#also i listened to back to autumn by the tall heights while writing this

[king-finnigan]

I'm week for historic au stuff. Like Geralt becomes a retired soldier and Jaskier is a scholar type thing and they keep meeting through the ages stuff? Just me? Feel free to ignore me 😖

Actually, I really love that, honestly. I wasn’t sure whether I would write it like a reincarnation AU, or if Geralt would keep living while Jaskier kept getting reincarnated, but I decided that that’s simply too sad. So I went for a Good Omens type thingie! (featuring: enemies to lovers)

Disclaimer: I don’t know anything about history, so there’s a big chance I’m being very very inaccurate!

EDIT: I couldn’t help but make it a little sad at the end, but it’s just bittersweet.

---

They first meet during the Hundred Years’ War, in England.

Jaskier is a monk, transcribing Latin scrolls in the dungeons of the castle for a living. Really, he never wanted to be a monk, but it was the only way for a farmer boy like him to learn how to read and write, something he’d always been fascinated by.

He writes. It’s what he does. No matter how cold it gets in the dungeons during the winter, no matter how much his hand cramps up after a few hours, no matter how many times he has to start over when he makes a mistake. He keeps going, keeps writing. 

It’s what he does.

Autumn, 1438. After a particularly long day, writing down biblical text after biblical text, he’s climbing the stairs of the castle, walking through the long hallways to the monestary. That’s when he sees him for the first time.

The most insufferable person he’ll ever meet.

He’s standing by the door that leads to one of the conference chambers - presumably where the King must be at that moment. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, snow-white hair tied behind his head. Amber eyes look at Jaskier suspiciously as he approaches.

He gives the man a curt nod and a tight smile, sighing when the guard flings an arm out, stopping Jaskier in his tracks. 

The scholar rolls his eyes for a split second, before turning to the guard. “Is there a problem, sir?”

The knight cocks his head. “Who are you?”

The scholar frowns. “I’m Jaskier. I’ve worked here for twelve years. And you are?”

“I ask the questions. What are you doing here so late?”

Jaskier sighs, rolling his eyes. “I was busy transcribing in the dungeons. It gets very hard to tell the time when there are no windows, and I accidentally worked too long. As for why I’m here, specifically, this is the shortest way to the monestary. Now who are you? I haven’t seen you before. Are you new?”

The knight clenches his jaw. “Like I said, you don’t get to ask questions. Now move along before I make you.”

Jaskier scoffs, continuing his way to the monestary. After a few steps, he stops. “You know,” he calls over his shoulder, “monks are well respected here, and I don’t think the King will appreciate it if he finds out one of his guards has been talking to a monk like that. Just something you might want to keep in mind next time.”

He looks back for a second, smirking at the glare the knight gives him, then turns back around, continuing to the monestary. 

***

They continue like that for the next few months, exchanging quips whenever they pass each other in the halls.

The knight asks him what he’s doing in that specific part of the castle, Jaskier tells him it’s none of his business and asks who he thinks he is, the knight says that Jaskier doesn’t get to ask questions, Jaskier threatens to tell the King.

Of course, he doesn’t mean a word of it. After all, it doesn’t really matter if the knight keeps asking him what he’s doing there, and it doesn’t matter that Jaskier never gets to learn his name. It shouldn’t matter, at least.

He’s started asking around for the whereabouts of the King every morning, changing the route he takes to the monestary depending on what the servants say. He’s doing it to make the days less monotone and change things up a little. He does not do it to make sure he passes the knight every evening.

And when the King is called away a few months later to France to lead their army in the war, taking the white-haired knight with him, Jaskier is not disappointed.

And when he has to move away a few years later to a different part of the country when he realizes the hairs on his head aren’t greying and there are no crows’ feet appearing at the corners of his eyes, he does not feel sad that he didn’t get the chance to see the white-haired knight again.

***

Autumn, 1605, Florence. He’s in the city library, picking book after book on the human body from the shelves, the pile in his arms growing ever higher.

197. That’s how old he is, by now, and he still doesn’t know why he’s been blessed - or cursed, depending on which day you ask him - with a long life. He’s fallen in and out of love countless of times, seeing the beauty in every person passing him by, and he’s had his heart broken twice as often. Death, sickness, growing apart - all normal things in life, but when your life is unnaturally long, those things start weighing on you.

So, five years ago, he went to Florence. He’d heard of the impressive library the Italians had collected, and he had decided that, if he wasn’t going to die a natural death, he might as well find out why.

Except he hasn’t, so far. He’s looked through these books countless of times, thumbed through the pages night after night, coming up empty-handed. There aren’t exactly many books on immortality, and the ones that he did find mostly seemed like a bunch of philosophical nonsense - nothing he could use to figure out why he was the way he was, anyways.

So, now, as he piles the same books into his arms as always, he can’t help but feel a little hopeless, and he knows he probably won’t get the answers he needs. Not anytime soon, at least, and not in Florence.

He reaches up, trying to take the last book from a high shelf, but the pile he’s carrying with the other arm wobbles dangerously, and he almost loses his footing.

Suddenly, a strong hand wraps around his upper arm, stabilizing him, another reaching over his head to grab the book for him, putting it on the pile. Jaskier turns around carefully. “Grazie-” his voice catches in his throat, as he meets the amber eyes of a silver-haired man.

“You,” he breathes out, when he recognizes him, seeing recognition in those golden eyes as well. “You’re the knight-”

The man blinks, then frowns. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He turns around, stalking away from Jaskier.

The scholar deposits the pile of books on a nearby table, ignoring the dirty glances the other scholars shoot at him for not putting them back on the shelves, as he hurries out of the library, into the afternoon sunlight.

He looks around, spotting the white-haired man weaving between the people, disappearing into an alley. 

“Hey! Wait!” Jaskier yells, running after the knight. “Wait!”

His chest is heaving by the time he catches up with the man. He grabs the knight by the wrist, forcing him to turn around. “You. I know you, you were in England,” he almost swallows his next words, bringing his voice down to a whisper, “a hundred and fifty years ago.”

The man clenches his jaw again. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Like hell you do,” Jaskier hisses back. “I know you recognize me, I know it’s you, and you know it’s me.”

The man looks around, then leans in closer to Jaskier. “Fuck off and leave me be.”

He makes a move to get away, but Jaskier grips his wrist tighter. “No! You haven’t aged a day. Why?”

He startles as the man’s other hand comes up, grabbing him by his throat, pushing him against the wall. “Keep your voice down,” the knight hisses at him, and Jaskier glares at him until he loosens his grip a bit.

“You haven’t answered my question.”

“I’m not going to. Now fuck off and leave me be.” He lets go of Jaskier’s neck, stalking through the alley to the city square. 

“Wait!” Jaskier calls behind him. “What’s your name?”

The knight is long gone, disappearing into the crowd.

***

Autumn, 1718, well... wherever, really. Somewhere between Britain and America. He sighs, the slight swaying of the boat making his stomach act up, and he has to swallow a wave of nausea.

He’d heard a lot about America, heard about people finding their luck there in the new cities and large fields. It would be a new chance for Jaskier, another place for him to build a life before having to abandon it after a couple of decades, when his lack of aging starts to grow suspicious to the people around him. 

Well, at least it’ll be something new, after all these years. He’s getting tired of Europe. 

Tomorrow is his 310th birthday, he realizes, though it brings him no joy. It’s been a while since he’s celebrated his birthday, celebrated the end of another year on this cursed planet.

He’s tired, so tired. Of having to scrape together money, day in, day out, year after long year, decade after long decade, before having to take off again, leaving his life and home behind, after twenty or thirty years.

It’s been a while since he’s had any close friends or relationships of any sort. He can’t risk getting close to people he knows he’ll lose, eventually, inevitably, and he can’t risk them finding out his secret. Because they’ll either claim him insane, putting him in an asylum, or he’ll become a shiny new test subject for scientists to poke and prod at. No thank you.

So, off to America, he went. They’re expected to arrive in a week or so, and he’s looking forward to the moment he can get off this blasted ship that’s messing with his stomach so much.

He perks up as he hears a few men shouting on the top deck, and gets to his feet as he hears the loud pangs of gunfire. He reaches for his own weapon, a dagger strapped to his hip. Though, he realizes now - probably too late - that it won’t do much if someone tries to shoot him.

The door slams open, and he takes a step back, holding his meagre dagger in his shaking hand. He nearly drops it, mouth opening in confusion and realization.

“It’s you again!” he shouts, hand clenching around the hilt of his weapon. “Seriously?”

It’s the white-haired knight again, one hand on the doorknob, the other holding a gun. He looks confused and annoyed, amber eyes fixed on Jaskier. 

The scholar lowers his weapon. “You’ve really fallen far, sir. You were a knight three hundred years or so ago, and now you’re” he gestures vaguely with his hand, nose scrunching in confusion “a pirate? I really expected better from you.”

The white-haired man lowers his weapon as well. “Gotta make a living, somehow.” He shrugs. “The world doesn’t need knights anymore.” And, bless all the angels in the heavens above, he smiles. “At least I’m doing something different with my life. It seems like you haven’t evolved past ‘pansy little scholar’.”

Jaskier gasps in mock offense, laying a hand on his chest dramatically. “How dare you? I may be a pansy scholar, but I sure as hell am not little, sir knight.”

The white-haired man chuckles, rolling his eyes a bit. Footsteps barge down the stairs, and the knight turns back to one of his fellow pirates. “Just people, no valuable cargo,” he tells the other man, “let’s get out of here.”

The other pirate looks a bit confused, glancing at Jaskier. “You sure you don’t want to eliminate any witnesses?”

The knight shakes his head. “No, it’s good. He won’t talk, will he?” He looks at the scholar.

Jaskier shakes his head quickly, hands in the air. “No, won’t say a word.”

The other pirate nods, content, heading back upstairs, the knight following closely behind. Jaskier lowers his hands, eyes squeezing shut tightly. “Shite,” he mutters to himself, “I still don’t know his name.”

***

Autumn, 1915. He hadn’t wanted to go back to Europe, but he didn’t want to not serve his country in the war. So, he had gone back to England, and had enlisted to go to the front in Belgium.

The training officers command him for his fighting technique and quick learning skills, and Jaskier has to swallow back a comment about how it’s easy to pick up a thing or two about fighting when you’ve lived for 507 years.

He spots a familiar head of white hair in the trenches, but it disappears behind a cloud of mud and dirt when a shell explodes between them. After that, he can’t find the white-haired man anymore.

***

Autumn, 1941. He’s standing outside when Japanese planes fly over, dropping bombs on the ships in Pearl Harbour. He spots a familiar form with white hair on one of the ships, and he tries to shout to the knight, but he’s blown to the ground by another bomb.

After that, he has to flee. He doesn’t get the chance to search for the white-haired man between the dead, the day after.

***

Autumn, 1945. He’s sitting in a movie theatre, watching the news about the end of the war. They show the celebrations in the major cities, and Jaskier sighs in relief as he spots a broad-shouldered, white-haired man in the crowd in Times Square.

***

Autumn, 1985. He’s dancing at a club in New York, lifting his hands above his head as he lets the music flow through him. It’s always fun to discover new things after being on this mess of a planet for 577 years, really, and the ability to simply lose himself in the deep bass and steady beat of the music seems God-given, at this point.

He’s tired. Tired of the years weighing down on him, tired of not being able to get the rest he so desperately wants, tired of being pushed down by the heaviness of the ages, yet floating through the years, flitting from place to place, not being able to settle down.

It’s become so hard to hide what he is, with the upcoming digitalization and registration of everyone’s date of birth, place of birth, etcetera. He can no longer just move to a different town and call himself a different name and start a new life. It doesn’t work like that anymore, and he knows it’s only a matter of time until he’s found out, until someone realizes he’s not who he says he is.

The worries weigh down on him, so he loses himself in the music.

Someone bumps into him, and he shouts in annoyance as they spill their drink all over him. He turns around, ready to curse out whoever is so stupid enough to do this, but he freezes, mouth open slightly.

“You again?” he breathes out, and before the white-haired man can say anything, Jaskier takes him by his arm, dragging him out of the club, into the side alley. He turns back around, facing the man, pointing an accusing finger at him. “Before you say anything, what is your name?”

The knight- pirate- soldier- man furrows his brow, shaking his head slightly. “Geralt.”

Jaskier throws his hands up in exparation. “Fucking finally! Do you know how hard it is to try to find someone for 500 years when you don’t even know their name?”

Geralt frowns at him. “You’ve been trying to find me?”

Jaskier shakes his head a bit in confusion. “Yes, of course! You’re like me! You don’t age, either, do you?” Geralt shakes his head. “Exactly. I wanna know what the hell is wrong with us so I can finally just die. I’m tired of this planet.”

“I don’t know why we don’t age, though.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Jaskier leans against the wall, head in his hands. After a few moments, he lifts his face up to Geralt, who’s gone to stand in front of him. “I don’t understand. Why can’t we die? And why do we keep running into each other? It’s a small world but not that small, right?”

Geralt shrugs again. “I don’t know. All I know is that I keep seeing that pansy little scholar everywhere I go.” 

Jaskier snorts. “And I keep seeing a thick-headed old man everywhere I go.”

“I’m not old.”

“You’re 500 years old.”

“You’re 500 years old as well, what's your point?”

Jaskier laughs, shaking his head slightly. Geralt smiles back, and something ancient flutters in Jaskier’s chest, which he recognizes as the thing he had felt when he had traded insults with Geralt in the castle hall, when he had seen him again in Florence, when he had been spared on the ship, when he had seen white hair in the heat of the battle, when he had spotted him on Times Square.

He recognizes it as the thing he had felt every time their paths had crossed.

And maybe, for the first time in over 500 years, he realizes what it is. 

Love.

They both lean toward each other at the same time, lips crashing into each other, hands tangling in each other’s hair, noses brushing, breaths intertwining.

And Jaskier can’t get enough of this feeling he always gets when he’s close to Geralt, willingly loses himself in the warmth that spreads through his veins, lifting the heavy years off his tired shoulders, in the fluttering in his stomach that sets his soul alight.

They pull back after a few seconds, foreheads leaning against one another. And maybe, Jaskier realizes, suffering eternity won’t be so bad if he’s got Geralt by his side, this time around.

***

Though, he knows that won’t be necessary, when he discovers his first grey hair, fifteen years later. When he finds his first wrinkle, a few years after that.

When he finally, at last, starts seeing the effects of time appearing on his face. When he sees the lines in his love’s skin.

When their bones start creaking and aching. When their voices grow hoarse and their sight blurry.

And when they drift off to sleep in each other’s arms, sixty-four years after their first kiss, he feels perfectly at peace.

[chiseler]

Downward Christian Soldiers

Father Charles Coughlin, 1930s

On January 14 1940, the FBI arrested 18 men in New York City accused of plotting the overthrow of the U.S. government. Fourteen were snatched up in their homes in Brooklyn, the others in The Bronx and Queens. Searches yielded more than a dozen Springfield rifles, a shotgun, some handguns, thousands of rounds of ammunition, and the materials for homemade bombs. J. Edgar Hoover said they were plotting a terrorist campaign targeting transportation, power, and communications facilities; their goal was to rouse the military into staging a coup, placing a strong dictator like Hitler or Mussolini in power, and cleansing the country of Jews.  

The men were mostly of German or Irish descent, and ranged in age from 18 to 38. If employed (a few weren’t), they held low-end jobs, including an elevator mechanic, a telephone lineman, a chauffeur, a couple of salesmen, a couple of office clerks. The 18-year-old was a student. Most troubling was the fact that six of them were National Guardsmen.

They were all followers of a Father Coughlin-inspired movement called the Christian Front. In his mid-1930s heyday, Coughlin was arguably the most powerful pro-Fascist voice in America. An Irish Catholic originally from Canada, he had first turned to radio in the 1920s simply as a way to expand his ministry beyond his tiny congregation in Royal Oaks. He had a strong radio voice, and when CBS started syndicating his weekly sermons in 1929 it was an instant success. The crash and start of the Depression politicized him. His condemnations of Wall Street and President Hoover brought him tens of thousands of fan letters a week, and his high praises for Hoover’s opponent FDR surely had an impact on the 1932 elections. Then, when the invitation he craved to sit among President Roosevelt’s circle of advisors didn’t come, he turned bitter as a jilted lover. He began denouncing Roosevelt, his New Deal, his Jew York advisors, and his friends in the labor movement as all facets of an international Jewish-Communist conspiracy to destroy Christianity and democracy. He also praised Franco, Mussolini, and Hitler for defending their people against this spreading evil.

Coughlin’s call for a “Christian Front” to combat the Communists’ mid-1930s Popular Front coalition with other groups on the left resonated with the Depression-driven anger and paranoia of many Americans, especially in cities like Boston and New York with large communities of lower- and lower-middle class Irish Catholics, who tended to be shut out of other right-wing movements precisely because they were Irish and Catholic. At his peak, Coughlin had tens of millions of listeners to his Sunday radio sermons, a million readers of his weekly magazine Social Justice, and received millions of dollars in small donations.

By 1938, rabid anti-Semitism had become the centerpiece of Coughlin’s message. That year, at a Christian Front rally in The Bronx, he allegedly gave the Nazi salute and declared, “When we get through with the Jews in America, they’ll think the treatment they received in Germany was nothing.” In Social Justice he reprinted the anti-Semitic hoax The Protocols of the Elders of Zion, which also topped Henry Ford’s list of favorite reading. In the autumn of 1938, when Coughlin said the Jews had brought Kristallnacht on themselves, radio stations, including WMCA in New York, dropped him. Several thousand Fronters “picketed the station, its advertisers, and Jewish-owned stores throughout the city,” historian Robert A. Rosenbaum writes. “The pickets returned every Sunday afternoon for many months. In the meantime, gangs of Christian Fronters roamed the streets and subways, peddling copies of Social Justice, distributing anti-Semitic leaflets, and orating on street corners, while harassing and assaulting people they took to be Jewish.” The city’s police force, which was nearly two-thirds Irish, turned a blind eye; some number of them were Christian Frontiers themselves.

The Front thrived in parishes in all of New York City’s boroughs. Some of the first Front meetings took place in a church hall near Columbus Circle, and some of the most frequent and well-attended were in The Bronx. In Brooklyn, Father Francis Joseph Healy, the pastor of the St. Joseph’s parish in Prospect Heights, was also the editor of the Brooklyn diocese’s weekly paper, The Tablet, which he made a platform for extremely anti-Communist, pro-Fascist, and pro-Coughlin thought. After Father Healy’s death in 1940, his managing editor Patrick Scanlan continued the paper’s reactionary slant. Scanlan ran Coughlin’s rants on the front page. Healy’s successor at St. Joseph’s, Father Edward Curran, was also a major supporter of Father Coughlin and other pro-Fascist and isolationist groups. During the war in Spain Father Curran wrote dozens of pro-Franco columns for arch-conservative publications around the country.

By 1939 small cells of Fronters in Manhattan and Brooklyn were calling themselves “sports clubs,” though the only sport they practiced was target shooting at rifle ranges. The Guardsmen in the group evidently pilfered the rifles and ammo from their posts, and trained other Frontiers in how to use them. 


Along with the cops and Guardsmen, the Front cells were also peppered with spies. The FBI had informants keeping tabs on them. Two independent investigators would write very successful books in which they claimed to have infiltrated the Front as well, and dozens of other underground hate groups. Richard Rollins’ I Find Treason would be published by William Morrow in 1941; John Roy Carlson’s similar Under Cover would be a runaway bestseller for E. P. Dutton two years later, galloping through 16 printings in its first six months. Both writers used pseudonyms. Carlson was actually Arthur Derounian, an Armenian immigrant. Rollins was apparently Isidore Rothberg, an investigator for Congressman Samuel Dickstein of the House Special Committee on Un-American Activities. Partly because the writers used pseudonyms while naming scores of individuals they claimed were pro-Hitler and pro-Fascist, both books were widely denounced on the right as fabrications and smear campaigns.


Derounian wrote that he was riding the subway one day in 1938 when he picked up a leaflet of “bitterly anti-Semitic quotations” published by something called the Nationalist Press Association on East 116th Street in Italian East Harlem. He decided to research, and found himself exploring a vast underground world of wannabe Hitlers and Mussolinis, society matron super-patriots, racists, Anglophobes, White Russians, and assorted conspiracy theorists and kooks.
 Born in 1909, Derounian had grown up in another world of hate. After struggling to stay alive as Armenians in Greece at a time of chaos and slaughter in the Balkans, his family fled to New York in 1921. Arthur learned English and earned a degree in journalism at NYU in 1926. In 1933 he learned that the turmoil in the Balkans had followed him across the ocean, when the archbishop of New York’s Armenian Orthodox Catholics, while serving Christmas Mass in his Washington Heights church, was stabbed to death by radical Armenian nationalists opposed to his politics.

