotta make sure you crazy, and yes, I mean the literal meaning of crazy, people don’t get into too much trouble. Someone has to make sure that when mom and Alice’s dad, ...our dad, whoever he is, find us that we have a sane person to explain we went willingly and Henry doesn’t get arrested for kidnapping or whatever.” Hope flipped her ponytail behind her shoulder as if she didn’t really care either way if they got in trouble or not, but Henry knew better. He knew she was coming along on this crazy ride to make sure Henry didn’t do something stupid and to be there for Alice.

 Henry held out his hand for Hope since he was still holding Alice’s from earlier. She hesitated only a moment before grabbing it. Alice and Hope both gave a slight jolt, something most people would not have noticed or thought they had just had a shiver run through them at the same time, but Henry knew, he knew that was the sign that everything was starting. It was the sign that their family was coming back together.

Tag List: (Let me know if you want to be added or removed)

@profdanglaisstuff @thisonesatellite @mariakov81 @hollyethecurious @winterbaby89 @jennjenn615 @kmomof4 @superchocovian @lfh1226-linda @ilovemesomekillianjones @cssns @itsfabianadocarmo @xsajx  @qualitycoffeethings​

#cssns #cssns20 #captain swan supernatural summer #csff #Captain Swan #captain swan ff #gingerchangeling #inspired by the parent trap

[toxoiddiamond]

RORY EOIN LARKIN If they had to listen to only one musical artist forever, who would they choose? He would probably choose The Clash– he loves rock music in general, especially punk, and The Clash was his favorite band growing up, so he’d be fine listening to them for the rest of his life. How would someone realize they were irritated or impatient? Rory is a pretty nice person, easygoing and laid back, not overly friendly but generally patient with people and willing to talk to anyone who talks to him first. It takes a lot to get him irritated enough to actually show it. But if he does get to that point, his answers start getting shorter and more to the point, he sort of closes himself off and becomes less willing to engage, and he will excuse himself as quickly as possible to get himself out of the situation. Do they follow the news or avoid it? He doesn’t follow the news too much, but doesn’t avoid it either. If he hears that there is something important or major going on, he’ll look it up and read all about it. But he doesn’t check the news every morning or watch the news when he gets home unless there’s some story he’s following. If they could relive one day of their life without changing anything that happened, which day would they choose? He would probably choose any of the dates/nights out he had with Simon, honestly. Being with Simon was the happiest he’s ever been in his life, and if he could revisit any of those memories one more time, he would be a happy man. Write about the consequences of keeping quiet when they should have spoken up. Rory’s biggest regret in life is that he never told Simon he loved him. He constantly wonders how things would have turned out if he would have been more honest and not such a coward. Although part of him is certain it wouldn’t have changed anything, that there’s no way they could have made things work long distance, he can’t help but wonder if maybe, just maybe, they could have made it. Maybe they would be together now if Rory had gotten up the courage to admit his feelings. Do they have a story about a friend who broke their trust? Write about how it made them feel when it happened and how they feel (not think) about it today. When he was a teenager and just beginning to come to terms with his sexuality, he came out to a friend he trusted and asked them to keep it a secret. They did not keep it a secret, and by the next day, it seemed like the entire school knew. Rory was extremely upset, but never confronted his supposed “friend” about it– he simply cut all ties with said friend and never spoke to them again, even when they tried to apologize. They see their Ex making out with one of their friends. What do they do? I guess it depends on which ex. When it comes to most of his exes, he wouldn’t really care– he might be a bit jealous, because that’s only natural, but he wouldn’t be angry. But if it was an ex he had actually been in love with– such as Simon, or Cyril (his longest relationship to date– they were nearly in a common law marriage), he would be very unhappy about it. He wouldn’t confront them, but he would probably avoid said friend and also whichever ex it was. Are they most likely to fight with their fists or their tongue? He’d be more likely to fight verbally than physically. That being said, if someone really crosses the line with him, he’s not afraid to throw a few punches. Were their grandparents alive when they were born? Describe their relationship with their parents. His grandparents on his mother’s side were alive, and his grandfather on his father’s side was alive. His mother didn’t have a great relationship with her parents– they were super Catholic and overbearing, and were very upset with her for getting pregnant out of wedlock and refusing to marry the father right away (they did eventually get married when Rory was about five years old). Their relationship was always strained after that, and she never let them into Rory’s life because she didn’t want them to try and poison him with their religious bullshit. Rory’s father had a much better relationship with his parents, and after his mother passed away, his father came and lived with them. When Rory was born, he helped out a lot with taking care of Rory and taking care of things around the house. Rory was very close with him and was devastated when he passed away shortly after Rory turned sixteen. If their ex suddenly kissed them right now, what would they do? If it was Cyril that kissed him, Rory would pull away and reject his advances. There were too many issues in their relationship, too many fights and hurtful words exchanged, for Rory to ever want anything to do with him again. But if it was Simon, let’s be real here, Rory would kiss him back without hesitation. Summer, Fall, Winter or Spring? He loves the snow, so winter is probably his favorite. He loves the way it looks, he loves the cold weather, he loves being inside with a steaming hot cup of tea with a blanket wrapped around him while he watches the snow fall– he just loves winter. He could never live someplace where it doesn’t snow. What does their morning routine look like? He rolls out of bed around 6:45 in the morning, throws his clothes on, pours himself a thermos of plain black coffee, and then he’s off to work. If he’s left himself enough time, he’ll stop at a cafe near his work and grab a bagel or a breakfast sandwich to wolf down before he actually clocks in for the day. On his days off, he likes to sleep in as long as he can (which is normally until about 10am), then he gets up and makes himself some tea, then sits and plays either piano or guitar for a couple of hours before going out to run whatever errands he needs to do that day. What’s something they quit, that they now regret giving up on? Music. He used to be in a band, and although he knew they wouldn’t ever be famous, he really enjoyed playing music and playing small venues. His dream was always to have his own music label someday, but of course that never really panned out for him. He sometimes wonders what his life would be like if he had actually pursued his dream instead of giving up, but that line of thinking is too depressing and he never dwells on it for long. How well would they handle a long-distance relationship? Rory would find long distance incredibly difficult. Not because he would be tempted to cheat or to leave his partner, but because he would constantly be worried that his partner would forget about him. He’d be really paranoid and stressed out the entire time because he’d constantly be expecting to be broken up with. How did they do in school? What is/was their favorite subject? Rory always loved his art and music classes the most, and he did pretty well in his literature classes as well. He wasn’t amazing in math or science, but he always at least passed his classes. He was never a straight A student, but he studied hard and was decent in school. Would they prefer a neat or a more comfortable home? Describe the room they’re sitting in now. He much prefers a comfortable home. He’s not a slob by any means, but he’s also not a neat freak and likes his place looking cozy and lived-in. A little clutter doesn’t bother him. He spends a lot of his time at home in his living room, which has blackout curtains on the windows (he opens them on days when he’s actually home, but leaves them closed otherwise), a comfortable couch he’s had for nearly fifteen years, a small glass coffee table, and a reclining armchair. The floor is hardwood, and he’s laid a slightly beat-up area rug out in the middle of the room. There’s a small bookshelf with a combination of books and DVDs on it (Rory switched over to reading e-books some time ago since it’s more convenient), and a decently large TV mounted on the wall. There’s some clutter here and there, and it’s not spotless, but overall it’s clean and a very comfortable, inviting space. How do they react to stressful situations? Defensively? Aggressively? Evasively? For the most part, Rory handles stress pretty well, at least outwardly. He knows how to put on a good front and act like nothing really bothers him, even when it does. He’s also not really the type to ask anyone for help when he needs it, so he’s overburdened a lot of the time. His stress tends to manifest mostly as physical symptoms– soreness in his shoulders and his back, headaches, fatigue. Who was the first person to break their heart? I mean. He kind of broke his own heart, honestly. He knew that Simon didn’t want them to break up, he knew that Simon wanted to try long distance, but he just couldn’t see it working out for them. Rory was the one that ended the relationship between them, and it was his first real heartbreak. Do they like or dislike their job? He doesn’t hate his job, but he doesn’t really like it either. It’s just something he does in order to pay the bills, but working in a foundry was never his dream. He doesn’t get any kind of mental fulfillment from it. But he likes a lot of the people he works with, and although he’s often tired and sore at the end of the day, he does find the hard work to be satisfying in a way. Although he’s been working at the foundry for many years, he knows he’s only got a couple of years left before the job becomes too much for him– he’s already very worn down in a physical sense, and he knows if he tries to keep working this job for the rest of his life, he’s just going to end up destroying his body. He plans on trying to find a new job within the next couple of years, but he has no idea what sort of job he wants. Do they prefer routine or spontaneity? As much of a homebody as Rory is these days, he really does appreciate spontaneity. Anytime he’s invited out for a drink with the boys at the last minute, he is bound to say yes. Or if a friend calls him up on a weekend and invites him to a party, a concert, etc, Rory is almost always up for it. He always likes a bit of excitement to break up his routine.

#character: rory larkin #ship: simon/rory #questionnaire

[coneygoil]

Walking Wounded, part 7

Caryl AU. The waitress at a diner Daryl decides to frequent catches his eye, but things are complicated. Now, Daryl is the only thing standing between her and her abusive husband.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6

“Hey Soph, hand me that tool right there. The one with the square head. Yeah, that’s it.”

Carol watched from her stool in the mechanic’s garage Daryl worked at. He’d been called in to work on a motorcycle that morning. Carol had asked Sophia that morning before they emerged from the bedroom what she thought of Daryl. Her simple answer was, “He’s nice.” Carol had built upon her daughter’s answer to show how much she trusted Daryl and thought he was nice as well. It was a step in a positive direction. Maybe soon, Sophia would be comfortable enough to talk to Daryl.

Currently, Sophia was helping hand Daryl his tools. The girl had been curious as to what Daryl was doing. She’d slowly crept her way over there to where he worked. He’d laid out all his tools on the tarp and casually began asking her to hand him whichever tool he described to her in a form she’d understand. She was timid at first but when he smiled at her and thanked her heartily for the help, she didn’t hesitate to fetch what he needed. He explained to her what he was doing with such patience. Carol was overwhelmed with emotion at times with how patience Daryl was with her daughter. For someone who claimed to have absolutely no experience with kids, he knew exactly how to handle them.

“Blast it!” a yell came from the small office off to the side.

Carol slipped off the stool and peeked into the doorway. Daryl’s boss, Mr. Brock, was seated at the desk. He tossed his cell phone on the surface and skidded to a stop against his schedule book.

“Is something wrong, Mr. Brock?” she asked, cautiously. He seemed like a nice enough older man, especially if Daryl could vouch for him.

Mr. Brock snapped this attention to the doorway. It seemed like he forgot who she was, but then recognition dawned on him. “Oh, Carol, right? I’m having trouble keeping up with parts and inventory and a bit of scheduling too. My old brain just isn’t what is used to, y’know?”

Carol had only met the man a few times, but she nodded in agreement for his sake. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

Mr. Brock rubbed his chin, thoughtfully. “How good are you with bookkeeping and odds and ends secretary work?”

Carol wrung her hands together. She hoped her face didn’t give away the rabbit that was currently hopping madly around in her head. She hoped she could formulate a well enough answer. “I’ve never kept books before, but I’m a fast learner.”

Mr. Brock waved her over to his desk. “C’mere. Let me show what it entails.”

Carol had been gone so long in Mr. Brock’s office that Daryl had to come looking for her. Hiccupping tiny sobs, Sophia wore teardrops on her lashes and clung to Carol when she found her.

“Sophia got upset when she couldn’t find you,” Daryl explained.

Carol’s heart ached at the thought of her daughter fearing her mother was gone. She hadn’t meant to be away that long. “I’m sorry, baby. Mommy got caught up talking to Mr. Brock.”

Daryl looked concerned. “Is everything okay?”

“Everything is fine,” Carol answered, hoisting Sophia up into her arms. She offered Daryl a small, reassuring smile. “I may have a job.”

***

“You weren’t kidding about the goat.”

Daryl laughed to himself. “Naw. Told you she gets paid in grass, and she does a damn fine job.”

Every week or so, Daryl borrowed the neighbor’s goat to keep the grass trimmed and the weeds pulled. It got the job done. He and Carol were sitting out on the front porch watching Sophia play in the yard. She steer-cleared of the goat, who was toed to a rope on the other side of the yard, but she watched it in fascination as it munched down on the tasty blades.

Earlier in the day, Carol had been offered a job by Daryl’s boss. She hadn’t accepted it right away, needing to speak with Daryl before she made a decision. He was her single mode of transportation and she also didn’t know how he’d feel about her working at the same job site. But, Daryl couldn’t think of a better place for her to work. She would be with him and he wouldn’t worry over her safety like he would if she were anywhere else. They were also free to bring Sophia to the garage. Carol would work four days a week in the morning doing various jobs for his boss.

“Mr. Brock’s a decent guy. A little absent-minded, but decent.”

Carol pulled her legs up on the worn patio chair to hug to her torso. She made a little sound of happiness, and it reverberated in Daryl’s chest. “I can’t believe I have a job. Just this morning, I thought it would be impossible.”

He pointed at her, playfully. “Good thing you came to work with me.”

“I’ve never had a job like this,” she mused, “The diner was the first place I had worked since before me and Ed married. I’d worked in a coffee shop for a few years before that.” The lightness in her tone began to fade as she recounted memories gone by, her gaze straight ahead. “He never wanted me to work. He preferred I stay home – isolated. Take care of the house and his needs. It wasn’t until a few months back that out of nowhere he demanded I help contribute to our finances.”

She filled the space between them with a beat of silence. Daryl didn’t respond. The air around him told him she had more to say. He could feel it radiating from her.

“Even then, he wasn’t satisfied. I was coming home late and in a lighter mood than I usually am around him. He was growing suspicious. Of what? I’m not sure. Maybe because being away from him made me feel better and it showed. That was the reason he was in a worse mood that night. That’s why I feared leaving Sophia with him. That’s why he showed up at the diner. Sophia was only an excuse to expel his anger toward me. He was losing control, no matter how much of a sliver it was.”

Daryl mulled over everything she had just shared. Any little detail Carol told him about Ed sent a fresh wave of fury ripple through him. “He don’t deserve you. He don’t deserve Sophia. Bastard didn’t know what he had. Don’t care.”

They watched Sophia in companionable silence as she gathered rocks and other treasures in the yard. Daryl squirmed a bit at the nervousness that had set in. Carol and Sophia had only been there for the better part of two weeks, but it had seemed like a lifetime for him. A lifetime that he wanted to keep going. When he’d walked into the diner over two months ago and was welcomed by a waitress with a kind smile and buzzed head, it never occurred to him that he would fall for her – and that he would fall like a boulder off a cliff plunging into the ocean. He couldn’t – he wouldn’t – complicate matters right now with gestures of physical affection that he was unsure she’d return. Their hug from the other night nearly drove him over the edge. He could have held her the rest of the night. He would have dared to place a kiss upon her lips. He’d pulled away before his body could betray his control.

This was all new to Daryl. He never had the desire to be in a relationship. He’d hung out with a few girls in his late teens and early twenties, mostly girls his drinking buddies caroused with. When he was 20, one of the girls had taken an interest in Daryl. She’d led him to a hallway in someone’s house and made out with him. She tasted like beer and cigarettes, but so did he. She’d palmed his crotch aggressively until he shot off before they could get anywhere beyond the barriers of clothing. The girl had laughed at him and left him there to stew in his own juices.

Daryl decided right there that he didn’t need anyone. He concluded he would never score a good woman. What decent woman would want a useless redneck like himself? If he couldn’t have a decent woman then he didn’t bother having one at all. He’d lived just fine with that life decision. Until he’d met Carol…

His stomach churned. He wished to say so much more. “You can stay here as long as you need. Long as you want,” he reminded her, because she needed the reminder often.

Carol gave a slight shake of her head, immediately jumping into her go-to response. “I don’t want to be a burden--”

“I want you to stay,” he cut her off, emphasizing the message he hoped to get across to her.

The loveliest smile graced Carol’s lips. She reached over to rest her hand atop his. She nodded. “I want to stay.”

#caryl #caryl fanfiction #twd: caryl #daryl x carol #walking wounded

[mygalfriday]

i’ll be your man if you got love to get done

{ao3}

Eden Loft is a quiet little café just off Carnaby Street in Soho, all crumbling brick and choking vines on the outside. It looks almost abandoned from the outside, its wild exterior concealing a warm, cozy interior filled with small round tables, leather sofa, and worn armchairs. Potted plants line the bookshelves, the windowsills, and the countertop. The scent of warm scones and coffee fills the air, mixing with the verdant plant life to create an atmosphere both soothing and invigorating. It’s one of Anthony Crowley’s favorite places to stop for a caffeine fix.

This afternoon, however, he lingers outside on the pavement, reluctant to venture inside. With the afternoon sunshine filtering in through the expansive windows, it would be easy to glance inside and spot his date. The only thing stopping him is knowing the sight of whichever poor sod Anathema has guilted into this blind date will make him turn on his heel and leg it back home. He doesn’t even know why he’d agreed to this. The last time his friend had set him up on a date, Crowley had ended up spending an entire evening with some pillock who never touched his food and barely looked up from his mobile.

It’s just so difficult to meet people when he spends all his time working his arse off to make sure his club isn’t a complete failure. Even though The Serpent has been open for a few years now and even though it’s a packed house nearly every night, the nightclub still requires almost all of his time and attention. So Crowley isn’t asking for the love of his life or anything. He doubts such a person even exists. But a few months of shagging someone he can actually have a conversation with would be a nice change of pace.

And that’s what he’s doing loitering outside Eden Loft on a Sunday afternoon.

Crowley groans and reaches for the door.

