#and that's with a five year age difference

[thisismeracing]

Can I please request a charles dating a Greek girl *like the Korean girl you did*???👉🏻👈🏻🥹🥹🥹🥺🥺

Hi, love!!! of course <3 here you go! sorry for taking forever, I was off for a bit and just got back hihih

MICK DATING A GREEK GIRL | MS47

Warnings: mentions of food; tooth-rotting fluff; mentions of family members; not proofread.

A/n: Just a quick reminder that there are many shades, experiences, and backgrounds when it comes to greeks and their culture, what I am writing does not resume everything, but rather brings a piece of it to the table. <3

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Mick already knows Greece, but when you two start dating he's in for a whole new adventure aka getting familiar with culture, sayings, and the idiom;

He becomes obsessed with Greek cuisine. To him, everything is better when it's Greek - greek rice, greek break, greek spaghetti, and the latter let it slip during an interview, and you bet Ferrari fans we're mad for a week or so;

He would encourage you guys to visit the less tourist-centered cities and islands, instead suggesting places where you grew up or had stories to tell;

Mick would make sure to always have his camera on him and register random photos of you - he has a 'Greek girl <3' folder that consists mostly of pictures of you;

Randomly learned to introduce himself in Greek, but got his age wrong and it didn't matter how many times you tried to correct him, he would always forget and say it wrong again, so you just accepted that he was one hundred five instead of twenty-five when in Greece;

Though Mick loved the homey cities, he also loved the famous islands and whenever you traveled there at least one weekend would be spent in one of those. Athenas, Santorini, Corfu, Mykonos, Crete, Zakynthos, Ithaca, you name it, he will pack his bags at the speed of light and be ready to tag along;

He would watch movies that were ambient in Greece and ask you if things were accurate. He looved Mamma Mia and Greek Wedding;

Totally hints that he wants to have a greek wedding after you attend one together; The plates breaking? The common cup? the wedding face? He watched it all in awe;

Now when it comes to meeting the family Mick is nervous. He wants to make everything right so he will try to at least introduce himself in Greek -and he'll most likely get nervous again and say he's one hundred-five years lol it becomes a family thing, and he feels at home around your folks;

Same to you and his family that will definitely put Greece on their next vacay destination just to spend some quality family time with everyone.

Overall Mick is just super curious and open to learning about you and your culture, and will go around talking about how cool things are in Greece because he's this type of person. He's obsessed with your country, but he's even more obsessed with you.

────── ⋆🪩 VOICEMAIL: I hope you guys liked it! Let me know your thoughts, it means a lot to me <3 *mwah*

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[mo-online]

"the other ravens didn't know jean's age!!!"

think of any 16 year old boy you know. does he look like an adult to you? would you call him a whore if you'd found out he'd gotten into five different men's beds in less than a week?

no?

then think of a scrawny, underfed 16 year old boy. his face is bony, but not quite sharp. his nose is crooked, and a part of you thinks that maybe he just hasn't grown into his own face yet, at least until the bruising makes you want to look away before you can think about it any harder. none of his clothes fit him quite right, and you can always hear his joints popping in and out of place. he has the thickest accent you've ever heard, and you still don't quite know what he's saying most of the time, even if he swears it's english and looks close to tears if you insist it's anything but too loudly (he's only been in america for two years and it's hard to grasp much when all you have to develop your language skills from is cruel insults).

he's not as tall as the rest of the court yet — actually, he's far from it. he's not spared enough to build any muscle, even throughout the relentless practices, and he always looks five seconds from passing out by the time the drills even start. he's sweating, panting, and there's a rattling in his chest when he does... has he broken a rib? why is he even here? he's not as big, not nearly as strong, and the other ravens zero in on him until he's a puddle on the floor. he can barely keep his own racquet steady in his hands, and when he props it up to lean on, you realize he isn't much bigger than the damn thing itself. the captain is always dragging him around, sometimes by his wrist, sometimes by his hair. you think it's just messy hazing for a while, and maybe you dare to spare him a pitiful nod and hope for his sake it'll end soon, but months go by and it never does. he's doubled over one day, then running laps the next, and god, why does he always reek of blood? you start to notice his fingers as they change colors, once bony and milky pale, now bruised black and blue and crusted over with scabs. they're misshapen... broken, almost every one. he shouldn't be playing like this, but he tugs his gloves on with his teeth and plays through the pain.

you pass his room on your way to bed, door wide open. he sleeps curled up in a ball, back pressed so hard against the wall, knees into his chest. you can hear his shaky breaths, how his lungs rattle uneasily, even in his sleep. he shakes himself awake from nightmares, gripping the sheets, dry heaving as he forces his own face into the pillow to muffle the sound... but he does not scream. he does not cry. poor kid, you think, because what else could you call him? he's far too beaten down to even think to consider an adult. a puppy kicked one too many times.

the captain calls everyone into a room, arms folded over his chest, face smug as if he'd come up with a solution to the entire world's problems. but there's something strange about the meeting. only backliners. gigantic, sneering, male backliners. he asks for volunteers, a few good samaritans to "fuck some sense into him," and you watch as five greedy hands fight to be the first in the air. riko makes his pick, makes his promise, and for the next week it's all you can hear at night. you wouldn't call it moaning, but... screaming. fighting. teeth and claws and fickle words. "please. please stop. please stop. please—" and then silence. the last night all you hear is defeated silence.

and suddenly it's the child's fault, isn't it? everyone else is saying it, that he slept his way onto the lineup, that he's nothing more than a braindead whore. if everyone's saying it, though, does that make it true?

or is it just easier to stomach?

[syndrossi]

Restoration AU: Ned I

Previous part, Bran I, here.

NED 1

Ned was embroiled in discussions with Vayon regarding the additional food stores that would need to be procured to feast the king’s party in accordance with his expectations—and Robert’s expectations certainly tended toward the lavish—when Jory burst into his solar, looking so rattled that Ned rose in alarm, convinced that something had happened to one of the children.

“My lord,” he said. “There are—that is, your son, Bran—”

Before Ned could fear the worst, he caught motion beyond the door frame, and his gaze fell upon the auburn hair of his second-youngest as he poked his head in the door. Robb and Jon had also accompanied Jory, trailing just behind, and they looked as perturbed as his captain of the guard. Robb’s mouth was a hard, harsh line that recalled Cat when she was in full fury, and Jon looked as pale as the direwolf pup he’d named Ghost.

