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shepherds-of-haven · 2 years

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So sorry if this has been asked before but I'm thinking about post-game happy endings (...obviously a lot of guesswork involved) but are there any specific cultural or legal rules for lack of a better word about surnames? Race to race or culture to culture? Is it up to the couple who takes whose surname? Is hyphenating a thing? Does everyone keep their surname? What surname do children of a couple receive?

Hiya, here's a post about which characters would prefer to take MC's surname, keep their own, or etc., and here's a post where I vaguely talk about the process of taking on your spouse's surname! Nowadays, it's common for many people just keep their own surnames and then decide between themselves if they want their kids to adopt one parent's surname or do something like a hyphenation or combination last name. However, adopting your spouse's surname or hyphenating are also widely accepted and just as common practices, so it's really whatever the couple wants! There are some traditional holdovers across cultures, but they typically aren't something that would apply to your MC in the game.

For a really brief breakdown of some of these traditions:

Elves from the same clan all share the same surname, regardless of blood relation. So everyone in Tallys's tribe, House Ironwood, shares the last name Ironwood even though they're not biologically related to each other. If Tallys were to marry an outsider who doesn't have a clan, such as a non-Elf or something like that, it would usually be traditional for her spouse to take on the Ironwood name. However, this would usually be symbolized by a formal ceremony where the clan officially welcomed/adopted the spouse into their family, with the surname as kind of their official badge to prove it. However, in Tallys's specific case, since her clan is no longer around, the gesture would be purely symbolic and is not an absolute necessity. Traditionally, if she were to marry someone who was part of another Elven clan, they would have to decide between themselves who would officially and ceremoniously leave their tribe in order to be adopted into (and usually live with) their partner's. They would also take on their partner's surname in that case!

In traditional Hunter culture, typically spouses adopt the surname of whichever family is the older, wealthier, or more powerful or established. This is kind of a subjective, relativist metric, but the Hunters of the community have a strong way of gauging this for themselves, so there's typically no confusion. Since Moonsilk is marrying into the most powerful family in the Reach, she'll be adopting Halek's surname. However, if she were to marry someone lower in rank, birth, or status than her, typically they would take her surname. If there's a true 'tie' or no clear way to discern, it usually defaults to whoever's family paid the dowry. (In Hunter culture, dowries work the opposite way and are always paid by the wealthier family to the poorer as a gesture of goodwill and solidarity, like sharing the wealth and uniting the two families as well as paying a 'thank you' to the family who's giving up a family member, who could stick around and continue contributing income to their household instead: it's seen as a way of honoring their 'sacrifice'.)

In Ket culture, it's split about 50/50 between people keeping their own surnames or taking on their spouse's. Khehi-Ket especially are motivated to keep their own surnames so that they can't be easily linked to their spouses or their families: it's a form of protection against would-be spies or assassins. However, there are just as many people who take on their spouse's surname after marriage, and the process of deciding whose is either left up to the individuals to decide (if in the lower or working class) or is often dictated by the same customs as the Hunters in highborn classes: usually the spouse from the lower-standing family will adopt the surname or clan name of the older or more established family. This one is less about material wealth and more about prestige, old bloodlines, generational honor, how long they've been serving the city-state, and etc., something that only the Ket of that particular city-state would have innate knowledge of. If marrying an outsider (pretty rare), the outsider gets a lot of brownie points from the community for taking on their Ket partner's surname, but they're not going to be shunned if they don't. Hyphenation is rarer but not unheard of, especially among the younger generation!

Mages have a high rate of keeping their own family names intact and just deciding between themselves which name their kids will take on. Red's mom, however, took on her husband's last name because she had beef with her parents and cut ties with them! Hyphenations are not unheard of, though because Mage names tend to be a long mouthful already, they're usually not that common!

Norm nobles always keep their surnames intact if they're the firstborn heirs, because it's so important for everyone to know their lineages and pedigrees: their names give them status and power. There are some exceptions, like if you're a seventh child and you marry into a much more powerful family, it would behoove you to take on your spouse's surname and connections rather than your own (Prihine Naveen -> Prihine Ushala), but someone like Lavinet and probably even her sisters will always remain Naveens. If they marry someone of equal or higher class, it's acceptable or considered an honor if their spouse wants to take on the Naveen name for whatever reason. If they marry below their class, it's definitely a much bigger fight and would be considered scandalous for their husband to become "a Naveen," so it's kind of up in the air if that would even be allowed by her parents (legally, they have no recourse, but it would be ugly).

Norm commoners have around a 60-40 split of keeping their own surnames as well. Hyphenation isn't as common for them, especially in the rural areas, but other than that, the specifics are usually left to the individuals to figure out themselves. In really rural areas, some families won't agree to let their daughters marry unless the spouses agree to either take on the family name or that the future children will: it's sometimes a part of bridal contracts. Also, if you have a last name like "Smith" or "Forester" or "Hunter" or "Tanner," surnames that historically indicate your profession, and you marry a farmer who doesn't do any of those things (and you won't either), it's expected that you should change your surname to your spouse's to avoid confusion. But in urban areas, no one really cares: you have to register your marriage with the census, anyway, so it doesn't really matter if the two of you share a last name or not! It's an entirely personal decision!

I hope that helps!

#Shepherds of Haven #worldbuilding #last names #surname #surnames #last name #redirect #marriage #races

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seasonofthewicth · 4 years

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do you know santa?

prompt: I was dressed up as an elf, because of my job. You’re drunk and think I actually know Santa - rowaelin - 1k

There’s a terrible, terrible, song playing on repeat and he’s beginning to wonder if a song can be a genuine cause of insanity.

The lyrics are droning on and on about being with the one you love at Christmas time, and Rowan thinks that’s bullshit. He told Lorcan as much when he caught him humming it in the kitchen of their shitty apartment the day before.

And as if it couldn’t get any worse his tights are itching where he stands, waiting outside the Santa’s grotto display.

Yes he’s wearing fucking tights, and he’s already been through all of the gods at least twice, cursing them for putting him in this position, but he needs the cash. And as mortifying as it is to be almost thirty and employed to work as an elf in a mall, it’s paid pretty well and it’s easy to do. As long as he buries the humiliation deep inside himself and plasters on the fake smile he gives to all the customers.

Normally it’s just families, maybe a mum or dad and their child, and most of them ignore him, but sometimes, sometimes like today, there’s a customer who decides he’s worth more than a dismissal. He can’t tell if he hates it or not.

“Oh my gods, do you know Santa?”

The girl in front of him is clearly wasted. Her thick, blonde hair is tangled and slightly mussed, and her mascara has been sort of smudged beneath her lashes.

Her words are slurred, and she barely manages to speak around the hiccups that erupt from her chest. He’s definitely not paid enough for this.

She’s hot though, that much he can tell.

She’s tall and slender, but hidden beneath the heavy coat she wears, likely to fend off the brutal Terrasen winters, he can make out some killer curves. The way she bites her wine-stained lower lip is sexy too, he could see himself biting it.

There’re so many problems with that though. Not only is he working, this girl is trashed. So much so she can barely stand still as she clings to the arm of the girl at her side.

Another beautiful woman, big green eyes and full red lips, but brunettes aren’t really his type.

“No,” he grinds out, crossing his arms, and the woman frowns, her brows pulling in as she pouts.

“You aren’t a very fun elf.”

The only thing that holds back his eye roll is that he knows his boss is somewhere around here and Maeve would kick his ass if he was a dick to a customer. No matter that they’re clearly far too old for the Santa display at the mall and, for a final time, absolutely fucked.

“I’m plenty of fun,” He doesn’t let any joy sneak into his tone, he kind of wants her to go away. All the blonde does is cock her head at him and try to steady her footing as she peers up at him.

“I bet you are,” she says with a laugh and her friend at her side bursts into peals of laughter.

He looks down at her again, looking past the absurdity of her appearing in front of him in this mall, and thinks if he saw her somewhere else he’d feel very differently.

If he was in a club, and he’d had a drink himself and she approached him, he knows he’d last barely five minutes before his mouth was on hers and his hand was up the hem of whatever tiny dress she’d be wearing.

But they’re not, and he still has a couple of hours left of his shift so he shakes the vision away and focuses on getting rid of her.

“Yeah,” he hums in response to her statement, not really playing along.

“What’s your name, elf?” She demands.

He can hardly hold back his sigh, but he supposes not much harm could come from giving her his name. It’s also written on the badge pinned to his tunic, but she likely can’t read that now.

“Rowan.”

She nods, like it’s a very serious piece of information before she says “Aelin.”

And yeah, that name matches her. It’s a little bit different and he likes it.

“Well, Aelin,” he says. “Santa can’t see you today.”

He can, but she doesn’t need to know that, and Gavriel definitely doesn’t need this drunk twenty-something plopping herself in his lap.

She pouts again, and he honestly thinks there could be tears in her eyes, but eventually she nods. Her friend hasn’t said a word, her eyes have been closed for most of the exchange, but she jerks to attention as Aelin steps back.

