#i don’t have a Distinct Accent i’m just a canadian who says canadian things sometimes but i’m not like EH HOCKEY BEAVER MOOSE THERE EH

[urmomsstuntdouble]

ok not sure how comprehensible this post is gonna be but! regarding the languages discussion, here are my thoughts about the anglo americans. be warned this post is long as fuck, but thank you so much if you do read all of it, and i’d love to hear your thoughts about it as well! 

so i just wanna start with alfred’s name- alfred. i think he may be named after alfred the great of wessex, who may or may not have been the first king of england. he wasn’t technically the king of a unified england that we’d think of it as today- he was the king of wessex, as his title implies, but there was a point at which he was “in charge” or however you want to put it of most of present day southern england. anyway this presents the first of his issues with his identity. he’s permanently tied to britain beyond just his culture and most common language- his name is a reminder of who he “belongs to.” of course most people don’t know that and they just think it’s a little odd that this 19yo miles morales type is called alfred but eh, what are you gonna do. 

then you have the fact that there’s no official language in the US, which makes things a little harder for him. he’s never sure what language he’s supposed to be speaking in, as the human representative of america. he thinks it should be english, seeing as that is the lingua franca, but there’s times when he just doesn’t vibe with english as a language. i mentioned before that he struggles with keeping his (spanish) dialects straight (which @cupofkey summed up as immigrant-kid-syndrome and that’s exactly it), although its not limited to just spanish. he also has a hard time keeping other shit in line, to the extent where his thoughts are a messy jumble of languages, concepts, images, and feelings. this is most evident when he’s nervous, because his accent will get super thick and he’ll start just saying the words that pop into his mind, even if they’re in another language or straight up not words at all. the only peson who can understand him when he’s doing this is canada. both of them are countries of immigrants, although they are different in who immigrated and when, so they dont have the exact same nervous tick language, but it’s close enough that they can communicate well. it’s sort of like a more global version of europanto? might sound something like this to an outside observer, but again, more global (also for the video they dont start talking until 1:17). 

america and canada also have a sort of inextricable bond because of the first nations people. the first tribe that comes to mind are the members of the okanagan national alliance, which straddles the present day border of british columbia and washington state (this is also something america shares with mexico). it’s caused a lot of pain between them personally, and with the okanagan nation. just as the border itself is vague- though the us-canada border is more respected than the okanagan borders- the parts of their identities are also vague. they feel bits and pieces of themselves ebbing and flowing, and matt and fred have gotten into arguments about it because they struggle to define their identities and they just want to be able to explain themselves to themselves. but you know that often winds up causing friction with the okanagan nations, because whatever issues with identity regarding their indigenous people fred and matt are having. they’ve got it worse, only in a sort of..negative image. like whereas fred and matt feel it on the fringes of themselves, making it so they cant tell where they end and other nations begin, the okanagan nations feel themselves being slowly eroded. none of them want each other to suffer, though, because the okanagan people can be americans and canadians and okanagans all at the same time. 

this also applies with the american border with mexico, seeing as there’s some areas in the southwestern us where spanish is spoken more than english. when he’s down there, freddie finds it easier to communicate than when he’s speaking english. chicano is his language just as much as english is- he just sort of became able to speak it when the west was colonized, and he already knew spanish for business purposes, so there ya go. there are some issues with that though because the spanish in the west is primarily from mexico and central america, whereas the east is more from the caribbean- like how miami has a large cuban minority. so he’s got a weird sort of chicano english too, because it’s no longer “pure” chicano. pure is a very loose term there because there is of course variation within southwestern chicano speakers. angelinos don’t have the same chicano as nuevomexicanos. anyway i think he’d get it mixed up with spanish proper or spanglish a lot because of the similar phonetic rules. i’m not sure about any indigenous tribes who have land that straddles the us-mexico border, but that’s probably not alfred’s biggest worry with That Border. actually no i think he might purposefully talk in an aggressively chicano dialect whenever someone in the government wants to talk to him about the ice concentration camps. like he usually doesn’t try that hard to keep the wrong language out of his mouth but he will go Full Chicano, just to make them uncomfortable and to try to get the point across that he can literally feel the physical pain of the people trapped at the border in those camps. but this also causes some tension with the countries of origins of those people, seeing as they can also feel that pain. there’s quite a lot of discourse between america, mexico, guatemala, honduras, and el salvador about that, because none of them quite know what to do. they argue again about whose pain it is and how they should, as nation personifications, deal with it.

another thing that he struggles with where matt is concerned is with his indigenous languages. the languages of his northernmost people are the most at risk and endangered, and some are actually in the process of dying. he hates that, because as much as he wants to act like he speaks just SCE and quebecois, he doesn’t. he knows all of his people’s languages, and it makes him feel like he’s losing his identity a little bit when his indigenous languages start fading away. the worst part about this is that he doesn’t even always know it’s happening until the fading feeling kicks in, so sometimes he’ll just make a point of going up to the northwestern territories and try to hang out with the oldest inuit people he can find to try and have a chat. and it’s ROUGH communicating at first but when he can get back into it he feels more solid and defined. i think this isn’t unique to him, and that the other countries in the americas do this too, but bc of the way civil rights work in canada, it’s a little different for him. because indigenous canadians are recognized as a certain class of citizen, indigenous canadian governments have a collective legal bargaining power and could theoretically ask for legal protections from the ottowa government for their languages. however, this doesn’t apply to the northwest territories, so that’s why matt goes there specifically to talk to old ass indigenous people. their languages aren’t protected legally in the same way that french and quebecois are, so he sort of takes it upon himself as mr canada to do preserve the languages and history. it’s especially sad when a language dies out forever, because then he’s one of very few people who still speak it and if he wants anyone else to know about it he’d have to teach them. but since the language is dead, there’s no one for him to get help from. the people who once spoke it are gone or use other languages now, and it’s all very weight of the world on his shoulders. i think this makes him very sad, because of the weirdly smug left wing anti-american nature of canadian nationalism. like he understands exactly the sort of pressure freddie is under but also has a cultural pressure to not say anything about it or even offer to help. 

this is also why he has the most boring and basic idiolect out of perhaps the entire anglosphere- even arthur has a distinct posh dialect that he uses most of the time. matthew talks like a textbook. a very polite and anxious textbook, but a textbook all the same. and matthew williams actually kind of likes what alfred jones has going on, but canada doesn’t. canada fell into british hands after the end of the 7yr war, which happened to be the war that sparked the american revolution (speaking of which the ages for america and canada make no goddamn sense, ask me about it if you want more detailed thoughts). loyalists fled to canada, and developed a superiority complex around the idea that they weren’t ungrateful. then it was about how they weren’t slave owners- which isn’t entirely true- and in the present day, even in hetalia canon, canadians often define themselves in relation to america. that is, they are better than americans because of xyz political thing. right now, to quote the anime, it’s “our free healthcare and lack of gun crime, eh.” this also poses some difficulties for canada in terms of culture, though, because if that much of their national pride comes from being better than america, what do they have to make a name for themselves? for anglo canadians, that’s a more complicated question. for quebeckers, it’s that the’re not anglo canadians. but quebec is also annoying as fuck and canada actually has nightmares about there being a successful secession movement there, so. i don’t know what the average anglo canadian thinks of quebec seeing as im not an average anglo canadian, but i do know that i hate their accents so now matt does too, although he will respect their right to have their language protected by the ottowa government (because quebec, that’s why). 

anyway i do have one last thought and that’s that nobody will ever really know america or canada like they know each other. they struggle with a lot of the same issues regarding language, but america has just sort of given up. in some ways, matt’s jealous of him, and in others he’s so glad he’s not the united states. but they do understand each other a lot as the anglo americans, and as some of the number one destinations for immigration out of the entire world. so yeah, i dont have any specific strong conclusion ot this post, but would absolutely love to hear your thoughts about languages in the americas! shit’s wack in this neck of the woods my dudes. 

oh actually one last thing. i think america and canada struggle a bit with their identities because they dont fit into any one specific group, linguistically or otherwise. they feel a bit isolated from the rest of the world specifically due to the intensity of the melting pot effect, and even within their own countries sometimes. people will be like oh you’re too white or you’re too black or you’re too dine or too much whatever other culture, so they often feel isolated from that stuff because they are all of those things, and have a deep connection with all of it. anyway they’ll always be there for each other

[sergeant-donny-donowitz]

The Real You (DonnyxFem!Reader)

Requested by @ladolcedea​

@owba-chan​ @war-obsessed​  @inglourious-imagines​ @tealaquinn​ @struggling-bee​ @frozenhuntress67​ @kwyloz​ @sodapop182​

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________________ You were working as a bartender in a pub in Belgium for as long as anyone knew. Meaning, you were 'trustworthy,' enough to hear things from collaborators, the resistance, any and everyone that walked into the pub on the corner of an occupied Belgian town.

Aside from the careless prattle and discrete whispers from drunken soldiers, and nameless fighters, you had a keen ear for languages that were not your own, under a name that wasn’t your own, tucked away in a town that was not your own.

In fact, most of the people that stopped by in that pub were far from home, and took a drink or two to get war off their minds.

But not off their tongues.

Now, there was a particular group of men with a penchant for whiskey and beer,  who happened to stumble into that pub one day, just days after parachuting into France. 

It had been a year or two since then, and by then, those boys knew what you knew: Hearsay mattered, and it mattered a lot.

So they often hung around your pub in between missions, getting clued in on a lead or two.

But after all that time drifting in and out, something else began to matter.

And to a young yank sergeant named Donny Donowitz, you started to matter.

He couldn't lie to you anymore.

There was something you needed to know.

He stood at the other side of the counter as you dispatched cheap cognac for a brash collaborator who was a regular, and rhye for a Canadian spy, hidden in the lion’s den, who you knew by name. You gave him a double, with a knowing, empathetic nod and smile. 

You glanced at a booth in the back of the bar, spotting nine others basterds just like him, wearing stolen uniforms,  and then Donny himself, at the counter, like always.

"Another round of shots, sergeant?" You whispered, knowing they had to keep quiet and stay low there. You couldn’t believe there was not a single basterd that didn’t speak French or Dutch.  Though, you winked, and smiled as you started to line a few glasses up.

"No, Veronique..."

You sighed, you forgot sometimes that they knew you by a name that wasnt yours.

Still it was the only way.

You grinned, "No?"

"Well...yeah, for Aldo, Hirschberg and Wicki. But, what I meant was...uh...There's somethin' I wanted to tell ya."