His nerves settled on mild apprehension. “What is it, Jory?”

Jory cast a hesitant look at Vayon. “It is a matter that my lord may wish to discuss in private.”

Ned frowned. Jory and Vayon had known one another for several years now. Enough for his captain and steward to know that he held both of them in high esteem. He was unsure what it meant that Jory should be wary of the man now, but it could be nothing good.

“We can finish attending to the feast preparations later, Vayon,” Ned said. “It seems my sons have found themselves a spot of mischief.”

Robb’s eyes narrowed, further mystifying Ned. His steward inclined his head, then took his leave, and the children crowded into his solar. But rather than just the three he had expected, two more entered behind Robb and Jon, furs wrapped around either of them, and Jory’s own cloak atop that.

Ned’s mouth, which had opened to demand answers of his captain and his son, snapped shut as his gaze fell upon the two strange children, his wits abandoning him for several blank seconds. One, with hair but a shade or two lighter than his own, returned his stare with a wariness that wavered as it went on, taking on the faint sheen of tears. His face was as familiar as his own, as alike to Jon’s as a brother’s would be.

It cannot be.

It was the other child’s appearance, however, that lanced through his shock, turning it icy with dread. Rhaegar Targaryen was fourteen years dead, but Ned had known the prince’s face well, for it had haunted more than a few nightmares since, he and Lyanna both. This child could be the prince’s son—a comparison driven home as Ned glanced from one to the other, finding as many similarities between them as they shared with Jon.

Brothers. They must be, of nearly identical height and build. Twins, perhaps, except that one could be his son, while the other—

How? The children looked to be of an age with his daughters, meaning Rhaegar would have been four or five years dead by the time they were born. Ned himself had seen the mangled skull of his infant son, Aegon, and had the boy lived, he would have been Jon’s age.

And yet that is what they look like. Rhaegar’s sons, four years too young. The son whose death Robert celebrated, and the son whose death he would seek, if he only knew.

As he studied the dark-haired child more closely, subtle differences presented themselves between him and Jon. His eyes were a lighter grey that took on a tinge of purple the longer Ned stared into them, recalling the terror of the first few months of Jon’s life, before his own had darkened to a deep grey. His hair was a shade lighter, its dark brown slightly warmer.

And yet none of that mattered. The Valyrian coloring that House Targaryen had been known for was not uncommon in the Free Cities, but anyone who had ever seen the mad king or his wife and son would recognize their blood in these children. The other child’s coloring would all but invite such comparisons, and there was no greater danger. They could easily be siblings, the three of them.

It cannot be Aerys, nor can it be Rhaegar. Could Rhaella have lived after all to follow her children into hiding? Her remains had been cremated in accordance with Targaryen tradition by the time Dragonstone had been taken. Died in childbed, they had been told. Any whispers of the exiled queen’s survival surely would have made it to their shores.

Yet it was the only possible explanation. Any child of Rhaella’s would look like her slain son. But why would they be here? Why now, as Robert openly travels to Winterfell?

“We found them on the outskirts of the wolfswood, half frozen,” Jory said, breaking the tense silence. “Young Bran spotted them.”

The children were both shivering, Ned realized at last. He managed a smile at his youngest. “Bran, lad, go see if Gage has any soup on—something hot for our guests.”

Disappointment flashed across his son’s face, his curiosity readily apparent, but he cast the two boys a sympathetic look and swallowed his protest. “Yes, Father. I shall bring it myself!”

Once he had gone, Ned turned back to the children. “I am Lord Stark,” he said, keeping his voice low and gentle. “And you are in Castle Winterfell. Who might you be?”

“Is it not plain, Father?” Robb snapped, tensed as though for a fight. “There is no need to make a farce of it, now that you’ve sent Bran away.”

Ned sucked in a breath, feeling a fool as comprehension struck. Jory’s obvious discomfort, Robb’s fury, Jon’s quiet shock—

They think that I…?

Ned stared into his son’s eyes, finding shock and betrayal beneath the anger. A mirthless chuckle rose in his chest and he forced it down. Why should they not, after all? He had soiled his honor once in claiming Jon as his son. The appearance of two children on the outskirts of Winterfell who looked to be his bastard son’s younger brothers offered one obvious explanation.

Denial followed his stalled laughter, smothered just as quickly in the wake of another realization. Deny their relation, and Jon’s apparent kinship to two children of Targaryen features would invite all the questions Ned had feared in the first few years of his son’s life. Why would a boy with no relation to House Targaryen look like one of their long-dead scions?

Suspicious minds would turn to his sister and the man who had kidnapped her. The timing of Jon’s appearance, the fact that Ned had been the one to find her in the Tower of Joy, it would all point to a deadly truth—a treason that Robert would never forgive.

Unless there was another explanation. One that Jory and both of his sons had clearly seized upon, one that would all but guarantee Jon’s safety.

If they were my own bastard sons, Jon’s brothers…

Then there was no possible relation between Jon and Rhaegar Targaryen. How could there be? His brothers would have been born years after the prince’s death, their mother some woman from Lys, perhaps, with the silver-blond hair and purple eyes of Valyria that were so prized in that city. No one would look for House Targaryen in them, if House Stark offered an excuse for their shared resemblance.

To protect Jon, his only option might be to stain his honor beyond recognition. To flaunt these children, as though he had nothing to hide.

“Leave us,” Ned said. “I would speak to these children alone.”

Robb’s face reddened, his son’s outrage whipped to a frenzy. “I will not—”

“That is your lord’s command,” Ned said, unable to keep the edge from his voice. “Go. I will speak to you later.”

His son’s fists clenched, the hurt swimming beneath his anger plain, but he gave a stiff nod. “Come, Snow,” he said to his brother.

Stark, Snow. Names that his sons had taken to calling one another in the past year as they neared manhood, the growing understanding of their differing circumstances wedging itself between them. The names were not spoken unkindly, but Ned caught the barest flinch on Jon’s face this time.

Jory was the last to leave, pausing by the door. “We returned through the Hunter’s Gate, my lord, but we ran across Theon on our way to the keep.”

Ned nodded tersely in understanding. His ward was loud of mouth and held no fondness for Jon. If he too had concluded that the boys were Jon’s bastard brothers, then word would spread quickly through Winterfell. It would reach Cat soon enough, if Robb had not gone to tell her himself, and Ned’s heart clenched. As keen as Robb’s pain and betrayal had been, his wife’s suffering would be far worse.

