#he has long hair and is massive for his pedigree
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I got a doggie last month :)
He is also bigger than he is genetically supposed to be and enjoys trying to eat things he’s not supposed to.
It’s ok tho, he’s still a puppy and is learning.
I am still constantly baffled why he looks nothing like his siblings.
#sky rambles#I got a puppy#well actually#he’s a rescue#and very affectionate#but also a menace lol#he hates being alone#and also is allergic to chicken#which we discovered the hard way#:P#his siblings all have short hair and are smaller than him#he has long hair and is massive for his pedigree
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Western civilization in any shape
Since the first point to be gained is to bring woman up out of the gloom where she has been left by centuries of ignorance and neglect, the touch upon her of Western civilization in any shape is an ally not to be lightly rated. At Constantinople as at no other place in Turkey Western civilization touches Eastern women. There they see and try to copy the dress of their Western sisters, although their taste is still such as to make the Constantinople market the sink into which fall all the rejected monstrosities of fashion which dealers in other cities would fain put out of the way. There too, the women arc quick to discover and appreciate the freedom of the Western order of society, although having none to teach them they are apt to regard freedom as license, and to seek to emulate it in ways original with themselves.
Not much can such vague movements stir enthusiasm of hope for these poor women. Yet one cannot avoid seeing that what the women of Constantinople get into their minds from abroad, slowly filters through the surrounding regions to affect the ideas and the life of distant towns. And one cannot fail to see too that a tendency to look Westward for light opens a door to women of the West who wish well to the women of the East. Because they come from the West they can win their confidence and help them to grow. The work of lifting the women of Asia into the place which their Creator designed them to occupy is a work which can be done by the women of Christendom. Let the pitifulness of the condition of Eastern women and the difficulty of reaching them combine with the grandeur of the possible success to lead the women of Christendom to see that this work is done city tour istanbul.
On visiting the cathedral attached to the Greek Patriarchate at Constantinople, the traveller is shown the throne occupied by the Patriarch on certain high feast days. It is a massive arm chair of some heavy wood richly coloured by age. The Greeks declare this to be the veritable throne used by St. Chrysostom when he was Bishop of Constantinople; a relic marvelously preserved for the comfort of the faithful through the vicissitudes of fifteen hundred years. Without committing one’s self to the claims of this comfortless seat, one may well admit their power to stir enthusiasm for a Church whose history includes the possibility of the truth of such a pedigree for this throne.
The Eastern Church
The Eastern Church has actually had bishops upon the Episcopal throne of the city, from Chrysostom down, in long and unbroken succession. Feuds of mingled political and theological origin shook the throne of the Byzantine empire long before it fell, but they could not shake the Church, for such feuds are mere incidents of its unbroken story. Turmoil and dissensions and anarchy have many times made the streets about St. Sophia slippery with the blood of priest and statesman; the great dome itself has echoed with the clash of arms and the angry shouts of zealous Christians; struggling mobs have swarmed over surrounding buildings and have taken possession of the leads of the holy place itself in order to hurl epithets and missiles, or to ply cudgel and knife in discussions of such questions of popular interest as the natures of Jesus Christ, the title of Mother of God for the Virgin Mary, and the propriety of using pictures or images in worship; bishops and Patriarchs unfortunate enough to poll a minority of the votes have been dragged from the place by the hair of the head, but through all of this noise and strife, orthodoxy has not been rent asunder nor lost its hold upon the people.
Today, as fifteen centuries ago, the Patriarch of Constantinople is the “ Ecumenical Patriarch of the Orthodox* Church,” if a creed is what feeds life. For his congregation is the lineal descendant of that of the Apostles. It is the one which was the convener of the great councils of all Christendom. Its liturgies and its theological writings are the veritable, untranslated words of the ancient Fathers of Christendom. Its care preserved to the world the principal codices of the New Testament, although to-day its clergy have to journey to St. Petersburg or Paris or London or Rome in order to look at these early tokens of the patient fidelity of its pious scribes.
0 notes
Photo
Western civilization in any shape
Since the first point to be gained is to bring woman up out of the gloom where she has been left by centuries of ignorance and neglect, the touch upon her of Western civilization in any shape is an ally not to be lightly rated. At Constantinople as at no other place in Turkey Western civilization touches Eastern women. There they see and try to copy the dress of their Western sisters, although their taste is still such as to make the Constantinople market the sink into which fall all the rejected monstrosities of fashion which dealers in other cities would fain put out of the way. There too, the women arc quick to discover and appreciate the freedom of the Western order of society, although having none to teach them they are apt to regard freedom as license, and to seek to emulate it in ways original with themselves.
Not much can such vague movements stir enthusiasm of hope for these poor women. Yet one cannot avoid seeing that what the women of Constantinople get into their minds from abroad, slowly filters through the surrounding regions to affect the ideas and the life of distant towns. And one cannot fail to see too that a tendency to look Westward for light opens a door to women of the West who wish well to the women of the East. Because they come from the West they can win their confidence and help them to grow. The work of lifting the women of Asia into the place which their Creator designed them to occupy is a work which can be done by the women of Christendom. Let the pitifulness of the condition of Eastern women and the difficulty of reaching them combine with the grandeur of the possible success to lead the women of Christendom to see that this work is done city tour istanbul.
On visiting the cathedral attached to the Greek Patriarchate at Constantinople, the traveller is shown the throne occupied by the Patriarch on certain high feast days. It is a massive arm chair of some heavy wood richly coloured by age. The Greeks declare this to be the veritable throne used by St. Chrysostom when he was Bishop of Constantinople; a relic marvelously preserved for the comfort of the faithful through the vicissitudes of fifteen hundred years. Without committing one’s self to the claims of this comfortless seat, one may well admit their power to stir enthusiasm for a Church whose history includes the possibility of the truth of such a pedigree for this throne.
The Eastern Church
The Eastern Church has actually had bishops upon the Episcopal throne of the city, from Chrysostom down, in long and unbroken succession. Feuds of mingled political and theological origin shook the throne of the Byzantine empire long before it fell, but they could not shake the Church, for such feuds are mere incidents of its unbroken story. Turmoil and dissensions and anarchy have many times made the streets about St. Sophia slippery with the blood of priest and statesman; the great dome itself has echoed with the clash of arms and the angry shouts of zealous Christians; struggling mobs have swarmed over surrounding buildings and have taken possession of the leads of the holy place itself in order to hurl epithets and missiles, or to ply cudgel and knife in discussions of such questions of popular interest as the natures of Jesus Christ, the title of Mother of God for the Virgin Mary, and the propriety of using pictures or images in worship; bishops and Patriarchs unfortunate enough to poll a minority of the votes have been dragged from the place by the hair of the head, but through all of this noise and strife, orthodoxy has not been rent asunder nor lost its hold upon the people.
Today, as fifteen centuries ago, the Patriarch of Constantinople is the “ Ecumenical Patriarch of the Orthodox* Church,” if a creed is what feeds life. For his congregation is the lineal descendant of that of the Apostles. It is the one which was the convener of the great councils of all Christendom. Its liturgies and its theological writings are the veritable, untranslated words of the ancient Fathers of Christendom. Its care preserved to the world the principal codices of the New Testament, although to-day its clergy have to journey to St. Petersburg or Paris or London or Rome in order to look at these early tokens of the patient fidelity of its pious scribes.
0 notes
Photo
Western civilization in any shape
Since the first point to be gained is to bring woman up out of the gloom where she has been left by centuries of ignorance and neglect, the touch upon her of Western civilization in any shape is an ally not to be lightly rated. At Constantinople as at no other place in Turkey Western civilization touches Eastern women. There they see and try to copy the dress of their Western sisters, although their taste is still such as to make the Constantinople market the sink into which fall all the rejected monstrosities of fashion which dealers in other cities would fain put out of the way. There too, the women arc quick to discover and appreciate the freedom of the Western order of society, although having none to teach them they are apt to regard freedom as license, and to seek to emulate it in ways original with themselves.
Not much can such vague movements stir enthusiasm of hope for these poor women. Yet one cannot avoid seeing that what the women of Constantinople get into their minds from abroad, slowly filters through the surrounding regions to affect the ideas and the life of distant towns. And one cannot fail to see too that a tendency to look Westward for light opens a door to women of the West who wish well to the women of the East. Because they come from the West they can win their confidence and help them to grow. The work of lifting the women of Asia into the place which their Creator designed them to occupy is a work which can be done by the women of Christendom. Let the pitifulness of the condition of Eastern women and the difficulty of reaching them combine with the grandeur of the possible success to lead the women of Christendom to see that this work is done city tour istanbul.
On visiting the cathedral attached to the Greek Patriarchate at Constantinople, the traveller is shown the throne occupied by the Patriarch on certain high feast days. It is a massive arm chair of some heavy wood richly coloured by age. The Greeks declare this to be the veritable throne used by St. Chrysostom when he was Bishop of Constantinople; a relic marvelously preserved for the comfort of the faithful through the vicissitudes of fifteen hundred years. Without committing one’s self to the claims of this comfortless seat, one may well admit their power to stir enthusiasm for a Church whose history includes the possibility of the truth of such a pedigree for this throne.
The Eastern Church
The Eastern Church has actually had bishops upon the Episcopal throne of the city, from Chrysostom down, in long and unbroken succession. Feuds of mingled political and theological origin shook the throne of the Byzantine empire long before it fell, but they could not shake the Church, for such feuds are mere incidents of its unbroken story. Turmoil and dissensions and anarchy have many times made the streets about St. Sophia slippery with the blood of priest and statesman; the great dome itself has echoed with the clash of arms and the angry shouts of zealous Christians; struggling mobs have swarmed over surrounding buildings and have taken possession of the leads of the holy place itself in order to hurl epithets and missiles, or to ply cudgel and knife in discussions of such questions of popular interest as the natures of Jesus Christ, the title of Mother of God for the Virgin Mary, and the propriety of using pictures or images in worship; bishops and Patriarchs unfortunate enough to poll a minority of the votes have been dragged from the place by the hair of the head, but through all of this noise and strife, orthodoxy has not been rent asunder nor lost its hold upon the people.
Today, as fifteen centuries ago, the Patriarch of Constantinople is the “ Ecumenical Patriarch of the Orthodox* Church,” if a creed is what feeds life. For his congregation is the lineal descendant of that of the Apostles. It is the one which was the convener of the great councils of all Christendom. Its liturgies and its theological writings are the veritable, untranslated words of the ancient Fathers of Christendom. Its care preserved to the world the principal codices of the New Testament, although to-day its clergy have to journey to St. Petersburg or Paris or London or Rome in order to look at these early tokens of the patient fidelity of its pious scribes.
0 notes
Photo
Western civilization in any shape
Since the first point to be gained is to bring woman up out of the gloom where she has been left by centuries of ignorance and neglect, the touch upon her of Western civilization in any shape is an ally not to be lightly rated. At Constantinople as at no other place in Turkey Western civilization touches Eastern women. There they see and try to copy the dress of their Western sisters, although their taste is still such as to make the Constantinople market the sink into which fall all the rejected monstrosities of fashion which dealers in other cities would fain put out of the way. There too, the women arc quick to discover and appreciate the freedom of the Western order of society, although having none to teach them they are apt to regard freedom as license, and to seek to emulate it in ways original with themselves.
Not much can such vague movements stir enthusiasm of hope for these poor women. Yet one cannot avoid seeing that what the women of Constantinople get into their minds from abroad, slowly filters through the surrounding regions to affect the ideas and the life of distant towns. And one cannot fail to see too that a tendency to look Westward for light opens a door to women of the West who wish well to the women of the East. Because they come from the West they can win their confidence and help them to grow. The work of lifting the women of Asia into the place which their Creator designed them to occupy is a work which can be done by the women of Christendom. Let the pitifulness of the condition of Eastern women and the difficulty of reaching them combine with the grandeur of the possible success to lead the women of Christendom to see that this work is done city tour istanbul.
On visiting the cathedral attached to the Greek Patriarchate at Constantinople, the traveller is shown the throne occupied by the Patriarch on certain high feast days. It is a massive arm chair of some heavy wood richly coloured by age. The Greeks declare this to be the veritable throne used by St. Chrysostom when he was Bishop of Constantinople; a relic marvelously preserved for the comfort of the faithful through the vicissitudes of fifteen hundred years. Without committing one’s self to the claims of this comfortless seat, one may well admit their power to stir enthusiasm for a Church whose history includes the possibility of the truth of such a pedigree for this throne.
The Eastern Church
The Eastern Church has actually had bishops upon the Episcopal throne of the city, from Chrysostom down, in long and unbroken succession. Feuds of mingled political and theological origin shook the throne of the Byzantine empire long before it fell, but they could not shake the Church, for such feuds are mere incidents of its unbroken story. Turmoil and dissensions and anarchy have many times made the streets about St. Sophia slippery with the blood of priest and statesman; the great dome itself has echoed with the clash of arms and the angry shouts of zealous Christians; struggling mobs have swarmed over surrounding buildings and have taken possession of the leads of the holy place itself in order to hurl epithets and missiles, or to ply cudgel and knife in discussions of such questions of popular interest as the natures of Jesus Christ, the title of Mother of God for the Virgin Mary, and the propriety of using pictures or images in worship; bishops and Patriarchs unfortunate enough to poll a minority of the votes have been dragged from the place by the hair of the head, but through all of this noise and strife, orthodoxy has not been rent asunder nor lost its hold upon the people.