“Bye Rowan.” Aelin says as she turns. “You have pointy ears like an elf.”

He frowns and raises a hand to the tip of his ear but the girls are already gone, stumbling away to the tune of some overly loud giggling.

He is so much more than thankful when the holiday season is over and he can visit the mall without the trauma of wearing tights and he drops into a café to grab a coffee before he heads home.

The woman in front of him in the line has blonde hair tied neatly in a bun at the nape of her neck and he can tell, even through the smart pencil skirt she wears, that her body is incredible.

He loses himself in a daydream and tries not to stare at her ass as the queue moves but he’s snapped out of his musings by the woman in front of him giving her name to the barista.

“Aelin,” she says, and he’s only ever met one person called that before.

“Aelin?” He asks, before he can fully process that the words are slipping out and the woman spins to face him.

There’s only a beat before she flushes, her cheeks staining a bright pink as she lifts a hand to cover her mouth.

“Rowan, was it?” He feels himself grin at the clear embarrassment she shows and he gives her a break as he places his own order.

“I’m surprised you remembered.”

She shoots him a look at that, but she doesn’t lean away from where their arms are brushing. Their coffees are ready at pretty much the same time, hers only slightly before his and she definitely waits for his to be handed over before saying, “Want to grab a seat?”

He grins, yes, and moves to follow her over to a table as he says, “Not quite Santa’s lap but I hope it will do.”

#rowaelin #rowan whitethorn #aelin ashryver galathynius #throne of glass #rowaelin au #rowan x aelin #christmas au #prompt fic #rowaelin fic #throne of glass fic #this was fun #and there is A LOT of swearing oops #don't read kids

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agentkatie · 4 years

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Cullen/Shepard coffee shop AU?

This prompt is *squints at drafts* 84 years old, but after joking about it for so long I’ve finally written it! Enjoy!

The whole thing is below the cut, or alternatively you can read it all over on AO3.

5,394 words, in which Cullen repeatedly orders coffee despite Shepard’s flagrant misspelling of his name. Rated M for Shepard’s singular ability to lower the tone.

- - - - -

Cullen squinted at the blackboard behind the counter, struggling to make sense of the menu. When the Iron Bull had suggested grabbing coffee outside of the office Cullen had been hesitant, keen to continue his work at his desk, but for the sake of getting to know his new colleagues he had relented. He now regretted that decision. The artisan coffee shop across the street was too small and too loud, the haze of chatter making it difficult for him to think and the rich aromas invading his senses, and he longed to be back at his desk with a simple, pronounceable cup of tea.

“Great, she’s got her Antivan flatbread in again,” Bull said, inspecting the glass cabinet full of cakes and muffins with great interest. “Made your mind up yet?”

Cullen glanced at the indecipherable list of coffees once more before shrugging his shoulders. “I think I shall just have something back at the office.”

“Something wrong?”

“No,” Cullen said. “My choice in coffee is just generally less…”

Bull smirked at him. “Interesting?”

“Pretentious.”

“Hi!”

The sudden bright voice behind him made him jump, and his heart sank as he swivelled around to find one of the shop’s employees behind him: a small redhead in a coffee-stained apron and a name badge which simply read Shepard. Her eyes bore into him, one eyebrow arched as she regarded him with a mixture of annoyance and amusement, and in any other circumstance he might have been impressed by her ability to intimidate with just a look; as it was, he only hoped she wasn’t about to put salt in his coffee.

“Shepard’s House of Pretentious Coffee,” she said, stepping behind the counter and fixing him with a smile which didn’t quite reach her eyes. “How may I help?”

“Ah — forgive me,” he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck as he felt the telltale prickle of embarrassment flushing his cheeks. “I did not intend—”

“Of course not; that would have been rude.” She turned to Bull, her smile softening into a more genuine one. “Hey, Bull. Who’s your friend?”

“Shep, this is Cullen,” Bull grinned back at her, clearly amused by the situation. “He’s our new city editor. Cullen, Shepard.”

“And what can I get you?”

Cullen took one final look at the menu above her head before resigning himself to being undoubtedly her most boring customer all day. “One black coffee, please. To go.”

“Sure. Any specifics?”

“How specific can you get with a black coffee?”

He meant it as a genuine question but it came out derisive and flippant, and she shot Bull a look of clear chastisement for daring to bring such a philistine into the shop. “One black coffee, then. Bull? The usual?”

Bull nodded. “And some of that flatbread.”

They moved to the side as a new stream of customers entered, most of whom he recognised from the office, and though Bull chatted idly to him Cullen found his attention instead drawn to Shepard. She set about brewing their coffee quickly and efficiently, humming a half-tune to herself as she worked, the broad smile and easy manner she offered each new customer far warmer than it had been towards him — and he fleetingly wished he hadn’t been so him, so that he might have seen that smile properly for himself. Still, she was pleasant enough when she handed their drinks over, and his coffee tasted good, the perfect mix of bitter and sharp; he almost considered ordering a cake to go with it, but restrained himself, figuring he’d annoyed the woman enough already.

It wasn’t until he was outside and walking back towards their offices that he glanced at the side of his cup, and saw the name she’d scrawled there.

“I think I upset her.”

“Who, Shep?“ Bull asked, taking a sip of his coffee. Cullen nodded. “Nah. She’s got thick skin.”

“She wrote ‘Colon’ on my cup.”

Bull snorted with amusement as Cullen held out his cup as proof. “Well, she also likes a bit of conflict.”

Cullen groaned as the prickle of embarrassment rushed back to him, this time for the impression he’d created with his new colleague. “Maker’s breath,” he said, taking a long gulp of his drink in the hope it would hide the colour his cheeks were turning.

“Don’t worry about it,” Bull told him, chuckling as he clapped him on the shoulder. “There’s plenty of coffee in the staff room.”

—

Cullen’s mornings started earlier than most. He left his flat each day before the trickle of commuters could give rise to the full stream, the tubes quiet save for the rattle of the rails, just he and a handful of bleary-eyed businesspeople committed to such a routine. He’d intended to head straight to the office as usual, giving him a few solid hours to work before the noise and bustle descended, but as he passed the little coffee shop on the final stretch he felt compelled to go inside.

Because Shepard’s was the name of the shop. He groaned as his eyes landed on the name, not having realised he’d insulted the owner the previous day and feeling even more foolish for it. It would only be a matter of time before he’d be cajoled into going again, either by Bull or someone else in the office, and so he figured he might as well get it out of the way — and, he hoped, if he apologised now maybe it wouldn’t be so uncomfortable later.

And besides, he could do with a cup of coffee.

Despite the early hour he wasn’t alone in the shop, though it was far calmer, the muted conversations of tired workers cut across by the clanging of spoons against mugs. Shepard however appeared fresh faced, seemingly deep in thought as she arranged the day’s pastries in the cabinet.

He hadn’t noticed on their first meeting just how pretty she was. Now, as he hesitated by the cash register and hoped she’d spot him there, it was hard to think of anything else — hard not to be taken in by her wide brown eyes, and the crimson hair carefully weaved into a braid, and the charming splash of freckles across her cheeks. He supposed he’d been too distracted by his own tactlessness before to pay such things any mind, but he wasn’t sure being distracted in this way was better.

At length she glanced in his direction, her look of surprise quickly shifting to a more neutral one. “Hi,” she said, giving him a wan smile as she moved behind the counter. “Black coffee again?”

“You remembered.”

Her smile widened a fraction. “It’s not a hard one.”

He cringed internally as she started on his order, because of course she remembered the man who’d insulted her business and his boring black coffee. “I wanted to apologise for what I said yesterday,” he blurted out. “I was being…”

“Pompous?” she suggested. “Ignorant? A pain in the ass?”

He frowned at her, his remorse flickering. “Are you like this to all your customers?”

“Yeah. I’m surprised anyone comes back.” She smiled at him again, but it was a different one this time, a mischievous grin which invited him in as a co-conspirator, and he just couldn’t help but return it. “Don’t worry about it; I’ll take it as a challenge. I’ll have you ordering little cinnamon sticks in your coffee before the year is out.”

He scoffed before he could catch the impulse. “I highly doubt that.”

“Are you like this to everyone in the service industry?”

He was about to apologise for a second time, cursing himself for his immediate return to boorishness — but then he caught the mirth in her eyes, and how she’d reflected his question back at him, and he hoped he could say something she’d appreciate more. “Yes. I’m surprised anywhere lets me in.”

She grinned again, with a soft laugh this time, her demeanour relaxing further as she returned her attention to his drink. “So — city editor, huh? Where did you work before?”

He was briefly surprised that she’d remembered such a trivial detail, but recovered himself quickly. “Uh— freelance, mainly. I’ve been looking for a permanent post for some time.”

“That’s a step up.”

“I know,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “Fortunately Mr Trevelyan was willing to give me a chance.”