So when Derounian read that hate sheet on the subway in 1938, he was primed to follow up. The 116th Street address was an old tenement with a barber shop on the ground floor. The Nationalist Press “office” was a dingy back room stacked to the stained ceiling with right-wing books, newspapers and pamphlets. Poking around in the gloom were a few Italian men and Peter Stahrenberg, a tall blond Aryan type “with blunt features and a coarse-lipped, brutal mouth,” who wore a khaki shirt and a black tie with a pearl-studded swastika tie tack. Stahrenberg was the publisher of the National American, a pro-Hitler newspaper whose striking logo was an American Indian giving the Nazi salute before a large swastika. He was also the head of the American National-Socialist Party. Derounian, calling himself George Pagnanelli and expressing interest in the “patriotic movement,” wormed his way into Stahrenberg’s confidence.

As he explored Stahrenberg’s twilight world, Derounian claimed, he found pro-Nazis and pro-Fascists all over New York City, holding meetings and rallies in every borough. It was a topsy-turvy world where street thugs from the city’s poorest neighborhoods mingled with wealthy Park Avenue crackpots, and Irish Catholic Fronters convinced that Communism was an international Jewish plot sat in the same meetings with Protestant zealots convinced that the Vatican was a Jewish front. He met rabidly anti-Communist D.A.R. socialites, and retired military officers who were certain that FDR and the Jew Dealers were leading the nation to ruin. He met the prominent conservative organizer Catherine Curtis, introducing himself as George Pagnanelli; she kept calling him Mr. Pagliacci. He even found black pro-Nazis in Harlem. Some were attracted by Hitler’s anti-Semitism; others simply cheered the idea of a white man making trouble for other whites.

When the Christian Front clique was arraigned in Brooklyn’s federal courthouse in February, they all pleaded not guilty to charges of conspiracy and theft of government property. The lawyer for 12 of them was Leo Healy – Father Healy’s brother. A crowd jeered and booed as they were perp-walked into the courthouse. Winchell and La Guardia both derided them as “bums,” La Guardia adding that if they were the best the enemies of democracy could muster, no one need lose any sleep. But the defendants also had their sympathizers. Father Curran was the keynote speaker at a large rally in Prospect Hall to express support for them.  

Fourteen defendants were left when the trial began in April; one of the original 18 had committed suicide, and charges against three others were dropped. As the trial sputtered along through May, it began to appear that the FBI and prosecutors hadn’t built a very strong case. When the proceedings stumbled to a close on Monday June 24, the jury acquitted nine of the defendants and pronounced themselves hung on the other five.


It was a major embarrassment for Hoover. The Front and their supporters cheered it as a great victory, and would continue to spread hate and violence well into the war years. Through 1942 and 1943 there would be numerous reports in the press of roving gangs of young men, mostly identified as Irish and affiliated with the Front, beating and sometimes even knifing Jews in neighborhoods like Flatbush, Washington Heights and the South Bronx, where Irish and Jewish communities abutted. Many shops, synagogues and cemeteries were vandalized. Jewish leaders pleaded with Mayor La Guardia and Police Commissioner Valentine, but they took little action.

Coughlin would rant on into 1942, when the federal government shut down Social Justice as a seditious publication, and the Archbishop of Detroit finally ordered him to stop all political activity. Father Curran, however, continued undeterred, making anti-Semitic, anti-war speeches to Frontiers and others through the entire war.

by John Strausbaugh

[princeanxious]

A random logicality fic i didnt realize I wanted to write until just now, that i can't write out into an organized fic story atm but I can ramble about its whole world and character settup! So like. Take this as a massive bullet point fic if you will, but, yknow, minus the bullet point part..

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Some background info: this is an omegaverse idea BUT it primarily focuses on the worldbuilding, character dynamics, and relationship dynamics and doesnt focus or even really mention nsft stuff. At least not in this post! Another fact abt this au is that there are no betas in this au, just alphas and omegas representing as the primary biological differences. Same general biology applies, and there is this worlds own version of the LGBTQ+ community as well, ect ect.

Logan is a highclass omega that lives on a large estate and is the only omega, let alone male omega(which is uncommon in this au), in his well known family's current generation. Hes got two other older alpha siblings Thomas and Deceit(named Dorian in this fic) and theyre all p close to eachother and wellknown to the public for being anti-classist despite the rest of their highclass family's history of being generally snooty and classist and not very family-oriented. They probably run a big entertainment company named after the family line and thats where most of their wealth comes from. Their family surname is probably Sanders. Logan is like, an inch above normal height for an omega and is sort of a frail, lanky, and uber pale man who doesn't eat well and doesnt exercise often and doesnt get enough sunlight and is often bored out of his mind, frankly.(all of this is due to his parent's terrible job of raising him, both from the servants (unhappily)following their orders for his care and from their blatant disregard for his health and happiness as a male omega. His brothers and the servants do the best they can to sneak around the rules, at least for food and sneaking Logan books and candles to entertain himself late at night or in his freetime when they arent hanging out together)

Patton, on the other hand, is a mid-high class Alpha in a little less well-known(in comparison to the Sanders family at least) but still well-respected family in a slightly smaller estate, known from their history of being a long line of hardworking successful people and being a very big and far reaching family. They probably breed a few prized mostly pure-bred and cross-bred horse breeds (the ethical way of course). And perhaps they(at least at Patton's estate specifically) also have their own fruit tree plantation that is known for selling its fruit as well as making said fruit into jams to be sold locally. Theyre family also has ties in helping many local businesses as well as a few larger companies ect. ect. The main family branch name is Crofters. ;p Patton is a v tall boi, and like his father, works hard around the estate just as much as any other worker. He helps harvest fruit from the plantation when its time and gets to help turn a good portion of the fruit into their famous crofters jam, and he helps tend to the stables and horses and chores all around the estate, does lots of heavy lifting ect.ect. So. Tall buff boi who's v suntanned and v freckled and made of friendliness and sunshine smiles yknow?? Hes an only child with just a father by the time hes 21 and a ton of extended family but he makes an effort to check in and make sure the local youth and elderly are well taken care of.

So in this fic, like, these things that are sort of like coming-of-age courting parties/festivals are held? It's a big cultural thing that happens each season to allow un-courted young adults a chance to meet and socialize with other un-courted young adults at their own leisure and pace rather than being subjected to family-directed arranged courtings(which are mostly a thing of the past at this point for their culture)

So like, p much Thomas and Dorian have to step in to help Logan persuade their parents into letting them take Logan to a local coming-of-age festival bc his parents are like this close to just making Logan go through w/ an arranged courting from some other highclass alpha, bc omega males aren't as 'prized'(to the highclass) or seen as desirable as omega females so getting Logan to marry into another wealthy family solely for maintaining status and making wealthy ties is the only use they see for him. Which of course,, his alpha siblings are having none of that if they have anything to say about it.(and they do. Logan deserves as much freedom as they do if not more, especially at this point in their lives. And Dorian spends the whole walk back to their bedrooms venting about the stupidity and blatant sexism of the fact that Dorian and Thomas are freely allowed to go wherever and do whatever they please because they're Alphas, "but Logan can't and has to be escorted everywhere that he is allowed to go if he wants to go anywhere as if he doesnt have his own autonomy! Why can Thomas and I go to the festival's without any fuss or escort but Logan is almost two steps from forbidden to even chose his own attire for the day? Highclass society is bullshit!")

So, with the eventual hard-won mutual agreement that Thomas and Dorian will be Logan's direct and only escorts to the festival who will not be left alone(they wouldnt leave him alone anyway, though not out of thinking that Logan is a dependent helpless omega that needs to be attended to and directed at all times, bc they dont believe that like their parents do, its out of the fact that theyre not about to leave their two years younger baby brother who has virtually no experience in socializing, let alone making friends, alone in a loud activity-filled festival w/ a large amount of varied attendance.) They head off during the winter festival season(as Logan's 21st birthday was in late autumn) to at least introduce their own friends that they've met over the years to Logan(who many of them have heard about but never met previously due to their parents toxic outdated mindsets on how omegas needed to remain shielded from the world and obediant, so Logans only friends for the longest time were his brothers themselves and that was it.).

So, the cast fic placements sorta go like this: Dorian has his intentions set on courting this very chaotic very non-conforming omega male named Remus(bc really, both of them just wanna say fuck you to the Sanders' parents' outdated ideals of societal conformity, really. However, Dorian pursuing Remus is like 5% driven by saying suck it to society, 15% spite towards his parents, and 80% because Remus stole his heart the first time they met by being unabashedly himself and being super interested and forward towards Dorian without being patronizing or disgusted with his birth scars and blind eye. Remus without prompting settles up against Dorian's blindside at all times when in public to work as a barrier to others sneaking up on the visually impaired alpha, all unprompted. Remus really really likes Dorian, and the feeling is mutual.) And! it works out bc even tho Remus is about as wild and as independant and inobedient and non-fragile and as far from the rest of the perfect omega stereotypes as they get, he's part of a family that is even higher in status than the Sanders family. Remus and his twin Roman are both male omegas born into a wealthy and publicly generous family that honestly is probably the most well known in the entertainment industry for its long line of professional actors, singers, and popular film/stage play writer and producers. Remus and Roman are naturally charismatic, Roman being a talented singer and trained actor while Remus dabbles in script writing and producing. Their mothers are respectively an omega and alpha and have their own accomplishments. And, are infact very progressive, and they plan to hand off the company to Roman and Remus to run when the twins are ready to, marriage not required. So, like. The Sanders parents cant exactly find a reason not to let Dorian pursue Remus without being openly obvious in their conservative views about omegas. (Which The Twins' parents already know about through Remus's recountings of Dorian's venting abt Logan's childhood mistreatment) so, safe to say, everyones in on pissing off the Sanders family in ways that they can't openly be mad about.

Anyways, to tie this all back in, the festivals mentioned above are both for meeting mutually un-courted young adults/adults and also for individuals to pursue courting who they want to court without family/class bias ect. (So like, un-courted/non-courting individuals dress/wear a main article in a certain color, while courted/courting individuals wear any other colors but that color, and said color depends on what season its in, and this coloring isn't something that varries from town to town, its universal in their culture. For Spring, un-courted individuals wear Green, in fall its Orange, in Summer its Yellow, and in Winter its Blue. And thats how you differentiate) so Thomas and Dee return to attend each of the seasonal festivals to court who theyre pursuing as a special time alone from either family watching as well as it being another way of meeting up with their friendgroup to have fun.

So, through Dorian, Logan finally meets Roman and Remus, and honestly its a real struggle for them to get along at first bc Roman and Remus are loud and brash and opinionated and independent, and rather unfiltered. And. Well, Logan grew up being trained to be the opposite, so he doesnt think they're compatible friends. But thats how he’s been raised to think. They lead and smother him in their conversation for a hot minute before realizing Logans just politely listening and not even attempting to join in, looking mildly uncomfy and out of his depth. And Romans a little offended before he remembers that what Remus relayed to him about Logan's uprising. So, Remus finds a way to get under Logans skin just enough to break down the polite walls that have been trained into him. Remus states stating false facts to Logan that he knows Logan knows are false and is able to get Logan just incredulous and heated enough to debate back. And Roman joins in just in time to change the subjects just a bit, and it takes some time but they get into a grove of getting Logan used to talking without being talked to, giving his own opinion on things without fear of repercussion and just generally conversating.(and they find, very smugly, that Logan can be just as loud and passionate about facts and his own thoughts and opinions if given the right outlet and the push to do it.) And it finally gets Logan to loosen up just a bit, to relax and smile and laugh(!!), and his brothers are just as excited for him bc Logan's finally getting to break out of his shell without the oppressive control of their parents directly looming over him.

So, okay okay, I'm getting to the logicality part, shhh, perfection takes time!! So, okay, I forgot to squeeze this in earlier but Thomas is courting Remy, whos a talented and smart as fuck, independent male omega from a family from their neighboring country. Remy has a big fam, but hes the head in charge out of all his siblings, ect ect. He’s an omega and the oldest, with three younger alpha siblings and one younger omega sibling. His parents are headstrong people who’ve raised a take-no-shit omega who will not be pushed around and will gladly do his own thing, thank you. If we’re being honest, its really Remy courting Thomas, whos a big-hearted softy introverted Alpha, like they are mutually interested in one another but Remy is a massive extrovert and theres no misunderstanding whose taking charge when theyre together. Remy’s existance alone is enough to Piss off the Sanders Family parents, especially after Remus enters the picture, however.. Remy takes it to the next level by being the more incharge, natural born leader, therefor flipping the old dominant alpha and obedient omega sterotype on its head. Thomas is happy to piss them off in doing it bc letting Remy take the lead makes Remy happy and keeps Remy from getting ansy and makes him happy bc he was never going to fully fit the dominant alpha sterotype anyways. Further still, out of the three siblings that are part of the Sanders family, only Thomas keeps the Sanders surname name in the end, as Dorian plans to take Remus’s and (future)Logan plans to take Patton’s surname. Which sets them up for: Remy chosing to take the Sanders Surname therefore becoming a direct part of the Sanders family name lineage, which the parents have no say over bc its technically up to Thomas by law, who gives Remy the option to chose on his own, ect.

Okay okay, w/ that set up, lets move forward.

Its p much a one-by-one meeting basis as Logan meets Dorian and Thomas’s partners and friends. So, Roman, Remus, and Remy all p much take Logan under their collective wing as soon-to-be omega brother-in-laws do. They all realize they’ve got a lot to teach Logan, and more importantly, kinda really need to get him courting soon bc Logan really needs to get out of that toxic household. They’re planning to keep it slowish bc Logan doesn’t know quite yet how to talk to people that arent his brothers, let alone have any knowhow on consentual courting?? But yeah, they’re keeping an protective eye out alongside Dorian and Thomas while still letting approaching un-courted alphas and omegas come close enough to interact/flirt w/ Logan. About mid-day Roman’s courting partner finally arrives:

A slightly withdrawn, tall and quiet Alpha who looks fairly intimidating until Logan realizes just how anxious the lanky Alpha is and how Roman is definately leading when he needs to to keep Virgil from overthinking. They end up hitting it off very well, unsurprisingly. Virgil doesn’t really know Logan’s whole story like Remus does bc Roman didn’t know to tell him in time so it takes some catching up and trading of their home lives to get to speaking terms but, Logan is soon to be the Twin’s brother in-law soo.. that p much makes Logan his family to be anyhow, so. Safe to say Virgil plays a minor part in warding off all too-cocky alphas thinking theyre about to find an easy catch in approaching Logan. Though, realistically, its the fact that a small group of courting young-adults are guiding and staying w/ said un-courted young-adult that keeps Logan from getting approached too much. It may not have allowed him to get the full festival experience, but, its likely Logan would not have been able to handle the Full Experience, especially not on his own.

Finally, incomes Patton. Patton, wearing blue just like Logan, stands out because he approaches the group fearlessly and full of sunshine, going through and greeting each familiar face before he realizes Logan is a new part of the group and politely and warmly introduces himself. Though well known to the group through being Virgil’s longstanding childhood bestfriend and part of a very openly interactive and helpful w/ everyone around them family, this is actually Patton’s first coming-of-age festival, as he’d just turned 21 two weeks prior. And hes very excited to meet new people, he always is! He’s quick to tell Virgil that the jam they’d made earlier in the fall(it was tradition at this point that Virgil helped Patton with the jam making process every year) had been successful in sales and smiles, and hes content to ramble to Virgil about the progress of the stables’ new foals. Logan would have thought Patton had out-right forgotten about him had Patton not begun turning to ask Logan an excited question every minute or so. And he always listened to Logan’s answers completely with rapt attention before asking or saying something further.

Niether of them know they’d both had the same thought when they’d first seen the other. A very sappy, very flustered thought of ‘Oh god, he’s cute.’ The moment they’d made eye-contact.

And, well, Logan is a tad overwhelmed, for many reasons. For one, Patton, on the very surface, is very attractive. Tall and well-built, sunkissed and freckled with curly blond hair and a dashing smile that lit up his entire expression, and Logan couldn’t help mirror Patton’s infectious smile with a shy one of his own. Another was that Patton’s voice was warm, not too loud though it carried well, it was welcoming and unashamedly happy. Patton was patient and kind and friendly, yet still felt reminiscent of an excited puppy. He was unabashedly himself in the nicest of ways, and Logan’s heart kept fluttering everytime their eyes met, everytime Patton asks him a question or answers his own. Patton leads the conversation, but leaves plenty room for Logan to take his own direction if he pleases. He’s considerate and thoughtful and actually treating Logan like a person, not some dependent omega or a possible mate. And it definately doesn’t go unnoticed that Logan’s blushing and slightly flustered, but Patton doesn’t push about it, he just lets the conversation stop and go as they please as the group wanders around and take part in the festivities.

And.. well, the group does take notice that Patton and Logan have started ignoring outside signals of omegas and alphas that wanna get close and interact with either one of them, but they don’t tell them about it. Logan and Patton are pretty obviously interested in each other, and honestly no ones gonna interrupt them while they figure things out. Patton is the only one who definately doesn’t know about Logan’s situation, but he picks up on it’s cues pretty quickly and treads carefully without prodding, though Logan is upfront about himself being raised under opressive conservative ideals so hes pretty new to everything, but he leaves it at that for their first interaction.

P much they spend the rest of the festival together, Dorian and Thomas directly checking in once or twice to confirm Logan is doing okay and happy. Thomas is met with a soft “yes.. Is this what romantic attention feels like?” And Dorian gets “Yes, though i’m not sure how long i’m going to be able to keep functioning if he keeps smiling at me with his handsomeface.” Which these things are said obviously w/ Patton out of earshot And both brothers have to keep themselves from cackling bc their brother is very gay for Patton. And Patton is very openly gay for Logan right back, not that Logan really knows how to read that yet tho.

By the end of the festival, Logan just decides that he wants to pursue courting Patton, h’s very sure of it especially after bringing it up with Dorian and Thomas and getting their approval. Then Logan brings it up with Patton directly and it goes something like this:

Logan shyly but determained asks Patton if he would consider courting Logan, and Patton just smiles warmly and leans down to take Logan’s hand and kisses it. Then says “I did consider it, Lolo, and I’d be more than blessed to get to court you.” And Logan just blushes so bright he has to hide his face and Patton just laughs and hugs him.

Skipping forward, Patton gets the Sanders families hesitant approval to let him directly court Patton, which involves them sending Logan over to spend periods of time at Pattons estate, and Patton coming to stay with Logan at the Sanders estate during the other half of the time. Cue Patton learning just how bad Logan’s home situation is and would be without his brothers there to buffer some of it, and Patton stepping up to curb it back as well while being non-aggressive about it.

Cue Patton taking Logan to meet riding horses directly for the first time, as well as meet baby horses. He eases Logan into the concept of being free to do almost whatever he pleases while staying at the Crofters estate, which is pretty mild for the longest time but watching Logan smile excitedly when he got a new book, or got to walk around town with Patton, or got to say yes or no just because he finally could? It means all the world to Patton. Cue the scene of them resting under a tree near the front of the estate during the day, easily seen and watched but relaxing and napping atop of one another all the same. Logan’s head against Patton’s board chest, listening to Patton’s heartbeat while patton runs his hand through Logan’s hair. Then, Logan tenatively asking about laying out front to stargaze in the evening, and honestly the night they finally get to stargaze for the first time a few days later is when the really fully fall in love.

Cue Virgil coming to visit with Roman in tow when its that time of the year to make the famous Crofters jam, and Logan is staying over at the estate at the time. And Logan finally tries Crofters jam for the first time, as he’d been putting it off before as not being a jelly person. And he just. Finds he really really likes it, probably an inproper amount. Patton takes notice, and doesn’t hesitate to spoil Logan with it every once in a while. Logan also learns how to make Crofters jam, and it was alot of fun to do! Hes tuckered out by the end of it, but thats not surprising.

And okay. Another major fun plot point is that during times that Patton and Logan are staying at the sanders estate, Dorian and Remus, Thomas and Remy, and Roman and Virgil also often are found staying at the large estate, and its no coincidence. Now that Logan is being directly courted(and its going very well), Logan’s autonomy now falls under Patton’s command, not Logan’s parents. And, well, Patton lets him make his own decisions as long as they stick together, as Pattons not comfy leaving Logan alone unless hes with one of his brothers or their omegan mates(bc at this point, Remus and Dorian finished their yearlong courting and married and are official mates, and same goes for Thomas and Remy. ) and well. My favorite concept is that Logan now has the guidance of 3 firely independant omegas to help him learn to strive for the independant mindset that had been robbed from him in his youth. Safe to say, Logan comes out just as stubborn and independant and passionate as the other three. He just tends to be the one out of the four who is the most content with their alpha being a bit more in the lead on a daily basis.

Didn’t really think abt an ending too much but like, Logan and Patton get married and become mates and move to Patton’s estate permanantly and just being so happy and inlove with Patton. And everythings?? Good?? So yeah.

[writings-of-a-hufflepuff]

First Meetings - Arthur Morgan/Elizabeth McGill

Series: Call it Fate or Call it Chance 

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Elizabeth McGill (Plus size, Female OC) 

Fandom: Red Dead Redemption 2

Summary: Arthur Morgan hears someone in distress in the woods and goes to help. It’s a small world though and soon finds himself meeting a friend of one of his acquaintances. Little does he know it’s the start of a relationship that might just change his fate.  

Warning: Talks of hunting, wolves get killed because they’re trying to eat OC, sorry! Talks of canon character death, spoilers? 

