#but if he has a strong french accent when he speaks english then i’d assume that he can’t just get rid of it when he speaks japanese

[sammigy]

wait so do you guys think jean speaks japanese with a french accent as well…?

[scapegrace74-blog]

New Ways of Turning Into Stone, Chapter 7

A/N  For anyone waiting patiently for this chapter, I apologize.  Somewhere in the midst of writing this story, I fell out of love with it, making it very hard to find the inspiration to finish. I’m too stubborn to abandon it, though, so here is the final chapter.  The good news is the angst fest is over, for the most part.  Slight reference to child trafficking in the past.  Thanks to everyone who read and interacted with this story!  This final chapter is entitled A Dragonfly in Amber.

The whole story can be found on my A03 page.

Eighteen Months Later

The breeze off the firth was picking up, and Claire wished she’d grabbed a  jumper before leaving her flat.  She spent a lot of time these days looking back at the million decisions that made up a life, aware of their path as though they were footprints visible to the eye.  Where once missteps would have inspired judgement or shame, she could now chart their passage with a certain measure of peace.

A rare free Thursday brought her to a seasonal market in what was otherwise a car park overlooking Edinburgh Castle.  With no specific objective in mind, she wandered the stalls of fresh produce and locally made crafts, meandering but purposeful.  A jar of raw honey and a half-dozen blueberry scones made their way into her tote bag before she stopped at a store selling beautifully woven woolen goods, thinking that she could perhaps invest in a shawl.

Lifting the various offerings from where they were displayed, something caught her eye.  Beneath the many-patterned pile of wool stood a beautiful wooden chest, its heft and patina speaking of its craftsmanship.   It had been painted in a rusted umber, the shape of a dragonfly elegantly carved into its solid lid.

“Tis lovely, is it no’?” a soft lilt startled her from her trance.

“Yes, very.  Is it for sale?”  She had no idea why she’d asked.  Her flat was crowded enough as it was and frivolous purchases no longer within her budget.

“Alas, no.  Twas an anniversary gift from my man.”  Perhaps seeing the disappointment register on her face, the woman added, “I can give ye the card o’ the man who made it, at least.  Ye’re no’ the first tae have admired his work.”

Claire’s hands shook slightly as the shopkeeper sought out the card, an eerie sense of premonition settling over her.  Sure enough, the familiar names leapt into relief as she accepted the woman’s offering:

Lallybroch Furniture Design

James Fraser, Proprietor

***

The afternoon and evening passed in a blur of obligations and routine.  It was only as she settled into the peace of her own bedroom that Claire allowed her thoughts to return to the business card tucked safely into her wallet.  

She’d known Jamie was still in the city.  While she’d resisted the urge to seek him out a thousand times, she couldn’t stop herself from searching his name on the Internet.  A harmless indulgence, she rationalized, and one that assured her that he was well, his business going from strength to strength. Despite the capitol’s tight-knit community, however, their paths had never crossed.  Until now.

Was it a sign?  Long Ago Claire paid no heed to such foolishness, but that was before a chance encounter spun her life one hundred and eighty degrees, sending her down a brand new path.  Now she accepted these memos from the universe with humility.  Tomorrow, she would go looking for Jamie Fraser.

***

Jamie heard the jingle of the bells above the door, even over the mechanical whirr of his sander.  Unbending and blowing a sweaty curl off his forehead, he admired the intricate scrollwork of the custom hutch that was his latest commission.  It still amazed him to watch his visions take shape before his eyes.  If life hadn’t slapped him hard across the face, knocking him far off course, he might have spent the rest of his days unaware of the gift that resided between his hands.

“Took ye long enough, Geordie,” he called out to the footsteps approaching from the door.  “Where’d ye go fer the varnish, Glasgow?”

There was a pause, and an eerie sense of premonition settled over him.  Today was going to be the day.

“It’s not Geordie, it’s me.  Claire.”  He’d thought of her voice each day for the past eighteen months, and yet he hadn’t been able to summon its exact timbre: sonorous, precise, with a smoky finish like well-aged whisky.

“Claire,” he replied to the universe, summoning her by name before he even turned around.

Sawdust motes danced in a sunbeam descending from a clerestory window, illuminating the mahogany in her curls.  She was everything he remembered, and so much more.  The nacre of her skin, now dusted with cinnamon freckles.  The topaz of her eyes less fierce, more open, and overwhelmingly anxious.  The tight line of her jaw was less defined, her once whippet-thin figure filled out into plush curves.  Overall the impression was one of softness, of willing vulnerability.

“The door was open,” she explained needlessly, her eyes drinking him in hungrily.  He wondered what changes she read on his surface.

“It’s... uhhh...” his voice wobbled painfully, “it’s good tae see ye, Sassenach.  How have ye been?”

He hadn’t trusted himself to seek her out since Maggie’s death, understanding that they both needed time to heal.  It didn’t stop him from zeroing in on every glimpse of brown curls, nor from reading wedding announcements with an invisible fist gripping his throat.  If it was meant to be, he counselled himself, they would find one another when the time was right.  And now she was here, standing in his workshop and more lovely than his zealous imaginings.

“Good,” she replied, eyes meeting and then sheering away from his gaze.  “Really good.  Busy.”  She was gripping the strap of her handbag like a parachute cord, and he couldn’t help glancing at her left hand, selfishly relieved to note it was still bare.

“I, ummm, I saw one of your pieces.  At the market yesterday.  Not for sale, of course.  The woman offered me your card, so I thought, you know, that I might...  You’re really very talented, Jamie,” she prattled nervously.

He blushed, delighted by her praise.  “I thank ye, Claire.”  To taste her name in his mouth, so long forbidden, was intoxicating.  He would never tire of saying it.

“And yer work?  Tis Friday.  Are ye taking a well-deserved day off?”

“Oh, no.  I’m not practicing anymore, Jamie.”

He froze, horrified.  Of all the scenarios he’d played out in his mind, he’d never imagined her anything but a doctor. It was too much a part of who she was.  A familiar sense of oppressive responsibility crept over him.  If he’d somehow caused this to happen...

“Sassenach, no...” he whispered.

To his utter confusion, she laughed, merry and bright as the bells that had announced her return to his life.

“It’s alright, truly.  I, well, a lot has changed since last year,” she explained, a glimmer of something coy transforming her face.  His wame sunk into his feet.

“Ye’ve met someone.”   A statement of fact.  Punishment for wishing for something that wasn’t meant to be.

Her spritely laugh rang out again, increasing his pain.  He felt the old, habitual hardening around his heart, and fought to keep his breath steady.  No matter how much it hurt, he owed it to Claire to listen to her joy.

“In a manner of speaking.  His name is Fergus, and he’s eight years old.”

Startled, he stared into her upturned face, trying to read the truth in her features.  A hand, delicate but strong, took his own.  He held onto it like a lifeline as she told her unlikely tale.

Shortly after their last meeting, Claire had been walking through Grassmarket when she’d been jostled by a running figure.  It was only upon righting herself that she realized she was without her phone.   Giving chase, she eventually cornered the thief down a blind alley, only to realize that it was a young boy, unkempt and malnourished.

Rather than turn the pickpocket in, Claire had negotiated an exchange: her phone for a four-course meal and the story of how a boy of his age, with a heavy French accent no less, had come to live on the streets of Edinburgh.

“He was trafficked, Jamie.  A group in Paris were keeping him and other orphans in a brothel.  When they came to transport them, Fergus escaped.  He hid in a lorry, and this is where it brought him.  He had no coat, no money, hardly any English, but he’d been surviving on his wits for six weeks before I found him.  I can’t bear to think what might have happened to him had we not crossed paths that winter’s day.”

“Christ,” he swore, thinking of his own nephew, and what he wouldn’t give to protect the lad’s innocence.

Claire went on to describe the painstaking process of reporting Fergus, whose real name was Claudel, to the authorities without allowing him to be deported back to France and into the waiting hands of the very people he had escaped.

“There was no formal steps to follow, no real resources I could rely on.  I ended up filing for adoption, because it was the only way to keep him safe.  In the beginning, he needed all my attention.  He had no formal schooling and had to learn English in a hurry.  He suffered from terrible nightmares.  I transferred all my patients, shut down the office, but I assumed it was only temporary, until he felt more secure and could go to school with other kids his age.  But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that Fergus isn’t the only trafficked child in Scotland.  I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t do whatever I could to protect every one of them.  So I quit.  I’d made some contacts at ECPAT in London, trying to sort out the mess with Fergus’ immigration paperwork.   I called them up and offered my services on a part-time basis.  A former pediatrician with experience in grief counselling.  They couldn’t accept fast enough.  So now, when I’m not busy being Fergus’ mom, I’m the executive director of ECPAT here in Scotland.”

“Christ,” he repeated.  “Sassenach, I’m...  God, ye’re an amazing woman.”

It was her turn to blush, glancing down to notice that their hands were still clasped, fingers woven together like thirsty roots.  They were standing toe to toe, breathing in harmony.  Jamie smelled of pine, a sharp sweetness that seemed to cling to his body.  She dared a look upwards and found his gaze locked on her mouth.  Oceans stormed in the depths of his eyes.

“You’ve got a little...” she reached for his jaw, “...a little something, right here...”  Before she could dislodge the fleck of sawdust trapped in his auburn stubble, Jamie’s whole body surged forward, their noses practically bumping.

“Sassenach...” he beseeched.

“Yes?”  Wispy, fluttering wings of hope surrounded her.

“I’ve bided as long as I can.  May I please, for the love of all tha’s holy, finally kiss ye?”

A tiny nod, a murmured assent, then their lips took up the conversation that had begun so many months before.  There, in a dusty workshop at eleven o’clock on a Friday morning, the last obstacle that stood between them came crashing to the ground.  In its place came warmth and certainty, a candleflame of cherished possibility. 

[sixth-light]

How good each member of The Old Guard is at learning languages and what languages do they know ?

ANDY: According to the background featurette knows ‘all’ languages, but this is clearly bullshit. Let’s say instead she’s the sort of person who can sit down next to a campfire or walk into a bar and two hours later she’s making (bad but comprehensible) jokes in the completely new-to-her language the other people around the campfire are speaking. It’s both extremely useful for the rest of the Old Guard and weirdly aggravating. How does she do it 

QUỲNH: I don’t think the featurette gives her languages but I reckon it would be A Lot, starting with East/South-east Asian languages and quickly expanding out. Like Andy, is extremely good at making herself understood no matter the circumstances. The main difference between them is that Andy is slightly quicker to get the dirty jokes and Quỳnh is slightly quicker to get to complex concepts like “they’re laughing but actually that means they’re gonna try and kill us in the morning”, which Andy perceives largely through body language. Unlike Andy, makes some attempt to learn how to read languages before it’s an actual necessity. 

NICOLÒ: Only speaks a few languages (Arabic, Italian and English per the featurette, probably a few others inc. at minimum Latin and Greek) fluently; retains a strong accent even in those. This belies the fact that he understands much more than he speaks in any language you hear him speaking even a few words of. This has absolutely fucked over a number of people who think he doesn’t know what they’re saying. Also puts real effort into learning to read as well as speak, because nine hundred years later he still remembers Yusuf doing the equivalent of “of course I can read six languages, what, like it’s hard?”. Uses flashcards. Booker mocks him but it works, okay, Book? 