He steps inside and the scent of fresh pastry and the rich aroma of expensive, organic coffee wafts over him. Tucking his sunglasses into the neck of his black t-shirt, he scans the crowded space for the man Anathema had described. Blond, she’d said. A bit old-fashioned. Crowley had taken that to mean no shagging until the third date but his eyes land on a man who looks like he just returned from tea in the Victorian era and he just knows he’s found his date. Ezra Fell.

Fucking Anathema.

Gritting his teeth, Crowley braces himself for another date from hell and saunters reluctantly across the café. The table where his date sits is beside the bookshelves on the back wall and it appears he’d plucked a novel from the shelf to keep himself occupied while he waited. He seems thoroughly engrossed in whatever it is, flipping through it as Crowley approaches, and doesn’t even look up until Crowley’s shadow falls over the page.

He lifts his head, a pleasant, absent-minded smile on his face. And Crowley’s breath catches painfully in his throat. He’s beautiful. His short blond curls look astonishingly soft and his blue eyes are bright and kind. Though his hands look manicured and soft as they rest against the crisp pages of his book, his chest is broad and sturdy and Crowley imagines he’s deceptively strong beneath that prim waistcoat. Pink-cheeked and full-lipped, Ezra Fell looks like something Michaelangelo might have painted on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. His clothes are utterly ridiculous, of course, and he isn’t at all Crowley’s usual type but nevertheless, he’s…beautiful.

“Anthony Crowley, I presume?”

Realizing he’s been standing in one spot staring at him like a simpleton for fuck knows how long, Crowley unclenches his jaw and forces himself to blink. “I - yeah. Ezra, is it?”

Ezra beams, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he gestures to the seat across from him. “Please, sit.”

Disarmed by that wide smile - Christ alive, Crowley could swear the room grows a few shades brighter - there is no other option but to sit. He sinks gracelessly into the chair across from Ezra, long limbs sprawling. Sitting closer does nothing to make Ezra less attractive, only gives Crowley a better view of his perfection. It’s ridiculous. He looks like he just stepped out of an Oscar Wilde novel. Why can’t he stop staring?

“I already ordered for you,” Ezra says, oblivious to Crowley’s internal struggle to regain use of his tongue as he gestures to the cup and plate across the table. “I hope you don’t mind. It just gets so terribly crowded in here on Sundays. I didn’t want you to have to wait.”

Ezra watches him hopefully, as if expecting Crowley might be annoyed. And fucking hell, speak. “No,” Crowley manages, relieved when his voice comes out relatively normal. “S’fine. You’ve uh, you’ve been here before then?”

Surely Crowley would have noticed him at some point. He’d have looked up from his mobile one morning and saw him across the café, standing in line waiting for his tea or sitting at a table like this one reading another book. He’d have noticed a man like Ezra if they’d ever been in the same room together before. He may not have approached him but he’d have stared just as he is now - probably from behind his sunglasses and over the top of a newspaper he wasn’t actually reading - and been just as charmed by his quiet grace and sunny smile.

“Oh, quite often.” Ezra shuts his book and folds his hands primly over the cover. “But only on Sundays, I’m afraid.”

Ah, that explains how they’ve never run into each other. Sunday mornings are usually when Crowley is lounging about in bed, nursing a hangover after kicking out whoever he’d brought home with him the night before. Crowley’s usual type isn’t the sort to stay for breakfast anyway.

Ezra cuts off a bite of his pastry with a knife and fork, focusing on the task with an intensity Crowley has never seen given to food before. “The rest of the week, I usually get my tea from the museum’s café. Though it isn’t nearly as good as it is here.” He brings the bite of pastry to his mouth and sighs as he chews, his eyes fluttering a bit and a low hum in his throat. He even wiggles a bit in his seat.

Captivated, Crowley rests his chin in the palm of his hand and watches him eat. “Right,” he says, forcing at least a small portion of his brain into focusing on the conversation. “You work at the British Museum. How’s that?”

“Oh, lovely.” Ezra dabs neatly at the corners of his mouth with a napkin. “I oversee the archival department, preserving and maintaining all of our historical documents.”

It sounds utterly dull to Crowley but the way Ezra lights up as he talks about his job is far from boring. He smiles and gestures as he talks, regaling Crowley with a tale about a shipment of letters the museum had received earlier that week. They’d been uncovered in the attic of some ancestor of one of Hemingway’s secret lovers and apparently, they’re going to rock the literary world on its axis. Ezra talks about the contents of these letters like someone else might relay a bit of scandalous gossip and Crowley finds himself listening intently. He doesn’t even think about touching his food or his coffee, chin in hand as he gazes across the table and watches Ezra gesture as he talks and take delicate little bites of his pastry.

“And Anathema tells me you own a nightclub?” Ezra sips at his tea, watching Crowley with that same focus he'd given his food. It’s startling enough to make Crowley straighten from his slouch and wipe his suddenly sweaty palms on his jeans. “It sounds terribly exciting.”

Looking at him, Crowley doubts the man has ever set foot on the same street as a nightclub but he rather loves that he’d bothered asking about it. The Serpent may be an exhausting, soul-sucking venture but it also happens to be Crowley’s baby. He tells Ezra a bit about the club, detailing how quickly it has grown and how much work it takes to keep it at the top of everyone’s list. He talks about the type of people who frequent the place, the live music they have every night, and how much he loves being his own boss.

Ezra listens to every word, asks questions in all the right places, and never once tries to interrupt and make the conversation about himself again. “It must keep you quite busy,” he says after Crowley tells him about his upcoming open interviews to hire staff for the busy season. He eyes Crowley with concern, as though trying to decide if he eats enough or gets enough sleep. It’s such a quiet, protective glance that Crowley feels something warm and foreign bloom inside his chest.

He shrugs, glancing away with his heart in his throat. “I don’t mind,” he says. “I like keeping busy.”

“Yes, I understand. My work is very important to me. But I must admit I’ve found myself craving a bit of companionship recently.” Ezra glances down into his teacup, then looks at Crowley through his lashes. Crowley stares again, helplessly charmed. “I can’t imagine you have similar difficulties finding pleasing company.”

Fucking hell. The man out of time is flirting with him.

Crowley swallows.

“May I ask why you agreed to this setup?” Ezra presses, glancing away again. “Surely you have plenty of opportunities to meet people in your line of work. I, however, am confined to the back rooms of a museum all day.”

Meeting people, yes. Loads of them. In the past three months, Crowley has brought home a lead guitarist, one of the Serpent’s bouncers, a grad school student in leather trousers, a barrister looking for a cheap thrill, and one of his bartenders. Not one of them has managed to hold his attention the way Ezra Fell seems to so effortlessly. Crowley wants to know everything about him. Why did he choose archival work? Why does he dress like a bloody regency dandy? Why are his eyes so kind and blue? Why is he so interested in every word Crowley says? Why did he choose that particular book from the shelf? How does he take his tea? What is it about him that makes that pastry look so much more tempting when it’s sliding between his soft pink lips?

Crowley wants to bring him home and study him, take him apart under his hands until he understands what makes him tick, and then tenderly put him back together again. He wants to stroke his blond hair and nuzzle his throat and call him all sorts of endearments he’s never used before on anyone. He wants Ezra, in all the ways he never expected to want anyone after a lifetime of being alone and convincing himself he liked it better that way when all along, he was just afraid no one would want him back.

Outwardly, he only shrugs again, his eyes lingering meaningfully on Ezra as he says, “Suppose I’ve been meeting the wrong people.”

Ezra blushes. 

They linger over their tea, discussing everything from politics to what they studied at university to their childhoods. Crowley tells Ezra about being an orphan churned out of the system by the age of seventeen and Ezra confides in him about his conservative Catholic upbringing and his ongoing struggle to overcome the subsequent stain of guilt religion left behind long after he shed its chains.

When the tea has grown cold and the pastries have been eaten, Crowley insists on paying the bill. And suddenly they’re standing outside on the pavement, the afternoon sun gone soft and hazy. It slants gently across Ezra’s blond curls like a halo and Crowley stares at him longingly. Angel, he thinks, and his heart skips several beats.

“I do appreciate you meeting with me, you know. I’m aware I can’t be what you were hoping for.” Ezra wrings his hands and Crowley has the sudden wild urge to clasp them between his own. “I told Anathema you couldn’t possibly-”

“You’re perfect,” Crowley blurts, before he can stop himself.

Fuck. Very smooth.

That sort of line would get him laughed at by just about anyone else but Ezra stills, gazing up at him wonderingly. As if Crowley had just reached up and plucked a star out of the sky just for him and handed it over on a silver platter. “I-” He squares his shoulders, meeting Crowley’s gaze. “I do hope I’m not being too forward but… I would like to see you again, Anthony. If you’re amendable.”

Christ, he even talks like he belongs in an Austen novel. Crowley is utterly gone on him already.

Looming over him, Crowley peers into sweet, hopeful blue eyes and swallows roughly. “I’m amendable,” he murmurs. “Very.”

“Oh.” Ezra breathes out a relieved little noise and sways toward him, his smile breathtaking. Literally. Crowley cannot breathe. “Good.”

Reaching for him with a shaking hand, Crowley cups his pink cheek and watches Ezra’s eyes widen. “This all right?”

“Yes,” comes the immediate reply. Ezra licks his lips and Crowley nearly hisses. “Quite.”

With permission, Crowley closes the gap between them and captures that enticing mouth with his own. He tastes exactly like raspberries and flaky pastry and tea. Crowley usually takes his tea without any sugar at all but Ezra tastes like five lumps of sugar and a dash of milk. His mouth opens eagerly and Crowley groans. He presses closer, leaning against Ezra’s broad chest and burying his hands in soft blond curls.

It should be impossible to taste this warm and sweet and absolutely fucking perfect but Crowley knows with sudden certainty that kissing Ezra Fell is like drinking directly from the sun itself. He loses himself in the slick, hot slide of their mouths and their grasping hands. Everything around him blurs and time loses all meaning. He isn’t aware of where they’re standing on the pavement in front of Eden Loft, he doesn’t notice the disgruntled people passing them by or the warm late afternoon breeze ruffling his hair. There is only Ezra clutching at his t-shirt and making those delightful little noises, wriggling adorably under Crowley’s wandering hands.

When they finally break apart, panting, the world feels different. As though an entire solar system has rearranged itself, orienting now around Ezra Fell. Crowley noses at his cheek, struggling to find his voice as Ezra keeps one hand curled tightly at his waist. Clearing his throat, he rasps, “Anathema told me you were old-fashioned.”

Ezra makes a soft, contrary noise and turns his head to press his lips to the corner of Crowley’s mouth. “Only in dress,” he murmurs, somehow managing to sound prim despite the arousal Crowley can feel pressing into his hip. “I assure you.”

Swallowing laughter, Crowley pulls back just enough to look into his eyes. “My place then?”

As Crowley lifts a hand to stroke his cheek, Ezra smiles. “After you.”

#good omens #crowley #aziraphale #ineffable husbands #my fic

[tamaraneanpacifist]

10 Underused Character Questions

Introduction -

Name: Ryand’r, Wildfire

Age: I usually have him at around 14

Your favorite picture of your muse’s fc:

(I picked 2 here because I have his own face and then the FC)

Questions -

What would be their twitter name? What sorts of tweets would they tweet?

Okay, uh I know almost nothing about how to work with twitter (I have an account there I think, buried somewhere in my password-book), I know that you can follow people there too and that’s basically all, but I’ll try:

He’d probably have a name of wildfire or something like it (with numbers or letters at the end or something if that’s taken), though once he’s aware of what wildfires actually are (or sick of the spams that I assume such a name bring on other platforms too - at least if the amount of prnbots etc in the tag ‘wildfire’ on here is any indication) he would want to change that name, though he probably wouldn’t be able to make up anything on his own. He’s still a little... hesitating with giving out his actual, tamaranean name too much (to strangers), so he won’t do ryandr or anything like that, so he would probably not really know what else to pick as name.

As for posting? Uh well, he isn’t really one to speak up in general converse much on things like social media, so he wouldn’t really be posting things a lot. He’d probably much rather stay silent, and if at all, use it to directly speak to friends (IM or DM or however exactly you’d call it for twitter), usually that only when they initate it.

What’s their favorite genre of movies? Of music?

Most of the movies he’s so far watched are kid ones (disney and the likes), so that would probably be the category to name here too.

As for music, with how he’s still working on learning the language, it gets a bit difficult to actually focus on the music when there’s words he doesn’t completely get - so he prefers without vocals. Outside of that - the ‘music box’-style is a really lovely one, and slow-ish inspirational music is good for thinking about stuff or calming himself, but he isn’t really picky on what to hear.

What’s on their top queue on Netflix?

I have no idea what that means, sorry. Like what’s up to be watched next, or something? Sorry, but I absolutely can’t answer this.

What’s their favorite scent? Do they smell like that?

Sweet smells are good, and whichever smells that his friends carry.

And I’ve said before that I can’t for the life of me answer what any of my muses smells like, so while it’s probably a no to if he smells like the smells he likes most, I still can’t say what he’d smell like.

Apple or Android?

He wouldn’t even know what those are, and probably choose whatever friends recommend (or what the T-communicator has, since I doubt he’d have a phone outside of that).

Favorite Season? Least favorite season?

Favorite season definitely winter - everything is so pretty white and silent.

Least favorite might be summer, but only because it means that people look more at him wearing his cloak. Outside of that he doesn’t have anything against any season.

Are they a bottom or top or versatile?

Nope not answering this!

Describe their morning routine. Do they wake up early or sleep in? Do they press the snooze button a bunch of times or do they immediately get up?

Stretching, if he slept at the place of, or close to, someone he cares for he’d instantly check if they are alright and still there, then maybe close his eyes again for a minute or two. After that, start the day, if with friends who do that it’d include some breakfast, otherwise probably just heading out, or doing whatever was planned for the day.

If he would work with alarms, he’d get up when it rings, no snoozing.

If they were to be compared to a canon character, who would that be?

There probably is some character out there, probably even one where I already before realized the similarities. Right now though, I can’t think of any, so I don’t think I can name anyone here, sorry!

Finish this sentence, muse: “What would ___ do ___”

"What would mother and father do, if they saw what I became?” (This feels like I answered this wrongly but there are two blanks so I felt like I needed to make it a longer thing?)

tag five people so they can get to know their muse too!

​Uh you know how I’m with tagging, so nope! You!

Oh and since that’s nowhere to be stated in here, through this I’m adding the line of ‘tagged by’, which in my case was @skymade​ , thank you! :D

#☮ Drifting in Space ☮ | OOC #☮ This is what I am ☮ | About Wildfire #anime tw

[nonmillennialstruggling]

Update- re: long-term guests

I posted about this situation earlier so that I could post to vent.  I didn’t have the heart to blog after I got back from the mountains mid-November. Here is the update.  Long post: Sorry I tried to collapse the recap and I don’t know why it isn’t working.  Within that text collapse I also tried to collapse the update and within that text collapse I tried another text collapse etc.  Each section is described in bold before-hand.  

Recap of What I’ve Posted About Already:

 Friend, grandma, and dog got evicted towards the end of September. I offered them a place to stay. He took the futon in the living room, grandma took the bed in my room, and I put an air mattress in the front room for myself where I literally had 6 inches between the air mattress and my desk. He was talking about finding a place for October 1st.

I don't see him actually leave the house that last week of September, but I figure he’s just been through a lot he needs a bit longer. I keep checking in with him in and let him know that I have to clear a longer than 30 day stay. It’s apparent that he needs longer, and he starts talking about November first.

I still don’t see him leave the house the first week of October, so I raise the issue to him again. He says he has found a place already actually and that they are getting it ready for him but that he is still looking at other places to have other options. He refers to this place being prepared for him a few additional times. I go away for a week, come back and he says that the place fell through because of the eviction on his record, which showed up on his credit report. This means that when he said the place was ready, he didn't actually have an approved application and lease ready to sign.

I raise the issue of a move out date with him again. He says he has found an extended stay hotel that was affordable and that they are moving out the end of October.

The week before they are to move, he says that his former landlord filled an elder abuse claim against him. Since I've been seeing how he cares for his grandmother I know that the claim was not made in good faith. I say goodnight to his grandma the night before they are to move, and it doesn't seem that she knows she is supposed to leave the next day. Moving day comes and my friend says that his friend who works for "the state" actually suggested that he not move because of the elder abuse investigation and that it would look like he had more stability if he stayed put. He says his friend had access to some notes about his case and that the only negative thing noted so far was that his grandma was not in a medical bed. He asks if he can set it up in the front room for the wellness visit. Wellness visit is supposed to happen next week, the first week of November.

I let them stay longer and know that I will check in after the wellness visit. Hearing that they weren't moving that day though was really really hard for me because at this point I’m really tired of being on the air mattress displaced from my room, in the front room where traffic wakes me up at 5 30, not having solitude, and also having to use white noise to screen out the news that my friend has on 24/7 in the living room. Also, November is a hard month for me and I really wanted my place back to myself for that reason too.

I go away for more travel and when I come back the medical bed is not set up and the wellness visit did not happen. I continue checking in with him about the investigation. I also in this time learn that his friend who works for "the state" works in the prison system and it is really weird to me that she would have any access to notes on his elder abuse case. (I contacted the agency that does the investigation to confirm whether or not someone outside the agency working for the prison could access any case notes- they said no one outside of the agency would have access to their case notes but that local police departments are also contacted and would have records too. The police department says that records from a local police department on an open investigation would not be shared with anyone working in the prison system under no circumstances).

 The Update:

 I go away to the mountains mid-November.  I think it was right before I went, I escaped to my desk downtown and felt very grateful to have it.  I wondered what I will do when I have to give it up when the lease ends but then I realize that I’m never sharing my place like this again.  I can do one week on an air mattress and one month of someone on the futon.  I come back from the mountains and can’t do the air mattress after a few days in an actual bed so I book an Airbnb for the rest of the week, that he did pay for.