Rating: T

Notes: So, I don’t have the energy these days to write a full fic, but I figured if I write a series of interconnecting one-shots then I can write for these two, get the story there, but without needed them all to lead off from one another like chapters. This series will document that relationship between Arthur Morgan and Elizabeth McGill, a plus size, English OC of mine who’s basically the online character but with less of the outlaw stuff. I hope you love her as much as I do and I hope you enjoy this first part in the series.

Archiveofourown

I’m always happy for requests, suggestions, prompts, questions about this two even if my normal requests are closed. Feel free to draw my characters, feel free to write stuff for them, feel free to ask me questions about them. 

“Oh, go away you bloody little blighters! Shoo! I said shoo!” Arthur heard the call over all else, a lilting English accent, soft but scolding, like a mother to a troublesome child. He shifts Dave, the large black shire who he’d allowed Jack to name, forward, just breaching the tree line to see a woman standing on the lower branch of a tree, arms wrapped around the trunk. Wolves circled the base, baying, waiting, biding their time, hoping she’d slip. They were so entirely focused on her that they gave Arthur and the large horse no mind, not caring much for them at the moment. Clearly they had decided this woman was dinner and had some sort of spiteful vendetta, if wolves could feel spite that is. 

She was a plump thing, short in height, round in figure with dark chestnut hair piled high in a gibson style pompadour atop her head. Her cheeks were rouged and her lips painted a poppy red, heavy skirt falling around her feet, kicking up every now and then as a wolf attempted to jump high enough to reach her, to try for a bite. He watched her kick one a way, a well aimed kick that set the wolf flopping to the ground with a yelp before it got back up again growling. A pretty thing, for sure. 

Elizabeth McGill very rarely cursed out her horse, Scrawny, but today she was certainly doing so, mentally of course. She loved her big, doofus of a horse, the gypsy cob was anything but scrawny and he was gentle natured. He was, however, a coward when it came to wolves. He had bucked her so hard she’d lost her glasses, and in her haste to climb a tree hadn’t been able to find them again. If she could see she’d just shoot the bloody wolves circling her, unfortunately, she was blind as a, well, person without her glasses, and she did not trust that she’d hit a single one. She was usually a fine shot, hunting had become part of her trade, but...she usually could see while doing it. It also didn’t help that Scrawny had run off with all but her revolver, leaving her there. His loyalty was astounding. 

“Y’alright, miss?” She can’t see much, just a blurry shape at the edge of the trees, big enough to be a man on a horse, big and dark coloured. The voice is deep, a heavy southern drawl that is pleasant on the ears, even more so because she’s been waiting desperately for a helping hand. 

“I could do with a little assistance, sir!” She was usually the one helping others, but today, the tables had turned and she was not going to turn down the one person who’d arrived in the last half hour. She was fed up of clinging to a tree trunk especially in a heavy autumn skirt. She hadn’t been planning on hunting that day, she’d already done quite enough on the journey down from the Adler Ranch and had been close to Valentine, expecting to simply sell the pelts, teeth, claws, and the like that she’d gathered. Her first mistake was expecting a simple, calm journey of course. Things never were simple or calm, if it wasn’t a cougar attempting to eat her, an ambush by some local gang, or some fellow in need of help, then it was bad weather or snakes. The latter of which Scrawny hated even more than wolves, if that was possible. 

She didn’t so much as watch the man circle around on his horse, shooting the wolves, as much as squint ineffectively and listen to the sound of hooves clipping the dirt, snorts from a remarkably brave horse, and the dying yelps of wolves. Part of her was envious that Scrawny wasn’t that brave, had he been she could have easily dealt with the wolves herself and never ended up in this damnable tree.

“You can come down now, miss.” The man proffers a hand and Elizabeth takes it using its strength and a hand on his shoulder to keep her balance as she clambers down from her perch, she’s still blind and the help is appreciated. She doesn’t doubt that she’d easily take quite the tumble without guidance. He is nothing if not respectful, the other hand that rests at her waist to help down is placed just so as not to cause offence and is removed the moment her feet are on stable ground. 

What he truly notices is just how short she really is, now she’s beside him her head barely comes to his shoulder. He feels suddenly too imposing, large, and feels the urge to make himself smaller if only to appear less intimidating. 

“I...thank you, do you happen to see a pair of spectacles on the ground? My horse bucked me and I lost them...otherwise I would have handled the wolves myself but, i’m rather blind like this.” Arthur finally notices the way her hazel eyes don’t quite focus on him or her surroundings, when he speaks she can’t quite look him in the eye, but instead moves her gaze around as if trying to. Her squint is also more noticeable all of a sudden and he finds himself hastening to find her spectacles, looking across the ground careful to mind his step. 

“You probably shouldn’t go telling strange men that, ma’am, some might take advantage.” He doesn’t say it to be intimidating or the like, simply out of concern. She clearly couldn’t see well without them and a lesser man, someone like Micah, would surely take advantage. Her trust in him is refreshing but concerning at the same time. He, after all, does not consider himself to be a good man.

“Well, it’s a good thing that a gentleman like yourself happened by instead then, Mr…?” She knows he is concerned for her, she is sure like many men before he thinks her too naïve, too sweet, and perhaps he isn’t wrong on some of those counts. But, she preferred not to live life assuming the worst of everyone, even if people tended to prove that they were indeed rather rotten inside. The amount of strangers in need of help she’d stopped by only to be ambushed was rather alarming at times. But, she did pride herself on her own ability to look after herself, except when she found herself without her glasses. 

“Morgan, Arthur Morgan.” 

“Elizabeth McGill, a pleasure. Thank you, for stopping. I might have been up there for hours otherwise, until they got bored that is, but...I’ve known wolves to bide their time.” She pretends to help because really her running her hands along the grass isn’t doing much, she can’t see after all. 

“Uh, here, Miss McGill, your glasses.” He finds them a ways away from the tree, far enough that he knows she’d have never found them on her own. They’re round and surprisingly unbroken which he is oddly relieved to see for a man not at all invested in them. He passes them to her, watches them change the shape of her face, the clarity coming to her eyes as she blinks up at him with a soft smile. They suit her, feel like something she’s supposed to be wearing, not something that she has to wear. 

For the first time Elizabeth can see her saviour clearly and the man certainly impressed. He was tall, that she already knew even without her glasses, and he was broad, strong, the sort of man that could clearly lift a heavy weight, tackle a man to the ground or hold his own in a fist fight. Mr Morgan had a weathered, but handsome face, little freckles marked his skin, signs of spending time in the sun, his beard was long but neat, but most striking of all were his eyes. He had the most gentle bluish-green eyes she’d seen on a man of his size. 

“You gonna be okay? Your horse still around?” His brows pulled together in the middle out of concern and she found herself smiling at him without much thought. He had been kinder to her in the last 15 minutes than most people were. It warmed her heart just a little more. 

“He’ll be around,” She stops and whistles, sharp, and high. Clear as crystal, and waits a few beats before whistling again. This time Arthur can hear the sound of heavy hooves galloping forward and moves just in time to avoid a large palomino gypsy cob that comes careening out from behind some trees. The horse is lumbering and large as any draft horse is, white and cream dappled coat, dirty from his escape. His hindquarters are covered in pelts, more pelts than Arthur has ever seen, and it’s clear to him that this Miss McGill is a skilled hunter and, if not for her spectacle issue, would have been just fine on her own. It changes his opinion of her, shapes it from a naive, delicate woman, to someone more capable, though still seemingly sweet and lady-like. If possible his interest in her peaked further. 

She places her hands on her wide hips, scowling up at the horse, who’s nodding his head up and down at her in greeting with little nickering sounds, “Scrawny. I hope you know I’m terribly disappointed in you. Leaving me like that. I thought we agreed we were going to work on this wolf phobia of yours, or were you just conning me out of all those oatcakes?”

The horse huffs in a decidedly human way that makes Arthur grin, he doesn’t doubt the big thing had been making away with as many oatcakes as possible with absolutely no understanding or intention of facing a pack of wolves anytime soon.

“You’re lucky that kind Mr Morgan here was happy to help, what would you do if I was eaten by a ferocious pack of wolves?” The horse nickers and presses his large head against her, bumping into her hard enough for her to let out an ouph and take a few steps back. Her back hitting Arthur’s chest, he raised his hands to the tops of her arms to steady her before taking a polite step back, aware he could easily crowd her. 

“I was just doing what anyone would, Miss McGill.” She turns to raise an eyebrow at his words and he feels decidedly admonished before she’s even parted those red lips.

“I think we both know that’s not true, Mr Morgan. I’ve stopped to help enough people who’ve turned a gun on me to know that you are one of a small minority of good folk, whether you want to believe you are or not.” She watches him rub the back of his neck, worn hat tilting forward to hide half his face, but she can still see the beginning flush to his skin from the attention and the creeping little smile twisting at the corners of his mouth. It makes her smile in return, this large, imposing man, bashful at a little compliment like that. 

“What are you doing out here anyways, Miss?”

“I just came down from the mountains. I was visiting a friend who...well, she wasn’t there and her...her husband was dead.” There is a shaky pause, he can see her hand trembling slightly at the thought of her friend and her husband before she bunches it up in her skirt, “Did some hunting on the way down, figured I'd make my usual stop in Valentine to Ted, the butcher, usually gives me a fair price for the things I bring him.” 

Elizabeth can still see poor Jake’s face, cold, frozen solid in the back of a wagon. Some animals had gotten to him before he’d frozen completely and she’d spent a whole day just digging him a grave, hard work considering the ground was almost completely solid itself. But she couldn’t leave him like that and she knew he’d prefer being buried on his own property to burned or some such. She still had blisters on her palms from the digging, despite gloves the hard work had rubbed her hands raw. Made it a tad more difficult to hunt on the way down with her bow, but she’d managed. 

“What was your friend's name?”

“Mrs Adler, Sadie Adler. Used to do jobs for her and her husband when I visited...why?”

“Well, it’s a small world, Miss McGill.” He looks almost surprised at the name she’d thrown out, before smiling at her softly and elaborating, “Me and my friends, we found her oh about...3 weeks back? She was in a pretty bad state, but she’s been with us since. Awful business that with her husband, some O’Driscolls killed him.” Arthur looks apologetic and it soothes her distress to know that at least Sadie is safe, that at least despite all the bad luck in the world something had gone right for her. She hadn’t been found by someone else, someone who would hurt her and that was a small blessing in a world full of problems and bad people. 

“You and your friends?” It’s said with a raised eyebrow and all he can do is rub the back of his neck and look away from her. It doesn’t feel right to lie to her, when she clearly suspects his friends aren’t just his drinking buddies. But, he’s not entirely sure if he can trust her. She seems nice enough, but plenty of people seem nice enough till they find out you have a bounty on your head. Not that Elizabeth could take him in, he doubts given the sheer difference in size that she’d manage it on her own. But, he wouldn’t put it past her to try...if she were so inclined. To him she seems both gentle, delicate, and formidable, words that seem like they shouldn’t work together until you look at her. 

“Well…”

“Relax, Mr Morgan. I understand.” She does, she’s known enough ‘gangs’ of ‘outlaws’ to know that not all are as bad or dishonourable as they seem and that the need to protect their made family was great. She had her suspicions but if they had helped Sadie as Arthur had helped her then she had little doubt that they were the honourable sort of outlaw that she had little problem with. So long as innocent people weren’t getting hurt and the poor weren’t being robbed from she had few objections, even if she personally wasn’t comfortable with robbing or lying, herself. 

The world was a harsh place, few could support themselves on simple law abiding trades like hunting. She was lucky in that respect. One mouth to feed was different to 20. 

“Could I...I hesitate to ask, after all you’ve done for me, Mr Morgan...but could I see her? I...I can’t imagine what she’s going through and I’d like her to know Jake had a proper burial. I did rites and all. She deserves to know.” She twists her hands together, nervous of his answer. She could understand if he said no, he clearly needed to protect his gang and she was a stranger to him. But, she wanted to see her friend and most of all she wanted her friend to know that Jake wasn’t left out there to be eaten or for someone else to find. She’d even managed to gather some of Sadie’s things from the ranch in the end. Photos and trinkets that she’d hoped at the time to be able to give her if she was still alive. 

Arthur rubbed a large scarred hand across his beard, the hairs scratching at his skin as he looked at her. She was small in stature, soft in body, and those hazel eyes held honest intentions. Taking her back to camp wasn’t without risk, but a liar knew a liar when he saw one. She didn’t care about his gang, she wasn’t hunting them down for a fat bounty, she just wanted to see her friend and after everything Mrs Adler had been through he thought she might want to see her friend too. 

With a deep sigh and a quick thought that he hoped he wasn’t making a terrible mistake, Arthur pulled the black bandana from his back pocket. “I’d have to blindfold you, Miss...I gotta...I gotta protect them and I can’t be havin’ you know where we’re at. You understand?”

She could walk away, that was the offer. Be blindfolded by this stranger, this tall, broad, imposing figure or walk away. It was an easy decision to make. He was large and he was imposing, but the gentle way he held out the piece of cloth, the soft furrow to his brow, the way he hunched his shoulders to look smaller, all those things told her he was a good man. Not a pure man, not devoid of wrongdoing or bad deeds, but good in the sort of way that a man out here could be good. She would be safe with him. She could trust his intentions towards her. 

“I understand, Mr Morgan.” She consents taking the fabric from him, it is softer than she expects, “Before we go, I'd suggest we skin those wolves. Your camp needs food I'm sure and those pelts’ll fetch you a good bit of coin, waste not want not.”

“Are you sure?” She’s the hunter after all, or it seems that way and part of Arthur can’t help but feel like she’d have done just fine without him had her glasses not been knocked off. Maybe, she’d been wanting to hunt the four wolves in the first place. He doesn’t want to offend her by taking what she might see as hers, but she just gives him another one of those looks that reminds him of a prettier, younger, much more amicable Ms. Grimshaw. 

 “Mr Morgan, you shot them, they’re yours to plunder. I have enough bloody pelts as it is, Scrawny here would probably complain if he had a few more to carry, right boy?” As if in answer the big cob nods his head up and down with a huff, clearly used to be used as a pack horse. He’s not sure the horse really understands the question, but it’s clear he’s a responsive horse used to a talkative owner, not like Dave who’s stood quietly behind Arthur, only occasionally nudging him with his nose and nibbling at strands of his hair as if expecting a sugar cube to be there. 

“Well, if you’re sure…” She helps him skin them, while she hadn’t intended to do any skinning today and her blouse would certainly hate her for it, sharing the work would make it go quicker and she could offer a few tips as they went. Not much seeing as Mr Morgan was already a skilled hunter by the looks of things. The pelts were in fine condition, he was clearly a good shot, one rifle round to each wolf’s head, no mess, no unnecessary injuries or wasted ammunition. While they had wanted to kill her, she held a healthy respect for wolves and was glad that they didn’t die slowly. Quickly, cleanly, and humanely, something she held dear when it came to hunting. 

Elizabeth grabbed a ratty cloth from her saddlebag, using it and some water from a canteen to clean her arms, it was never smart to leave blood on you and it wasn’t particularly nice either. She offered both to Arthur who gladly did the same, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, thick forearms being cleaned of blood. It was startling to her in that moment that she didn’t feel scared or worried at all. Here she was in the woods with a stranger, a broad, striking and clearly strong stranger, who had multiple guns, a hunting knife, and a bow all on hand. Yet, she didn’t feel a lick of apprehension or worry. 

“Who’s this beautiful boy then?” There was a split second when Arthur, despite himself, almost thought she was talking to him. That was clearly not the case when he looked up startled to see her approaching Dave. The large shire usually disliked others, but was only watching the woman cautiously, deciding whether to bite, kick, or con her out of some food. When Hosea had given him the large beast claiming he was hard to handle and that he’d be better off selling him, something in Arthur had understood. The horse was a bit like him, he was a bit world weary, cautious of others, afraid of getting hurt, but underneath it all a soft hearted thing. 

“...Dave.” He wished in that moment that he hadn’t allowed Jack to name the shire, he loved Dave. Had bonded well with him, but telling a pretty lady that your horse was named Dave rather than Boadicea was a might embarrassing especially when that horse was 17 hands high and capable of trampling wolves underfoot. 

“He’s beautiful.” She likes his name, not that she says that, but it’s clear from the flush to Arthur’s cheeks that he’s not confident in the name choice. She thinks it suits. The shire is beautiful, giant compared to her and larger than Scrawny who was an impressive 15 hands high, especially considering his breed. The Shire pawed at the ground as she got closer, but she hushed him, little quiet comments and soothing sounds, a hand pulling a sugar cube from a skirt pocket. 

There was always something special about getting a horse like that to trust you, to eat from your palm and accept the touch of your hand to their neck. Dave was clearly a distrusting animal, but he let her pat his neck and brush his forehead. He let her tie Scrawny’s reins to his saddlehorn knowing she couldn’t guide herself blindfolded. 

“He don’t usually take to people too well…”

“Well, he just needs a kind touch that’s all. Someone hurt him real bad and he just needs to know that won’t happen again, right, sweetheart?” She says to the horse in a gentle tone, low and quiet. Arthur feels as if she’s talking about him, he thinks on the times he’s been bitten, the way he’s drawn back from people and he understands a little bit more why he and Dave work so well together. They’re two sides of the same damn coin and this woman had a way with both of them already. 

She takes a few steps back, before turning and clambering up into her own saddle. Despite the sheer size of her own horse, she manages well enough to clamber on up even in a thick, heavy skirt. She settles herself, arranges her skirt and takes those delicate round spectacles off and pockets them before grabbing the fabric he’d given her. 

“You’ll make sure Scrawny doesn’t run into any trees?” 

“I got you, miss. Don’t you worry.” It’s with that that Elizabeth wraps the blindfold around her eyes and tightens it at the back of her head, hand holding onto the saddlehorn as they begin to move. 

Arthur cannot help but be a little bit in awe at the trust she has decided to place in him.

[kitsune-kirei]

Neverending Survey: Kirei Meztli

RULES: Repost, do not reblog. Tag 10 blogs! (Or as many as you’d like)

Tagged by: @lightofthecrystal, @elegie-de-sang, @ataki-yuuto, and @lillies-n-lilacs, thank you for tagging me​, It’s been a while since I’ve done one of these!

Tagging: @gaillaffxiv, @infiniteleftdoesffxiv, @sparrow-ffxiv, @fensa-valehart, @mai-takeda, @seina-kurokiba, @gaggle-of-dorks-ffxiv, @jorandalkitor, @thesinsofgreed

BASICS.

FULL NAME: Kirei Meztli ( @kitsune-kirei )

NICKNAME:  Kitsune, Kitsu, Rei, The Firefox.

AGE:  Unknown, looks in her 20′s or 30′s. 

BIRTHDAY: Unknown.

ETHNIC GROUP: Half Hyur, Half Doman .

NATIONALITY: Ul’dahian, Doman.

LANGUAGE/S: Hingan, Eorzean.

SEXUAL ORIENTATION: Bisexual.

ROMANTIC ORIENTATION: Quoiromantic (thank you for this term Spurrow)

RELATIONSHIP STATUS:  Complicated as fuck.

HOME TOWN / AREA:  Yanxia, deep within the bamboo forests. 

CURRENT HOME:  A hidden cave in the Mists. The location is unknown, except to those Kirei has become dedicated to.

PROFESSION: Flower arranger/seller, deliverer, information broker, exorcist, spy. 

PHYSICAL.

HAIR: Curly, wavy, and messy, fire orange in color, recently cut to cheek length. 

EYES: Peculiar lavender eyes.  

FACE: Almost doll-like and delicate in appearance, sometimes covered in dirt. 

LIPS: A bit pouty, rarely wears lip-paint.   

COMPLEXION: Olive, dewy.

BLEMISHES: A mole on the left side of her chin. 

SCARS: Small, barely noticeable scars mar her entire body. 

TATTOOS: None, sometimes Kirei will mess with Henna. 

HEIGHT: 5′6, pretty tall for a Miqo’te.

BUILD: Skinny, lanky, tall. 

FEATURES: Foxlike ears and a foxlike tail. 

ALLERGIES: None.

USUAL FACE LOOK: Neutral, melancholic, bright, friendly, ever present smile. 

USUAL CLOTHING: Practical clothing on the skin-showing side. 

PSYCHOLOGY.

FEAR/S:  Losing sense of taste, hands and feet being cut off, feeling trapped.

ASPIRATION/S: To liberate every single slave under the Echion slave branch, to understand what it means to be human.

POSITIVE TRAITS: Empathetic, helpful, friendly, dedicated worker, passionate, self sacrificing, able to look at the bigger picture, peacekeeper.

NEGATIVE TRAITS: Self sacrificing, self pitying, generous to the point of poverty, feral, half truths, holds too many secrets.

TEMPERAMENT: Phlegmatic- individuals tend to be relaxed, peaceful, quiet, and easy-going. They are sympathetic and care about others, yet they try to hide their emotions. Melancholic-  individuals tend to be analytical and detail-oriented, and they are deep thinkers and feelers. 

SOUL TYPE/S:  The Shaman- This type of soul is wise and old. They can give great advice as well as truly connect with people around them. Others often feel better in their presence.

ANIMALS: Fox, Deer, Otter.