YUSUF: Technically speaks fewer languages than Andy, Quỳnh, or Nicolò because the ones he does speak (Arabic, Italian, Persian, and English per the featurette; I’m gonna say also at least Greek and Coptic, plus others) he is highly fluent in, and that often allows him to communicate with people who speak them as a second language well enough to get by. When he commits, he’s using metaphors two days in. A massive nerd about language in general. Gets unreasonably excited when he can connect words that have passed from one language to another. Compulsive reader-out-loud of signs. 

BOOKER: The featurette says English, French, and Italian; again, there’s gotta be a couple of others - c.f. ‘first-edition Don Quixote’ - but Booker strikes me as one of those people who picks up the essential phrases very quickly (I’d like a beer please, where are the toilets?, etc) but struggles beyond that unless he’s immersed for a long time. Just hasn’t had as much time as the others to pick up languages. Is unfortunately good at getting along with the three phrases he does know in a way that convinces other people he actually knows how to speak a language. Has died at least once because of this. Still too proud to make “I don’t understand” one of the essential phrases he picks up. 

NILE: English, Spanish, and French per the featurette; I’m gonna guess her Spanish is of the very colloquial Central American variety, and her French is a bit painfully high school. Like many Americans, struggles with languages because of relatively limited exposure, but is always Trying Her Best (c.f. the scene with the Afghan women). Borrows Nicky’s flashcards. Very good at charming people into giving her conversational practice or being patient with her as she works to understand them. After the first three languages she’s starting to get a taste for them. Everybody else is so proud. 

(Note: I haven’t got into too much detail on specific languages because of my knowledge biases and because I get distracted thinking about where they might have been; assume way more than I’ve named, or mention your personal faves in the notes, please!) 

[kiarcheo]

    It’s All Coming Back to Me Now    4/?

To read on  Ao3 click here

You can read the previous parts on Tumblr click here

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

By the time Anne announces she is ready to present a first version of her song, everyone is quite curious to see what she cooked up.

‘I thought about what Anna and Kat said last time. About making it modern…and have everyone involved.’ Anne explains as Kat once again sets up her laptop. ‘So Kat is doing the chorus, which would be your parts.’

Grew up in the French Court Oui, oui, bonjour

 Laughter immediately follow the exaggerated French accent coming from the queen who speak the language as fluently and perfectly as her native one.

All the British dudes, lame

Catalina and Anna share a look as Kat chimes in with ‘epic fail’. They had bonded over being shipped to a foreign country not knowing a single word of English to marry some random dude...They are not going to have problems singing that part like they mean it.

(Ooh) I wanna dance and sing (Politics) Not my thing

Catalina barely restrains a snort. Definitely her thing.

(You sent him kisses) I didn't know I would move in with his missus (What?) Get a life (You're living with his wife?)

Kat is extremely convincing at acting shocked at Anne’s actions and then clearly uncomfortable at the next verse, looking down at her feet.

(Ooh) Don't be bitter (Ooh) 'cause I'm fitter (Ooh) Why hasn't it hit her? He doesn't want to bang you Somebody hang you

 ‘Do you really have to use that language?’ Jane asks after they have all complimented Anne for her song.

‘What? Bitch?’ It’s quite clear to everyone that Anne is trying to rile Jane up. ‘If Catalina can say shit, why can’t I say bitch?’

Both Catalina and Anna nod at Anne’s words. Jane sends her a not-impressed look. She knows she is now repeating that word on purpose now, just to annoy her.

‘They don’t actually say it. Neither of them.’ Kat points out, raising her eye for the first time since half-way through the song, but still avoiding looking at Catalina.

'Moving on,’ Jane concedes, ‘while I technically understand all the words, there are some parts I don’t really...what xo means?’ Unlike Anne, Anna and Kat, Jane had not immediately taken to modern pop culture. At the moment she is trying to understand memes, much to the others’ amusement. They even have a group chat just devoted to sending her memes and gifs to see what she thinks they are and then explaining them. Most of the time Jane regrets having joined the chat and she would just abandon it if she didn’t know that they would add her back in immediately…and also that it’s all good-natured teasing.

‘Hugs and Kisses. Like, if you text someone and you sign off with xo it stands for that. X for kisses and O for hugs.’

'Aaah-’ Jane nods. That makes sense. That’s why Kat followed that line with ‘you sent him kisses’. ‘What about x-rated? It's kisses related too?’

‘In a way.’ Anne guffaws.

‘When something has a x rating, it’s because it’s very explicit. For adults only.’

The others look mildly amused at her innocence and Cathy’s explanation, but Anna is sure Jane will be uncomfortable once she realises. ‘Sex, Jane.’ She cuts it short.

‘You know what?’ Jane’s face is aflame. ‘If you give me the words, I’m going to look them up for myself.’

‘Can I talk to you for a second?’ Jane stops Kat as the meeting wraps up.

‘Want me to wait for you?’ Catalina asks.

‘If you don’t mind.’ Kat sends her a smile, before turning her attention to Jane.

‘I wanted to ask if you could help me out with my song. You wrote Catalina’s, right?’

‘Well, she wrote the words, I just played around, adjusted some bits and added others, you know, for rhymes and rhythm, and stuff like that.’

‘It’s just that...I know what I want to say, but words have never been my strong suit.’ Jane admits self-consciously. ‘If you could help me with that too. And the music. Obviously. To use Anne’s words. Not my thing.’ Jane smiles self-deprecatingly.

‘I would love to!’ Kat smiles encouragingly. ‘Have you thought about what type of sound are you lookin...’ she trails off seeing the slight panic on her face. ‘Why don’t you just make a list of singers and songs that you like? And that you’d like your song to...well, not be similar, but you know?’

Jane nods. That she gets. They agree on meeting up soon to start working on the lyrics and that meanwhile Jane will send Kat songs to get inspirations for the music part.

‘Everything okay?’ Catalina asks as they fall into step.

Kat hesitates for brief second. She will know anyway once she starts spending a lot of time out of the house with Jane, just like she did while working on Anne’s song. Probably even more. And the others will find out when they present it. Make no sense to keep it secret. ‘She just wanted to ask for my help with her song.’  

‘What about you?’ Kat asks after a bit, noticing the expression on Catalina’s face. ‘Are you upset about Anne’s song? I’m really sorry about...well, you know what part.’

‘Did you write it?’

‘No!’

‘Exactly.’ Catalina had noticed how uncomfortable the girl had looked and how she had avoided eye contact with her pretty much up until they had finished the meeting and she had spoken to her directly, asking whether she should wait for her or not. ‘Besides, she says it herself, she didn’t really mean it.’

‘Then what is it?’

‘Are you okay with all the...losing your head jokes?’

‘Not really bothered to be honest.’ Kat shrugs.  She had time to get used to Anne joking about it and she can see the appeal. She had mentioned it to Cathy, who said something about using humour to cope with trauma and grief. ‘But I know it’s not that. What’s on your mind?’

Catalina sighs. Sometimes having someone knowing you backfires. And Kat does know her. Perhaps a little too well. ‘I know that she is playing around a lot. The “just want to have fun” vibe. The slang. Playing up the airhead persona. Blatantly lying about the politics thing.’ She shakes her head. Everyone who knows about Anne Boleyn will know that is not true. ‘But that line about her father...’ she trails off. She never really considered the role family politics might have played into the whole affair. She always assumed it had been all Anne.

‘That’s something you should ask her.’ Kat says after a beat. Her loyalty will always be to Catalina, but they are not pitted against each other anymore. She loves Anne as well and won’t betray her confidence. And this is a perfect example of why, at the time, which now feels like ages ago, she had requested not to be asked about the other queens, but for everyone to take it up with the person in question. ‘Just because you’re my mom it doesn’t mean rules don’t apply to you.’ Kat winks at her cheekily in an effort to lighten up the mood. Rationally she knows Catalina won’t be upset and will respect her wish not to talk about it. But she can’t help feeling like she is letting her down, disappointing her.

‘I’m proud of you.’

'Why?’

Because she is still caring and sweet despite everything and everyone? Because she never hesitates to use her talents to help others? Because she knows that the little girl who served her and whose priority was to please her is still very much present in Kat, no matter how many times she tells her that she is her daughter now, not her attendant, but here she is, in a way, standing up to her, to protect Anne’s privacy?

Kat sounds genuinely confused and it breaks Catalina’s heart. Every. Single. Time. She will keep telling her until one day Kat’s reaction won’t be surprise and incredulity.

‘I’d need a third lifetime to list all the reasons. But I’m always proud of you.’ Catalina slips her hand so that she is holding the crook of Kat’s elbow, now walking arm in arm. ‘Siempre, querida, siempre.’

 .

When it comes to Jane’s turn, the set-up is a bit different. Upon Jane’s request, Kat is going to play the keyboard instead of having a track playing on her laptop. Despite Kat’s encouragement, Jane still doesn’t feel fully confident...especially about some parts of her song. More than once she suggested to take those out, afraid of chocking or freezing when singing in front of other people. Since when they had practiced with Kat on the keyboard, if Jane changed anything, the younger girl had been able to adapt the music on the spot...they had agreed that Kat will play and follows Jane’s lead, if she decides not to go full-out.

‘I’m sorry...you were the one worried about us singing ourselves??’ Anne breaks the silence that had settled as Jane’s song winded down.

‘Yes, girl!’ Anna agrees. ‘That’s some set of pipes.’

‘We might actually have a problem finding people who can sing that. Between you and Catalina...’ Cathy joins in.  The new version of the first queen’s song had some new lines, minor changes and tweaks. And lots of riffing, with Catalina fully making the song hers while Kat had sung the added choruses.

‘I was surprised myself.’ Jane admits bashful at the praises. ‘We went through...scales?’ she looks at Kat to make sure she is saying it right.

‘Yes, I wanted to find her vocal range. See what was within her natural reach, how high she could get…and she kept going up and up.’ Kat nods with a laugh, remembering the scene and how shocked they had both been when they realised the potential of Jane’s voice. Once Kat heard her, she knew she simply had to include some whistle notes.

‘I think some vocal training would be good.’ Anne raises her hands at the looks she receives. ‘I don’t mean it like that. I already said that! Just...one thing is doing that once. Another is doing it repeatedly and consistently…and doing it well.’

‘She has a point.’ Everyone who had ever taken vocal lessons agree.

‘It’s like with playing an instrument or dancing. You might have talent, but you need to cultivate it. Study. Practice. Train.’

‘Talking about dancing,’ Catalina starts, ‘what do we think about choreographies? Jane’s song doesn’t lend itself, but I have some ideas for mine.’

Kat looks at her, raised eyebrow and amused expression on her face. Some ideas? She basically has choreographed half of the song already.

The exchange is missed as Anne exclaims. ‘Me too!’

Jane groans. ‘Not that too. I just solved one problem.’

‘Please,’ Anna scoffs good-natured at her, ‘next thing we know you’ll be popping and locking like a pro.’

‘I have no idea what you just said.’ Jane deadpans.