“Marcus is a good guy,” she said, an unmistakable fondness in her tone now. “You know, for a twelve year old who’s somehow running an entire newspaper.”

“I am sure he’s older than he looks,” Cullen chuckled. “How do you know him?”

“Your building is half my customer base,” she said with a shrug. “If your paper ever goes out of business then so will I. Pastry?”

“Uh— yes. Maybe.” He didn’t want a pastry, for he rarely ever ate breakfast, but he answered without thinking, struck by a ridiculous urge to keep talking to her. “I suppose that’s also how you know the Iron Bull?” he asked as he inspected the selection she’d laid out in the cabinet.

“No, actually. We go to the same gym. He’s my boxing partner.”

He looked up at her, eyeing her critically now, unsure how or why a woman a head shorter than him had teamed up with a Qunari who towered over them both. “That seems a little… mismatched.”

“You don’t think I can take him?” she said, arching an eyebrow at him as though daring him to contradict her. He held his hands up in surrender, not wanting to return to her bad books — or find out whether she could take him too.

“I just meant you are clearly in different weight categories.”

“You sound just like our instructor. He’s also a pain in the ass.”

He let out a snort of laughter, an unexpected and completely undignified sound he would have been embarrassed about if only she hadn’t smiled in return, and why he was amused by this woman’s oddly cheerful insults was beyond him. “Oi! Jar!” a voice interrupted them, and he pulled his attention away from Shepard to find an elf with a haphazard haircut roughly pushing a tray of mugs onto the counter. “Twice. Don’t think I didn’t hear you before.”

“Ass doesn’t count.”

“Does too. And does three.” Shepard cursed again as she pulled a handful of coins from her pocket, shoving them into a half-filled jar on the counter labelled tips/swears. “Four,” the elf told her, and with a groan she threw another coin in. “And when you’re done flirting, you said you’d help with the tables.”

“I forgot you ran the place,” Shepard grumbled, but the elf merely blew a raspberry at her before returning to her work. “Give me a shout when you’ve picked,” she told him. “The cannoli are great.”

She left him then, alone save for the strange fluttering in his chest which had erupted at the word flirting, and it became painfully obvious why he was browsing pastries and laughing so obnoxiously. He had a crush on her. How utterly predictable.

And she’d written Colon on his cup again.

—

He returned several times a week after that, either by himself in the mornings or with a colleague who’d pestered him into lunch, though in truth he didn’t need much persuading — for the coffee was good, and Shepard’s warm smile each time she greeted him was better. It was a frivolous, pointless crush, yet one he was content to indulge in, taking pleasure from their small snippets of conversation each day without expecting anything more. She continued to get his name wrong, and he wasn’t sure whether she actually thought his name was Colon or if she was just trying to wind him up; he’d almost corrected her, once, before her fingers had brushed his as she’d handed him his drink, and his ability to form sentences had fallen straight from his mind.

The elf, Sera, he suspected knew of his infatuation, for each time he entered the shop she rolled her eyes and muttered something he couldn’t quite catch to Shepard, and it might have scared him off if Shepard didn’t seem to brush off whatever she’d said with ease. The rest of her staff were nicer to him, though variable in their ability to manage the place; the queues were twice as long when an elf from Antiva was serving, and it was rowdier when the man everyone addressed as ‘Hawke’ was around, and the Krogan she’d employed for the grand total of a week had turned the area behind the counter into a war zone. Yet he found himself growing to like the chaos of the place, sometimes even staying to drink his coffee inside — and the fact that Shepard would chat longer with him when he did so was only part of the reason for that.

A month had gone by at his new job before he knew it, and Bull insisted on going out for lunch to mark the occasion; Cullen agreed with very little protest, knowing by now that lunch only ever referred to one place. Shepard’s was busier than usual, and it took several minutes for them to reach the front of the queue, though Shepard herself looked unfazed by the bustle, greeting them both with the same, beautiful smile she always wore.

“Back already?” she said to Cullen, who’d already picked up a coffee that morning. “It must be my lucky day.” She often spoke to him like this, with casual comments somewhere between mockery and flirtation, and she meant nothing by them but his stomach still did a ridiculous flip in response every time. “You boys staying in?”

“Yeah,” Bull said. “Usual for me, Shep. And—”

“The flatbread; I know. How about you? Same again?”

Cullen hesitated, torn between his stubbornness and the curiosity he’d been surprised to discover in himself, before resigning himself to the choice he’d been considering for a week. Even though he knew he’d get teased for it. “Actually, I was— I thought I might like to try something else.”

Shepard’s face lit up as she broke into the broadest grin he’d ever seen her wear, leaning on the counter and propping her chin on her hands. “I knew I’d get you,” she said, her eyes sparkling as she looked up at him. “Go on then. What’ll it be?”

“I— uh—” he floundered, having planned up to this part but never being able to settle on a choice in his mind. “What would you recommend?”

“I don’t think you and me have the same taste, Mr One Black Coffee,” she told him, which was a better name than Colon but which still made heat prickle at the back of his neck. “But if it were me, I’d go for a caramel macchiato.”

“Ah. That may be a little…” he trailed off before he said the word ‘sickly’, but the roll of her eyes told him she knew where his sentence had been going.

“I’ll make you a vanilla latte, then. That’s pretty much you in drink form.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “Why do I feel like you’re insulting me through the medium of coffee?”

She gasped, putting her hand over her chest in mock hurt. “How could you think I would do such a thing? To my valued customers?” He was on the verge of pointing out her persistent misspelling of his name, but then she winked at him and he all but forgot what his name was; instead he descended into awkward silence as she made their drinks, all the while growing increasingly annoyed at Bull’s easy banter with her.

The pair made their way over to a free table by the window, and it was only when they were seated that Cullen registered Bull’s smug expression. “What?”

“You’re into her.”

“Wha— no,” Cullen said. “Why would you think— I barely know her, and she doesn’t— I wouldn’t even—”

“Sure,” Bull cut off his increasingly inarticulate protests with a knowing smile. “Nice sprinkles.” He said it as though agreeing to chocolate sprinkles was an egregious declaration of love, and Cullen glared at his coffee, mentally making a note never to accept Bull’s offer of lunch again. “She’s single, by the way. And fun. You should ask her out.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Do you harass all of your colleagues like this?” Bull merely scoffed, leaning back in his chair as he began to eat his flatbread, and Cullen knew for his own sake he should drop the subject but there was still one thing on his mind. “She keeps spelling my name… poorly,” he admitted, his cheeks flushing as he said it. “Could tell her that I’m not actually named after the large intestine?”

“Nah,” he grinned at him. “You’ll have to tell her that yourself.”

“Maker’s breath.”

He took a sip of his coffee, surprised first by its sweetness and second by the fact he didn’t hate it, and his gaze involuntarily drifted back to Shepard; she’d started serving someone else but caught his eyes even so, her expression curious as she mouthed good? at him.

Good, he mouthed back, which was perhaps overstating it, but he couldn’t bring himself to say anything else.

Good, she repeated, her smile lighting up her features once more, and his heart fluttered in his chest in response.

Maker, but it was a beautiful smile.

He shook his head to clear it from the absurd hopes which itched at the corners of his mind, taking another sip of his drink and determinedly avoiding Bull’s gaze. Perhaps it was time for him to start making coffee at home.

—

Cullen’s resolve to visit Shepard’s less lasted until 7 a.m. the following morning. During the final stretch of his commute he found his feet leading him into her shop of their own volition, and he would have been annoyed with himself if only he hadn’t been greeted with that smile.

“Morning!” Shepard called out as he entered. “So, have I converted you? Another latte?”

He’d made it halfway through his latte before it became too sweet for him, but he finished it regardless, not wanting to leave a half-finished mug behind. Still, he didn’t like her quite enough to keep ordering it. “Ah— no,” he said sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I think I’ve had enough excitement for the time being.”

“Really? Are you really going to break my heart like that?” He simultaneously wished she’d say more and less things like that, equally flustered and captivated by her casual flirtation, and it was that exact reason why he ought to spend less time around her. “Go on then, enlighten me: what didn’t you like about it?”

“I— will you be offended?”

“Depends if it’s the coffee or how I made it.”

“Well, I— the vanilla was a bit strong. And there was too much milk; I could barely taste the coffee.”

“So you actually like black coffee?” she asked. “Rather than you have no fu—uh, no clue what the others are?”

He chuckled at her last-minute recovery, eyeing the tip-slash-swear jar which grew fuller with each passing day. He couldn’t be certain what or who contributed the most to it, but from Hawke and Sera’s constant screeches of ‘jar!’ across the shop floor he had a fairly good idea. “It may be a bit of both,” he admitted.

She considered him for a long moment, seemingly deep in thought with her lips pursed and brow slightly furrowed, and he feared she was about to denounce him as a lost cause. “Alright,” she said just as the silence began to grow uncomfortable. “I know what we’ll do. I’ll give you your black coffee, but I get to experiment with different beans.”

“I like the ones you’ve been using.”