VICE HABIT/S: Smoking, drugs every so often, having strong urges to dig holes in the ground out of nowhere, toxic relationships, succumbs to feral instincts every now and then. 

FAITH: Loose faith in Kami/ Shinto.

GHOSTS?: Yes, Kirei can communicate to spirits and sense ones nearby.

AFTERLIFE?: Yes. 

REINCARNATION?: Yes. Kirei has brief episodes where she gets feelings from her last lifetime, and rarely, will share a familiar feeling among people she had been acquainted with in her past life. 

POLITICAL ALIGNMENT: Neutral.

EDUCATION LEVEL: Taught to read and write, self studying.

FAMILY.

FATHER: R’ihan Meztli - Estranged, Keeper of the Moon. Kirei traveled with her father in Thanalan for a while before he ultimately sold her to a slaver. Spent his life work searching for a powerful Kami in the east. 

MOTHER: Leiote Sekai - Deceased, Doman Hyur. Leiote was a Geiko in Hingashi, and was well known for her ethereal presence, beauty, and kindness. She was ultimately charmed by the outsider R’ihan Meztli, and they both moved back to her home village in Yanxia to start a family. 

SIBLINGS: Kaeyu Meztli - Half sibling, half Keeper half Seeker.  Kaeyu and Kirei don’t know the other exists. Kaeyu has a reputation for being rather rambunctious and a trouble maker. 

EXTENDED FAMILY: Kirei has family on her mother’s and father’s side, but she doesn’t know anything about them, or there whereabouts. 

NAME MEANING/S: Kirei (きれい)- The Hingan word for ‘pretty’, or ‘beautiful’. It has been heavily implied to Kirei by others, that she was named after her mother’s beauty and kindness in hopes that she would inherit these traits. 

HISTORICAL CONNECTION?: None.

FAVORITES.

BOOK: A Hingan child’s book called ‘The Tale of Mohatsu-Otome’, otherwise known as the Eastern version of Rapunzel. 

DEITY: None.

HOLIDAY: Moonfire Faire.

MONTH: Fall seasons.

SEASON: Autumn.

PLACE: The astral plane, various hidden nooks and crannies throughout Eorzea, Doman bath houses, hot springs. 

WEATHER: Sunny with a chill in the air, warm desert days, rainy.

SOUND / S: Ethereal singing, the singing of lesser nature spirits within the woods, wind chimes, ocean waves, water, the rustle of leaves in the wind. 

SCENT / S: Incense, tobacco, fresh unpicked flowers, old tomes, herbs, fresh baked bread, tea. 

TASTE / S: Peaches, apples, fresh sweet cream.

FEEL / S: Soft and bristly fur, warmth, fresh snow, crunchy leaves, fine sand, hot rocks, pebbles.

ANIMAL / S: Goobbue, Tortoises, smaller creatures.

NUMBER: 3, 6, 9, 33.

COLORS: Rich purple, pink, light/bright blue, green. 

EXTRA.

TALENTS: Dancing, healing, cooking, making shitty looking but durable furniture, sewing, manipulation, twin daggers, aether control.

BAD AT: Lying, drawing, staying clean, writing.

TURN ONS: Charming cockiness, depth, intensity, shoulders, meaningful words, white eyes, dark eyes, smirks, someone who can figure her out, making her laugh, a nice voice.

TURN OFFS: Simple minds, tunnel vision, someone who doesn’t listen to her words, racism, un-needed/careless violence and aggression, calling her a ‘cat’, unflattering colors, self absorbed.

HOBBIES: Flower frolicking, cooking, traveling, swimming, making junk, people watching.

TROPES: Girl next door, Hippie, Undere/Yandere

QUOTES: 

“I want to understand... The weight of a human life.” 

“We need to keep moving forward. We have our eyes in the front for a reason after all, there is no point in looking back to the past.” 

“I take a hold of my fate with my own two hands. I will not leave things to chance.”

MUN QUESTIONS.

Q1 : If you could write your character your way in their own movie, what would it be called, what style would it be filmed in, and what would it be about?

A1 : I’m not sure about the title, but it would definitely have to be an animated film. And It would probably be about Kirei’s backstory and about her parents. There’s a lot of details about her past that I don’t get to touch on too much in RP. 

Q2 : What would their soundtrack/score sound like?

A2 : Something that would invoke a lot of emotion if possible. Ghibli/Disney-esque would be awesomeeee.

Q3 : Why did you start writing this character?

A3 : Long story short, something happened to me while visiting Japan that gave me inspiration to write Kirei. Close friends know the entire story, but its a bit long and wild. I’ll just say it involves a Fox shrine I ran into!

Q4 : What first attracted you to this character?

A4 : Besides the thing that happened in Japan, I wanted a character where I was able to express my interest in things like shamanism and the spirit world. I also was really attracted to the idea of writing a character that was still kind to others even though she has no reason to be, due to the rough life she lived. 

Q5 : Describe the biggest thing you dislike about your muse.

A5 : I’m a really open person who likes to approach people to start conversations, but Kirei is the opposite of that. It makes it a bit harder to approach in RP since I wrote her to be a wallflower. She’s also much more reserved than I am, so if there’s a wild scene happening in RP that I would like to get in on, I really can’t on Kirei since she’s not one to participate in things unless asked. 

Q6 : What do you have in common with your muse?

A6 : Probably too much in hindsight rofl. Kirei is the first RP character I ever wrote, so I gave her a lot of commonalities from myself so it would be easier to write her and learn how to RP. 

Q7 :  How does your muse feel about you?

A7 : She would probably tell me that I’m trying my best, but she thinks that with most! 

Q8 : What characters does your muse have interesting interactions with ?

A8 : A whole other side of Kirei comes out if she interacts with manipulative/cunning characters, and I really enjoy writing that darker side of her that appears. 

Q9 : What gives you inspiration to write your muse ?

A9: A big inspiration for the core of Kirei is Tohru Honda from Fruits Basket (if you couldn’t tell but all the fruits basket stuff I reblog). I just loved how she was written, and how she stayed kind despite her hard life, and I loved her layers and how she viewed others. Tohru gave me a lot if inspiration to be kind to others growing up, Kirei is really just a homage to her. 

Q10: How long did this take you to complete ?

A10: TOO LONG, I worked on it on and off throughout the week. 

Thanks for reading if you stuck around this long! 

[autumnslance]

Dark Autumn RP Profile

COEURL, CRYSTAL DATACENTER This info is also on an About page on my blog, and in GoogleDocs.

Description and Statistics: Race: Hellsguard Roegadyn Height: 7'3.7" Build: Solid, Muscular Hair: Black, Thick Skin: Brown, various scars from an adventuring life, but nothing stands out. Eyes: Gold Voice: Smoky, Low. Trained singer. Nameday: 22nd Sun of the 5th Astral Moon Age: Mid/Late-20’s-ish Disciplines: All Disciplines of War (IC), of Magic (OOC) Hobbies: Working out, Reading, Knitting, Music Birthplace: East Shroud Current Home: Gage Offices in Ul’dah, small house in the Lavender Beds Occupation: An executive of Gage Acquisitions free company; a Bard Captain of the Order of the Twin Adder’s Foreign Levy.

Dark is tall, faster and more dexterous than she looks, while excelling in feats of strength and fortitude. Her initial training is with lances and other large weapons, though she’s fondest of bows. Her magical ability is limited, for a Hellsguard. She pushes herself to learn most forms of combat and has at least passing familiarity with a wide variety of weapons.

Free Company House: Goblet, Ward 11, Plot 4 Personal House: Lavender Beds, Ward 6, Plot 32 Guest Books are available if you drop by!

Biography: Dark is the 7th of 10 children in her family, from the East Shroud of the Twelveswood near the mountainous regions of Gyr Abania, and lucky enough to be on the Eorzean side of the Wall. The family is genuinely close, if a bit rowdy at times, and the various members are scattered across the realm. The children were all given names following a “___ Autumn” scheme, but a couple have changed their names as they’ve reached adulthood. Dark still adores and idolizes her eldest brother, Cold Autumn, who served a brief stint in the Wood Wailers before becoming a barrister. Her parents names are Iron Summer and Singing Willow; Dark looks like her mother, but with her father’s skintone. Almost all of the children have the same golden eyes.

As she reached adulthood, her mother’s cousin, Howling Rain, recruited Dark into his own small private military company. Unlike many of her siblings, Dark had a keen interest in martial skills and interest in joining the Adventurer’s Guild, and Howl was determined to give her the best training. The company joined the Twin Adders’ Foreign Levy at Carteneau, on the fringe of the fighting. Howl told Dark to run when the moon burst; she was the only one of the company to survive. She recuperated in her parents’ home, helping with her many nieces and nephews, before rejoining the Adventurer’s Guild. On a Guild errand to Ul’dah, she met Erick Gage and Fink Kukurya, and was recruited into their new free company initially as a strong arm and intimidator at negotiations, eventually working her way up to an executive officer position.

Echo: Dark joined Gage Acquisitions as a way to make a living and put her muscles to use, finding out later they had business connections to the Scions of the Seventh Dawn as Echo-blessed adventurers helping track and fight primals to aid the Warrior of Light. Dark’s Echo is rudimentary, allowing her to understand spoken languages and assist in primal-slaying when pressed; Walking in another’s memories is a rare occurrence, and takes quite a bit out of her.

Persona: She can seem stoic, but has an understated sense of wry humor. She tends to get irritated with some of her co-workers’ derision of Gridania and the elementals. She adores her mischievous chocobo, Bandit, and has a fondness for kittens. Dark tends to wait, watching and listening, before jumping into social situations; she does better in small groups than in large crowds. Her colleagues will note her keen mind and discerning eye, as well as her solid, trustworthy nature they rely upon. She’s the type others use as a foundation rock to lean on.

Dark knows that many consider her an attractive woman, but doesn’t put much stock into flattery of her appearance; she had little to say about it, after all, aside from her haircut and sense of personal style. She is a bit of a fashionista, however, and also an amateur interior decorator; she likes nature-themed designs in her own space.

Her loyalties are to GA, the Scions, and to Gridania and the Order of the Twin Adder.

Writing: See my Writing page for tags and information.

OOC About Me: Main blog: @lynmars79 - All Likes, Follows, Asks, Replies from here.

Trying to get back into RP. Have been roleplaying in various forms--tabletop, LARP, and multiple platforms online--for 20+ years.

Dark shares my birthday, for the giggles (and ease of remembering).

On Central US time, working full time, so energy levels aren’t what they used to be, but I’m mostly free evenings and weekends, barring some Fridays and Saturday afternoons; it varies though, cuz adult life.

I’m OK RPing most things, with proper OOC communication and discussion; not a big fan of gratuitous graphic violence for its own sake, though.

I love game lore and am pretty good at finding and recalling it, but it’s a jumping off point, as the world is bigger and more varied than can be shown in a coded game. So long as there’s some sort of internal logic and mostly consistent characterization going on, I can likely roll with it for fun storytimes with friends.

[vampireloreskill]

Get To Know Me 

tagged by @fourfinefreshfishforyou a billion years ago, thank you so much!! i actually Did have fun filling this out even if it took me forever 

 anyone who still wants to do this can say i tagged them!

1. WHAT IS YOUR FULL NAME? Who wrote this? A fed??

2. WHAT IS YOUR NICKNAME? Kris

3. BIRTHDAY? This year

4. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE BOOK SERIES? Would you believe me if I said Warriors

5. DO YOU BELIEVE IN ALIENS OR GHOSTS? Ghosts no, aliens sort of... I’m not sure I buy into whole other civilizations but I find it hard to believe that there isn’t some kind of life outside of our planet even if it’s just bacteria 

6. WHO IS YOUR FAVORITE AUTHOR? Rick Riordan is pretty cool

7. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE RADIO STATION? Christmas

8. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE FLAVOR OF ANYTHING? Strawberry or peach 

9. WHAT WORD WOULD YOU USE OFTEN TO DESCRIBE SOMETHING GREAT OR WONDERFUL? Amazing

10. WHAT IS YOUR CURRENT FAVORITE SONG?  Your Type - Carly Rae Jepson

11. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE WORD? I’m a big fan of defenestration

12. WHAT WAS THE LAST SONG YOU LISTENED TO?  Your Type - Carly Rae Jepson

13. WHAT TV SHOW WOULD YOU RECOMMEND FOR EVERYBODY TO WATCH? I don’t like to blanket recommend shows because everyone has such different tastes

14. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE MOVIE TO WATCH WHEN YOU’RE FEELING DOWN? Tbh I just mope around until I either feel better or give up and go to sleep

15. DO YOU PLAY VIDEO GAMES? This is an Assassin’s Creed and Sims zone ONLY

16. WHAT IS YOUR BIGGEST FEAR? Strangers on the internet knowing my second biggest fear

17. WHAT IS YOUR BEST QUALITY, IN YOUR OPINION? Objectively it’s probably my ability to see things from other people’s perspective but TBH I much prefer my sense of humor and ability to laugh at my own jokes whether or not anyone else finds them funny 

18. WHAT IS YOUR WORST QUALITY, IN YOUR OPINION? My inability to self moderate

19. DO YOU LIKE CATS OR DOGS BETTER? I want to say neither,, but I may be leaning towards dogs in recent years :/

20. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE SEASON? Winter, but lately Autumn has been sneaking up on it

21. ARE YOU IN A RELATIONSHIP? Nah

22. WHAT IS SOMETHING YOU MISS FROM YOUR CHILDHOOD? Being small... I loved hiding in tiny spaces and being picked up

23. WHO IS YOUR BEST FRIEND? *cowboy voice* Now there’s a name I haven’t heard in a long time...

24. WHAT IS YOUR EYE COLOR? Dark brown

25. WHAT IS YOUR HAIR COLOR? At this point it’s basically black but I still like to say dark brown

26. WHO IS SOMEONE YOU LOVE? God, my family, probably a lot of people idk I catch feelings easily

27. WHO IS SOMEONE YOU TRUST? Literally no one but God 

28. WHO IS SOMEONE YOU THINK ABOUT OFTEN? A lot of seemingly random celebrities, if you count constantly reciting names in specific patterns as thinking 

29. ARE YOU CURRENTLY EXCITED ABOUT/FOR SOMETHING? Yes, lots of things! 

30. WHAT IS YOUR BIGGEST OBSESSION? lmao

31. WHAT WAS YOUR FAVORITE TV SHOW AS A CHILD? REDWALLLLL

32. WHO OF THE OPPOSITE GENDER CAN YOU TELL ANYTHING TO, IF ANYONE? I’m not sure what the opposite of shrug emoji is but the answer is still no one

33. ARE YOU SUPERSTITIOUS? I’m not, but someone needs to tell me that

34. DO YOU HAVE ANY UNUSUAL PHOBIAS? I’m not sure I have any phobias? Irrational fears, Sure

35. DO YOU PREFER TO BE IN FRONT OF THE CAMERA OR BEHIND IT? Behind it!

36. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE HOBBY? I REALLY want to get into dollhousing

37. WHAT WAS THE LAST BOOK YOU READ? I know I said Les Misérables in a previous tag meme but I now remember that I actually read the first book in C.S. Lewis’s space trilogy a while back more recently

38. WHAT WAS THE LAST MOVIE YOU WATCHED? Spider-man: Into The Spiderverse which was........ AMAZING 

39. WHAT MUSICAL INSTRUMENTS DO YOU PLAY, IF ANY? When I was younger I had a lap harp but that’s about it

40. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE ANIMAL? Opossums

41. WHAT ARE YOUR TOP 5 FAVORITE TUMBLR BLOGS THAT YOU FOLLOW? I’m not a fan of naming names in this context sorry!

42. WHAT SUPERPOWER DO YOU WISH YOU HAD? A lot, but I’ve concluded that for any powers gained I would inevitably just end up becoming a super villain and/or batman so hard pass

43. WHEN AND WHERE DO YOU FEEL MOST AT PEACE? When I first wake up, and just lie there trying to hold on to what I was just dreaming about

44. WHAT MAKES YOU SMILE? It’s basically physically impossible for me not to grin like a fool watching Wander Over Yonder

45. WHAT SPORTS DO YOU PLAY, IF ANY? Does Wii Bowling count

46. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE DRINK? Apple cider

47. WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU WROTE A HAND-WRITTEN LETTER OR NOTE TO SOMEBODY? I don’t know? Probably when I wanted to wake up at a certain time

48. ARE YOU AFRAID OF HEIGHTS? Sometimes? Depends on how possible it is that I could fall

49. WHAT IS YOUR BIGGEST PET PEEVE? Dry skin currently 

50. HAVE YOU EVER BEEN TO A CONCERT? I was going to say no but I have the distinct feeling that I have even though I didn’t remember absolutely anything about it except maybe the auditorium?

51. ARE YOU VEGAN/VEGETARIAN? No

52. WHEN YOU WERE LITTLE, WHAT DID YOU WANT TO BE WHEN YOU GREW UP? Zookeeper

53. WHAT FICTIONAL WORLD WOULD YOU LIKE TO LIVE IN? Um. Eternia?? ajfghdk 

54. WHAT IS SOMETHING YOU WORRY ABOUT? Not growing as a person

55. ARE YOU SCARED OF THE DARK? Not really, but I do like the ability to turn on lights if I need to

56. DO YOU LIKE TO SING? My vocal cords were made for Christmas carols and little else. But yeah, sometimes.

57. HAVE YOU EVER SKIPPED SCHOOL? I’m not... sure?

58. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE PLACE ON THE PLANET? I’ll let you know when I’ve found it

59. WHERE WOULD YOU LIKE TO LIVE? Where I already do

60. DO YOU HAVE ANY PETS? Yes

61. ARE YOU MORE OF AN EARLY BIRD OR A NIGHT OWL? Night owl

62. DO YOU LIKE SUNRISES OR SUNSETS BETTER? Sunsets

63. DO YOU KNOW HOW TO DRIVE? I feel like I could make an educated guess in an emergency

64. DO YOU PREFER EARBUDS OR HEADPHONES? Headphones

65. HAVE YOU EVER HAD BRACES? No

66. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE GENRE OF MUSIC? I feel like it’s probably pop or disco tbh

67. WHO IS YOUR HERO? Jesus 

68. DO YOU READ COMIC BOOKS? Here and there, the only series I’ve actually read all the way through is Cable & Deadpool (2004) but I want to get into Venom

69. WHAT MAKES YOU THE MOST ANGRY? Not to be cliche but injustice of any kind

70. DO YOU PREFER TO READ ON AN ELECTRONIC DEVICE OR WITH A REAL BOOK? Real book, I like turning pages and the way the cover fits into my hands. Can’t say I’m a fan of the smell though.

71. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE SUBJECT IN SCHOOL? Vocabulary

72. DO YOU HAVE ANY SIBLINGS? Yes

73. WHAT WAS THE LAST THING YOU BOUGHT? Sims 4 packs

74. HOW TALL ARE YOU? 5′2 or so

75. CAN YOU COOK? If it involves anything other than a microwave or a toaster then,,, no

76. WHAT ARE THREE THINGS THAT YOU LOVE? Vampires, villains in love, wood paneling 

77. WHAT ARE THREE THINGS THAT YOU HATE? Intrusive thoughts, Marius Pontmercy, mint flavored toothpaste

78. DO YOU HAVE MORE FEMALE FRIENDS OR MORE MALE FRIENDS? I... Have more female mutuals

79. WHAT IS YOUR SEXUAL ORIENTATION? Bisexual but like it’s Complicated. Also this is the first time I’ve ever actually said that directly so ✌️🎉

80. WHERE DO YOU CURRENTLY LIVE? A fed wrote this

81. WHO WAS THE LAST PERSON YOU TEXTED? My mom

82. WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU CRIED? Earlier this month

83. WHO IS YOUR FAVORITE YOUTUBER? I don’t really follow any, but I used to be obsessed with the videos of this one guy who acted out crossovers of DC/Marvel characters with action figures and had a really great voice

84. DO YOU LIKE TO TAKE SELFIES? I do! I just never do anything with them once I’ve taken them lol

85. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE APP? I don’t have one right now, but I adore choose your own adventure ones

86. WHAT IS YOUR RELATIONSHIP WITH YOUR PARENT(S) LIKE? Pretty good with my adoptive parents. I want to be closer with my birth mom but I don’t... really know how to go about that without being a disappointment. Never met my birth dad which has been eating at me somewhat lately.

87. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE FOREIGN ACCENT? Uhh Australian maybe??

88. WHAT IS A PLACE THAT YOU’VE NEVER BEEN TO, BUT YOU WANT TO VISIT? Mexico

89. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE NUMBER? 6

90. CAN YOU JUGGLE? Do you take me for a clown

91. ARE YOU RELIGIOUS? Yes, I’m a nondenominational christian 

92. DO YOU FIND OUTER SPACE OF THE DEEP OCEAN TO BE MORE INTERESTING? The ocean, it’s teeming with life and I find it bafflingly fascinating how there’s still so much we don’t know about it

93. DO YOU CONSIDER YOURSELF TO BE A DAREDEVIL? Absolutely not

94. ARE YOU ALLERGIC TO ANYTHING? Almost every single time we go shopping in Sam’s Club I get inexplicably feverish and nauseous and feel like I’ve thrown out my back until we get to the check out. That and I may have a dairy allergy? But honestly my stomach is acting out every other day so who knows really.  