Today, as fifteen centuries ago, the Patriarch of Constantinople is the “ Ecumenical Patriarch of the Orthodox* Church,” if a creed is what feeds life. For his congregation is the lineal descendant of that of the Apostles. It is the one which was the convener of the great councils of all Christendom. Its liturgies and its theological writings are the veritable, untranslated words of the ancient Fathers of Christendom. Its care preserved to the world the principal codices of the New Testament, although to-day its clergy have to journey to St. Petersburg or Paris or London or Rome in order to look at these early tokens of the patient fidelity of its pious scribes.
0 notes
Photo
Western civilization in any shape
Since the first point to be gained is to bring woman up out of the gloom where she has been left by centuries of ignorance and neglect, the touch upon her of Western civilization in any shape is an ally not to be lightly rated. At Constantinople as at no other place in Turkey Western civilization touches Eastern women. There they see and try to copy the dress of their Western sisters, although their taste is still such as to make the Constantinople market the sink into which fall all the rejected monstrosities of fashion which dealers in other cities would fain put out of the way. There too, the women arc quick to discover and appreciate the freedom of the Western order of society, although having none to teach them they are apt to regard freedom as license, and to seek to emulate it in ways original with themselves.
Not much can such vague movements stir enthusiasm of hope for these poor women. Yet one cannot avoid seeing that what the women of Constantinople get into their minds from abroad, slowly filters through the surrounding regions to affect the ideas and the life of distant towns. And one cannot fail to see too that a tendency to look Westward for light opens a door to women of the West who wish well to the women of the East. Because they come from the West they can win their confidence and help them to grow. The work of lifting the women of Asia into the place which their Creator designed them to occupy is a work which can be done by the women of Christendom. Let the pitifulness of the condition of Eastern women and the difficulty of reaching them combine with the grandeur of the possible success to lead the women of Christendom to see that this work is done city tour istanbul.
On visiting the cathedral attached to the Greek Patriarchate at Constantinople, the traveller is shown the throne occupied by the Patriarch on certain high feast days. It is a massive arm chair of some heavy wood richly coloured by age. The Greeks declare this to be the veritable throne used by St. Chrysostom when he was Bishop of Constantinople; a relic marvelously preserved for the comfort of the faithful through the vicissitudes of fifteen hundred years. Without committing one’s self to the claims of this comfortless seat, one may well admit their power to stir enthusiasm for a Church whose history includes the possibility of the truth of such a pedigree for this throne.
The Eastern Church
The Eastern Church has actually had bishops upon the Episcopal throne of the city, from Chrysostom down, in long and unbroken succession. Feuds of mingled political and theological origin shook the throne of the Byzantine empire long before it fell, but they could not shake the Church, for such feuds are mere incidents of its unbroken story. Turmoil and dissensions and anarchy have many times made the streets about St. Sophia slippery with the blood of priest and statesman; the great dome itself has echoed with the clash of arms and the angry shouts of zealous Christians; struggling mobs have swarmed over surrounding buildings and have taken possession of the leads of the holy place itself in order to hurl epithets and missiles, or to ply cudgel and knife in discussions of such questions of popular interest as the natures of Jesus Christ, the title of Mother of God for the Virgin Mary, and the propriety of using pictures or images in worship; bishops and Patriarchs unfortunate enough to poll a minority of the votes have been dragged from the place by the hair of the head, but through all of this noise and strife, orthodoxy has not been rent asunder nor lost its hold upon the people.
Today, as fifteen centuries ago, the Patriarch of Constantinople is the “ Ecumenical Patriarch of the Orthodox* Church,” if a creed is what feeds life. For his congregation is the lineal descendant of that of the Apostles. It is the one which was the convener of the great councils of all Christendom. Its liturgies and its theological writings are the veritable, untranslated words of the ancient Fathers of Christendom. Its care preserved to the world the principal codices of the New Testament, although to-day its clergy have to journey to St. Petersburg or Paris or London or Rome in order to look at these early tokens of the patient fidelity of its pious scribes.
0 notes
Photo
Western civilization in any shape
Since the first point to be gained is to bring woman up out of the gloom where she has been left by centuries of ignorance and neglect, the touch upon her of Western civilization in any shape is an ally not to be lightly rated. At Constantinople as at no other place in Turkey Western civilization touches Eastern women. There they see and try to copy the dress of their Western sisters, although their taste is still such as to make the Constantinople market the sink into which fall all the rejected monstrosities of fashion which dealers in other cities would fain put out of the way. There too, the women arc quick to discover and appreciate the freedom of the Western order of society, although having none to teach them they are apt to regard freedom as license, and to seek to emulate it in ways original with themselves.
Not much can such vague movements stir enthusiasm of hope for these poor women. Yet one cannot avoid seeing that what the women of Constantinople get into their minds from abroad, slowly filters through the surrounding regions to affect the ideas and the life of distant towns. And one cannot fail to see too that a tendency to look Westward for light opens a door to women of the West who wish well to the women of the East. Because they come from the West they can win their confidence and help them to grow. The work of lifting the women of Asia into the place which their Creator designed them to occupy is a work which can be done by the women of Christendom. Let the pitifulness of the condition of Eastern women and the difficulty of reaching them combine with the grandeur of the possible success to lead the women of Christendom to see that this work is done city tour istanbul.
On visiting the cathedral attached to the Greek Patriarchate at Constantinople, the traveller is shown the throne occupied by the Patriarch on certain high feast days. It is a massive arm chair of some heavy wood richly coloured by age. The Greeks declare this to be the veritable throne used by St. Chrysostom when he was Bishop of Constantinople; a relic marvelously preserved for the comfort of the faithful through the vicissitudes of fifteen hundred years. Without committing one’s self to the claims of this comfortless seat, one may well admit their power to stir enthusiasm for a Church whose history includes the possibility of the truth of such a pedigree for this throne.
The Eastern Church
The Eastern Church has actually had bishops upon the Episcopal throne of the city, from Chrysostom down, in long and unbroken succession. Feuds of mingled political and theological origin shook the throne of the Byzantine empire long before it fell, but they could not shake the Church, for such feuds are mere incidents of its unbroken story. Turmoil and dissensions and anarchy have many times made the streets about St. Sophia slippery with the blood of priest and statesman; the great dome itself has echoed with the clash of arms and the angry shouts of zealous Christians; struggling mobs have swarmed over surrounding buildings and have taken possession of the leads of the holy place itself in order to hurl epithets and missiles, or to ply cudgel and knife in discussions of such questions of popular interest as the natures of Jesus Christ, the title of Mother of God for the Virgin Mary, and the propriety of using pictures or images in worship; bishops and Patriarchs unfortunate enough to poll a minority of the votes have been dragged from the place by the hair of the head, but through all of this noise and strife, orthodoxy has not been rent asunder nor lost its hold upon the people.
Today, as fifteen centuries ago, the Patriarch of Constantinople is the “ Ecumenical Patriarch of the Orthodox* Church,” if a creed is what feeds life. For his congregation is the lineal descendant of that of the Apostles. It is the one which was the convener of the great councils of all Christendom. Its liturgies and its theological writings are the veritable, untranslated words of the ancient Fathers of Christendom. Its care preserved to the world the principal codices of the New Testament, although to-day its clergy have to journey to St. Petersburg or Paris or London or Rome in order to look at these early tokens of the patient fidelity of its pious scribes.
0 notes
Photo
Western civilization in any shape
Since the first point to be gained is to bring woman up out of the gloom where she has been left by centuries of ignorance and neglect, the touch upon her of Western civilization in any shape is an ally not to be lightly rated. At Constantinople as at no other place in Turkey Western civilization touches Eastern women. There they see and try to copy the dress of their Western sisters, although their taste is still such as to make the Constantinople market the sink into which fall all the rejected monstrosities of fashion which dealers in other cities would fain put out of the way. There too, the women arc quick to discover and appreciate the freedom of the Western order of society, although having none to teach them they are apt to regard freedom as license, and to seek to emulate it in ways original with themselves.
Not much can such vague movements stir enthusiasm of hope for these poor women. Yet one cannot avoid seeing that what the women of Constantinople get into their minds from abroad, slowly filters through the surrounding regions to affect the ideas and the life of distant towns. And one cannot fail to see too that a tendency to look Westward for light opens a door to women of the West who wish well to the women of the East. Because they come from the West they can win their confidence and help them to grow. The work of lifting the women of Asia into the place which their Creator designed them to occupy is a work which can be done by the women of Christendom. Let the pitifulness of the condition of Eastern women and the difficulty of reaching them combine with the grandeur of the possible success to lead the women of Christendom to see that this work is done city tour istanbul.
On visiting the cathedral attached to the Greek Patriarchate at Constantinople, the traveller is shown the throne occupied by the Patriarch on certain high feast days. It is a massive arm chair of some heavy wood richly coloured by age. The Greeks declare this to be the veritable throne used by St. Chrysostom when he was Bishop of Constantinople; a relic marvelously preserved for the comfort of the faithful through the vicissitudes of fifteen hundred years. Without committing one’s self to the claims of this comfortless seat, one may well admit their power to stir enthusiasm for a Church whose history includes the possibility of the truth of such a pedigree for this throne.
The Eastern Church
The Eastern Church has actually had bishops upon the Episcopal throne of the city, from Chrysostom down, in long and unbroken succession. Feuds of mingled political and theological origin shook the throne of the Byzantine empire long before it fell, but they could not shake the Church, for such feuds are mere incidents of its unbroken story. Turmoil and dissensions and anarchy have many times made the streets about St. Sophia slippery with the blood of priest and statesman; the great dome itself has echoed with the clash of arms and the angry shouts of zealous Christians; struggling mobs have swarmed over surrounding buildings and have taken possession of the leads of the holy place itself in order to hurl epithets and missiles, or to ply cudgel and knife in discussions of such questions of popular interest as the natures of Jesus Christ, the title of Mother of God for the Virgin Mary, and the propriety of using pictures or images in worship; bishops and Patriarchs unfortunate enough to poll a minority of the votes have been dragged from the place by the hair of the head, but through all of this noise and strife, orthodoxy has not been rent asunder nor lost its hold upon the people.
Today, as fifteen centuries ago, the Patriarch of Constantinople is the “ Ecumenical Patriarch of the Orthodox* Church,” if a creed is what feeds life. For his congregation is the lineal descendant of that of the Apostles. It is the one which was the convener of the great councils of all Christendom. Its liturgies and its theological writings are the veritable, untranslated words of the ancient Fathers of Christendom. Its care preserved to the world the principal codices of the New Testament, although to-day its clergy have to journey to St. Petersburg or Paris or London or Rome in order to look at these early tokens of the patient fidelity of its pious scribes.
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SAM AND PAM
Alright. I was deliberately holding out on this until we saw Sam’s mother and/or father, and having looked at Pam, I feel fairly confident in standing by my first theory regarding Sam’s Seussian heritage -- namely, he’s a mutt. He’s a little of everything in the kitchen sink, with a pedigree that includes, but is in no way limited to...
- Who. Pam’s got a head full of humanlike hair, an almost surefire way to tell that someone’s either a Who or a Who-cross. Even if she didn’t, the rounded muzzles, lack of visible ears, sandy-white fur, and incredible flexibility also strongly backs up this theory. Specifically, Pam and Sam’s short statures suggest they’re descended from the massive Who population found on the nearby Tinytopian islands.
- Snuv. This one’s trickier because Snuvs aren’t the only creatures in the Seuss world to possess a “skirt flap”; we also don’t know if Pam possesses one -- although she does sport some very Snuvvian cheek fluffs -- or if Sam got this from his dad. However, the overall bell-like shape of Sam’s coat definitely suggests something in the Snuv family.
- Zower. Zower-crosses are extremely common in Yookia and Zookia -- their long muzzles and low hanging ears, not to be mistaken for Knox ears, can be seen all over both countries and especially among their guards. Pam’s ever-so-slightly elongated muzzle could simply be that, a slightly longer muzzle, but it wouldn’t be surprising if she had a little Zower in her.
- Miscellaneous. Just about everyone in the Seussian world can claim at least a little bit of something else in their heritage. It’s the little things, like the uneven coloration in their fur or Sam’s rough neck and skirt fringe or even just the way they carry themselves, that could potentially suggest any number of species have been in their family at some point. Given the way Pam’s hair stands up without assistance and how long Sam’s arms are, it wouldn’t be surprising if they both had a little Zode in there.
So yes. The somewhat polite term for these two would be Who-crosses. If you wanted to be a funnyman about it, you could call them Who-brids, but you should know before you do that every single Who-cross has heard it half a million times before, and that it wasn’t all that funny the first time.
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vyn x rosa au and they're college students; or vyn x rosa au wherein vyn is the son of a duke and a well-known bachelor AND rosa is with royal blood as well, but compared to vyn, she has zero experience with men, she's innocent + her debut is neaaaar
I chose option #2 for this. I don't think I fully complied with it though but who said innocent would always mean a doormat?
This was fun to write. It sorta turned into its own thing though. Haha.
Owl and plank.
"Oh really now, where have I heard that before?" you mutter, rolling your eyes all the while. "Handsome, eligible bachelor, catch of the century, very good pedigree." You bring a napkin to your lips. Suddenly the lemon sorbet set in front of you doesn't taste as nice as you thought it would be.
"I'm sorry, but it sounds like you speak of a pedigreed dog than a man."
Your parents look at you disapprovingly across the grand dining table. "Dear Rosa." The Viscount's voice is placid, but you know you're already walking on thin ice; his lips a thin line of displeasure underneath the archaic handlebar mustache. "You are turning sixteen next month. You will need to choose someone as your escort in your debut."
"Be grateful you were afforded the privilege of choosing," your mother adds. "But there is no more time, we are afraid.
"If you do not find this Haspran boy to your liking, like the others we have introduced to you already, then we will be forced to delay your debut for four more years." She taps the butt end of her folding fan to the table, as if to emphasize her next words.