“Oh really?” she arched an eyebrow at him. “Which ones are they?”

“I…” he trailed off immediately, because of course he had no idea about the beans — and she knew it too, the corner of her mouth quirking up in amusement as he struggled not to seem a total fool. “The ones on the left?” he guessed, glancing at the large jars behind her.

“Nice try,” she told him. “I’ll figure out your roast first, then I’ll move onto the blends. But you’ll have to pay attention to what they actually taste like.”

“This sounds a lot like homework. I don’t think I signed up for this.”

“Well, too bad — I’m bored, and you’re cute when you make your little frowny face into your drink.” He somehow managed to choke on the air he was breathing, letting out an inelegant splutter as she broke into an impish grin, and he was now certain she was saying these things to solely to fluster him; he did his best to glare at her, yet that only seemed to spur him on. “That’s the one. Absolutely adorable.”

“Maker’s breath,” he grumbled, sure his whole face was bright red by this point. “I am going to stop coming here.”

“No you aren’t.”

He was going to protest, but he noticed for the first time a hint of blush creeping up her neck, and the way she idly fiddled with a loose strand of her hair — and, for a brief moment, he wondered if maybe her flirtation wasn’t malevolent after all. “No,” he agreed. “I’m not.”

She held his gaze for a fraction too long before breaking it, turning from him as she began to prepare his order, and for one flash of insanity he considered taking Bull’s advice after all. An offer of food outside her place of work was hardly a great commitment, and if the worst came to it he’d just have to avoid her, or perhaps relocate—

“So, how’s work coming along?”

She spoke before him, addressing him over her shoulder in her usual easy tone as she continued to work, and he winced internally as his chance firmly passed him by. But perhaps that was for the best. “Uh— good. Thank you.”

“I read your article the other day. About the new housing policies in Lowtown.”

“Really?” he asked, surprised — and more than a little pleased — that she’d gone to the effort. “What did you think?”

“I think you could’ve thrown in a few jokes.”

“It is a notoriously humorous subject.”

She chuckled, a soft sound that shot a renewed burst of affection through his chest, and how was it possible that he could be so enthralled by simply a laugh? “I actually found it interesting,” she told him. “And it was nice to hear about something good happening. Even if it sounds like it’ll take ages.” She turned back to him as she snapped the lid on his cup, scrawling his name — incorrectly, as always — on the side before he could make any sort of correction. “You’ve got a light roast today. It might not be… coffee-y enough for you, but you have to start somewhere.”

He smirked, unable to resist teasing her just this once. “Is that the technical term?”

“It’s the term I use for the dumbasses who can’t decipher the menu.”

His smirk widened. “Jar.”

She swore again, far more colourfully this time, thrusting a handful of coins into the pot before handing over his drink. He handed over his money in turn, but he hesitated on the spot before leaving, struck once more by that ridiculous urge to keep talking to her. “Thank you,” he said. “I — uh — I shall let know what I think the next time I come in.”

It sounded weak even to his ears, but to his surprise she didn’t seem to mind. “Don’t leave me waiting too long,” she told him, fixing him with a devastating smile.

He had to leave then, because if he stayed she was going to see him turn bright red again, and as he stepped into the sun and glanced at her scrawl on his cup he realised two things. First, that if she’d read his article, then she knew very well how to spell Cullen. And second, that he was completely and hopelessly enamoured with her.

—

The light roast was, as Shepard had predicted, not to Cullen’s taste, but he found the medium far more appealing; emboldened by her success she began experimenting with different blends, and Cullen looked forward to discovering what she had to offer each day. And he looked forward to seeing her, too. She laughed with him over the concoctions he’d hated, and teased him whenever he gave a particularly inept description of a blend, and she smiled at him, as always, with a sincere see you soon when he left.

He wasn’t foolish enough to presume that she treated him alone like this, or that it was anything other than a way for her to pass the time — and he knew, deep down, that how he felt would only cause him heartache in the end. Because it wasn’t just her smile, or laugh, or her beautiful, endless eyes; it was her, her very energy drawing him in with each word and action, and now he’d seen her he couldn’t bear to look away. And so he continued, with vague reassurances to himself that it remained simply a crush, despite knowing that to long be untrue.

He tried his best to avoid lunch with Bull, for he was invariably insufferable each time they set foot in Shepard’s, but there were some days he couldn’t escape it. On this particular one he’d roped Mr Trevelyan into his persuasion; not wanting to disappoint him, he dutifully followed them across the street and into the shop, hoping that Bull wouldn’t mock him too much in front of their boss.

Mercifully, Bull’s attention was distracted by the distinct lack of flatbreads on display, giving Cullen room to discuss his current projects with Trevelyan as he tried not to look at Shepard too often. Which, of course, he failed in. She’d styled her hair differently for once, her crimson hair free from its usual braid and instead piled into a messy bun, and whenever she turned the loose strands at her neck shone copper in the sunlight, drawing his attention back to her each time.

He really should have turned down lunch.

“Hey, Shep,” Bull greeted her as they reached the counter. “Where’s—”

“Don’t start with me,” she warned him, which was not her usual way of greeting her customers, but Cullen sensed she’d had this discussion with Bull more than once before. “I told you I’m not getting it anymore.”

“But—”

“Bull, no-one else buys that bread. You’ll just have to have a panini like everybody else.”

Bull made a noise of disapproval in the back of his throat, frowning at her selection of sandwiches as he muttered something vaguely insulting about customer service. “I got in something new for you,” she turned her attention to Cullen. “It’s a bit nuttier than the blends you’ve been having; I think you’ll like it.”

He was sure she hadn’t bought in anything specifically for him, but it made warmth bloom in his chest all the same, and he didn’t even try to prevent the undoubtedly dopey smile which broke across his face. “I would like that.”

“I see how it is,” Bull grumbled. “You get him fancy beans and my flatbread pays the price.”

“Yeah, well — he’s prettier than you are.” He didn’t even have time to react before she turned next to Trevelyan, which in a way was good, because he had no idea how to respond without stuttering like a fool. “Marcus?”

“Well, I like everything,” Trevelyan told her, offering her an amiable smile which she returned instantly.

“And that’s why you’re my favourite,” she replied, and Cullen tried his very best not to be irrationally jealous. “The usual, and…?”

“And…” he paused to consider the options in front of him. “The tuna melt, please.”

They waited patiently for their orders, Shepard chatting easily with them as they did, and when she handed Cullen his drink he rushed to hide the name she’d written on it from Trevelyan. Bull, however, seemed intent on ruining everyone’s day now his had been, and grinned malevolently at Cullen.

“Why are you holding your cup like that?”

Cullen glared at him as he took — what he intended to be — a nonchalant a sip of his drink. “I am not holding my cup like anything.”

“Yeah you are.”

“No, I’m not.”

“What are you— oh,” Trevelyan laughed, craning his neck to see the side of the cup Cullen was desperately trying to hide from him. “Shepard, you’ve—”

If he hadn’t been his boss, Cullen might have kicked him to shut him up, but it was Bull who put a hand on his shoulder to silence him. “Hold it. Cullen’ll tell her.”

“Tell me what?”

“Nothing,” was Cullen’s knee-jerk reply, but he regretted it instantly, knowing that he’d gone far too long without correcting her — and that if he didn’t do it now then his boss would likely never respect him. “It’s just— it’s Cullen. My name.”

“I know,” Shepard told him. “That’s what I’ve been writing. Colon.”

“Cullen.”

“Colon.”

“Cullen.”

“Callum?”

Bull, whose shoulders had been shaking with silent laughter beside him, finally spoke at that, his voice full of barely-concealed glee. “Give it up, Shep. You lost.”

“You cheated,” she glared at him. “I’m not paying up.”

“I won’t make you pay if you get me my flatbread back.”

“Oh I’ll bring it back, but you’ll be fucking barred when I do.”

“Jar!” Hawke called out, pushing said jar towards her without even looking up from the drink he was making, and with two further curses Shepard threw a handful of coins in it.

“What’s going on here?” Cullen asked, realisation dawning on him as he took in Shepard’s decidedly shifty expression. “Did you bet that I wouldn’t—” he began, but his answer was clear in the way she looked everywhere except at him, and he felt as vindicated as he did embarrassed. “I knew you were doing this deliberately!”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she held her hands up in surrender. “I run a terribly unprofessional establishment, although you probably should have realised that by now. Your coffee’s on me by way of apology.”

“Make it dinner, and I might consider forgiving you.”

He had absolutely no idea where that came from, the words leaving his mouth before he’d even started to think them, and he winced as the laughter in her eyes fell away. “I— forgive me,” he said, hurrying to backpedal before she banned him from her shop along with Bull. “That is— I shouldn’t— uh…”

But there was no outrage in her expression, only delight, and that faint blush he’d seen but a handful of times, and as his words faltered under her stare she filled the silence as always. “I close up at seven,” she told him. “I like that sushi place with the big fish tank.”