He says he will move out the weekend before thankstaking to an extended stay hotel. He talked about moving in with his friend who works for the prison system but says that her mom just went into the hospital. I wish the case were closed before the move (if in fact there is a case). There is an interview scheduled the Thursday before he is to move and I really hope the case is closed because that would be before the move. At this point I am definitely fraying around the edges and recognize that I haven't been in my usual routines and that it has affected my productivity. If he is ok moving, I am ok with it.

I check in with him after the interview on Thursday and ask if he is still intending to move this weekend. If he says he needs more time I plan to offer him more time but ask that he move out either the weekend after the investigation closes or, since investigations can take months, at an agreed upon date, whichever is earlier.  I figure one month would be proper notice. And I felt ok about this since he had previously indicated that an extended stay hotel would not be an issue.  He says he is still planning to move that week, so I am glad to hear that.

Sat I say goodnight to his grandma and it also doesn't appear that she’s aware that they are moving tomorrow. This of course seems weird to me. He says that his friend who works for "the state" is supposed to help him move tomorrow. He doesn't have a specific time but says he will be in contact with her.

The next day it is 1 pm and she hasn't come yet. I check in with him because I had planned to be available to help with the move and wanted to check in to see if he needed my help or if I should just go downtown to work. (He can't drive because of a suspended license so I wanted to be available to help with driving). He indicates that he should have it covered with his friend and I let him know that if he needs me then he can just text me.

He Asks for More Time:

Here is a text I got from him later that day and following is my response and his response back. Also, I'll just state for context that after the fact I am pretty sure that he didn't have a hotel reservation and hadn't transferred his grandmother’s home health care to a new address (I inferred this from texts that occurs after the exchange I put below):

Him: Hey (Name). The money I planned to use for the extended stay was going to come from monies I let (name) borrow. She doesn't have the money to give to me and most likely won't have it well into December. I've included her here to verify. However, can we work out another agreement where I move my grandmother to the office so you can have your bedroom back? I literally have $106, for what I planned to buy groceries. (Name) has agreed to come over at 10 tomorrow morning to go get her bed, I need to arrange with storage company. I know this isn't what we agreed to but I just don't have the resources at this moment. I hate to be leaning on my friends like this but I truly don't have any options; my brother won't send any money and I'm trying to get my license sorted while the property is being sold. I know getting your bed back and not sleeping on the air mattress is important. I know it's more important to have your space back, yet I'll make things as comfortable as possible until I'm able to figure this out

Nov 24 6:10pm (time stamp)

Me: I can put it on credit and ask that you repay me when (name) is able to re-pay you in mid-December. Before you moved in you had talked about finding a place for October 1st, and then you were searching for November 1st, so I didn't discuss a concrete move out date with you. I was actually really looking forward to having my place back to myself November 1st though because this is a hard month for me. Then of course I wanted you to be able to get the wellness visit behind you (which I thought would happen the first week of November) and figured that we could set a move out date after the visit. Since you said you were moving out today though I didn't have that conversation with you. If money is the issue I'll spot you.

Nov 24 6:12pm (time stamp)

I've loved having you, your grandmother, and (dog's name) stay with me but I am an introvert and need quiet and it has been a much longer visit than I anticipated. While I have loved having you stay with me I have anticipated having my place back to myself November 1st and then today and it is hard for me when that is changed the day off. I'm confused as to why you would say you were moving out today though if you weren't able to confirm with (name) in advance that she could re-pay you. At any rate if money is the issue, honestly I want my place back to myself at this point more than I'm concerned about my credit limit and can lend that to you.

Nov 24 6:13pm (time stamp)

Him: I completely want to affirm I recognize your need for your space. I've tried my best to stay out of your way. I didn't find out until today that the resources I thought I'd have wouldn't be in place and I immediately notified you. Taking that amount of money from you, after you've opened up your home, wouldn't be helpful for my own mental health. Is it possible to put us out after I'm paid for December? With the research contract and my stipend, I should have enough to pay first/last/deposit for some place. It seems the holiday may not be a time where you want others around, yet it's completely opposite for my grandmother where this'll be the first time without her family and loved ones besides me.

Nov 24 6:13pm (time stamp)

My Response:

The things that were weird to me about his reply were: 1) that I had just stated what would be best for me and he implied that him staying would be actually be better for me than me helping them with a hotel stay, 2) he asserted their needs as more important than mine rather than equal, and 3) he referred to me putting them out when I was just asking that we follow our plan.

Since I was offering a way to address the barrier that he said he faced I told him I couldn't do longer and that I was offering a way to meet the barrier he said he faced.  He tried to push back but I held firm.

He moved himself, his grandmother, and some of their things on Monday. His stuff was all over when I came back Monday night and he hadn't done any cleaning, which was annoying because there was syrup that had spilled and hardened on my bedroom floor and a chewed up rug and things like that that I cleaned up Monday. I thought that "moving" implies taking all your stuff and cleaning afterwards, so I didn't explicitly state that these were my expectations. I don t feel that I should have had to do that though.

He said he was picking the last of his stuff up Wednesday morning, which turned out to be Wednesday night at 10 30. He did some other things that were not cool that I won't go into here.

If I give him the benefit of the doubt, I have to conclude that he is at best clue-less. The other extreme would be seeing him as having an agenda of manipulation. I think he has intentionally lied to me (I mean the thing about his friend seeing the case notes is a blatant lie) but I don't think he has an explicit agenda to be manipulative.  

Also, just for the record he is not and has not been in a place of shut down that may explain not planning his move or cleaning up afterwards.  And I have encountered another thing that is most likely a lie that I won’t go into here either.

I did raise the issue of what may be a feasible pay back plan because I figured at this point that I really needed to have firm boundaries with him because otherwise he would take advantage.  He agreed to it.  I also followed up with him on a paper that he said wanted to send out for publication about a month ago that I hadn’t seen a submission confirmation email for yet. He hadn’t submitted it and I’m realizing that I really hate it when I meet agreed upon deadlines in order to keep a project on track where then the next person responsible for the project (who requested my piece be done by a particular date) just drops things.  I will never start another or project with him again.  

I am also feeling protective of some folks in academia who he may interact with.  I think their issues with him would likely be limited to him dropping the ball on projects and/or proposing a lot of projects that he wants to do for prestige more than he wants to do in order to build a meaningful research portfolio.  Still, I know at least one person who may be more generous if they think he’s just in a hard position, and I am feeling protective about that.    

#long-term house guests #I may add other tags later but don't have the heart to tag more now.

[bluerighthand]

I’ll set you a little candle

Summary: Alfie’s backstory: from a snowy Hanukkah in 1898, to the loss of his mother, dealing with antisemitism and starting a family of his own. A bit of Alfie/Tommy at the end. Set in the GUAS AU.

Notes: Full notes on AO3, but please keep in mind that this is based off real events. 

Words: 7,186

AO3: Not sure if the link issue has resolved itself so I put a space in it:  

https: //archiveofourown.org/works/16988913

!!!WARNINGS!!!: character death, antisemitism, references to Russian pogroms, self-injury, depression. NO actual violence is described, it’s all from Alfie’s POV.

Hanukkah had always been Alfie’s favourite holiday. Well…it was true as a child his favourite holiday changed frequently; usually to whichever one it was at that moment, but Hanukkah was always special. There was just something about the warm candles, the snow outside, the wafting smell of delicious food, and all the laughter and games that made him feel content. Complete.

He mostly kept these opinions to himself, however. Although everyone enjoyed Hanukkah, and recognised it was an important reminder of past struggles, it was still considered a minor holiday in the grand scheme of things. His father would launch into a lecture about Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, the minute the words ’importance’ or ‘favourite’ came up in relation to holidays, and his mother simply grinned and showed him plans for next year’s sukkah, even more extravagant than the last.

His little brother Harry had always insisted Purim was the greatest holiday, but whether he was six or thirty, it was just because of the dressing up. Always one for theatrics.

Hanukkah also seemed to be the only festival that his non-Jewish school friends knew anything about, and it always made Alfie smile to be wished a happy holiday, or asked questions about the celebrations. In a gesture of holiday goodwill, most years he even made up with Sabini, which was usually a relief for both of them, as well as the entire teaching staff at school.

Winter was definitely his favourite season too. A crisp chill in the air, the chance of a day spent in the snow before curling up near by fire with his brother, as their dad, Isaac, read to them. Their mum, Sarah, was permanently surrounded by wool and knitting needles at this time of year, which made Isaac groan at the thought of which hideous looking jumper she’d force him into this Hanukkah.

“It’s tradition innit!” she claimed, tweaking one of the many brightly coloured pom-poms attached to her husband. Despite pointing out that it was in fact not a tradition, Isaac suffered through a family dinner in the garish yellow thing, with his sons and wife snickering at him at every opportunity. He condemned it to the back of the wardrobe after the meal was over, returning to his usual black garments.

He did think about donating it, but Sarah already gave so many clothes to charity, and he would be lying if he said he didn’t love that she knitted him things. Even if he couldn’t pull off the pom-pom look. Maybe it would fit Alfie one day, he could see him enjoying it. Just like his mum, he was.

Some of the happiest memories of Alfie’s life were from the early Hanukkahs. In particular, one when he was around nine or ten. The snow had been falling thickly, creating the most beautiful scene outside the window, he and Harry spending most of the evening with their noses pressed up against the glass. After they’d lit the candles and sung the blessings, and their father had fallen asleep on the sofa, their mother put her finger to her lips, bundling him and Harry up in their coats and opening the door.

They’d played in the snow in their small yard for hours, the sky pitch black. Snow angels and several attempts at snow people covered the grass, and the boys could only be tempted inside again with extra sufganiyot: jelly doughnut treats traditional at Hanukkah. The next night, the snow had settled, and by the look of the clouds there was more to come. Isaac had kept up a pretence of being irritated about the weather the whole day, but they all knew he was only grumpy as he’d missed out the night before. Hence, all three boys were plastered to the window, and Sarah sighed fondly as she lit the shamash candle.

“Baruch atah adonai” she began to sing, waving her free hand at her family to gain their attention. Isaac shot her an apologetic smile.

“Eloheinu melech ha’olam” he joined, deep voice complimenting that of his wife’s, the tune more upbeat than that which they used for the Sabbath. Alfie joined in on the next line, knowing all the blessings by heart by now, and if Harry got muddled up and finished with “shel Shabbat” rather than “shel Hanukkah” nobody minded.

The second blessing followed, and by the time all the candles were lit, Alfie had found the stick he’d brought in last night, and was swinging it around as he pretended to be Judah Maccabee. The religious significance of Hanukkah had come to him with age, but for now, Alfie was content darting around the kitchen, leading his people to victory against the Seleucid army. Harry already had his coat, scarf and mittens on, (though admittedly all inside out and back to front) and was jumping up and down next to the window.

“Come here chicken” his mother laughed, attempting to loosen the huge knot he’d managed to tie his scarf into.

“When can I blow them out?” asked Alfie eagerly, the urge already unbearable as he plonked his ‘sword’ down on the table. There was just something about a lit candle that children couldn’t deal with.

“You know you’re not supposed to do that” said Isaac, subtly removing the stick from where they ate. “We’re meant to let them burn out. Hanukkah is the festival of lights after all”. Ten minutes later, when Alfie was lying on his back in the snow, staring up at the warm glow from the window, he was glad they’d kept them lit.

By the next year, Basil had joined their family. Sarah had found him in a cardboard box by the road, a small chocolate brown ball of fur. She’d brought him home in her coat, shielding him from the wind. There’d been an argument when Isaac saw the puppy; he’d recognised the breed, and knew that those things grew to be the size of a house, but once Sarah had her heart set on something nothing could dissuade her.

Alfie was ecstatic, he’d always wanted a dog, but he’d spent the first few weeks terrified his father was going to get rid of him, and even took it in turns with Harry to creep downstairs and check Basil was still nestled in his basket. They needn’t have worried however. An ear scratch here, an extra treat there, and soon enough Isaac had fully accepted that his house (and his heart) was now full of dog.

By the time next winter rolled around, Basil was ten times the size, with no sign of slowing down. He still had the hyperactivity of a puppy, and didn’t realise his own strength, often knocking various members of the household over in his enthusiasm to lick them. Harry had managed to ride him once, for a few seconds, before Basil was off, shooting across the park in pursuit of a squirrel. There wasn’t an abundance around to begin with; not many green areas to live in, but Alfie was sure Basil’s eagerness to befriend them was lowering the population further still.

He was a lovely dog, though. His fluffy brown fur was thick, and stuck out in all directions, and his tongue was always lolling out happily as he was petted. The best friend he could have had growing up, really.

A couple of years later, they went to Russia for Hanukkah. Alfie loved the bustle, the noise, the excitement of his Russian family, especially when they went for a holiday. He already had five cousins to play with, with more likely on the way according to his mum. They also had chickens, a cow, and an old donkey, who Alfie decided he could tolerate. He definitely preferred dogs though, and dreaded each time they had to leave Basil in the care of a neighbour.

As fun as it was when they got there, the journey to Russia was always pretty terrible. Train delays, seasickness, no fires, no proper bed; being bundled up in a train carriage with his irritable younger brother and his sleep-deprived parents wasn’t exactly fun. They made the most of it though, Isaac attempting to teach them card games, and Sarah knitting woollen socks for the little ones, to get them through the harsh winters. They sang songs, whispering the lyrics though muffled laughter after someone had complained, and Alfie wrote stories in his head.

Maybe he could do that one day, write books.

They were always exhausted when they arrived at the little station in rural Russia, though thankfully this time they were able to call for a horse and cart to save them dragging their vastly over packed trunks along the bumpy, frost covered roads. The driver didn’t look very happy about it, carelessly shoving their cases up into the cart and setting off, barely giving them all enough time to get seated.

They shuffled closer together against the cold, Sarah tucked under Isaac’s arm and Alfie rubbing at his brother’s freezing fingers. Despite being late morning, and there was nobody else about, the only sounds the trundle of the cart as it bumped over rocks and uneven dirt. Arriving at the house, Alfie was struck by how quiet and still it all was. Usually their cousins all rushed out to greet them - and with at least half the family inheriting the fondness for long rambling speeches, it was a good while before they actually got through the door.

But something was different this time. The cart pulled to a stop, and the driver snatched the coins from Isaac quickly, not bothering to help as they attempted to drag their cases down from the cart. He cracked the whip, Alfie starting at the noise, and headed off without a word.

“He was mean” said Harry, shivering as another strong gust of wind whipped around them. There was a twitch from an upstairs curtain across the road, and Alfie’s unease increased. Was it just because of the awful weather? Or was it something else?

There was a tap on a window, and Alfie turned to see his auntie waving at them. She vanished, the door scraping against the floor as it was opened. They hurried towards the warmth, but Rebecca had other ideas, stepping out into the cold and wrapping her arms around her sister. They hugged for a moment, before she pulled back shivering, grabbing a case and heaving it inside. They all started to speak at once as they crossed the entrance, but Alfie was confused.

“Where’s the mezuzah?” he asked, staring at the gap in the doorframe. The familiar box containing the small scroll was missing, the wood slightly discoloured. It was custom to touch the box containing the Shema prayer, and then kiss your hand, as a show of faith. Auntie Rebecca usually had one here, and on every other doorway inside the house.

“Oh” his auntie floundered for a second. “It got sort a’…damaged, yeah, a bit dirty. Cause of the weather. Your uncle’s gonna bring a nice new one alright? Come inside now”.

Alfie frowned, but shrugged his shoulders, placing his hand over the empty gap anyway before entering the house. Harry had to jump up to reach, and was on his third attempt before Rebecca pulled him inside, shutting the door quickly.

Their cousins ran towards them, and soon they were engaged in several games at once. There were stick swordfights, a Derby and a grocery shop all going on in one room. Harry was way too excited to stop running about when they were called for lunch, but Alfie sunk gratefully into a chair, eyeing the table laden with hot food. Another drawback of the long journey was the repetitive bland array of sandwiches, but eating a large cooked meal with his family made it all worth it, especially when his oldest cousin Hana was such talented cook.

Alfie was pretty sure they all fell asleep at some point that afternoon, but after a much appreciated nap, they were ready to enjoy the evening. It was rather crowded in the house, what with the four Solomons’ adding to a household of seven, but that was part of the fun, and the first night of Hanukkah was spent playing dreidel to the sound of the crackling hearth. It was more fun with lots of people, and though Alfie wasn’t having much luck at winning he was enjoying spending time with his family.

With the distance, and the expense of getting to Russia, they didn’t see each other enough.

When it was time to light the hanukkiah, Alfie and Harry looked at each other in confusion. Rather than gathering at the window, as was custom, their uncle called them all to the table, the hanukkiah and heap of unused candles in the centre.

“Why ain’t we putting it in the window, mum?” Harry asked. Sarah gave some offhand reply about how they thought it would look nicer on the table this year, but Alfie didn’t miss the way Hana’s eyes widened and flicked to the window, relaxing when she saw the curtains were drawn. He grew curious, wandering over just before the blessings and pulling up a corner, peeking out into the black beyond.

“Come away from the window, sweetpea” said his mother. Her voice was slightly strained, and his auntie wore a matching expression of unease, so he let the curtain drop, re-joining his family in the centre of the room. Why was it such a big deal?

After the blessings were sung, the candles lit, and general excited confusion settled once again over the household, children running this way and that and the adults all talking over each other, Alfie crept back to the window. He slid beneath the curtain, and onto the windowsill. It was wide, wide enough for him to balance on, and he was just small enough to stretch out his legs in front of him, so he wouldn’t be seen.

The thick layer of frost had hardened to ice, and the only light was from a lone lamppost down the street, which guttered and flickered out for several minutes at a time. There were a few slithers of light, from the edge of the neighbour’s windows, but all the houses had their curtains drawn, closing them off to the world around them. It was a strange sight to Alfie, so used to seeing the glass lit up with menorahs, with laughter and the wafting smell of good food tricking outside.

He was old enough now to understand the stares, the muttered comments, the names the kids hurled at him at school. But…everyone here was Jewish. What were they all so afraid of?

He pulled his knees up to his chest, resting his chin on them and hugging his legs as he watched the festival of lights pass by in near total darkness.