"Really?" You leaned over the counter, resting your elbows on the granite, and your chin in your hands as you looked up at him, as you mused, "Then tell me."

He nodded and said, "I'm a basterd."

"Darling! Everyone knows that!" You laughed as you poured three drinks.

"No. Not a bastard. One of the basterds." He spoke a little too brashly, too exasperated for someone trying to keep his cover, and his head from being blown off. 

It might have been the dumbest thing he’d done. So dumb, it caught you off guard. "Oh?"

"I'm the Bear Jew." He sort of puffed his chest out, with pride, tilted his head up a little, his jaw jutted out, as if he wasn't impressive enough.

But, you shrugged, trying to play it cool as a way to get him to quiet down, for his own good. "Oh yeah?" And poured some drinks out for other waiting patrons. You looked up at him with a gleeful wink, as you slipped into an almost playful whisper,  "And I'm a Soviet spy."

"No but-"

Then, two of the basterds pulled him back.

They'd heard him admit he was basterd, and the Bear Jew, all the way from where they were sitting..of course, he was generally  a loud guy, he was from Boston, for crying out loud, and a basterd no less.

But...they knew he'd say it again to get you to understand it wasn’t a joke. So they dragged him back, along with the drinks, and a quick, clunky “danke” to cover it up.

The night went on, and Donny kept glancing out to you, wherever you were in the bar. He wanted you to realize it wasn't a joke. Not this time.

See, from the first time he spoke to you, he made you laugh. 

He liked hearing you laugh, it made him feel as though there was no war. Nearly everything he said to you was a joke, which he was beginning to rethink since you now probalby thought this was also a joke.

A little later in the night, you got to their booth, just before closing time, with another round of shots, and you smirked as you whispered, "On the house, boys."

Aldo smiled, "Veronique, you really know how to take care of us, huh?" He smiled kindly, seeing the glances you and Donny exchanged, so he nudged Donny.

Donny hung back a little as the rest of the basterds and the drunken regulars shuffled out at closing.

"Veronique?"

"Yes?" You smiled a little, but kept wiping down the tables.

"Come on, V." He chuckled as he wrapped his arms around your waist.

You giggled and turned to face him, "Yes, darling?"

He sighed as he looked down. They were going back to France, and he wasn't sure if or when he'd come back. That was war, after all. 

You knew what he was goinf to say. You shook your head "No..." You looked away, smiling softly "Don't do this. Not now..."

He couldn’t go another day without saying it.  No matter what you did, you couldn't stop him from saying it. He smirked a little as the words sank into your heart. "I love you."

Part of you wanted, no...needed him to be joking about that. It would hurt a whole lot more, knowing he knew a whole lot less than he thought. To begin with, he didn't even know your real name... It hurt, because you thought, somehow he'd know. He'd find out, and he'd hate you, because he never knew the real you. So, it took you a moment longer to respond than it should have, but, that was one thing you couldn't lie about to him.

You said something that was, perhaps, too true, "I love you, too."

He looked away for a moment, then back at you. "About what I said earlier, I need you to know wh-"

You shook your head, "Say no more."

"But you don't understand! I-"

You laughed a little, and kissed him.

He was stunned for a moment, but he smiled, looking at you, as you reassured him, "I understand more than you think."

He was unsure what you meant, and he wouldn't ask.

He realized the less you knew about him, maybe the safer you'd be.

So he left, with the rest of the basterds, and marched back through enemy lines.

*************

The basterds were on a mission from the OSS.

"That...is the most security I've ever seen in my goddamn life!" Smitty marveled from the basterds’ perch, behind a grove, watching a mansion, surrounded by nazi guards.

Aldo smirked, "You boys thinkin' what I'm thinkin’?"

"Take em shitbags down." Hirschberg was practically bouncing from excitement. 

Wicki nodded, with a slight smirk, "Whatever it takes."

An allied spy ring was compromised, and all captured members were being held and interogated there by nazis. 

One by one, the basterds took down each nazi in their way, and made their way through the mansion, securing each missing agent.  Omar, Aldo, and Donny were outside of a room, where they could hear two muffled voices. They were speaking English. 

One was marked by a German accent, demanding answers from a beaten, bloodied spy, "WHERE IS HE?!"

Followed by a woman’s voice, shaking through a forced breath, with a distinct accent the basterds recognized. "Wh-who?" Still, it was tinted with a shade of a snicker.

The nazi raged, "THE BASTERD IN THE BAR, WEARING A STOLEN UNIFORM."

"Everyone in that bar is a bastard. Most of them have some uniform or other."

"THE ONE THAT YOU SPOKE WITH."

The basterds heard a blunt thud, followed by a cough, forcing through blood, "I told you. I'm a bar tender. I speak to everyone in that bar."

"You speak English well for a simple bar tender."

"You speak English well for a German."

Donny’s mouth dropped. Only one person could sass like that.

He shook his head in shock, mouthing "Nooo..." it just couldn’t be...

The nazi snickered, as he stepped torward you, "If you dont tell me the truth..." He seemed to hesitate for a moment. 

"Yes, Fritz?"

The nazi snapped, hearing you say his name, "You were my friend, Veronique." He grabbed your hair and pulled you to him.

Donny’s heart stopped. It was you.

The nazi swung, his fist bashing against your nose for the millionth time, "Or should I say, Y/n."

"Fritz, please, not in public." You looked up at him grinning through the blood pouring from your  nose, beginning to drip into your lips.

He shook his head, pulling a knife out, pulling your hair up, giving him a clear strike at your throat.

"Of course you know what this means, Y/n..."

"C’est la vie." You shrugged and grinned looking up at him.

"You're not even French! You’re not even Belgian! What....you,” He laughed in disbelief, through years of insult, and deception, “You, liebling, you played me for a fool. You've had a nice run. But....” He sighed, and tsked “You've been such a dear little thing to me... How about I give you one last chance."

"Is that right?" You gathered a breath or two, your eyes slowly moving up, through gushes of blood from your forehead, and pained, swelling from a black eye. 

"Tell me where the Bear Jew is, and I’ll let you live."

"No." You knew it was useless. Even if you did live, it would be underground, in a prison, or in a camp. You wouldn’t live for long.  Besides, you loved Donny too much to give him away. 

"Well then I'm afraid you’re useless to me, my dear Veronique.” He basically spat at the name. That name was a lie,  he’d whispered state secrets to it for years.   “Then, I'll have to-" His threat was interrupted by a thud, then a sharp, pained gargling, followed by another thud.

"Hm? I'm listening?" You cocked your head to the side, with a slight grin.

He dropped to his knees, his skull bashed open.

You saw Donny standing behind him, his baseball bat in his hand.

He was torn when he saw you covered in your own blood. He kneeled by you, pulling his jacket around you, "Hey, hey Ver..." He didnt know what to call you anymore, but he still knew his heart was still in your hands. "Come on doll, we got you."

He wrapped his jacket around you along with an arm to help you up, "I got you..."

He looked at you, your black, swollen eye, and he gently touched your chin up, trying to see what those animals did to you.

You flinched when he touched your bruised cheekbone, and he couldn’t help but mutter, "What did they do to you..."

You managed to smile. A real one this time as you held his hand,  "Nothing I didn't train for."

"Train for?" He furrowed his brow, "And...why’d that asshole keep callin’ you Y/N?"

"That’s my real name."

"Real name? At.. What are you? Why were they asking..why are you here?"

"I told you, back in the bar. I'm a soviet spy."

"I thought you were joking!"

"Why would I be joking?" You raised your eyebrow and winked with your good eye.

"That! That's why!"

Then you heard a third voice, "Yeah I don’t know kid. Joking’s more of Donny’s thing than yours."

You turned and realized all the basterds were there, with some of the other spies... Some of them didn’t make it...

Aldo sighed and grunted, "Omar, why don’t you keep your fuckin' mouth shut, let em talk." You smiled gratefully as Aldo ushered everyone out.

"W...well what happened at the bar? How-"

You shook your head, "That's not important."

You heard a voice feom the hall just outside, "DID THEY OVERHEAR DONNY TELLING YOU HE WAS THE BEAR JEW?!"

Followed by Aldo grumbling "ULMER."

Donny looked to you and you both laughed.

"So... You're really a Russkie huh?"

"Konechno."  ‘Right.’ You smirked and winked.

"...all this time...but..I... You knew everyrhing about the town, you spoke all the languages. You were...I thought...everyone thought you were fucking Belgian!"

You shrugged, "That’s the point."

He managed to mumble in awe, "Prove it." You rolled your eyes, holding your right hand up to your bloody nose. Completely disarming him, and knocking him to the ground with your left hand, in the blink of an eye. He looked up at you, his lips parted, a gasp of shock, admiration, and....well, two kinds of admiration. 

"Holy shit..." was all he could mumble, as he smirked, and held his hand up to his jaw, moving it side to side to counter a dull pain as a result of that stunt. He pulled himself up, and you smiled a little, your hands wrapping around his suspenders as you looked up at him, "I'm sorry, solnishko." He smirked a little, "That don't sound like Belgian..." You rolled your eyes, "Belgian's not a language, Donny." "I knew that...." He laughed as he wrapped his arms around you.

***** The basterds took you and the rest of the spies to an OSS hideout.

You were sitting on a cot, after a medic set your broken nose, and gave you a pill to get the dull pain to subside. You heard a not-so-subtle not, and looked up to see Donny. Your face flushed, a little shame beginning to rise up, still guilty, feeling as though you'd strung him along to fall in love with someone that didn't exist. "Y/n? What's wrong?" He may not be the brightest basterd...but part of you still wanted him to be your basterd. You sighed, "Nothing," He sat by you, "Hey, no lies." "You've had enough of those, I know. I'm sorry, solnishko." He tilted his head to the side, looked at you, and figured it out. He may not have known a lot, but he knew you. That was dead certain. "Hey... You had to do what you had to do. I get it." "But-" "There are things, Donny...Things you dont' know. It's just so..." "Well, I know your names not Veronique." He winked and chuckled, resting his hand over yours, "And I know you're Russian, but you speak enough French, and German and Dutch to fool anyone... I know you're a spy. One hell of a spy." He winked, and you smiled. "Donny, we can't." You shook your head, breaking your own heart for the millionth time, "You've fallen in love with someone that doesn't exist." "Really?" He held your face up, "Y/n, you seem to be right here. Ya look pretty real, too, ya know." He smiled and spoke softly, for omce, "Yeah, Veronique ain't your real name, but the real you ain't your name." No, he smiled, knowing the real you had that same smile. That smile, he saw between shots of whiskey, and the first crack of dawn for  the past few years. The real you has got the same laugh, and sneaking wink and damning sarcasm that he heard from you a few hours earlier. The real you had the same eyes of indifference as the spy looking up at death, as the  starlit bartender in that old, familiar pub.  He shook his head, "The real you's the same you that said, 'I love you,' aint it?" You raised your eyebrow, slightly smiling as you figured out what the hell he just said...  "Same me, solnishko." He smiled, not knowing what that meant. Not knowing that you called him your sun, because every time the double life in a run down pub, surrounded by enemies seemed the darkest, that little ray of sunshine  (not so secretly known as the Bear Jew) walked in, and lit up your world.