"And you will will be sent to a finishing school until then. Four years, in a finishing school Rosa, do you understand?"
===
And so here you are, trapped in the sitting room of your family's manor, dolled up in the prettiest of powder pink chiffon gown that makes you itchy and enduring the pain of having to be restrained in a translucent, diaphanous restrictive coffin of a dress.
Your eyes wander longingly outside the enormous French windows--you suddenly yearn to tear off your dress, slip into your trousers and run your restless legs across the expansive swathes of green under the bright sunshine. Like always.
But you know those days are numbered. In fact, the days are probably long gone--you are now being forced to wear these dresses more frequently as you receive and entertain prospective suitors under the watchful eye of your parents.
For you are reaching the precipice of your marketability in the high society circles. Soon, once you reach the age of sixteen, your name will be added on the list of maidens eligible for marriage.
No more running through the grass, nor climbing the trees. No more carrying around a wooden plank pretending to be a hero-knight out to save the day.
Your parents have been lenient--they at least let you enjoy your childhood as much as you wanted to--but you are now becoming a young adult, an initiate to high society.
You sigh, resisting the urge to throw your folding fan across the sitting room and ripping apart your gown--
"He is here, milady," the butler interrupts your thoughts. "You may want to stand up now...?"
"Ugh." You allow yourself a few seconds to make a grimace, before the massive oak doors are opened, during which you will need to force a smile--
And then he steps in, bouquet of lilies in hand, the light breeze flowing from the windows lightly tousling his wispy silver hair; and when his golden eyes behold you the words that escape his lips is
"Hello, Plank."
"What?"
And then you subconsciously put your hands over your lips. You know him. You know this man presented in front of you.
Only that the last time you have seen him, it was almost a decade ago, and even then the memories of your interactions with him are rather vague--you were but young children back then: he was a lanky boy, and he most certainly did not exude the confident aura that he has right now.
In fact, when you first saw him, his face was streaked with dirt, tears, and anger.
Now, it seems, not only has he become even taller, he has also already gained composure, wit, and confidence befitting a man of noble birth.
Also, he grew up to be drop-dead gorgeous.
You let out a laugh. "I...I never thought I'd hear about you being talked about as the most eligible bachelor in town," you say rather brazenly, and so un-ladylike. "My Owl!"
Your parents could only look at the both of you with confusion.
"Rosa," your mother hisses your name tersely. "You will explain yourself, right now."
You can only grin at them with your winsome smile. "Mother, don't worry. This man, I'll take him. I'll take him!"
The silver haired man's lips twist in a bemused smile. "Ah. This is getting rather confusing. I apologize," he gives your parents a short bow. "Your daughter and I--we were acquainted when we were still children. I am sorry that this fact has not been mentioned before."
He then faces you, and tenderly places the bouquet of lilies in your arms. "I was not able to find a good opportunity to inform you who I actually am." His eyes sparkled at the memory. "Back then, we did not actually know each other's names, did we?
"I am Vilhelm Richard Albert de Haspran. First and only son of Duke Eirik de Haspran." Contrary to proper etiquette, Vilhelm takes both of your hands into his and squeezes them gently, holding them close to his bosom. "I am very, very pleased to make your acquaintance once again, Miss...?"
You resist the urge to throw aside the ceremonial bouquet of lilies, resist the urge to just throw your hands around Owl's--Vilhelm's--neck. "Rosa! Just call me Rosa."
"Rosa," Vilhelm smiles, golden eyes crinkling with pure mirth. "A beautiful name. I am glad to finally put a name to the pleasant memory from our past."
"Let's get out of here, Vilhelm," you say to him rather impulsively. Then to your parents, "Mother, Father, the search is done, it's over, call off whoever else is on the list, I'll show Vilhelm around!"
And then, just like the whirlwind, you pull Vilhelm by the hand and the both of you quickly run out of the manor and into the expansive green yonder, the fields where you thought you would no longer have a chance to wander in.
===
Ten years ago.
A twelve year old boy hid himself in the bushes. Rosa's family hosted a grand fete in their estate in the outskirts of Stellis, and high society mingled as high society were wont to do.
The children in tow were mostly left alone to their own devices, expected to intermingle with others of their age while the adults went about their business.
This particular boy however could not bring himself to get along with other children. Perhaps it is because of his strange looks--silver hair, golden eyes--or perhaps it is because of the strange toys that he brought along, toys that were deemed not befitting a twelve year old boy of noble birth.
A rustling sound came from the other end of the bush he was hiding in.
Someone else has sneaked in, and he cringed defensively, thinking the other boys followed him to--
"Hello," came a small, sweet voice. "What are you doing here?"
The boy blinked, surprised that a girl much younger than him managed to slink into the bushes. He noted her torn dress, the twigs and leaves stuck in her hair and clothes.
She will surely get a whipping when her parents find her...
"Never you mind," he mutters, holding his owl stuffed toy close to him. "Don't bother me."
"Don't give me that lip, mister," said the auburn haired girl, hands on her hips. For such a tiny girl, her words were rather mature and forceful, nothing like the coy nothings girls much older than her tend to blather about. "My family owns this place!"
"Oh. You must be the Viscount's daughter then." The boy looked rather morose, and defeated. "So? What are you going to do to me?"
"Eh? Am I supposed to do something? Like a game?"
"Whatever," he sighed, and rubbed his still aching cheek.
"Oof, that looks like it hurts." The girl crawled closer to him, trying to peer into his face. "How'd you get that bruise?"
"Stay away from me," the boy immediately turned his face away from her. He has been humiliated enough by the other boys.
"Oh! That's a cute dolly!" The girl suddenly chirped. "Can I see? Lemme see, pretty please?"
He looked at her warily, before reluctantly handing her the stuffed toy in the shape on an owl.
"Wow, it's so cute," she cooed, before giving the toy a tight hug. "What's its name?"
"I just call it Owl."
"I'd like to call it Bobby," she pouted. "If you're not going to give it a name."
"Owl IS its name."
"If you say so." She peered again at him, a bit too close for comfort--her pert little nose almost touching his chest. "What's that on your neck?"
"Oh this?" The boy was starting to feel comfortable around her, and appreciated her curiosity that was a welcome distraction from his problem. "You call this a stethoscope."
"Stethop?" The girl clearly had trouble pronouncing the word.
He did not bother correcting her. "You can call it that, I guess."
"What's that for?"
"It's to check if there's something wrong in someone's body."
"Wow, it can do that?" She clumsily reached for the bell attachment of the toy stethoscope. "Aah, I wanna try."
He pulled it away out of reach. "No," he said rather sternly. "You are not a doctor. I am."
"I know doctors. Doctors are much older," came her matter-of-fact statement. "They're all bald."
He huffed. "Well, I am going to study to become one."
"Hey, did you hear that?" said another boy from outside the bushes. "I think I hear him."
"I hate his guts," came yet another one. "Think he's prissy and all with that doll of his."
"Weird kid playing with dolls."
The boy inside the bushes tensed up, his hands digging into his knees.
"Hey," the girl whispered. "Did those guys...hurt you?" she touched the bruise on his face.
He winced. "Yeah," he muttered. "I was minding my own business, but."
"Ugh. How dare they do that in my turf." She then shimmied past him, crawling farther into the bushes, trying to rummage for something.
"Yay. I knew I left it here." In her hands was a rather sizeable wooden plank. "Don't you worry, your knight is here!" she winked, rather cutely with a threatening wooden plank in both her hands.
"What." The boy blinked at the sight of a tiny girl with pigtails, torn pink dress adorned with ribbons, armed with a wooden plank and who looked like she was ready to ambush his bullies. "You're not seriously--"
Then she jumped out of the cover of the bushes. "Stop, scoundrel!"
"What?" One of the two heavy-set boys looked at her in confusion. "What are you doing with that wooden plank?"
"I'ma punish you for hurting my friend!"
"Your friend?" He scrunched his eyebrows in thought. "Oh. That prissy half breed."
"Ew. He's so much of a wuss he had to send a little girl to defend him."
"He--AHH!"
The girl hit boy's calf with her plank, putting behind it as much strength as she could muster with her tiny arms.
From inside the bushes the boy watched the entire exchange with fear.
Oh no. If she keeps it up the boys will--
"Why you little--"
Despite his initial fear, the boy from inside the bushes jumped out and hurled himself at the the bully. "Run! Don't worry about me!" he cried out to the little girl.
"No!" She stomped her foot. "I have a duty to protect this place!" She once again brought the wooden plank over her head and threatened to whack the bully's leg with it.
"You can't take them on, they'll hurt yo--ah!"
"Don't touch me you filthy bastard!" One of the heavy-set bullies pushed him down to the ground. He also spotted the owl stuffed toy lying next to him. "Yuck. Boys playing with dolls." He stepped on the doll, grinding it into the ground with his heel.
"Stop!" The wooden plank once again hit him, this time squarely at the back. "How dare you hurt Owl!" The girl was still keeping at swinging her plank at the bullies.
She was going to go for another swing when one of the groundskeepers spotted them. "Hey, you kids, don--what the heavens is happening here?!" the old man cried as he spotted the silver-haired boy kneeling on the ground, and his little Madam Rosa chasing off two burly boys off with a big stick.
===
He was sulking in the garden--made to wait there by his father and forbidden to go anywhere else--when she finally found him.
"Heya," she greeted him. There were tell-tale streaks of dried tears on her face, and her eyes were red. "Um, did you get into trouble too?"
"Not really," he mumbled. "Just grounded, is all."
The little girl laughed sheepishly. "They had to spank me a bit."
"Serves you right for going at other kids with a plank."
She put her hands on her hips, indignant. "I did it for you, you know!"
"I didn't ask for--"
"Oh no, Owl!" the girl rushed to his side, and cradled the owl doll that was now soiled and caked in mud and frayed at the edges. "He's hurt!"
The girl's eyes threatened to spill with tears. "You gotta check him if he can still be okay!"
The boy blinked in surprise. "Um, it only needs cleaning and stitching, you know."
"No! He needs to be healed!"
He sighed, and he straightened the toy stethoscope around his neck, inserting the earpieces into his ears. "Fine then, let's check him..."
The girl cradled Owl in her arms as he pressed the toy stethoscope's diaphragm on its chest. "He is okay," he said. "Still breathing. Just needs stitches."
The girl breathed out in relief. "Whew. I'm glad."
===
Eventually the time came when the boy had to leave with his father.
She shyly came up to him and asked "When are you coming back?"
"I do not know," he shrugged. "I think my father will not take me with him again because I caused him trouble."
"But I wanna play with you more," she pouted. "I want to play pretend knight and you can be the doctor to heal me when I'm hurt!"
He smiled wanly. "Yeah. That sounds nice. Well, I'll see you then."
He was about to get in the car when she shouted "I forgot to ask for your name! I'll call you Owl, okay?"
Sighing, he stuck his head out of the car window to face her as the automobile started to roll along. "That's fine, Plank!"
===
The both of you finally reached the spot where you first met.
"This place--it hasn't changed much, has it," Vilhelm said, as he struggled to catch his breath.
Both of you had run all the way from the manor and out to the expansive garden.
You spy the bush that marked the entrance to your secret base, where you met Vilhelm. "Nope," you concur. Indeed, the place did not change, but the both of you became bigger, and it is to your regret that you could not fit into the gap that led to the inside of the bushes that once served as your sanctuary.
Vilhelm holds out a hand to you. "Come here," he said, and when you look up to his face your breath is taken away--his hair looks brilliant in the sunlight, and a lot more could be said about how alluring his sparkling gold eyes are at daytime.
You feel your face growing hot. Eventually you take his hand, and he pulls you close to him, but not too close that is unbecoming of a man who had just met his prospective partner.
"Thank you Vilhelm," you say sweetly, never letting go of his hand. "My, aren't you a charming fellow now? So far from the boy I found crying in my secret base?"
"And aren't you the graceful lady now, a far cry from the little barbarian in a dress who chased off my bullies with a big stick." He places his free hand on your waist, as if he is about to lead you in a dance.
The both of you held each other in such a manner, enjoying each other's presences. You are so close to him that you can smell his rose and sandalwood scent from the skin of his neck.
"I have never met someone else like you, you know?" He whispers by your ear. "So when I found out that the daughter of the Viscount was too feisty to be pinned down, I thought I'd take my chances."
"All the boys my parents introduced to me before you weren't my type. I knew they were going to treat me like a mere trophy, just hanging onto their arms while they mill about in parties."
You feel his hand leave your waist, only to have gentle fingertips brush away a stray strand of your hair and tucking it behind your ear. "Such a waste of a firebrand like you."
The touch flusters you a bit, so you turn your face away from his in a weak attempt to hide your blushing. "We are all grown up now, however. Tell me, Vilhelm..." You once again face him, holding his gaze with yours. "If I choose you, will I just become something to show off in parties for you?"
You feel Vilhelm's laugh rumble in his chest. "As if. I am not even going to those damned parties anymore." Then, in quieter voice, he asks "Can I tell you a secret?"
"Of course."
"I am planning to eventually relinquish my birthright. I am going overseas."
Your eyes widen at this news.
Vilhelm's smile is slightly sad. "I will understand if you will turn me down because of this...you will essentially marry a commoner if you choose me. But I plan to make a name for myself as a doctor of--"
"That is the most wonderful idea, Vilhelm!" Truthfully, you could not get any happier with this news.
No more stifling societal rules. No more having to kowtow to hierarchy driven by birth. Most importantly, no more having to be forced into uncomfortable dress and made into enduring the company of people who you'd much rather kick in the eye.
"Just don't spring the news until after you've married me." You wink at him impishly. "You hear?"
"Of course."
"No take backsies."