But the children in the room with him now were a more immediate concern. Ned approached them slowly, testing their reaction. Jon’s young twin had lost none of his earlier wariness, though he did not appear to be frightened of him. And the other child regarded him with a quiet curiosity that was entirely Jon’s.

They are so like him. 

“I am Lord Eddard Stark,” he said again. “What are your names?”

“I am Jon,” said the dark-haired one, and it was all Ned could do not to react. “And this is my twin brother, Raymar.”

Jon and Raymar. Vale names, both, which was no less puzzling than anything else about them. Ned doubted that Rhaella Targaryen had been hiding herself or her sons in the Vale, which had practically served as the heart of the rebellion against her family’s rule.

“We thank you for your house’s kindness, Lord Stark,” Raymar said with a bow of his head.

Neither seemed uncomfortable in the presence of a lord, let alone the Warden of the North. Their composure spoke to an upbringing a highborn child would have.

“And to which house do you belong?” Ned asked, curious if they would answer plainly.

Young Jon shifted slightly to put himself between his brother and Ned, and the twins exchanged an uneasy look that as good as answered his question.

“I would know your true names,” Ned said, keeping his voice gentle. “No harm will come to you.”

Even the way this Jon bit at the inside of his lip was so reminiscent of his own Jon that Ned felt freshly unnerved. “I am Baelon,” he said finally. “And he is Aemon.”

It took him a moment to place the names. Sons of Jaehaerys I. Perhaps Rhaella had wanted to cling to a time in her family’s history when they had been at the height of their power, though these names in particular bore an ill omen. Two heirs to the Iron Throne, both of whom had died before they could claim it—not unlike her firstborn.

Good men, though. That had been their legacy, the princes who should have ruled, rather than the king whose reign had ultimately led to the Targaryens turning on one another, dooming their dragons.

“Why have you come here?”

That was the question upon which everything hinged. Were they a message to Ned? A threat? Had Rhaella learned of her grandson’s fate? But he could not imagine what madness could have taken her to send two young children here to deliver such a message, especially when it could so easily be interpreted as a threat.

“We did not come here by choice, my lord,” Aemon said. “We were taken from our father.”

Ned had been so focused upon their Targaryen heritage that he had not even considered who their father might be. “What is your father’s name?”

The children exchanged another glance, and it was Baelon who spoke. “Daemon.”

Ned could not hide his reaction this time. With Maelys the Monstrous’s death, the Blackfyre line had been thought to be ended at last. The male line, at least. Could there have been a descendent willing to tie himself to the exiled House Targaryen? The benefit for Rhaella Targaryen was plain: the Golden Company was said to be ten-thousand strong and of impeccable discipline—the closest to an army one could hope to hire, as sellswords went.

Rhaella Targaryen gives them the legitimacy they desire, and they offer her the start of an army. And yet—could such an alliance have been formed without whispers eventually reaching Robert’s ears?

And if someone had kidnapped her two sons, the joining of House Blackfyre and Targaryen, then that spoke to yet another plot. Someone who opposed their ambitions?

Someone who also knew, or had guessed, the true circumstances of Jon’s birth?

I am as much a pawn in this game as these children are, Ned thought grimly. As Jon now was.

“What can you tell me about your captors?” he asked.

“We were bound and blinded at first,” Aemon said. “And later made to drink a concoction that ushered us to sleep.”

Dreamwine, mostly like. Or even milk of the poppy. “You remember nothing at all?”

The child shook his head, distress creeping into his voice. “We were with our father and then we were here, alone in the cold and snow.”

“And your mother?” Ned asked, because he had to be sure.

Sorrow settled over them, keenest in Aemon, whose brother answered for them. “Dead.”

Ned watched them carefully. “Rhaella?”

Aemon’s gaze snapped to his, widening in surprise before the child could compose himself. His brother squeezed his hand and gave a silent nod.

Dead. That both simplified and complicated matters, though Ned was not certain precisely how. It made their kidnapping all the more mysterious in its purpose. A power struggle between the queen’s surviving children, perhaps? If her eldest, Viserys, feared that the Golden Company would support their claim over his, due to whatever Blackfyre blood might flow in their veins, then sending them away might have been his answer.

Sending them here could yet be a threat against Jon, or simple coincidence.

A rap at the door startled all three of them, and Ned gestured at them to remain still as he answered it. It was Jory once more, bearing a tray of stew and bread. Apparently Bran had insisted on bringing it himself, but the captain had intercepted the heavy load, judging it best that he take it up instead. Ned nodded his thanks, and brought the tray back into his solar.

“Here,” Ned said, setting it down on the table and beckoning the children over. “You must be hungry.”

Baelon broke off a piece of the bread, handing it to his brother first, then taking a bite of his own. He seemed to relax then. They have been raised to know our customs, at least, Ned thought. Though it pained him that the child had feared they might have been harmed.

Stolen away from their family and abandoned in the snow-covered fields outside the wolfswood, in the heart of a kingdom loyal to the man who had killed their kin, and would gladly see their house erased, down to the last child. That they had remained this composed in his presence was a sign of either great bravery or misunderstanding of the danger they were in.

And given how wary Baelon had been since their arrival, Ned suspected they both knew precisely how much danger they were in—to the point of fabricating names for themselves.

The stew put some color in their cheeks, and the fire had warmed them enough that they were no longer shivering. Ned, who had taken a seat opposite them, fought the urge to sag back against his chair as the throbbing pressure of a headache formed at his temples.

“You seem to understand that you cannot be Baelon and Aemon here,” Ned said once they’d finished their stew and sopped up the remnants with the last of the bread. Both children nodded. “I can protect you until I have found a way to return you home, but until then, I shall require your cooperation.”

They looked to one another once more, but seemed in agreement. “What do you require of us?” Aemon asked.

“You are Raymar,” Ned said. He glanced at Baelon, unnerved yet again at how like his son he looked as he studied Ned back. “You cannot be Jon, as I already have a son named Jon.”

The children blinked in twin surprise, seeming to immediately grasp his intention. “Willam,” Baelon said. “I can be Willam, my lord.”

Another name favored in the Vale, though not uncommon elsewhere. “That is acceptable,” Ned said. Then he took a deep breath. “And you must call me Father.”

x~x~x

Okay but my favorite thing is that Ned giving two more of his bastards Vale names is so very recognizably him, even though he didn't suggest either name to them!