Suddenly, someone popped his head through the doorway, "Agent L/N...that is you, ain't it, kid?" You chuckled, "Yeah, that's me, lieutenant." Aldo smiled, and said, "Well, I done spoke to the general, 'n said, maybe we could use somebody on our side that speaks'um French, since we are in France." "Most of the time," Donny smiled, and Aldo sighed, "Yeah. So, he said, I had a point. Now, I saw some of your work in this here file..." He waved around a yellow folder, stamped with the word 'classified' in four languages. He was definitely going to be chewed out for that. "And goddamn, little lady, I think we could you some'n like this on the team...if that's alright with you." You looked at Donny, and that sliver between the hope of you saying yes, and the fear of you giving in to your guilt. "Yes sir, that's alright with me." Aldo smiled, but before he cold say anything, a higher ranking officer's voice rang down the hall, "LIEUTENANT RAINE!" He looked down at the file and muttered, "Damn..." And quickly, saluted the officer, and disappeared out the door. Donny turned to you, "So the real you's been a basterd all along, huh?" You rolled your eyes, and chuckled,  "I guess so." "I can't believe I didn't figure it out." "Well you're not the..." "What?" You cleared your thraot, "Never mind." He shrugged, and slipped his hands into yours, and said, "You were under my nose, all this time, huh doll?" He planted a soft kiss over the strip of gauze covering your nose, and you melted, as you looked up at him, his dark eyes. He meant it. He meant all of it. He didn't mind, he knew what war as, he knew you had to do what you had to do...and at that point, it had kept both you alive. There was nothing to forgive. There was nothing to be upset about. He knew you all along. He knew you loved him, and he knew he loved you, no matter what langauge was yours, what country you called home, or what you were called. It was you, and it always had been you, who he loved. It was you that gave the basterds a warm place to sit, and a good shot to take the edge off, when they needed it most. It was you who kept his name and his life, safely tucked behind your heart. Basterd or spy, Belgian or Russian, Veronique, or Y/n, it didn't matter. It was you who kept his heart, and he wouldn't have it any other way.

[nhlarchived]

NYC ~ Mathew Barzal

Chapter One

Ch. One ~ Ch. Two ~ Part Three ~ Ch. Four ~ Ch. Five

A/N: Yes, a lot of you may recognize this specific title/player combo from a blog who no longer wishes to associate with writing. I privately messaged them and requested permission to read their previous work that has always been my favorite. Not only did they give me access to read everything, but they’re allowing me to have all of their series and tweak them into my own. The story line will remain the same, but I have decided to change the POV that way I can slightly customize the story. I apologize if you dislike not having “Y/N” in a story but as I continue to study creative writing, I believe it makes a story easier to read. I hope you enjoy, I greatly appreciate feedback!

Check out my Wattpad where I will be posting this series and others as I go!

Authors Note: Based off this YouTube video. Yes, I purposely gave the children different names. 

Word Count: 1,878

Warnings: Mature Language

Misc. Characters: Cassandra~You

________

I’ve been nannying the Seidenberg’s for a little over a year now. My parents lived in the house next door while I went to a university in the city, living in an apartment close to campus. Dennis and Rebecca figured since I was a familiar face to the kids, with always being invited to small holiday get together parties my parents would hold, that I would be the best option to take care of them. That way Rebecca could go on road trips, or have fun with the other WAGs without worrying about the kids. 

I got along with the three kids very well. After being with them for over a year, they feel like my own siblings. The boy, Dakota, was the youngest and he always loved to play street hockey with me in the driveway. The girls would play along as well, but he’d always be the first to ask. The two girls, Natalie and Marisa, always brought back memories of my old dancing days. Wanting to stay downstairs and do gymnastics or make up dance routines until they couldn’t stand anymore. As you can see, the kids kept me very busy and active. 

Normally, I would only nanny on weeks when Dennis went on road trips and Rebecca wanted to join. Or random nights that the WAGs decided to hang out. However, over the summer I found myself at their house quite often. Sometimes only because the kids just wanted to hang out and play. 

The summer was coming to an end and the hockey season was about to pick up once again. College was unfortunately beginning to get rough as it was now my senior year, but the kids always knew how to ease my stress and bring the child out of me, which is why I enjoy being with them so much. 

Tonight, Dennis and Rebecca had gone out to attend the season kickoff dinner. They requested that I sleep over their house as they planned not to be coming home until after midnight. They have a guest room on the upper level that I usually sleep in during the road trip weeks. The room is comfortable, I love it. They even allow me to customize it and accent the walls with pictures that the kids have drawn for me. 

After a couple hours of driveway street hockey, once the sun started setting, I then settled on the basement couch with the kids, popping in a Disney movie. The time was inching close to midnight, but we all ignored it. The girls laid on either side of me, with my arms around their shoulders while theirs crossed my stomach. While Dakota laid on the floor by himself in front of us. It wasn’t long before all three of them had dozed off into a sleep. Not wanting to move and wake them up, I figured I should drift off into sleep as well.

I heard a sudden noise which broke me out of my sleep. My mom instincts kicked in remembering the kids were with me. I quickly jumped up to see who was in the room, ready to attack if it was an intruder. The lights were still dim in the basement as the television asking if we were still watching was the only thing to illuminate the space. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust but soon enough I heard Dennis’ hushed voice. 

“Sorry! We were trying to be quiet.” He whispered tiptoeing down the last stair. After his statement I was blinded by the overhead lights being turned on. My hands quickly covered my eyes, rubbing them to regulate my sight once again. I then heard the kids simultaneously groan “daaaad” behind me as they woke. 

“Come on. Go on up to your rooms. I️ know Cassandra would love to be laying in her bed right now.” He continued. He definitely wasn’t lying about me wanting to be in my bed at the moment. Laying on the couch left a kink in my neck that I couldn’t help but absentmindedly attempt to massage out. 

Once the kids retreated up the stairs, I noticed a male, averaging the same age as me, walk out of the spare bedroom adjacent from the couch. He had long, dark, slicked back hair. He was wearing a T-shirt that showed off his toned veiny arms, paired with black skinny jeans. 

I’d be lying if I said he wasn’t attractive. In fact, he was almost unreal. His face was perfectly chiseled while his body looked like it was carved by angels. I couldn’t help but stare at every little feature on him. It was almost as if he had just walked out of a movie. Next thing I know my eyes trace back up to his face and he’s staring right back at me. I felt my heart beat rise as a genuine smile that could light up the whole room pulled across his lips. 

I was guessing he was one of Dennis’ teammates. As if the Islander t-shirt didn’t give that away. But, he definitely wasn’t one that has been invited over to the house previously as I’ve clearly never seen him before. So, I figured he was a rookie and Dennis invited him over for dinner. 

“Cassandra, so sorry I️ probably should introduce the two of you.” Dennis began once he returned from bringing the kids upstairs. I hadn’t noticed earlier, but I was staring at the boy in silence for an uncomfortable amount of time. Causing heat to immediately flood my cheeks in embarrassment. Figuring there was no way he didn’t take notice to my lengthy admiration. 

“This is Mathew. Mathew this is Cassandra.” He introduced. Mat was quick to hold his hand out to me, stepping closer. “Hey, it’s nice to meet you.” He stated with a distinct Canadian accent. I took his hand into mine and shook lightly as I silently prayed he wouldn’t notice how sweaty my palm was. 

“Same to you.” I responded. Not nearly as confident as I pleased. In fact, I’m pretty sure I sounded like a shy 3rd grader introducing themselves to the whole class on the first day of school. 

“Mat is a rookie this year. So Rebecca and I️ decided it would be smart to allow him to stay here for his first season. Just so you don’t get confused when you see him walking around.” Dennis exclaimed. 

As he finished, I was pretty sure all of the color in my skin sank, just like thermometers do when the temperatures drop. The thought of having this painfully attractive boy around the house excited me in all the wrong ways. The last thing I needed was a distraction. However, he would be gone on road trips the same time as Dennis. So, hopefully I wouldn’t see him that often anyway. Even though I’d hate to admit that I really wanted too. 

“Welcome!” Was all I could say as I was still in shock from the whole situation. I attempted to sound as enthusiastic as possible. Mat sent me a sympathetic smirk. Almost like he felt bad for being here even though it wasn’t even my house. Making me feel self conscious of possibly sending him the wrong vibes. 

“Well Mat, I️’m going to go grab your other suitcase. Make yourself feel at home.” Dennis offered before making his way back up the stairs. Eternally I began screaming for him to come back. Not wanting to be left alone with the boy whose bones I was ready to jump at any given moment. 

“Does your neck hurt?” He questioned. My gaze shifted from the stairwell to Mat who only stood about a foot away from me. My head cocked to the side in confusion, while my face muscles tightened, wondering how in the world he knew about the kink that had formed in my neck. 

“How did you…?” I began to ask before Mat cut me off to explain. 

“You’ve been rubbing it since you stood up.” He answered, pointing to his own neck to imitate my movements. He spoke low and cleared his throat. Making me feel slightly better about this situation seeing he seemed to be just as awkward as I was at the moment. 

“Yeah. I slept wrong on the couch and now I️ have a knot in my neck.” I responded while rolling my eyes, annoyed with the pain. 

“Want me to try and rub it out?” Mat proposed. A moment of silence fell over the room. My mind immediately wanted to respond with ‘Boy you could rub whatever you want’ but obviously that wasn’t reasonable. I tried to stay calm as my heart began to race even faster to the point I would bet he could hear it. 

“Can you please?” I replied as my mind began to contemplate if that was a good enough response or not. 

Mat then moved behind me. His fingertips, oh so gently, braced themselves on my right shoulder. His thumbs then started making small circle movements into my skin causing goosebumps to rise that I hoped he didn’t notice. But taking by the deep chuckle I just heard behind me.. he noticed.. and is flattered. 

The pressure from his thumbs found the perfect spot on the knot. Kneading it away as my facial expressions tighten in pain. Knowing that it has to hurt before the muscles will relax. 