Anne and Catalina are still staring at each other. Kat and Cathy look from one to the other. The first two queens were both renowned, among a lot of other things, for being accomplished and skilful dancers. Things had gone quite smoothly so far, but they learned during their cohabitation to never underestimate what could start a squabble…or worse.

‘So,’ Anne clears her throat, suddenly awkward, ‘team up?’

Catalina ponders in silence a bit longer. ‘You know what? Why not!’

She doesn’t miss the relieved looks on the last two queens’ faces, before they turn to each other with excited grins. She supposes that her girl is happy that she is trying to get along with her cousin, whom she got even closer since they worked on Anne’s song together, and Cathy is probably happy with how her project is taking shape, and that others besides her (and Kat) are showing initiative. And both are probably happy that a potential quarrel had been avoided. The last two queens had been the ones most uncomfortable when discussions would happen at the household.  

‘Anyone has anything else to add before we adjourn the meeting?’

‘Ohh, so profesh!’ Anne teases Cathy.

‘I actually have.’ Kat speaks up. ‘I thought about your idea of having an intro song...what if we make it about what we are known for?’  

‘Oh. Like, this is what you think you know about us. Then bam! We have our songs that rewrite the whole history.’ Anna picks it up immediately.

‘Making it…her-story,’

Everyone turns to look at Jane, who appears very proud of her pun. Kat is the one who reacts first. Having spent long hours with her cousin while writing her song, she has come to know her love for puns and – usually lame – jokes. She whips out her pen to scribble something down on her pink notebook, before raising her head again. ‘But yes, Anna, that’s exactly what I meant.’

‘That makes sense.’ Anne nods.

‘We should include that stupid rhyme.’ Kat muses aloud. ‘You know, divorced, beheaded, died, divorced, beheaded, survived...wait. Wait.’ she raises one hand as to silence the others while with her other hand she is busy writing on her notebook.

‘We are waiting.’ Catalina informs her, tone amused. ‘Not sure what for, though.’

Kat doesn’t reply until she stops writing. She gives a long look at the words she penned. ‘What about.

I'm done 'cause all this time I've been just one word In a stupid rhyme

‘We could use that as an actual intro!’ Anne lights up.  ‘Like. Divorced and Catalina enters. Beheaded and I do. And so on.’

‘I haven’t started to think about that song at all.’ Cathy admits. She is slowly putting together her own. There is so much she wants to say and not much time…in a song. Sometimes she wishes she had less time to write, that she was not the last queen, because then she would have to take what she got and present it, instead of agonizing over every single word and whether there is a better one to use. ‘But just like this, on the spot...I think that stupid rhyme,’ she sends a smile to Kat, ‘could also work as refrain?’

[quadraphonictypewriter]

Rushing Whispers Part 18/?

Read from the beginning or Part 17

August 2, 1970 ((approx. 1130 words))

We arrived at the hotel in Paris at three o’clock in the morning, having left not long after the Reims show ended. Tonight’s show would be held in one of the popular Right Bank Parisian districts at a concert hall, with tomorrow’s performance taking place at a medium-sized club on the outskirts of the city. 

When Cameron and I checked into the hotel and got to our room, I immediately asked him what had happened with Dale in the dressing room. 

“I’ve been trying to figure it out myself,” he admitted. Cameron sat on the bed and shook his head. “I’ve never seen the man cry, let alone sob as he did.”

I sat beside him and put my hand on his. “He’s lost a child, though, even if it wasn’t his own.” 

“Yes, he has.” Cameron nodded. “But the letter isn’t explicit. He showed it to me, in the room, before he spoke.” 

I sighed, my head resting on his shoulder. “So, we don’t know if Isabelle is dead, or if she’s just been taken,” I assumed. 

“Dale believes she’s dead. He said Philippe has always had a short temper and his sister only married him to escape England.” 

“Well, in about sixteen hours we’ll find out from Sandra herself.” 

“Dale doesn’t want to see her before the performance. Said he wants to do the show before he hears anything else from his sister.”

Sandra had shown up at the venue just as the band headed to the stage. I was called over by one of the security guards, who had told her she couldn’t get in without a ticket. 

“This woman says she knows your singer,” the gruff Frenchman told me. 

“You’re Dale’s sister?” I asked.

“Yes,” she answered. “My name is Sandra.” 

I spoke to the guard in French and told him she could enter without issue. I guided her into a room apart from the main backstage area and asked her if she needed anything. 

“I suppose Dale showed everyone my letter,” she said, feeling dejected. Her accent was thick; she had obviously not spoken English in many months. 

“Only me, and Cameron,” I told her, switching to French. “Do you know him?”

“Yes,” she answered, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Cameron has always been a kind man.” 

She asked for coffee, then, so I left her in the dressing room and prepared two strong cups. When I returned, I nudged the door closed with my foot and put the cups down on the table. 

“What happened?” I asked, not able to hold back any longer. “Are you doing okay?”

 “I suppose I can tell you, if you already know what I’ve sent my brother…”

The band’s performance was in full swing as Sandra explained to me what had happened, through tears and sniffles. One day in the spring, Philippe had launched himself into a rage and taken a walk to calm himself. Isabelle went with him, and they were gone for hours. When her husband returned, his hands were bloody and he announced that their daughter was dead. 

Sandra launched herself at him in motherly rage and began to hit him. He struck her and she fell to the ground, only waking hours later to find herself alone in the house. Philippe had taken nothing but the money from their safe, and her daughter’s life. Sandra filed a police report and was told, weeks later, that he had been arrested and was imprisoned for Isabelle’s murder. 

“He confessed to the police,” she whispered. “Didn’t deny it, claim insanity, nothing. Just said he did it and knew what he was doing.” 

I comforted as best I could. Recounting the events had taken time, and during the silence of Sandra’s grief, I heard the band enter the backstage area. 

“They’ve finished the show. Would you like me to bring Dale to you?” I asked her. 

Sandra simply nodded. 

I squeezed her hand in assurance and left the room, keeping the door slightly ajar. Cameron walked towards me as I appeared from the hallway. I nodded almost imperceptibly to inform him of what I was about to do. 

I approached Dale, who was at the drinks table. 

“She’s here?” he asked, then filled a small glass with vodka and drank it as a shot. 

“Third room to the left,” I informed him. 

Dale took another double shot of vodka and walked off towards the dressing room. 

“God help them,” I whispered, more to myself than anyone else. 

Cameron came up to me with a worried look. “How is she?” 

“Distraught beyond measure,” I told him, before quietly sharing the story I’d been told. As I told him of Philippe’s confession, we heard a loud bang quickly followed by a scream. Cameron and I bolted to the dressing room, though not before another bang echoed through the hallway. 

Sandra was crying, once more, and a broken cup lay on the ground surrounded by spilled coffee. Dale, despite having been semi-composed before entering the room, was now belligerent and throwing things. 

“Cameron,” I shouted, “grab him! Calm him the fuck down.” 

I took Sandra by the arm and pulled her out of the room and away from her brother. It had taken more effort than I expected to restrain myself from pummelling Dale and having Cameron escort Sandra out of the room. Lee began to walk towards us as we entered the main room, and though I knew he was the most understanding man available at the moment, I shook my head to deter him from continuing his approach. 

I sat down with Sandra on one of the small couches, this one was against the far wall. I spoke French, so no one would understand and she could speak freely. 

“Are you alright? Did he hurt you?” 

“No, no. I’m alright,” she assured me between sniffles. “He wasn’t trying to hit me.” 

“You’re sure? I’ve never seen him like that,” I noted. 

“I have. Many times. He’s been drinking, has he not?” 

I nodded. It was true, not only had Dale downed two double shots of straight vodka before seeing his sister, but he had been quick to get to a bottle in his hand lately. 

“He loses his temper more, when he drinks.” Her tone was thick with sadness. “Don’t they all?”

“Yes.” My reply was certain but sympathetic. “Did Philippe abuse you? Before, I mean.” 

“Sometimes,” she admitted after a moment’s hesitation. “A slap here or there. Never in front of Isabelle.” 

“At least he has some decency,” I spat. “Some people don’t.” 

As if sensing the unspoken, Sandra looked right at me. In her eyes I recognized my own pain, and for a brief moment, allowed myself to cry with someone who understood. 

--

Part 19

[nobodies-png]

If each member was a language, what language would they be and why?

I’m assuming you mean from the OrgXIII so here you go ! This was an interesting question lolol - I had to look up and read a lot of articles on wikipedia to make sure I didn’t end up saying bad or weird shit bUT IT WAS SUPER FUN 

Xemnas :

Greek, probably ? The language and culture that rivaled Latin and Rome throughout history and despite it’s age, it MANAGES to still be a living language (if you think I overthink too much about metaphors and shit just wait till you read the rest of answers). It also fits all Scala Ad Caelum’s aesthetic inspired by Greece and all the shenanigans with the Norts ! 

 Xigbar :

LEET Speak just to give every homestucker a heart attack. Maybe just surfer speak, if it counts.  Xigbar would fit Latin perfectly - it’s a dead language and the source of many other languages just like Xigbar is the fucking source of many things that go down in KH. Cryptic and old, like him ! And considering his ties with the KHux Foretellers and such, it makes sense for him to be Latin, right ? 

Xaldin :

I literally have no idea why but I think of Portuguese when I think of Xaldin. I havE LIKE NO ARGUMENTS OR EXPLANATIONS, IT’S JUST A THING (tm) SO YOU’RE FREE TO ADD TO THIS. Or give him a different language to be w h e e z e.

Vexen :

You know when old people try to be hip and come up with shit like How o You Do Fellow Kids / I’ll Krump With You Sweetie ? Yeah that’s him Okay but honestly, when I was a kid I really liked the idea of Vexen just screaming shit in Latin whenever his experiments went wrong. Now that i’m older, I like to imagine the same thing except now he speaks a Slavic language. I wouldn’t be able to tell you e x a c t l y which one, though. But I guess also a language from north Europe would work, like Finnish or Swedish - mostly because the countries remind me of cold weather lol

Lexaeus :

Nghhhh, I wanna say either ASL/Sign Language or Braille - but i’ll go with Braille ! Lexaeus is a quiet man of a few words, so I think it suits him just fine to be a language that doesn’t need to be spoken. And we know he’s tactful and gentle, considering he does a lot of puzzles in his free time, so Braille seems perfect for him ! While he might not actually need Braille, Lexaeus would be that kind of guy who just teaches others how to read and tries to normalize the use of Braille !

Zexion :

A lot of people might give me shit for not making Zexion Latin bUT LIKE LISTEN. THIS SMART BOY WOULD BE SOMETHING LIKE CHINESE/MANDARIN. Think about it, we’re talking about a super flexible language whose entonation can change the meaning of a sentence completely - yes, i’m talking about that one poem that only has ONE word and it still manages to be a fully fledged story. Like, i’m an artist, not a literary major but I still think that’s super smart and dope and i’ll gladly compare that to magic anytime. In retrospect, it matches Zexion’s illusion motif and complex character !