Which POV to write next? Decisions, decisions...

[twoidiotwriters1]

Chapter 1. Fun Times & Potty Rooms

Summary: Dearest Gentle reader, as another season starts so do the surprises. Masterlist // Next Chapter Words: 1,517 Listen to: What's Up? -by Non 4 Blondes A/N: Don't forget to leave feedback, please! -Danny

Dear Diary,

Mother insists I write even though she knows this isn't what I meant when I said I wanted to write. I'm not a self-referential lady who enjoys talking to herself; in fact, I believe it is quite silly and embarrassing. But alas, I am writing. To myself. 

Why, you ask? Well, for the first time in my five-and-twenty years of living, I'll spend some time away from home. Mother thinks it's time I do so, otherwise I'll be a perfect stranger to other royals and no one will know of me once I become Queen. When I said in jest that it was my intention, Mother didn't laugh. Which hurt plenty, because she usually laughs at the nonsense I spit. Which means she must want me to mingle and socialize. Lord have mercy on all of us.

Mother used to be just like me when she was my age, but she is so regal nowadays that you wouldn't believe she used to trip over armour and set fire to gentlemen's suits. My father fell in love with Mother because she was fire, he often jests.

Are these the things one writes in a diary? I must admit I'm doing this with half a mind since I'm also watching over my twin brothers, Richard and Rowan, and my younger sister Marie, so they do not fall off of the moving carriage. I wish I were more like Marie, graceful and charming, she's all dad. 

I'm boisterous when careless, with my head in the clouds and unable to land swiftly... How is this journey to England going to change that? A bunch of mummies live in that palace. My maid said they are the most rigid crowd I'll ever meet.

The fun awaits.

Benedict rises from his slumber tangled in two different bodies, with the sun streaming down on his face and immediately heightening the dormant headache. When he props himself up, the man on his right rolls over groaning and covering his head with a pillow, then the woman on his left curls away from him, pulling the covers closer to her bare body, baring Benedict and showing the marks all over his body. He used to find satisfaction in them, but lately, the day after his love affairs has been causing him a most unpleasant irk.

Maybe it's time to... settle down?

Benedict shrugs off the thought with a grimace. A boring aristocratic life accompanied by some sensible woman sends him reeling, it's all a bit too serious, and deep within his heart, he's always felt that he could not possibly abandon this type of life. Such a wide variety of companions to love... Why would he quit it?

No fun at all.

You step out of the carriage and your foot slips. Helped by the footman, you give him a soft thank you and offer him a kind smile, but he doesn't look up at you at any moment. You sigh, realizing this trip is bound to be exactly what you imagined.

Your siblings hurry after you and you chastise them. Even though you're around the same age, the twins are just entering their twenties, therefore it's hard to make them understand being loud and bold isn't cute anymore. Your sister holds your arm as she looks up at the castle with curiosity.

"Ample..." Marie says bemusedly.

"All that wasted space," you sigh. "They don't have toilets here, so you'll have to go in your room in a pissy bowl—"

"Y/N," your mother, Queen Amelia, stops beside you giving you a look. "Don't even think about complaining in the Queen's presence... but call it a potty if you are to be funny. Pissy bowl makes you sound five."

You and your sister giggle, which makes your mother send a conspiratory wink your way. A lovely woman. Your father, King Nicholas, comes up the steps and presses his hands to your backs, urging the two of you to enter the castle. 

"In girls, it looks like rain..."

"Are we to spend all of our time indoors, then?" Your sister pouts. 

"That is less than ideal, considering Y/N is here to be outdoors for a change, but I suppose it depends on the weather," your father glares at the sky. "England wishes to give us a proper welcome."

"No, thank you!" Marie picks up her pace.

"I spend time outdoors," you argue under your breath.

The man smiles. "Let me rephrase, then. To meet new people and spend time with them outdoors."

As you enter the wide hall you're welcomed by the Queen of England and her many children. A few are closer to your age, but you do not like the way the male part of the bunch eyes you and your sister. Or the way the Princesses look at your brothers, for that matter.

"Your Majesty, Queen Amelia of Genovia. King Consort, Nicholas Devereaux, and their children— Princess Y/N Devereaux, Princess Marie Devereaux, and the Princes Richard and Rowan Devereaux."

While the girls curtsy and the boys bow, the queens greet each other. Queen Charlotte spares a brief glance toward your father and a little 'hmph' escapes her lips with no further comment. King Nicholas, a man with a sense of humour, glances your way and pretends to loosen his cravat anxiously while gulping, which makes you giggle.

"Ah, Benedict, there you are," Violet surveys her son over the teacup she's holding. "Took you long enough to join us. Where have you been?"

"Morning, Mother, I apologize," he smiles and sits next to Gregory. "I woke up early and walked around Hyde Park hoping for inspiration to strike."

"Seems to me you were the one striking," Colin mutters across the table, eyeing his brother's neck with a grin. Benedict pulls his cravat higher up and glares at his brother to keep quiet.

"Benedict, did you hear the news?" Hyacinth speaks, almost shaking with excitement. "A royal family is attending the first ball of the season!"

"There is always some royal family at balls, isn't it?" He retorts without interest.

"The Queen and King of Genovia are staying in London for the whole season," Anthony says carefully. "Along with their two daughters and sons. I expect you to keep the family name as pristine as ever."

"Is this why you're here and not at home with your wife?" Benedict asks. "You came to scold us ahead in case we were planning to make a fool of ourselves?" Anthony doesn't dignify the question with an answer, he looks at his brother with a steely glare for a few extra seconds before he goes back to his food. Like I care about flimsy princesses, Benedict thinks with disdain.

"Whistledown says this will be the first public appearance of Princess Y/N!" Hyacinth continues, unbothered by her brothers's lack of excitement. "I wish I were old enough to attend the ball..." She turns to Francesca and Eloise. "Will you try to befriend her for me? She must be your age."

Eloise scoffs. "Befriend a princess? If she's anything like ours, she'll be all night fanning herself looking down at every poor mortal that dares walk within her breathing distance."

"They're not quite like us," Colin points out, just as fond of gossip as his sister. "Ever since Queen Amelia ascended to the throne, Genovia has been known for their... er... forward thinking."

Benedict snorts. Whatever royalty considers "forward thinking" is not even halfway there. Eloise, however, leans on the table wanting to hear more of it. "What do you mean, brother?"