“Am I️ getting it?” Mathew questioned. He knew the answer. He could tell by my face, the goosebumps and the way my shoulder was slowly moving farther away from him. He knew I was enjoying it, so he was instigating. 

“Yes.” I groaned with my teeth grinding together. Features still continuing to tense. However, he slowly and gently removed his fingertips as I then felt total relief over my neck and shoulder. I circled my arm around a couple times to ensure the pain was gone and behold, Mat had magical hands. 

“Thank you a lot, it feels so much better.” I spoke relieved, turning to face Mat who was standing much closer than I had anticipated.

“No problem. Anytime.” He whispered due to the small amount of space separating us. His statement was followed by a wink that was powerful enough to blow me off my feet. But to maintain my authority, I plastered a smirk on my face, and winked back. 

“Have a good night.” I said before confidently turning around to walk up the stairs. Proud of myself for appearing unfazed instead of the sweaty mess I was on the inside. 

“Oh, I️ will. Goodnight.” Mat responded. Thankfully I was facing the opposite direction, that way he couldn’t see my eyes roll through my head at his sly comment. 

Once reaching my bedroom on the upper level I laid in my bed staring at the ceiling fan. I knew it would be unprofessional and a risk to my job if I even thought about attempting anything with Mat. But at the same time, he was almost impossible to resist. Who knows though, he might not even be interested at all and I’m wasting my time thinking about him for nothing. Yet, it was also so hard to get him off my mind.

[mendesnecessary]

Drinking it till you’re making it

A/n: So it's been a long since I didn’t post nothing, huh, but guess I’m back with a LatinBlack!Reader. I never give so many details about skin and hair in my pieces, cause I think it’s easy for all my readers to feel represented (at least this is how it works when I’m reading something here), but somehow I felt like I should this time, cause we’re always so so consumed by some stereotypes that even if the story doesn’t have details we imagine it like the cmon ones: skinny, blonde, north american etc. So I hope we can change that with time and create a place where everyone can feel home <3 

Word count: 1.873

‘Gotta raise a little hell’

The strong beat keeps going. It was a tough day for him at the studio, everything that Shawn wanted was to take a good bath and rest as much as possible in his king size bed.

Well, it sounded a little impossible once his neighbor started listening to loud music, he took his time, took also a bath waiting for by the time he ended she was done with songs, but it only got worse.

She went from Rihanna to some kind of rock bass that was eating his patience.

He checked his clock three or four times before giving up and putting a white shirt, walking to her door.

And don't get him wrong, Shawn is very very patient, but man all he wanted to do was rest. Does she know that there's someone besides her on this damn floor?

And there she was. Shawn remembered her name, but he didn't remember how beautiful she was without the black makeup.

Y/n was what Shawn would call soft gothic. She used to look cute into the ripped black jeans and oversized 90’s band shirt. Her curly hair sometimes on top of her head in a messy bum and sometimes all over her shoulders catching people’s attention.

She definitely didn't listen to his music. Does she know who I am?? That was the question hovering above his mind the first time they bump into each other in the elevator.

And somehow she knew or at least knew that he was famous.

They never really talked too much, she was always late and he was always busy. 

They were very distinct polos. Never on the same page of the book, if possible never even in the same book.

He rang the bell one, two, three, four times before she opened the door. An oversized shirt, just like always, but this time no ripped jeans.

Is she even wearing something underneath??

A glass of wine in hands and a tired look.

“Hey, y/n...” he smiles when she raises her brows. Somehow Shawn couldn't bring himself to just ask her to turn the music off. He wanted to stare a little more, see her curious and tired eyes studying his figure. “How you doing?”

“I’m doing hella bad, what about you, boy-next-door?” she takes a sip of the red drink and he can't take his eyes off of how her lips get wet and slightly pink.

“I’m ok, I guess..”

“Are you sure you're okay, cause it's like 3 am and you're at my door. I would say there's something going on”

“I was just curious about the song name...the song playing” he points to the inside of her house. She laughs, clearly seeing that it was nothing about the song title.

“It’s too loud, right?!” She shifts her weight to only one foot. “I am sooo sooo sorry, I thought you were traveling again, you always out. Plus, I had a really shit day...I mean, this guy that made pair with me in one of our calculus class he just took the project that I did all by myself and told the professor that it was his idea”

“Wow, what a dick” Shawn comments not knowing what he was really supposed to say.

“I know right?!! And then I went to work and somehow someone manages to spill coffee in my clothes, it was damn hard to keep the patient”

“Oh, you work at a coffee shop?”

“Something like that, it’s a library and a coffee shop altogether, I was going to try a place relates with engineer since I'm at the appropriate year of my studies, but this bastard just took it from me by saying that it was his own project”

She sights trying to keep cool, her right hand was already clenched into fists.

Did she beat him up?!

Oh, Shawn wishes she did.

“It’s the equivalent of you writing a really good song but there's this new singer and he took it all for himself, he got the credit, the fans and he even creates a fake story to seem real. Wouldn't you be pissed?!”

“One hundred percent” Shawn nods.

“I’m sorry, you came up to ask me to turn down the music and I'm rambling about my damn day”

“No, it's okay, it’s fine.”

She knew he was the typical educated Canadian, he wouldn't be rude or say something that could possibly sound like.

“I’m gonna turn it off, so you can sleep better. Sorry for the mess.” she apologizes and Shawn smiles with the way her eyes faced the ground like a puppy.

“’S okay”

“Good night, Mendes” he stops for some minutes appreciating the way she pronounced his last name. Men-diS. Shawn swears he could hear her accent slip like that for all day long.

“Good night, y/n, hope you have a better day when you wake up today.”

She nods and the last thing he sees is her lips parted in a smile before the door closes.

Shawn went back to his own door that night, the music turned off and the silent night taking his sleep.

After that day they would exchange more than a ”good morning” in the elevator and every time her sound was too loud he knew that it was a bad day, so he would knock her door and let her tell about, seeing how much she felt better just by putting all the bad events out.

Now they were more than just y/n and Shawn, they could call each other friends, not really close friends but still friends. The kind of who makes sure you feel better when they can.

It was a Friday night, probably around midnight when Killer queen started playing. Shawn instantly knowing it had been a harsh day for her. After all this time he manages to know that once she’s listening to Queen she really needs to rest, she had told about how it is her favorite band.

 So the Canadian decides that it wasn’t a door-talk day, he slips his feet in the flip flops and goes straight to his kitchen, looking for one of his favorite bottle of wine. Shawn then makes his way to her door, ringing the bell. Y/n answers after the fourth ring. 

‘Dynamite with a laser beam’

She shows up, just like the other nights wearing only an oversized shirt. The Queen symbol in the black fabric, her hair hanging curly in her shoulders making a perfect contrast with her dark skin. 

“One of those days?” he asks and she smiles before nodding her head in a negative response.

“No really, it’s just tiredness in a whole new level.” 

“I brought the wine” 

“I’ll only let you get inside because of that” she jokes before both explode in laughs.

Her apartment, for his surprise, looks a little like his, besides the paintings hanging on the wall. Very colorful paintings. And even tho he would put her in the ‘soft gothic’ box, the colors and the decoration looks like her.

“You seem really tired too” she comments plotting her body in the sofa and pointing to the kitchen, so he could take a new glass for him.

“I am, in fact” he answers once he comes back from the room with the glass already full of red wine. 

He fills y/n’s cup before letting the bottle in the coffee table. She hugs a pillow in from of her body giving him a long stare.

“And whys that?” 

“My best friend broke his arm so I was with him in the hospital all day and night long.” 

“Damn, is he alright now?” 

“Yup, he will get better soon, hopefully,” Shawn sips his drink facing the fireplace and how it brings a comfortable atmosphere to the room. “and what about you? Are you tired because of the university?” 

“Yeah, sometimes I wish to be a rockstar just like you, bro” she sighs making her best drama face, Shawn laughs.

“Woman, it’s not that easy. Some days I wish to be a college student just like you” he repeats her sentence using it for his own.

“We can change life whenever you’re cool with it, do you think you fans would be okay with me on the stage? Would they like me?” 

“Who doesn’t?” He asks in a moment of slip. Her brows furrowing and her lips curving a little after processing what he just said.

“Well, sometimes I can’t even handle myself”

“I know, these are the days that I knock in your door and we talk and talk till you feel tired enough and go to sleep” 

She smiles with the memories. Tiredness and sadness have never been healed in a better way. Y/n sits up, taking her glass in hands and sipping the red wine. It’s a new kind of sweet for her palate. 

“Damn, Mendes, this is a whole new level. Where did you take these?”

“I know right?! It was from one of my travels to Italy,” he responds, happier than ever about how she was so comfy around him. 

“What do you have from my home country?” she lets the glass in the coffee table and takes the popcorn bowl in hands, walking to his side on the sofa. 

Shawn gazes at her naked legs, the skin there seemed so soft.

“I- uh...I have this book, it’s called ‘Love in times of cholera’ I bought it even tho I’m not too much into reading, but it seemed a nice name and when I googled it I saw that it was from an important Colombian author.”

“El amor em los tiempos del cólera” she sits by his side with a tooth grim. “It’s from Gabriel Garcia Marquez, such a damn well-written piece” 

Y/n extends the popcorn bowl to Shawn and he takes some in his big hands.

“Fuck I love when you speak something in Spanish, it’s so cute” 

“Oh, gracias, mi amigo”

“Amigo” he repeats slowly and she nods, holding back a smile. “It means friend, right?” 

“Sí” she keeps teasing with that amused look on her face. 

“So you just friend zoned me?” 

“What?! No, bro” 

“Oh, so now you just ‘bro’ me”

They exchange glances at each other and start laughing. 

“We’ve been having these wine drunk talks, that’s the kind of thing that I imagined to do with a lover, not a friend if you want to be a friend that’s okay for me, bu...” Shawn stops her rambling by placing his lips on hers.

Y/n smiles between that touch before deepening the kiss, feeling his soft and wine taste lips. Shawn’s hands hold her body close, practically molding her into his hands, but once the song changes y/n departs.

“This playlist is from my Spotify suggestion, is that your voice singing Under pressure?” She looks at him with wide eyes and this curve in her lips, almost a smile. 

“That’s what I was going to tell you”

“You’re definitely in my lover zone”

“Hope I’m the only one” he teases approaching again, she grins. 

“Since the first knock on my door” She kisses his lips again, not ready to let go of the feeling that he brought to her whole body. 

Like and reblog if you guys like it!! 