"Of course, beloved." Somehow, Vilhelm is emboldened by your words, for he plants a chaste kiss on your lips.
"I am sorry for making you wait too long. This time, I will be the one to rescue you from your predicament."
"Take me away. Vilhelm de Haspran."
"Of course, milady."
#tears of themis fanfic#tears of themis au#vyn richter#mo yi#tears of themis vyn#tot vyn#vyn richter x reader#tot au
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They Were Roommates: Part 3 - The Dog
Part 3 of They Were Roommates: Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 4 / Part 5 / Part 6 / Part 7 (Coming soon)
Pairing: Modern!Pero Tovar x f!reader
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 5,524
Warnings: Smut (again, not sorry), oral (m receiving), vaginal sex, dry humping, teasing, soft!pero, blood mention, food mention, swearing, no beta
Summary: Pero wants a dog, and this leads to several big decisions.
A/N: @whiskeyslasso once again coming in clutch with the inspo! Also, this chapter puts this whole story at just over 21,000 words in three chapters. I am astounded.
Masterlist | Ao3
You have no idea how you had let Pero convince you to go to the shelter, you really don’t. Yet, here the two of your are, hand in hand, waiting for your turn to play with the dogs who were up for adoption.
“Pero,” you sigh, looking up at him.
“Mmm.”
“We really don’t have room for a dog right now. The apartment is too small, and a dog deserves a yard to be able to run around and play in. I’d feel so bad keeping it inside all day.” A pout pulls at the corner of your lips as Pero pulls you closer to his side, a heat flushes your cheeks. This still not something that you’re use to. When the staff member waves the two of you back, Pero all but yanks you forward as he nearly sprints into the back. You can’t remember a time ever seeing him more excited.
“We have dogs of all ages available for adoption today, mainly mutts where we have only been able to guess at pedigree.” The poor girl leading you around is nearly drowned out by the overwhelming amount of barking.
“That does not matter,” Pero speaks up quickly, and you smile.
“Fantastic. I can’t tell you how many people we had come in looking for pure breeds.” She shakes her head, opening the gate to the play pin. You can’t help the sound that comes from you, somewhere between a coo and a whine as you collapse to the ground to be attacked by the dogs. You love the furry beasts, you really do, but you just…don’t know about having one right now. Pero kneels beside you, petting the animals as they venture towards you both, the frown lines on his face lessening ever so slightly. You take pause when you hear a sonorous boof! looking up just in time to be waylaid by an absolutely massive dog, the furry beast sending you sprawling flat on your back as it attacks your face with excited licks. Pero is terrified for a moment that you’ve been hurt until he hears your laughter as you try to sit back up. He helps to ease the dog off of you, distracting it as he showers it in attention and scritches.
“This dog is magnificent,” he grumbles, scratching behind her ears and you nod before grabbing his sleeve to wipe off your face. The look of disgust and disbelief has you near bursting at the seams when you look back up at him. “That was disgusting, bella.” You grin at him before moving to pet the dog yourself. Overwhelmed with the attention, she flops against Pero nearly knocking him down to show her belly which you happily rub.
“Ah, yes, this one is a really sweet. She doesn’t have a name yet, came to us earlier today, actually. An anonymous drop on our front patio, kennel and everything. We think it was a case of she got bigger than the owner was expecting.” The staff member hovers over your shoulder, smiling. “She’s mostly Newfoundland, not sure if she’s a pure breed though. Clocks in about about 120 pounds, the heavier end of Newfie females.”
“She is perfect.” Hearing his comment, you open your mouth to protest as you look over to Pero, but the look in his eyes has you melting on the spot. “Isn’t she, hermosa? Strong and beautiful. Like you.” Heat rushes to your cheeks as the shelter staff member bubbles about how adorable the two of you are. “Please, hermosa?” Your will falters under the gaze of your new boyfriend, but it’s when you look at the dog that you truly cave. The pup is staring up at you with eyes that match Pero’s, such a soft brown. She looks so happy as he lavishes her with attention, her tail wagging non-stop.
“O…Okay, Pero…we can take her home.” He reaches out for your hand, giving it a squeeze before refocusing his attention on the dog. The staffer hands you the adoption paperwork for you to begin filling out.
Where the hell were you going to be able to keep this massive creature?
~~~
“This might have been a mistake,” you sigh, dropping your face into your hand as the new companion wanders around the small house, taking in the smells. “It’s like we adopted a small horse…”
“Hermosa,” Pero comes up to you after having set out the food and water at the end of the kitchen for the furry behemoth prowling your home. “We must name her, eh? Something fitting of a beauty like her.” His hands make their way around your waist, pulling you to him as you bring your hands to rest on his chest. The skin between his eyebrows creases in serious thought. “Perhaps Esmeralda?”
“You mean like from the Hunchback of Notre Dame?”
“From what?” He asked, starring down at you puzzled.
“What do you mean ‘From what?’ Have you never seen that movie?” He shakes his head and you gasp, feigning offense. “That cannot be allowed. We’ll watch it with dinner one of these nights.” He just nods, clearly still confused. “As for the name…I like it, so long as I can call her Essy.”
“No, her name is Esmeralda, not Essy.”
“But Essy sounds so cute!” He grumbles for a moment about how it diminishes the name until you get tired of it, reaching up to pull his lips to your own, silencing the grump. His grip around your waist pulls you a bit more tightly to him causing you to smile into the kiss. When you pull away, you reach up and tap his nose, giggling at the way his face scrunches in mild distaste when you do.
“Fine…you can call her Essy,” he grumbles, resting his forehead against yours.
“Gracias, gruñón.” His hand moves to smack your ass lightly and you squeak, pressing up against him as a low chuckle reverberates in his chest.
“You could call me so many other things, yet still it is gruñón you choose.”
“What, should I call you mí novio? Guapo?” You get up on your tip toes as you pull his head down so his ear is level with your lips, whispering. “Papí?” You swear you hear the wire snap holding Pero’s self control together as he hoists you over his shoulder, heading to the bedroom with a sharp smack on your backside again. You squeal at the smack, face flushed hot. He kicks the door shut behind him, tossing you on the bed before crawling over you, crashing his lips against yours in a needy kiss as his arms cage you underneath him. Your arms wrap around his neck, grabbing fist-fulls of his soft hair in just the way he likes. Every time Pero kisses you, you find yourself getting lost in all of it. The taste of him, the feel of his lips, the sound of his sighs and grunts as he grinds against you…it always borders on too much in the most pleasurable of ways.
Surprising him, you shift your weight to knock one of his arms out from underneath him, wrapping your leg around his hip to use your weight to roll the both of you over. You sit there straddling his hips, smirking down at him. The surprise on his face lasts only the briefest of moments before his eyes darken, hands landing firmly on your hips to drag you against his crotch. You let out a soft, needy moan, leaning down to kiss him…until you hear a whimper from outside the door and you freeze. Your eyes lock with Pero’s for a moment, and you consider just leaving the dog out there and continuing your fun until you remember that you’re a renter, and you have absolutely no desire to have the dog damage anything.
“Sorry, Pero. We may need to wait until the baby is asleep.” You grin, pressing a quick kiss to his lips before removing his hands and hopping off of him. Pero grumbles something too fast, too low, and too in Spanish for you to catch, probably something about being cock blocked by a dog, before he gets up to follow you. Slowly opening the door, you’re very nearly mowed over again by a very excited, very large dog. Your downstairs neighbors were going to hate you…
~~~
It had only been a week since the newest addition to your household had joined you, but in that week you could already tell she had Pero wrapped around her paws.
“No giant dogs on the couch,” you said, only to come home literally that same night from a late shift to see your man and his dog cuddling on the couch.
“No, she can’t sleep in the bed Pero,” you had told him as he borderline pouted at you. Well, as close to pouting as you have ever seen the man with the permanent scowl get. When you stepped out of the shower a bit sooner than he had expected, you saw Pero shoo the dog from the bed as he attempted to play innocent.
But for all of the rule breaking and spoiling, Pero takes very good care of the dog. The first thing he does when he gets home after kissing you is take the dog for a walk while you cook, and it shocks you a bit just how easy it is for you to settle in to this routine. Less than four months with your grumpy Spanish man, and you are already finding it difficult to not call yourselves a family.
Pero is out on one of those walks with Esmeralda at this very moment as you slice up onions for the stir fry. Your mind wanders a bit too far from the task at hand, lost in thought about what the future could hold for you both, until you hiss as the blade catches your thumb, the knife in your hand clattering to the ground.
“Shit! Fuck!” you scream, clenching your teeth as you run to the sink, trying to avoid getting blood absolutely everywhere from the deep gash in your thumb. Your ears ring at the sight of the blood running down the drain as you try to remember to breathe. You had never been able to stand the sight of blood, especially not your own. The sound of the front door and large paws on the wood floors is a welcome relief as your knuckles turn white from the harsh grip on the sink.
“Hermosa, we’re back,” Pero calls from the front door as he removes his shoes.
“P-Pero…” you groan, hardly audible over the sound of the running water in the sink. The shaking in your knees finally becomes too much and you hit the ground, the world spinning around you as your ears ring. Pero calls your name and you’re vaguely aware of his footsteps as he runs to the kitchen. A string of profanity slips from his lips as he grabs a towel, wrapping it around your hand as he cradles your body against his. “B-blood,” you try to explain, praying the contents of your stomach decide to stay where they should.
“Shhhh, cariño, I’m here. It’s alright, it is just a small cut. I will take care of it, and of you.” Once your breathing has evened out, Pero stands, helping you up as you cradle your hand to your chest. Your thumb was starting to throb and you bite back tears because of it. He ushers you to the bathroom, scowl firmly in place. To anyone else, he would appear irritated at you, but you could see the concern that was present in his gaze. He sits you on the toilet seat before rummaging in the medicine cabinet for the alcohol and bandages. “Don’t look.” Calloused fingers gently turn your head away before he takes off the towel, quickly pouring a bit of alcohol on the wound. You whimper and try to pull your hand away out of reflex as it stings, but his strong grip around your wrist keeps you firmly in place as he blows on the cut, the cool air soothing a bit of the sting. Once it’s dry, he wraps a bandage around it, making sure the cut is pressed firmly together. He brings your bandaged hand to his lips, kissing it gently before kissing each of your knuckles, gazing back up at you. Tears shine in your eyes partially from the throbbing of your thumb, and partially from the embarrassment of what just happened.
“Are you alright, belleza?” The concern lacing his voice causes you to sniffle as you try desperately to fight back the tears, nodding.
“I was daydreaming and the knife slipped… I really hate blood Pero.” Your bottom lip trembles and he brings his hand to gently cup your cheek. Leaning into the touch, your eyes slip closed for a moment, the pad of his thumb running along your cheekbone to soothe you. When you open your eyes again, he is watching you with that same intense stare, like he’s working to memorize every single line of your face. As if at any moment you would slip away from him.
“I will clean the kitchen and finish dinner. You rest with the dog in the living room, alright?” All you can do is nod, the tenderness in his gruff voice so soothing you just want to melt into it. The corner of his lip quirks in a small smile before he leans forward to press a gentle kiss to your forehead. He helps you to your feet, holding you steady as you slowly make your way to the living room. Essy is already on the couch, and she lets out a whine as Pero helps you over, easing you down. You immediately cuddle up to the fluffy beast, nuzzling your face into her fur. Ok…yeah, the puppy can be on the couch, you decide. Pero pets your hair gently, whispering comforting words of affection before heading to the kitchen.
When the stir fry is done, Pero brings a small serving to you, taking his place on the very little remaining space left on the couch. You pull your feet up to offer him more room, but he just grunts, moving your legs so they rest in his lap. “Eat, hermosa. You’ll feel better.” He was right, you know he was, so with a sigh you sit up, grabbing the plate.
“It smells good, Pero. Thank you for finishing everything.” He nods, grabbing the remote to flip on the TV, not making a big deal out of anything.
“What was this movie you demanded I watch when we named Esmeralda?” His eyes flick to you then back to the TV.
“Oh, right! It’s called The Hunchback of Notre Dame. Here.” You hold out your hand for the remote and he obliges, grabbing his fork to begin scarfing down his food. You are convinced this man would never be able to eat normally. “It’s one of my favorites,” you mumble as you flip through the movies you have, settling into the sofa when you find it. The sound of the opening music always made you smile, and this time is no different. Pero sits quietly after scarfing down his food, a hand resting on your shin to rub soothing circles absentmindedly with his thumb.
As the credits roll, you look up to him expectantly. The grumpy scowl is still on his face as he turns to look at you. “Well?” you ask, curious to know what he thinks.
“The music is good. I see why you like this film.” He reaches to take your bandaged hand, leaning over to kiss it again, succeeding in making your heart flutter. “Bella, where did your mind wander to for you to hurt yourself like this?” His voice is still gruff, but softer now, concerned. “You are always so careful in the kitchen. What happened?”
You swallow thickly then clear your throat, trying to focus on the feeling of your hand in his. The two of you had been together for so short of a time, would this scare him off? Shaking your head, you decide to bite the proverbial bullet. “I was thinking about us,” you whisper, your gaze falling on your connected hands. When he says nothing, you continue. “I was thinking about moving. The dog needs a yard, a bigger home to play in. Pero, she’s over 100 pounds…we can’t keep her if we are going to stay here, my landlord will kill me. That is, if my downstairs neighbors don’t first.” You look up, the worry plain as day on your face. As always, his face is grumpy and unreadable. His thumb has stilled on your hand, causing your chest to tighten with anxiety. The silence in the living room is stifling, you just need him to say something, anything. Even if it is a no, that’s better than this insufferable silence.