"Women are encouraged to get higher education. They participate in sports, hunts, arts— and can wear male's clothing—"

That pulls a gasp from their mother and Eloise, although they're both different sounds in nature. Violet blushes and replies in a shy voice. "Oh, well... if it works for them..."

"They're well on their way to becoming a leading nation," Colin continues excitedly. "Which is why the Queen has invited them. Whistledown made a joke last month... something about England living in the Dark Ages and being the reason why people branch out and leave the country, claimed that Genovia would double in size thanks to us... it was quite merciless."

Anthony shakes his head. "You let women do stuff they're already doing in the privacy of their homes and call it revolutionary. Please."

What would the Queen of Genovia think of people like Benedict? Maybe he should visit the country, perhaps this very season, he would try anything just to escape the usual horde of debutants and dull social events...

"Well, there is a great deal of difference between having to be private and choosing to be," Francesca argues. Benedict smiles at her, a silent compliment he gives every time she outwits Anthony.

"There are other things happening in Genovia, it's not all about women," Colin shrugs it off. "I was just giving an example I knew would interest Eloise the most."

"And which ones were left out of your consideration?" Eloise grins.

"The potty rooms," he states, making Gregory choke on his tea.

Next Chapter –>

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[mrstellmeafuckingsecret]

guys wait modern muggle au prongsfoot fic idea . james potter born & raised in india has his parents die when he's fourteen and he's sent to live with his father's brother, charlus potter, who fleamont didn't have a close relationship with and so james is distant from charlus and dorea. he's moved from india to england where he doesn't know anyone barely a week after his parents funeral and is completely isolated from his friends. he starts acting out and at first it's excused but once he restarts school it becomes worse. he yells at teachers, he gets in fights daily, he yells at his aunt and uncle, he's out late at night. it goes on for maybe two or three months before he gets in a massive fight. it's barely a fight, more of a brutal beatdown, james doing the beating. police get involved, james is starting to realize he may need to control his emotions, his uncle and aunt are more disappointed than mad (it's worse) (it's familiar) and he serves a shortened juvie sentence of two weeks.

enter sirius black. he's james' roommate and james' first look at him is sirius getting (quite roughly) handled by a few guards for something he said or did and james' first thought is oh he's cool and they kind of hit it off instantly when sirius tells james he was getting hurt restrained for switching out a guard's lunch for something he was allergic to + adding a divorce letter from his wife which included details on how she wanted to fuck guard's brother instead. james is like. oh my god, he is so cool. they share life stories in, like, two days of knowing each other. sirius is pretty closed off from james, who spills out words without a thought, but james gathers something about running away from home, and he knows sirius is here for a variety of different things and has been here a while.

once james leaves, he's aching to meet sirius again. he needs it, so he does good in a handful of tests and smiles at his teachers and begs his uncle for permission and he can visit for forty-five minutes a week.

idk. i didnt rlly think this out.

sirius is in for gta, drug possession, aggravated assault and numerous accounts of hacking and/or identity theft. he ran away a bit younger, here, maybe around fourteen so like same as when james' life went downhill. he was homeless, got into shady shit and shady people. once he's released his biggest worry is that - housing, getting back into that shit. obviously, james thinks its very obvious that theyre going to live together. also !! james has bpd, it's diagnosed and its partly the reason his sentence is reduced. sirius has bipolar type 2, depression, substance abuse issues, ptsd & struggles w derealization. something something sirius feeling very out of it because when he gets out james is going to college and sirius literally has no one so he just... tags along. as in he moves in the apartment near the big fancy smart kid college james is undoubtedly going to and sirius just. feels stupid. hes not used to feeling stupid. he feels left behind and hes realizing how everyone his age is very ahead of him where as he's been basically dissociating for two years. then yk ofc james forces him to enroll in courses and sirius does great and they live happily ever after

[notsorryiml8]

Concerning Kakashi's skill as a teacher, I think a lot of the differing opinions how good he is is caused by differing ideas of what he's supposed to do. I've seen a lot of fanfic that "fixes" him and makes him more of a drill sergeant, having him decide how team 7 trains and what roles they take. A more true to canon take, I think, is that his job is to be more of team leader than having a master-apprentice kinda role. He teaches mission procedures, handing clients, and basically how to live as a ninja. He could probably give them some advice, about actual jutsu and stuff, maybe recommend certain teachers, make sure they aren't being irresponsible, etc. I think that he shouldn't have had to teach them tree walking, that being something they discover on their own, maybe with hints, but had to ignore subtlety due to the Wave mission. Like, the only other sensei that actually seems to be teaching their assigned student actual jutsu is Gai and Lee, everyone else, even close pairs like Asuma and Shikamaru, seems to be more like role models, or mentors. Idk if I'm explaining it right. TLDR Kakashi's a good sensei, his role in team 7 was never to be a drill sergeant/combat instructor, that role is fulfilled by master/apprentice relationships like Gai and Lee, and Sannin and team 7.

I may be wrong, but I don’t ever recall questioning Kakashi’s teaching skills. Heeeck, I’m one of his most ardent defenders 😊 lol. But I do also recognize his humanity.

I think Kakashi became a better sensei over time, but didn’t necessarily start out as a “good” sensei. But, before anyone jumps on me, that’s the nature of any job; especially one you never wanted. You learn by experience. A fresh, out of school, green neophyte on their first day ever on the job anywhere is not going to be as skilled as someone who’s been there 20 years, five years, or even just one year.

Kakashi, as a sensei, was just as confused as Naruto, Sakura, and Sasuke were as students. Dude was winging it, because there wasn’t any other way. He wasn’t expecting them to pass, nobody else ever passed his test before and he didn’t have enough faith in the Konoha ninja education system to believe they’d create a team of kids who could work as a team. He was only in school for a year, if that, so he didn’t know what those kids were learning. So, he wasn’t prepared. Or even lowkey, he may not have wanted them to pass because it meant, omg, I have to be responsible for other people, tiny other people, tiny other people with no skills.

In Anbu, yes, he was a captain, but that was different. Anbu was loneliness. Anbu was darkness. Anbu members were expected to be cold-blooded killers. And Anbu members typically weren’t 12 (he, Itachi, and Yamato/Tenzo were exceptions). He also didn’t have to teach; just train. Different ballgame.