MY MASTERLIST

[knifeshoeoreofight]

@sidgenophotochallenge

This fic owes a lot to the following documentary about humpback whale calves. Please watch it sometime, it’s beautiful.  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B48ifA0Sw5Y

Disclaimer: I barely scraped through Gen-Ed Bio. Forgive me. I can research but I don’t know how to science. 

The hydrophones have been picking up nonsense for the past three days and Zhenya has had it up to here, honestly.  

He pulls his bulky headphones off and leans back, wincing at the alarming creak of his battered office chair. Maybe if they can get another grant they can finally get some office furniture that isn’t falling apart.

A pipe dream, as it now seems they’re going to have to scrounge up some new audio equipment, fucking hell. He glares mulishly at the spectrogram, willing it to look more like a normal humpback whale vocalization recording.

“S’up G?” Letang asks, closing the screen door to the office with a bang. He’s casually eating a banana with one hand, and is fixing his hair with the other. He drops himself into the other office chair and kicks his feet up on top of a stack of Zhenya’s printouts.

“Recordings from last three days are complete pizdets,” Zhenya says, glaring. “Feet off my fucking papers.”

“Damn, G. Who pissed in your cornflakes?” Letang drawls, but takes his feet off the desk. “And how, pray tell exactly, are they ‘pizdets’?”

“Finally get good position to pick up sounds I’m want. Then there is, interference maybe, all over the audio. Don’t know what is. Radio signal, maybe. Or sound through boat hull? Fucking weird.”

“Weird, huh?” Letang perks up. “Liiike, undiscovered species weird?”

Zhenya makes a dismissive noise,and cues up one of the clearest clips. “All I’m know is ruin three days of recording, and maybe Ma— H-183 will go calve somewhere else.”

“Shouldn’t name the whales, man, it’s bad science,” Letang says, grinning.

“I don’t” Zhenya grumbles, even though he’s definitely been calling the very pregnant H-183 “Magda.” He’s been satellite tracking her since she left the waters off Labrador.

He’s hoping to publish a paper on the vocalizations of pregnant and nursing North Atlantic Humpbacks. He gets teased that he just chose the topic so he can spend his time mooning over baby whales. Which is rich, considering the cooing he’s caught Letang and Fleury doing over his research materials. The French Canadians are here on behalf of The University of New Brunswick, doing research on coral.

The point is, there is a fair amount of work done studying male humpback vocalizations: chiefly of their mysterious songs. But females vocalize too, even if they don’t sing. Zhenya wants to study the communication between mothers and newborns. And to do that, he needs his equipment to fucking function. He can’t miss this window of opportunity. Magda— damn it, H-183, has completed her annual migration from the cold waters of the Maritimes to the clear warm seas of Bermuda to have the calf she’s been gestating for nearly a year.

“Here,” he tells Letang, handing him the headphones. “Listen.” Letang puts them on, and Zhenya presses play. Letang’s look of unconcerned indifference melts into intense, puzzled focus as he listens.

The clip ends, and Letang leans back, slowly. “What the fuck, man.”

Zhenya groans, and rakes his fingers through his hair. “I know. Fucking weird. I’m tell you.”

“Uh huh,“ Letang says, staring into space. “Play it again. You say you have more of this?”

They listen for long minutes, trying to parse the sounds. They’re deeply strange. They almost sound like muffled human voices, which is why Zhenya first thought that maybe the hydrophones were picking up radio. Maybe. He’s not a sound engineer, he doesn’t know if that’s possible. The sounds, though, are so distorted and strange that it’s hard to imagine them coming from a normal radio. There are clicks and buzzes and pops, and even the parts that sound almost human are nothing like words, follow no recognizable patterns of speech.

Letang and he share a glance. The look on Letang’s face is making a cold, prickly feeling spread from Zhenya’s stomach to the rest of his body. He’d dismissed the strangeness of the sounds, hadn’t paid enough attention to it. Explained it away. Letang’s incredulous seriousness is… kind of freaking Zhenya out. Making him think this is something, after all. Not just distorted radio signals. And if it’s not that, then—

“You know what this almost reminds me of,” Letang says, still frowning into the middle distance. “What’s that one African language, the one with the clicks?”

“Xhosa,” Zhenya supplies. “No, it’s not like that. Listen.” There’s a long, almost metallic whrrrrrrr from the recording, followed by a series of clicks, then three deep whooping noises that would almost sound like whalesong, except they aren’t nearly loud enough. And are the completely wrong frequency.

“We should go back out there,” Letang says, slowly. “Put the hydrophones in again. See what we get. Can’t hurt. You need to get more recordings anyway, right? The coral can wait a day or two, it’s not going anywhere.” He smirks at his own joke.

Zheya nods, and stares once again at the spectrograms. They aren’t an annoyance anymore. Now they’re unsettling. That cold, prickly prey instinct is still settled in his bones, and he’s so, so glad Letang is coming out with him tomorrow.

***

They’re up before dawn, hauling gear onto the boat in the pre-sunrise murk. Zhenya checks and double checks the audio equipment, and checks and double checks his data on where Magda— H-183 has been spending her time.

Letang has roped Fleury and Kessel both into the expedition, and even a couple of the undergrads. Zach and Dominik are yawning and sleep-rumpled, but seem pretty thrilled about the entire affair.

“I am hoping it’s some kind of new species,” Dominik says, his lilting Czech accent even thicker this early in the morning.

“Dude, right??” enthuses Zach, clapping his hands on Dominik’s shoulders and rocking him gently back and forth. “I’ll name it after you, bro.”

“Aw, thanks.”

Zhenya laughs to himself a little. He still can’t figure out if they’re actually together or are just super close bros. Not that it matters, really. It’s cute either way.

“Equipment look good?” Letang asks him, leaning over to peer at the hydrophone cables Zhenya is rearranging.

Zhenya shrugs. It’s as good as it’s going to get. Letang claps him on the shoulder, goes to start the engine.

***

It takes them until the sun is up over the horizon to find Magda, but they see her spout before they even have to drop the hydrophones in to listen. Letang cuts the engine, and they drift closer.

Zhenya watches the arch of Magda’s massive back as she slides back under the water. One reason he chose her to study is that she has a deep, distinctive scar digging into her dorsal ridge, probably from getting tangled in commercial fishing nets when she was younger. It makes identifying her at a distance easier.

He drops in one of the hydrophones, and everyone stops what they’re going to crowd around Zhenya’s laptop. At first there’s nothing, just crackling static and water sounds. Magda isn’t making any noise.

Then, a few faint sounds, probably male humpbacks singing miles away. Things quiet again. Zach starts to say something but Fleury shushes him. Time crawls on.

Magda gifts them with some sounds about an hour in,  a couple of low, rumbling “whops” that make Zhenya smile.

“Hi, pretty girl,” he croons at the computer as he notes the timestamp so he can isolate the clip later. Letang wants to make a rude comment, he knows, but thankfully decides to be an adult and restrains himself.

Magda is staying is approximately the same area, as indicated by the spray she sends up when she surfaces to breathe. She’s probably close enough to observe underwater and Zhenya eyes the diving gear they brought along. He’s never actually been in the water with her.

Another of the deep “whop”s from the whale, and then everyone jumps when the strange alien sounds Zhenya had recorded before suddenly crackle through the laptop speakers. A long “whrrrr,” then the same pattern of clicks as on the previous recording.

“Tabernak,” Letang breathes. “Geno, you’re sure that isn’t the whale?”

Zhenya shakes his head. “Sure. Wrong frequency. Not anything recorded from humpbacks before.”

“Is someone gonna go take a look?” Zach asks quietly looking simultaneously excited and terrified someone is going to ask him to do it.

“I’ll go,” Zhenya says. “If nothing, still can record visual observation of Magda.”

Magda Letang mouths at Kessel. Seriously, invertebrate specialists. Assholes, all of them. He goes to ready his scuba gear, leaving the rest of them clustered around the laptop, listening to the noises still issuing from it.

***

When the bubbles from his entry into the water clear, Zhenya almost spits out his regulator in surprise at how close Magda is. The current must have drifted the boat towards her. She’s about fifty meters or less away, drifting motionless mid level in the water column. It’s shallow and clear enough here that he can just make out the bottom, far beneath them both, patches of white sand and darker coral.

She’s so beautiful. Seeing her like this brings new awareness of the sheer size of her. Zhenya can make out the movement of one huge, intelligent eye as she notes his appearance in her realm but doesn’t move. She’s conserving all her energy for the monumental task of delivering her calf into the world.

One pectoral flipper arcs majestically as she keeps herself steady in the water. Zhenya’s chest feels tight with emotion and his eyes water inside his mask. There she is, after all these months. The hope of her embattled species, heavy with the future.

He’s so overcome that he forgets for a moment that he’s supposed to be looking for something else. He turns in a slow circle, keeping in position with slow kicks of his scuba fins. Nothing. Just an infinity of blue, and Magda’s graceful bulk. He makes sure his GoPro is recording in its waterproof housing, and wonders if it will bother her if he ventures just a little bit closer. Just a bit. Can’t hurt, if she’s so calm even with the boat so close.

He makes it maybe a dozen yards closer when he sees something move beneath her, too large to be a remora or some other kind of hitchhiking fish. His first thought is that maybe she had her baby already after all, and then it swims out from under her shadow and comes toward him. And

It’s

There’s a deep, instinctual terror that comes when what you’re seeing does not connect with what your instinct knows to be true. A cold, all consuming flash of sensation as your brain screams “WRONG, THIS IS WRONG” at you. Something left to center of reality. Something moving in a way that it shouldn’t.

Zhenya feels it now, as a figure glides toward him, with smooth, powerful stokes of its.

His. His tail.

Geno’s camera drops from his nerveless fingers.

He doesn’t look like the creatures of myth and legend, at least, not completely. His tail doesn’t sparkle with scales, but has the dull sheen of a shark’s skin. A darker color it’s hard to make out under the water fades to pale skin at his waist. He has dark hair that floats about his face like a cloud, and he snarls at Zhenya, baring sharp canine teeth like an otter’s.

The… merman’s….throat works and jumps, and past the rushing of the blood in his own ears and the hiss of his air supply Zhenya’s can hear sounds like the ones on the recording. A language. His mouth is closed, he doesn’t seem to need to open it to speak.

Deep beneath the animal panic engulfing his brain, the scientist in Zhenya is fascinated.

The merman makes an angry, aggressive gesture, and that’s when Zhenya notices that he’s carrying a wicked looking weapon with a long, curved blade. It has to be made from bone, the handle wrapped in what looks, surprisingly, like nylon rope.