“You want to find…a home together?” His voice is soft, layered with surprise and a look up to his face kicks your heart into a sprint. You’re sure he can hear it with how loud the beat sounds in your own ears. His face has softened as he watches you, the lines smoothing in the way you usually only see when he sleeps.
“I know we haven’t been together long, and that this is a big step, and that it’s asking a lot, and that you may not be ready, and-” Your ramblings are cut off by Pero pressing a sweet yet firm kiss to your lips. When he pulls back, the corner of his lips pulls up is a small smile.
“Belleza…hermosa…la luz de mí vida. Cálmate. I think you are right.” His thumb resumes its gentle circles against the back of your hand as your mouth falls open in surprise.
“Y-you mean it?”
“Of course. Esmeralda needs a yard, as you say. And I think it will be good for us to have a home together. I want a home with you.” He squeezes your hand again, his face drawn and serious. For a moment, you don’t move, processing what he has said. When all the gears finally click into place, you scramble to shift around throwing your arms around his neck with a borderline reckless abandon, hiding your face against his neck. His hands rest in the small of your back, holding you against him. You try to find the words to tell him just how you feel, but they fail you, so you elect to just hold yourself closer to him, breathing him in in the silence. You feel him rest his head against yours as he heaves out a content sounding sigh, leaning back against the arm of the sofa as he holds you to his chest. You would be happy to stay like this forever.
Pero’s hands trace lines up and down your back before fiddling with the hem of your shirt, slowly sliding up underneath it to drag his fingers across your skin. You shiver against him at the touch, pressing a gentle kiss above his pulse point. You feel the vibration of the growl in his chest more than you hear it, and it draws a smile to your lips. Leaning back, you brush his bangs from his forehead, excitement coursing through you at the sight of his eyes darkened with need, eye as intense as ever.
“You know,” you purr, resting your hand on his jaw, the stubble tickling your palm. “The furry one is asleep so,” you lean forward, nibbling at his ear, “we can go pick up where we left off earlier.” The words barely have time to leave your lips before Pero is standing, your arms around his neck and legs around his waist as he carries you to the bedroom. Your giggle in his ear sends a shiver down his spine. God how he loves that sound.
Rather than tossing you on the bed like he normally does, this time he takes a seat, your legs still around his waist. He brings a hand to your cheek, guiding your lips to his in a desperate, tender kiss. You bring your hands to cradle his face gently, eyes closed as you drink him in, lost in the feeling of his lips on yours, moving in time with yours as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
You rock your hips ever so slightly against him, swallowing the soft moans the action pulls from him before leaning back, looking up at him with the softest gaze you can manage. His hands rest on your hips, gently massaging them as he lets you set the pace, not wanting to rush you tonight. “You know,” you whisper as soft as you can manage, not wanting to shatter this moment with words far too loud. “If someone had told me that this would be my life four months ago, I would have laughed at them.” Pero smirks and nods, pulling your hips more firmly against his own, earning him a satisfied hum.
“Had you not shown up that morning, I was going to leave this city.”
“Then thank God I happened to bump into you. Literally.” The coy smile on your face paired with the sultry slur of your voice fans the flame of desire inside Pero, and his hips buck against your, earning a delicious gasp from your lips as it pulls a low groan from his throat. Your hands brace on his shoulders as you rock yourself against him, whimpering with need. “L-lay back,” you nearly moan and he does as instructed, staring up at you with those dark eyes you adore so much. The way he watches you every time makes you feel like the most beautiful woman on the earth and sends your confidence soaring without fail. “I want to make you feel good tonight.”
“Hermosa, you always make me feel good,” Pero mumbles, watching as you tug your shirt off over your head, eyes falling immediately on you chest. Your skin flushes hot as you smirk, running your hands up his stomach to his chest, leaning in to kiss him quickly. His mouth follows yours as you lean back again, hands traveling down to his pants to quickly undo the button on his jeans that are rapidly becoming too tight for his liking. You swing your legs off of him, tugging his pants down right along with his boxers, discarding them on the floor.
“Scoot up on to the bed.” The borderline commanding sound in your voice causes Pero’s cock to twitch, bringing a smirk to your lips as he does as instructed. Tugging off your own pants and panties rather gracelessly, Pero makes use of the moment to rid himself of his own shirt before you’re crawling back over him like some tigress stalking her prey. He has never seen such a confident hunger in your eyes before and he can’t even begin to describe the way that look is affecting him. You crash your lips against his, wasting no time in nibbling at his bottom lip. He gladly parts his lips for you, your tongues dancing fervently as you revel in the taste that is so entirely and uniquely him. You drag your nails down his chest causing him to shiver against you, his hands snapping to your hips.
“Easy, tiger,” you whisper against his lips before beginning to kiss your way down his jaw, occasionally leaving gentle nips as you trail down his neck, over his chest. Your teeth graze against his nipples at which Pero draws in a sharp breath, his hand reaching up to grip your hair. Smirking against his skin, you continue on your path downwards, kissing down his stomach which tightens under your touch. You follow the path of soft hairs below his navel down to the curls at the base of his cock, your chin brushing against him. Your eyes flash up to his as you grin, neglecting his cock in favor of kissing along the inside of his thighs, nibbling gently at the skin in a manner not unlike the way he first teased you when he had his head between your legs. Pero’s legs tremble under your touch, his hips bucking ever so slightly as the neediest moan you have ever heard from him escapes his lips, followed by a frustrated growl.
With a grin, you finally take the tip of his cock into your mouth, moaning softly at the taste of him. The hand in your hair tightens for a moment before relaxing, trying to remember to be gentle with you as your mouth renders him unable to form a coherent thought. Achingly slowly, you begin to bob your head along his length, hollowing out your cheeks as you do. With every movement, you draw another beautiful sound from your Spaniard; a moan, a grunt, a hiss…and it all sounds like music in that deliciously deep voice of his. You need more. Taking a deep breath, you lower your head, taking him as deep as you can till your nose nestles in the curls at the base his cock. Pero lets out a choked sounding moan, eyes snapping down to you, wide with surprise. He tugs at your hair, trying to ease you off of him as he feels his release rapidly coming on.
“C-Cielo, fuck, I-I’m gonna…” You resist the tugging on your hair, looking up at him with hooded eyes as you reach up to cup his balls. The look in your eyes as you play with him is enough to finally send him toppling over that edge, a string of profanities, both English and Spanish, pouring from those beautiful lips of his. His hand in your hair tightens its grip as he goes rigid underneath you as he fills your mouth. When he finishes, you slowly let him out of your mouth as he watches you with a look of disbelief and desire. That coy smile still on your face, you swallow, opening your mouth to show him.
“Dios…” His low and husky voice sends a shiver through your body as he sits up, the hand in your hair pulling you to him for a rough, sloppy kiss. He groans at the taste of him on your lips, grabbing your bottom lip between his teeth, pulling back until the tender flesh slips from between his teeth. “Mí princessa perfecta…” His voice drips with arousal and desire, low and gruff in his chest.
“Let me ride you, Pero.” The confidence and desire in your voice surprises even you, but you know it has the desired effect when you feel him twitch against your thigh, already getting hard for you again.
“You will be the death of me, mí cielo…” He smirks at you as he lays back, hands resting on your hips. You lean down to kiss him again, unable to get enough of the taste of his lips or the feel of his skin against yours. His fingers dig into the skin of your hips as he works himself back up. You reach down to ghost your fingers over him and he jumps in your hand, bringing a smirk to your lips. Quickly reaching for a condom in your nightstand, you sit back to tear it open with you teeth. Pero’s eyes ravage your body, a flush across his cheeks and chest as he waits for you. Deciding you are taking too long, he runs a hand across the front of your hip and over your mound to press his thumb against your clit, rubbing quick circles against you.
“F-Fuck,” you hiss, a tremble running through your body as you lean forward, bracing yourself against Pero’s chest. When your eyes find his face, he’s smirking at you with a look that you are sure you had been wearing only moments before; confident and self assured. With a shaky hand, you grab his wrist, grinding against him a few times before pulling his hand away. You grasp his cock, quickly rolling the condom on to him as his hand grabs your hip again. The low hum that you pull from him as you do sends a warm tingle straight to your absolutely dripping core and you raise yourself up on your knees, shifting forward just enough to slowly lower yourself down on to him. Your head falls back as you breathe out a moan when your hips meet his, fully seating him inside of you. Pero’s nails dig into your hips as he fights to hold on to his self control and not flip you over to pound you into the mattress.
Bracing your hands on his chest, you raise your hips ever so slowly before sliding back down. Your eyes find Pero’s, just as delirious and drunk on pleasure as your own. You let out a heady sounding moan at the sight of that handsome, grumpy face creased in the pleasure that you provide him, quickly speeding up your pace, the sound of skin slapping skin as you bounce on him made all the more lewd as your arousal drips from you, coating his thighs. The moans and whimpers of pleasure tumble from your lips in a near constant stream, only to be punctuated by a near scream as Pero works to meet your thrusts, hips lifting up against you as you slide down against him. You slump forward, overwhelmed in pleasure and he wraps his arms around you, holding you tightly to him as his hips snap up against you at a relentless pace.
“P-Pero, oh fuck, Pero!” You whimper against him, turning you head to bite at the skin of his shoulder, earning a hiss from him, his hips stuttering for the briefest of moments.
“I want – hng- I want you to cum for me, nenita. Please,” he growls in your ear, nipping at the earlobe as he slams up into you. You nails dig into the skin of his chest, leaving half-moon divots in the feverish flesh.
“S-Say my name,” you beg, desperate to hear it tumble from his lips. And when it does, your body tenses and you see stars as your orgasm washes over you. You clench down on Pero, ripping a guttural moan from his lips as he chants your name over and over again like a prayer. He slams into you only a few times more before his own orgasm seizes him in throes of pleasure, holding your hips tightly against his own. You whimper out his name at the feeling of him twitching inside of you, closing your eyes to press your forehead against his shoulder as you pant for air.
As the aftershocks of your orgasms abate, he lowers his hips slowly to the bed and you raise your face from his shoulder, smiling fondly down at him. A sheen of sweat covers his near glowing skin, his lips parted slightly as he tries to regain his own breath. His fingers have resumed the gentle lines along your back as he calms down, softening inside of you. You lean in to press a kiss to his left cheek, then the right, then his nose before finally his lips. One of his hands moves to cradle your head gently as your lips work against his at a lazy pace. Breaking the gentle kiss, you rest your forehead against his, a smile gracing your lips.
“You’re stunning, mí cielo,” he mutters, his hand resting on your cheek. You giggle softly, turning to kiss his palm.
“And you take such good care of me.” Your reply has the flush returning to his cheeks as he grumbles something about it being his job, only causing you to giggle more. You bite your lip as you lift your hips just enough for him to slip out of you, slide off of his chest to cuddle into his side. He takes care of cleaning himself up with the tissues you conveniently decided to start keeping on the nightstand before he pulls a blanket over the both of you, cradling you to him as he leaves a gentle kiss on your forehead.
“I can’t wait to make a home with you, mí cielo,” he murmurs against your hair, causing your heart to skip a beat. You press a gentle kiss to his chest and hum softly in acknowledgment.
“Regardless of where we end up, so long as I’m with you, I’m already home.” Pero’s arms tighten around you at your confession, your voice thick with pleasure and heavy with sleep. You hear his heart speed up in his chest, and you smile. He gives you a grunt in agreement, but the beat of his heart gives away his excitement. Slowly, your eyes slip closed as exhaustion overtakes you.
“Te amo…” The words are but a breath, and you aren’t even sure you actually heard them as you dance on the precipice of unconsciousness. You could ask him tomorrow, you think, as you slip into a comfortable, dreamless sleep.
~~~~~~~
Translations:
Bella - Beautiful
Hermosa -Gorgeous
Gracias – Thank you
gruñón - Grumpy
mí novio – my boyfriend
Guapo -Sexy
papí – (Do I really need to translate this?)
cariño - Darling
Belleza Beauty
la luz de mí vida. - the light of my life
Cálmate – Calm down
cielo – literally: “sky.” used to mean “heaven”
Mí princessa perfecta – My perfect princess
Nenita – Baby girl
mí cielo – my heaven
Te amo - I love you (used for lovers)
Tag list:
Permanent: @ahopelessromanticwritersworld, @tangledlove27, @paintballkid711, @lose-eels
Modern!Pero: @littleferal, @lilkermit14, @the-feckless-wonder, @whiskeyslasso, @yespolkadotkitty, @cryptkeepersoul, @lackofhonor
Tag lists are open!
Requests are open!
#Pero tovar#pero tovar x reader#pero tovar x f!reader#modern!pero tovar#modern!pero tovar x reader#the great wall#pedro pascal#my fic#they were roommates
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Charles Robinson x Fem Reader- "Here's To You, Mr. Robinson"
Yes, this fanfic is about wrestling referee Charles Robinson.
A little something for his birthday today!
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We all know several sports always have cheerleaders, usually and almost always female, cheering for players: football and basketball are both examples.
There's debates over whether or not if professional wrestling is a sport, but you could say wrestling does have their own answers to cheerleaders, and it isn't the Nitro Girls in WCW or women doing wrestling matches dressed as cheerleaders.
No, arguably the wrestling equivalent to cheerleaders are valets: usually beautiful women who will cheer for some wrestler and beat their hands on the ring.
There won't be a bunch of valets all together like cheerleaders, but some wrestler will have a valet escorting him to the ring where she watches the match and sometimes even eggs that wrestler to beat that other wrestler up.
Sometimes, valets even interfere with the match.
Most referees out there aren't very handsome, but one male wrestling referee that is surprisingly quite cute is Charles Robinson.