He blinked, once, as her words sank in, and he coughed to clear his suddenly-dry throat before replying. “I shall see you here at seven, then,” he told her in as level a voice as he could manage.

“See you then,” she grinned. “Cullen.”

He nodded to her and his colleagues before turning on his heel, keen to leave before she came to her senses, his heart beating a frantic tune as he strode back towards his office. He wasn’t quite sure how he’d done it, but somehow what he’d hoped for hadn’t been as impossible as he’d believed — and he might have thought he’d imagined it all, if it wasn’t for the cup of coffee grasped tightly in his hand.

He had a date with Shepard. And now he just had to figure out which sushi place she’d been talking about.

—

“So,” Bull said as the three of them watched Cullen march out of the shop. “I guess he’s not having lunch with us.”

“I guess not,” Marcus agreed. “That escalated… bizarrely.”

“Yeah,” Shepard said, unable to contain her grin at the sight of him hurrying away — and she hated that Bull had won their bet, but at least she didn’t have to hold back now. She couldn’t very well have called him Colon on a date. “I’m pretty sure I’m gonna fuck him.”

[Fic Masterpost]

#cullen x shepard #cullen x oc #coffee shop au #dragon age #mass effect #crossover #my writing #mollie shepard #this fic is essentially #cullen: the pretty lady sure is nice for helping me with the coffee #shepard ordering new beans at 2am: i better get laid out of this #Anonymous #oh wow so formatting on tumblr is an absolute nightmare huh

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reinekes-fox · 4 years

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@varart

Some dramatic writing for my MC, and an aesthetic under the cut.

Words: 1.687

They needed a distraction and as soon as he saw the pole he knew what he would need to do. They didn’t need two agents after all, surely Atin would be fine without him. A part of him didn’t like it, remembering the stares that made him feel both desired and dirty. He could turn people heads by just undressing, a talent -at least that’s what he liked to call it... it sounded better to him than stripping- that he never thought he would have to use ever again. The other part almost looked forward to it, to this exercise that showed him he was able to perfectly control his body and movements, to make it look effortless and almost ethereal. He made his way over to the platform, Quinn the one to gently stop him while Atin just looked at him confused. Off course Quinn would be the first to understand his intention. For a moment he seemed almost scared but that had to be a trick of the quickly flashing lights. The music almost loud enough to drown out the elf’s words. „Are you sure about this, Xaver?“ Poor Atin still didn’t seem to get it... or maybe he didn’t want to. Knowing a trusted colleague used to work such a job? Surely it destroyed the picture Atin had about him...

„It will be a good distraction.“, he made sure his hands were dry and tried to ignore his faster beating heart. From fear, excitement, disgust or the fact that Quinn seemed almost like he was about to go up there himself?

He was quicker than the elf, making sure that others stayed safe was his job after all, and on the stage the familiar view he had on the crowd made him almost feel like nothing had changed at all. Colourful lights, loud music that he could almost feel in his veins, all eyes on him... he would earn some money, go home to a family that hated him, or maybe spend the night outside, just wasting time and getting into trouble just to do something? He took a deep breath, those times were over. Different time, different bar, different him. He wasn’t a scared and angry teenager anymore, he had a purpose now. Still he couldn’t quite shake of that feeling as he slowly started to move, almost immediately falling into the rhythm of the music and doing some easy but impressive looking movements on the pole to get a feeling for it. It was easier, falling into old habits, smirking provocative at the customers, too easy for his liking. His favourite part, teasing them with his looks, his slowly removed clothes, he could even pull that off with ugly clothing if he just moved in the right speed, and showing what they couldn’t have. Selling pretty illusions and nothing more, seeing the hope die in their eyes when they realized they were only allowed to look, the surprise when he proved to be stronger than he looked like, but not always strong enough. The scars in his face only added to his charm, they gave him something dangerous and mysterious, an unspoken question as to what exactly happened there and made him more interesting. Not like something delicate that only looked pretty, he was pretty sure he had some werewolf in this weird family tree of his, it gave him strength despite looking like a graceful doe... Who knew, maybe some other race was the reason why he was tiny but that probably had just been his bad luck in the genetic lottery. It made what he was able to do even more impressive, everyone fooled by his looks. Off course it did nothing for him when he became an agent and he had been strangely happy about it. He began to unbutton his shirt, he shouldn’t do that now, he should just stop and get off the stage, back to the normal life. Where the air didn’t smell like alcohol and too many people dancing in a room, where there was no music that made his body vibrate with the bass, no people staring at him like they wanted to own him... He blinked and the music seemed to be muffled, blood pounding in his ears, his heart hammering in his chest and he felt the sweat running down his neck, his muscles burn under the by now unused exercises. But he still moved, he couldn’t stop now, not when he managed to get everyone’s attention. He could feel the stares, in his hazy mind like barely tamed beasts that would devour him if they could and seemed to burn his skin. He wasn’t sure how he managed it, but he stopped, bowed with a playful smirk -it felt unfamiliar on his face, his lips dry and hurting like he carved that smile into his cheeks and sticking glass shards into them so he would stay smiling and looking pretty- and left trough the back. He also wasn’t sure how he managed to leave the building itself but the cold air helped him come back to his senses a bit. His legs began to shake and he sat down, surely he didn’t dance that long? Shivering he pulled his still open shirt around him, and took the phone out of his pocket. Missed texts from all three, but the mission had been a success. It felt almost surreal they were worried about him... he hadn’t been the one to do the actual mission after all. When a hand was on his shoulder he flinched, but calmed down when he realized it was Quinn. The look on the elf’s face was painful to watch and Dathan wanted to ask him who hurt him, but no sound left his mouth. Atin and Roga stood a few meters back, looking at them to make sure he, and probably Quinn too, were alright. Quinn slowly reached for his face, so that he could pull away whenever he wanted. The warmth made him realize how cool his skin was, for how long did he sit here, and he was surprised when Quinn gently caressed his cheek, wiping away the tears. When did he start crying? He had no reason to cry! „Come, lets get you home. I bet Roga can make you something to calm down, how does that sound?“ He managed to nod and slowly stood up, hating himself for behaving so damn weak in front of everyone. Angrily he wiped across his eyes, half expecting his fingers to be covered in that cheap shit glittery make up he had worn back than. It had looked good on stage, that had been all that mattered. „Sounds good.“ he finally managed to say, proud that he sounded perfectly normal. He could almost ignore his still open shirt, his still hammering heart and all that stuff that went wrong with him. He was an agent now, his badge his shield against all the shit from his past. His hands were shaking and he angrily stuffed them into pockets, the air too dry when he breathed in. He missed the small warmth and well known smoke of a cigarette but no way he would bring back more ghosts from the past! They could stay exactly where they were now, on that graveyard in his mind, where he buried them with his bare hands. The grey smoke that would vanish within seconds wouldn’t help him, but only pull him back in that old life he worked so hard to leave behind. Plus it took him ages, to get that smell out of everything he owned and he really had no desire to repeat that. But his thoughts kept going back to that bar. „How many people call you Xavier?“ He looked up, Atin stepped closer, it was clear his colleague was worried about him. But distraction always worked and he smiled thankfully at the tall half orc. „A lot... It’s not like I don’t pronounce it clearly! There is no i, stop forcing it in! Unless it’s the nickname.“ „What is the nickname?“ Dathan began to slowly close the buttons again, his fingers still cold. „It’s Xavi off course.“ Nobody said anything and when looked up they looked at him like he just grew a second head. „...What?“ he asked slowly and Quinn just laughed, before casually putting an arm around his shoulder. Trying to ignore the weird angle because of the height difference, which was easy because Quinn’s touch did distract him from nearly everything and like always when Quinn did something like that his brain turned into mud. But this time mud was welcome, it blunted the sharp and ragged edges of the memories and let them sink back where they belonged: deep into the back of his mind, locked away until they managed to claw and bite their way out again. „It sounds so damn cute!“ Atin was grinning too, probably thinking about the countless situation where he could use it. „But come on, lets go home.“ It felt easier talking about it here, in the safety and comfort of his own home. He was safe here and his past was far far away, too far away to hurt him except in his own head. „I can do that shit in high heels too.“ Atin nodded, thinking about that new piece of information to that puzzle called his colleague... that puzzle had gotten a lot of new pieces today and it changed the overall picture into something darker and much more depressing. „So, why don’t you wear them more often, Xaver? You clearly have the balance and you would be taller. No offence, but we all know you hate your height.“ Dathan just snorted and took a sip of the tea. „Sure. But you explain this to Jakeman afterwards.“, he tried to recreate Atins voice, but he sounded too high, who knew maybe there had been a siren too in that ridiculous mess that were his ancestors, „Sorry, Stark broke his ankle while chasing a criminal in 12 cm high heels and he accidentally tripped.“

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sylvanfreckles · 4 years

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Day One: Candlelight

Welcome to the Twelve Days of Fictmas! Every day until Christmas Eve we’ll have a new story in a different fandom, just to celebrate being together at the end of a very long year.