Lost fishing gear and nets the scientific corner of Zhenya’s brain supplies.

The merman’s eyes flick downwards, and he gives Zhenya another baleful look as he dives downwards.

Zhenya follows him with his gaze. You don’t turn your back on a predator, says the prey instinct part of his brain. You don’t turn your back on something so incredible, says the scientist part. Incredible. The word is inadequate and colorless.

Up the merman comes, the muscular undulation of his body and his tail just as eerie and just as beautiful as before. He’s got something clutched in his free hand, Zhenya sees. It’s the GoPro. The merman shakes it at him, scowling, a burst of noise coming from his throat.

Zhenya isn’t sure what he wants. He doesn’t move except to kick his fins to keep himself in position. How much air does he have left? How long has he been down here?

Without thinking, he reaches a hand out towards the camera in the merman’s hand. The merman flinches away, then moves closer, staring at Zhenya’s hand, his arm. Zhenya is wearing a wetsuit, but no diving gloves. The merman reaches out his own hand. His fingers are webbed. His hand closes over Zhenya’s wrist, and Zhenya can feel the iron strength in it.

Is he going to drown me he thinks. Am I going to die right now?

He tugs his arm, panicked, trying to pull it toward himself. A flood of bubbles escape around his regulator and he must scream or make some kind of sound around it, because the merman drops his hand, and lets him go.

Humpbacks hunt with bubble nets, he suddenly remembers. Or use them in dominance displays. What does the merman think the bubbles from his air tank and the hissing sound of his artificially aided breath mean?

He takes a deep gulp of air and pulls the regulator from his mouth. The merman visibly startles. Zhenya almost wants to laugh. Does he think Zhenya just detached some part of his body?

The merman peers at him, leaning in so close Zhenya can see the color of his eyes. Not quite green. Not quite gold.

Zhenya’s lungs are burning. He has to get the regulator back in his mouth. He fumbles it, and with a gasp, sweet oxygen trickles back into his lungs. He kicks his fins to back away, put some distance between the merman and himself.

To his surprise, the merman holds out the GoPro, head tilted in a way that feels very human. Zhenya reaches out again, and takes the camera from him. For some reason he can’t fathom himself (besides possible hysteria) he gives the merman a thumbs up. The merman blinks, then copies the gesture.

Zhenya lets loose a burst of bubbles in an aborted shout of overwrought laughter. A merman just gave him a thumbs up. Belatedly, he tilts the camera at him, sweeps it from his head to the flukes of his tail. Zhenya won’t believe that this actually happened if he doesn’t manage to record something.

The merman startles, then turns around. Over his shoulder, Zhenya can see that Magda is moving, immense tail making a slow downwards stroke as she decides she’s had enough of whatever the two of them are up to. The merman looks between her and Zhenya, eyes narrowed in mistrust, but then must decide that while Zhenya is a conundrum, he has more important things to do. He turns and follows the whale, looking back at Zhenya a few more times until they disappear into the blue.

Suddenly Zhenya is panicked for air, and sun, and a solid surface under his feet. He kicks up towards the dark shape of the boat above wondering what the fuck he’s going to do now.

***

As soon as he’s hauled back on the boat by his colleagues he’s tearing at the straps of his gear, yanking his mask from his face as he gasps for air. He flails out of his BC and his fins, ignoring everyone’s alarmed questioning  and waving off their help, He lies back on the deck and closes his eyes, clutching the GoPro and trying to get his breathing to quiet and return to normal.

When he finally pulls himself to a sitting position, everyone is staring at him.

“We…heard a lot of that noise through the hydrophone,” Fleury says. “What happened?”

Zhenya shakes his head. “You won’t believe me until you see video,” he says, and their eyes all go wide. He ignores another barrage of questions and just points at the boat’s wheelhouse. “Let’s go back. I need to think.”

They give him looks the entire ride back, but he just wraps his arms around his knees and tries to decide what to do.

***

As soon as they get back, secure the boat, and make it back to their research office, Zhenya inserts the Gopro’s SD card into the reader with shaking hands. The footage downloads, and everyone clusters around his computer.

Zhenya watches it in a fog, as everyone around him cries out, swears, and babbles as the merman swims out from behind Magda. When the camera falls, the mount it was on weighs it down in such a way that it continues to point upwards, and Zhenya watches himself and the merman silhouetted against the light of the surface.

He stays silent as they ask him how he got the camera back, then yell when the merman comes and picks it up. The footage continues to play, swinging wildly until the point that Zhenya regains control of it, sweeps it along the entire length of the merman’s body.

When the merman and the whale disappear and the footage ends, they all look as pale and shell-shocked as Zhenya. They exchange glances at each other in silence.

Zhenya isn’t certain of anything anymore. Except two things.

One. They aren’t telling anyone about this.

And two. He’s going right back out there tomorrow.

[belle-gaea]

This weird but amazing dream I had one time turned into a blog post/story bc I'm a mess and this is content - Part 1

Benjy's POV

I climbed the willow tree, watching the bright sunlight cascade down the verdant tresses. I was hidden. The world that hates me and boys like me could no longer find me. I was free to just feel the beauty of nature around me. In this forest, that was secret: known only to me for as long as I could remember. Sometimes, I thought I could glimpse a face in the border between the sunlight and the shadows of the trees. This tree in particular, I felt like I knew it - him. The tree had a distinctively male feeling to him: strong and steady, but comforting and almost... loving. I think that's why I returned to him more than any other tree, it was like visiting a lifetime friend. I even knew his name... Somehow. It was Oliver. It was strange, but I would refer to him as Oliver in my head and if I ever said the name in the presence of the willow tree, the light would get brighter and the air would fill with the same fragrance: fresh cut grass, cotton, lavender and clean rain.

I treaded on the branches that always seemed to move to support my feet, and I saw... him. The face I saw most often in the forest: but always, always, in this tree. This time however, it was different; usually I saw the faces in my peripheral vision, just in the corner of my eye. And when I tried to get a closer look: I would see nothing but moving leaves. But now, he was there: in my direct gaze. Not only smiling at me but walking towards me. I should have been scared, but I felt like I'd met him before. Like he was someone I knew. Which was ridiculous, I would have remembered meeting someone so gorgeous, unless...

"Wh-Who a-are you?" I whispered, not daring to look away, or even blink for fear that this beautiful boy of pure, gleaming sunlight would disappear like every other time. I even stuttered, something I never did. He smiled even brighter, before leaning in and saying in a deep Canadian accent,

"I think you know..." I looked into his glowing eyes: the same colour as milk chocolate. Suddenly, he pulled me in and kissed me. It was ecstasy and bliss, electricity and fire, passion and... love. I'd been kissed before: ex-boyfriends and girls from back when I was very confused, but they didn't even compare to this. He opened his mouth, me following, and entered my mine with his tongue: something I'd never experienced before. I was entranced by every aspect of this being, as the taste of apple floated across my taste buds, and I'm pretty sure that I whimpered from the sensation. He caressed my cheek and I wrapped my arms around his neck, running my hands through his soft, tawny hair that stuck up in an adorably rugged way. I had to come up for air and as I pulled away: he licked my bottom lip, which I then bit to stop myself from smiling uncontrollably. I looked down at my feet to hide my blush: I was so embarrassed! I never blushed or stuttered! He lifted my chin up and looked at me with such... desire. I couldn't help but stare at the little brown freckles on his golden skin. He parted the soft, full lips that were just on mine and whispered, "Do you remember?" I was just about to reply "No, I don't think so", when he pulled me in towards his muscular frame, looking down at me: as he was much taller than me. I inhaled in surprise, and breathed the most beautifully familiar fragrance: fresh cut grass, cotton, lavender and clean rain. I gasped out,

"O-Oliver?" I heard a shocked laugh and looked into the boy's - Oliver's - eyes that sparkled with delight. His grin was infectious and I returned it before asking, "But h-how? Y-You're a tree! Oh my god, I just snogged a tree! Am I going insane? Is there LSD in the water?! What the f-" He placed a finger on my lips and shushed me whilst giggling. I only stopped because both his touch and his voice sent pleasurable shivers down my spine. He held both of my hands in his large strong ones and looked me dead in the eye, making my insides melt. In a completely steady, if very husky, voice he said,

"I'm a dryad: a tree spirit, more specifically the spirit of this willow tree. I've known you for as long as I can remember, and I've grown to," at this point he looked away and blushed, "love you. I tried communicating with you you secretly, psychically but... well I didn't know if you could hear me" he giggled and vast collections of childhood memories surfaced; me talking to the willow tree, as I had no one else; knowing certain things about the tree, that I had no way of knowing; always feeling comfort from visiting the forest, enough to make me return to a world that didn't accept me for the people I loved. I had spent nearly every day at this place: crying, laughing, always feeling like I could throw my thoughts to the open air. Except I wasn't: I was being around this boy. Communicating, no: talking, in a way I couldn't understand. We knew and understood each other. He loved me and, knowing that he had been there for me and helped me when no one else did, I loved him. But one there was one thing that didn't make sense to me,

"B-But why did you have to be s-secret? W-W-Why didn't you just appear to me like you are n-now?" I slightly cocked my head to the side and saw him bite his lip,

"Ah," he held my shoulders and traced circles with his fingers, making me feel slightly more relaxed, "technically, nature spirits aren't supposed to make contact with humans. And I tried! I really tried, but you kept coming and... I just couldn't resist: I fell in love with you. I couldn't help myself," I was blushing profusely but still, I didn't let myself get distracted,

"Why now th-though?" He smiled and kissed my forehead, leaving a tingling sensation where his lips touched. He then rested his forehead on mine, so our noses were touching,

"Because you're 16," I was going to ask how he knew but then I realised that I spent practically every day here and my birthday was no different, "I would've preferred to do this on the day, but you were probably busy partying so you didn't come. So consider this as a belated birthday gift..." He kissed my left hand and knelt on the branches. I recognised what this was and said, very coherently I might add,

"W-Whaaa-ummm?" He pulled a ring of pure glittering amber out of his green, gossamer cloak,

"Benjy, love of my life, will you marry me?"

...To be continued...