95. CAN YOU CURL YOUR TONGUE? Ye

96. CAN YOU WIGGLE YOUR EARS? No

97. HOW OFTEN DO YOU ADMIT THAT YOU WERE WRONG ABOUT SOMETHING? Not as often as I should

98. DO YOU PREFER THE FOREST OR THE BEACH? Aesthetically, the beach, but forests are less sandy

99. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE PIECE OF ADVICE THAT ANYONE HAS EVER GIVEN YOU? Pat, don’t rub (When drying your hands)

100. ARE YOU A GOOD LIAR?  mmMM I don’t really lie, like, seriously about stuff that I can recall? I’ll jokingly say stuff that blatantly isn’t true and even then I sometimes feel guilty and confess seconds later. Unless you count lying by omission? Or saying stuff like “I’m fine” LMAO. The World May Never Know

101. WHAT IS YOUR HOGWARTS HOUSE? We Don’t Discuss Harry Potter On This Blog, but ravenclaw all the way and any test that tries to sort me into hufflepuff isn’t Valid 

102. DO YOU TALK TO YOURSELF? Generally just when I’m alone

103. ARE YOU AN INTROVERT OR AN EXTROVERT? Introvert

104. DO YOU KEEP A JOURNAL/DIARY? I’ve tried, but I just don’t have the attention span for it asdfgh. Sometimes I write down my dreams though.

105. DO YOU BELIEVE IN SECOND CHANCES? Yes

106. IF YOU FOUND A WALLET FULL OF MONEY ON THE GROUND, WHAT WOULD YOU DO? Convince someone else to pick it up and check for ID

107. DO YOU BELIEVE THAT PEOPLE ARE CAPABLE OF CHANGE? Yes

108. ARE YOU TICKLISH? That’s a personal question

109. HAVE YOU EVER BEEN ON A PLANE? Yes

110. DO YOU HAVE ANY PIERCINGS? No

111. WHAT FICTIONAL CHARACTER DO YOU WISH WAS REAL? Count Dracula from Monster Family (2017) ok so,,, i know he tried to freeze the entire world because a married woman rejected him but LISTEN

112. DO YOU HAVE ANY TATTOOS? No

113. WHAT IS THE BEST DECISION THAT YOU’VE MADE IN YOUR LIFE SO FAR? Following Jesus

114. DO YOU BELIEVE IN KARMA? Mm, not karma per say, but I do generally think that what goes around often comes around in way or another

115. DO YOU WEAR GLASSES OR CONTACTS? No

116. DO YOU WANT CHILDREN? NO

117. WHO IS THE SMARTEST PERSON YOU KNOW? Idk! there a lot different types of smart people

118. WHAT IS YOUR MOST EMBARRASSING MEMORY? Nice try, but someone might actually read this

119. HAVE YOU EVER PULLED AN ALL-NIGHTER? I’m basically nocturnal so... yeah

120. WHAT COLOR ARE MOST OF YOUR CLOTHES? Various jewel tones

121. DO YOU LIKE ADVENTURES? Ehhhhhhh

122. HAVE YOU EVER BEEN ON TV? Not that I know of

123. HOW OLD ARE YOU? 21

124. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE QUOTE? I can’t really think of one right now

125. DO YOU PREFER SWEET OR SAVORY FOODS? Whichever I’m in the mood for!

[chippedcupanddustybooks]

Get to know me - tag I was tagged by @anotherplumbob so here you go! I tried to update my simself a bit. Even though my hair is way longer right now :D 1. What is your full name? Celine 2. What is your nickname? Chip 3. Birthday? june 22nd 4. What is your favorite book series? Definitely Harry Potter :D 5. Do you believe in aliens or ghosts? Not in the scary horror movie kind of way. I guess there’s probably some kind of life somewhere out there in the universe. And on the matter of ghosts: Sometimes I want to believe our loved ones aren’t gone completely and still watching over us in some kind but not in a spooky haunting houses kind of way :P 6. Who is your favorite author? J.K. Rowling  7. What is your favorite radio station? I only listen to my local radio station on my way to work in my car   8. What is your favorite flavor of anything? Lime 9. What word would you use often to describe something great or wonderful? awesome I guess 10. What is your current favorite song?  Writing down favorites is always so hard because mine change so much :D But I like the song “Odds of Being Alone” by Trent Dabbs & Amy Stroup a lot at the moment

Putting the rest under the cut for not spamming your dash!

11. What is your favorite word? mhm not really favorite word but my best friend is always saying I use the word amusing a lot even though no one really uses it anymore . Also nostalgic 12. What was the last song you listened to? see favorite song   13. What TV show would you recommend for everybody to watch? Everything on this list  14. What is your favorite movie to watch when you’re feeling down? One of the old Disney movies! I have almost every movie on DVD 15. Do you play video games? yes 16. What is your biggest fear? Losing loved ones 17. What is your best quality, in your opinion? I think I’m quit empathic and people say I’m good at giving advice and cheering them up. 18. What is your worst quality, in your opinion? I talk too much and am being sarcastic to protect myself way too much 19. Do you like cats or dogs better? dogs! 20. What is your favorite season? spring but autumn being very close second 21. Are you in a relationship? no 22. What is something you miss from your childhood? not having to worry about so much  23. Who is your best friend? I have a male best friend I met back in high school 24. What is your eye color? Dark blue with a partial heterochromia in my left eye 25. What is your hair color? dark rown 26. Who is someone you love? My family, friends and pets 27. Who is someone you trust? The persons I trust most are my mother and my best friend 28. Who is someone you think about often? Everyone I know that is struggling with something and people I lost 29. Are you currently excited about/for something? Hopefully celebrating christmas with my whole family again this year! Also having some days off around the end of december! 30. What is your biggest obsession? Constantly changing between my hobbys and interests - currently I’m back at obsessing about everything Harry Potter related 31. What was your favorite TV show as a child? As small child I loved House of mouse and Bear in the big blue house 32. Who of the opposite gender can you tell anything to, if anyone? my best friend 33. Are you superstitious? no 34. Do you have any unusual phobias? I absolutely terrified of diving and being pulled under water - especially after a teacher in school nearly drowned me when I was 11yrs old 35. Do you prefer to be in front of the camera or behind it? I’m working in video post production and as a photographer so definitely BEHIND the camera! 36. What is your favorite hobby? ballroom dancing, sims, reading & photography 37. What was the last book you read? Currently rereading the Harry Potter series so right now I’m at chamber of secrets!

38. What was the last movie you watched? I saw phantastic beasts 2 last monday

39. What musical instruments do you play, if any? sadly I can’t play any instruments even though I would love to be able to play the piano 40. What is your favorite animal?  dogs 41. What are your top 5 favorite Tumblr blogs that you follow? That’s way too hard to decide :D 42. What superpower do you wish you had? going back in time   43. When and where do you feel most at peace?  cuddling with my dogs at home 44. What makes you smile? happy animals, seing my friends & family 45. What sports do you play, if any? I’m not a sports person at all - if you don’t count ballroom dancing 46. What is your favorite drink? coffee 47. When was the last time you wrote a hand-written letter or note to somebody? A long while ago back in school   48. Are you afraid of heights? no 49. What is your biggest pet peeve? narcissim and impoliteness 50. Have you ever been to a concert? no 51. Are you vegan/vegetarian? no 52. When you were little, what did you want to be when you grew up? I always wanted to work with pets but I couldn’t bear seeing all the awful things at a vet or shelter so I decided to go for something different. I still volunteer at the shelter though! 53. What fictional world would you like to live in? The Harry Potter universe 54. What is something you worry about? I’m constantly worrying about everyone around me 55. Are you scared of the dark? no  56. Do you like to sing? in the car to myself yes but in front of others no way 57. Have you ever skipped school? yes I skipped a few useless classes sometimes 58. What is your favorite place on the planet? My favorite city is London. Favorite place is sitting on my window sill with the window open at summer nights! 59. Where would you like to live? London or somewhere in switzerland even though I love my home town 60. Do you have any pets? two silver labradors 61. Are you more of an early bird or a night owl? night owl 62. Do you like sunrises or sunsets better? sunsets 63. Do you know how to drive? Yes  64. Do you prefer earbuds or headphones? For working or at home headphones but for travelling earbuds 65. Have you ever had braces? yes from age 11-14yrs 66. What is your favorite genre of music? I don’t have a favorite genre it’s a wild mix of everything from calm alternative music to Rock’n’Roll from the 50s 67. Who is your hero? My mother  68. Do you read comic books? no but I read some Disney comics when I was younger 69. What makes you the most angry? people lying to my face, someone hurting my loved ones 70. Do you prefer to read on an electronic device or with a real book? I tried to like E-books but I just can’t get used to them and I love the smell of new books! 71. What is your favorite subject in school? Geography 72. Do you have any siblings? 1 half-sister but we don’t have much contact 73. What was the last thing you bought? a christmas present for my grandma and a Winnie Pooh notebook  74. How tall are you? 165cm / 5,4 feet 75. Can you cook? A few things 76. What are three things that you love? cuddling with pets, sitting on my window sill on a rainy day, sleeping 77. What are three things that you hate? having to wake up early, annoying people & animal abuse 78. Do you have more female friends or more male friends? female but it used to be the other way around for a long time 79. What is your sexual orientation? straight  80. Where do you currently live? Germany 81. Who was the last person you texted? a friend of mine 82. When was the last time you cried? two weeks ago on my way back from work after a real shitty week 83. Who is your favorite YouTuber? I don’t watch YouTube a lot so I don’t have one 84. Do you like to take selfies? not at all - my phone is basically 80% dog photos 85. What is your favorite app? the apps I use the most are Whatsapp, discord, tumblr & spotify 86. What is your relationship with your parent(s) like? My mom and I are very close/ my father and I have a very complicated relationship 87. What is your favorite foreign accent? I love the british accent 88. What is a place that you’ve never been to, but you want to visit? I would love to visit canada and ireland one day 89. What is your favorite number? 4 90. Can you juggle? no 91. Are you religious? no 92. Do you find outer space or the deep ocean to be more interesting? The deep ocean even though I’m totally scared of being under water 93. Do you consider yourself to be a daredevil? No not really more of the opposite 94. Are you allergic to anything? kiwis and most pain killers 95. Can you curl your tongue? no 96. Can you wiggle your ears? no 97. How often do you admit that you were wrong about something? I’m always open to admitting I’ve done something wrong in argument because it’s never jsut one person that did something wrong 98. Do you prefer the forest or the beach? forest 99. What is your favorite piece of advice that anyone has ever given you?  Not really an advice but a lesson I learned. Sometimes you can’t save everyone from themselves. So sometimes you just have to let go. 100. Are you a good liar? depends on who I’m lying to. I hate lying to people that mean a lot to me so those often notice something is wrong.  101. What is your Hogwarts House? Ravenclaw 102. Do you talk to yourself? yes sometimes 103. Are you an introvert or an extrovert? A mix of both. More of an introvert I guess but once I get to know people I can also be an extrovert 104. Do you keep a journal/diary? I used to a few years ago but not anymore 105. Do you believe in second chances? yes but I give way too many to people I like 106. If you found a wallet full of money on the ground, what would you do?return it or hand it to the police 107. Do you believe that people are capable of change? yes but sometimes people are wa better in changing for the worse 108. Are you ticklish? no 109. Have you ever been on a plane? yes 110. Do you have any piercings? no not even ear holes 111. What fictional character do you wish was real? Dobby!  112. Do you have any tattoos? no 113. What is the best decision that you’ve made in your life so far? applaing for my current job 114. Do you believe in karma? Yes 115. Do you wear glasses or contacts? no  116. Do you want children? I’m not sure if it’s going to change but at the moment I would say I don’t think so 117. Who is the smartest person you know? my mother 118. What is your most embarrassing memory? I’m so clumsy I’m getting myself into embarassing situations every day. But on the top of the list would be a mistake on my graduation that caused ALL my photos from my external drive ending up in the slideshow that was shown on stage... 119. Have you ever pulled an all-nighter? yes 120. What color are most of you clothes? all shades of blue, dark red, grey and brown 121. Do you like adventures? I’m a control freak so it’s hard for me to enjoy situations that I don’t know the end of 122. Have you ever been on TV? yes, I worked as a photgrapher on a pet adoption show and was seen in the background  123. How old are you? 21 124. What is your favorite quote? Sometimes the best book has the dustiest jacket and the best tea cup is chipped ;) 125. Do you prefer sweet or savory foods? Savory    I’m tagging @saurussims @simblrbreezycakes & @mlyssimblr (Feel free to ignore this if you don’t want to do it!)

[lovelyfictional-imagines]

Learn You Again (The Thirteenth Doctor x Reader)

Hi guys! I’m terribly, terribly sorry for being gone so long. You’ve all been so understanding with me. I appreciate you more than I could ever express.

I originally intended to write this for Twelve as a sort of birthday present to myself(The 25th is my 19th birthday), but I’m a little into Jodie Whittaker. Like, oh my god she’s absolutely gorgeous and I love that little half smile she does. I based height differences off of myself, I’m about 5′4 and she is 5′6, not much taller, but I’d still have to lean up just a bit to kiss her. Not that I’ve imagined that or anything.

This probably isn’t even a somewhat accurate depiction of her, but I tried.

ANYWHO.

This is a little present for me and anyone else who may feel this way.

I hope you enjoy. I also hope this is a good way to ease back into writing again.

Until next fic,

- Ashley 

Word Count: 1, 348

What I listened to while writing: The Trapeze Swinger - Iron & Wine

Gentle tinkling like laughter floated on the dry, cool breeze. On the weathered porch, a young woman loosely clung to a tattered blanket around her shoulders, swaying like the tall brown grass in the yard. Above, the stars reared their shy heads behind wispy clouds, and the moon hid still. She breathed deeply, steadily, rhythmically.

It had been a month now she’d been alone. Dropped off in the house of her dreams, with all the time in the world at her disposal. In that time, she’d completely scrubbed every inch, from the corners of the attic to the soot stained fireplace. She’d come to learn mostly where the worn floorboards creak, which toilet threw fits, and that some days the oven simply refused to roar to life.

When she wasn’t working on her abode, she would sketch. Or read until her mind became distracted, and she’d begin another book. On sunny days she’d walk down the worn trail to a little pond she’d discovered while exploring, dip her toes into the freezing water, then run back with childlike glee. Other times she’d pack a small lunch and lay in the dead grass, eyes to the sky for hours.

At first she’d been grateful for the reprieve, almost glad to have time to herself. But after a few days of curling beneath layers of quilts and comforters, she’d realized just how lonely sleeping alone truly was. When she’d been so accustomed to curling into her owlish old man, of intertwining her bare legs and sock-covered toes into his, that waking up to the sun’s distant presence peeking into her window had begun to disappoint her. Once she’d beg the Doctor to bring them back to the exact moments before dawn so they could sit in awed silence, now she almost resented the sun because he wasn’t there to watch it with her.

Something had felt strange, of late, when her preoccupied thoughts would halt to think of the Doctor. He’d changed in his absence, somehow. Deep in her chest, she could tell, after much consideration. The question struck her in the dead of night, when she’d been lying awake in front of the fire: what if he wouldn’t be the same Doctor he left as?

For days she sat on the edge, attempting to reign in her thoughts from surrendering to worry, to fear, to her almost crippling anxiety.

That night she found her best pencils, her sturdiest paper, and drew different facial features until the sun made its grand entrance, coming to laugh at her. Page after page, eyes and lips and noses were everywhere in every shape she could recall.

Graphite smeared across her knuckles and fingers, on her cheek and forearm she’d pressed into her drawings when sleep found her at last. Around noon she woke, set the kettle on and went out to chop wood. After striking up another fire, having a few cups of tea that warmed all the way to her bones, she made her way into the attic. Rummaging through boxes of memories belonging to someone else, someone she’d never know, she found small pots of paint and carefully tended brushes.

“May I take these?” She whispered, voice hoarse from disuse.

And in that moment, a gentle breeze fluttered through her hair, and she took this as a sign of approval.

With that she clambered back down the stairs, cradling the supplies with almost divine reverence. Shutting the chipped door to her room, she set them down onto her unmade bed, and began tossing blankets onto the floor. Using her feet, she pushed them back into the extended nook of the bedroom. Time had seemed to slow, and every movement she made felt heavy, lethargic almost.

Instead of stopping, (Y/N) reached into her nightstand and withdrew a few thick, unscented candles. Her fingers fumbled for a moment as she attempted to strike match after match. On her fourth try, she managed to light one, breathing life into the candles and setting them on the rough windowsill.

Returning to her original train of thought, she retrieved her sketchbook and the paints.

The first stroke of paint on the page almost took her breath away. Vivid, evocative color spread smoothly beneath the bristles. Tears sprung to her dark (E/C) eyes, and suddenly her chest clenched beneath the sweatshirt she’d thrown on. Leaning back against the wall, she allowed herself to breathe, and her sorrow slipped down her cheeks, along her jaw, dripping into her shirt.

And instead of wiping them, she continued painting. Instinctively her fingers moved, and she gave into the melancholic passion she’d repressed for weeks now.

 -

Suddenly (Y/N) jolted in her sleep and woke immediately. Outside the chimes sung, before stopping, and then continued. The oxygen in her lungs suddenly left her, and before her mind could process anything beyond her consciousness, she’d sprung to her feet. Quickly down through the hall and the stairs, discarding the house’s groaning. Skidding into the living room, she searched the landscape outside of the window, and almost screamed.

Yanking her blanket from the back of the rocking chair, she pried the backdoor and screen open. Near the pond, down the hill, the TARDIS stood in all her glory, glowing beneath the light of the moon. The dull ache of tears pressed into the backs of her eyes, her heart hammered until it sounded like a jet taking off, and her fingers clutched at a hole in the fabric until she was sure she’d made new ones. Gingerly she stepped out onto the rickety porch, turning to the aluminum chimes she’d hung on her first night alone.

(Y/N) looked up, expecting her lanky, aged Doctor with wild silver curls and attack eyebrows. Instead she was met with brilliantly viridescent eyes, feminine and glistening with familiarity as they gazed at her. Short, blonde hair framed a carefully sculpted square face, one with mirth playing in her rosy lips and pointed nose. She was beautiful, absolutely stunning in the way the Doctor always had been.

She didn’t need to ask, and she felt the Doctor knew this.

“I’m aware I may be a bit different.”

Her voice was smooth, evenly-toned, but the smile was evident in it. (Y/N) couldn’t help but grin at her attempt.

“Just a bit. I think it’s the eyebrows that give it away.”

Now she laughed, a melodic sound that reverberated in her chest, instantly filling a crevasse she hadn’t known existed until that moment. It was as if she’d stepped into a bath, warmth trickled through her body despite the crisp autumnal air. (Y/N) laughed with her, before finally stepping towards her.

Though she felt incredibly at ease, one question lingered in her mind, one she needed to ask.

“Has... has anything else changed?”

Looking down at her sock-covered feet nervously, as if they were the most interesting thing in the world, she held her breath and counted to ten.

Before she reached eight, a slender hand slid up her neck and beneath her jaw, drawing her gaze back to the Doctor’s. Again, she was rendered blank, her breath and thought stolen from her. The Doctor’s face was serious, but a smirk was attempting to fight its way onto her face. Strong fingers stroked her cheek, as if trying to gauge her emotions and calm them at once.

“Of course not, love.”

Barely a whisper against her lips as she took initiative, closing the distance between them. Slender arms slid around (Y/N)’s waist, and she released the blanket to throw hers around the Doctor. Plush lips massaged hers skillfully, drawing her closer and closer to her chest.

(Y/N) leaned up, as if trying to mold into her, to learn this new body. Smaller hands drifted up into her bright hair, and laughter bubbled up through her.

“This’ll definitely take some getting used to.”

The Doctor giggled against her, falling into her neck and pressing tenderly.

“We’ve all the time in the world, love.”

(Y/N) chewed her lip, watching her lover with heavy eyes.

“Take me to bed, let me learn you again.”

[verytamenow]

All the even numbers ☺️

2. Who was your last kiss with? Was it pleasant?Still no one as of yet.

4. Who has made you laugh the hardest in the last week?Probably when we all talked after cards on Saturday or something my dad said recently.

6. What is your favorite season? Why?Autumn. Not too sure why. I love it even though I shouldn’t.

8. What color are your nails?Right now I don’t have any polish on them.....may need to trim them though.

10. What is something you find romantic?I’m not really a romantic I don’t think. I mean, I’m someone who views being in love as a choice so....But lazy days and choosing your partner and doing small things to make them happy, I guess.

12. Is there anything in particular making you happy or sad?Life, my dude. 

14. Which do you prefer:a museum, a night club, the forest or a library?I’ll take anything but the night club.

16. If you could be doing anything you like right now, what would it be?I’d really quite like to get some writing done but I’m drawing a blank.

18. What makes you attracted to the person you like right now?I’m thankfully crush free.

20. Are you holding on to something you need to let go of? If so then what? Existence. I try not to hold onto things too much.

22. Have you recently made any big decisions? Does looking for a new job count? Also to pursue something I think could make me happy.