Fandom: Detroit: Become Human

Summary: It had started as Connor’s first Christmas, but things still aren’t perfect back at the precinct and someone has set out to ruin the experience for him. Ben steps in to the rescue...after all, it’s also Connor’s first Hanukkah.

(This is in the same universe as my other story “Critical Components”, and connects to a long story I’ve been working on for the new year)

(First attempt at writing something for Hanukkah. I grew up with just Christmas so I don’t know much about other traditions, but I would love to learn, so please feel free to comment on or correct anything I could have done better.)

* * *

The ambiance of Jimmy's Bar settled around Hank like an old, familiar coat. He'd been avoiding this place since the Revolution, seeking out android-friendly establishments instead. Not that Connor or the other androids ever came out drinking with him, but he wanted to show his support any way he could. But then he'd found out Jimmy had peeled that damn “No Androids” sign off his door three days ago (probably missing the regular business from the precinct) so Hank decided to check the place out.

It was pretty much the same as always, but Hank caught sight of a blue LED at one of the booths, as well as a few non-human drinks on the menu. It wasn't much but, hell, after the last month and a half of shit it was something.

He nursed his single beer (still had to drive home...and Connor would be right up his ass if he got behind the wheel intoxicated) and idly watched Jimmy's movements around the bar. He knew Jimmy had been pressured by the property owner to put that damn sticker on the door, so maybe it wasn't so surprising he'd torn it off the first chance he got. Android equality wasn't quite a law just yet but it seemed like only a matter of time, and there were plenty of businesses ready and willing to let old prejudices go.

Hank's phone chirruped with an incoming text and he let out a groan before tugging his phone out of his pocket. The precinct Christmas party was tonight, and Hank just wasn't feeling it. Not the non-alcoholic eggnog, not the “dirty Santa” gift exchange, not spending hours of his free time with the same assholes he got paid to be around. Now he'd forgotten to silence his phone and one of those jackasses was texting to ask where he was. Connor should have explained it.

He had his reply all planned out, but pulled up short when he saw the actual picture. He poked and prodded at his phone, pinching at the screen to zoom in, trying to decipher what he was seeing.

It was Connor's desk, and it was covered in...crap. Baby crap, specifically. There was some kind of garland that spelled out “Baby's First Christmas” draped over his monitor, and there were bibs and onesies and shit with the same kind of crap on them. Half his desk was taken up with little jars of baby food and a couple of bottles, his phone had been replaced with a cheap toy phone, and perched on the lamp was a tiny Santa hat with Connor's name embroidered on the band. A baby-sized Santa hat.

Connor didn't want to tell you but I thought you should know. Ben's taking him home.

Hank's eyes flicked up to see that Chris had sent him the messages. Well, shit, that was even worse. Chris had given Connor a gift earlier today—said Connor needed something special for his first Christmas. It wasn't tacky or childish like all this crap, just a candid photo of Connor his first day back at the DPD that Chris had put in a little brass frame. The frame just had the year engraved on it, nothing more, but apparently that was enough to set off some dipshit.

He okay? Hank typed back.

He went all Stepford and said practical jokes are an important part of team integration.

Hank swore. Practical jokes were when Tina kept changing the height of Connor's chair to see if he noticed, or when someone kept putting badly-written android erotica novels in the drawers of his desk. Not shit like this. Not lacing the station's supply of thirium with antifreeze, or destroying the clothes in his locker (the kid only owned like three things, come on), or “testing” a taser on Connor at a fucking crime scene.

But of course Connor just kept making excuses. He put on that fake smile, the one Chris and Tina started calling the Stepford after that old movie, and try to bullshit up some positive reaction. Hank was almost certain none of his people were doing the really malicious stuff—not even Gavin. He was a prick, sure, but he wouldn't screw around at an active crime scene. And Connor wasn't the only android at the station, so screwing around with the thirium supply affected a good portion of the workforce.

Hank threw back the last of his beer and tossed a couple bills on the counter before weaving his way through the rest of the crowd of customers out into the cold night. Damn. They'd been hoping things were getting better now that the android was a more familiar face around the precinct. Connor wasn't technically back on the force yet, though Hank was sure it was just a matter of time. He'd been hired on as an independent consultant, which still meant no badge and no gun but at least he was there.

He just wished the kid wasn’t facing an uphill battle just to be accepted.

Ben's car was still there when Hank pulled up. Hank felt something inside him loosen up at that—at least Connor hadn't been home alone stewing over that stupid-ass prank. He tugged his coat closed and trudged his way through the slushy snow to the door, fully expecting to find the two of them on the couch with an old movie playing on the TV.

Instead, he was met with the sound of sizzling oil and the smell of fried potatoes as soon as he opened the door.

“Okay, just flip it...just like I showed you,” Ben's voice echoed out from the kitchen.

There was a faint scraping sound, then the louder sizzle of something frying. “Good! That's perfect, Connor.”

Hank shrugged out of his coat and hung it on the peg behind the door. “Connor? Ben?”

The other man leaned his head out of the kitchen, the apron over his dark shirt splattered with flour. “Hey, Hank! Welcome home.”

“The hell's all this?” Hank asked, stopping to scratch Sumo behind the ears as he crossed the living room to get to the kitchen.

“Well, we thought it was high time to pass on a few old traditions,” Ben said, waving one hand toward Hank's table. There was a table runner laid out across the scarred wood, something deep blue with white and silver embroidery. And a nine-branched candlestick—a Menorah, Hank realized. The candle in the center was burning, as was the one on the far right side.

That's right. Ben was Jewish. So, what, they skipped the Christmas party so Ben could teach Connor about Hanukkah?

Hank settled into one of the kitchen chairs and just stared for a minute. Ben was wearing an obnoxiously colorful apron, one that was styled to look like those ugly Christmas sweaters you found everywhere. Hank knew that apron. That was what Connor had picked out to bring to the party for the gift exchange. As for Connor...he had on one of those over-sized striped hats with the big felt elf ears, plus matching slippers on his feet. The slippers had pointed toes. The pointed toes had bells.

“I'll repeat the question,” Hank said as he watched Connor stare at something in a frying pan. “What the hell is all this?”

“Ben's teaching me to make latkes,” Connor explained. He glanced over his shoulder for a moment and Hank stifled a laugh at the smear of flour on the android's chin.

“Christmas parties are overrated,” Ben announced, running a hand down the front of his apron. “I think these are ready, kiddo.”

As Connor hesitantly poked at the latkes in the frying pan while Ben held out a plate, Hank leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. “Hey, Ben, where's the dreidel?”

“Don't be stupid,” Ben called back. “We've got seven more nights, I'm not bringing out all my secrets on the first night...hang on, do you have a double boiler?”

“A what?” Hank accepted the ginger ale Connor handed him, and the plate with a single latke on it. “What the hell is that and why would I have one?” He bit into the latke, savoring the taste of crispy fried potato. Ben had invited him to a family Hanukkah dinner once, a long time ago, and his grandmother had been the one frying the latkes that night. Ben had obviously inherited her recipe.

“Well, we gotta make some gelt if you wanna play with the dreidel, Hank. It's tradition.”

Hank took a swig of ginger ale to wash down the last bite of his latke and watched Connor carefully placing more dough in the frying pan. “I thought you just spun the thing for laughs.”

Ben snorted. “That's 'cause you're an ignorant savage.”

“Damn straight!” Hank lifted his ginger ale in toast as Ben laughed. “So. What's gelt and why do I need that boiler thing?”

Connor's LED spun twice and he turned just enough to look at Ben .”Chocolate...money?”

“Okay, okay, I get the point,” Ben laughed. He patted Connor on the shoulder and dragged one of the kitchen chairs over next to him—close enough to be on hand if the android needed help cooking, but clearly settling down to tell a story. “You can buy it in stores, but my grandmother always insisted we make it at home....”

Hank rested his elbow on the table and his chin in his hand as Ben told Connor about his family and their traditions. Slowly, the peace of the room settled into him as the smell of potatoes, the sizzle of oil, and the warmth of candlelight washed away the frustration from the hazing Connor was getting at work.

They could deal with that tomorrow. Tonight they all deserved a little peace.

* * *

Master List - Day Two

#detroit become human #ben collins #connor #hank anderson #angst #fluff #friendship #hanukkah #ben collins is jewish #ben is a good friend #connor is being bullied #twelve days of fictmas 2020

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letstalkbeautyuk · 10 months

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Our CUSTOM Elf badges are a fun addition to any Xmas Party, event, or Secret Santa Gift. Add a nickname and customise your own here

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elysion-elf · 5 years

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Do you wanna Date my Avatar?

Ellwood was the only son of Poppy Kirkend and Charlie Luther. Poppy had been young when she got pregnant. She wasn’t old enough to handle a baby. She had told her best friend, who in turn told her parents, who sent her away to live with her aunt in Florida until the baby was born.