Two and a half years had passed when Sarah had told them the news. Alfie was fifteen, and due to start working full time in his father’s bakery. Old scars now wound their way up his arms, and his hands were growing rougher from working and fighting. He towered above his little brother now, having grown almost as tall as his dad in the past year, and perfected that slightly manic glint in his eyes that made other kids back away.

Despite his permanently bruised knuckles, and the painfully fresh tattoo of a crown on his wrist (that had almost made his father faint when he saw it), Alfie still loved to spend time with his family. The last person to joke about him ‘going soft’ had ended up in the river after all, so he was content to squish onto Harry’s bed in the evenings with him and their mum. On this occasion, it was getting late, and Harry was angling for another story, but Sarah shook her head, saying she had something important to talk to them about.

“I’m goin’ away for a bit boys. To Russia, stayin’ with your auntie and uncle”.

“Are we not coming?” asked Harry, confused.

“Not this time chicken”.

“How are you long for?”.

“I’m not sure” she said sadly. “Prob’ly at least a few months”. Harry’s jaw dropped.

“A few months?” echoed Alfie.

“That’s too long!”.

“I need t’ be with your auntie right now sweetie” said Sarah. “She’s sick”.

“What’s wrong with her?” Harry asked. Alfie’s thoughts jumped to Tommy’s mother. Hadn’t he said that she was sick?

“It’s the baby. Pregnancy ain’t easy on a woman”.

“Was it ‘ard for you mum?”.

“Nah, I was alright. Went as well as they could’ve. But your auntie’s strugglin’. Your uncle’s trying to look after yer cousins, and keep his job, but there ain’t no one to look after Becca in the day”.

“Is Uncle Yakov gonna lose his job? Why? He’s the best tailor in Russia!” piped in Harry, before frowning, and falling silent. Alfie watched him, bitter thoughts crawling to the forefront of his mind. He couldn’t stand that his brother had to learn these things. That some people would always stare at him with hate, deny him jobs, housing, basic fucking human respect.

“Let’s jus’ pray he doesn’t” said Sarah, avoiding the question.

“Are you gonna be back for the High Holidays?” asked Harry, voice small.

“I dun’t think so, darling. Baby’s due in the winter”. His bottom lip wobbled. “Hey now” she said. “None of that. Your dad’s gonna need you to be big n’ strong to help him with the sukkah okay?”.

“But…you always make the sukkah” protested Alfie. “Dad won’t do it the same”. Their sukkah, a temporary tent-like creation made for the harvest festival of Sukkot, put the whole street to shame every year. Isaac’s job was to stay as far away as possible until it was finished, as he was usually more of a hinder than a help; concerned with things like straight walls and measurements (and many other things Sarah didn’t have time for).

“I’ll leave ‘im a plan” she grinned, but her face fell at the disappointment in her sons’ eyes. Basil padded in, flopping down on the rug and resting his head on Alfie’s foot, which hung off the edge of the bed.

“Do you really have to go?” said Alfie, bending down to scratch behind Basil’s ears in an effort to cover the slight desperation in his voice.

“I gotta be there for your auntie, I’m so sorry Alf”. Harry leant against her, and she wrapped an arm around shoulder, pressing a kiss into his hair.

“Will you ring us, every day?” said Alfie.

“Not every day, sweetpea. It’s real expensive over there innit. But as often as I can. Can’t go a week without hearing from my best boys”.

“I can write letters” said Harry proudly, perking up a little. “We learnt how in school”. Sarah grinned.

“You send me them letters then chicken, and Auntie Becca and your cousins can write back to yer too”.

“Are we goin’ to Russia for Hanukkah then?” Alfie asked. Sarah patted the empty space beside her, and Alfie shuffled over, freeing his foot. Basil had taken the pat to be aimed at him, so launched himself onto the bed, the wood creaking under their combined weight as he settled himself across their legs.

“I’ll be back by then. You think I’m gonna let your dad make the latkes again?”. The boys laughed, remembering the strange burnt objects their father had sheepishly presented them with a few years before. It was even funnier as he could bake the best bread in London, but add some oil or frying into the mix and he was hopeless. He just burnt everything.

“It’s just too quick!” he defended. “With bread you’ve got time to sort yourself out, this - one second you look away and then it’s gone and burnt itself!”. Alfie was the proud owner of both gifts, and was often the designated chef at meal times.

“And no, you ain’t going to Russia this year”.

“Why not? We could meet ya out there n’ all come back together”. Sarah gave him a sad smile.

“You’ll ‘ave a much better time here sweetie, trust me”. Alfie frowned, remembering the strange atmosphere last time they went. Had it got worse? What was going on in Russia?

“Promise? Promise you’ll be back by then?” said Harry.

“I promise”.

Alfie was dreading the day she’d leave. They all were, really, even in Russia. Their dad had told them Becca felt awful, needing help, even trying to persuade Sarah to stay in England. But their mother could see through the forced energy on the phone, the over-cheerfulness of the letters. Nothing happened until it happened, their father said. But the day came, and Alfie dragged his feet along with his mother’s case all the way to the station. Just to delay it that little bit more. Maybe she’d even miss the train if he walked slowly enough. They’d left early deliberately though, with plenty of time for goodbyes, and Alfie’s dawdling.

To be honest, Sarah was no better, spotting a tiny dog on the way, and starting a long distracted ramble about how Basil was the perfect size. He bounded along ahead of them, tail wagging excitedly as he barrelled towards his new friend. The other dog wasn’t so keen, and Sarah had to kneel down in the street to console Basil, Isaac giving passers by an awkward nod as they stared at his cooing wife on the ground.

They reached the station…eventually, Sarah and Alfie taking a seat whilst the others went to check on the train time. Alfie had a feeling she wanted to talk to him, when she’d convinced Harry to go off with their dad, and he was right.

“Be good” she warned, turning and tapping him on the nose. He waved her off, but laughed. “I’m serious Alf. Dun’t give ya dad a hard time while I’m gone, mm? If I ‘ear about a single fight, I’m gonna be very disappointed”.

“Okay mum” he said after a moment, staring at his knees. This wasn’t how he wanted their goodbye to go. He knew how much it hurt both of his parents when he came home with cuts and bruises, with someone else’s blood all over his knuckles. They thought it was their fault, that they’d raised him wrong, but it was all him.

His temper was like a matchstick, sometimes. All it took was one little spark, and the whole fucking world could go up in flames.

Sarah bopped him again, making the corner of his mouth twitch.

“Cheer up you” she said. “Didn’t mean t’ upset you. Jus’ think of ya dad’s poor old heart. It can’t take the strain”.

“I heard that” called Isaac, as he strode across the platform with Harry. “I’m as fit as a fiddle”. The next twenty minutes or so were spent in a family huddle, as they waited for the train to pull into the station. Basil was happy to sprawl at their feet, playing with Harry’s shoelaces as they all wrapped their arms around each other. Alfie squeezed his eyes shut.

The train chugged to a stop on the platform, and the tinny shriek of the guard’s whistle and the bustle of disembarking passengers surrounded them. Sarah gave them all one last hug, and Alfie dug his fingers into the wool of her coat instinctively as she tried to pull away.

“I love you Alf” she said, ruffling through his hair. “I’m gonna be back soon alright, I’ll ring as soon as I get there, sweetie”.

“I love you too mum”. And then she was gone.

“What’re ya gonna do on the train without us?” asked Harry, as a guard waved them back from the platform edge, shutting the carriage door firmly. Sarah rolled down the window.

“Oh” she said, grinning. “I’m sure I’ll find somethin’ to get up to”.

“I know that face” said Isaac, “what trouble is your mother going to get into, ey?”. Harry smiled sadly. Sarah blew Isaac a kiss in reply, and he caught it, pressing his palm against his cheek. Alfie and Harry didn’t even make sick noises. There was a hiss of steam, and the train started to move, slowly inching across the tracks until it gathered speed. “L’hitraot” Isaac called. See you again.

People didn’t like to say goodbye in Hebrew, because it sounded so final. But as Sarah waved at them from the window, hair flying around her face as she grew smaller and smaller, Alfie couldn’t help but feel a sense of finality.

The months passed slowly. It was strange at home, without her. Sarah called every week, like she’d promised, but it wasn’t the same. Their dad was quieter, spending more and more nights working late in the bakery, or squinting over the Torah scroll for hours on end. Harry had started skipping school more often than not, and if he did go, well, Alfie was glad their mother couldn’t see the purple stripes lashed across his fingers.

Alfie had tried not to fight. Honour his promise to his mum, keep himself to himself. It hadn’t lasted long. Sabini had pushed him too far: leaving two of his friends in hospital and snatching a crate full of weapons. He had to fight back. If Sabini saw him as weak now, he’d lose all his territory. Afterwards, when his dad wiped the blood out of his eye and stitched up the jagged gash to his stomach, the guilt set in.

“Please don’t tell mum” he begged, grabbing at his dad’s shirt. “Please don’t tell her”. Isaac regarded him for a moment, bloody cloth hanging limply in his hand, before he left without a word. Alfie cried that night. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d done it, but once he started, he couldn’t stop. By the time Isaac had returned, whispering apologies into his son’s hair, Alfie’s cheeks were raw where he’d scraped at them, nails leaving a bloody trail down his skin. Half-moon imprints cut deep into his palms, but Isaac unclenched Alfie’s fists and soothed the stinging with a cool flannel.

The looks he got in shul were enough to make him tug on his sleeves, until his shirt covered the ruined skin of his hands. He didn’t care what people thought of him, that much was clear from school, but it was different with G-d. He started going more often, at quieter times where the world around him could fall away, and it was just him and HaShem.

He knew his mum would be doing the same, thousands of miles away. Maybe like this, they could get through it.

Alfie started to suspect something was wrong about two weeks before Hanukkah. Sarah was supposed to be back by now: Alfie had been planning her ‘welcome home’ meal for weeks, but Isaac had told them that her train across Europe was cancelled, and she was waiting for another ticket. It wasn’t unusual, it had happened to them as a family before, so the boys didn’t think much of it, distracted by the newly fallen snow and the happy news of a new baby cousin.

The suspicion started when the phone stopped ringing. They both badgered their father with questions on why their mother hadn’t called, but he’d answered them all in vague terms, not really listening. Alfie and Harry concluded that it meant she was on the train right now, and could hardly sleep that night with their excitement. But Sarah didn’t arrive home the next day. Or the one after that.

Their dad had also been acting strangely lately, scanning every inch of their Jewish newspaper twice over before throwing it down in frustration. They heard him pacing around at night, and he didn’t seem to be sleeping at all if the dark circles under his eyes were anything to go by. One night, the slight creaking of the floorboards stopped, and Harry crept into Alfie’s room, desperate to know what was going on.

They tiptoed across the hall, peeking through gaps in their father’s panelled door, hopeful that he had finally gone to sleep. Isaac’s shoulder shook as he cried, and Alfie pulled his brother away quickly, stomach sinking.

What the fuck was going on? Harry tightened his grip on Alfie’s hand.

The next night, Isaac read Harry a story, Alfie sat listening in a chair across the room. There was something strange about the way his father seemed to savour each word, almost stalling and turning the pages reluctantly until he reached the end. He put the book down with a sigh.

“Alfie, come downstairs a minute”.

“What about me?” Harry asked, frustrated to be left out as Alfie rose.

“I’ll come and say goodnight in just a minute” he promised, and Harry lay down apprehensively, wrapping an arm around his teddy bear as Isaac pulled the door shut. Alfie followed him downstairs, stomach flipping. He’d had enough of all this secrecy.

“Dad, what’s happened?” he said, once they were out of Harry’s earshot. “Something’s happened to mum, ain’t it? Will she not be back in time for Hanukkah? It’s okay, we can still ‘ave a good time-”. He was cut off as Isaac drew him into a hug. Taken aback slightly, he returned the gesture. “Dad?” he asked, voice small. “Tell me what’s wrong”. Isaac pulled back, gripping his arms tightly.

“I’m going away for a few days” he said. “Could be a week, could be longer”.

“What?” Alfie cried. “You’re gonna leave too? Why would you-”. Isaac shushed him quickly, glancing up the stairs before pulling him into the kitchen and shutting the door.

“Why are you going too?” Alfie asked anxiously.

“I’m going to find your mum”.

“Find her?” he repeated, confused. “Isn’t she at Auntie Becca’s house?”. Isaac scrubbed a hand over his beard, pulling out two chairs for them. He drummed his fingers on the table, trying to find the words. Alfie stared at him impatiently.

“There’s things happening, in Russia” said Isaac, “to people. Jewish people”. His tone was low, serious, and Alfie swallowed.

“What things?”.

“You remember what I told you, about some people not liking us?”

“I’m not fuckin’ six years old” said Alfie, rising from his chair, resisting the sudden urge to kick something. “I know people hate-”

“Sit down” said Isaac firmly. Alfie sat reluctantly, leg jumping.

“In Russia, there’s a lot of folk like that at the moment”. Alfie considered this. This information wasn’t exactly new. Alfie couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t known he was different. But the tension in his father’s face made him think things were worse over there than in Camden.

“Is that why Uncle Yakov lost his job?”. Isaac nodded. “But what do you mean, find mum? What happened?”.

“Those people…some of them are soldiers. They’ve been going to a lot of villages, Jewish villages, and a week ago they went to ours”. Alfie felt a renewed wave of nausea pass over him. He gripped the table, knuckles turning white. “Everyone had to split up, and your mum hasn’t made it back yet. I’m going to go and find her”.

“But…what if you can’t?” managed Alfie, thoughts spiralling. “Why wouldn’t she have jus’ gone back to the house?”.

“Because it’s not safe there anymore” Isaac blurted, loud and unrehearsed. “Not for us”. Alfie fell silent, a deep crease in his forehead. It wasn’t safe at all? He’d grown up with warnings like that all his life: don’t go down this street, or to this shop, or that market. But…they’d spent so many winters in that little Russian village, made so many happy memories there. They hadn’t changed, but it seemed the world had.

“I’m so sorry, Alf. I don’t want to involve you in any of this, but I’ve got to go away. You’ve got to be brave for me, okay?”. Alfie nodded, eyes stinging as he inferred what Isaac was leaving out. What the soldiers had done to their village. What they could have done to his mum.

“When are you coming back?” Alfie sniffed, rubbing at his eyes furiously. “For Hanukkah?”.

“I’m going to do everything I can to make that happen, okay?”. What if they never came back?

“I can help” Alfie cried, chest heaving, “let me come with you”.

“You can help me by staying here” said Isaac, cupping his son’s cheek. “I need you to look after Harry for me”. Alfie groaned, twisting away. Isaac grabbed his shoulder. “Alfie, look at me. I need you to take care of your brother, do you understand?”.

Looking into his father’s eyes, Alfie could see the raw grief there. He was noticeably thinner, and the bags under his eyes were darker than ever. Alfie had never seen him like this before. “Your granddad’s coming tomorrow, but until he gets here, it’s just you and Harry”.

As stupid as it sounded for a gang member, who’d had more fights than he could count and also sliced up a fair few people with knives by now, Alfie was scared. There’s a lot of folk like that at the moment. What if they were coming here too? What if he couldn’t protect Harry?

Isaac disappeared upstairs, turning off Harry’s light and returning with a small bag slung across his shoulders. He kissed Alfie’s forehead, pressing a key into his hand to lock the front door with.

“Keep it bolted” he whispered. “Don’t let anyone in but your granddad, okay?”. Alfie only stared up at him, stomach churning.

“What if they come-”

“They’re not going to come here” said Isaac. “I promise, Alfie”. Another hug, the last one this time. Alfie clung to his father’s coat. “Brave boy” he said, before opening the door.

“Find her” Alfie whispered.

“L’hitraot”.

“L’hitraot”.

See you again.

Alfie bolted the door quickly, running up the stairs and resting his elbows on the windowsill as he watched his father cross the street. He didn’t sleep that night, whispering the Tafilat HaDerech, the traveller’s prayer, over and over, long after his father had passed out of sight.

The rough wood of the coffin scraped into Alfie’s palms as he lifted it. He was numb to the sting and walked blindly, guided by the dead weight on his shoulder and the rhythmic thud of the damp ground beneath his feet. He vaguely sensed his brother beside him, felt his small hand slip into his own once they’d lowered the casket. Someone was speaking to him, but he didn’t react, eyes locked on the blurring grass.

He was jostled slightly, as a rip was torn into his jacket. Keriah. He’d look at the loose threads later, run his fingers over the tear that symbolised a loss, but now he couldn’t move.

He didn’t recite the blessings. He didn’t say anything at all.

Alfie had attended a shiva house once before, when his neighbour’s wife had passed away. Shiva was the period of mourning. The whole community came together, cooking meals, cleaning, and praying for the mourners. Alfie hated the pitying glances, the sympathy. He wanted to be left alone, to fight and hurt and bleed until everything just stopped.

Someone had gone into his room once, tried to sweep the floor, change his bedsheets. They hadn’t stayed long. The look of disappointment on his dad’s face was punishment enough for the abuse he’d yelled at them.

He wanted to write to Tommy about it, maybe even call him if his father was away, but thought better of it. His mother was sick, he shouldn’t bother him with thoughts of death. So, he was alone. He’d pushed Harry far enough away that he’d stopped coming to Alfie at night, when the dreams got too bad. Stopped throwing his arms around him, or gripping onto his fingers in shul. Alfie’s own nightmares had him waking up screaming, what could he do for his brother. Basil whined and pawed at his closed door.

Alfie was usually loud, wanting to talk to anyone and everyone, but this lump in his throat and the weight on his shoulders had made him mute. A closed book. He hardly left his room anymore, despite his dad’s attempts to get him outside. Not even when he’d smashed his mirror, blood running in rivulets down his forearm. He let it bleed, cursing himself for forgetting.

He’d not seen his mother for so many months that the details were escaping him. What had he already lost? Had he imagined the little wisps of her hair, that curled in the rain? The tunes she used to hum when she knitted?