Anyway, I digress, back to Team 7, one was the son of his sensei who he trying desperately to not remember because it hurt, not to mention the kid was feral (yeah, I said it, 12-year-old OG Naruto was feral - severe neglect will do that); another was the last member of his clan that was brutally murdered under the authority of the village, so that kid was a just a wee bit unhinged; and the third was the this little kunoichi that from his perspective probably shouldn’t have been in the ninja world in the first place because it was a cruel, cold, brutal life and she was “normal.” He didn’t know what to do with a normal kid - he was never one. In the end, he accepted the situation for what it was and learnt as much as he taught. And that’s the beauty of it - the teacher became the student and the students became the teacher.

It seems like the academy teaches bare basics - heck, he graduated in a year at age 5. I’m not downplaying his skills by any means, just stating the freak of nature that he is, completed years long training in just a fraction of that time and not sure if that says something about him or the education system - they weren’t prepared to work with prodigious kids and that says a lot. Yeah yeah yeah somebody will say they were at war, so they let the brat graduate. But that’s another post.

Anyway, that being said, I agree the academy should teach more. I strongly believe they should, at a bare minimum, learn their chakra nature while there. That seems like common sense. Just give out the litmus paper and test them and group them accordingly (I find it hard to believe that there are a bunch of shinobi going around not knowing what nature they have. Guess it would be based in your clan??). The basics of chakra control, water walking, tree climbing, etc… Makes you wonder what the heck they did teach them while there. I’m beginning to think it was just regular school and they learned some “cool ninja stuff” here and there - clones, substitution jutsu, taijutsu…

That being said, from what I garner, your clan is supposed to teach you their secrets and jutsu. Your sensei can’t do that. The school is supposed to teach you the basics 🤷🏽‍♀️. And your sensei is supposed to hone those skills. Take you on missions so you can learn in the field. Train your skills. Find your talents and strengths and enhance them.

As for Gai, Asuma, and Kurenai. I believe they all trained their students in different ways. My girl Kurenai doesn’t get much screen or page time, so you don’t know what she did or didn’t do or the hours she put in with them. Same for Asuma. You only get to see Gai’s team so much because Rock Lee is so awesome Gai is Kakashi’s rival, so more screen time by proxy. That’s not to say Asuma and Kurenai didn’t spend hours upon hours training their squads. Which I believe they did because at the end of the day, the K12 kicked butt and that required intensive training. Remember, all because you don’t see it happening, doesn’t mean it didn’t. They’re all amazing sensei in their own right. If you think about it, all those kids made it to the Chunin Exams, meaning a minimum of 8-9 missions. Remember Iruka tested Team 7 before the exam to see if they were ready. Thinking or hoping someone tested the other teams too. Which means those sensei had to put in time with them.

As for drill sergeant Kakashi, not sure if you’ve ever taken martial arts, but I have/do. Sensei are not the nicest people by any means- out of the dojo, they can be, but on the mat, when training, you might as well have a drill sergeant. They yell in your face, they throw you around (painfully). They want you to be serious and understand the seriousness of it. They are training you to fight and yes, you do learn techniques that can be lethal and how to use weapons irl. So, they have to be serious and they do work with you based on your own skillset. So, there’s some merit to that, historically. So, in a world that’s built around the shinobi system, Kakashi as a drill sergeant-sensei is possible and that doesn��t make him any more/less good or bad than the other sensei. Same for Kakashi as mentor-sensei. I think he became Team Leader Kakashi with the introduction of Team Kakashi, when he acknowledged them as his equal. But at the end of the day, why can’t he be all three? There’s a time and place for each role and no one size fits all approach to teaching. At the end of the day he was trying his best. They all were. And he was a good, but flawed, sensei. They all were.

[dsireland86]

OMG Yes please make the All Too Well fic! And yeah it is crazy that we thought about him with the same song

I was originally going to use the original version of this song, but after listening to Taylor's version again, it hit differently. This story was a little difficult to write because I really didn't want to make Nick the bad guy. But, at some point in our lives, we all make that one mistake we regret for the rest of our lives, right? In my universe, this was Nicholas's.

All Too Well

Tags: @philomenie @supersquirrel1996 @foliosgirl @angelmarie89 @fadingintothegrey @theanarchymuse95 @thisbicc @lma1986 @dominuslunae @shayzillaaaa @fadingintothegrey @an0mallly @alwaysfightforwhoyouare @mrsnoahsebastian @flowery-mess @iloveyoutodeathbutimdrowning @stardustsirenmelody @romanreigns-supreme @anything-more-than-human @into-the-grey @rumoured-whispers

My sister's house in upstate New York that Autumn was so cold; colder than Virginia. The moment we walked through the door together, she smiled so big, squeezing my arm and saying how it felt like home. My sister loved her instantly. 

She wore a red scarf around her neck that she said kept the cold out and her body heat in. I didn't believe her. It was so thin and small. There was no way. But it smelled like her, and her scent always made me weak.

I was five years older than her, but nobody could ever tell. People would say my sweet disposition and her wide-eyed gaze that was always focused on me made us look so compatible together that age was never something anyone ever questioned about us.

The whole ten days we were in New York together, singing in the car, almost running countless red lights because I couldn’t stop looking over at her and how beautiful she was with the wind in her hair, getting lost on some crazy back roads with autumn leaves falling down like rain all around us, was the best ten days of my life. It  was nothing but the purest magic ever to be found in life. Even after it was long over, I could still picture all too well; her smile, her eyes, her laughter, all of it. It was love. I was in love with her, and I knew she was in love with me.

My mom came to visit my sister. Knowing y/n and I were there, she brought my childhood photo album and embarrassed the hell out of me. My cheeks never turned as red as they did when she saw me sitting in my old red car twin size bed in just my underwear and glasses; god, those horrible thick, black rimmed glasses.

Then came the t-ball stories that made my mother proud to tell, but made me cringe. But y/n hung on every word my mom said as she learned more about my past and, for the first time, I knew she was my future despite what was waiting for me back in Virginia. I didn't want that anymore. I was over it. I wanted what I had right then; at least I tried convincing myself I did.

As we drove through those back roads, I was aching to say, "I love you," but for some reason, I was too scared to call it what it was, until it was too late. Until it was already dead, gone, and buried beneath the hate and bitterness of her heart, and I didn't blame her one bit for the way she felt. I deserved it.