[uss-edsall]

The majority of those engaged in archaeological fieldwork are usually (and sometimes quite distinctively) marked out by the almost obsessive use of disused, multi-pocketed military attire; whether civilian cargo pants or actual military surplus. You weren't a real archaeologist if you didn't possess at least one pair of German flecktarn. There's many theories for this, and some of them delve into rather Freudian reasonings and something about them giving you the feeling of being powerful, being macho-military, or some shit. I don't exactly buy into that theory, because I'm one of those archaeologists who wears a lot of military surplus on digs. The simple reason is this: it's hot out in the sun and milsurp covers a lot of skin. Milsurp has a ton of huge pockets, and that's something absolutely cherished out in the field. Milsurp is generally a bit more rugged compared to your run of the mill clothing; while most civilian clothes are ruined after six weeks on a dig, milsurp can take a hard scrubbing and be ready for the next year's outing. Of course when you do wear a lot of milsurp you have to take into account the political realities of the country you're digging in. If you're in Syria like me, it's better off to take only a few articles and wear regular things otherwise, as well as keeping at least one nice set of clothes for any time you go into an actual city -- nobody likes having a customer show up to a fancy restaurant with a shirt still covered in yesterday's newest pottery findings. The best shoes to get are those you know can take some punishment -- boots, especially steel-toes ones, are probably best; but generally anything you bring with on a dig is too dirty to wear when you get back, so it's thrown away. Therefore you might just go with a pair of sneakers. Much of the time you'll see people working in a generic t-shirt and jeans, though I don't recommend jeans, as if you're on digs like mine, you'll spend a long time squatting while making sure a wall is as wall-ey as possible, scraping at it with a trowel. The back of your knees can start hurting from that sort of exercise, especially with tight fitting jeans. It's probably best not to wear clothing with political slogans or crude jokes on them. And besides clothing, another word of advice: Americans aren't really liked out there -- especially in the Middle East. I've constantly been advised to claim I'm Canadian. Due to my accent I can say I'm from New Zealand and anyways, it's half true.

[itsadrizzit]

Random thoughts on podfic

Podficcing in Dutch (or, rather, podficcing English that's interspersed with Dutch phrases) is weird. Like...far weirder than it should be.

Because I know how to say the Dutch. It's perfectly normal for my brain to just switch from English to Dutch and back. It's perfectly normal to be existing in English then slide in a random sentence in Dutch.

Recording it though...different.

Because when I read/record in English I'm thinking about everything. Diction and how words sound and pacing and clarity. Add in character vocal pitches/qualities/differentiatons and I'm constantly thinking "how does this need to come out of my mouth so someone can understand it/did that come out of my mouth so someone can understand it?" My outtaked files are full of me saying words then chiding myself for saying them that way...like if I'm just speaking normally I tend to say the "ai" sound in words like hair and chair as more of an "ah" sound. Then there's me saying "ou" as some weird Canadian/US hybrid of the sound. And sometimes I police myself on it in podfic and sometimes I'm like "you can understand what I'm trying to say, whatever." There are countless more examples of me saying something, then stopping and telling myself "THAT IS NOT HOW THAT WORD IS PRONOUNCED NO MATTER HOW MUCH YOU WANT IT TO BE", but those are the most frequent. And I get that accents and regional dialects of English are a thing. That's not what this is about.

What it's about is that in the podfic I'm editing right now there's occasional Dutch mixed in with the English and every time I get to the Dutch, which I thought I was being very careful about, it's just me flinging words out of myself in my normal speaking voice at my usual lightning speed with no regard for diction or nuance or character distinction or anything. And I get that for most people listening to the podfic who don't speak/understand Dutch, it won't actually matter (except probably the character vocal pitches b/c right now I don't think you can tell who is supposed to be speaking), but to me I'm like WOW NO ONE CAN UNDERSTAND WHAT YOU ARE SAYING. Or else when I did try to differentiate b/w characters I was like "that is not how you pronounce that word in Dutch!!!"

I don't really just want to re-record all the lines in Dutch and splice them because I don't want the sound quality to be glaringly different, but also it's bothering me that I'm like wow the Dutch parts sound terrible and if anyone who does know Dutch listens to this they will be like "who taught you to speak Dutch because what?"

I also don't want to rerecord the whole thing b/c it's long and I'm halfway done editing.

I think I will try re-recording JUST the Dutch and see if that helps me since I won't have to alternate languages. Hopefully the sound is not weird.

Also I cannot sound Flemish no matter how badly I want it, although the character who speaks Danish-accented Dutch I have down the best so idek what life is anymore.

[iluvtv]

Hail Canada Finale: Exceptional Lexicon...

Happy 2019! USA’s number 45 may (or may not) be taking full credit for the country suffering a “partial” shutdown but no worries, Hulu came through for the country this holiday season instead. It’s like Santa (or maybe Daddy Warbucks) works in entertainment! As of December 27th the streaming service proved my previous predictions piss poor and gifted America the full glut of Letterkenny backlog. God Bless America.

             Somebody of influence is clearly reading my blog.  

                                              What does this mean to you, Gentle Reader? Why should it matter that while I started drafting a wee work on just how superb this particular Canadian export really is I got entirely consumed with additional episodes? 

To put it simply, appreciation overload. I am now entirely overwhelmed with Letterkenny’s tasteless charm and thusly totally paralyzed. 

As I consider best communication tactics to portray just how crucial consumption of this rather unlikely Sylv Fan Fav, really is I’m worried I might actually need to “hoover” a huge line of the “devil’s dandruff” to make it through. But if the hicks of Letterkenny have ambiguously taught me anything about casual cocaine use it is that its never a good look to indulge while sober. A lesson taught over a discussion about how much they loath Dan’s six year old cousin (this rivalry circles back in later seasons during a debate over wether or not having a little sister will sort small Samual out, a concept Wayne compares to a celebrity getting a puppy to help them get back on track “Seems like a backwards plan to me,” he says, “the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard in my life is that a baby is smart.”) but I digress... why, Gentle Reader, is this six year old so awful?  Well, the hicks “Saw him snort a line of fun dip the other day.” That, they explain is a “Fun dip Dry rip,” or, when you do a line of schneef before you’ve ingested any booze to alter your judgement. A Dry rip, they warn is a sure sign you have a shneef problem. All the while Dary and Dan concede they did indulge themselves (back in their glory days).

I, however, absolutely refuse to let this blog result in a full blown shneef problem. Instead I’ll do as they do in this fictional little town of Letterkenny from which the show hails its namesake:

and “pitter patter, let’s get at ‘er...”

One caveat: while, I do not want to be completely crippled by comedy, here it wouldn’t be fair to assume that I, a California City Chic who by rule trends away from overtly crass humor can justifiably convey the genius which is Letterkenny, but let’s just try .. 

Most episodes open with landscape views of a very chilly looking Letterkenny and the note that there are 5,000 people in said town (hicks, skids, hockey players, christians and natives) and their problems.

While I’ve casually seasoned a line or two of dialogue throughout this blog I can’t actually adequately quote this show because (and this is important) the creators Jared Keeso and Jacob Tierney (and clearly the rest of the writing staff) are absolute MASTERS OF WORDPLAY and the actors’ timing is so pricelessly perfect that to even try to repeat most moments would be a gross injustice to the medium. 

This team of literary savants brilliantly twists puns (like when Wayne pours out the end of a warm beer Dan responds with “you have some kind of drinking problem? That theres alcohol abuse”), creates complex (and hilarious) characters with compelling, often sad (and hilarious) storylines, weaves interesting narratives, spews non-sequiturs, confronts factual yet controversial stereotypes, invokes compassion for both the absurd and the underdog, shamelessly polks fun at everything, including (but hardly limited to); politics, popular culture, sexual orientation, regions, races, origins, creeds other countries (like when Wayne explains the eating habits of our brethren “Malt vinegar is not a staple condiment on table tops in restaurants” Disgusted, the boys respond “Figure it out, somebody should really write a letter” but then concede, “They do have 6 kinds of Cap’n Crunch though”) and Ostrich Fuckers, all of this is done with sincere (and hilarious) honesty, a clever and often very nuanced style and all the while somehow managing to circle back to previous stories and quips sometimes so subtly that the untrained ear (or eye) might miss out. For example it is somehow terribly notable to me that we frequently find Dary eating small breakfasts’ with absurdly large spoons. 

Regardless of the approach, the through line remains constant: assorted misfit groups of friends flagrantly (and unapologetically) discuss every taboo thought that may (or may not) have ever crossed you or your pal’s mind (only you would have quickly squashed these ideas back down to the deep recesses of your Gentle Reader brain). They procure this unabashed and unapologetic honesty in a very, very fast Canadian dialect that is virtually incomprehensible at times (particularly in the earlier episodes as your ear adjusts to the style). And yet, as one American reviewer put it: I still get it, because I speak funny.

And this is why I genuinely believe no matter who you are or what your usual tastes may implicate if you too are fluent in the language of humor Letterkenny is just an absolute sure thing (given, of course a moment to adapt to the shows distinct language and stylings). 

At first it will probably seem just so stupid and gross but upon closer inspection it just might be the absolute most cleverly written show I’ve ever barely understood.

Kevin Tierney, another television journalist (and proud Poppa to one of the show’s writers and producers) put it best:

“...not to say the show is witless. On the contrary. It is an absolute festival of language, from the very, very local to the bizarrely idiosyncratic, especially when strung together by accents that are … well, different..”

He goes on to say this of the dialogue:

“...they might well change your whole sense of the scatological...”

And that really is the crux of it, isn’t it? So what, Gentle Reader, if it took me (a shamelessly proud California City Chic) until the third season to fully grasp the collective MO of each specific clique in this specific little town? Now I’ve gotten it and I did it with nary a fun dip dry rip in sight. What binds Letterkenny in their fast paced conversationally driven relationships with both their friends and foes was spelled out for all to understand when the dumb hockey players just out and said what I’d been attempting to put my finger on for months:

“Just pick a topic and beat the shit out of it.”

And this really can be any fucking topic from drug use to male models to working out one’s legs. With options just so limitless and with a well informed writing staff even the dumbest of topics are discussed with an odd sense of eloquence and, well... science.

Which is why even I don’t hate an entire episode entitled Fartbook��in which the only subject explored for a full thirty minutes is the creation of a social network for your farts. And let’s face it, in the end is it really any worse than your face, Gentle Reader? Probably not.

To quote the farmers:

“No one cares about your cat’s farts.”

“Everyone who has a cat or a kid is going to think their farts are special and unique, they’re not.”

There are full minutes of dialogue spent categorizing snacks. Alphabetically. In verse. An important exercise executed in order to limit options (and thusly not overpack snacks for a fishing trip to Quebec) Dary and Dan have regaled themselves to foods only beginning with the letter C. When Katy questions the beer they quickly retort:

“Cold Beer.”

Obviously.