24. What movie would you use to describe your life?My life isn’t interesting enough to be summed up by a movie. Maybe just footage of watching paint dry or something?

26. Complete this sentence, “I wish I had someone with whom I could share…”Everything. Myself. My heart. My life.

28. What are two things that irritate you about the opposite sex?Where do I begin?

30. What is something that makes you sad when you think about it?My family and just a bit my current mental/emotional state.

32. Have you ever been in love?Just the once.

34. Why did your last relationship end?We couldn’t give each other what we needed, even though we both loved each other and still care about each other. In hindsight, the timing of that was fortunate. Not sure I’d be a good partner right now.

36. When was the last time you cried and why?I hate crying so I try hard not to. But I’ll admit I almost did the other day while driving home from work just because that’s kind of where I’m at right now.

38. What did you receive last Valentines Day?I’ve never celebrated Valentine’s Day.

40. Have you ever been cheated on?No.

42. Ever had detention?Yes, many times. Usually for not doing school work.

44. What do people call you? Zoe, usually. Not too many ways to shorten my name.

46. How big of a nerd/dork are you? I am such a dork.

48. How tall are you?5′5″

50. Favorite fruits?Strawberries!!!!

52. What’s your earliest memory?Pass

54. Do you prefer to be behind the camera or in front of it?I prefer to stay away from the camera all together but behind it I guess.

56. Do you save money or spend it? I try to save.

58. What top 5 things make you the angriest?Bigotry, Cruelty, Rudeness, People who won’t listen, And anyone just assuming they know what’s going on in my head

60. You are walking down the street on your way to work. There is a dog drowning in the canal on the side of the street. Your boss has told you if you are late one more time you get fired. What do you do?I have so many questions. Why am I walking to work? It gets over 100 here. That’s not a good idea. Where did the canal come from? I’m in the middle of the desert!

62. Give me the first thing that comes to mind when you hear the word; heart.Love.

64. Do you like the beach?Username checks out.

66. Do you have a middle name? If so what is it!I have two.

68. Describe your hair.Short, dark blonder, and a mess.

70. What is your ideal partner like?You, Alex, and Kristen all damn well known the answer to this.

Patient, intelligent, kind, confident. Understanding but not willing to but up with too much of my shit. Someone who falls for me and I fall for back but also chooses me since making things work comes down to a choice I think. A woman who makes me want to be better. Someone I can enjoy having a quiet night or going out with.

72. Do you want to have kids?Not really. Right woman, I might consider it I guess? That’s probably a sign I shouldn’t though. I don’t want to carry no matter what.

74. Are you Chunky or Slim?Chunky. I need to get my ass on a treadmill.

76. What would you change about your life? My levels of executive function.

78. You’re drunk and yelling at hot guys/girls out of your car window, you’re with?Wouldn’t happen.

80. Does anyone regularly (other than family) tell you they love you?Nope.

82. So, the last person you kissed just happens to arrive at your door at 3AM; do you let them in?So no one shows up at my door at 3 am? Cool, I’ll hopefully be asleep.

84. Do you like bubble baths?Haven’t had one in a while. I prefer showers.

86. Have you ever danced in the rain?No. 

88. What was your first thought when you woke up this morning?It was I wanted more sleep. Then I fell asleep for another hour.

90. How was your day today?I’m not at work so it’s okay.

92. Describe the what you think of the ocean.Peace. Calm. Home. My hometown and the Italian place there. My grandfather and childhood friends.

94. Honestly, are things how you wanted them to be? No but what else is new? It is what it is.

96. When are you vulnerable?Only when I can’t avoid it.

98. Do you like to go hiking? Fuck no.

100. Would you ever go sky diving, bungee jumping , cliff diving, wing suit gliding, parasailing, snorkeling, or other extreme activities?

I hate heights so no to most of that.

[lonewolfwriter]

A Taste Of Hazel Chapter 1

Note: For new followers, (Please read Two Savages before beginning this story)

Tumblr: Lonewolfwriter : Reblogs welcome.

For all my followers, welcome back =p, I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it! (Due to everyone’s awesome support and responses, here is another story to sink your teeth into)

Ps: you guys rock!

Without further adieu

The bakery was packed front to back with mammals of all description from an enormous elephant to a teeny tiny mouse, each one waited patiently to get to the front of the line where they were to be served.

The bakery was called “The Puffy Leo” and was an outstanding top notch bakery in Zootopia. In fact, it was where one Gideon grey received a scholarship and learnt to bake.

Hazel stood behind a very tall and dashing looking tiger, who sported a dark blue police uniform.

He was tall; as his species should be and had many scars that Hazel could see, but his most stand out and dashing feature was a smile that seemed to brighten up the room, and as police should, it made you feel safe.

Hazel was a fox, and to her, as she had been reminded constantly, and especially in high school; a very simple fox at that. Typical red and white coat colouring, small fangs and normal height. She had been reminded of this relentlessly through her life, but never more so then by actions of Red.

Anyone with half a brain would describe Hazel as loyal, kind, considerate and innocent, but usually the word used to describe her was untrustworthy, cunning and sly, the words used by her so called “peers” however she had never done anything to be labelled with any of those titles and she simply knew it was blanket terms for any canine with red fur and pointed ears who fell under the species Vulpes Vulpes.

However, Hazel’s most outstanding feature for her so called “normality”; as her name would suggest, was her brilliant Hazel eyes, that seemed to change periodically between deep emerald green, to a lightly tinged autumn brown. Her eyes seemed to absorb the light from the sun itself, brighten it, and then re emit it.

Most animals who spoke to her would sometimes stumble or stutter on words when they first saw her eyes. But the realisation that she was a fox soon foreshadowed that beauty.

She was shy and elegant and tried her hardest to prove that not all foxes are untrustworthy and cunning.

Hazel was in the dying years of her 20’s, 29 to be exact and her birthday was just around the corner, not that the time clock was an issue to her in any spectrum.

She had gone to college for many years following her dreams, but dreams are made to be shattered and it seemed every step Hazel took did just that, shattered her dreams, however she was hopeful and brave and soldiered on tirelessly.

The officer in front of her had ordered two coffees and a punnet of blueberries. The baker who Hazel knew very well smiled handing the officer a punnet of blueberries that would usually be used in the blueberry muffins, Hazel assumed they must have known the each as the store owner simply sold them to him as a punnet, the tiger paid him, collecting his stuff.

“Thanks Fangs, I’ll see ya tomorrow right?” asked the lion on the other side of the counter, giving him an obviously playful wink while placing the money into the till.

“You bet” replied the officer, returning the wink before turning to leave.

The large cat turned to leave, his attention focused on juggling both coffees and the blueberries and almost walked straight into Hazel, his reflexes however allowed him to shift to the side and miss bumping her.

“Oh my apologise ma’am” excused the police officer with a tip of his hat, apologetic that he almost bowled her over. “Love your dress by the way!” he complimented with a smile, his fangs highlighting his preened professional stature, feeling sheepish for almost knocking her over in front of all the customers.

“Not at all” she exclaimed with a nonchalant attitude, accepting his apology with a bright but shy, half smile, smirk and tilt of her head.

The lion behind the counter straightened up when Hazel had walked up.

“Good Morning Hazel my dear” he greeted flashing a toothy grin while rolling his paws in his apron to clean them.

“Good morning Alex” she responded scanning the glass for something scrumptious to help her through the day, her eyes stopped on a piece of pastry that seemed jam packed with blueberries, she raised a paw and pointed a claw at it through the glass

“That one please Alex”

Alex bellowed a laugh picking up tongs and placing the “Blueberry bonanza” into a paper bag and handing it over the counter to her.

“You look as bright as the Saraha on the hottest day of the year” he complimented her as he did every day, touching his monumental paw gently to the side of her face to look into her eyes, his favourite view in all of Zootopia.

Hazel beamed at his compliment, squeezing his paw gently before she reached into her purse to get the money; Alex shut his eyes and held his paw out for her to stop.

“It’s on the house little miss”

“Why?” quizzed Hazel her paw frozen in her purse.

“You know why…” scrutinised Alex “…have you … heard from him?” asked Alex reluctantly.

Hazel removed her paw, zipping up her purse shaking her head, fighting back the urge to cry.

“Thank you” she mouthed looking up at him with thankful eyes.

“Chin up sis” he pleaded, seeing the hurt clear as day, and knowing full well she was sad; as her eyes instantly lost there glisten. “Eyes like that should never be dull” he concluded.

“I’ll try” responded Hazel shining him a false smile before walking out the door, Alex’s attention going to the next customer.

Hazel would usually head now to take the 404 bus from downtown to tundra town getting off at the Bliz street stop and walking half a block to begin work, but after “Items of significant cost” went missing, she was suddenly made redundant, and was no longer required at the Zootopia channel 12 news station.

Hazel had been the chief of editorial, it was never really what she wanted to do anyway or even what she had studies at college; but it did pay the bills.

Hazel knew her job-loss was ridiculous, but even if they had caught the real thief, it would not have saved her, prejudice was just too rampant against foxes.

“What do I have to gain from stealing this junk?” she had argued, only to have her pleas fall on deaf ears.

You see, Hazel had gotten a great inheritance from her father when he passed away, which is how she was able to live in a brilliant loft in the most expensive part of Zootopia and why she was not so worried about getting a job and now chose to chase her dreams, like her father did. Even though she lived among the top of the Zootopian hierarchy, most thought she had hustled or slept her way there.

Truth was Hazel’s father had worked tirelessly and made his way high up the ranks at city hall starting off as a civil servant, he had been good friends with the mayor of Zootopia of the time; Mayor Lionheart, who was the uncle of Alex from the bakery, that is how Hazel and Alex knew one another.

Hazel’s father, Dante, was an advocate for predator rights and the removal of mandatory shock collars during a great split in Zootopia’s predator and prey class of citizens; long before Hazel’s lifetime.

Dante had been a spokesperson against prejudice and the need for the equal treatment of all animals in Zootopia; it lasted a while, but in the end the foxes still got the short end of the stick, she could understand why he had such passion for it, she hated being a fox sometimes because of the way she was treated.

Alex had known Hazel since she was only a cub, seeing each other on many occasions both at her father’s work functions and when Alex would come to visit his uncle at work. Hazel use to stay glued to Alex’s side like a shadow, and had an obsession with his mane as a cub. They had become mischievous sidekicks that reigned terror at city hall, messing up paperwork and playing throughout the hallway.

Alex was ten years older than she and saw Hazel as his younger sister; even though they were different species. He had always been protective of her and looked out for her every step of the way.

When Hazel was old enough, around her teen years, her and Alex would meet up for coffee and the occasional movie, but over time adulthood took place and their responsibilities as such made seeing one another quiet difficult nevertheless their relationship was set in stone and nothing was going to shake that.

When the crying had stopped and his tears had run out and all the whimpering in the world was not going to change what had happened, Nick simply sat there, a subtle hum leaving his lips, he didn’t know what the hum was; but it left his lips regardless.

There were no words left, no happy phrase, nothing for him to hold onto. It was as if all that had happened up till this point had made him a fragile piece of glass, but now that glass had exploded, shattered all over the place; in the dark of Nicks mind, and he was a child once again, sitting in his green scout outfit muzzled and sobbing, being forced to try and repair this shattered glass with a hammer; it was to be impossible.

Fangmyer walked over as he did most days and sat by Nick placing a coffee down along with a punnet of the best blueberries money could buy; as he always did, making sure Nick wouldn’t starve himself to death.

Nicks eyes became moist at the sight of the blue uniform, as they did most days. After this momentary introduction Fangmyer would talk, Nick would listen, Fangmyer would leave for the ZPD and Nick would pour the coffee out and return sitting cold and statue-like on the park bench, eating maybe one blueberry out of the punnet before it also joined his coffee in the confines of the park bin.

This had gone on for a year, a whole year of Nick sitting in the park. Night would come and he would simply pull his long overcoat over his head and fall asleep on the exact same park bench.

He had lost his house when no one would give a fox that could barely stand a job.

His park bench was very specifically chosen, it sat only a few metres from the lake that was situated in the middle of the park, just in case he became thirsty and just down from a small footbridge; his sanctuary from rain and a simple reminder of who he really was, an under the bridge fox. There was a small batch of trees around him and the path his park bench was on was one less travelled. There was grass patches all around and a bin just to the right of his bench another reminder of the garbage he thought himself as.

His face was rough and scraggily and his eyes seemed to have blood red lines in them all the time, like he had not stopped crying, which was true for the most part, although it was internal. His fur was matted and oily, very different to how the fox’s usual vibrant coat used to be.

Officers would usually tell animals who tried to sleep in the park to move on, but the police who patrolled the park knew who Nick was; the dumb fox, played by clever bunnies and their insidious agenda. Most Officers left him alone after they knew he was protected by a specific officer.

A new recruit had tried to make him move on; cruelly and full of aggression, a smart-arse punk of an officer. He grabbed Nick hard around the arm when Nick had ignored his initial direction to “Get lost”.

“Didn’t you hear me fox? I said move on!” snarled the hyena.

Tightly grasping Nicholas’s forearm, making sure to dig his claws deep into Nick’s flesh only to have Fangmyer intervene, giving him a taste of his own medicine. Fangmyer tearing the Hyenas arm from Nicks and squeezing the Hyenas arm hard, digging his large, curved, tiger claws in so hard it broke skin, his eyes unwavering, telling the new Officer to “Let it go” to which the new recruit conceded.

No one dare touch Nick thereafter; however Fangmyer was reprimanded for “Aggressive behaviour to a fellow officer” and was placed on parking duty by Jack, the new chief of the ZPD.

Nick had lost his home “What was the point” he thought and when he couldn’t even string words together in his mouth or form thoughts that didn’t instantly take him back to the last time he saw “them” and re break him all over again, “What was the point”.

Hazel a very shy and kind Vixen was on her way from the bakery to start her new job, where she was the boss of her own destiny.

She took Furbast Road this morning and cut through the park as she loved the warm sun and smell of the fresh grass and roses that littered the park. She was on her way to the library; where she worked on her novels, the course she had studied so hard for at college.

She wanted to be a writer and although she was as she had released a few short stories, she was not a very well-known one, but a writer non-the less and as always, she saw the same fox that she use to see when she was heading to her old job as the chief of editorial.

“A bum” others had described him as when she had asked.

“Some washed up con-artist who got what he deserved”.

“A typical response to a fox”, she would always think when they shone her that all too patronising stare, that she also belonged to that “trope” of critters.

She was just at the small lake in the centre of the park, when she happened upon the same fox on the same bench with that same look, devastation, and as always, she sat across from him far out of his visual site; just to stare.

She could see past the devastation and bum-like exterior he was indeed a handsome fox. She sat with her legs to her chest and her arms wrapped around her legs, and just stared.

She had day dreamed about him several times, she felt silly about it, she put it down to too many love stories as a cub and the fact he looked eerily similar to Red, which both broke her heart and made her mad simultaneously.

She sat back and took out her pencil and paper, that she usually used for her writing, a place to jot down notes or ideas, however Hazel was also creative in many other ways and began to sketch Nick, like she had done for the last six months, something about this fox drew her in completely and utterly, but no way on heaven or earth would she ever talk to him, what would she say?

She sketched and sketched and sketched she was almost done when she saw a group of young mammals lead by a beaver approach the fox.

“Watch this” stated the beaver picking up a pine cone and throwing it at Nick, who took the hit and didn’t so much as bat an eye. The beaver scoffed “so much for predator”.

“He must have rabies” added one of the animals following the beaver, who threw a half eat cake at Nick, still no movement was made. The jelly and cream simply dripping down the fur on his face falling off his chin and smearing the fur on his neck a little.

“Ah” scoffed Hazel amazed at their cruelty. “ Little critter” she spat to herself, tucking her sketch book under her arm and putting her purse over her shoulder before storming over to intervene.

“Hey bum!” shouted the beaver “My father says you should get a real job cause your making’ you’re kind’ look even dumber!”

Nick stayed silent starring forward. He couldn’t even hear the beaver, he could hear nothing but the voice of Maria and Jack talking in his head, his brain playing scenes in his head of what was possibly happening at the Savage household.

“I love you” gasped Maria into Jacks ear, wrapped together in love… making a new kit, a kit that would replace their love for his daughter, would they hurt her the same?

That thought was always the worse, and the one he couldn’t shake, he knew ju- Maria’s body to well and worried about his daughter on the constant; knowing these two rabbits didn’t have morality.

“Love you daddy” giggled Nicks kit her smile aimed at Jack as he tickled her belly. Her new father, her successful uncompromised father.

“You’re the best thing to happen to us Jack” Maria would confirm, Nick’s kit nodding in agreement.

“What a loser” cackled the Beaver as he leaned down to pick up another pine cone and throw it but as his paw came back preparing to launch the projectile it was caught in a paw of red, he turned to see Hazel snarling at him.

“Listen here you little creep” she growled “You leave that fox alone this instant” she demanded.

The beaver pulled his paw from hers “Or what?” he challenged disrespectfully.

As he pulled his arm from Hazels grasp, Hazels book fell from under her arm falling open to a page full of sketches of Nicholas.

She went to threaten him but was lost for words, what was she “going to do?” she thought nervously.

She looked to Nick for a moment to gather courage, strange that a fox she didn’t know could give her that.

The Beaver scrutinised the look on her face as she looked at Nick and saw a specific look in her eyes.

One of the beaver’s followers pointed to the open book on the floor “She’s a stalker” he blurted through fits of laughter pointing out the pictures of Nick.

The Beaver looked down to the book and burst out in laughter “Eww, you’re in love with a homeless fox” he shouted, his insult breaking her thought.

The Beaver’s friends soon joining in with the laughter, before they soon started to chant it, yelling it out loud for all to hear “♫You’re in love with a homeless fox, you’re in love with a homeless fox♫” Jumping around her poking fun before taking off all laughing; leaving her shaking in anger.

Once they were gone she shut her eyes to calm herself, once calm she rolled her eyes and shook her head, her attention turning to Nick.

“Are you okay?” asked Hazel, trying to make eye contact with him.

Nick didn’t reply he just swallowed deeply.

Hazel breathed out heavily realising that this would be the extent of their conversation.

“Well…umm… it was nice to meet you” she whispered with a smile, her ears folding back over her head as she turned and walked away.

Nick leaned down realising she was walking off without collecting her book, that sat open on the ground.

She turned almost forgetting her book, she leaned down at the same time as Nick, her paw landing on his forearm as his paw covered the book. His eyes firstly saw the sketches but something else grabbed his attention more then the pictures.

They stood up, his paw holding the book her paw holding his arm, they made eye contact, she smiled but Nick’s whole body shook with fear and he froze stiff, he swallowed hard and his chest pounded, all colour had run from his face, fear engulfed.

However, this vixen was not horrifying or scary at all, on the contrary she was sweet and gorgeous to behold, and smelt Devine; however her paw gently rest on the forearm of Nicholas and all he could feel was the small paw of one Judith Hopps.

His eyes moved to it slowly and were glued to it in horror as if this vixen was burning his arm with a hot branding iron, his shake was so violent the vixen could see it and feel it shaking her paw. She felt horrified, what had she done to scare him so…

Nick gently raised his other paw and swiped her paw from his arm; the shaking slowly subsiding the longer her paw was gone.

Hazel pulled her paw into her chest, feeling confused and bad, fearing she had done something wrong.

“I…I’m sorry” she whispered, although she had no idea why she was apologising. She held her paw close to her chest like she was concealing a weapon or her paw was some dangerous kind of poison.

Nick quickly shoved the book at her and turned to look at nothing in particular, to look at anything; but the mesmerising eyes of this vixen.

Hazel gently took the book making sure not to make contact with his skin again; she went to speak but felt like a leper, felt self-conscious and instead turned rushing away at a brisk pace.

Nick shifted his eyes several times slyly and when he was sure she was far enough away his shake returned and his legs shook violently, he was weak in the knees and gently felt around behind him with his paw until he found the seat.

He sat starring at where the vixen had touched his arm and with all the power left in his soul he tried to shut out the memories that were trying to flood his mind.

“Never … let them see they get to you” he murmured rubbing his arm as if he had been injured.

[bxynjolf]

really LONG CHARACTER SURVEY. RULES.

repost , don’t reblog ! tag 10 ! good luck !

TAGGED. @paternall (thanks daddy B) )  TAGGING. @ulfhrafnx, @mcrcer, @snowtorn / @summergilded, @necromantiia, @arepure, @ratholed, @mortedistelle, @wcrlike, @kismetfervor, @jadeiism, aaaand whoever else would care to do this thing! Just say your favorite thief tagged you. ;o 

BASICS. FULL NAME : "Brynjolf” NICKNAME : Bryn, “Big Bad Brynjolf”, if you have a death wish “jolfy”. AGE : 38 BIRTHDAY : August 17th.  ETHNIC GROUP : Nord?  NATIONALITY : Nord LANGUAGE / S :  Aldmeri, Dunmeri, (written) Dwemer, (written) Khajiit, common.  SEXUAL ORIENTATION : Heterosexual. ROMANTIC ORIENTATION : Heteromantic. RELATIONSHIP STATUS : verse dependent; single or unfortunately married to work/@mcrcer​. CLASS : Lower class HOME TOWN / AREA : Riften !  CURRENT HOME : Riften (moved back after some years)  PROFESSION : Full time Second-in-Command of the Skyrim Thieves Guild, part time “merchant” of “exotic wares” (conman). 