That same night, I stole her innocence, promising her that she was the only one I'd ever want and that what we had was real, because in the heat of the moment, I really meant it. But in the end, I knew it was a lie from the very beginning. I stole her magic and treated it and her innocence as if they were some ordinary, mundane things when they weren't.

After three months of silence, the moment she found out the truth, the painful look of shame that graced her beautiful face was too much for my heart to handle. I wanted to die, to run away from her and never see her again. There was nothing else for either one of us left to do except hope that she would forget me long enough to forget why she ever felt like she needed me in the first place.

The very last time we were happy was right after we came back from New York, and she stayed over at my place. It was the middle of the night, and I awoke to her not beside me, so I got up and went searching for her only to find her in the kitchen listening to "You Belong To Me" by Jo Stafford; our song. I sat on the stairs for a moment, watching her dance in the glow of the refrigerator light as she looked for something to eat or drink, knowing in the morning all of this was going to end.

I cried, hating myself to the point that I rushed back upstairs and threw up in the toilet. I had kept her a dark, dirty little secret when she only kept me like an oath swearing over and over her loyalty to me. It was all a masterpiece until I tore it all apart. For what? I don't even know anymore.

A month after that night, I called her up to tell her I was moving to my sister's. She answered the phone, sounding so hopeful and optimistic, but when I told her that I was leaving, y/n asked if I was going alone. I didn't want to be honest, but I had lied to her long enough, so I was. I told her the truth (or at least what I had convinced myself to be the truth) about her and I and that what we had was never going to work because of the age difference. I was casually cruel, crumbling her heart up like a piece of paper and throwing it to the floor. I knew she wanted to die because I had felt that kind of pain before, too.

She asked me why I was doing this to her on the eve of her twenty-first birthday and I cringed, completely forgetting the date. She screamed at me, saying it was supposed to be fun turning twenty-one, but now she was nothing but paralyzed by pain and regret. I promised her it would get easier and she disagreed, saying time doesn't fly when you're bleeding like a soldier on the battlefield. Then she asked the crucial question, the one I was hoping she never would; "Did the love affair between us maim you like it maimed me?"

I felt cold, numb from all the pain. I didn't answer her, just told her goodbye then hung up the phone. I went for a walk, plagued by memories of the past in the city's barren cold as the first fall of snow glistened as it fell. I remember it all too well.

I'm boxing up all her things she left behind. Her red plaid shirt, her hairbrush that still holds strands of loose hair, a pair of panties I remember pulling off of her the very last night I made her my own, and her old scarf; the red one she wore to my sister’s that day in New York. I bring it to my nose and breath in deeply, soaking in the remaining scent of her it holds. It reminds me of innocence and the way things used to be. I can't get rid of it. So, I open my dresser drawer and gently lay it in there, touching it one last time before closing it. I remember her wearing it all too well and I never want to forget it either. She loved me so, back before I lost the one real thing I'd ever known. What we had was rare and I know I’ll never have it again.

I say her name every once in a while, like a sacred prayer to remind myself of the one and only good thing in my life that I lost. And the memories of her come rushing back every time, reminding me of her love, all too well. 

[illmoraineakoi]

This is one of the really interesting questions about the stick figures: how does age, or rather maturity, actually work for them?

As far as I can tell, there are three major types of sticks in canon: Artificial Animated Sticks [Alan's, and potentially other Animators too], Artificial Other Medium Sticks [ie: sticks from games or other types of art that were still created by humans, like the RGBY] and Natural Sticks [Sticks like Purple who were born via reproductive means]

Age between these types of sticks has to have wildly different meanings, as well as the rate of maturity.

Purple, a born stick, is shown to be a baby in his backstory. He's then shown to have grown, though over how long of a timespan is unknown. At best, we can speculate that this type of stick's lifecycle is somewhat similar to a human's: born as an infant that needs to be cared for, and then learning how to live, developing/maturing, as they grow up.

But Artificial Animated Sticks are CLEARLY different.

All four of Alan's sticks are very capable right after creation. They're already quite mentally developed. Victim and Orange especially are quite smart just minutes after their 'birth'. Like they're already at least a couple of years old, cognitively.

Not much has been revealed about other types of Artificial Sticks, but it's likely that they're similar to Animated Sticks in this regard. Perhaps their level of maturity is based on their Creator's intent for them, but without further info, it's difficult to speculate.

As far as I see it, there's two potential measurements of age one could apply to Artificial Sticks: mental age, and age based on their creation date.

Personally, I think that Orange, RGBY, and Chosen all have mental maturity ages equivalent to their creation age [10-12, and 17-18 respectively]. Dark and Victim, however, just feel different.

Dark has always seemed to be a lot more similar to Chosen's age than his 'true' age, and I think that it might be due to the manner of his creation. He was made to Chosen's equal in almost every way, his polar opposite that was designed to be able to destroy him. This intention may have factored in to how "old" Dark was at his time of creation; old enough to match Chosen's. So I feel like Dark is also around 17-18. Maybe 16, if we want to interpret his enthusiasm for showing off the ViraBot as a 'childish' action.

Victim's different. I think that he's a case of being "wiser beyond one's years", entirely due to how much crap he's potentially lived through. 17 years is already a long time for stick figures, but Victim had five extra years to do things that Chosen did not (due to the enslavement). This, combined with how intelligent Victim seems to be, gives off the impression that he's older than 18. More like 23-25. Older than his creation-based age, but still young enough to make reckless, foolish choices based in anger, like trying to get vengeance on his Creator. Undeniably smart and clever, but still a little naive and unable to comprehend the potential bigger picture or the consequences very well. Or perhaps he's just really ambitious and genuinely doesn't care about any of the risks/danger, just about satisfying his vendetta.

(It's possible that future revelations from AvA11 might change this interpretation, so this is all, currently, tentative and speculative despite my own headcanons lmao)

While not specifically important to anything, I also personally headcanon Yellow being the oldest of the RGBY, followed by Blue, Green, and finally Red, though it's more of how twins/triplets argue about who's technically oldest than any meaningful time difference. They were all created on the same day, just a a couple of dozen minutes apart. Orange is the youngest of them all, by at least a year.

Also, another factor that complicates the entire age thing is that we don't know exactly how long living stick figures have been around. We don't know when the Outernet was made, nor where the artificial life came from. It's possible that all of it, everything, only came into existence in the late 1990s/early 2000s. Or, perhaps digital life began around the same time the internet itself was created, which would be around 1983. That's not a lot of time, all things considered. If Natural Sticks age at similar rates to humans, there can't be many generations of them yet.