And no, he isn't some wrestler that will sometimes be a referee like Shawn Michaels, Triple H or Randy Orton, he is an actual referee.
And one that's nice to look at to boot.
In 2003, when you were the valet that helped escort Triple H to the ring, you were standing by the ring on a "Monday Night Raw" episode, cheering Triple H on whilst he beat the crap out of someone.
You had some anxiety while you were cheering Trips on, afraid that he or the other wrestler he's fighting against will step on your fingers while you beat your hands on the ring.
Though, you aren't just there to cheer for Triple H.
Charles Robinson just so happened to be a referee during this match, and he is a cute referee.
Most of women's roles during the "divas era" were for them to be valets and arm candy escorting some wrestler to the ring, and worse, not just that, but be eye candy as well as play the roles of seductive vixens and their relationships with men.
Despite that, you came up with your seductive, sex obsessed nymphomaniac slut character that you'll always be remembered for, though you probably would've been given that character by the WWF/E creative staff because Attitude and Ruthless Aggression era, where women were usually treated as eye candy sex objects.
Sometimes, female valets would interfere with the match by flashing their tits (Debra) or distracting and/or flirting with a wrestler or a referee, or even both, and Charles Robinson is a referee you would gladly flirt with.
You slowly sauntered towards Charles with this little smirk on your face like you were up to no good, and Jerry Lawler and Jim Ross on commentary as well as the audience caught you strolling up to Charles.
This got the audience as well as Jerry Lawler's attention, now focusing more on you instead of the match.
Jerry chirped and shrieked when you walked up Charles, guessing what's probably gonna happen.
The camera was now filming you walking to Charles instead of the actual wrestling match going on, much to the dismay of some people watching this on TV wanting to see the actual wrestling match.
As you walked up to him, some males in the audience were cheering for you and even making a few silly wolf whistles at you.
You were dressed in a tight blouse with a miniskirt and opened toed stiletto heels, perfect sexy outfit that still leaves much to the imagination.
Charles' eyes grew wide as you approached him, worried that you were gonna step up to him.
Oh yeah, you were.
It's obvious you were.
He's getting distracted by you even though he doesn't want to, but he can't help it.
You're a beautiful woman giving him a boner.
Once you stood close enough to Charles, despite that he isn't running away from you, you lifted one of your hands and placed your index finger on his chest, where you made that index finger run vertically up and down his chest.
He was looking down at your index finger doing this to him, your body was pressing onto the front of his body, and you still had that little naughty smirk on your face.
You lifted one of your arms and placed your forearm across the top of his shoulders and behind his neck, where your other hand on that arm played with a few strands of his hair.
Surprisingly, he isn't running away from you, but that's because you're like a succubus and you've got him under your control.
"You're really cute" you purred to him while you stood close to him, still having that naughty grin on your face.
Jerry Lawler's eyes are growing wide at the commentary table and he's shrieking his throat out, leaning over the commentary table, whereas Jim Ross is at a loss for words.
The males in the audience are jealous of Charles, but when are they never jealous of some beautiful woman with some wrestler?
Your finger on his chest eventually evolved to now your hand pressing on his chest, where your hand caressed vertically up and down his chest, basically "wax on/wax off"-ing his chest.
Charles still had his eyes wide, his head was turning left and right and even he was somewhat grinning over you doing this to him.
Your head was slightly tilted and you still had that shiteating grin plastered across your face.
"She's distracting Charles!" Jim Ross exclaimed.
The wrestler that Triple H is against with argued with Trips about this, pointing to you, only for Triple H to throw a punch to that wrestler's face.
Your hand on his chest moved down under his tucked in shirt and slid up to his chest, where your hand began caressing his chest.
Charles was trying to fight you off, his head moving back and forth and his hands pushing you away from him, your body detaching from his torso, but you still were gonna flirt and seduce him.
He can't help it, this may as well be a match where the female seduces the man and she wins when he taps out.
This is basically almost borderline rape culture, since you're trying to seduce him while he's trying to fight you off.
No matter many times he resists you, you're still gonna try to attach to him just to get Triple H to win.
You pressed your body onto Charles' torso, your leg nudged against Charles' leg, where your foot slid out of your stiletto and placed your foot on top of Charles' black leather shoe, drumming your toes across the top of his foot.
The audience must think Charles is a homosexual for not wanting you seducing him, you can just hear some dudes chanting the "f" word that rhymes with "maggot" at Charles.
Charles argued with you he has to be a referee, but no, you're gonna distract him, no matter what it takes.
He won't deny you're a beautiful woman, but damn it, this is wrong.
You could nearly grab onto his shirt and kiss him, giving him a long kiss, but nah.
Y'know, Charles could be distracted by your beauty while you beat the ring and cheer for Triple H (or someone else) and he could stroll up to you and start sweet talking and flirting with you, and that's actually happened before with you.
As you were distracting him from the match, Triple H was beating the mess out of some other wrestler, kicking that other wrestler's ass, throwing punches.
Eventually, Triple H lifted that other wrestler lying on the ring up by the arms, where he placed that wrestler's head in between his thighs while still holding onto this wrestler's arms.
The audience knows what's next...
Then, Triple H dropped this other wrestler onto the ring where Trips landed on his knees and this other wrestler rolled over, still lying on the ring.
"Pedigree!" Jim Ross exclaimed at the commentary table.
As this other wrestler lay in the ring exhausted, Triple H laid down next to him in the ring, wrapping his massive arms around that other wrestler's thigh and held onto it, lifting that leg up in the air until it was standing straight up.
Triple H's other hand moved to the ring to beat 3 times.
"3...2...1!" the audience chanted as Triple H beat the mat with his hand with every count, until the bell rang after counting.
Triple H quickly dropped the other wrestler's leg and held his arms up in victory, the chorus to his entrance theme played while the crowd had a mixture of cheers and boos in the audience.
"That's a disqualification!" Jim Ross exclaimed and argued. "She distracted Charles!"
Indeed, it was.
But...that's one of the points to a valet.
To distract the referee for the other person to win, and that isn't right.
Then again, the WWF's Attitude era was filled with disqualification matches, and 2003 is infamous in being a part of Triple H's Reign of Terror.
Charles Robinson as well as the wrestler that Triple H beat were arguing how it isn't fair, you distracted Charles, but Trips still won the match?
Triple H walked away holding the belt up while Lillian Garcia announced how Trips is the winner, and he walked back with you wrapped on the side of him grinning from ear to ear like you did something naughty, and you did.
Charles and that wrestler that lost to Triple H are mad how you distracted Robinson to win the match, but Triple H isn't mad that you flirted with Charles and basically cheated on him?
Then again, your character is sexually promiscuous and seduces and flirts with other wrestlers...
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Leech Lord: Allies
Troy
Gar is about as native as a Pandoran can get, and has for years had a very soft spot for the bratty King.
He's old colonist, thinks his parents might have been with Atlas on one of the many failed corporate town setups that plagued Pandora 30-ish years ago. He was too young to remember who's banner they flew under when his family stepped out of the shuttle and onto the dust planes they’d been instructed to settle, just that things went wrong fast and anyone still alive 18 months later had needed to adapt quickly to what constitutes living on this planet.
He was drawn to the Holy City for the same reasons as most survivalists, it was an opportunity for safety and a roof over your head. Not needing to fight to eat or scrabble to stay alive is a blessing for most Pandorans, and he's one of the thousands who live within the walls who don't quite worship the twins as Gods, but praise them as holy... because the twins gave them a chance to have a home. Wether they are deities or not isn't a factor in the loyalty they've’ earned.
He's skilled with food. Knows how to spice spoiled flesh to hide the rot, pickle cactus root and delicate rock blossoms for long storage, or how long rakk wing needs to be slow roasted to turn from gamey string to meat that melts in the mouth.
Like most in the HC, he ended up where his skills have value and has ran the kitchens in the Grand Cathedral since its founding bricks were set.
It didn't take very long for him to find Troy in it one night - picking through ingredients and half finished dishes in the early AM.
While he'd expected to need to drop to his knees and grovel, the God King had seemed more embarrassed than anything, awkwardly explaining he hadn't eaten that day and asking if there was anything left from the after sermon banquet.
His eager politeness had hit Gar hard, but his reaction to finding out the leftovers had been destroyed was what left a lasting impression.
Gar had thought the twins affluent spoiled little shits who'd hit things lucky on Pandora and been clever enough to know how to use their wealth to culture worship, so when Troy was genuinely upset to the point of disgust that food had been wasted like that? It changed his perception immediately.
This wasn't the reaction of some egotistical little shitbag from a wealthy background, this was the visceral panic and anger of someone who'd starved before, who understood the insult of food being destroyed when there were so many hungry... when he'd known hunger.
It took less than 24 hours for the kitchen policies to be changed and Gar's team to find out nothing was to be wasted. Uneaten and unused stock was to be transported at end of day to the Slums from now on, where it would "Bolster the flesh of the faithful."
Every time he finds Troy hunting through his kitchen at 4 am over the years, their chats grow a little longer.
By late COV, Gar's meals delivered to his sanctum are some of the only things God King Calypso still trusts enough to eat.
Tyreen
Xanshi Ur-Vendit is obsessed with the God Queen.
As her Saint of Marketing, he's got both her ear and a position of high authority within the organisation that he covets viciously, and takes great personal offense towards newer Saints he doesn't deem worthy of the title.
His pedigree speaks for itself, the man had quite a reputation on Promethea among the media departments of the high corporations. An expertly trained and cut-throat money maker that was the exact kind of egotistical, nasty piece of work that would be drawn to the God Queen's side.
Has direct tie in's with the esteemed Katagawa family, something he's used to his benefit throughout his career.
He fawns over her, she can do no wrong around him, and he spends as many hours of the day as he can trailing behind her heels like a lapdog, reaffirming her beauty and intelligence and infallibility with every breath he can manage between the underhanded threats he aims towards anyone possibly about to draw her attention away from him.
Hates Troy. Fucking hates him.
Too much of a hole-sucking little coward in his $60k three piece suit to actually do anything about it of course, but he takes plenty of his vitriol out on Troy's departments instead.
Marketing has such massive reach within the internal structure of the COV that he's able to throw his weight around far more than some of her other Saints, and regardless of if they actually like him, they tend to back Xan and his opinions automatically.
A huge amount of the conflict between departments and heads is driven by this imagined competitiveness, that Troy's people, Troy's chosen, must in some way be inferior to Tyreen's.
Xan is her right hand in his own mind, he's her holy knight. If she holds too much misplaced love for her brother to see how pathetic he is in comparison to her radiance, then it's up to Xan to keep Troy's people in place...
In reality? Tyreen isn't even invested in him enough to remember Xanshi's full name.
Seifa
Sei makes friends in low places far easier than higher ones, always has. People at the bottom of the ladder, folks who have struggled? They recognise each other. Doesn't matter where on the scales they currently stand, there's an unspoken nod, a side glance. You see your own - even if who you are has been lucky enough to change over time.
While she's never been in one place long enough to set up a friend network before that was tangible and not based on e-comms and data feeds, she's woven one since settling in the HC without really even noticing it was happening.
One-hand Jim in the King's Call, that high end rave bar near the cathedral grounds. Not so gruff now he's not drowning in debt, few more smiles while he's mixing cocktails.
Cleo in munitions stocks, breathing a bit easier since her son landed that underling role in the Mechanica, more food on the table with less worry.
Feliz and Irgo running deals in the western slum backstreets. Not competing against the HammerClaws for territory anymore since JK "got wind" of the shit they were cutting their gear with and had Vanguard waiting at their quarters for a polite discussion about unspoken laws. What Fe and Iggy are selling isn't exactly high quality but at least it won't rot your brain inside the skull.
Sei will tell you she's a lone wolf. She'll insist she’s a one woman show, runs shit on her own and doesn’t need others.
But watch closely when out with her in the city, check how often she buys a drink, how often it's not on an invisible tab the barstaff nod knowingly about as they hand her glass over with a smirk.
She's never asked to pay.
That should tell you plenty.
Seifa and Tyreen
- Early COV
"Ty, you ever wish you were born a guy?"
Of all the things Tyreen had expected to hear from Sei tonight, that... wasn’t it. She stopped reading the same piece of nonsensical math in the sheet she was holding to gawk at Seifa instead, staring at the other woman’s back as she continued to work on the data records they'd been passing between them all evening.
"No.. god. What, and look like Troy?" she snorted with a wince. "Nooooo thanks" Ty sighed as she leaned back and heard her stiff spine pop, waiting for a response that didn't come. She felt a pang of concern as Sei's shoulders sank a little lower in front of her, deflating.
This wasn’t normal, where was the bitchy retort, or joining in on insulting her brother? She shuffled together the files and stood, walking to her friend's side and sitting slowly next to her in the quiet of the twin's shared office. Sei still hadn’t responded, pretending to be completely absorbed by the notes she stared at. Ty cleared her throat with a cough.
"Uhhh.. why?"
Seifa silently reached to her side to take the offered files from Ty as she sat, pointedly not making eye contact, though the younger woman picked up on the redness in them easily enough.
"Sei, I need to have someone's hands cut off?"
Ty pouted, hitting her mark as Seifa failed to completely hide a smirk in response.
"I need to have someone thrown into a pit? Huh? C'mon Sei, talk to me. You always tell me I need to talk more about things that me down, right?" she weedled, hands clasped over her heart as she faux whined, earning a quiet laugh from her companion.
"Oh god Tyreen SURE, if you'll shutup." Sei groaned, leaning back in her chair and running hands over her eyes. She was tired. Beyond tired, really. Always said she knew how to not outstay her welcome but had been wondering recently if that had ever been true. Day to day in the cult, managing people she’d never meet and holding the weight of more responsibility than she’d ever wanted was eating at her. Had been for some time. Nights like this helped, shooting shit with Tyreen, bitching, sometimes gently bullying Troy together if he’d decided to grace them with his janky presence, but still.. it was heavy, and Seifa was tired.