Saix :

Uhhhh, i’d say either Japanese or Russian. Cause both are languages with strong accents and pronunciations which suit Saix’s strong and firm character - and also because Russian reminds me of NASA and space for some reason and Japanese makes me think of that one tale about the rabbit on the moon. Also Japan puts a lot of emphasis in discipline, honor and loyalty too, traits that Saix shares.

Axel :

Axel is definitely Spanish. Not to be confused with the latino dialects from South America ! I’m talking Spain’s spanish ! And no, I didn’t choose this one because it’s an “exotic sexy firey language”, tRUST ME IT’S MY FIRST LANGUAGE AND IT’S ANYTHING BUT THAT - I chose spanish because it’s an abrasive and brash language. Most words (and the insults specially) give the feeling you’re about to spit on someone’s face and be a cocky disrespectful brat OR you’re just a super friendly and extroverted fella - it suits Axel’s previous ruthless mercenary personality with his current and contrasting kind, outgoing self. 50/50.

Demyx :

Okay hear me out, it’s been like 45 minutes since I went researching to write Demyx’s answer and I still don’t know if I have a proper one. I wanted to say a language from India, since it’s where his signature sitar originates from and what else can accompany a sitar better than the language of the place it was pretty much created in ? So researched Ravi Shankar, the Sitar Maestro and a super important figure in indian classical music. But I know barely nothing about that side of Asia, so i’m NOT exactly sure what language he spoke or used in his music ! Like I looked for his songs and they’re in Gujarati, but HMMMM, NOT SURE CHIEF. 

So if anyone feels like educating me on this subject, please go ahead. Otherwise I have to give Demyx the way us millennials talk and oH boy.

Luxord :

I’ll go with the obvious choice here : English. Like, back in the day, most people just HC’d Luxord as a britishman because of his mannerisms and etc etc - but like, it works for him ! He’s closely tied to Alice and Wonderland in both the game and the manga, as well as Pirates of the Caribbean like come on it’s rIGHT there. Also imo, british English just sounds like super polite and elegant, the way Luxord acts most of the time.

Marluxia :

Either German or the language of flowers. German because it’s That Type Of Language™ that seems to have a word for every specific thing, action and feeling no matter how obscure - which kinda seems to suit him somehow ? A language with a rough appearance, intimidating to most people due to the hard sounds but eloquent, deep and extensive ! The other option is pretty obvious, considering his power with nature and stuff - Marluxia is definitely the time to give bouquets and flowers as gifts with double edged meanings and intentions. 

Larxene :

The only one that comes to mind is French. Just cause I think Larxene reads french literature in the 358Days manga - but like, dark and smart stuff only Intellectuals™ can understand. And also because it’s a tricky language to speak properly (LISTEN I TOOK 5 YEARS OF FRENCH AND I STILL DIE WITH ALL THE VOWELS). There’s just something about the way it’s spoken that screams her name. It’s fast paced, coquettish, sounds mature, there’s a lot of sharp sounds. Y’know !

Roxas :

Not specifically a language, but Roxas reminds me of the mix every bilingual person speaks sometime when they can’t remember a specific way of saying or explaining something. Or when your group of friends is mostly bilingual too and y’all just mix both languages and it’s a fucking mess for outsiders ? ( Like “Me cago en la fucking madre que te parió” o “I swear to god pOR QUE ERES ASI” are examples from the groupchat I am, wheeze). So probably Spanish and English ! 

Xion :

I’m torN AGAIN between ASL/Sign Language and Braille. But I think i’ll go with sign language ! Not to get Deep and Philosophical, but Sign Language seems to fit Xion, someone whose voice was silenced by those around her. We know she’s timid and quiet, but she’s also young and energetic, quick and witty around her friends - so unlike Lexaeus who’d calmly read using Braille, Xion is the type who’d sign at the speed of sound when excited or panicking and she’d enjoy sending secret messages to her friends. 

[vegas9]

Stars

Summary:   She loves touching Max. Wherein Anne asks Max to teach her French and the madame obliges in a fashion Anne probably should have anticipated. Set between series 2 and 3.

Canon: Black Sails Primary characters: Anne Bonny, Max Genres: Romantic Fluff, Mild Smut Pairings: Anne Bonny/Max Rating: Mature

Warning: none

Read it on AO3

………

She loves touching Max; the way her skin feels warm and silky under the toughened pads of her finger tips and her soft curves that feel exactly right in her hands. Anne loves the way she moves and the pretty sounds that fall generously from her lips, body yielding sweetly under her like every little shift and gasp is an invitation. Even if they ain't fucking, she loves how small Max is; that all of the soft warmth of her body fits so perfectly against her lean muscle and that she kisses her like she's worth savoring and not a woman who's really only good for killing.

Jack kisses her like that, but it ain't the same. Max don't have a reason to do it. Anne didn't try to kiss her first, didn't spend years fighting and killing at her side like she did Jack. Sure, she'd saved her from that fucking tent, gutted Hammund like he'd more than deserved, but she didn't do that for her. It's not even like she was particularly nice to her for all that time. She mistook the hazy wanting for something else - anything else - and it just fed her temper, making her feel constantly guilty for no reason she could figure.

She doesn't know why Max did it the first time, or why she kept at it, kept letting Anne come back to her, but she knows Max wants her. It could just be a whore faking it because that's what they do, but Anne ain't payin' her and she can't see what just splitting her and Jack up is worth. They're a good team, but they ain't worth shit separated, neither of them are really anyone when you take away the other. S'not like Max wants Jack for herself and he's already letting her have forty percent of gross profit from the brothel as the madame. Anne doesn't know how much that is exactly, but it's enough that Max can buy herself prettier dresses and jewelry like she's never had before.

No one but Jack has ever wanted just her before. Max don't want her swords, doesn't ask her to kill for her. She looks at Anne like some kind prize she can't believe she's gotten hold of, tries to take care of her when she allows it. Anne doesn't know what it is they're doing, but she can't stop thinking about Max when she ain't got anything else on her mind and the thoughts are confusing, but mostly they make her feel warm and start a quiet wanting.

They're laying in Max's bed, the sun starting to set outside and the sounds of the brothel gearing up for the night filtering in through the floor and the closed door. Max has been asleep for at least the last hour. Anne knows because she's been focused on nothing but her the whole time. Her chest rhythmically rising and falling at an ever slowing pace until her lips parted just barely and she nestled closer and tucked her head under Anne's chin with a soft sigh.

It's fucking criminal that Max looks the way she does is what it is. Downright devastating with her clever mind and ladylike manner even though she's a whore. And Anne can't help herself from running her fingers through her dark hair, dropping a kiss to the top of her head as she moves to trace idle patterns over her back.

"Ma doux pirate," Max murmurs. Anne feels her smile against her skin before a soft kiss is pressed just below her collarbone. A small hand curls around her hip possessively and Max slides one of her legs between Anne's.

Before she can even make the conscious decision to do it, Anne tips Max's head back and tilts hers down to kiss her. Softly at first, gentle because she's learned Max don't always like starting out as rough as she does with Jack and because she's come to enjoy the slow kisses that gradually grow more desperate. Anne doesn't let this kiss go too far before pulling back, knowing Max expects different. She smirks at the frustrated mutter of French that she can't quite make out.

"Teach me," she says suddenly. Max blinks at her, brow furrowing in confusion. "The French," Anne clarifies. "I like hearing it. Bet I'd like it even better if I knew what it was you were sayin'," her cheeks colour and her gaze slides off to the side. "I know I ain't that smart, but–" she's silenced by Max's hand cupping her cheek, thumb resting on her lips.

"I think you could learn, ma chérie," Max affirms with a gentle smile. "Lesson one," she starts, her smile curling wider, she brushes her thumb across Anne's lips. "Lévres," she says the word slowly.

"Lévres," Anne repeats without any of the finesse of Max's accent, a finger reaching up to touch her lips. Max laughs, but it's a warm, gentle thing.

"You sound like an Englishman," she tells her, still grinning with amusement. "but we shall practice and the sound will come more naturally," she promises. Max kisses her and the sound of her speaking the word for lips fills Anne's mind. Anne lets Max coax her on to her back, the familiar weight of her straddling her waist a welcome sensation as she drags her hands down her sides and is rewarded with one of those soft sounds she enjoys so much.

Max pulls away, teeth tugging lightly at Anne's lower lip, and kisses the curve of her jaw. She tucks a lock of red hair behind her ear and nips at the shell of it.

"Oreille," she says, lips brushing the outside of Anne's ear as one of her hands slips under her tunic and she trails her nails slowly up her ribs, teasing a feather light touch to the side of her breast.

"Oreille," Anne repeats after swallowing. Her pronunciation still leaves much to be desired, but she's trying to shift to get even a little more contact.

Max moves down her body slightly, laying on Anne's chest and pressing open-mouthed kisses to the side of her neck. She starts to suck a small mark where her neck curves into shoulder and Anne tilts her head to the side, giving her better access. One of her hands slips down Max's waist to rest at her hip, the other she brings between them to cup one of her breasts, rolling her nipple between the rough pads of her fingers with just enough pressure to get a pretty little whimper and Anne gasps as Max sets just the barest edge of teeth into her skin.

She thinks she hears Max murmur the word for what she can only assume is neck, but the better part of Anne's mind is focused on the fact that Max has eased off of her enough to reach down and press the heel of her hand to her clit. Max doesn't do anything else, just holds her hand there and Anne rolls her hips with a soft moan of satisfaction when she doesn't tease and pull away. Max goes back to kissing her neck, letting Anne writhe underneath her and even though she's got her head turned to the side and she's looking out the window she knows exactly what that smug smile on her face probably looks like about now.

It's gone dark out now. The sky is clear and while she can't see the moon from where she is, stars glitter brightly in the darkness. A thought crosses Anne's mind, one so eloquent she can hardly believe she's thought it and she uses both hands to bring Max's face up to kiss her. She gently nips at Max's lower lip, tasting her leisurely when she opens to her. Max lets her roll them so its her back on the sheets and Anne above her and Christ but Anne doesn't think she'll ever get tired of the sight of her laid out beneath her. She moves down to kiss the space between her breasts where usually some sparkling pendant sits, drawing her attention away from everything else even in the middle of a conversation.

"What're the stars called?" she asks, laying another kiss a bit lower and scraping her teeth a few inches below that until her mouth is just over Max's navel.

"Étoile," she raises up on her elbows to look down at Anne. "Why?" there's no accusation or judgment in the question, just honest curiosity.

Anne rests her head on Max's stomach, fingers drawing curving patterns over the outsides of her thighs, occasionally dipping up to the hollows of her hips.

"When we're at sea an' a storm blows us off course the navigator uses 'em to figure out where we are," she explains without further context. "Ma étoile," she murmurs, feeling her cheeks heat. She bites her lip and can't look at Max, can't believe she's said anything of the sort and is terrified Max is going to make her explain it further.

But she doesn't, of course she doesn't. Because Max always seems to understand what she means even if she doesn't so much as say a single word, always seems to know exactly how to respond so that Anne never feels bad about what she wants just because it's confusing for her. She sits up, surprisingly strong as she moves Anne with her and draws her into her arms, whispering into her hair and holding her close. It takes Anne several moments to realize she's speaking in English, that she can understand what she's saying and she buries her face in the side of Max's neck and hugs her tightly, closing her eyes against the sensation of tears threatening to start, though she couldn't have said why.