Monet Gracey was a sweet woman. She owned a rather successful bakery and her husband was an accountant. They’d been trying for a baby for a few years with no success. So, they’d started talking about adoption. They’d filled out the paperwork, but nothing was coming up. They were lucky. Monet had a friend who worked at the hospital as the in-house social worker, and the minute the baby was born, she called Monet. The little girl didn’t want him, and she wouldn’t even look at him. She’d only given him a name because she’d heard it on the TV when they’d asked his name. Monet had closed the bakery down and gotten in the car, picking up her husband. They didn’t even get to meet the mother. She didn’t want to talk to them. Monet hadn’t argued, happily signing some papers. She loved the baby the minute she saw him. His mother had named him Ellwood. Perfect. Monet had known it had to be some sort of sign.

He was always a pretty happy child, and had been just as excited as his mother when she came home one day and told his dad that she was pregnant, and they’d be having a baby. He understood the days where he got a little less attention because of her, and he didn’t mind too much. He’d wondered, for a short time, why his sister looked different from him though. He’d asked his father, and he just said not to worry about it.

Ellwood had always been interested in video games, and his parents hadn’t even minded. It’d started with a Gameboy Color he’d gotten on his seventh birthday. He had started drawing characters for his own game, making up storylines and trailing behind his parents, telling them about it. He’d started coding a game in junior high. A simple 8-bit game about a little blue elf that was meant to destroy the villain who had kidnapped his sister. It was shit, but it was his first. And it had a special place in his heart.

Senior high was where he did best. He’d made other small flash games throughout school, while working on his favorite. He’d been working on the storyline and the designs for years, and his senior year was when the game finally released. It was in the same vein as Warcraft, a fantasy world populated by hundreds of different characters of all different races. He was the first person to make an account, and had slapped a logo on the boot screen for Broken Nymph Entertainment. The graphics weren’t great, and they moved like a flip book, but people thought it was cool. He’d gone and made a special item for anyone who signed up in the first couple months. Only seven people had it. He’d ended up making the game better and better as it went on, though he’d pulled some races from it, as their coding continued to break the game. His company, which had started in the high school computer lab, had grown, and now he could buy a building for his employees, instead of the small team of thirteen working out of his living room. They’d just moved into a warehouse in Florida, and the servers would go down from time to time. But it was nice, being a known company and a popular game. He’d coded a small area of the game to have a surprise. An Easter egg that you could only unlock if you read about it online after someone randomly discovered it, or if you discovered it yourself. It would open a new window on your computer, flash some coding and boot up Ellwood’s first game, about a little blue elf.

He had a security lock on his own character. He was one of the races that’d been removed from the game. Elysion had skin that was a very very pale color with slight lilac tint to it, long dark blue hair with white highlights, and one silver eye and one blue. His ears were longer, and he wore one of the limited edition armors that boosted his defense quite a bit, though he’d been sure the armor had been coded to be fair to everyone. He hated game breaking items. Elves like Elysion were similar to the dark elves, the biggest difference being the skin tone and the hair. All elves like Elysion had white highlights through their hair, signifying their connection with the gods. Ellwood’s character was a combat Mage Healer. He’d spent years leveling his combat and healing magics. He had a couple elemental spells, but not many. His staff was a custom make with an amethyst orb that was encircled by wooden vines. He had hidden his creator badge and some of his items, instead opting for a BETA badge. When his character was ghosted over, the name would popup with a purple bar beneath if that said BETA with a little badge that had a warhammer and drawing pen on it.

The other week, he’d gotten himself in a mid-level raid with some pretty low level players. He and another player had been basically carrying the team. He’d checked the name, and when he tried to send him a request, the server had gone down. He’d been furious. So, he was getting on every day, just looking for him, trying to see if he’d get in another raid with him maybe, or come across him somewhere on the map. He’d seemed like a great played, and he was a high enough level that Ellwood was pretty sure he was really into the game, and he had considered maybe seeing about getting him on Beta, possibly. Or...maybe just have someone to game with who was...well, capable.

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goosegoblin · 6 years

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The Starbucks I work at is highly chaotic gay, which I love, but it also creates problems because these trans teenagers walk in with pronoun badges and I’m just like. welp. now I have to be prepared to kill for you, I guess. some kid walks in with a ‘queer as fuck’ pin and i’m like ‘anyone says a word against you, you come to me’. i’m clutching the mop handle just in case anyone wants to get ‘cute’. i see a customer with a ‘he/him’ pronoun badge and i become fucking legolas with my elf-ears listening for the slightest hint of misgendering in case i have to go super-saiyan with a steam wand. it’s tough

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emma-whoisleft · 5 years

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think of it as my despair ❖ emma & antonin ❖ january 1996

“Tell whomever it is that we’re in the middle of dinner, bärchen,” instructed Emma gently, although it was not the case.

The tablecloth was still in her hands, brittle and white and expensive beneath her touch, and she was still airing it out to drape over the grand dining room table that had been carved with larger dinner parties than five in mind. Over the kitchen stove, soup bubbled under the watchful eye on the family’s house elf; chicken was roasting in the oven and was not yet ready to be set out. But the scents of a hearty dinner already floated through the halls and – if they were behaving, which they did too often for their age – Hana and Emmett were already washing their faces and slipping into formal clothing for the meal.

It was Friday night, and that always meant a special dinner in the Vanity household.

Even when the Vanity household operated and existed within the bubble of what was physically Dolohov Manor. Emma liked to think of it as an illustrious, untouchable ecosystem that thrived within the trunk of an unbending, resisting tree. The tree had been planted and tended over the years by the stubborn Amirah Dolohov, but Emma had burned the bark and hollowed out the roots and would not cow to the influences of a dying outer world.

Gus shot his mother the apple-cheeked, infectious smile that transformed his face into something that looked nothing like his father’s. The sight of it – and the difference of it – was always enough to get Emma to smile back. Not that she needed any extra reasons to smile.

Augustin was a clever, amiable boy of sixteen. He’d grown into his father’s image but his mother’s war-warmed heart. He was at the top of his class, had been awarded a minted prefect’s badge half a year ago and, above all else, Emma loved him fiercely. Without complaint, he moved to answer the door and deflect whichever solicitor had decided supper to make their intrusion.

As he walked, he noted the sounds of the home he’d grown up in. Violin music drifted, just barely into the furthest reaches of the foyer. Hana would be dressed already, then, and putting her deft, mischievous fingers to rare, productive work. The floorboards on the second floor, above Gus’s head, creaked just loudly enough to make out if you were listening for it hard, which Gus always was. Emmett would be pacing, then. Probably trying to come up with an idea for his next short story, which he would deliver with equal parts excitement and bashfulness to his older brother after the weekend was spent.

Gus was dressed handsomely for dinner, in a tie and polished dress shoes. The house was still cold around him, though. He hated winter, especially in the cavernous mansion, and was already counting down the days until the lazy August days that would bring his next birthday and the sunbaked shouts of he and his friends taking reign of the house.

The home’s front door was old-fashioned and Gus always loved answering it. He’d been the man of the house since his toddler years, but getting to clear his throat and present himself to people was the only time he really felt his role. He took a moment to compose himself before he reached for the door, rolling his shoulders back and fixing a sly, curious smile onto his face.

Antonin, who was on the other side of the door, would see a mirror image of his younger self.

Augustin, who had to fight the alien urge to slam the door shut with all his might, saw something wild and terrible as a maimed deer. The eyes, too big, were wild. The hair was wiry and overgrown, too large and too dirty for the matted frame that sprung it worth. A hunched posture; an unpleasant aura; the smell of the ocean and moth-stale clothes greeted him unwelcomely.

Gus tried to open his mouth to speak. He slammed the door shut.

“Mum?” he called out, voice echoing best it could with all the strings inside of him pulled taut.

Emma had wandered into the kitchen, where her biggest worry was whether or not her dress was stained.

It wasn’t, the black material of her custom attire too dark to showcase the drop of soup spilled during a startling moment of her own. It had been much more mild; a rap at the window, sharp as a stone rutting against the glass. When she set down the mixing spoon to check on its origins, she saw a dappled grey owl she knew well perched on the sill. Sebastian’s communication method of choice, Owlbert, was a common and welcome sight at the Vanity home and Emma moved to relieve him of his message before the rain began.

She unrolled the message, already mentally planning to set another two places as the table as she guessed at the contents of the scroll. The Nott boys were famously hungry, and famously shameless about asking for a seat at her hearth. Emma was already smiling about it. She smile took a while to fade, frozen on her face as ice flooded through the rest of her.

The scroll was only three words long:

Antonin is out.

It seemed a cruel joke, but Sebastian was not a cruel man. On some level, Emma had been waiting for this day since the one Antonin was carried off by Aurors. She just hadn’t realized she’d been waiting until now. Her feet were stuck to the floor, heels heavy as lead. Her head, opposingly, was too light. It was only in thanks of her neck that it remained attached.

The list of what to do next came very quickly.