Her rings lay in a small jewellery box on his dresser. Harry had slid it into his room, hoping to get some sort of reaction from him, but Alfie had nothing to give. He took them out sometimes, like he’d done as a kid. They could only fit on his little finger now. Alfie’s favourite was a thick gold one with a square face. Which hand had she worn it on?

Weeks had passed now, since the funeral. Harry had started going to school again. Just seeing those bruises, from a teacher or other kids Alfie couldn’t tell, stirred up that crippling guilt. He should be there for him, but he wasn’t. Their dad had also re-joined the community, as far as Alfie could tell. He couldn’t bring himself to ask. He was so fucking selfish.

Was this it for him? Saying the mourner’s kaddish for the rest of his days?

It was late in the evening when his father pushed open his door. Alfie was lying on top of the covers, eyes glazed over as he stared blankly at a loose thread. Isaac patted his leg, and he shifted over an inch, just enough for his father to sit down.

“She was born blind, you know” said Isaac. The statement caught him off guard, and Alfie replied without thinking, before realising he hadn’t spoken properly in weeks. Only shouted, or spoken with his fists.

“What?”

“Your cousin. According to the doctor, she can’t see a thing” he said, rubbing his eyes. Alfie closed his own, imagining what it would be like to live this way. He didn’t like it, the light got lost in all the darkness. He supposed he’d been living like that too.

“Can’t they do anything?” he asked quietly, rolling the thread between his fingers.

“No” said Isaac, but softened at Alfie’s expression. “It’s not for lack of trying, son. Sometimes there’s nothing you can do”. They were silent for a while, and Alfie just lay there, too exhausted to put up a fight, to push him away.

“Why do people hate us, dad?”.

“Oh Alfie”.

“Mum didn’t do anything wrong” he managed, before the first tear dripped onto his pillow, and everything came crashing down.

“I know” his father soothed, pulling him up and into his arms.  

“It’s not fair” sobbed Alfie, hands fisting in his father’s shirt. The thought of letting go was impossible.

“I know”.

“Why didn’t G-d do something? Does he even fuckin’ care?”.

“He always cares. He’s suffering with us”.

“Why didn’t he stop them?”. Isaac squeezed his shoulder.

“You can choose what to do with yourself in this world. Some people spread love, while others get caught up in hatred. It’s awfully hard to stop an idea, but with good people – like you, and your brother, we’ll get there”.

“I ain’t a good person” Alfie cried. The words hitched in his throat, but he forced them out anyway. It was true. “I fight”.

“You are kind, and strong, and brave” Isaac countered. “I know you fight to protect your friends, and to stand up for yourself, and what you believe in. I know that, Alf. I just don’t want you to get hurt”.

“So G-d can’t stop people from gettin’ hurt?”. Isaac considered this.

“Can you think of a time where he did?”. Alfie thought for a moment.

“Hanukkah?”

“Mhmm”

“Pesach?”

“Yes”

“Purim?”

“That’s right. Do you see?”. Alfie nodded, shoulders drooping.

“But ain’t there still bloody…thousands of people in pain?”

“Don’t be daunted by how vast it all is. Some people can’t be reasoned with, as there’s no reason to their thoughts, but if you can help one person, you’ve helped us all. A little bit of light dispels a lot of darkness”.

“But I couldn’t help her” he whispered. Not his mother. Isaac rubbed a hand over his back

“You know your grandmother died when I was a boy” he started. Alfie squeezed his eyes shut, but nodded. His father’s voice was soothing. “I thought that was it. I loved her so dearly that her loss-” he swallowed, “made me certain I would never experience happiness again”. Alfie sniffed. “Then your mother came along. With that smile, and her ridiculous way of speaking”. They both chucked a little, Isaac squeezing Alfie’s shoulder. It was the first time he’d smiled in weeks. “Didn’t know what to make of her at first. But the matchmaker seemed to think we were perfect for each other, so I took a leap, went for it; and it turned out we were. Now, you’re the eldest, so it’s tradition” he said, reaching into his shirt pocket, and pulling out a familiar gold band. His mother’s wedding ring. “One day, you’re going to meet someone who will make your world light up again”. Alfie’s eyes stung with tears again, and he took the ring shakily. Isaac closed his fist around it. “And you give them this ring”.

— Fifteen years later —

Alfie carefully placed the shamash candle back into its holder, in the centre of the hanukkiah, and stepped back; the warm glow of all nine candles reflected in the glass of the window. He sang the two blessings, eyes roaming up the wall to the framed picture of his mother. Sarah was laughing, hair blowing out behind her from a country breeze. His brother had the same one, in his own home. So did their father.

There was movement at his side, and Alfie turned to look down at Tommy, their sleeping new born son cradled in his arms. Charlie looked so cosy, in the warm blanket Alfie had knitted him, and he stroked a hand over his son’s head. The candlelight flickered in Tommy’s blue eyes, making the gold ring on the chain around his neck glow even brighter. Alfie stared down at his family, and felt as if his heart would overflow with love for them both. Cyril had padded in behind Tommy, and sprawled at their feet, covering their bare toes with his warm tummy.

“Chag sameach” said Tommy softly, leaning up to press a kiss to Alfie’s mouth. Alfie smiled into the kiss, wrapping an arm around Tommy’s waist and holding him close.

Yeah, he thought. He may not have defeated armies, nor could he make everything right in the world, but he had his own little miracle right here.

Chag sameach = happy holidays.

So this holiday fic definitely turned into something more serious, and I'm so nervous to post this because I'm not sure what the reaction will be. Many, many, parts of this are based on me & my family. These experiences won't be the same for everybody, and while I am Jewish, I'm young and I definitely don't know everything, so if there's a better way I could have handled this topic please let me know. I’m also not Orthodox, so there may be some mistakes on that front too.

With that said - thank you for reading! <3 I hope everyone had the best Hanukkah/is enjoying the run-up to Christmas! 

Also...you know where GUAS is heading now! Though I'm sure it's not much of a surprise that it will eventually be Alfie/Tommy.

#there are one or two lines that reference Tommy early on which may not make total sense yet #but they will make sense! #peaky blinders fanfiction #guas #my writing

[majijbajijeswinjoseph-blog]

we still thevelop dude

To: Ruth Muga <[email protected]>Cc: [email protected] <[email protected]>Sent: Tuesday, July 2, 2019, 10:22:19 AM GMT+3Subject: Fw: My tumblr friend name is mrmonde or olivertambodoudenam check it out fellaz                                                                    ----- Forwarded Message -----                From: kevinelson mondy <[email protected]>To: [email protected] <[email protected]>Cc: Collins Odera <[email protected]>Sent: Tuesday, July 2, 2019, 10:09:47 AM GMT+3Subject: Fw: My tumblr friend name is mrmonde or olivertambodoudenam check it out fellaz                                                                    ----- Forwarded Message -----                From: [email protected] <[email protected]>To: [email protected] <[email protected]>Cc: [email protected] <[email protected]>Sent: Monday, July 1, 2019, 7:01:28 PM GMT+3Subject: My tumblr friend name is mrmonde or olivertambodoudenam check it out fellaz                USA millitary chopers, jets are made using warthogs, crocodile, wild beast, monitor lizard as offerings throwing/hurling tortoise manwhood on the wall or doing the long china jumps like kanjwele from a high tower to the water in Olympics. Picking and plucking of tea, king of the jew made Christ to be arrested, he had foreseen how the said jew will rise in malachi four- who to the people who longs to see the lords day. By romancing or caresing a womans breast and suckling the niple with booty offering in place gives you tv's. Shinny china sub-woofer, or electronics as phones are made using snail as the offering by vomiting on the ground near water, you eat to be full the you look for things that make you want to vomit. Another nation can came up with internet or internet apps like tumblr to finish the economy of Carli4nia or New England but with coca cola you cant finish it, its an international brand bro. The coca cola companies of the world do not return profit back home or it is not listed on the stock exchange for us to see the total profit made to add/sum them up and come with a rough figure worldwide of the company net profit. This is two fold, it will bring all people of color to the Georgia in-case of USA separation or other states will eye Georgia as create jealousy. This will hike the population so this is done for the Negros not to Know about Georgia state GS and move out to other lands, after 2 0r 3 generation coca cola revamp its strength and the profitability is know which i guess can be billions of dollar but at that time is too late for their kids to get back. Malachi four MF who to the people who long to see the lords day. GS greatest sex, gay/gikuyou,greek society. To me Georgia is the richest state and obama ought to have inducted the Negros on this sad fact. Damn it dude!!! Ombulu in luo, okwaju, chwa- king of the jew, mfalme wa yawhodi the seed, koth, mbegu- good samaritan Gs parable are used to make building bricks bb, someone urinate on them, defecate, kunia, pielo and jumps jumps many times squatted until they are made. Land and Range rovers takes people to hell as well, they are made with the cut booty of Romanian women where a woman vomit is literally licked until boom they are made. Range rover RR rasa rusians, rwandis, romanians, rom, romo, meetoshana, same, rs, rasa swedishona, swisswana, somali, rasa same. The feces/mafi/chieth are got mostly in nursing homes for the sick adults or infant babies. Jesus with little kids. Nebuchadnezzar was from Argentina together with Jesse Davids father, Daniel and among many others. Lazarus and rich-man you got prophet like Moses because he was described as no prophet had risen in Israel like Moses in the book of Deuteronomy bod, bodo, boding etc. But in that parable is said you have Moses and the prophets which means Moses was not a prophet but the last chapter of Deuteronomy describe him as a prophet which means the bible was omitted, it was you got Moses plant and the prophets. Road to emaus to cement the truth. If you gwaro, scratch the plant from the wall and boil it on water and you drink it makes your head a little bit bigger and people see you as obligated to kids giving you at-least respect which Lazarus did not have. King of the jew with Christ to cement the truth. Tong, mayai, egg is you hurl on the wall many or fall from inclination and got the sacrifice handy like mchele, rice, dignitaries corpse gadgets like speakers, Lamborghini, Ferrari, stereos are made even bulbs. Worker and vineyard parable to cement the truth. A long time people were made black even Adam and Eve but the curse/cars/gari/mtokni on ham one of Noah son fell on him and his skin changed from black to white and thats the white man with his lies that they develop/make cars yet they find them their but wants supremacy as superior yet other Africans have learnt the same even how the get illicit cash via the net at http://www.2goinvoice.com. Fuck that dude and damn it!! You want respect for what dude, tell me, where is your pride and where has it gone to or vanished to, to rats and dogs or to every tom harry and dick or harlot, tell me dude!!! Think twice bro!!!

Tunahesha tu mchesho cha shex cha ebola na Emely mimi Adriano. Kebi na toni, tulimpatiya wote mote tano combi akatumumunya mbolo tukamwaga b4 tuanze the real intercourse. Kesho tukapatiya mag mote inne combi akadara mbolo zete tuka mwaga, whoyou kipusa anataka nini wajameni. Toni, mtondo tukapatiya ule mlami mote 3 but not combi nelly akamwaga, but mimi nikaseek marifa nikapiga dakika ishirini. Kebi amekatsika, wewe toni bwana kama uko weak nishauri chako bwana tuachane basi ama itakuwa vita, nilistay 30 minutes. Mouth urinating makes diskman, flash dish, usb and other phone accessories. Firing up of bullets makes a misile or internet server or rockets with gabage or barley. As much as shooting a dead man walking from the crosside on the ear to another side. TV are made using tongue, booty seated on a seat while kissing a woman on the dark as much as stereos. Decoders like dvd, vcd, kissing the bam/thigh of a woman all in the dark, some drones or toys annal/ass hole kissing, charger pedicure on a woman, gas cooker manicure, CD bikini works, chargers, transformers, ndiga as biskeli/bicycles, tuk tuk taking a shit on a storey hse topmost but falling to the ground or taking a shit on ones head as much as shooting the head of a cow, whichever dude. Defecating/kunai in someones mouth hospital gadgets like X-ray machine, Bmi or pulse rate machine with animal offering on place like chiken, kulu kulu or guinea fowl as pigs or rodents.

How will the jew rise, or they will go to other land & will grow rise in kano plains, alpha say the bibilia was omitted and committed. Making of cars maybe they thought other nations will not and get their people to rich lands i.e usa, Europe and sell them as used cars and send money back home. women with barnabas to cement the truth. If you buy other nations cars produced in other nations you are promoting corruption and can find yourself burning in hell if walking became cumbersome. Tall when they get into Ugandan cars, How will you rise and those cars does to every tribe the same as everyone can withdraw money from the computer. Through intermarriage with tall people from turkana or Kalenjins, i mean maybe they were short and to marry tall people to short people is easy as withdrawing water from a well. With illegally picking and selling tea leaves or coffee berries which has been bottle-necked/stoped by mr monde explained above by monitoring the firms using drones and fencing to evade illegal plucking of the leaves. How fellaz will they rise and its a nuisance coz every tom harry and dick can rise through all the laid down procedures above. If you paratake mostly the small round like groundnuts and resort to meditation and take/or have an idea of all the gadgets you know, you come to see how they are made in France, china, Britain, Germony, Usa or canada, like i have explaned above in details, e.g By kicking a mice, rat, kitten dynamo/motors are made and you see that and it goes ad-inifitum to no-end. The Kikuyou knew how to make these things along time so they white people thought if every african nation can make this it will rob them their pride and stop the world business, so they said kikuyou were jew to give them pride not to tell every tribe how they are made and to keep them in power with threats to tell other nations if subdued or not helped like kibaki with whites journalist during the illegal swearing in and they wanted to learn how to make more machines not car alone and now they have know and being toughened is the order of the day butt the beautiful thing so many nations have learnt the same to reduce their pride period.

Sausages are made in dark places, by blowing your nose on mafi then afterwards you wash using detergent water. Smokies are made likewise but by salivating on housefly maggot gotten from a pit latrine. Let them put recipe on the tv if they refute. I got a gun and hid it and reported that a gang robbed me around yet i still got the same gun dude. My whole life has changed by guinuwine- site a lone in not a well modern room and it opens up your mind and if you eat a big queen cake alone you come to dislike good things of this life, most so in the transit or walking- king of the jew with Christ. Eat one today to witness the truth. Drone are made by riding on donkey or horses at night, triumphant entry of Jesus into Jerusalem to cement the truth. Kitten are shot in dark to make welding machines and volt meters, cows being cut with panga or powersaw to make Generators, shooting of sheeps/cattle on the head from the ear or on the forehead to make choppers and small jets/plane. Ten minas parable and Malachi 4- who to the people who long to see the lords day, siaya, Nebuchadnezzar  lived at babylonding with Daniel. Kisumu close to Kericho or kakamega to illegal pluck/pick tea leaves at night so they dont want to vacate yet they claim they chose the best land as Guard tribe dude in genesis 49. Open business in the morning, to help people who get somewhere in the  morning then you can evade hell fire or constant hell walking. The only thing i know best is to rock the thing in between a woman thigh and i got distinction there and well qualified of dude and my friends call me church mouse. If your citizen work in a foreign land even if the company is yours, it brings bad omen to your nation coz they scrutinize, monitor and frustrate the indigenous workers esp if your nation is rich, brings the down fall of a nation i.e Itally. Take the local to work 4 you but just monitor the inflow and outflow money. Furthermore it breeds disrespect dude. If you take 4, 24 volts battery you connect to a welding machine or 8, 12 volts battery and do the same it will give you like 100 volts on the battery but on the welding machine it will give you 200 volts where you look for battery charger and input it on the 200volts then the 12 volts as the output on it you return to charge all the 4, 24V or 8,12v battery to continue the sequence not the battery to run out of power. To ensure continuity of power supply. Not enough dude, you still want to weld, you look for another welding machine and connect to the 200V initial welding machine to give you 400 volts, the first 100v was half volts thats why it gave you 200volts to connect to another welding machine. This save you as or money as it is cheap compared to buying one welding machine then connecting it to 8, 24votls bettery to give you 200 volts on the battery then on the one welding machine 400 as adding 4 battery on 24 volts one is expensive than buying another one welding machine same to adding another 8, 12 volts battery to give you 200 volts to be connected to one welding machine. A group of students just 4warded me this dude.

[sage-nebula]

#Just Paradigm Shift Interior Design

A thought that occurred to me as I went to sleep last night (/this morning) is that you can tell a lot about a person by the way they decorate their living space. The Castle of Lions comes pre-decorated, and since much of the castle is a common area, it can’t be personalized by one person too much. But bedrooms can be, and while everyone’s room starts off looking the same, I started thinking about how each of the Paradigm Shift revolutionaries would decorate their rooms over time. So without further ado, given a few decaphoebs time to accumulate things and do a bit of redecoration . . .

Lotor:

Swaps out the standard twin bed that was in the room with a king-sized bed at some point. I’m thinking four poster, wooden frame, one with shelving built into the headboard so he can have books there to read before bed. (He reads books on a tablet as well, but some texts haven’t been digitally archived yet, so he has to read them as they are.) Has a sheer canopy up top, perhaps, but it doesn’t dangle over the sides. The mattress isn’t anything particularly special, but the sheets and comforter are soft.

Also built into the headboard, behind a slideable wood panel that is very easy to miss, is a monitor synced to the camera just outside the door so he can discreetly see who has come to visit him whenever anyone has. You know. Just in case. (There are no enemies in the castle, he’s sure, but . . . just in case . . .)

The headboard is pushed up against the wall, but there is free space on either side, so being on the bed doesn’t equate to being backed into a corner.

A knife is kept under the mattress, in the middle, near the headboard. This makes it easily accessible (for him), but is not an easily guessed hiding spot for others.

There’s a large desk in the back corner of the room with a very comfortable chair. The desk is neatly organized, but the surface can barely be seen beneath the computer, books, (neatly stacked but sometimes spread out) papers, et cetera. Every drawer on the desk is locked and can only be opened with both his fingerprint, and a specifically traced pattern (different pattern for each drawer).