PHYSICAL. HAIR : Deep auburn. EYES : Emerald green, sharp.  NOSE : Long, slightly crooked, and proud.  FACE : Strong jaw, defined cheekbones, trimmed facial hair.  LIPS : Chapped, full.  COMPLEXION : Pale.  BLEMISHES : Faint freckles spattered across his arms and over the bridge of his nose. SCARS :  One right across his cheek, a few scattered along his back, and various nicks across his hands and fingers.  TATTOOS : One; the Thieves’ Guild insignia on his right shoulder blade.  HEIGHT : 6″1-6″2. WEIGHT : 155 lbs. BUILD : Lean. Tall. Underweight, but broad shouldered.  FEATURES : Encouraging, sloping smile, bright eyes, arched brows. ALLERGIES : prison.  USUAL HAIR STYLE : Combed and kept down; he will occasionally wear it up too, usually in the fashion of a messy man bun or sloppy braid.  USUAL FACE LOOK : Tired, eager (opportunistic), alert.   USUAL CLOTHING :  Thieves Guild armor; if not the Guild armor, he’ll don noble attire in colors that compliment his features. 

PSYCHOLOGY. FEAR / S : Failing the Guild, losing one of his own/recruits, bankruptcy, poverty, the savage stereotypes of the supernatural (not a fan of vampires).  ASPIRATION / S : To bring the Guild back to its former glory, (later) to fill their Vaults brimming with wealth, to establish client connections in other regions such as Morrowind or Cyrodil, and secure relations with other (successful) Thieves Guild/Dark Brotherhood sanctuaries.   POSITIVE TRAITS : Loyal. Caring. Hard working. Optimistic. Persevering.   NEGATIVE TRAITS : Stubborn. Selfless to a fault. Dishonest. Talkative.  MBTI : Protagonist personality (ENFJ, -A/-T) ZODIAC : Leo TEMPERAMENT : Sanguine, according to this test !  SOUL TYPE / S : The Helper. ANIMALS : Rat. Dog.  VICE HABIT / S : Drinking.  FAITH : Atheist; later, Nightingale/servant of Nocturnal. GHOSTS ? : No thank you. AFTERLIFE ? : Unfortunately, yes. REINCARNATION ? : He has to; he’s bound to serve Nocturnal once he’s passed. ALIENS ? : No.  POLITICAL ALIGNMENT : Verse dependent; largely neutral.  ECONOMIC PREFERENCE : Wealthy. He’d love to own a proud residence of his own within one of the larger cities; it could act as an additional base for Thieves/Thieves in training plus provide underground escapes for those caught within that city! Also, he’s fond of the simpler if finer things; solid, sturdy, polished steel in place of the bargain bits he picks up, new fabrics, fresh clothes, etc. SOCIOPOLITICAL POSITION : Verse dependent.  EDUCATION LEVEL : none.

FAMILY. FATHER : Alive. Best forgotten, in his opinion.  MOTHER : Deceased; passed when he was 10. SIBLINGS : none. EXTENDED FAMILY :  none. NAME MEANING / S :  Old Norse given name, a combination of Old Norse bryn, from brynja 'coat of mail, armor, protection'.  HISTORICAL CONNECTION ? : none.

FAVOURITES. BOOK : Fall of the Snow Prince  MOVIE :                 5 SONGS :                      DEITY : None. Nocturnal  HOLIDAY :  No particular favorite!  MONTH : Hearthfire.  SEASON : Autumn.  PLACE :  Riften.  WEATHER : Cool, mild. Ideally, a clear, sunny day with a slight chill.  SOUND : Silence. The clink of coins. The quiet shuffle of paper.  SCENT / S : Cinnamon and sugar, crisp pine, fresh air.   TASTE / S :  Sweetrolls, buttered potatoes, rich broths, savory meats.  FEEL / S :  Washed linens, buffed steel, untouched parchment.  ANIMAL / S : Dogs. NUMBER : 17. COLOUR / S : Faded black. Murky tones. Bright green. Navy blue. Burgundy. 

EXTRA. TALENTS : Multilingual. Writing. Observation. Socialization/making connections. Money savvy. BAD AT : Two-handed weaponry, shields, experienced hand to hand combat, abiding the law. TURN ONS : A job well done you sinners     TURN OFFS : Mercer, assassination attempts, entitlement, offense/attacks against his own, insults in regards to his faction, snootiness, lethargy.  HOBBIES :  Reading, writing, nature walks.  TROPES : AESTHETIC TAGS : Shadows. Murk. Gold. Hearty drinks. One-handed weaponry. GPOY QUOTES : "Sorry, lass/lad. I’ve important things to do. We’ll speak another time.” 

FC INFO. MAIN FC / S : Aragorn; LOTR. ( Viggo Mortensen ) ALT FC / S : Hozier is his modern faceclaim!  OLDER FC / S : Nope!  YOUNGER FC / S :  Isaac Hempstead Wright is who I use for him when he’s a child.  VOICE CLAIM / S : ROBERT ATKINS DOWNS. GENDERBENT FC / S : nah

MUN QUESTIONS. Q1 : If you could write your character your way in their own movie , what would it be called , what style would it be filmed in , and what would it be about ? A1 : ‘50 First Crimes’; a film that shows the progressive slope of criminal activities a young, Scottish male gets up to before finally settling at both the skeeziest and most secure criminal organization. Style? George Lucas. Soundtrack? Bagpipes. Fantastic movie idea? Absolutely.  Q2 : What would their soundtrack / score sound like ? A2 : A never-ending score of bagpipes all varying in pitches and tone. Sad bagpipes. Happy bagpipes. Bagpipes for sure, though.  Q3 : Why did you start writing this character ? A3 : @mcrcer​ stated (on another blog of theirs) that they were debating whether or not to make their own Mercer blog. At the time, I didn’t think Elder Scrolls had a fandom, and since Brynjolf was one of the few characters I distinctly remember being fond of + my love for Guild companions, I decided on Brynjolf. The initial alternative was either going to be Farkas or Vilkas, the latter more likely than the former just because. Sassy werewolf. Honestly. It’s too great. Q4 : What first attracted you to this character ? A4: That accent tho. The fun of Brynjolf is that, despite being a canon character, there’s very little information on him? So, like with most canon characters I play, there’s a canon foundation that you can extrapolate from and develop, yet you can still make unique with your own thoughts. I also love that, regardless of your own character’s background or skill level, he’ll always hire you on. He recruits anybody. That’s unbridled opportunism at its finest!!   Q5 : Describe the biggest thing you dislike about your muse. A5 : He’s quicker to take to talking rather than fighting. Though it’s worked out well enough in some cases, one of these days he’s going to either get tossed in prison or murdered for trespassing. Also, a substantial amount of obstacles could be easily resolved if he took to his brethren’s stereotype and just challenged them to a d-d-d-duel and bested them in battle, but alas. Firstly, he’s not the best come combat on equal grounds; secondly, he plays the business politics more than anything.  Q6 : What do you have in common with your muse ? A6 : We both have a fabulous sense of style and poor choice in management.  Q7 : how does your muse feel about you ? A7 :                                                               

Q8 : What characters does your muse have interesting interactions with ? A8 : @mcrcer​ is always a hoot. Their Mercer is delightful to aggravate, and then on the flip side, mellow out. All our interactions I cherish, but I especially like the ones where Brynjolf is an unfortunate middleman to an oncoming mayhem. @ulfhrafnx​ is also rad af because, not only are they the only Companion OC I’ve stumbled across, but their character is just??? So cool?? Legit. I’m weak. Our interactions thus far have been wonderful if only because I take the piss out of poor Brynjolf being caught by this fierce warrior lady. @summergilded / @snowtorn are also a peach; Khidell amuses Brynjolf on the daily, even if it later results in some lecturing from Mercer, and Cirion is yet another really interesting OC, particularly because it’s one of few threads where Brynjolf’s lowkey hobby comes to play.  Q9 : What gives you inspiration to write your muse ? A9 : You know why I keep on about bagpipes? When I write Brynjolf, I feel the best thing that helps me keep to his tone is by listening to several playlists of Celtic Rock/Bagpipes while perusing Scottish Twitter. Alternatively, seeing certain thief aesthetics or even listening to particularly upbeat music sparks a lot of muse for him! 

[chiseler]

DOWNWARD CHRISTIAN SOLDIERS

Father Charles Coughlin, 1930s

On January 14 1940, the FBI arrested 18 men in New York City accused of plotting the overthrow of the U.S. government. Fourteen were snatched up in their homes in Brooklyn, the others in The Bronx and Queens. Searches yielded more than a dozen Springfield rifles, a shotgun, some handguns, thousands of rounds of ammunition, and the materials for homemade bombs. J. Edgar Hoover said they were plotting a terrorist campaign targeting transportation, power, and communications facilities; their goal was to rouse the military into staging a coup, placing a strong dictator like Hitler or Mussolini in power, and cleansing the country of Jews.  

The men were mostly of German or Irish descent, and ranged in age from 18 to 38. If employed (a few weren't), they held low-end jobs, including an elevator mechanic, a telephone lineman, a chauffeur, a couple of salesmen, a couple of office clerks. The 18-year-old was a student. Most troubling was the fact that six of them were National Guardsmen.

They were all followers of a Father Coughlin-inspired movement called the Christian Front. In his mid-1930s heyday, Coughlin was arguably the most powerful pro-Fascist voice in America. An Irish Catholic originally from Canada, he had first turned to radio in the 1920s simply as a way to expand his ministry beyond his tiny congregation in Royal Oaks. He had a strong radio voice, and when CBS started syndicating his weekly sermons in 1929 it was an instant success. The crash and start of the Depression politicized him. His condemnations of Wall Street and President Hoover brought him tens of thousands of fan letters a week, and his high praises for Hoover’s opponent FDR surely had an impact on the 1932 elections. Then, when the invitation he craved to sit among President Roosevelt’s circle of advisors didn’t come, he turned bitter as a jilted lover. He began denouncing Roosevelt, his New Deal, his Jew York advisors, and his friends in the labor movement as all facets of an international Jewish-Communist conspiracy to destroy Christianity and democracy. He also praised Franco, Mussolini, and Hitler for defending their people against this spreading evil.

Coughlin’s call for a “Christian Front” to combat the Communists’ mid-1930s Popular Front coalition with other groups on the left resonated with the Depression-driven anger and paranoia of many Americans, especially in cities like Boston and New York with large communities of lower- and lower-middle class Irish Catholics, who tended to be shut out of other right-wing movements precisely because they were Irish and Catholic. At his peak, Coughlin had tens of millions of listeners to his Sunday radio sermons, a million readers of his weekly magazine Social Justice, and received millions of dollars in small donations.

By 1938, rabid anti-Semitism had become the centerpiece of Coughlin’s message. That year, at a Christian Front rally in The Bronx, he allegedly gave the Nazi salute and declared, "When we get through with the Jews in America, they'll think the treatment they received in Germany was nothing." In Social Justice he reprinted the anti-Semitic hoax The Protocols of the Elders of Zion, which also topped Henry Ford’s list of favorite reading. In the autumn of 1938, when Coughlin said the Jews had brought Kristallnacht on themselves, radio stations, including WMCA in New York, dropped him. Several thousand Fronters “picketed the station, its advertisers, and Jewish-owned stores throughout the city,” historian Robert A. Rosenbaum writes. “The pickets returned every Sunday afternoon for many months. In the meantime, gangs of Christian Fronters roamed the streets and subways, peddling copies of Social Justice, distributing anti-Semitic leaflets, and orating on street corners, while harassing and assaulting people they took to be Jewish.” The city’s police force, which was nearly two-thirds Irish, turned a blind eye; some number of them were Christian Frontiers themselves.

The Front thrived in parishes in all of New York City’s boroughs. Some of the first Front meetings took place in a church hall near Columbus Circle, and some of the most frequent and well-attended were in The Bronx. In Brooklyn, Father Francis Joseph Healy, the pastor of the St. Joseph's parish in Prospect Heights, was also the editor of the Brooklyn diocese's weekly paper, The Tablet, which he made a platform for extremely anti-Communist, pro-Fascist, and pro-Coughlin thought. After Father Healy's death in 1940, his managing editor Patrick Scanlan continued the paper's reactionary slant. Scanlan ran Coughlin’s rants on the front page. Healy’s successor at St. Joseph’s, Father Edward Curran, was also a major supporter of Father Coughlin and other pro-Fascist and isolationist groups. During the war in Spain Father Curran wrote dozens of pro-Franco columns for arch-conservative publications around the country.

By 1939 small cells of Fronters in Manhattan and Brooklyn were calling themselves “sports clubs,” though the only sport they practiced was target shooting at rifle ranges. The Guardsmen in the group evidently pilfered the rifles and ammo from their posts, and trained other Frontiers in how to use them. 

Along with the cops and Guardsmen, the Front cells were also peppered with spies. The FBI had informants keeping tabs on them. Two independent investigators would write very successful books in which they claimed to have infiltrated the Front as well, and dozens of other underground hate groups. Richard Rollins’ I Find Treason would be published by William Morrow in 1941; John Roy Carlson’s similar Under Cover would be a runaway bestseller for E. P. Dutton two years later, galloping through 16 printings in its first six months. Both writers used pseudonyms. Carlson was actually Arthur Derounian, an Armenian immigrant. Rollins was apparently Isidore Rothberg, an investigator for Congressman Samuel Dickstein of the House Special Committee on Un-American Activities. Partly because the writers used pseudonyms while naming scores of individuals they claimed were pro-Hitler and pro-Fascist, both books were widely denounced on the right as fabrications and smear campaigns.

John Roy Carlson

Derounian wrote that he was riding the subway one day in 1938 when he picked up a leaflet of "bitterly anti-Semitic quotations" published by something called the Nationalist Press Association on East 116th Street in Italian East Harlem. He decided to research, and found himself exploring a vast underground world of wannabe Hitlers and Mussolinis, society matron super-patriots, racists, Anglophobes, White Russians, and assorted conspiracy theorists and kooks.

Born in 1909, Derounian had grown up in another world of hate. After struggling to stay alive as Armenians in Greece at a time of chaos and slaughter in the Balkans, his family fled to New York in 1921. Arthur learned English and earned a degree in journalism at NYU in 1926. In 1933 he learned that the turmoil in the Balkans had followed him across the ocean, when the archbishop of New York's Armenian Orthodox Catholics, while serving Christmas Mass in his Washington Heights church, was stabbed to death by radical Armenian nationalists opposed to his politics.

So when Derounian read that hate sheet on the subway in 1938, he was primed to follow up. The 116th Street address was an old tenement with a barber shop on the ground floor. The Nationalist Press "office" was a dingy back room stacked to the stained ceiling with right-wing books, newspapers and pamphlets. Poking around in the gloom were a few Italian men and Peter Stahrenberg, a tall blond Aryan type "with blunt features and a coarse-lipped, brutal mouth," who wore a khaki shirt and a black tie with a pearl-studded swastika tie tack. Stahrenberg was the publisher of the National American, a pro-Hitler newspaper whose striking logo was an American Indian giving the Nazi salute before a large swastika. He was also the head of the American National-Socialist Party. Derounian, calling himself George Pagnanelli and expressing interest in the "patriotic movement," wormed his way into Stahrenberg's confidence.

As he explored Stahrenberg's twilight world, Derounian claimed, he found pro-Nazis and pro-Fascists all over New York City, holding meetings and rallies in every borough. It was a topsy-turvy world where street thugs from the city's poorest neighborhoods mingled with wealthy Park Avenue crackpots, and Irish Catholic Fronters convinced that Communism was an international Jewish plot sat in the same meetings with Protestant zealots convinced that the Vatican was a Jewish front. He met rabidly anti-Communist D.A.R. socialites, and retired military officers who were certain that FDR and the Jew Dealers were leading the nation to ruin. He met the prominent conservative organizer Catherine Curtis, introducing himself as George Pagnanelli; she kept calling him Mr. Pagliacci. He even found black pro-Nazis in Harlem. Some were attracted by Hitler's anti-Semitism; others simply cheered the idea of a white man making trouble for other whites.

When the Christian Front clique was arraigned in Brooklyn’s federal courthouse in February, they all pleaded not guilty to charges of conspiracy and theft of government property. The lawyer for 12 of them was Leo Healy – Father Healy’s brother. A crowd jeered and booed as they were perp-walked into the courthouse. Winchell and La Guardia both derided them as “bums,” La Guardia adding that if they were the best the enemies of democracy could muster, no one need lose any sleep. But the defendants also had their sympathizers. Father Curran was the keynote speaker at a large rally in Prospect Hall to express support for them.  

Fourteen defendants were left when the trial began in April; one of the original 18 had committed suicide, and charges against three others were dropped. As the trial sputtered along through May, it began to appear that the FBI and prosecutors hadn’t built a very strong case. When the proceedings stumbled to a close on Monday June 24, the jury acquitted nine of the defendants and pronounced themselves hung on the other five.

It was a major embarrassment for Hoover. The Front and their supporters cheered it as a great victory, and would continue to spread hate and violence well into the war years. Through 1942 and 1943 there would be numerous reports in the press of roving gangs of young men, mostly identified as Irish and affiliated with the Front, beating and sometimes even knifing Jews in neighborhoods like Flatbush, Washington Heights and the South Bronx, where Irish and Jewish communities abutted. Many shops, synagogues and cemeteries were vandalized. Jewish leaders pleaded with Mayor La Guardia and Police Commissioner Valentine, but they took little action.

Coughlin would rant on into 1942, when the federal government shut down Social Justice as a seditious publication, and the Archbishop of Detroit finally ordered him to stop all political activity. Father Curran, however, continued undeterred, making anti-Semitic, anti-war speeches to Frontiers and others through the entire war.

by John Strausbaugh

[luckystarphoto]

A Brief History of Clogs

Amy Jeanchaiyaphum

The Clogs fit, wear them. The Year of my First pair of clogs was 1978, It was summer and I was really ready for Clogs…My mom had worn clogs with soles constructed from some light grained wood with the upper shoe either made of upholstery fabric or of leather. They were part of what I considered her “Uniform” it was an artist uniform if anything- consisting of any of her twenty-five or thirty hand sewn moo moo esque dresses in a variety of brightly colored flower motif Mari Meko material. Complimented by her white tights and the clogs I thought mom looked the part of the artist. When I wanted to feel tall and important I would slide on her size nines and try to navigate Clonking my way down the steep steel spiral stairs of our A-frame home.

Coveting Clogs

In the nineteen seventies, men and women wore clogs; When we had company our houseguests would slip off their clogs before they made their way down the black spiral that led to our main living area. None of them were brave enough to clog down the unfinished steps. So I was fairly proud when I could safely navigate in clogs four times to big for me. I admired the collection of Scandinavian slip-ons as I arranged them into neat-partnered rows like a shoe parking lot. I longed for some clogs of my own; they added height and a loud foreboding sound to your step, Clogs announced you were coming before you arrived. I loved the sound of clogs- the distinct clicking on a cement footpath, clacking on stone, clomping on wood and the clanging on steel steps. I was through with the silence of sneakers they were for athletes and babies. People with the patience and stamina to enjoy the process of tying shoelaces. There could be no sneaking in Scandinavia. The feet of the Swedish band Abba proved this I imagined Benny, Bjorn, Frida, and Agnetha leaping from their “arrival” helicopter in their bell-bottom jumpsuits and clogs. They knew how to make an entrance.

One of the most appealing benefits of clogs was the ease with which you could just slip them on your feet. There were no utilitarian buckles or cumbersome laces to struggle with. Like sandals, you could slide your clogs on and clickity clomp off into the sunset.

I expressed my extreme desire for clogs to my Mom and my Grandmother. My Grandma tried to appease my craving for clogs with some Dr. Schols orthopedic exercise flip-flops. These shoes were also very appealing with their buckle that worked like a lock on a diary. but there really could be no substitute for clogs. I needed them and desired them.

My grandma was suspicious of clogs saying that high heels were for ladies she suspected that clogs would make me appear more grown up than I was. I wasn’t hoping to look grown up I just wanted to feel taller. I never considered clogs as “High Heels”. I knew that Prostitutes and disco divas wore High Heels but I didn’t imagine that they clomped the streets and clogged their way silly to the bee gees and Donna Summer. From my personal experiments wearing mom’s clogs, I had found dancing to be clumsy although pleasingly clip- cloppity. The clogs worked like a cumbersome tap shoe. I danced in the living room and on our deck listening to Andy Gibb and his big Bee Gee Brothers, taping to disco was complex but my brother and I worked out some decent routines to “The Copa — Cabaña” and the Saturday Night Fever rendition of “ Night on Bald Mountain” and The Cantina Band Song from Star Wars.

The Quest For Clogs.