She loves touching Max; the way she don't let her feel like it's wrong and that she should think less of herself for wanting to. Anne loves the way it ain't just about the fucking, that for her Max ain't a whore and for Max she ain't a killer.

[xirgo]

Desi tag xo

I was tagged by @jinseas pri thank u im so excited

1.What’s your name and what does it mean?  

My real name is Hiba, from arabic origins and it means 'gift from God' 

2.Where from the motherland is you/your family from?

My parents are from Rawalpindi in Pakistan but my dad and his family also grew up in the UK and Nigeria

3.Would you move back to where your family is from, why or why not?  

Pakistan is stunning and while i would love to visit and breathe it in again, i don't think I'd want to move back because i wouldnt have the same opportunities there as i do now.

4.What language(s) can you speak?

I can speak urdu, english, and punjabi... french is so and so..

5.Favorite Bollywood movie?

I actually don't watch alot of bollywood movies but i really loved 3 idiots and Ae Dil he Mushkil... that one ruined me real good.

6. Favorite desi meal? 

Im a slut for my mum's curry chawal... but listen i don't think anything can beat the classic daal chawal with achaar jxhhsgahdjshg i'm dying

7.Where in the motherland do you want to visit?

Muree!! It's literally the most beautiful place on earth and the drive up the mountain?? Simultaneously the most scary and exhilarating experience ever. The top of the mountain feels like home and i miss it so much.

8.Favorite desi singer?

 I grew up listening to Faakhir and Haroon and Ali Zafar and omg Abrar ul Haq

9.Describe your favorite desi outfit? 

 I have this deep purple long dress kameez.. its flowy and so pretty and it's impossible to not feel regal in that dress.

10.Can you make a round roti? 

I wish i could have a badass answer like you pri but alas...i can... taehyung come nikkah me

11.Favorite Bollywood actor? 

I like Ranveer Singh in bollywood, in lollywood i like Ali Rehman Khan and Ahmed Ali Akbar!

12.Favorite Bollywood actress?

Deepika Padukone from bollywood, Maya Ali and Sanam Saeed from pak

13. Favorite Desi in western media? 

Aziz Ansari and Hasan Minhaj

14.Strange superstitions you’ve heard from relatives. 

If you're sneezing alot it means someones thinking about you, when you get those random shivers someone has stepped on your grave, and more that i forget

15.Describe your spice tolerance. 

High. I mean it's just not fun if you're not sweating and don't have a runny nose...

16.Best street food. 

Falooda, pani puri, paan, and roasted corn on the cob GOOD GOD

17.The weirdest question you got from a non desi person. 

People are always just shocked that i speak such good english without a ‘brown’ accent? non desis ask me if i learnt english after moving to australia and im like no english is literally spoken everywhere wtf. Also non desis assume all brown people are indian so they get very confused when i tell them i'm pakistani. Also they think Karachi is the capital of Pakistan. Like. They insist on it. Idk why.

18.How do you like your chai?

 with milk and two sugars

19.When was the last time you have visited the motherland (if you dont live there)?

 10 years ago :((((((

20.Your favorite and least favorite part of your culture?

favorite:  i think our culture and traditions are so beautiful. we have such rich history and being part of something so colourful and vast is so enchanting. our architecture style is one of the best and our food is amazing. we have such an instilled sense of respect for our parents and for others in general. our music!!! our wedding culture is the greatest thing ever and wedding season is the best time of year. we have a very strong sense of family and our hospitality is always woowww. theres just something so warm and comfortable being surrounded by other brown people. 

least favorite:  the level of hypocrisy and bigotry present in our community. the casual racism. the colourism that unfortunately always seems to come from within the family. how desi women must be the most talented, beautiful, smart, yet humble, respectful young girl to be appreciated but desi men need to only know how to count to ten at most. the judgement in terms of religion. the obsession with excelling at education and how if you dont you’ll end up a janitor?? thats unhealthy. also maybe the guilt tripping thing desi immigrant parents pull on their kids is horrific.

Im gonna tag: @gulabigold @jkslibragf @sitaaras @seokslov @lblis @winwinwonwon @monosgf @myglovecult @jminsgf @gothlaws

[n7soldiered]

CHARACTER QUESTIONNAIRE note:  I'm crazy busy these days and am getting zero sleep.  Worked on this for the past couple of days but my clarity has been fluctuating.  I'm sorry if some of this makes little sense or contradicts.  I promise I’ll go back to fix this later.  I'm just really tired/stressed working overtime.  Also, please note that much of this is dictated by interaction, too.  It’s obvious who John is closest to.

GENERAL

NAME:  John ‘Anderson’ Shepard. ALIAS(ES):  n/a AGE:  29 — PLACE OF BIRTH:   Shepard was born somewhere on earth.     I haven’t worked out the circumstances yet.  As far as I’m concerned, he grew up somewhere in Canada because he speaks with a hint of Canadian dialect.  I mean, Meer is Canadian, so it makes sense, y’know?  I was thinking about following Vanderloo’s origins, have him hail from the Western Netherlands just to shake things up, but, I don’t think it matches as well as having him come from Canada.  The accent is just too important a detail to ignore.  If I remember correctly, canon states Shepard is from Canada?

SPOKEN LANGUAGES:   It actually took an extensive amount of research for me to work this out.  I’ve learned that I know nothing about Canada and wow, there are a lot of languages spoken there.  According to many statistical charts, I’d found online, John’s accent isn’t strong enough for me to assume he’s from eastern Canada.  He probably grew up somewhere in the heart of Canada ( just like Meer’s birthplace ), toward the west coast but not too far out.  

So, Shepard is fluent in English, Canadian French, and struggles only slightly with metropolitan ( modern ) French, mainly in correcting his inflection and intonation.  Sometimes he forgets how informal he is with his speech, but he’s quick to adjust.  He’s also thoroughly acquainted with slang-speech.  He learned most, if not all, of his French while growing up on the streets.

I also have this little developing headcanon about John and other alien languages.  If there’s a chance he can vocalize the tones required, he’ll want to learn a few words.  Maybe even ditch the translator sometimes if he gets good enough, just for the hell of it.  Shepard loves a good challenge and he likes to learn about other cultures.  He’s rather open-minded and adventurous in that sense.

SEXUAL ORIENTATION:  John is a demiromantic pansexual, borderline demisexual, if not demisexual, in his adult years.  However, that isn’t to say he didn’t have his fair share of flings.  By the time he hit the academy, and subsequently, ICT, romance just wasn’t something he had time for.  And that served to develop demisexual traits. OCCUPATION:  Alliance soldier, Commander, Spectre.

APPEARANCE

EYE COLOR:  blue. HAIR COLOR:  brown. HEIGHT:  6’2″. SCARS:  While I’ve always thought the renegade scars are a cool aesthetic to have, it’s never made any sense to me that the scars are completely limited to their face ( in-game )? John had never put forth the resources to completely heal his facial scarring.  You shouldn’t have to squint to see them.  If you look, they’re there.  Not prominent, but there.  When experiencing high emotions or anger, his scars glow orange ‘neath the skin.

Also, please note that the location of John’s scarring correlates with the game’s canon cinematic ( yes, I examined the cinematic for way too long lmao ).  The worst of his scarring is located on his chest, midsection, left back, and around and under the armpit.  They’d operated around there the most, with the goal of preserving his heart.  His right collarbone was completely removed, as well as the bones in his right wrist and shoulder.  Scars rope his right arm, starting from the wrist to the upper shoulder.  After having been obliterated upon surface impact, his left knee had received a prosthetic.  Both femur bones, one right finger, and three left fingers are prosthetics.  ... He has a lot of prosthetics.  I’m still working on this one, though.  Post-reaper war, his prosthesis fuck up his gait.  After investing much time in physiotherapy, he discards the wheelchair and adopts a walking cane.

FAVORITE

            Wow.   I haven’t thought about any of this before so please, bear with me as we get through this.   Though I doubt I’ll be changing much, some of these headcanons are subject to change as I develop John.

COLOR:   Blue—light blues.   Baby blue.  Pastel pinks.   Pastels(???).  I don’t think he cares for extremely dark colors or anything neon.  The aesthetic of neon lights reminds him of his childhood, ‘home’, but there’s no fondness tied to the remembrance. HAIR COLOR:  Disregarding personal attraction entirely, he thinks blond hair is pretty.   Pure. EYE COLOR:  I don’t know why this detail amuses me so much but—blue.  I suppose there’s a bit of narcissistic bias on his part in that, but, if there’s one thing John likes about himself, it’s his blue eyes.  Since that seemed kinda predictable, I’ll point out that aside from blue, hazel eyes fascinate him.  Jane and Jyn’s bright green eyes are beautiful to him, and when the light catches just right, Kaidan’s eyes shine an amber gold.   And that, my friends, blows the dude’s fuckin’ mind, I swear.  Having blue eyes for all his life, it’s enthralling for John to see a weave of green and brown in someone’s gaze.   It’s the little things, y’know?

ENTERTAINMENT:   This is a ridiculously broad question.    When condensed into a measure of a few days, or even a few hours, shore leave doesn’t often provide John enough unfettered time to seek a means of entertainment.   He’s kind of a workaholic.  However, if there is time on his hands, it’s spent catching up with friends.  Maintaining relationships is an absolute priority for John.  Regardless of the era, without his companions and loved ones, he wouldn’t have made it this far in life.  He feels like he owes it to them to visit and put in some quality time, hanging out and just chatting.  I’d imagine they’d go out and eat, go see the latest action vid or whatever. PASTIME:   What annoys me the most about this question is that no matter how I explain what Shepard enjoys doing in his free time, he’ll still seem like a complete square.  … Like I said, he doesn’t get enough free time as it is.  If he isn’t working on reports and whatever paperwork the alliance swamped him with, he’s working out, eating, or getting some goddamned sleep for once.

FOOD:   GOD.  THIS IS THE HARDEST QUESTION IN THE UNIVERSE WTF.   Okay, after dropping another day into thinking about this—and I know I’m going a bit off tangent—I’ve come to the conclusion that John is a Fool.

As awful as it sounds, he prefers eating ration bars, and he eats them way too often.  I'm not saying he likes them, I’m saying he prefers them.   Although they’re mostly kept for when they’re on the front lines, ration bars aren‘t thirst provoking and they’re nutrient dense, which pass them as ideal for his backward-stupid mindset.

With approximately 4,000 calories packed into a block, he can just shove that in his face and go straight back to work.

It’s also imperative to understand that good tasting food will be eaten too fast; they recommend bad tasting emergency food as it will be eaten only when necessary.  John ‘prefers’ to eat bars of chalk, apparently.

When it comes to normal food, John relishes any chance to eat meat.  He loves comfort foods such as ribs, steak, mac and cheese, bacon, ham, mashed potatoes, chicken-anything etc.  High-calorie count dishes don’t faze him.  He could clean out someone’s fridge in one go.  On the sweet spectrum ...  While he isn’t big on sweets like ice-cream and decadent cakes, that doesn’t mean he’ll turn them down.   John didn’t get to have those things as a kid.