There’s a board on the wall next to the desk that has a collage of different things pinned to it. Some of them are inspirational quotes pertaining to war or revolution, and others are cryptic clues or puzzles to things he’s been working on in his spare time (e.g. the Oriande riddle). Others are just words or turns of phrase that came to him and he decided to write down and pin up. You know, whichever. To pretty much everyone else on the team it looks like a gigantic mess, but Lotor assures them all it makes perfect sense. (To him, at least.)

There’s also a grand bookshelf in the room that stretches floor to ceiling and takes up at least half of the wall. It does have many books on it, but it also has various gifts and other mementos he has received from those he cares about. For instance, a single pressed nimbusilde flower in a frame from Acxa, or the tall, glass display case on a plainly visible shelf, inside of which is a series of tiered platforms, each one covered with a soft material, on top of which rests a die. The dice, a full set, were custom-made from malernite, an ore which was historically ever found on Altea, and were specifically designed after the die pictured in texts describing a historically important game in which Princess Fayli shattered the dice with a single throw and, in the act, successfully defended her peoples’ lives from the tyranny of her brother, Prince Indric. It was a piece of Altean history that Lotor had discovered and, in his excitement over learning something new, had shared with Keith in a conversation that Lotor soon after forgot having (so much was going on), but Keith had evidently not only remembered, but had managed to track down the ore, take the page from the text that Lotor had learned this from to show a smith, and had the dice recreated, after which he gave them to Lotor as a gift the following holiday. Keith had thought Lotor would want to recreate the experiment (and it was tempting), but Lotor had acquired a display case and put them on the bookshelf instead. Keith was embarrassed. To this day, Lotor still doesn’t understand why he should be.

Speaking of display cases, there’s also a tall display case across from the bed full of ancient relics and other artifacts Lotor has discovered over time. He intends at some point to return them to the people from whom they were taken (i.e. Lotor didn’t take them from the people; he found them in ruins or in Empire storehouses and liberated them), but untll he can, he keeps them safe in a display case where they won’t be ravaged by the elements or destroyed by Empire soldiers. (Also, tbf, they are nice to look at and study. He’s careful with them, though.)

Quite a few decaphoebs down the road, Lotor finds a vrensyr egg. Vrensyrs were draconic creatures native to the planet Daibazaal, and believed to be extinct. However, this egg somehow survived---and when Lotor finds it, he not only keeps it, but he hatches it. The newly hatched vrensyr imprints on him immediately, and as a result becomes his new companion. He names the newly hatched creature Erebus.

Vrensyrs look somewhat similar to what an Earth wyvern looks like. They’re covered in scales, have small, claw like appendages on their wings, and razor sharp claws on their feet. When born, Erebus is small enough to ride on Lotor’s shoulder (and he does). Give him a few centuries, and he will be large enough to raze cities with little effort should he so choose. Erebus can breathe fire (he is being trained on when it is appropriate to do so), and he can change the color of his scales on a whim. His eyes, meanwhile, are always a very vivid purple.

When Erebus is hatched, a stone basin is acquired for him as his bed, since Vrensyrs like to sleep on stone (and a particular type of stone, at that). He also has multiple perches installed along the walls and ceiling of Lotor’s room for him to use whenever he chooses.

Lastly, after their relationship does become romantic and Keith starts spending more time in Lotor’s room, sometimes Keith’s jacket, or his boots, can be found tossed onto the floor. It happens.

Keith:

Keeps the standard twin bed, but does allow Acxa to talk him into a memory foam mattress cover. It’s real comfy.

As mentioned in Revolutionary, he has a collage of photos of him and his team taped up on the wall beside his bed, courtesy of Ezor. Specifically:

There was one of him and Acxa simultaneously drinking pechaya juice while using their other hands to try and block Ezor’s camera; there was another of Zethrid lifting him off the ground in a massive, full-body hug as he gasped out that he had ribs she was breaking; there was one of him and Narti having fallen asleep on the sofa together, Kova curled up on his chest; one of Ezor herself pouncing on his back so she could take an impromptu selfie with him; one of him and Lotor playing a game of Crowns & Claws, Keith’s brow furrowed in concentration as he studied the board before him, and Lotor smiling at him from across the table; and other snapshots of the rest of his teammates, from one the many selfies Ezor took of herself dancing with Narti, to one of Acxa after she had fixed new barrettes in her hair to keep her bangs out of her eyes, to one of Zethrid arm-wrestling Lotor.

After Ezor spreads the word that Keith hadn’t decorated his room practically at all, the others started getting in on it, too.

Courtesy of Acxa, he gets a potted ticarius in one corner of the room. A ticarius is a plant pretty similar to our Earth cacti (it even comes from a planet that has a pretty arid climate), except that it doesn’t require sunlight, is very dark purple in color, and the spines (which are rainbow-colored) are actually very sweet tasting, and it’s good for your teeth and gums if you suck on them. The spines grow back relatively quickly, and the plant doesn’t require very much maintenance. The ticarius  is nearly tall enough to touch the ceiling, and Keith likes to use the spines like toothpicks whenever he’s working on something.

Courtesy of Zethrid, he got a small weight lifting kit that he only sporadically uses (but that she got specifically for him to use to bulk up so that he’d stop complaining about her breaking his ribs with her hugs). It’s up against the wall on the other side of the bed.

Courtesy of Narti, he got double-reinforced screws over the vent in his room so that Kova would stop sneaking in during the night and pouncing on his face. He also got a painting, painted by her, specifically, which he put up on the wall above the weight lifting set.

And courtesy of Lotor, he had a feature added to his room so that he can, whenever he wants, have a display of what the galaxy looks like around them on his ceiling. Keith has spent enough of his life locked away where he can’t see the sky, so this was really appreciated.

He has a wardrobe pressed into the corner opposite the bed. The wardrobe is fairly large, because it’s split neatly into two sections: casual wear, and armor. Keith generally doesn’t care much about what he wears, but he’ll be damned if he’s going to have to spend time looking for his armor when there’s a fight to get to, so he keeps his wardrobe very organized so that he doesn’t have to think, he can just reach in, grab it, and go.

Likewise, he has numerous storage bins in the compartment under his bed where other things are kept. There’s one for books, one for clothes that don’t need to go into the wardrobe, et cetera. Anything he’s not actively using is always packed up and put away. (Unless, of course, it’s been left on the floor of Lotor’s bedroom.)

Speaking of things being left in Lotor’s bedroom, Lotor doesn’t tend to leave things in Keith’s on purpose, but one day shortly after their relationship became more intimate, Ezor was in Keith’s room when they went there to retrieve his tablet, and she sat on his bed while talking on about something, and fell silent mid-sentence. This was odd for her, so Keith looked over with a frown, and found that Ezor was holding up several strands of long, white hair. She looked at him, her eyes wide. He looked back at her, his eyes widening as he realized what she had found and the conclusions she was reaching, a blush rising in his cheeks. “Ezor---” But she bounded up from the bed and bolted through the door, shouting, “Oh mY GODS, NARTI!! ZETHRID!! IT FINALLY HAPPENED!!” And Keith, swearing oaths and shouting her name, was left with no other options but to take off after her and attempt to take her down in a full body tackle. (This, incidentally, did not make things look any less interesting to the parties Ezor was determined to spread the gossip to.)

(Also incidentally, Narti already knew because she’s a telepath, so the moment she spent more than three ticks in Keith’s and Lotor’s presence after they kissed for the first time, she knew their relationship changed and was quite happy for them. However, she also has tact and manners, and so she kept quiet and didn’t share this news with anyone, because she figured they’d tell everyone in their own time. Ezor is quite miffed with Narti when she learns that Narti knew the whole time and said nothing to her, of all people, about it. Like, she’s not surprised that Acxa didn’t say anything to her even though Acxa knew about it as well because both Keith and Lotor told her separately, because of course Acxa wouldn’t tell her, but Narti?? Narti, how could you??? Betrayal of the highest order, tbqh. Anyway, this is off-topic.)

Quite a few decaphoebs down the road, Keith finds and befriends a teleporting, wolf-like creature. She was an orphan, left wandering and trying to fend for herself after her pack was killed, and after forming a bond with her, Keith decided to take her in. He named her Nyx, and once she comes along with him, she gets her own large, round, plush bed in his room . . . that she usually ignores in favor of sleeping on his bed, cuddled up with him instead, regardless of whether that leaves him squished into the corner or just barely hanging onto the edge of the bed or not. Okay, Nyx.

Everything is covered in her dander from that point forward.

Though Keith’s not really a fan of most of the “Earth culture” things Ezor tries to “teach” him with (namely, anime), he is a fan of the CD player she bought to “teach” him about Earth’s music, and over time has built up a respectable collection of CDs, which he keeps in a case next to the player (which is itself pretty big and on a table he put in his room specifically to hold it). He also has a smaller, portable CD player, as well as a large pair of headphones, that he likes to listen to and relax with when not in his room.

Later on down the road, Zethrid discovers that humans on Earth invented something called an MP3 player, and she gets it for Keith as a gift. After they figure out that he can put all of his CDs on it and then some, he tells her that she’s allowed to give him one (1) rib-crushing hug at any time of her choosing. She grins and chooses right that second.

He still keeps a knife under his pillow, and his bayard just under his bed. He also eventually has several swords that he acquires from around the galaxy that he thought looked nice up on display stands on his walls, also above his bed. Make no mistake, however: They’re there because he thought they looked cool, but he keeps them sharp and in good condition. He can, and will, use them if necessary.

Acxa:

As could be surmised, Acxa really likes plants, and flowers specifically, because her grandmother used to keep a tiny plot of flowers, and would teach Acxa their names and meaning when Acxa was a little girl. Obviously that time has long since passed, but Acxa has collected books on flower meanings from around the galaxy and tries to tend to whatever plants and flowers she can. (She does, in another room of the castle, have a little garden going.) In her room she has a vase of antiriums (which don’t require any sunlight), and she also has a very tall vase in one corner with celestaries in it (which do require sunlight, but she has a special light fixed into the wall above the vase to simulate sunlight during the day, when she’s not in her room and it wouldn’t bother her). A small amount of flowers, maybe, but important ones. The antiriums, which naturally grow on a planet that can’t sustain any other life for long, symbolize life even in the most damning conditions, and survival through the harshest of hardships. They represent living when literally everything in the universe says “give up.” The celestaries, on the other hand, are kept partly because they’re pretty, with their large, vibrant red petals, but also because they symbolize remembrance for the departed, and the belief that those that die can still live on and watch over those still living. Acxa keeps them mostly in remembrance of her grandmother, but also her parents and brothers.

The nimbusilde is an extremely rare flower native to the planet Stradozyx. It only blooms where lightning has struck the ground twice. Acxa found one, pressed it, and gave it to Lotor as a gift because it reminded her of him.

The ticarius isn’t a particularly rare plant on its home planet of Haridel, but what gives the ticarius its meaning is that it not only survives in extremely harsh conditions, but that it also has the nutritional properties mentioned before---that it sustains not only itself through adversity, but also others, despite what is perhaps an intimidating appearance due to its prickly spines. (In fact, those spines are a good thing; that ferocity, that tough quality . . . that’s good.) This reminded Acxa of Keith, hence why she gifted him one when she learned via Ezor that he needed room decorations. (Also, she cares about him, so the nutritional value is good, too.)

She has several albums full of pressed flowers from all over the galaxy, the names and meanings written out beside them. They’re on a bookshelf in her room, directly across from the bed. 

She upgraded her bed to a full sized bed, with a memory foam mattress, a super soft quilt, and three large pillows. She never had a proper bed before the castle and so, as soon as she could, she took the opportunity to upgrade and get the softest things she could. She loves sleep.

On her nightstand, next to the vase of antiriums, she has a small music box that Narti gave to her as a holiday gift. The tune is a lullaby Acxa’s grandmother used to sing to her. Narti heard Acxa humming it, and had it recreated in a little music box. Acxa plays it on nights when she has trouble falling asleep.

Next to the bookshelf she has a dresser, and on top of the dresser is a jewelry box filled with earrings, rings, and a couple bracelets, because sue her, she likes sparkly jewelry, even if she doesn’t often wear it because it’s a liability in battle. She also has numerous hair barrettes, including a pair that Keith got her after she first discovered that, due to things that happened on Revender, her hair won’t grow out anymore. She was depressed about it, and he bought her the hair clips as a way to try to cheer her up (to show that, hey, short hair can be nice, too). To be honest, the barrettes he chose are kind of . . . not to her taste, but he picked them out in earnest and was genuinely trying to make her feel better, and so they’re honestly her favorite barrettes even if she rarely actually wears them.

There’s a rack resembling a coat rack on the wall next to her bed. It holds her bayard and holsters for her other guns. The door at the base of her nightstand also opens to reveal polish and other tools necessary for weapons upkeep.

Ezor:

Ezor’s room is full of “I saw this once and had to have it For Reasons” things.

Giant tapestries of all types of colors are strung up across the ceiling like canopies, hanging at various lengths. They obscure the lights and are just sheer enough so that a multitude of colors is thrown around her room whenever the lights are on. The tapestries remind her of the market where she spent the eight years of her life after losing her miralean mother, but before meeting Keith and the others.

Her bed has tons of stuffed animal plushes on it. Most are at the foot of the bed, but a couple of Ezor’s favorites are up near the front. (Her bed, mind you, is just the standard twin.)

It’s not uncommon to find a small critter of some kind crawling around the room. These critters are not always brought there on purpose by Ezor herself. Sometimes they are, but most of the time they’re not, and after the fourth time Kova ate one Ezor had decided was going to be a pet, she stopped letting herself get attached.

Her actual pet ends up being Kaltenecker the cow (not that she knows Kaltenecker is a “cow”) after she and Narti got her “for free” at the Earth store when Ezor was there buying stuff to “teach Keith about his heritage.” Kaltenecker puzzled everyone in the castle, including Keith himself, and ended up gathering a crowd of the primary team and all three Auxiliary Teams as everyone tried to figure out what she was. At one point she spontaneously mooed and startled everyone to the point where most reached for weapons just in case that was a sound of aggression and she decided to attack. (She didn’t attack, but she was glad the crowd backed off a little.) 

Ezor’s favorite thing about having Kaltenecker for a pet is that this is one pet that Kova cannot eat. (Not, however, for lack of trying on Kova’s part.)

Keith never asked Ezor to “teach him about his heritage” and Ezor never even asked if he wanted to learn. She just decided that, once they knew that part of his heritage was human from Earth, obviously they had to teach him, so she went to the Earth store in the mall to buy materials. These materials consisted mostly of anime, which Ezor is 99.9% positive are realistic depictions of life on Earth and are also quality Earth cinema and art. However, she has also purchased numerous Earth musical records, toys (such as Super Soakers) and other things as part of his “education.” 

Speaking of, her bookshelf is full of anime DVDs and box sets (the actual DVD player was something she also purchased at the Earth store since the castle did not come with one), as well as other assorted Earth things (she loves Earth waaaaay more than Keith ever will, particularly since he honestly . . . doesn’t . . . really care much about it at all). 

It is one of her life goals to name a child Sasuke, because he’s her favorite character from her favorite anime (which she is also convinced is the absolute height of Earth art and cinema and thinks it’s beyond baffling that none of the team recognizes what a cultural, planetary treasure they have in the castle simply by virtue of her finding and buying the box sets, honestly).

It’s difficult to see her floor because of all the clutter. Most of the clutter comes from her laundry, which is spread everywhere, but also she has random assorted things all over (various weapons that she doesn’t even use; weird, creepy statues or trinkets, and that sort of thing). Roughly 80% of the things in Ezor’s room are things she stole simply because she could and she wanted to. The remaining 20% is either Earth store stuff (she respects that store enough to spend her money there) or stuff that Keith or Acxa caught her stealing, and then made her go back and pay for, because “it’s not the Empire that suffers when you do this, it’s the employees who are punished for your shoplifting.” Ezor always grumbles that this is why they’re known as the Fun Police.

Ezor is a prolific writer (of RPF that she posts on a GalaxyNet website known as Repository of Our Own), and as such she always has her tablet right by her bed, since she does her best writing (in her opinion) when curled up for the night. She also has a folder under her bed of printed out, positive reviews she has received on her fics, so she can have quick access them whenever she’s feeling down. (The folder is very thick, because she’s a---nay, the BNF for her particular RPF OTP, which she actually started shipping and writing for as a joke and also spite, but then got invested . . . it’s a long story.)

Zethrid:

Also upgraded her bed to a king-sized bed, because you know why? Because she deserves it, that’s why. No noticeable frame, though; it does have one, but no headboard or anything like that.  Looks like a giant mattress when you walk in the door. She loves it.

All of her walls are covered in maps of whatever galaxy they’re currently in, with notes all over the maps marking out points of interest. Some things are notes from her days as a bounty hunter, others are more relevant to the mission at hand. Either way, she’s constantly updating the maps.

Has two large whiteboards, over which she has covered schematics for upgrades or tweaks she plans on making to either the Yellow Lion, the Sincline ships, or some new smaller ship she’s working on in her spare time. They’re in the back of the room, but they’re not pressed up against the maps on the walls.

She also has a large trophy cabinet, inside of which are some legitimate trophies or awards she’s won from various, spontaneously entered contests around the galaxy, and some of which are tokens or souvenirs she picked up at various places around the galaxy that are important to her. (For instance, she can’t really go back to the WcGoofy’s that Olliges owns, but she did swing by there once and took the drive-thru sign to keep as a memento. That’s in the trophy case.)

She also has a pretty large vanity table with a big mirror. The vanity table has various perfumes, but also a lot of make-up, because she doesn’t just kill in battle (if she does)---she serves killer looks, too. Her lips aren’t naturally green, that’s just her favorite shade of lipstick this phoeb. Those yellow splashes near her eyes? Eyeshadow. (She also, for the record, has a kit with luxury soaps and bathbombs that she uses whenever she gets time for a longer bath that she keeps on the vanity table so that none of the Auxiliary Team members (or Ezor) get bright ideas about sticky fingering them.) She lived a rugged life for a long time, so now that she has the opportunity to pamper herself some, she takes it.