Secure the wards. Get Lucinda out of the country. Get all of them out of the country. Avoid Amirah. Call Sebastian – the muggle landline installed in the house existed for one reason, and one reason only. She’d laughed when it was installed, thinking it would never see use.

Emma tried to remember everything she needed to pack for a transition to the London apartment.

And then she remembered.

The knock at the door.

She had been an athlete once. Never had she moved so quickly as when she heard Gus’s voice calling for her.

Emma arrived in the foyer in a flurry of unsettling, intense calm. There was no use losing her grip now; not after all this time. She clenched and composed, like she’d been so adept at in her youth. She did not ask Gus who was at the door. There was no use and, besides, there was no time. Emma took her son’s place at the door and reached, delicately, for the handle. It felt like the handle to a shovel, in that moment. One she’d use to dig her own grave.

Gus hovered inches behind her, and Emma could feel the focused, concerned energy radiating off of him to melt into her own. If he was the angel on her shoulder, she knew that it truly did have to be his double outside, waiting to add weight to her burden under the pretense of balancing her out.

She could not refuse to answer the door.

It was his house, after all.

“Antonin,” said Emma smoothly, her voice serpentine and dripping with formality, as though she’d been expecting him all this time.

I had been. I had been.

The door opened widely, but she did not move to make room for him to enter. The paper from Sebastian was still clenched in her manicured hands. A wry smile twisted its way across her face and Emma tore the note cleanly in half. It was all she could do to keep the pieces from fluttering to the floor.

“We were just about to sit down to dinner.”

@antonin-whoisleft

#i'm not gonna use gifs but i had to get ONE IN #timeline: antonin #antonin: january 1996 #chat: antonin all #chat: antonin22 #wiltimelines

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achievementtooth · 7 years

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In the spirit of the holiday, let's delve into FAHC headcanons! How big a to-do is Christmas Morning? Who takes the most joy in it all? Who always tries to find their gifts early? Who has their gifts bought months in advance, and who ends up swinging by the gas station on the way home Christmas Eve for theirs? Who gets the most presents? What are their favorites presents they've each gotten? Their least favorite? What kind of wrappings do they each use? How do they spread the holiday cheer?

So, this is a bit late, but it’s not even New Years yet so I think I’m doing pretty good! I’m just throwing this under a read more because there’s quite a bit to these questions here, Jack. And it kind of just ended up as a fic. Enjoy an FAHC Christmas!

Geoff was the first one up Christmas morning, as he was every year. The sun hadn’t quite yet risen, the penthouse was quiet, and he could only hope that Ryan had gone to bed and wasn’t still sitting up reading in the living room. Geoff yawned and stood in the middle of his bedroom for a moment, contemplating getting dressed, before waving a hand dismissively and going out to the kitchen. No one would care if he was in his pajamas for a while. It was Christmas, he was allowed to not wear normal clothes.

The kitchen was surprisingly clean, especially compared to when he’d left it last night and it looked like dinner had exploded to cover every dish and countertop. Everything had since been wiped down and washed and put away, and though Geoff wasn’t entirely sure who had done it, he suspected it had been Jack when he found everything for coffee set out neatly in front of the pot. He smiled to himself, making a note to thank them when they got up, and started the coffee brewing so the others could grab some if they wanted.

To Geoff’s relief, the living room was empty, the tiny lights of the Christmas tree making the walls shine with splashes of color. The tree itself was towering, reaching up to the vaulted ceiling, and completely covered with ornaments. Traditional Hallmark ornaments and precious keepsakes were hung alongside bullet casings and expensive jewelry and knick-knacks that had been stolen at one time or another. The dildo Gavin had put at the top of the tree was still there - no one had cared enough to find a ladder and remove it.

A line of hooks sat on the wall, all of them empty except for one that held a large stocking with Geoff’s name embroidered on the top. He would’ve been lying if he’d said he wasn’t tempted to peek, but Geoff left it alone and went to gather the others. He didn’t need to be like Jeremy, seeking out gifts or not so subtly needling someone for hints about what they’d gotten. No, Geoff could wait. It wouldn’t be long before one of the lads was up and going anyway.

He kept the stockings in his gun cabinet just before Christmas, each one packed with candy and small gifts. Geoff had found some candy coal and thrown it on the top of every one, so that they and the candy canes hanging from the tops of the stockings were all that could be seen. Geoff gathered them up and hung them from their hooks, and after that it was a waiting game. A game that didn’t run for very long.

Jeremy was the next one up, and far less quiet about it than Geoff had been. As excited as a kid on, well, Christmas, Jeremy bounded from room to room making sure everyone was awake and getting up so the day could start. As soon as Gavin was awake, he joined in the loud, eager excitement readily. Everyone gathered in the living room, usually after a quick stop for coffee, and it fell on Geoff and Jack to keep the lads from snatching up boxes from the rather expansive pile that spilled out from beneath the tree.

Ryan was the last to wander into the living room, looking like a zombie and nursing a cup of coffee, but he offered a faint smile as he sat down. The first things to be opened were stockings, candy and collectibles going everywhere as people dug through them. Candy wrappers ended up lost within piles of actual candy, small toys ended up airborne (such as the little rubber snake that had found its way into Geoff’s stocking and he threw away from him with a shout), and the living room was full of happy chatter and banter.

Jack took charge of sorting out presents. They claimed elf status, wearing the striped Christmas hat with the attached elf ears that had been killed and revived multiple times over the years, and that put them in the position of present distributor. It wasn’t too difficult to tell what presents were from who, even before reading the labels. Gavin’s presents were hastily and shoddily wrapped, corners of the paper tearing or large sections of it bunched up beneath a layer of tape. Michael was the asshole who incorporated ducktape somewhere, from a strip of it right down the seam of the paper, to the present he gave Gavin that was covered in layers of the stuff and needed a knife to open.

Jeremy’s presents were wrapped in the brightest, most garish colors that had others complaining about how bright it was or how horrid, in as loud of voices as possible. Jack wrapped theirs neatly and carefully, and usually included a wide variety of bows and ribbons that sometimes made it difficult to get to the box beneath. The biggest difference between Jack and Ryan wrapping a present was Ryan’s lack of bows or other decorations, and while Jack used paper with fancy swirls and designs, Ryan had surprised them all the first year by pulling out paper covered in cartoon characters. Geoff always took the easy out and just used gift bags full of tissue paper, which filled the front of the present mountain.

It was difficult to tell, since the lads always dug into their presents as soon as they were passed over, but Geoff always felt like they ended up with less than he and Jack did. He wasn’t exactly sure, but it seemed like the rest of the crew ended up getting more for the two gents than anyone else. It made Geoff feel pretty good, if he was being honest.

Gavin’s presents were always the most wild. Sometimes, he gave gifts that were nice and well thought out and he’d clearly put some effort behind. Other times, it was an obviously last minute gift from the dollar store. Though to his credit, Michael got a kick out of the blue, plastic handcuffs and silver painted sheriff’s badge that Gavin gave him. Ryan’s were on a ridiculous scale themselves, but in a different way. One present you opened from him might be a new weapon or a book on some strange or morbid subject, while the next could be a small plant or handmade scarf.

Every year, there were clearly favorite presents. Ryan was rather fond of a venus fly trap that was in a pot shaped like a skull, with bones carved around the base. Jeremy ended up with a tie-dye hat, so when he decided to grow and color his hair again, he wouldn’t have to worry about staining his white hat. Michael got a replica of the Master Sword, while Gavin was most excited about the pistol that had been custom made and painted with a Union Jack. Jack loved a pair of ducky earrings that they opened, and Geoff ended up a little teary eyed at the framed photo of the six of them, taken by Lindsay as they relaxed and laughed at a bar.

After presents were opened and clean-up had finished, the rest of the day for the crew was rather relaxed. Ryan made them breakfast, going all out and being sure to make everyone’s favorites, while Jack helped him tackle dinner later that night. Christmas was the one day that everyone agreed should be crime-free, no one wanted to ruin someone else’s holiday even if it would be great fun to go tearing down the road in a new car or test out a shiny new weapon. It was actually a day where they instead gave a bit of their riches away, donating to charities they liked, either anonymously or as the Fakes if someone was being cocky.

Christmas day wound down earlier than most days, and despite being the first up, Geoff was usually one of the last to go to bed. He stayed up for a while, a mug of hot chocolate in hand, just looking at the tree and the gifts that ended up strewn around the penthouse. He loved seeing his crew so happy, running around like children, enjoying a day off with the family they’d created. It warmed Geoff’s heart to know that they were healthy and happy and they’d made it through another great year, and next year he could look forward to the same.

When he laid down, it was looking at the photo he’d gotten and set up on his nightstand, and for once he went to sleep content and stress-free.

#Fake AH Crew #eziocauthon89 #Replies #FAHC #My headcanons #This kind of grew but y'know #Hope you like it!#Also no proof reading we post early like men #And people who forget you don't press enter while in the tags of an ask

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