He also likes dessert pastries.  They’re tiny and delicate and he has trouble bringing himself to eat carefully decorated ones.  Has a soft spot for sweet cinnamon and custard-anything.   Likes cinnamon rolls and pecan pie.  A lover of brown sugar.  Still doesn’t know what ‘the hell a macaroon is.   Someone buy him a macaroon.

DRINK:   I don’t see John as someone who drinks soda regularly.   His go-to drinks are water, fruit juices, and tea.  As someone who doesn’t drink alcohol, therefore cannot contribute much firsthand knowledge to this headcanon aside from providing detailed descriptions of the taste from various sources, I believe John appreciates good whiskey.  Bourbons, if you want to get specific.  Ryes on a good day, and rums, on the nights he knows he can kick back without worrying about the next morning.  Gin and vodka, on the undoubtedly bad nights.  

Still, I don’t really see him as someone who gets absolutely hammered on purpose.  Although whiskey will lead to a much worse hangover, even if ingested carefully, something tells me he just doesn’t care for much else?  If he drinks, he’d rather the drink taste good.

BOOKS:  [ answered ]  you mean the concept of shepard, having enough free time on his hands to read a book?  sorry, but you’ve got the wrong shepard.  i’ll be frank, i doubt he cares much for reading books, less if it’s fiction.  unless there’s intel to gain that will aid in his current objective, even biographies don’t make the cut.  john reads news reports and mission debriefings … sometimes, if he’s feeling up to it.  once again, content relevance and long-term value are what sways shepard’s interest in engagement.  besides, he enjoys vids way more than books.  less quiet.  less boring.

HAVE THEY

PASSED UNIVERSITY:  no. HAD SEX:  … yes. HAD SEX IN PUBLIC:  no. GOTTEN SOMEONE PREGNANT:  no. KISSED A MAN:  yes. KISSED A WOMAN:  yes. GOTTEN TATTOOS:  I’m still thinking about this one.  perhaps, from jack. GOTTEN PIERCINGS:  He’s thought about it as a young, reckless teen, but no.   In a normal modern verse, he’s pierced his ears. HAD A BROKEN HEART:    Uh.   The closest thing John’s had to a ‘broken heart’ is when Kaidan had spurned his offer to join the Normandy SR-2 on Horizon.  However, the sentiment had been a direct contradiction to his beliefs at the time.  Despite John’s reliable sense of optimism, he had been certain he would die destroying the collector base.  The fact that Kaidan decided against joining had eased as much as it had crushed his spirit.

Also can’t forget his reunion with Liara.  When she’d kissed him upon reuniting but chose to follow her work instead of leaving with him, he’d felt bitter inside.   While he realized she had more important things to handle at the time, John was butthurt.  You kinda can’t blame him.

BEEN IN LOVE:   Yes.  But only after he’d met his ‘canon romance’.  John only knew of ‘puppy-love’ before then. STAYED UP FOR MORE THAN 24 HOURS:  definitely.

ARE THEY

A VIRGIN:   Why would you ask this when, in just the previous section, you inquired if he’s ever had sex?  Omg this meme.  I suppose I could delve into this, then.  Oh, let me just mention, John is ... really, terribly oblivious sometimes.  Given his background and his comparatively early admittance into the alliance military, he simply hadn’t garnered enough experience with the normality of intimacy in relationships, be it casual or not.  I bet a lot of the social cues flew right over his head.  

When individuals came on to him, which did happen a handful of times while in ICT, it was painfully obvious what they wanted, but John was never convinced until they’d slapped down an outright offer.  I have a good feeling he lost his virginity around this time of his life.  These experiences were more like one-night stands.  Extremely cut and dry affairs since most were more focused on getting off rather than expecting something out of it. A CUDDLER:  Yes.   The little spoon, too haha  p: A KISSER:  I mean.  Does he have lips??  Of course, he likes to kiss.  I dunno if he’s much of any good at it...  But John’s good at everything he does so. A SMOKER:  In his youth, yes. SCARED EASILY:   Goddamn right, Shepard gets scared easily.  And his fear manifests in a remarkably strange manner if you ask me.   But first, I must address what constitutes as ‘scary’.  What Shepard faces on a regular basis is life-threatening so, we’ll be disregarding trivial things like horror movies etc ...   Fear, for John, evolves into driving factors for him, motivation—for lack of better wording.  If anyone—or anything—happens to threaten his loved ones, especially, while he isn’t there to do something about it, himself, Shepard is prone to all manners of violence and extreme behavior.  In short, John gets fucking pissed when he’s truly scared.

JEALOUS EASILY:   John is.  ... Possessive.   And I say that with a measure of self-conflict as well, because I don’t think he’s possessive either.  It might just be too soon to know.  From what I’ve gleaned off his temperament, and his intermittent displays of headstrong aggression, he demonstrates jealousy and possessiveness only when driven too far.

John is a patient man, but he’s far from a saint.

Let’s just say, for example, his lover decides to chat up another individual.  Just an amicable discussion.  However, that individual seems to inch closer and closer to his lover.  Combine that with some not-so-friendly-touches and his lover, made uncomfortable by that, and you will have John seeing red.  God, forbid the situation ever flips the other way around.  I don’t imagine he’d take infidelity well...    Trust is everything to John. TRUSTWORTHY:   You won’t find a more loyal, reliable, and honest man. DOMINANT:   Oh, god.   This is one I’ve been experiencing trouble figuring out.   John is ‘dominant’ for reasons that are obvious.  He’s a ranking officer; a commander; a spectre, a captain, and above all, a leader.  No matter how you crop it, John is a dominant force to be reckoned with.  Hmmm.  However, when loved ones are involved, and the situation is domestic and not dangerous, John is rendered useless lmao.   Around the right people, he’s softhearted and ridiculously malleable.  If they asked, he’d bend over backward for them.  But only for them, y’know? SUBMISSIVE:   I —  o h.   ...  This is awkward.   I only just now realized there might be a sexual theme to ‘dominant’ and ‘submissive’.   Wow.  Okay, well, I’m not gonna get too into that.  John is malleable around loved ones.  That’s really all there is to it.  So far, Jane, Kaidan, and Ryan have him wrapped around their fingers. SINGLE:  ( verse dependent ).

RANDOM QUESTIONS

WANTED TO KILL SOMEONE:  yes. ACTUALLY KILLED SOMEONE:   the count is steeper than he’d like. RIDDEN A BEAST:  … Yes?  I bet he asked Wrex to piggyback him once.  Probably got headbutted instead.   And I have no doubt that grunt had to piggyback him when injured. HAVE/HAD A JOB:   yes. HAVE ANY FEARS:   lkfkjlsflkd.   For now, I will list a couple of things because, once again, these are things I’ve only vaguely speculated rather than fully explored.

1.  failure. 2.  here, have one he reveals himself: ❝ I’M  NOT  AFRAID  TO  DIE. ❞           shepard held their eyes, aware they could see straight into the shadows at the bottom of his gaze, and all the harshly controlled thoughts and fears that burned there.   he felt the rush of cool air brush against his cheek, and the shift of reality began to decline like the tides of  VIRMIRE,  falling back from every nerve.   john plunged himself into it, down uncertain contours of dislodged sentiments and reverent possibilities on the rise, moving in a disorganized flurry, windswept within his mind.

another distant look in the commander’s eyes.  perhaps, fighting one of the many battles that never showed.   ❝ i’m afraid of SURVIVING.   getting to the end of this fucking war, only to find out i’m ALONE.   that everyone I knew and cared for is GONE       ! ❞

FAMILY

SIBLING(s):  Jane Shepard, Ryan Shepard.   ( twins | verse dependent ). canon:  none PARENTS:  David Anderson.   ( adoptive father | verse dependent ) canon:  none CHILDREN:  none.  ( verse dependent? ) canon: none PETS:  I will be featuring his pets in a completely different post. TAGGED BY: @risenspectre  Thank you! TAGGING:  @littleredrenegade​ @sentinelmade​ @therevcnant​ @kyberborne​

[lumiolivier]

The Good Old Days Chapter Eight:  The Power of Observation

A/N:  Hello, lovelies of the internet.  Always a pleasure.  Now, because I have places to be at our usual post time, I’m going to get this out now.  Why?  Why not?

ICYMI:  Chapter Seven:  Angel with an Attitude

“OLD MAN, HOLY SHIT!” I damn near kicked the door down.  But I could hardly contain myself.

 “Hi, Frankie…” the Old Man stared a hole through me, “Please.  Come in.”

 “I’m sorry…” I sat down. The espresso may have kicked in, “You told me I didn’t have to knock and I needed to see you.”

 “You don’t have to be here for another six hours, kid,” he checked his watch, “What’s got you all hopped the fuck up?  You just do a rail?”

 “No,” I wasn’t sure what he was talking about, but I didn’t do any rails, “But the girl…I…Date…”

 “Frankie…” the Old Man settled me, “Calm down.  Slow down. Formulate a thought.  Then, try speaking.  Ok?”

 “Ok...” I took a few slow, steady breaths.

 “Good,” he gave me a nod, “Now, start from the beginning.  What’s crawled up your ass?”

 “Quite the opposite, actually,” I could finally speak in full sentences again, “So, I woke up feeling like shit, right?”

 “Right.”

 “And my brothers were still asleep,” I told him, “So, I figured I’d go down the street and get some breakfast.  There’s this food truck at the end of the block.  She’s wonderful.”

 “It’s 1:30, kid,” the Old Man pointed out, “We’re well past breakfast.”

 “It was still breakfast for me,” I clarified, “I woke up at noon hungover as shit.  It was breakfast.”

 “Amateur,” he teased, “But go on.  You were getting breakfast…”

 “Yeah,” I went on, “I was getting breakfast and I bumped into this girl.  And I looked at her and thought, gee, she looks familiar.  She looks like the lovely young lady I was speaking with last night.  The only real difference was her blue hair and a couple piercings.  But anyway, turns out this girl is…”

 “Her sister?” he figured.

 “Yeah!” I chimed, “She’s her fucking sister!  Younger, I’m guessing.  There’s no way she was much older than maybe eighteen.  She’s a sweet kid, Old Man.  I liked her. But she’s setting us up at the Bean at four.”

 “So, what’s the problem?” the Old Man asked.

 “I couldn’t talk to her drunk last night!” I freaked, “How the fuck am I supposed to talk to her sober? I need a crash course in whatever the hell kind of voodoo you worked on Mama yesterday and I need it before four.”

 “Alright, alright,” he put a hand to my shoulder, “First of all, relax, Frankie.  You’ll be fine.”

 “She talked about me, Old Man,” I smiled, “Her sister told me.  Apparently, my identifier to her was the twitchy guy at the bar with the nice ass.”

 “So, she could go either way on you at this point,” he assumed.

 “What do you mean?”

 “Nice ass is good,” the Old Man explained, “Twitchy?  Twitchy isn’t good.  We need to get her to lean more toward nice ass than twitchy.”

 “Isn’t that kind of vain, though?”

 “Trust me,” the Old Man swore, “You want nice ass over twitchy.”

 “Ok.”