On that note, armor aside, her favorite clothing item that she owns is a very plush bathrobe. On the very rare occasion they all get a day mostly off, she likes to take a long, luxurious bath, and then just relax in her robe. It’s amazing. 

Related, but for her birthday everyone chipped in and got her a day at a spa planet. It was the best birthday she ever had.

Narti:

Narti swapped out the traditional twin bed for two alternatives.

The first alternative is best called a scoop bed, which is what she slept on for most of her life, back when she still lived with her mother. Narti is half-galra, half-espiridan, and the espiridan people sleep in little nooks (or “scoops”) that are built into the walls of their home. They essentially look like ice cream scoops that are built into the walls, with the wall carved out to provide an overhang to partially block the bed from view. They’re cushioned, and are naturally insulated so they’re quite warm and cozy. Obviously that’s not really possible to do in the castle ship, but everyone pitched in with trying to find a replacement, and while it’s not exact, they managed to find (and then modify) a bed so that it’s almost like a little scoop, and it’s placed up against the back wall.

Until they had the scoop, Narti had a beam that was hung from the ceiling. She would hang from the beam by her tail and sleep that way, kind of like an Earth bat. (She put the mattress from her bed under the beam in case she accidentally let go while sleeping.) Sometimes she still sleeps from the beam, if she’s having trouble with her scoop for whatever reason.

Kova has a cat tree in the room that is honestly ridiculous. It started in one corner, but now rings the room, with varying levels, little hidey-holes, and easy ways into the vents no matter how much Narti tries to stop him. This tree started as one Lotor bought him that Kova refused to use because Lotor bought it, was expanded on in a really haphazard way by everyone else, and now is something Kova loves because he can’t remember which part specifically came from Lotor. (It’s a small victory, but Lotor will take it.)

Narti has three easels in her room that she uses for her paintings. Each one is in a different corner, because each corner carries a different energy (according to her, but no one questions her on it).

There is cat hair goddamn everywhere. Even in Narti’s scoop bed, however much she tries to get the dander out of the bed.

She and Keith like to put puzzles together in their spare time, and the first one they ever completed was a 10,000 piece puzzle of the Alloran system. Because it was their first one, Narti framed it, and has it hanging in her room above her scoop, so she can see it (through Kova’s eyes, naturally) first thing whenever she enters her bedroom.

On the other side of the framed puzzle is a framed picture of pressed lyrdenia flowers that Acxa gave her. Lyrdenia flowers are actually singing flowers that will sing if you stroke their petals. Acxa gave them to Narti in a vase once, because while Narti is blind and mute, she is not deaf, and can appreciate singing flowers. However, Kova knocked that vase onto the floor. He then did it with the second and third vases, and so Acxa gave Narti the flowers pressed in a frame. Kind of ruins the singing, but it’s the thought that counts.

Her wardrobe is filled with various different hoods and cloaks of different styles and colors, because Ezor said she needed to branch out. This includes several in various shades of green to match her armor, as well as one with the Uchiha flag on it that Ezor thinks would be super cool if Narti wore, but Narti will not because no matter how much she adores Ezor, she just will not go out in public with that. (However, she has told Ezor this is because she doesn’t wish to get it dirty or torn, and this soothed Ezor’s feelings quite quickly.)

Narti keeps her stuff picked up, but Kova does not. He has no shortage of toys spread across the floor, along with pieces of kibble, and sometimes feathers or patches of fur from whatever little creature he has terrorized this movement.

#series: paradigm shift #at the end of it all the only ones without pets are Acxa and Zethrid #well - neither of them probably want pets anyway #but even so maybe they'll get some at some point #anyway there could probably be more details added but this is enough for now. at least i think it is #idk i had the idea and wanted to jot down some notes and ideas #also yeah I suppose that's how Ezor and Zethrid find out lol #sorry Keith but it's not their fault your boyfriend sheds so much lololol #also none of Ezor's fans know that it's HER - like they're not aware that a PALADIN OF VOLTRON is writing the fic they like so much #she strives to keep her fan life separate from her real life #makes things easier that way #anyway i really want to write those Revender fics at some point #so many important things happened there #just got to . . . clear my schedule . . . #but honestly there are things i had to leave OUT of this (as far as Keith goes) because they're Spoilers for the future #so this will be updated at some point #anyway #(oh and of course i gave Lotor a dragon. why WOULDN'T i give Lotor a dragon?) #(if the show won't do it i will) #(that's always been the motto and it holds true now) #(i wanted Lotor to have a dragon and so Lotor has a dragon) #(boom. done. and now we can move on with the world a little more at peace) #(a n y w a y. here's this.)

[goforwardgreenwriter-blog]

The Worm Reads: Empire of Storms, Ch 1 - 2

 Book: Empire of Storms

Author: Sarah J. Mass

Ah, my dear readers, what can one say about SJM? While I do admit there is some value in a few of her books (I quite enjoyed the early t0g novels) to say her writing has stirred controversy is a bit of an understatement. There are arguments for and against why her series are problematic and toxic, why her world building is atrocious and her characters overpowered and unlikable, but I believe every author deserves a chance. Let’s see if we can give EoS a good fair shake to see whether it holds up or not, shall we?

The prologue of this book starts right off with Princess Elena Galathynius and her broad shouldered boy toy Gavin (we all know SJM does enjoy herself a broad shouldered man or two) angsting over the inevitable doom and deaths of their friends while planning to flee the battle to buy themselves more time. I won’t bore you with details; it’s separate from the main plot, short, and doesn’t offend me that much. Moving on!

Chapter One

The real story kicks off with Elide Lochan, a character from the previous novel, running through the woods. Elide was one of the few characters I found myself endeared towards, for her sweet yet strong personality and her relationship with Manon.

Weeks. It had been weeks since Manon Blackbeak and the Thirteen had left her in this forest, the Wing Leader ordering her to head north. To find her lost queen, now grown and mighty—and to also find Celaena Sardothien, whoever she was, so that Elide might repay the life debt she owed to Kaltain Rompier.

For those not aware, SJM is extremely found of em dashes. Like, she uses them a lot. I’m guilty of this too, but at least I have the sense to edit them out before publishing works! Also oof, I can smell Celaena gushing coming up.

Unfortunately, Elide had learned the hard way about what water to drink. Three days, she’d been near death with vomiting and fever after gulping down that stagnant pond water. Three days, she’d shivered so badly she thought her bones would crack apart.

While I like the imagery used here, since you get the full picture of how cold she was..... Shouldn’t the sentence be “For three days”? Just stating three days and what she was doing has no connection.

She’d run out of food a week ago and had taken to scavenging for berries. They were all foreign, but a whisper of a memory from her years with her nursemaid, Finnula, had warned her to rub them on her wrist first— to see if they raised any reaction.

I actually really like this, It shows Elide is smart, has a good memory, and is resourceful. SJM, please don’t mess her up.

Maybe she’d made a wrong turn. How would she know when she’d crossed Terrasen’s border, anyway? And how would she ever find her queen—her court?

Unghhhhh she doesn’t mean Aelin does she? If Elide is used only to gush and fangirl over what an amazing queen Aelin is I’m gonna be ill.

Elide hears wyverns flying by and hides, before realizing....

Not witches or wyverns or beasts. But someone—someone was watching her. Someone was following her.

Manon has come to sweep her girlfriend off her feet! Right...?

Lorcan Salvaterre had been running from those gods-damned beasts for two days now.

Oh god no.

Here’s the thing; I like Lorcan as a villain. He was a threat that at least made the main characters sweat a little in the previous novel, to my memory. Surely he will continue to be a villain, perhaps Elide’s main rival in this novel? After all we have a paragraph describing how he tortured and killed some witches, so surely-

He’d been hiding here first, listening to the clamor of [Elide’s] clumsy approach, and had watched her stumble and limp when she finally heard what swept toward them. She was delicately built, small enough that he might have thought her barely past her first bleed were it not for the full breasts beneath her close-fitting leathers.

I’M... SPEECHLESS. Why is that what Lorcan notices about her?? Not her mature vibe, perhaps the determination on her face, but her breasts? He doesn’t even know this girl!! Also, just because a girl has big breasts doesn’t mean she’s older. I know girls as young as 14 with huge breasts. And while I like that SJM does acknowledge periods, which so many YA authors act like they don’t exist, the focus of it here makes me... uncomfortable.

The demon-possessed girl limped up the streambed, that useless knife still out, her grip on its hilt wholly ineffective. Good. And so Lorcan began his hunt.

Oh, so maybe he is going to be an enemy during this novel? I’d read a showdown between them. Preferably with Elide outwitting and kicking his ass.

Chapter 2

Crouched beside the brook, empty skins forgotten on the mossy bank, Aelin Ashryver Galathynius extended a scarred hand over the rushing water and let the song of the early-morning storm wash over her.

*inhales* Oh Aelin. A character most hate, and one I just honestly don’t know. There’s times where I like how arrogant and show off she can be, but other times she aggravates me, mostly due to the whole lost queen thing. 

She breathed in the chill mists and fresh rain, dragging them deep into her lungs. Her magic guttered in answer, as if yawning good morning and tumbling back to sleep.

I actually like the way SJM describes magic, as if its its own sentient being that lives within its owner. Too bad there’s no magic system or anything actually done with this imagery. 

Across the brook, atop a mossy boulder tucked into the arms of a gnarled oak, a pair of tiny bone-white fingers flexed and cracked, a mirror to her own movements. Aelin smiled and said so quietly it was barely audible over the stream and rain, “If you have any pointers, friend, I’d love to hear them.”

The Little Folk illustrate my biggest issue with SJM; she comes up with cool fantasy concepts and characters, and never does anything with them. The Little Folk serve little purpose (ha), but I love them!! I love this scene with the Little Folk mirroring her movements. But I’m willing to wager SJM is never gonna bring them up again.

But they’d left small gifts just outside the border of Rowan’s nightly shields, somehow deposited without alerting whichever of them was on watch.

I’m stanning the Little Folk. They’re magic and skilled enough to outwit even Rowan and they bring them cute handmade gifts? Give me a Little Folk spin off.

Soggy leaves crunched behind her, and Aelin knew it was only because Rowan wanted her to hear his approach. “Careful, or they’ll leave something wet and cold in your bedroll next time.”

*inhales* Hoo boy, Aelin/Rowan time. This should be... interesting.

Strong hands slid over her waist, tugging her into his warmth, as Rowan’s lips grazed her neck, right under her ear. Aelin arched back into him while his mouth roved across her throat, heating mist-chilled skin. “Good morning to you,” she breathed.

And already they’re acting hornier than teenagers right now. Great. I mean, I’m not opposed to characters being in sexual relationships or expressing this, but God, these two take it waaaay too far. They think about sex 24/7 and it gets exhausting after a while. 

“If you want to take a bath so badly,” Rowan murmured against her neck, “I spotted a pool about a quarter mile back. You could heat it—for both of us.” She ran her nails down the back of his hands, up his forearms. “I’d boil all the fish and frogs inside it. I doubt it’d be very pleasant then.”

(...)

A dark laugh against her now-burning skin. It was an effort to keep from taking one of his hands and guiding it up to her breasts, to beg him to touch, take, taste.

Like, can we get them having a nice romantic moment without them being so sex hungry for once? I barely have any feel of a connection between them aside from the fact that they are DTF. I wouldn’t have an issue if this was an erotica novel, but this is supposed to be epic fantasy.

Aelin expositions about how they’re planning to meet some lords from Terrasen, and how Lorcan is under the impression that he has the real Wyrdkey. Hopefully this means we’ll be getting some awesome fantasy content soon.

He gave her a wry smile and aimed a pointed look at Goldryn, sheathed across her back, and the various knives strapped to her. “And besides: I thought ‘cloak-and-dagger’ was your middle name.” She offered him a vulgar gesture in return.

Wait, why is SJM censoring the middle finger? I’d understand if this was an actual YA novel, but this book has graphic sex scenes. Why can’t she write Aelin flipping someone off? Unless Aelin is doing some other hand gesture?

No matter that Aelin was the bearer of a weapon capable of wiping out this entire valley, along with the gray Staghorn Mountains watching over it. And that was just her magic.

*sigh* We get it SJM, Aelin is the most special powerful sorcerer to ever exist. 

“You trust nothing.” She met his eyes. “I trust you.”

If this was for a ship I liked, I’d be squealing with delight. But then the two of them proceed to make out yet again, and immediately the smile on my face dies as I am forced to yet again read paragraphs of Rowan forcing his tongue down Aelin’s throat.

So Aelin kissed Rowan gently, his hands again locking around her hips. “Fireheart,” he said onto her mouth. “Buzzard,” she murmured onto his.

Okay, I will admit. Couples having special nicknames for each other is one of my favorite tropes. I’ll admit, Aelin calling Rowan buzzard is kinda sweet if you ignored how shitty their relationship is.

Evangeline howled, “Fooooood!” Fleetfoot’s answering howl followed a heartbeat later. Then Lysandra’s snarl rippled toward them, silencing girl and hound.

Lysandra!!! Another character I loved. She is so strong and overcomes her abuser and her trauma to become a badass warrior, and plus she has girl friendship with Aelin! I’d read a series about Elide and Lysandra traveling around the world together.

When she looked back, Rowan was halfway to the camp, Evangeline’s red-gold hair flashing as she bounded through the dripping trees, begging the prince for toast and eggs.

....... eggs and toast? In the middle of the forest? Not what I’d expect, but alright.

And Aelin Galathynius, Queen of Terrasen, knew the time would soon come to prove just how much she’d bleed for Erilea.

Sure, sweetheart. Also, you’re not a queen yet. You haven’t been crowned or declared ruler officially.

We switch to Aedion’s POV. I suspect if SJM let him have a motive and personality outside of worshiping Aelin, he;d be a good character.

[Lysandra] had used these weeks of travel to try out new forms: birds, beasts, insects that had a tendency to buzz in his ear or bite him. Rarely —so rarely—had Lysandra taken the human form he’d met her in.

I love Lysandra. That is all.

[Aelin]’d grown quieter the farther north they’d traveled. Perhaps weeks on the road had sapped her. After tonight, depending on what the lords reported, he’d try to find her a quiet place to rest for a day or two before they made the last leg of the trek to Orynth.

Again, had this been any other characters, it’d be sweet of him to know his cousin so well that he knows when she’s tired and want her to rest. But like, Aedion’s entire character revolves around Aelin it’s tiresome.

“Darrow was your uncle’s lover,” he added, stretching his legs out before him. “For decades. He’s never spoken once to me about your uncle, but... they were very close, Aelin. Darrow didn’t publicly mourn Orlon beyond what was required after the passing of a king, but he became a different man afterward. He’s a hard bastard now, but still a fair one. Much of what he’s done has been out of his unfading love for Orlon—and for Terrasen. His own maneuvering kept us from becoming completely starved and destitute. Remember that.” Indeed, Darrow had long straddled a line between serving the King of Adarlan and undermining him.

Oooo, a LGBT character! Very nice! However, from that description of Darrow being a supposed bastard, I’m worried he might be the villain. Which wouldn’t be a problem if there were other LGBT characters, but since Darrow is the only confirmed one that comes to mind at current, this might turn out bad.

The flames pulled apart like drawn curtains to allow [Evangeline] and Fleetfoot, sensing the child’s fear and pressing close, passage to an inner ring that would not burn her. But would melt the bones of their enemies.

Um, why is that a fragment? Shouldn’t the phrase read, “(...) passage to an inner ring that would not burn her, but would melt the bones of their enemies”?

So they are startled by the arrival of a messenger and Rowan puts a knife to his throat. I’d understand if he did this until the messenger tells them who he is, but seriously? Keeping a blade at the guy’s throat? He’s the messenger of the people you want to be allies with!

Even as Rowan nudged him forward, that cruel knife still angled at his throat. Aedion jerked his chin at Rowan. “He can’t very well deliver the message with a blade at his windpipe.”

Lmfao it literally takes Aedion pointing this out for Rowan to chill out.

Her magic simmered in response. And that [amulet]—that hideous power hanging between her breasts—seemed to open an ancient eye at all the commotion.

Again, a nit pick, but why is SJM so fascinated with the amulet being between Aelin’s breasts? It seriously takes away from the impact of the sentence, which is trying to make the amulet sound dangerous but all I can think about is the amulet squished between her boobs. It would’ve been better to simply say the amulet around her neck or something.

So the messenger tells them the lords won’t be coming out to the forest, which is honestly understandable. They’re old and can’t travel as well as the younger characters, and it’s raining outside. 

So those were the first two chapters. Well, it isn’t too bad so far, but not great either. Honestly, I’m just weirded out by SJM’s focus on the women’s breasts. If this was an erotica novel, I’d have zero problems with it, but considering this book is supposed to be epic fantasy, it just pulls me out of the story every time it is focused on. But we’ll see if SJM can do better with the next chapters.

#the worm talks #the worm reads: eos #anti sjm #anti tog #anti eos #im not completely an anti blog but this is a critical take on her series so #into the anti tags it goes

[upperstories]

Stargazing

Frankly, Bendy is sick and tired of nightmares. Sure, they’re still terrifying, but they’re also so common that he’s annoyed at the part of his subconscious that insists on recutting thirty years worth of rotten memories into stupid phantasms.

Tonight’s installment of Horrible Dream Theater was mostly notable in its persistence: he’s been up and about for a good 15 minutes, but he still can’t close his eyes for more than a blink without the thing digging its claws into him again.

Focusing on what’s real and actually good helps. For once in his life, Bendy is safe. Sure, hiding from almost everyone is still necessary, but politely indifferent neighbors are much easier to deal with than suspicious cops or nosy samaritans. Most importantly, he isn’t alone, either in general or in the moment. For both him and Henry, sitting in the kitchen talking beats staring at the ceiling or leafing listlessly through a book.