"Ahh.. just the usual shit" she whispered, thumbing through the papers as Tyreen leaned a little closer, as much of a comforting presence as she could muster all things considered. An arm around the shoulder or gentle stroke of hair wasn’t an option. All Ty had was words and honestly, they weren’t exactly her forte.
“It's just like. Sometimes when I'm talking, and it's about something they think I shouldn't know shit about, like how Burgess is spending too much of your budget on expensive, low grade gear-assemblies when if we went off brand I can prove it would be better, they just zone out."
"It's like.. if they thought I had a cock, if I was 6'4, they'd be listening. " she added, eyes burning again.
She groaned, leaning over the table and resting her cheek across her folded arms.
"I got so angry. I'm used to dealing with it, it's always happened, but I just boiled over. This week has been.. long, I guess." she whispered, pinching the bridge of her nose as Tyreen watched quietly. "I ate into him in front of like, 6 other people Ty, couple of heads were there. That doesn't help my reputation does it.. that's just making shit worse. I'm sabotaging myself. They think I'm a bitch already without me starting a fight and stirring the pot."
Tyreen shifted in her seat, eyes thoughtful as she rested her chin in her hands, elbow propped on the table edge.
"Nah. "
"Just sounds like they're dumb. I keep telling Troy we need people with actual brains leading this shit Sei, if you're getting ignored cause you have tits? Haha. Wait till they meet me in person. " she grinned, a genuine act peeking through her usual haughty persona as Seifa chuckled.
"I mean my rack is way bigger than yours, you're flat as a fuckin' plank in comparison."
Asks are Open!
#borderlands#borderlands 3#bl3#tyreen calypso#troy calypso#calypso twins#seifa#leech lord#my hcs#my writing#lldrabbles
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Episode 1–The Boy Embraces His Ambition; Scene 4
Judgment of Corruption, pages 36-44
I didn’t know with what intentions Hanma had done that.
I could say it was a mystery, but also that it was appropriate.
He had originally sought to protect Gandalf’s status. It just hadn’t been what Gandalf wanted.
--I wonder what Hanma thought when he learned that Gandalf’s son wanted to join the Dark Star Bureau.
Of course, I can’t know that.
I can fly around the world and observe it freely, but I cannot see into the minds of mankind.
…That’s why it’s so interesting.
.
Anyway, Gallerian (and Loki) were soundly accepted into the Dark Star Bureau, and the day came that they graduated from college.
The night after graduation had finished, the customary graduation party was held by the students that were still enrolled.
“Congratulations, graduates…Cheers!”
After the class representative gave their speech, the party began.
Their party venue was the former Asayev estate inside the Levin University grounds. It was a mansion that had once belonged to a man who had staged a revolt against the Levin church that he had belonged to, and so it had long been abandoned, reviled for its history. It had been bought out as one of Levin University’s facilities when it was founded, and after some repairs it started being used as a multipurpose hall.
To the students, this hall, where one could feel a historical refinement without gaudy ostentation, was the perfect place to be holding the party.
Graduates wearing dazzling clothing mingled with the enrolled students, all of them bustling with excitement as they enjoyed food and drink. There were many people who were dancing to the fashionable music that could be heard coming from the gramophone.
It was comparatively simple to find Gallerian in this vigorous crowd. His characteristic blue hair stood out even looking from the ceiling.
Gallerian was wearing an outfit that was a little plainer than everyone else’s, made of cheap black cloth, and nursing an orange juice alone in a corner of the hall.
Almost all of the students that attended Levin University were raised in affluent families. Gallerian wasn’t an exception to that, but in truth, despite the pedigree of the Marlon family line his household wasn’t one that had a lot of means, financially speaking (at least, compared to the other students).
Despite once being the royal family, this was a state of affairs that had begun several generations back. His great-great-grandmother built up a fortune, and then his great-grandfather had built the Dark Star Bureau. Everything had been fine around that period, but then his grandfather had failed in a gold excavation enterprise in the continent of Maistia and lost a substantial amount of their inheritance. After his father Gandalf quit the Dark Star Bureau he spent his life in Marlon simply using up the money that they had left, hardly taking on any real work. Apparently they just barely managed to scrape up enough money for Gallerian’s tuition.
Whether Gallerian had a complex about his circumstances or he simply preferred to be alone, in any case he didn’t have a lot of friends in the university.
Loki was an exception, but he was currently in the middle of having fun dancing with his girlfriend Mira. Gallerian drank up his remaining orange juice as he watched the two of them from afar.
“You want a refill?”
A man walked up to him, holding a bottle of orange juice in hand.
“Yeah…Thanks, Tony.”
Gallerian held out his glass, and Tony poured juice into it.
“Congratulations on graduating, Gallerian…The room’s gonna be lonely with you gone,” Tony said, standing next to him.
Tony Ausdin was Gallerian’s roommate. He was about four years older than him, but hadn’t been able to graduate this year. Though, that was less a matter of him being a bad student, and more just that Gallerian was that exceptional.
“Graduating from Levin University at age fourteen, not to mention passing the entrance exam to the Dark Star Bureau in one try…You really are a prodigy. Unlike me,” Tony said, speaking in a tone that was neither sarcastic nor disagreeable, but rather honestly showing his respect.
“Oh no…it’s really not a big deal—”
“Quit being so modest. I’m getting miserable here. Sigh…I wonder when I’ll be able to graduate…”
“How are your credits?”
“Well…I guess they’re ‘secure’ for now. Unlike you I didn’t get into the university with a lot of determination. I don’t think what I’ve studied is gonna be all that useful to me once I graduate…I really only came here to give some prestige to my career, after all.”
In contrast to Tony’s sighing, Gallerian smiled a little. “I fear for where this country is headed, with our future general in such a state.”
“’General’, huh…Just because my father was doesn’t mean I’ve gotta follow in his stead…I’ve got no inclination towards joining the army to begin with…”
“Ha ha ha. You couldn’t even hurt a fly.”
“Pretty much. If you can even call it an army nowadays. Thanks to the USE framework there are hardly any wars between countries anymore. Even non-member nations Asmodean and Beelzenia aren’t stupid enough to pick a fight they won’t win. In a society like this there’s no point in going out of your way to become a soldier.”
“Well, maybe you shouldn’t then.”
“Tell that to my bull-headed father. Sigh…Why did I have to be born to a military family…”
“…I mean, soldiers are necessary to uphold the security of the nation, right? And in a world with all these bizarre events, well. There’s a lot of trouble going on in the southern part of Lucifenia where you’re from, isn’t there?”
“—That’s it. There’s the problem,” Tony replied, pointing at Gallerian.
“Problem?”
“Those white-skinned zombies. The so-called ‘dead soldiers’. Lately they’ve started showing up in Lucifenia’s borders. It’s cause Beelzenia’s army is so gutless. It’s practically a joke. Having to fight with such fantastical creatures that hopped up out of the graveyard.”
“Yeah. You’re definitely the worst person to become a soldier.”
“You think so? But…my dad…” Tony grumbled, holding his head.
“Hey, Tony…This just occurred to me.”
“Hm?”
“Did you, maybe…deliberately delay your credit acquisition because you didn’t want to become a soldier?”
“Wha!? D-d-d-don’t be ridiculous! Th-that’s no—Woops! My stomach is growling! I’m gonna go eat something!”
Tony awkwardly pulled away from Gallerian, walking towards the table where the food was.
“Hah…I wonder if he’ll…be alright, that one.”
As Gallerian was giving a wry smile, this time Loki came over with his girlfriend in tow, having finished dancing.
“Hey, Gallerian! You having fun?”
“Yep.”
“I see…Though it doesn’t really look like it. By the way, what do you plan to do for break after tomorrow?”
“For break…I’m gonna be working at the Dark Star Bureau right away. I’ve got a lot I need to study.”
“You’re not going back to your country?”
“You mean Marlon? …Nah, I can’t afford the travel fare. You going home?”
“Yeah.” Loki nodded, and then continued, “I was thinking that if you came back with me, I could invite you out to do this.” He made a gesture as though aiming a rifle.
“Hunting, huh…That’s your hobby, isn’t it Loki.”
“I can’t do it much here in snowy Levianta. There’s plenty to hunt in the forest right by my home. Like deer, bears…How about it? You’re really not coming? If money’s an issue I can front the expenses.”
“Hmmm.” Gallerian appeared to think about it for a moment, but ultimately he shook his head. “I’ll still have to decline. I’ve never used a gun before, and it doesn’t sound like it’d suit me.”
“Everyone starts out that way. Experience is everything.”
“I’m fine; you and Mira have a good time.”
The moment he said that, Loki’s expression grew faintly conflicted. “Er, no, she’s…”
Mira walked between them, smiling.
“I’m not planning to come along this time, Galley.”
She was the same age as Loki, two years Gallerian’s senior. For that reason she was always conducting herself like a big-sister around Gallerian.
“Huh…Why?”
“I’m still a student, unlike you two.”
“But you’re still getting a break from university, so there’s no problem, right?”
“Er, no…Well, there’s also…eh.”
As Mira stammered, Loki began to explain in her stead. “Apparently Mira’s family doesn’t think well of her interacting with me.”
“Her parents are against you?”
“No, actually her parents aren’t the problem. It’s her older brother. He can’t stand that his little sister is dating a member of the Freezis family.”
“…I see.”
Gallerian made no move to pry any further, appearing to have an inkling of what was going on.
Gallerian knew that Mira Yarera was a member of the Yarera Zusco Conglomerate. The Yarera Zusco Conglomerate was a large conglomerate on the same level as the Freezis Conglomerate.
For that reason, it had been a matter of great discussion among their classmates when Loki and Mira started dating. A romance between the son and daughter of two longtime rival conglomerates—If the two of them were to ultimately get married, it would likely have a massive influence on society at large.
And that was why there was no small number of obstacles in their way to get there.
“Well, that might be a bit much for a kid to take in,” Mira said teasingly.
Gallerian puffed out his cheeks. “Kid…I’m only two years younger than you, you know.”
“Oh, is that right? Galley, you’re so little I thought it was more than that.”
“Slow aging is a family trait. In a little while I’ll get a bit taller and be on the same level as the two of you. …That’s what my dad said.”
Loki brazenly patted Gallerian on his head, smiling. “Ha ha ha ha--. It’s said that the old Empress Dowager Prim Marlon retained her youth even after she passed fifty years old. If you’ve got the same blood in you, then maybe when you get older you’ll just look even younger…Well, I guess if you and Mira aren’t coming there’s not much I can do for it. I’ll just cut loose all by myself.”
“You should. I don’t know if you’ll be able to take such a long break after all this for a while.”
“That goes for us both. Don’t strain yourself too much.”
Gallerian, Loki, and Mira continued their pleasant conversation for a short time after that.
.
--To speak frankly, I’ve gotten the impression that he was raised to be far more upright than I had expected.
He is her son. Though honestly I could not have imagined how he would turn out.
Gallerian shows no sign of using “magic” like his mother. At this stage he seems to be a normal boy, albeit with a keen mind.
Although, that doesn’t mean he has no potential as a sorcerer.
Without a teacher to train him, he could probably spend his whole life never unlocking his incredible talent.
I didn’t really mind one way or the other on that, but …How would she feel?
Had she given birth to Gallerian that he might lead such a normal life?
.
Things have only just begun.
I shall continue to observe.
As I sharpen my claws, time rapidly flows on.
<<prev------directory------next>>
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The feline breed MAINE COON
This is the breed of cats with the largest size. In fact, males of the species can exceed 10 kilograms, while females reach around 7 kilograms.
Their origin is not very clear and there are many legends concerning the origin of this breed. Very picturesque legends, but without any objective feedback. The most widespread is that because of the large, hairy ears and coarse, ringed tail, the Maine Coon was the result of a cross between a lynx and a washing bear. Another theory is that the breed is descended from some long-haired French cats secretly sent to Maine by Marie Antoinette, shortly before her attempt to escape france, before her guillotine conviction. Another, for their resemblance to the Norwegian Forest Cat, which were brought by Viking ships that touched the American coast about 1000 years ago. The most accredited theory, however, is that this breed is the result of shrewd pairings between the American common cat, the American Shorthair and long-haired cats type Angora and some natural selection that favored a large cat with a semi-long and thick hair, two adaptations to the cold and humid climate of Maine.
The Maine Coon was one of the first breeds to be recognized by the Governing Council of the Cat, which in the early 19th century was the largest organization to record cat pedigrees and became one of the most prestigious breeds. With the gradual appearance in the country of more exotic breeds such as Persians and angora cats, this breed is almost forgotten, even in the 50s it is said to have been declared extinct. Fortunately it was only an exaggeration and this breed has now fully regained its glory, and is recognized as an official breed in 1967 by the Canadian Cat Association.
Today's Maine Coons are very different from the first bred subjects; they are massive, massive, huge in size, some males weigh up to 14 kilograms, although their average weight is about 7 kilograms. It has a long and well-proportioned body in all its parts, muscular and with a wide chest. It has high legs with hair-rich fingers so as not to sink into the snow and even the ears despite being large and well open are equipped with abundant tufts of hair. The coat has a characteristic natural fat that protects it from atmospheric adversity. The eyes are large, expressive and oval-shaped and it is not uncommon to find specimens with eyes of different colors. The maine Coon's hair is long, thick and a little messy, shorter on the shoulders, longer on the stomach and on the front of the neck, the hair is soft and silky. The fur of this breed exists in all varieties of color with or without white, that is, black, cream, blue and red.