 “Alright then,” he sat at the edge of his desk, “Let’s see what we’re working with here.  The most important tool you can have in your pocket is the power of observation.  Read me, Frankie.”

 I wasn’t sure where he was going with this, “What?”

 “Read me,” the Old Man repeated, “Make an assumption about me and I’ll tell you if it’s true or not.”

 “Ok,” I looked him over, still not a hundred percent sure what he was asking of me.  But I noticed some stray hairs around the bottom of his pants.  And those weren’t human, “You have a dog.  And not a big one.  Maybe a Jack Russell.  I’m thinking a Jack Russell.”

 “Interesting,” he thought, “Explain your reasoning.”

 “You have dog hair around your ankles,” I told him, “If you had a bigger dog, there’d be a better chance of you having dog hair around your knees instead of your ankles.”

 “How do you know it’s not a cat?” he went on.  I’m guessing he’s trying to throw me off.

 “It’s too wiry to be a cat,” I smirked.  Something tells me I’m beating the Old Man at his own game, “That’s got to be at least a smaller dog breed.  That’s not cat hair.”

 “You know, Frankie,” the Old Man leaned back a bit, “I’m impressed.  That was a pretty good analysis.”

 “Thanks, Old Man,” I had a good feeling about this.  I’m fucking right, aren’t I?  Go on. Tell me I’m right.

 “It’s not my dog.” Shit…So much for me being right, “A lady friend of mine that I see on a semi-regular basis has a dog.  Not a Jack Russell.  French bulldog.  And he’s a good boy.  He loves when I come over.  I don’t know why, but he likes me.”

 “Oh…” And here I thought that was fucking perfect.

 “Don’t give me that, kid,” the Old Man picked my chin up, “You made the mistake of making assumptions, but your heart was definitely in the right place.  That wasn’t bad.  It might not have been perfect, but it wasn’t bad.  Remember, details are important.  There’s no such thing as something being insignificant.  The slightest rip, a shadow, a bulge, a wrinkle…It could be the difference between life and death in our line of work.  Like me, for example.”

 “What do you mean, you?” I know I hadn’t known the Old Man for very long, but he seemed more like a speak softly and carry a big stick type.

 “If you were paying closer attention,” he started emptying his pockets, “You would’ve found my gun…my knife…the keys to my entire operation…and half a granola bar. Hey!  I got half a granola bar!  It really is the little things, Frankie.”

 “Oh…” Now, I see where he hides the big stick.  All over. Probably for the best, though.

 “See?” the Old Man started finishing off his granola bar, “I told you.  Life or death.  More importantly, keep an eye on their hands.”

 “Why their hands?” I asked.

 “Because you never know when they’re reaching for something,” he explained, “Watch where they go, what they do when they’re nervous, what they look like on a regular basis.  Like I said, no detail is ever insignificant.  Now, I’m sure you’re dying to know.”

 “Know what?”

 The Old Man tossed his wrapper in the trash can, “You want to know how I figured out your mother?”

 “Yes please.” That was nothing short of a miracle.  

 “For starters,” he began, “I knew you were Spanish somehow, but your accent isn’t nearly as strong as hers. So, that made the implication that she’s not exactly from around here.”

 “I wasn’t born here either,” I got him, “I was born in Spain.”

 “That may be,” the Old Man continued, “But you grew up here.  I could tell that.  It’s the same way I could kind of tell which one of your brothers was the oldest. When César speaks, it sounds the closest to your mother.  But your mother’s accent is much thicker than yours, meaning your speech patterns more likely developed here while hers developed over there.  Not to mention, her Spanish was impeccable.  That’s native.”

 “I’m ESL, too.”

 “You’re going to be short a couple fingers if you keep cutting me off, too,” the Old Man threatened, “I like your mama, Frankie.  I don’t want to send you back to her like that.”

 “Sorry.” I kept my mouth shut.

 “As I was saying,” he went on, “Then, I realized quickly it was just you, your brothers, and her on your own, so chances are, your dad wasn’t in the picture.  However, she still wore her wedding ring.  The finish on it suggested she never took it off, which means it wasn’t a messy divorce, but an unfortunate loss, so widowed.  I could work with that.  That’s when I knew it’d be ok for me to lay on the charm thick. But that can be a double-edged sword. After raising three boys on her own, I figured she’d have a thick skin.  And she does, doesn’t she?”

 “Oh, hell yeah,” I nodded, remembering back to the story of her getting mugged with César by her side. Mama could hold her own.

 “So,” the Old Man held back a smile on his face, “If I was smooth and subtle about it, I knew I could have her in my hands at a moment’s notice and in turn, you’d be under my employ. And here we are.  That’s all there is to it.”

 “That’s impressive, Old Man,” I blinked a time or two in sheer amazement, “And you think you can teach me how to do that?”

 “I know I can,” he assured me, “Like I said, Frankie, you got potential.  The power of observation is definitely a good one to have in the pocket. The power of observation and how to play poker.  You won’t need anything else.  Don’t worry, kid.  You’ll learn.”

 “And you’re saying I could use that to win over Vanessa?” I hoped.

 “Vanessa…?” he thought for a minute before remembering who I was talking about, “Oh!  Yeah, yeah, yeah.  The girl from last night.  Look, Frankie, I see you’re smitten with her, but that power of observation is nothing if you don’t know how to use it.  Like with your mother.  I saw she was widowed, so I decided to play my cards accordingly.  I realized she was native Spanish, so I spoke fluent Spanish to her.  Why? Because I had a feeling it’d win her over.  My abilities are based on a lot of trial and error.  Suppose she thought me speaking Spanish to her was an insult. Immediately, I’d switch back to English. Say your father was alive.  I’d drop the charm slowly and understand that no meant no.  You know what I mean?”

 “That it doesn’t always work the way I want it to?”

 “Very good,” the Old Man praised, “How long until you see her again?”

 “Four o’clock,” I told him, “Why?”

 “Because,” he looked me over, mildly disgusted, “Are you really going like that?”

 “Uh…Yeah?” I wasn’t quite sure what he was getting at here, “Why?”

 “Jesus Christ, Frankie,” the Old Man held his face in his hands, “Because you look like you’re going to go fucking carjack the poor girl.”

 “I do not.”

 “Come on,” he kicked me out of his office, “We got somewhere to be.”

 “Where are we going?” I followed him outside.

 “Fifth Avenue,” the Old Man flagged down his driver, “Do you trust me?”

 “Yeah.” I didn’t have much of a choice here.

 “This is just another part of the job,” he opened the door for me, “Get in.”

 “Ok…” This felt like a kidnapping.  Why did this feel like a kidnapping?

 “Look, kid,” the Old Man followed me in, “I’m not letting you take a high society girl like her on a date when you look like a fucking thug.  If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were hiding a crowbar in your back pocket.”

 “Can’t say I am.” I did have a pocketknife on me in case of emergencies, though.  Mama didn’t raise an idiot.

 “Pocketknife?” Dammit, Old Man.  You’re good.

 “Um…”

 “Frankie,” he let it go, “I know what kind of neighborhood you live in.  I don’t blame you for keeping a knife on you.  In fact, I’d be shocked if you didn’t have one on you. Now, I know a lovely woman that owes me a favor and as much as I’d like to hold onto it for a special occasion, I can comfortably call this a special occasion.  When was the last time you went on an actual, honest to God date?”

 I thought it over for a moment or two, “Probably…Two years?  Maybe three?  Who’s counting?”

 “I am,” the Old Man winced, “Oh, Frankie, Frankie, Frankie…You’re pulling at my heartstrings, kid.”

 “What?” I got defensive, “I’ve been doing my best to help out my mother and my brothers.  Excuse the fuck out of me for not having much time for dating.”

 “Don’t worry about it,” he threw his arm around me, “It’s admirable you want to take care of your family first.  That’s a good way to live your life, but at the end of the day, you still need to live your life, too.  Now, we don’t have much for time, so we’re going to have to do this quick.  You wouldn’t say you’re indecisive, would you, Frankie?”

 “Not really, no.”

 “Good to know,” the Old Man let out a heavy sigh of relief, “Because we don’t have much for time.  My god, Frankie, keep up.  We got just enough to get to Manhattan and back.”

 “What are we going to Manhattan for?” I kept my fingers crossed, hoping to maybe catch a glimpse of her somewhere.  

 “You’ll see.”

[bibhabmishra]

Ghostbusters

I’ve read a lot of film books and they’ve taught me a few things about how film books should be written if they are to be taken seriously, and these are lessons that I feel are as useful in life:  1. Drop in random French phrases wherever possible so it looks like you’re quoting from the French film magazine Cahiers du Cinéma, because even if you don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, nobody will be able to tell; 2. When in doubt, start waffling on about Godard; 3. Never describe a film as your “favorite film.” This looks unprofessional and childish. Instead, claim—in ringing tones comme les écrivains de Cahiers du Cinéma—that it is the Greatest Film.  Zut alors! Malheureusement, not all the French in the world could convince any- one that I am more interested in Godard than The Goonies, so that’s a non- starter. But I shall make use of one of these handy life lessons and state that the best, most brilliant, most extraordinary, the most deftly created piece of au- teur film work of all time is Ghostbusters. For pretty much most of my life, I’d assumed that this was a fact accepted by everybody: Ghostbusters is the greatest movie ever made. Sure, people tend to say random words like “Citizen Kane!” and “Vertigo!” when asked by Cahiers du Cinéma for their favorite film.