It' just a really fascinating and confusing part of the lore. It always hurts my brain trying to think about it.

Oh! Oh!

Genuine question for people who consider and accept Color Gang to be 10-12 years old because of their debut episode date(2014):

Do you also accept that Victim and The Chosen One are 18? And The Dark Lord is 14? Because Victim and TCO's videos were uploaded in 2006 and TDL's in 2010.

This is like a GENUINE question. I'm not making fun of you, I'm genuinely curious.

If not, why? I would like to know why Color Gang are special cases.

[egophiliac]

heeey guess what, I'm obsessed with this idiot flamingo now

[nonconstories]

Someone pissed me off a couple of days ago

So! Below are several links to programs and foundations that promote adult literacy! Hundreds of millions of adults world wide were failed by their education system and now must fend for themselves while trying to read contracts and hospital bills and infographics from the CDC. But they don't have to be alone, and it is never too late to learn!

ProLiteracy: A network of educators, researchers, and advocates which provides research reports, learning materials, and other support to adult education programs. They assist with connecting volunteers to local programs and provide guidance and support to community leaders trying to use their programs' findings to advocate for social and political change.

Adult Literacy League: An adult education program in Central Florida, which aims to provide students with one on one attention to foster growth and confidence. It also offers English Second Language courses and job skills training, and each new student receives a comprehensive assessment to determine the best plan for them.

Saint Vincent and Sarah Fisher Center's Foundational Skills Program: A 100% free adult education program aimed at adults reading below a fifth grade level. It operates year round and is either in person or remote, and they now have a GED testing center that is open to students and the public alike.

Washtenaw Literacy: A free network of trained tutors for adults in Washtenaw County, Michigan.

Adult Learning Program (Las Vegas/Clark County): Free education classes to those lacking a high school diploma, those seeking to learn ESL, and adults who read below an eighth grade level. Also assists in students' search for gainful employment. Nevada got so fucked by COVID and the education/literacy numbers in the South West are grim. Please help these guys.

Hawaii Literacy: In addition to helping adult residents of Hawaii Island learn to read and write AND bridging the education gap in Hawaii's underserved children, they offer computer literacy classes, ESL classes, and a bookmobile. 1 in 6 Hawaiian adults struggle to read and write.

[meteor-moon]

human!nine doodles

i was watching arcane while drawing these, can you tell?

[jamandjazz]

My personal headcanon is that Pony got his love for reading from Darry. When Darry was in high school he’d read the books he got in class out loud to Ponyboy and straight up just handed him some of the easier ones so they could talk about it later. In my brain the reason Ponyboy clings onto it so much is because it’s one of the things he and Darry REALLY bonded over when he was a kid and it just brings back good memories of when they got along better.

[professorsparklepants]

I was going to say "au where Han Yoojin is literally just Yoohyun's single parent" but tbh I can't even imagine it because everything would be different. Yoohyun would try to leave like in canon and he would be grounded on the spot. That boy would fold like a wet paper towel.

[fleshdyk3]

god i fucking hate my dad

[teruel-a-witch]

motorcycle boyfriends, a concept

[pynkhues]

I just finished the scripts for Succession S2 and I think some of your tags indicate you have as well. The finale script left me with two questions I thought you might have a view on. 1. Maybe it's me but I read the "summer of competitive eating disorders" line from Connor as non-literal. Like there was that one summer where everyone was messed up about food (and maybe everyone did have eating disorders) but it wasn't a literal competition. Is that a weird read? I keep seeing fics that are taking it literally so I may have misunderstood. 2. What is up with Logan being so possessive of Kendall? It's there in the episodes but the way he talks to Naomi is crazy in the scripts. I don't think Logan's really interacted like that with Tom or Willa or Tabitha - is it because Naomi is a Pierce or is it another one of those weird Kendall and Logan things?

Yeah, I have only recently finished reading the s2 scripts, and I've just started on s3. I've actually been enjoying reading them pretty slowly and percolating on them, but I was even more slowed down the last couple of weeks because my nephews were staying with me for the school holidays. It's meant most of my reading has been with and for them, haha, but I can highly recommend Mike Lowery's Bug Scouts book series for the five year olds in your life!

But yes! To your questions.

The Summer of Competitive Eating Disorders

I don't think that's a weird reading at all.

I think a lot of people have a tendency to view things mentioned on the show as very literal (the dog pound being probably the most obvious example, but also Roman's comments about being molested and all of the Roy siblings' insistence around things they did or didn't know about cruises / the wolf pack [especially after reading the s2 scripts and starting the s3 scripts, I think it's pretty heavily implied that Shiv and Roman ignore the things that they knew while Kendall does know more than them, yet not as much as he thinks. He postures his insider knowledge when his dad kept him more in the dark than he cares to admit, which of course falls apart over the course of s3).

That said, all four kids do have textual issues with food, and way back in 2022, I talked about the way the show utilises food as a symbol for power, particularly in the sense of who has it and who doesn't, which is something I stand by.

In tha sense, I think you're right - there wasn't a literal Summer of Competitive Eating Disorders, but I think the memory of it as one is probably reflective of a period of time where either Logan was particularly neglectful, or particularly present. Something abnormal that triggered a new way of dealing with food - enough for Connor to notice and remember it - and personally I'd kind of read it as the former? This is of course totally a headcanon, haha, but I could see it as the summer after Logan pushed Caroline out and the kids were left with the lingering aftermath of that.

In other words, I agree with you, haha, but I can absolutely see why it captured people's imaginations too.

Logan's possessiveness of Kendall

I actually have another ask in my inbox that I've been circling for ages on this, so I'm going to try and answer that tonight (finally!), but yes, I do think his possessiveness around Kendall is specific even among his children, and I agree that it was definitely even more explicit in the scripts.

It's an interesting sticking point that Naomi is a Pierce, but I honestly don't think that's entirely an issue - if it was Roman, for instance, I think Logan would think it was a great in or a strategic move for him, and he clearly didn't think anything of Connor's friendship and political partnership with Maxim.

Logan's possessive of all of his kids, of course, but it does feel different with Kendall, and I think there are a few reasons for that which I'll talk about in this other answer (and I'll try and link back here so it's easy to find!), but it really does make me so curious about how Logan was with Rava.

Bad, I imagine, especially because I do think the show wants us to view Rava as canonically Jewish.