The Maine Coon has a very quiet character, very tender and playful. He is sociable and friendly, even if it takes a little bit with strangers before he becomes affectionate. With the family he establishes a very close relationship, he likes to follow the various components of the family unit in each of their activities. He is very curious and playful. It is therefore suitable for children, as it is very difficult for scratches or puffs. He agrees with other cats and even dogs. It's an extremely smart cat and it's one of the few feline breeds you can teach games like bringing back a ball. He appreciates a bit of freedom, he's a great hunter, so if you have a garden he'll climb trees in search of some prey. In times of family relaxation he loves to snuggle up next to a family member and even jump into his lap. The Maine Coons communicate as well as with body language and with the classic meows and melted, even with trill-like verses that are actually a little strange coming from such an imposing cat.
The Maine Coon is a particularly robust, massive and muscular cat and does not require much care. However, the large amount of hair requires brushing at least once a week and twice during the wetsuit period. A bath every two, three months is also suitable for the thick and long hair. It is a cat that grows a lot and for a long time so it needs a varied diet that allows it to supplement its natural diet with supplements. He does not tend to become obese, but it must be the master's care to properly manage his needs. Although it is a very robust animal it can inherit some health problems that can be worrying: among them, hypertrophic cardiomyopathy, hip dysplasia and spinal muscular atrophy. Cardiomyopathy is the most common form of vascular disease in cats and causes thickening of the heart muscle. Hip dysplasia is a congenital defect of the hip joint. In mild cases it can cause none or little pain and in more severe cases can lead to lameness. have difficulty moving and therefore move slowly. Spinal muscular atrophy is a disease that affects nerve cells that transmit motion signals. This disease involves muscle weakening, but the affected subjects can live a normal life as the disease does not cause them any pain even if they walk swinging the back of the body. These diseases are treated with special attention by breeders of this breed. For this reason, the breeders are tested for genetic testing and monitored periodically by echocardiographic examinations. Some feline associations demand the updated documentation of these tests and examinations for the issuance of the pedigree of kittens. Careful breeders also subject their cats to other tests, such as kidney ultrasounds and genetic tests such as SMA or PKdef. It will be in the future owner's interest to refer to serious and competent breeders in order to minimise the risks of facing these health problems.
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Prodigy (Final Rose AU Snippet)
Ruby did her best to tune out the whispers. Having one prodigy in the family was remarkable enough. Having two was downright ridiculous. Her lips twitched. If only people knew. Her other siblings were every bit as talented as her and Averia, but her parents had always been content to let them progress at their own rate. It was why they had agreed to let Diana be accelerated through Beacon whereas Jessica was likely to adopt a more normal pace.
It wasn’t about talent. Jessica was more than good enough to be accelerated to. However, Jessica’s friends - her future teammates - weren’t ready to be accelerated, and their parents weren’t going to force her to leave them behind. Teammates were family in all but blood. Breaking up great teams before they could really even form would not turn out well for anybody.
“You’re getting your own team too, you know,” Averia murmured as they made their way toward the hall for the welcoming ceremony.
“Did Diana tell you that?” Ruby asked. “Or is that another prediction from Saviour?”
“Diana helps our Aunt Vanille run team compatibility simulations.” Averia lowered her voice. “She may also have hacked the database to find out what the teams are.”
“Doesn’t Aunt Vanille do security for that database though?” Ruby’s brows furrowed. Diana was phenomenal, but their Aunt Vanille was one of the few people who could potentially keep her out of a system she wanted to get into.
“Diana got in through Atlas’s database. Beacon is locked up tight, but Atlas handles its own cyber-security.”
“But Uncle Hope is no slouch,” Ruby countered. “He should be able to keep that database secure.”
“You can thank internal Atlas politics for Uncle Hope not being in charge of that. Diana found out, which is why she was confident of getting in.” Averia’s lips twitched. “So… do you want to know who you’ve got?”
“No.” Ruby grinned. “I want it to be a surprise.” She paused. “Unless my team is awful. Please, tell me they’re not awful.”
“Oh… I think you’ll find your team interesting, and you’ll have at least one familiar face to help you get started.”
“Well, that’s a relief.” Ruby’s eyes narrowed. “Is it Claire? Or maybe’s it’s Trajan. How about -”
“I thought you wanted it to be a surprise?” Averia ruffled Ruby’s hair. “Don’t worry. I think you’ll like your team.” She paused. “And you might want to buy some tuna before you meet them.”
“Tuna?”
Averia shrugged. “I don’t know why you’d need tuna, but Diana was pretty firm on it being a good idea.”
“Hmm… I wonder why she didn’t tell me about this,” Ruby mused.
“Probably because she finds the idea of me advising you to buy tuna amusing.”
“Probably.”
X X X
Ruby tried not to stare at the very, very pretty heiress. “Uh… hi.”
“Good morning.” Weiss extended her hand. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Ruby. I am Weiss Schnee.”
“I know.” Ruby’s brain finally caught up to her mouth. “I mean… it’s a pleasure to meet you too, Weiss.” She shook the heiress’s hand and took careful note of what she observed. As Tifa Mom was so fond of saying, people’s hands always told a story. Weiss might have delicate-looking hands, but there was a wiry strength to them that spoke of experience in handling a weapon, and the calluses on her hands could only have come from many, many hours of practice. “It’s good to have you on the team.”
“I must say, I was a little disappointed to not be leading my own team, but in light of the circumstances, I can understand why you were chosen.” Weiss chuckled. “As impressive as my pedigree might be, I think you have the edge since your parents are certainly quite prominent.”
Ruby scratched the back of her head. “Yeah. They’re pretty famous.” That was a massive, massive understatement. Tifa Mom was probably the least famous of her parents, and she was still super famous. Summer Mom, Lightning Mom, and Fang Mom were all like… super mega famous. “But I’m kind of hoping they didn’t just pick me because of my family, you know.”
“Ah, relax.” Yang threw one arm around Ruby and pulled her into an impromptu headlock, and Ruby tried very hard not to think about how her face was being pressed into Yang’s chest. And it was a really, really nice chest. “Ruby here got the second highest score on the tactics and strategy portion of the exam.”
“Oh? Who else was in the top three?” Weiss asked.
Yang let go of Ruby and then lifted her up like a trophy. Ruby’s eye twitched. She might not be as short as Diana, but it was kind of galling to be waved around like a trophy although Yang somehow had a way of making the whole experienced pleasant. The blonde was just so warm and affectionate. “First place was Averia. No surprise there. Pyrrha Nikos came in third. Ruby had her beat by half a point.”
“And Averia was ten points ahead of me,” Ruby countered, squirming free and doing her best to channel Averia’s glare. To her dismay, Yang just smirked back. They both knew that Ruby was awful at intimidation unless she was truly angry, and she couldn’t really remember the last time she’d gotten truly angry at Yang. “So I’ve still got a long way to go.”
Weiss smiled and extended her hand to Yang as well. “It would be remiss of me not to formally greet you as well, Yang Xiao Long - gah!”
“Forget the handshake,” Yang said, tugging Weiss into a headlock. “We’re teammates now.”
Ruby bit back a laugh as Weiss struggled briefly before realising the futility of it. Yang might not be as fast as Ruby, but Dust she was strong. Weiss had also seemingly realised that being in a headlock put her right next to Yang’s bust. “Don’t worry, Weiss. You’ll get used to it. Yang is just, well, Yang.”
“Yep.” Yang let go of Weiss. “By the way… has anyone seen our fourth member? We were supposed to meet at this training ground, but she hasn’t shown up yet.”
“Hmm…” Weiss’s brows furrowed. “Could she have gotten lost? Beacon Senior Academy does have a lot of training grounds, and this is the first day of school.”
“I don’t know,” Ruby said. “But I brought tuna.”
Yang tilted her head to one side. “Why would you need tuna?”
Ruby shrugged. “Diana told Averia to tell me to bring tuna.” She made a face. “It’s Diana. She says a lot of crazy stuff, but she’s basically always right.”
“But tuna?” Weiss pressed. “What does tuna have to do with anything?”
“Like I said, I don’t know.” Ruby took out the can of tuna and put it on the ground. “Hmm… nothing’s happening.”
“Maybe you should open it,” Yang said.
“Sure, why not?” Ruby laughed. “Maybe opening it will magically summon our teammate somehow.” She opened the can of tuna, and barely five seconds passed before someone hopped out of the tree next to them. In an instant, she and Yang had already moved to intercept them. Ruby had never worked with Weiss before but given the Schnee family’s reputation for doing extremely extravagant things involving Dust and Glyphs, it was probably safe to guess the other girl was a heavy hitter who could drop the hammer while Ruby and Yang covered her.
However, Ruby screeched to a halt as she took in the appearance of the person who had dropped out of the tree. Her first impression was to try not to gawk. Did Beacon have like some kind of attractiveness criteria because so far all the girls she’d seen had been gorgeous? If Yang was more the tall and busty type and Weiss was the elegant and petite type, the dark-haired girl in front of them was somewhere in between, athletic and graceful but not nearly as delicate in appearance as Weiss.
“Is that tuna?” the girl asked.
Ruby blinked. “Yes. Yes, it is.”
“And you just opened the can and put it on the ground?”
“Uh… yeah.”
“Why?”
“I don’t actually know,” Ruby said. “But… are you our teammate?”
The dark-haired girl’s lips twitched, and she sketched them a rough bow. “Blake Belladonna.” Her eyes drifted over them. “And you would be Ruby Rose, Yang Xiao Long, and Weiss Schnee.”
“Technically, my full name would be Oerba Yun Ruby Rose-Lockhart-Farron but, yeah, Ruby Rose is kind of easier to say.”
"That’s quite a mouthful,” Blake drawled. “I can see why you just go by Ruby Rose.”
Ruby giggled. “When I was younger I tried to change it to Ruby Awesome, but my parents said no.”
“Ruby Awesome?” Weiss asked. “Really?”
“Yeah… because I was awesome,” Ruby replied.
“I… see.” Weiss evidently couldn’t if her tone of voice was anything to go by. She glanced at Blake and then extended her hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Blake.”
It took a moment for Blake to shake Weiss’s hand. Ruby took note of it. Was Blake just not big on physical contact or was there something else there? She couldn’t be sure, but she could have sworn Blake’s expression had tightened ever so slightly when she’d seen Weiss.
“Am I going to shake your hand too?” Blake asked Yang.
“Nope.” Blake was promptly introduced to the greatness that was a Yang headlock. “Handshakes are boring.”
“So… we’re team RWBY, huh?” Blake looked at each of them, and Ruby had the distinct feeling Blake was taking their measure. Hopefully, she measured up.
“Yep.” Ruby smiled. “And we’re going to be the best team ever!”
X X X
“So…” Vanille murmured. “Are you spying on your sisters again?”
Diana glanced away from the holographic display. “Mostly Ruby. Averia should be fine. She’s got Elsa, Claire, and Jahne. She’s known Elsa and Jahne for years, and Claire is our cousin. Ruby’s got Yang, but she’s not really familiar with Blake or Weiss. At the least the tuna trick worked.”
“Like mother like daughter,” Vanille said. “Have you got eyes on Team JNPR?”
“Yeah. I think Jaune is doing his best to not throw up in panic about being made leader. He’s managed to succeed so far.”
“Good for him. Pyrrha took it well though.”
“She did, but everything I’ve been able to find out about her suggests that she really is just super nice, sweet, and kind despite being almost as much of a killer robot as Averia.”
“Meh. Maybe she’s got better software installed.”
“Maybe.”
X X X
Author’s Notes
This is another snippet set in the Summer/Lightning/Fang/Tifa AU. Probably the biggest change for Ruby in this AU is that everyone - absolutely everyone - will know who she is since not only is Summer still alive but she also never gets crippled by the Grimm in this AU. Given how much Ruby looks like Summer, her fellow students are going to put two and two together. There will be a huge amount of pressure on her to live up to her parents’ standards, just like there is for Averia, but Ruby is two years younger.
On the other hand, it does make some things easier. Weiss would normally be more aggravated about not being leader, but she knows who Ruby is, so she can’t exactly get upset by that. If anything, she’s pleased because being on a team with Ruby is a very, very favourable outcome for her. From a purely pragmatic point of view, being on the same team as Ruby is fantastic since teammates generally becomes close friends and allies (or possibly even more).
Ruby’s response to Yang is also very different than in canon because they aren’t sisters. Moreover, although they get along great and consider themselves close friends, Yang was raised in Patch whereas Ruby was raised in Vale. As a result, Ruby is not oblivious to the fact that Yang is a very attractive person in more ways than one.
And then there’s Blake.
In this AU, the White Fang is generally more peaceful because the last time they stepped out of line, they got smacked down so hard they never forgot about it. This is largely due to one of the establishments the more militant White Fang attacking in the past being a hotel owned by Tifa. She took exception to their attack on the hotel, and Lightning, Summer, and Fang were similarly unimpressed. Things after that did not get well for the White Fang.
As a result, this Blake is less filled with regret over being a former terrorist and although wary of Weiss is less hostile to begin with. She has, however, left home in a bid to carve out her own identity, so she doesn’t have to live in the shadows of her parents who rule over Menagerie. Yes, she basically is a princess, so both Ruby and Averia have got one on their teams. Of course, Elsa also doubles as an air conditioner, but Blake can make clones, so it’s not a total loss.
You can find me on fanfiction.net, AO3, and Amazon.
Definitely check out my Amazon stuff if you enjoy my sense of humour.
#final rose#fanfiction#averia yun-farron#ruby rose#yang xiao long#weiss schnee#blake belladonna#diana yun-farron#oerba dia vanille
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