“Ya think talking about it would help?” Sometimes, if they’re lucky, nightmares sound ridiculous when described out loud, and both of them (all three of them?) can have a good laugh at having ever been scared of searcher-policemen or whatnot.

Henry hesitates before responding. “Probably not”. Another pause, a shrug, and then he continues anyways. “Drowning. We were trapped in a collapsed air duct back in the studio as it flooded with ink. I can’t remember much more of it.”

He’s implying that Buddy does, though. Which makes it hard for Bendy to help at all. Pulling them in front of a mirror would be overkill, and anyways, it’d probably be best to let Buddy hide behind Henry for now. The only remotely productive thing Bendy can do is find some sort of big sparkly distraction.

Skhrrch. Skhrrch.

“Wha’?!” Bendy jumps and nearly falls out of his chair. He glances around, looking for the cause of the sound that snapped him out of his thoughts. It’s too much like the raspy breathing of the demon from the studio for comfort, but the shadows in the room are normal, so that can’t be it. It isn’t it. It’s … it’s just Henry, shoving a stepstool to the window so he can look outside for something. “All right, what’re ya up to?” Bendy asks, doing a reasonably good job of sounding calm.

“Hmm, I think it’ll be better if I show you. Just wait here a second, alright?” He’s definitely up to something, and deliberately being vague about it. Bendy really doesn’t have all too much time to try and figure out what the plan is, because Henry returns pretty quickly, wearing a sweater and tossing one of Bendy’s ones to him.

“So, we’re goin’ somewhere? Where?”

“Just the backyard.”

“Why?” He follows Henry through the living room.

Henry grabs a blanket from the couch on the way to the door. “You’ll see.” He smiles, but loses a bit of his apparent okay mood when he looks up at the doorknob. It’s a good foot above his head. “Um. Could you get the door?”

Bendy nods and leads the way outside. After a few steps, he stops. It’s a nice night: cool and calm, with barely enough of a breeze to rustle leaves. The only other creature outside is the neighbor’s oversized puffball of a tabby cat, but she’s content to stay put, lording over her territory. There’s nothing to fear out here, and, anyways, if worst comes to worst, they could always hightail it up the big pine tree in the yard. “So, why’re we out here, anyways?” he asks as he sits next to Henry on the blanket.

“Look up.”

Stars. Dozens or hundreds of them, shining against the darkest night sky Bendy has ever seen. It’s nothing like it was back in the city, with four or five pale pinpricks in the perpetual pinkish glow. It’s competely new, but sort of nostalgic: he’d been fascinated with looking up at clouds and sunsets and how big the world was when he’d first escaped, but over time, skywatching had become a purely practical concern.

The longer he looks, the more nuances he sees. Some of the stars have color to them, yellowish or orange or blue, and there’s a faint hazy band across the sky. Once, a faintish star just wanders overhead in a straight line, which seems odd. The rest of them don’t do that. Actually, now that he thinks about it— “What are stars, anyways?”

“I don’t know. I think they’re the same sort of thing as the Sun, but, well, that dosen’t help much.” Henry shrugs, then goes back to staring at the sky. “Could find a book on it, though.”

“So, somethin’ ta look into tomorrow, then. Er, it’s past midnight, ain’t it. Later today, I guess.” If they aren’t too exhausted once it’s actually morning, visiting the library might be a good idea. Sure, there are people there, but not a lot, it’s easy to hide in the stacks, and Mrs. Finch is a reliable sort of human. The librarian had completely bought Bendy’s sob story about dead parents and being smothered by relatives at the funeral, and would often get the nosier patrons to leave him and Buddy alone.

Bendy shakes his head. He can put off planning until later, and really should. He pulls himself back to looking up, tracing patterns, and avoiding worrying about every little tiny thing that could possibly go badly. There’s as many of those as there are stars.

“Yeah, they do.”

“Huh?”

Henry blinks. Apparently, he didn’t notice he was talking out loud. “Stars have names. I can’t remember many of them or which name goes to which star, but they exist.”

Of course Buddy would ask that sort of question. And Bendy’s curious about it too. “Really?”

Henry nods. “For some reason, lots of them start with ‘A’. Alcor, Albiero, Algol—”

“Alice?”

“Maybe. There are a lot of them.” He pauses for a bit. “Do you think we should wake them up?”

“Nah. We should let her and Bo sleep. Besides, Al’d probably bug us about not wearin’ galoshes or somethin’.” He licks his finger and holds it in the air. “Should be clear for the rest of the week though. Hey, where’d you get the idea of doing this, anyways?”

Henry picks at the cuff of his mitten as he answers. “Remembered something. Visiting my grandparents when I was a kid. They lived out in the countryside, so me and my sister —cousin?— went out to catch fireflies. And when we looked up, there were too many stars to even see the constellations, and I sort of forgot about the lightning bugs.”

“So, what you’re sayin’ is that this—” he gestures up at the glittering darkness, “—is a decidedly second-rate night sky? If we ever haf'ta move, my vote’s on the middle of nowhere. Are you two with me?”

Henry snickers a bit. “Sure.”

Before he can think of aother bit of overdramatic clowning around, something bright yanks his attention skyward. It’s a shooting star, a big one, that arcs across a third of the sky before winking out.

“Wow.” Even after it faded, the faint greenish trail the meteor left hangs in the air for almost a minute. “Ain’t ya supposed to make a wish when you see a shooting star? Hmm—” He trails off, trying to think of a good one. Over most of the past thirty years, where he is now would be too much to hope for. Nothing big comes to mind that he wants. But— something vindictive might do. “I wish I’d’ve gotten a chance to sock ol’ Joey right in the nose.” He nudges Henry. “I know you got to do that already, but he— er, what’s left of him— still deserves a good wallop, ya know?”

Henry nods, just slightly.

“So, anythin’ you wish for?”

As soon as he says it, Bendy knows that’s probably the wrong question to ask. “I don’t know. It's— there are things I feel I want, but know I don’t want.” Henry slumps and curls up. “Like finding my family.”

Bendy dosen’t see much of a problem in that. It might be difficult to find any information, but whichever relative actually owns the house will probably find them eventually. And, even if he’s wary of humans, being related is reciprocal. Henry’s family is their family too. “It can’t be that much of a pain in the neck ta track them down.”

“It isn’t that. I don’t remember their faces. I don’t even know if I have siblings. My parents’d be 80, 90 by now, might not be alive still. And Linda— it’d be better for her if she thinks I’m dead and moved on with her life years ago. None of them’d recgnize me. And—” Henry tries to rub his neck, flinching when he touches nothing. “And even if we find them, I don’t think we could trust them.”

It seems nonsensical. Family should be on your side, no matter what. Bendy scoots a bit closer to Henry. “Why?”

“I used to be on okay terms with Sammy. I used to be friends with Joey.” Henry shudders like someone dropped a slug onto his back. “And, even if they aren’t like that, I don’t know if they’d stay quiet.”

“Oh.” Well, there’s a reason. For the toons, the best case scenario for people finding out about them is ending up stuck in the spotlight like those Dionne kids from the newsreels. Worst case? Some wannabe warlock copying Joey Drew’s methods for fame or immortality. It’s a real problem, and not one Bendy can even comprehend this late.

He can’t think of anything to say, either. Henry hadn’t ever talked about his family, really. He’d mentioned Linda once or twice, but never anyone else. It’s near impossible to tell what’ll be a touchy subject, and Bendy feels like he’s stumbled onto all of them. “I’m sorry. Shouldn’t of said anythin’.”

Henry leans against Bendy’s shoulder. “You don’t need to apologize. It’s fine.” He’s still trembling. “If you need to blame someone, blame Joey.”

“I guess so.” He curls his tail around himself. It’s technically right, but still feels weird. Still, Henry wants to drop the subject, so pinning this on the murderous control freak it is.

It’s been months. Joey’s shadow should’ve stopped hanging over them when they’d escaped for good. But it hasn’t. Maybe it won’t ever go away.

He closes his eyes and tries to banish the thought from his mind.

_*_*_

Bendy blinks awake. He hadn’t realized he’d dozed off. It’s still dark out, nowhere near dawn, but it’s still probably time to head in. He nudges Henry gently.

Buddy wakes up and yawns. “Mornin’. Um, not morning?”

“C'mon Bud, up an’ at ‘em.” Buddy looks up at him pleadingly. “Fine. I’ll carry ya.” Bendy feigns grumbling as he hoists the pipsqueak onto his back and folds the blanket. Then, he drops the grumpy act. “You okay?”

Buddy dosen’t reply for a moment. “Dunno.” He shifts his weight a bit. “The stars are nice, but—” but it dosen’t outweigh the nightmares and other emotional turmoil, does it. “We’ll be okay, though. We’ll all be okay.” He tries to hug Bendy, as redundant as that is when he’s already clinging to him. “Just, eventually.”

Bendy looks back at the sky one more time before opening the door. It’ll still be there on a better, less stressful day. And he can almost convince himself that things will work out right.

Eventually.

Honey. HONEY.

I saw this in my inbox and my jaw DROPPED. This was absolutely lovely. Thank you thank you thank you so much!

#hatim au #hatim spinoff au #gift fanfiction #bendy and buddy #anonymous #get over here so i can HUG YOU #submission #long post

[yaidenpart-blog]

Writing Dark Themes

Some stigma circulates around writers who tackle dark subjects regularly. Those writers tend to be treated a bit, well, like they're gonna pull out the fangs anytime and suck your blood. Today I'll talk about this stigma, approaching dark subjects in fiction in general, and my thoughts on Writing Dark Themes (And Why You Shouldn't Be Ashamed to Do so).

In preparation for this post, I read a dozen analyses, studies, and an absurd amount of psychology articles so I wouldn't show up empty handed and stupid. Though to be honest, the only thing that deep dive resulted in for me is dry eyes and a giant headache. Therefore, while I may build some arguments on top of the things I've researched, I'll use my own experiences to wing a big part of it.

So let's get started.

1. What Draws Us to Dark Subjects

What draws us towards dark themes? To reach a satisfying conclusion I first have to determine what exactly is included in 'dark themes' in this case. I'll mainly talk about the content matter of fiction, not equated to but also not divorced from the literary term 'theme’ describing the underlying meaning of a work. Basically, I'll fudge both together because to me they have always been inseparable in writing.

Since violence and disturbing motifs (such as abuse, gore, disturbing sexual content etc.) traditionally play a prominent role in the horror and thriller genres I'll center my attention on those. Though I'll also take care to explore dark themes in a broad sense applicable to other genres as well.

Various factors play a part in making the dark appealing to us, one being the human desire to peek behind the curtain and rob our fears of their power. By facing them in a safe, controlled environment we can stare right into their yellow eyes and desensitize ourselves. And through that, perhaps, gain the confidence to face these fears in reality as well.

Another one is catharsis. Some folks enjoy disturbing media as a healthy, secure outlet for their forestations. It lets their lizard brains bare their teeth without actually biting anyone, like a puppy play fighting.The public hanging of old, we as a western society used to love so, is now replaced with violent TV and fiction. Just. You know. With the difference of fiction not actually hurting anyone. And hanging making people dead. Yep.

Some people watch horror movies for the adrenaline rush, and write fiction which lets their readers experience the same, as a meta-analysis of the studies about mediated fight (1) confirmed,“Evidence also emerged that sensation seeking is associated with a greater enjoyment of fright and violence, which was consistent with other research [...]”

And of course, there's nothing wrong with any of that. But for me, personally, it has always been for the sake of exploration, of seeking to connect with humanity, to bridge the good things we are and the outright gruesome into a cohesive whole. While still keeping a layer of distance between reality to keep it safe.

So a fear of becoming homeless turns into monster stalking you and blocking the entry of your workplace every morning. Kind of a cheesy example, but you get the gist.

Writing provides us with a channel to explore those fears, to cut them down into pieces and hold against the light.

To understand them.

But that's just me.

Now we've cleared up why we're drawn to it, the question remains: Why should you integrate dark themes into your writing?

2. Benefits to Your Writing

Not to tap into a cliche, but, light doesn't exist without dark. You can't define the one without the glaring contrast of the other as a counterpart.

When you try to write a story that is completely pure, you'll end up with a flat mimicry of reality. Not to say you can't write a positive feel-good story, but it's like with GCI buildings in movies. Without a bit of scratch, they're not convincing. They don't feel real.

Imagine you add a hint of darkness to your story. May that be in the characterization, a breath held too long as your MC has to calm themselves down, a glance too harsh to be gentle from an old person across the street, moments of awkwardness when someone accidentally breaks a topic all present silently agreed to never talk about. Or in basic world building, monotone news voices droning on about crimes, tagged houses, and playgrounds where no child sets a foot on anymore.

Details like these may seem inconsequential, but they can roughen a story up just enough to make it into something raw.

To bring it to life.

Human experience doesn't only consist of roses and love triangles. A writer who keeps that in mind and works it in their stories in a respectful, emphatic way, possess a certain edge. In my opinion.

The key to writing dark themes, especially when you want them to be the focus of your story, is to approach them like peeling onions. Shhh, hear me out, I'll explain.  

Let's tell a story about hmm … a vampire. This is just an example, okay?

So we got a superficial plot of a teenager waking up with bloodlust gnawing at his gumps. Fairly simple. This is the surface layer.

To go deeper we have to peel off another one, we need to look at how he deals with the conflict we created (the vampirism).This is the reaction layer. At first, he freaks out and then resigns himself to starving because he'd rather scratch up his own arms than hurt someone else. His quick acceptance tells us he's both a nice kid and used to being screwed over by life.

When we go to the next layer, we realize why he's used to it. This one I like to call the core, it's what ties the dark theme together with characterization.

The relationship with his parents is strained, they demand nothing but outstanding performances outside inside and out of school while simultaneously neglecting him emotionally and physically. He has to deal with them sucking the life out of him on top of his newly acquired vampirism doing the same. Of course, depending on how you're inclined, you could spin this thread into a dramatic end scene of him cracking under the pressure and sucking their blood out in return, or he spares them after he learned he has a right to companionship and food and munches on squirrels or something. Whichever scenario you prefer.

So you see, the emotional core we've unveiled is is him feeling undeserving of basic human needs. And it affects how he deals with both the vampirism and abuse, one being a simple metaphor for the other.

Every theme has several layers, and once at the core, it's time to rebuild your story and make every element match accordingly. If you want. What matters is you can dig to a real, raw humanity through your dark subject and that's to me, the truly impactful aspect of dark fiction.

But unfortunately, not everyone gets it. You probably made the experience of relatives and friends judging your writing at some point, maybe even when you were just writing 'normal’ stuff. Golly, you think, when they're like this now, how badly would they react once you put all that saucy vampirism in? The thought doesn't bear contemplating.

Why exactly though, are dark themes such a taboo for some people that they get 'concerned' about your mental wellbeing when you preoccupy yourself with them?

3. Why Others Judge but You (still) Shouldn't be Ashamed

People, in general, love simple concepts. Like father, like son. You are what you wear.

The media you consume defines you.

Pushing people into tiny neat boxes is tempting because it's so damned easy. It doesn't require much thought, and as we all know, thinking hurts. So it's no surprise most writers of dark content, especially horror writers, face a certain... judgment. When you consume dark content you're branded as a bit weird, when you create it you might as well be the devil.

That's a bit of an exaggeration, but you get my drift.

Though what to do when someone cocks an eyebrow at your work, besides walking away or telling them to screw off? Well- that's what you got me for. I dived deep into research so you can refute anything people will throw at you with solid facts (should for whatever reason basic common sense not be enough) and maybe quieten some of your own worries.

Most studies and articles I found were more about violent video games (since that seems to be a Hotly Debated Topic™), but I figure it serves a similar service as violent books and movies.

Already 2011 studies which supported the outcome of aggression being a causation of violent media have been rejected by the US Supreme Court in the Brown v EMA (2), stating, “These studies have been rejected by every court to consider them, and with good reason: They do not prove that violent video games cause minors to act aggressively (which would at least be a beginning). Instead, “[n]early all of the research is based on correlation, not evidence of causation, and most of the studies suffer from significant, admitted flaws in methodology.”  

And studies 2016 and more recently have only further affirmed that decision, finding no relation between violent video games and increasing aggression (3) and not supporting any prior studies.

These prior studies had been, well, manipulated is such an ugly word. Let’s go with: primed to fit the desired outcome.

Some actually legit studies analyzed media history from 2005 to 2012 and showed an obvious decline of general social violence in connection to the introduction of more violent media︀ (4), implying violent media serves as a sort of catharsis for the modern western world, stating,”We find no evidence of an increase in crime associated with video games and perhaps a decrease.”

Puh, now we got these dry as desert facts out of the way -

Honesty, writing about dark or disturbing things is not a thing to be ashamed of, watching violent media doesn't turn you violent (assuming you're a person capable of differentiating between fiction and reality) and writing about it certainly doesn't mean you're sick.

We as humans aren’t perfect and pure, so common sense dictates the things we create are neither. Writing about the whole scope of human experiences can only benefit you.

So go on and fly my little bird, further your horizons and write some dark fiction.

That's all I have for you today, I'd love to hear your thoughts and maybe get a discussion going!

See ya in two weeks,

Yaiden Part.

**

Sources:

1.Hoffner C, Levine K. Enjoyment of Mediated Fright and Violence: A Meta-Analysis, MEDIA PSYCHOLOGY, 7, 207–237 Copyright © 2005, Lawrence Erlbaum Associates, Inc.

2.McCarthy R, Coley S, Wagner M, et al. Does playing video games with violent content temporarily increase aggressive inclinations? A pre-registered experimental study. J Exp Soc Psychol.

3.Brown v EMA, 564 US 08-1448 (2011).

4.Cunningham S, Engelstatter B, Ward M. Violent video games and violent crime. Southern Economic Journal

#writing #writing advice #writing tip #writing tips #dark fiction #theme #horror #thriller #writers on tumblr