But I thought they did this just as, when asked who they’d like to have at their dream dinner party, they say, “Mother Teresa and Nelson Mandela!” as opposed to who everybody would actually like, which is, obviously, Madonna and Bill Murray. Now, one could take my massive assumption that my tastes reflect those of everyone else on the planet two ways:  1. I have an ego the size of Asia coupled with a narcissist’s complex and incipient sociopathic tendencies; 2. Ghostbusters is so good that even if it’s not everyone’s FAVORITE movie, it is probably in their top ten and so whenever I mention my love of Ghostbusters people say, “Oh yeah, everyone loves Ghostbusters.”  For the purposes of this chapter, we will go with option 2. I never thought of my Ghostbusters obsession—and it is, I fully admit, an obsession—as remarkable. If anything, I saw it as a perfectly natural response to a great work of art. Devoting an entire shelf to books and articles by or about the people involved, however tangentially, in the making of this movie? Com- mendable intellectual curiosity. Spending two hundred dollars on a book about Ghostbusters that came out the year the film was released, just because it finally explains why the character of Winston is squeezed out of the movie? Hey, that’s an investment piece! Refusing to go on a second date with someone be- cause they failed to recognize a completely random (and not, to be honest, wildly relevant) Ghostbusters quote over dinner?I Well, why waste time with losers? It wasn’t until I found myself awake at 2 a.m. at the age of thirty-three on a Tuesday scrolling through eBay in search of a rumored copy of Bill Mur- ray’s original Ghostbusters script, which obviously was not going to be on eBay, that I felt it might be time to look at what, precisely, was going on here and why, after all this time, Ghostbusters still feels so special, maybe even more spe- cial, to me. There is sentimentality, for sure, not exactly for my childhood but for the city of my childhood. Ghostbusters is as much a love letter to New York as any- thing by Woody Allen, and a less self-conscious one at that, showing New Yorkers reacting with relative normality to an invasion of the undead.II Many of the jokes in Ghostbusters stem from the idea that, ghosts aside, Manhattan it- self is an out-of-control Wild West place, a Gotham city where a man could collapse against the windows of the Tavern on the Green, the ritzy restaurant that used to be in Central Park, and the diners would simply ignore him. Trash is piled on the sidewalks and Checker cabs whizz around corners: this re- creation of New York, 1984—the New York of my childhood—is still how I think of the city, even though it has, for better or worse, changed a lot since then. Even the hilarious anachronisms give me a sentimental frisson: Louis being mocked for his love of vitamins and mineral water; Ray and Peter snarfing down cigarettes while toting nuclear reactors on their backs; Larry King in a cloud of cigarette smoke while chatting drily on the radio; the bad guy being the man from the Environmental Protection Agency. These all look particularly out of date in the Manhattan of today, and I can’t help but feel the city is a little poorer for it. But my absolute favorite New Yorky moment in the film is at the end, when a doorman brings Ecto1 round after the Ghostbusters have saved the world—or at least Central Park West—from destruction. Despite having battled a giant marshmallow man, Dan Aykroyd still has a couple of dollar bills in the pocket of his ghost uniform with which to tip the doorman. You cannot get more New York than that. But there is something else in Ghostbusters that makes me sentimental, something else that I love in it that doesn’t exist anymore. That is, its depiction of how a man should be.  •  •  •  Just in terms of sheer variety, one could do a lot worse than turn to eighties movies for lessons in how to be a man. When most people think of mas- culinity in eighties movies, they probably think of that strange genre that sprouted and bulged up in that decade like Popeye’s biceps after eating spinach, consisting of men who look like condoms stuffed with walnutsIII speaking their lines in confused accents and emphasizing random syllables, strongly suggesting they’d learned the words phonetically: Schwarzenegger, Lundgren, Stallone,IV and, toward the end of the decade, Van Damme. Chuck Norris, too, can be included here, despite his lack of walnutness, but he earns membership in this group with his similar lack of obvious acting talent and strong fondness for right-wing messages in his films.V But there is more to eighties men than that. For a start, there are the men who raise babies and children (Mr. Mom, Three Men and a Baby, Uncle Buck), which some feminist critics argued at the time was a backlash against femi- nism because the films seemed to mock the idea of feminized men. In fact, in retrospect, these films look more like movies awkwardly coming to grips with feminism (Tootsie, too, can be included here, with a man pre- tending to be a woman, and occasionally looking after a child, and becoming a better person for it). Mr. Mom (1983), in which Michael Keaton loses his job and looks after the kids while his wife works, is clearly none too sure what to make of this “feminist” thing: the movie’s message is that the swapping of traditional gender roles will probably destroy the marriage and almost certainly the house (somewhat dismayingly, the film was written by John Hughes). But by 1987, Three Men and a Baby was getting much more of a handle on things. The men (Tom Selleck, Steve Guttenberg, and Ted Danson) are unex- pectedly lumbered with a baby girl and, by the end of the film, very much want her to stay with them in their bachelor shag pad, even after the baby’s dippy English (foreigners—tchuh!) mother turns back up. It turns out that, unlike Mr. Mom, they are capable of looking after a baby without causing havoc to domestic appliances (men—amirite??). The men in Three Men and a Baby are

notably much less obnoxious than les mecs in the original French version, Trois Hommes et un Couffin, who have a pact never to let a woman stay more than one night in their flat and have a tendency to call the baby “a swine” when it has an accident on the sofa. Ahh, les Français—ils sont tres masculins, ooh la la!VI Which is not to say that the American version is without its anxieties. Three Men and a Baby goes to such lengths in order to reassure audiences of the übermasculinity of the three guys, despite their TERRIFYINGLY FEMINIZED baby-raising skills, that they become hilariously camp. Peak camp is reached, for me, when Selleck goes out jogging wearing little more than a tiny pair of shorts and an enormous mustache, and he picks up a sports magazine full of photos of muscled-up half-naked men. Now, if that isn’t the definition of throbbing heterosexual masculinity, I don’t know what is. Yes, the eighties were a different time and American movies in that era seemed to think that homosexual was merely Latin for “psycho killer or flouncy interior decorator.” But nonetheless, whenever I watch this movie (which is more often than I’m going to commit to print) I think it’s a shame the director (who was the late Leonard Nimoy, very pleasingly) didn’t just go with the obvi- ous option here and make the guys gay, living in a happy yuppie ménage à trois. After all, this would explain why three apparently very solvent guys in high- flying careersVII in their thirties would choose to share an apartment in mid- town Manhattan as opposed to getting their own American Psycho–style bach- elor pads. And for heaven’s sake, have you looked at that Broadway-themed mural Steve Guttenberg paints of the three of them in the atrium of their apart- ment? No amount of references from Selleck to his love of sport can obscure the fact he and his two friends are living in the campiest New York apartment north of Fourteenth Street. These guys—the actor! the architect! the car- toonist!—are basically the eighties yuppie version of the Village People. And let’s talk about that homoeroticism! Accidental homoeroticism is yet another one of the great joys of eighties movies, and it was the last decade that would be blessed with the pleasure because from the nineties onward, gay cul- ture and references would be too mainstream and recognizable to slip past studios unnoticed. The plethora of eighties buddy movies easily and frequently tip into acci- dental homoeroticism, with the female characters being explicitly excluded from pretty much the whole film and all sorts of intense emotion between the two male leads. Lethal Weapon is one example and an even more obvious one is Stakeout, in which Emilio Estevez and Richard Dreyfuss spend an entire movie living together in faux domesticity and, in the case of Estevez, voyeuris- tically spying on his male partner’s sexual encounters. The Lost Boys is the most blatantly homoerotic mainstream movie ever made for teenage boys. In this film, young Michael (charisma vortex Jason Patric) is initiated into the manly life of a new town by going into a cave with Kiefer Sutherland and his male buddies (none of whom seems the least bit interested in the fact that a half-naked Jami Gertz is wandering around drunk- enly in front of them) and drinking their body fluids. Sure, why not, right? Vam- pires are inherently homoerotic and the director Joel Schumacher (who later homoeroticized Batman—not difficult, admittedly—by sticking nipples on the batsuit) revels in the connection in this movie in a way Twilight later deter- minedly, somewhat dismayingly avoids. Michael does at some point have what looks like deeply unsatisfying sex with Jami Gertz, but the person he gazes at with the most intensity is young Jack Bauer. And I haven’t even mentioned that Michael’s little brother Sam (Corey Haim), who dresses like he’s trying out for Wham!, has a poster on the door of his closet of Rob Lowe lifting up his shirt. Because sure, why not, right?

[tenthofalonewanderer]

Just a thought on gender neutrality in French

As some of you might know, I am a French native speaker. I was born in Belgium, in the french-speaking community, from a french-speaking father from France, and a french-speaking mother from Russia who just so happened to want to overcome her accent and thus only spoke French when I was little.

I grew up with French as a main language, surrounded by other people who spoke French. I only started English in the third year of secondary school (that is, around when I was fourteen).

Then I stumbled on tumblr, and I discovered a thing I had never encountered before or even imagined existed. The concept of gender-neutral pronouns.

Of course, I knew of transgender and transexual people, but I'd only thought of that as either using masculine or feminine pronouns. Never had I seen "They/Them" or "Xe/Xir" (or any variatios thereof). It kinda blew my mind, to be honest, and it was a little hard to adapt at first, because there is no possible translation for that in French. It just doesn't exist, and there is no equivalent.

Even the whole concept of needing gender-neutral pronouns was hard to understand. It's still is at times, but I've accepted it is because, grammatically, there is no gender-neutrality in French, because the gender of words in French doesn't reflect the gender or even the sex of the object it qualifies. It's not a concept I grew up with, but that doesn't mean it's not important to people who did and who need that.

More than that, each time I would speak about agender or non-binary things to fellow French people, even some that DID speak English as well, I was met with the same bafflement, or worse at times, with dismissal.

It took me a long long time to understand exactly why it was such a difficult concept to wrap my head around. And today, when reading a mun page of a RP partner, I wondered "But then, what would a French-speaker choose, if they wanted to have a gender-neutral pronoun?" and I did some research, and fell on this very clear explanation from a native French-speaker on reddit as to why, exactly, it is so hard to transpose gender neutrality from English to French. It opened my mind, and I think it is an excellent read for any English speaker who ever want to learn French or travel out there:

Avistew (From this reddit)

I don't identify as male or female, gender-wise, actually. But I'm comfortable with female pronouns because I was assigned female at birth, although I'm fine with male pronouns too. I think anyone who grew up with French as a first language is so used to being referred to as "il" and "elle" both based on context, it's rare to care that much about the whole thing.

On the other hand, I also don't have a strong gender identity in the first place, and I'm fine with calling myself a woman because I mean it as sex, not gender. This may be a bit atypical for non-binary people in English-speaking countries, but seems to be fairly common within people who speak French.

You're always a person (feminine) and a human being (masculine) at the same time. You stop caring about pronoun when you know either is being used about you every day anyway regardless of gender (and even for people with binary gender).

If I actively identified as agender (rather than passively not identify as male or female, which is slightly different: I have no gender identity, rather than a strong gender-neutral identity), I'm not sure how I would deal with it, quite honestly. Sure, masculine is used for neutral. But if you were assigned male at birth, people would just assume that you're cis, and if you were assigned female at birth, people would just assume that you're trans. So just using the masculine doesn't really cut it if you want people to know you're agender (or otherwise non-binary).

It's a question that's been asked a few times (feel free to check previous posts, OP) but there isn't really a satisfactory answer. The worst problem for me'is translation (because I'm a translator). Any media in English that uses "they" and explains that the person doesn't identify as male or female... I end up asking the client to pick one anyway, because there isn't a way not to. Or you can use both every time but that makes it sound like you just don't know the person's gender.

I've been reading a comic where the main character is agender. The pronoun "they" is used to refer to them by everyone. The author corrects anyone who refers to the character as "he" or "she" instead of "they". I can't see this comic being translated in French in a satisfactory manner. From the first time people talk about them, we know in the original version that they are gender-neutral. How do you accomplish that in French? Even using made-up pronouns such as "ille" or "ol" or any of the others, the adjectives would have to "pick" one, (as well as tons of nouns that refer to people and vary based on gender). And yeah, you'd pick masculine because it's the neutral one, but then, quite honestly, it would just read like the character is male.

I think it's mainly cultural, it's difficult for a non-binary person whose first language is English to imagine how they'd deal with having to "choose". But... when you're used to the males mice being called "she" and female scorpions being called "he" (among other examples), you don't attach grammatical gender so tightly to gender identity.

I strongly suggest reading this whole reddit thread, it's not long, and it gives a very different perspective to what gender is and could be, compared to what we always see from a purely English point of view. In my opinion, this only goes to prove, once again, that gender is a cultural construct. I hope it can help someone out there in any case.

If anyone has any thoughts on this or comments, please don't hesitate? :D I'd love to exchange on that subject.