It is this ability to harp one subject until it is rendered all but useless and then find innovative ways to harp on it some more that defines the misfits of Letterkenny.

The town absolutely must create their very own euphemism dictionary. Or maybe they already have.

And while a fictional dictionary might be of some aid for us partially shutdown Northern Americans, subtitles won’t be. No matter! Consider this a genuine plea: please, please do not to give up before you’ve started! This show is a call for authenticity and friendship and it is looking like those are things all of our 2019s will need a lot of!

[tiparium]

Leander Taurius Brie Character Chart (Because I felt like it. It’s long.)

Appearance

Five feet tall

Avian

Auburn/brown hair

Freckles

Light skin

Hazel green eyes

Grey feathers around face and on neck

Usually wears

Blue beanie

Green leather jacket

Leanto industries T-shirt

Blue or grey jeans

Combat boots

Personality

Explorative

Sarcastic

Somewhat hot headed

A loyal, albeit paranoid friend

Easily distracted

Creative inventor type

A little too trusting

Quick to laugh or grin

Role in the story (As far as the story he’s in now)

Main character

Operates as the main technological advisor to Aegis

Rarely participates in actual combat, but is always close on hand

Thinks of himself as a soldier even though until late game he really isn’t

Somewhat comedic

Eventually revives Prometheus

His final plot arc yaaaay

Childhood

Grew up on Hesser

Father left when he was seven, declared dead two years later

Had few friends up to fourteen

Left for Tochk at fourteen

For academic purposes

Immediately befriended Taylor Perry, another Avian on Tochk for school

Went to Insten academy until the age of twenty

Unemployed, looking for consulting and contract work from then until accidental involvement with Sourcists at age of twenty one.

Family and Friends

Parents:

Stanis Arcturus Brie

Avian

Left when Leander was seven to work the Dust branch of ARC industries

Killed two years later in a tunnel collapse

Gruff, argumentative, but ultimately loving

Ivaline Brie

Avian

Somewhat dysfunctional parent

Caring, but not particularly helpful

Decided to send Leander to Tochk for his own developmental sake

Imprisoned for forging a visa to the Stack

Friends:

Taylor Perry

Avian

More explosive than Leander

Unlike Lee, he’ll actually pick a fight

Larger and stronger than Leander physically, but still only five three.

Two years older than Leander

Like Lee, went to Insten academy of Engineering and Applied Sciences

More feathered than Leander

Face is almost fully feathered

Conagher Mott

Turen

Leander’s pseudo father/grandfather figure

Owns a small business in the Stack, and operates as a secret informer for Aegis

Good tempered, jovial, Santa sort of dude.

Regen Sovelfin

Mage

Sort of love hate relationship

Operates as her personal weapons designer

Very short temper

Very loyal to those she trusts

Can and will rip you in half if you threaten her

One of the heads of Aegis, and their primary propaganda figure

Homeworld

Hesser

Born and raised until fourteen

Hesser is a fairly distant planet in the Trans Universal Union

Based out of realm Avia

Small planet, fairly lush and largely undeveloped other than small outposts.

Very thick atmosphere

Heavy water content results in fairly generous amounts of rainfall

Tochk

From fourteen to twenty one

An almost completely desolate planet

Home to several prestigious schools, all focused on various fields of science.

Primary world in its realm.

The realm Tochk is named for the world which has it’s main Trans Universal portal, Tochk

Very little culture outside academia and the scientific community

Where’d he come from?

Leander Brie has been a character I’ve thrown around for a long time. He was originally created as a general self insertion sort of character, his personality largely being based off my own. He has gradually become his own person however, and eventually I repurposed him as the main character and narrator of my own story, Stack.

Introvert or Extrovert

Though he does need alone time, he is very much a social and outgoing character, sometimes to the point of irritating those around him.

If he gets particularly sad, angry, or scared, he’ll either seek out Taylor, or stay on his own for several hours to cool down.

Greatest Fear

Probably his largest fear is that he’ll disappoint the people he cares about, and that he knows care about him.

A big part of his personality hinges on the fact that he needs to feel useful and helpful, and if people see him as a problem, a hindrance, or really any sort of roadblock, he takes it hard.

Sense of humor

Lee is a sort of self deprecating, immature goofball when it comes to humor. Lots of vulgarity and jokes at his own expense.

He loves puns. So many puns.

What kinda books and movies does he like

He loves campy stuff, because he’s living during a major war and needs a good laugh

Detective noir and cheesy race flicks would be totally down his alley

Music!?

I briefly had him in a band called reflector that played electronica, so let's put that in here

I can see him liking/playing guitar

Perfect Spouse

He needs someone who realizes that his constant stream of self deprecating humor is actually a plea for validation. He also needs humor from their side or he will die.

Not literally but it’s a must.

What is something he would say?

So you may be wondering why it’s taken so long to update, but that’s because I AM NOW WRITING FROM EVYTH CITY. BOOYAH. Okay details, details. Honestly it was so out of the blue, I still can’t really believe it’s happening.

You don’t travel between the realms unless you’re a serious big shot, or you work for an even bigger company. Or both. Actually usually both.

This is a transcription of old notes, and memory, as at the original moment of drafting this journal entry, I didn’t have access to my PDA, or any other equipment. Why you ask? Well, I was duped. Bad. I’m okay, sort of. But my situation at the moment isn’t exactly ideal.

Do you ever take a step back from your life and just think “What the hell have I been doing?” I’ve been doing that a lot lately.

Largest Regret

Probably becoming involved with the Sourcists in the first place

This wasn’t his fault, and he really couldn’t have seen it coming, but he still considers it his fault since it was his own actions that got him involved

Morality

He believes in second chances, but never third.

His philosophy on harm is he’ll never do something to someone that they wouldn’t do to him, so he won’t hurt someone unless they clearly want to hurt him, and he won’t kill unless he’s fighting someone who would kill him without hesitating.

He doesn’t like killing, and at first he’s super against it, but once Aegis and the Sourcists really start going at each other’s throats, he accepts it.

Where would he live?

Ideally he’d live in some really isolated small town, in the middle of a forest.

He never really gets that though, and lives on various military compounds almost his whole life, until moving his whole operation to Skrattle, and taking a lot of Aegis with him.

Who would play him?

Originally I thought Thomas Brodie-Sangster would match him, but his look has changed lately.

Just doing a quick search through actors, I think Rupert Grint would work. He’d have to darken his hair and do a Canadian accent though.

Sex and gender

Cis

What I have sometimes describes as pendulum bi

He’ll go for girls or boys, but he swings one way, stays that way for a while, then swings back. Never both at the same time.

Why’d I make him

Well like I said, he sort of started out as a self insertion character, then evolved into his own distinct thing.

A think a big part of it was because I could, and I wanted a sort of alter ego who could just do whatever the hell he wanted in his own little world. He’s become a lot more than that though.

What’s his RPG class

Definitely something quick.

I don’t know RPG classes, but he’s very small, and light on his feet. Something fast and stealthy.

He won the lottery!

Being an inventor, he always needs high end tools and equipment. He’d definitely buy whatever he’d need for whatever project he was currently working on, and probably set aside a large amount of cash for future projects. He’d also buy himself whatever the newest in space craft tech is, since that’s one of the things he’s most curious about from competitors, even though he also designs his own.

Game show

I’ve never really watched game shows, so I can’t give a really definitive answer to this, but I can see him forming alliances quickly with other smart people, and doing his best to talk his allies into splitting whatever pot they end up winning between them. If he ended up winning, he’d give everyone a fair cut based on how they performed.

If we met, what would he do?

I think that’s kind of an odd question, since if we’re talking him as a character, I’d just be another face to him.

If he knew who I was to him, he’d probably pick my brain about what I was thinking and what decisions lead to him being the way he is.

Personality tests

https://www.16personalities.com/free-personality-test

Apparently he is a debater

Animal?

http://www.quizony.com/animalPersonality/1.html?qisrc=start-1&qdevice=desktop

Apparently he’s a beaver

Aight.

And his bird is a parakeet.

Okay.

Videogame fighting style

I really can’t see him being in a brawling game, but if he’s stuck in a fight, he goes for a quick, low damage but rapid hitting style.

He always carries two batons with hidden blades for lethal and non lethal close combat, but they rarely see use.

Quirks?

Whenever he’s confused, there’s always a short burst of gibberish while he thinks

“Ah eh… uh hmmm guhhh hmmmm. Neh? Gehhhh.”

That would all be said in about a second.

Whenever he is shown a new thing, he has to pick it up and inspect it. This can be a problem sometimes.

When he’s thinking and someone tries to talk to him, he will always put his finger over their lips and glare at them.

How would he deal with another series world?

Harry Potter

Being familiar with magic, though not of the HP variety, he would very quickly try to integrate into wizarding society and try to start a business selling tech disguised as magic to them.

He would definitely have a deep interest in the dark arts, but for academic, not nefarious purposes.

Star Trek

He’d almost certainly enlist in Starfleet, and try to work his way up through the ranks of those who actually build Starships, and try to integrate his own designs.

Can he sing?

Short answer:

Yes he can sing.

Longer answer:

Being avian, he has a massive lung capacity in respect to his size, and a naturally clear and high voice. He’d definitely be a tenor, as almost no aves have the size to allow them to sing low notes. How often he actually does sing is fairly limited, as there is little to no reason to in the time he lives in. Even if he wasn’t living in a time of conflict, just because almost all Aves can sing, doesn’t mean they do.

What would his ideal meal be?

Not all Aves avoid eating birds, but Lee is definitely among those that do, so chicken is out and so is turkey. He’s not vegetarian however. In terms of meat, his favorite is fish, really of any kind but catfish in particular. Some kind of salad with a large serving of catfish on the side would easily get his attention.

http://flavornc.com/2013/09/blackened-catfish-salad/

What does he do when he’s bored?

Lee has a few habits that can be quite destructive if he doesn't keep them in check.

If he has nothing else to do, he’ll begin tinkering with whatever is in his immediate vicinity. When he’s in his own space this is fine, but it can result in him inadvertently destroying things of importance because he needs them for whatever mindless project he’s working on.

At one point he “borrowed” Regen’s personal sidearm because he needed focusing crystals from it for a laser pointer he was absent mindedly building.

Sometimes he’ll also just start making weird noises, and eventually everyone in the room will be annoyed at him.

How does he express his affection?

Lee is a total cuddler, and will gladly platonically cuddle with just about anyone he likes.

For friends he (and the rest of the Aves for that matter) do a forehead touch where most people would give a kiss on the cheek or shake hands.