We Drove to Cloquet for my clogs. It was a surprise. My mom decided to take me to Berquist’s Scandinavian gift outlet that smelled of cedar wood and bayberry scented Candles. It was a store filled with sheep made out of grain Gnomes and Troll figurines, and magic rose-malled Bright orange carved ponies. Every summery mom would take me on a buying trip for her Boutique. This time I was allowed to select a pair of clogs. I chose a beige pair of clogs decorated with a strap and buckle. The leather was raw inside and the wood of the sole felt cool on my feet as I slid them on. After that day, I wore my clogs or nothing. Even though I discovered that when I tried to run often one of the clogs would kick off of my foot and go flying ahead of me leaving me to chase it down in an uneven Frankenstein Gait. I considered my self-fortunate when the clog didn’t inadvertently whack someone or something while it flew forward. When I got home each day flinging them off my feet became the norm.

My clogs stayed with me for years, I wore them riding horses and walking to the lake. I wore them to visit my Grandparents country club in Milwaukee and to church with my disapproving Moose Lake Grandmother. Wherever I was I would flex toes on the inner wooden sole clinging to my precious shoes slipping them on and off when I was restless. The clogs were a constant source of joy.

The Demise of the Clog

The era of the clog came to an abrupt end on a crisp autumn day in the suburb of Edina. We had come to visit and stay with our friends the Halverson’s, my brother and I played with Seth, J.D. and the cute friend Jeremy in the basement domain of these boys. We watched Cable TV and played Dungeons and Dragons in a basement that smelled of Pizza, smelly socks, and a combination of musty shag carpet and boy sweat. I had removed my clogs before I descended into the basement to exist in the realm of preteen pre-men. It was 1980

My heals had grown to the edge of the clogs they sat at the top of the steps waiting patiently for the return of my foot. To go hit the road together again. But it was not to be. Upon my assent from the land of boys I came to discover one of the Clogs had gone missing I was distressed and blamed the boys. Surely someone was messing with me. I looked everywhere only to find to my great horror beneath the kitchen table Chinook the blue-eyed Malamute husky looked up at me innocently, licking and chewing what was now a small flap of leather with a buckle attached to a clump of foot stained wood. I wailed and mourned for my shoe as the boys laughed themselves silly.

Barb offered to replace my clogs when she found out what had happened but it was the eighties now and clogs had made their way back into the archives of fashion. Barb offered her pair of Dr. Scholl’s Exercise sandals to me but I decided to accept Jeremy’s offer of sweaty sneaker. Slipping my foot into his sneaker made us a little more

Intimate after all. We all snuck off silently into the eighties.

My First Clogs came

Clogging on the dance floor. Buffalo house

Or Perhaps thinking of clogging at the polka fest…

Clogging to hair…

Clogs on the Olympic Peninsula.

Slipping and Cutting my knee open.

Pants on fire

The Dog ate my clogs

Shoes

Fashion

Creative Writing

Fiction

Short Story

[lizmckague-blog]

Excerpt from The Paper Boat

by Elizabeth McKague

O wild west wind, thou breath of Autumn’s being,

Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead

Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing...

        He made them in crafty, rapid gestures, folding the pages of a manuscript he’d carried to the river. Thinking he would read it, he planned to sit on his favorite rock until the mud of the bank crept into his only pair of leather shoes and the October dusk erased what light was left in the sky.          

        The white sheets of paper were slick and delicate. His tiny boats easily drifted from the water’s edge in measured breaths and sailed down river in a balanced breeze. The Arno looked murky and heavy, a green shade in the last pale slants of daylight.   He creased and folded his stanzas and cantos, turning the corners of each page into lips that held a silence. A silence before voyage, a silence released from the futility of whatever permanence he had originally intended by attempting to write the damn thing. He started to work faster in a synchronized fury, setting each paper boat upon the water as soon as it was made. He got a paper cut, then another, and his fingers grew cramped in the sharp, cold air hovering over the river with the approaching night.

        At last he folded his hands together in a buckle around his knees and relaxed. His posture copied the shape of the rock. He stared hypnotically at the flotilla of paper boats he had made. Spreading out along the river’s dreary current, they passed beneath the Ponte Solferino until page one was a white speck in the distance. Then page two and page three, until the entire paper fleet, like defeated warrior ships, slowly disappeared into a blinding mist, moving westward toward the Mediterranean Sea. The sun sped away and the Arno became gray and opaque.

        As a child, he had made paper boats with such concentration that nothing existed in his mind but the movement of his fingers against the sheets of paper. He tore them from a random notebook he had discovered about the house. They felt at once flimsy yet stiff, soft and cold. It was the autumn of 1802. He had left his sisters to their music lesson and wandered out of doors alone. He descended the wide steps in the front of the mansion, crossed the circular drive of gritty stones where the carriages came in, and continued through a maze of clipped green hedges in the courtyard. He was not even aware that he had left the house without a guardian. He remembered a sense of freedom and the sad scent of his mother’s neglected garden. Fading, pink chrysanthemums and frosted white colored roses danced, nonchalantly withering in symmetric rows. He walked beside the white washed fence that was then twice his height and passed the stables without being noticed. The horses were being let out from their stalls into the meadow. He strode over a damp, grassy hill and finally came to Field Place pond. The gray-green water quivered in a slight breeze. He found a flat spot of dry pebbles situated amongst tall yellow reeds at the edge of the pond. He sat down and felt hidden. He watched some fallen maple leaves drift in the water, aimlessly spinning this way then that. He sat there that day for hours, making boats and watching them float. At one point, the sun broke through the late afternoon clouds and illuminated the pond. His paper boats shone. He took a stick and made ripples. He was ten years old.

        Perhaps he was punished for wandering about the Estate alone that day. He didn’t remember. He didn’t remember much from his childhood. Just the boats, the ghost stories he wrote with his eldest sister, the airless smell of the perfumed ladies who visited his mother’s tea room, the fear he felt each time he passed the door to his father’s stale library, a book of poems by Thomas Chatterton and that particular day when he sat at the pond alone. For something happened in the late hour of that afternoon. He sat watching the rings of ripples grow around his tiny spinning boats in the water, listening to the croak of a concealed, lone toad and the hoots of wild geese hunting for their winter home across the gray sky. Then it happened. It lasted for a moment but a moment that appeared to throw away all time.

        He looked up to watch the flock of geese pass by. The black branches of an ominous oak clawed at the sky like some ancient, crippled beast scraping its tentacles against a pane of silver light. He looked down into the water for a sudden burst of light in the atmosphere nearly blinded him. He saw his reflection in the pond. He held his breath or could not breathe, maybe he had shrieked for the image terrified him. He was standing now and could see his entire figure in the water; a thin little boy with messy golden locks and blue eyes like gleaming sapphires and... wings! The whole world seemed upside down. He saw himself as an angel and it horrified him. He dared not look back up into the clouds for he was afraid he’d find a hole through which perhaps his subtle body had fallen. He never saw the angel again.

        A discarded light from the street lamps along the quay beside the Arno made sharp arrows over the river that had by now gone black. Shelley rose and ascended the bank, snatching his long gray coat at the collar where buttons were lost and tried to bow his head under the harsh current of the wind.

        He reached the Piazza Solferino where the very last rays of a tangerine sunset seemed to singe the edges of brown leaves drifting clumsily off chestnut trees. The square was fairly empty. A few parked carriages, a street musician wrapping his guitar in a tattered wool cloth, the shadowy lamplighter making his rounds and the rose colored glow in the two tall windows of a crowded restaurant. The bells of San Nicola struck at six o’clock. He stopped to listen, a habit he had developed since his exile into Italy, to simply stop and stand still for those few moments of ringing. He didn’t pray, he didn’t think, he didn’t speak, just breathed and listened. San Sepolcro, Santa Croce, Saint Marks, Saint Peters, San Giorgino Maggiore; the bells of each church unique to his attention. The bells of Westminster Abbey or any cathedral he’d lived by in England only reminded him of time, wrung his nerves, made him worry. A sort of bell toll anxiety he experienced even on his wedding day, or rather, both wedding days.

        He turned onto the Lungarno Pacinotti, a wide avenue that traced the river. The chilly air forced him to quicken his stride. He watched a fisherman ahead, dragging his net out of the water and onto the shore. It was filled with silver perch flapping away. But that’s not what Shelley saw. He saw a woman’s body; silver, bloated, frozen, dead. The same body he saw in his mind when Mary returned from the post that afternoon and read him the letter, the only way she could, quickly, without expression, her voice laden, calm and dry.

        “Harriet Westbrook, age 26, found drowned in the Serpentine. Cause of death, suicide.”

        He had neither seen nor communicated with his ex-wife for ten years. The news did not shock him and his demeanor remained as blank as Mary’s. He went into his attic den alone for an hour. Then tucking the manuscript in his jacket left the apartment quietly, telling her he was off to Byron’s early. Instead, he went to the river, knowing ‘the haunting’ was about to return. He had seen ghosts all over Field Place as a child. He even discovered their hideouts and would often sneak into the pantry, the coal cellar or beneath the stair just to sit with them for the moments before he was found out. In college, in London, in Whales, in Ireland... wherever he’d traveled since, the ghosts would follow. By now such episodes had become a kind of state that was so familiar, that although it made him ache, like bouts of loneliness or sadness, he saw the spectral visitors as natural invitations into the enigma of the mind. He accepted his visions as markers or signs, invisible notices of eviction from one house of the spirit into another. The doctors called his visions ‘hallucinations,” but Shelley believed more in the ghosts than the doctors.

        “Good evening!” The happy fisherman called up to Shelley who was scuffling along the road above the riverbank.

        “Good evening.” Shelley echoed, “Looks like you have a good catch there.”

        “A very good catch. Buona sera, Signore.”

He felt free of the haunting as he crossed the Ponte della Fortezza where the reflection of the street lamps blurred on the dark river. He walked on until he reached the steps of the Palazzo Lanfranchi, which he had named, “Lord Byron’s Circean Palace,” for the enormous rooms were forever littered, with not only a tropical menagerie of plants but also all kinds of exceptional animals.

           “What a sorcerer you are, my Lord.” Shelley had commented when he first encountered Byron’s collection of pets in Ravenna, “I see you’ve brought Cicero back from the underworld in the form of a ferret and metamorphosed the old stoic Seneca into an owl!”

           Byron had laughed, then added quite seriously, “You know, when I was at Cambridge I kept a grizzly bear in my rooms and I must confess that at one point I truly believed he was Marcus Aurelius Antonius himself.”

           Although the bear was no longer a part of Byron’s zoo, the spectacle of his domesticated animals never ceased to amaze Shelley. As he crossed the Palace’s threshold, even though he’d done so one hundred times before, the scenery helped to lighten his thoughts and soon enough he became almost giddy.          

In the foyer he was greeted by two German shepherds, composed as the Queen’s guards, while a majestic falcon perched on the head of a statue of Hermes in its center. Next, in the front hall, he paraded past an army of cats curled up upon the embroidered cushions of French rococo chairs that were set flush against the long frescoed wall. Byron’s three white monkeys were swinging in mocking gaiety from a monstrous glass chandelier. One of the monkeys bounced down into the corridor and the cats hunched up and hissed. He turned into a gallery where he was spied upon by the incandescent eyes of peacocks opening their feathers like a lady’s fan and when he reached the stairs to the second story, he was forced to experience a philosophical confrontation with a wandering Egyptian crane. At the entry to Byron’s private lodgings, a set of purebred Russian wolfhounds lounged on wooden benches at either end of an enormous hearth, perpetually oblivious to the sporadic swarms of yellow canaries flying in and out of the lush green ferns of potted plants. And finally, as he climbed the stairs, the echoes of fiery red and mint blue parrots aligned along the banister sang out in scratchy harmony, “The King is dead! The King is dead!”

           Byron’s butler informed Shelley that the gentlemen were in the billiard room. He entered through the open door very quietly, clinging to the shadows elongated against a paneled wall by a blazing fire. They were playing a close game, Williams and Byron against Trelawny and Robert Southey. He sat down in a green velvet chair that was tucked into a discreet corner. Across the room sat Thomas Moore, crouched on the sofa, reading the fresh ink of Byron’s newest poem with a crinkled brow. They were all sipping sherry out of thin crystal glasses whilst Robert Southey captivated them with an animated review of his recent encounter in Switzerland.

           “And just as we were leaving the hotel with the predicted blizzard upon us, Mr. Wordsworth wrapped his scarf around his long neck and ended our conversation about ‘Mad Shelley’ by saying, ‘A poet who has not produced a good poem before the age of twenty five, we may conclude, cannot and never will do so.’ In all earnest, I mentioned Shelley’s Queen Mab but Mr. Wordsworth just growled and said, ‘Won’t do. This hairy fellow is our flea trap!’ The words of William Wordsworth I tell you! Straight from the mouth of the man who is sure to be England’s next poet laureate.” He then grew silent to watch Byron nudge his last ball just to the edge of the middle bumper. Southey grinned, tapped his cue stick three times on the floor, then bent over the table, squinting through his awkward monocle and biting a mole that hung, gathering spittle upon the bulb of his lower lip as he muttered, “Sorry, old man,” and pounced forward on his stick to win the game. The rest of the group laughed at the amusement but Byron did not. He rolled his dark eyes about the smoky room and noticed his friend hiding in the green chair and limped toward it instantly.                      

“Shelley! We didn’t hear you come in.”        

           “I didn’t want to disturb your game.” He stood and took a deep breath. The room was stuffy and smelled of burnished wood.

           “Southey here had a run-in with Wordsworth in Geneva.” Byron gripped Shelley's slim wrist.

           “I heard.” He warmly shook his hand.

           Robert rushed to meet the young poet, his face pink with embarrassment, “I don’t think he’s ever even read your work, really. And the weather was abominable that day, we were all out of our wits, truly.”

           “Pleased to see you again too, Robert.” Shelley bowed his head slightly, “But my dear sir, there is no need to apologize. Now I know what England’s finest contemporary poet has to say about my work and I respect him all the more for it.” He leaned toward Southey’s quivering shoulders and whispered bitterly, “As a matter of fact I never did write a good poem before I was twenty-five. I suppose that means the last four years have been quite a waste of time.” Shelley straightened his posture and tugged at his waistcoat as he turned to Byron with a clandestine wink and announced, “You know, I do believe that as of this very moment I shall throw away my quill and commit my life’s work to perfecting the art of bird watching.”

           Southey’s meaty shoulders began to shake. Byron chummily slapped his back, “Come now ol’ chap, let’s don’t get unruffled. Shelley is teasing us. Let Wordsworth have his say! Our boy here probably doesn’t give a damn!”

           Robert’s eyes widened then narrowed into slits like a snake before its prey. Byron quickly leapt between them and challenged Robert to another game. Trelawny offered Shelley a glass of sherry that he declined. Instead he accepted the loose pages Tom had finished reading, the seventh canto of Byron’s Don Juan, which he took to the green velvet chair with a sense of relief. But as he settled down to read it, Byron, who had crossed the room to obtain a better cue stick, stopped abruptly behind Shelley’s chair and whispered, “Shall we throw him to the dogs?”

Shelley grinned, “No. Let the monkeys have him.”

http://www.lizmckague.com/PUBLICATIONS.php

[paladinoir-blog]

— REALLY  LONG  CHARACTER  SURVEY.   RULES.  repost ,  don’t  reblog  !    tag  10  !  good  luck  !   TAGGED. @lothcir​   TAGGING. pLEASE JUST DO IT IF YOU WANT

BASICS.

FULL  NAME :  Takashi Shirogane NICKNAME[S] : Shiro, AGE :  21 BIRTHDAY : Febuary 29 1996 ETHNIC  GROUP : Japanese NATIONALITY : Japanese LANGUAGE[S] : English, Some German, Little of Russian, Japanese, some bits of Galran, Very little Altean SEXUAL  ORIENTATION : No label chosen ROMANTIC  ORIENTATION : No label chosen, love is love RELATIONSHIP  STATUS : (This is a multiship blog, heads up) HOME  TOWN / AREA : We moved around a lot. CURRENT  HOME : Castle of Lions PROFESSION : One of few Defenders of the Universe Paladins

PHYSICAL.

HAIR: Crewcut, black with a tuft of white from... stress EYES : Charcoal, unyielding yet understanding FACE : Strong jawline, LIPS : average in size, usually chapped but otherwise surprisingly soft COMPLEXION : Tan BLEMISHES : Slightly calloused hand, SCARS :  Across the nose, blast mark on right part of chest, three from claws on left shoulder, number of gashes and cuts on back, burn marks from prosthetic quintessence (Before arm was lost, it had a few gashes and one deep bite on the upper arm/elbow), deep thick cut on left running from just below the hip down along outer thigh, several cuts on legs TATTOOS : Does a prisoner number count? (Nape of neck) HEIGHT :  6′ WEIGHT : 204 lbs. BUILD :  Muscular, broad shouldered, surprisingly narrow waist, decent hips, strong yet agile enough FEATURES :  (okay i got a little stuck here, my bad) ALLERGIES : Nothing USUAL  HAIR  STYLE : Crew cut USUAL  FACE  LOOK : Patient, firm, alert yet not tense USUAL  CLOTHING : Skin tight underarmor, vest, belt with pouches, fingerless glove and sturdy boots

PSYCHOLOGY.

FEAR [S] : Being used to further Zarkon’s ideals, losing everyone(even worse: if he caused their deaths by his own hands), becoming a monster, ... horror movies... ASPIRATION[S] : Live long enough to bring Zarkon and his reign down, Having a family, Living as normal of life as possible, Return to Earth and maybe visit places around the universe one in a while, eat a regular cooked meal with human food (even going to a fast food place would be fine at this point), Start a combat course in Galaxy Garrison to better prepare cadets for what they might come across POSITIVE  TRAITS : on guard, in control, born leader, good advice giver, understanding, reliable NEGATIVE  TRAITS : blunt, secretive, bit of a martyr, cares too much for others, little consideration for himself, dark humor MBTI : ENFJ ZODIAC : Pisces TEMPERAMENT : Phlegmatic SOUL  TYPE[S] : leader, caregiver, helper ANIMAL : Horse VICE  HABIT[S] : lip chewing, crossing arms FAITH : none GHOSTS ? : yes AFTERLIFE ? : no REINCARNATION ? : yes ALIENS ? : I don’t think I could say no by this point POLITICAL  ALIGNMENT : unsure EDUCATION  LEVEL : Senior officer in Galaxy Garrison (went to it instead of switching for College after high school graduation)

FAMILY.

FATHER : Alive MOTHER : Alive SIBLINGS : A brother(also alive. Hopefully.) EXTENDED  FAMILY : An uncle from dad’s side with three cousins, aunt from mom’s side, grandma and grandpa still alive NAME  MEANING / S : HISTORICAL  CONNECTION ? : No

FAVORITES.

BOOK : Comic books count MOVIE : B-flicks 5  SONGS : I don’t have a favorite top 5, I just listen to what I’m in the mood for DEITY : none HOLIDAY : New Years MONTH : September SEASON : Autumn/ Winter (It’s a close tie) PLACE : Earth WEATHER : mild, not humid day with some clouds and slight breeze SOUND : Thunder SCENT[S] : Uulip flower? It had a weird smell that was nice, but  can’t put my finger on how to describe it TASTE[S] : Kalmetto olives, pickled ginger... what? FEEL[S] : flannel, water, tall grass ANIMAL[S] : I don’t know what it’s called but it looked like a cross between a saber tooth tiger and a dragon/octopus NUMBER : 28 COLORS : Sage greens, calming blues

EXTRA.

TALENTS : hand-to-hand combat, holding breath for roughly 12 minutes, piloting, internal alarm clock, rock climbing BAD  AT : Not scarfing food down, going to sleep at reasonable hours, taking care of plants(especially ivies), relying enough to know it’s okay to tell someone the problems TURN  ONS : TURN  OFFS : Regarding these two... I think I’ll wait until I’m with someone and they can learn my  turn on‘s and off’s HOBBIES : Rc’s, models (airplanes in particular), stargazing, sparring, TROPES : [𝙴𝚁𝚁𝙾𝚁] QUOTES : “We need to think of a plan- and think of it fast.”

* [𝙴𝚁𝚁𝙾𝚁] = information unavailable

MUN QUESTIONS.

Q1 : if  you  could  write  your  character  your  way  in  their  own  movie,   what  would  it  be  called,  what  style  would  it  be  filmed  in , and  what  would  it  be  about ?           A1 : I... listen, I don’t watch movies that much so I don’t really know

Q2 : what  would  their  soundtrack / score  sound  like ?           A2 : Something willful with certain undertones if you listen close

Q3 : why  did  you  start  writing  this  character ?           A3 : There’s a lot of reasons--

Q4 : what  first  attracted  you  to  this  character ?         A4 : Something clicked

Q5 : describe  the  biggest  thing  you  dislike  about  your  muse.           A5 : The fact that these days i’m frightened to write him

Q6 : what  do  you  have  in  common  with  your  muse ?           A6 : A lot, but I just try to put some separation there by acting differently

Q7 : how  does  your  muse  feel  about  you ?         A7 : Sw e a ts

Q8 : what  characters  does  your  muse  have  interesting  interactions  with ?         A8 : All of them

Q9 : what  gives  you  inspiration  to  write  your  muse ?         A9 : I wish I knew honestly

Q10 : how  long  did  this  take  you  to  complete ?         A10 : Three hours in total, distractions included