#middle aged women calling him a silver fox

[thisantithesis]

james potter would age like fine fuckin wine and i will die on this hill

[lifeofclonewars]

Intro to the Extended Fett Clan (WKatMAM)

I’m doing this so I don’t have to take an unnecessarily long amount of time during Part 4 to explain the whole family to everyone. I get my second Covid shot tomorrow, so hopefully Chapter One will be up soon. Enjoy!

Clan Leaders

Nielsen Fett: Better known as 99 in canon, Nielsen goes by NiNi or ba’buir with his grandkids. He’s a farmer, and hosts the Annual Fett Family Reunion every year. Married to Kamino. Father to Lynx, Courey, Wolffe's mom (no, I'm not revealing her name yet), Alfred (Alph), Charisma, Arla, and Jango. Grandpa to all the kids who will be listed. 

Kamino Fett: I say screw the Kaminoans by naming the matriarch of this au after their home planet and making her love her family no matter what happens. She was a baker, passed away from old age two years before this au takes place. Used to have those grandma glasses-on-a-chain. Was blonde. Mother to Lynx, Courey, Wolffe's mom, Alph, Charisma, Arla, and Jango. Her grandkids call her KamKam or ba’buir.

Subclan One (aka some of the Commanders)

Lynx Fett: The oldest of the next generation of Fetts. He's a vet. Has a full goatee. Married to Nala Se. Father to Bly, Gree, Ponds, Keeli, Colt, and Zariza. Grandpa to Colette. More lax on his kids than his wife. Good dad, poor choice in women.

Nala Se: Geneticist (obviously lol). Very strict because "Lynx is too lax on their kids" (he's not). Mother to Bly, Gree, Ponds, Keeli, Colt, and Zariza. Grandma to Colette. Few people in the family actually like her.

Bly Secura-Fett: 27, Kindergarten teacher. Married to Aayla, father to Colette. Oldest of the next generation of Fetts/the cousins. You might recognize his username from the previous parts, Old Man Dad Bly. Ponds was the one to set it to that. Bly doesn't care enough about it negatively to switch it.

Aayla Secura-Fett: 26, Ryl Translator. Married to Bly, mother of Colette. Known for wearing her hair in braids. She's not in the cousin chat but Bly's constantly showing her screenshots of it and she enjoys it.

Colette Secura-Fett: Almost 1, a Blyla baby! So far clings to Bly more than Aayla, but that may change. Gets lots of love and snuggles from the extended fam.

Gree Fett: 25, biologist. Second oldest of the subclan and of the cousins. Still has that haircut but mainly out of spite of his brothers instead of in honor of them this time. Chat Name: Green Man.

Pontius “Ponds” Fett: 23. He’s working to be an architect, but is currently stuck with a job he’s over-qualified for in the meantime. Known in the chat as Lakes because he thinks he’s funny sometimes. Most likely to start something in subclan one, least likely to be blamed for it... most of the time.

Keeli Fett: 21, cosmetologist. He took a different route than his brothers and went to trade school instead of a 4-year university and consequently got a job before Ponds did. Best hair in the family. Debating whether or not Gree’s haircut is a good enough reason to disown him lol. Chat Name: Keeling Over.

Colt Fett: 17, just finished his junior year of high school. Working a minimum wage summer job to help save for college. Met his best friends Havoc and Blitz in kindergarten; they all work at the same place now. Chat Name: Neigh.

Zariza Fett: 15, just finished her freshman year of high school. Only daughter in the subclan, which is both a blessing and a curse with Nala for a mom. Wants to be a photographer, has taken pictures throughout the reunions the past few years for NiNi. Has lots of blackmail on everyone as a result. Chat Name: Zzzzzz.

Subclan Two (aka the Coruscant Guard)

Courey Fett: Second oldest of his generation of Fetts. He’s a bartender (and owner), and the loudest and most rambunctious of his siblings. Full beard. Married to Slyvia Fett. Father to Fox, Thorn, Jek, Rys, and Corsica. His name is vaguely based on me misspelling Coruscant many many times in the past.

Slyvia Fett: You thought Nala Se was an interesting choice in mom? This lady is a super successful but shady businesswoman. Nobody knows the specifics and they’re not sure they want to know. Also kinda strict, but she’s also not home often enough for it to make too much impact. Married to Courey, mother to Fox, Thorn, Jek, Rys, and Corsica. She has dirty blonde hair, which two of her kids inherited when it combined with the rare blond Fett gene. Vaguely based on Sly Moore.

Fox Fett: 19, just finished his freshman year of college. Perpetually tired because of homework, actual work, and the projects he choses to do. Two days older than Wolffe and reminds him often. Actually best friends with Wolffe. They go to the same university. Like Wolffe, loves his siblings but is loath to admit it. Causes more trouble than people think. Chat Name: Think Outside the Fox.

Thorn Fett: 16, just finished his sophomore year of high school. Older of the two dirty-blonds in the sub-clan. Second oldest blond of the cousins after Rex. Suspicious in how he’s so optimistic when he grew up with Fox for a brother haha. Occasionally likes to stir up trouble in the chat, especially since he’s the one who made it. Chat Name: Thorn in Your Side.

Jek Fett: 11, just finished fifth grade. His best friend is Thire. Too young for the chat, not too young to cause trouble. Like all little brothers, switches between ignoring Fox and Thorn and always trying to get their attention. Like all middle children, turns it around and also picks on Rys and Corsica for the same things Fox and Thorn use on him. 

Rys Fett: 8, just finished second grade. Current goal in life is to catch Fox sneak-attacking him just once. Tags along with Jek most of the time, sometimes to bug him, sometimes because he thinks he’s cool. Also too young for the chat.

Corsica Fett: 7, just finished first grade. Only daughter of subclan two. The second of the dirty blonde haired kids in this subclan. Hangs out with Unique a lot at family reunions. Has the art of bugging her brothers at the most inconvenient times down. Already learning to blackmail people. Name lightly based on the correct spelling of Coruscant. Also too young for chat.

The Koons (aka our MCs! The Wolfpack)

Plo Koon: My favorite space dad haha. I think you get the gist by now. Get ready for some more puns! Definitely the type of dad to wear a fanny pack. His sunglasses are probably just transition glasses that switch too easily and he just never told anyone lol. Actually, I never mentioned it, but he’s also a social worker.

A[redacted] Koon: Our boys’ mom. Married to Plo, though she died giving birth to Comet. Twin to Alfred. Her name is a surprise for later, so here’s her first initial, at least. Used to wear glasses or contacts, depending on the day.

Wolffe Koon: 19, just finished his freshman year of college. The star of the show lol aka our pov character. Loves his brothers but rarely admits it out loud. Best friend is Fox and is going to use that to his advantage for blackmail this reunion. Cousin Chat Name: Werewolf? There Wolffe! Subclan Chat Name: Howl are you? Wolfpack Chat Name: Grr.

Boost Koon: 15, just finished his freshman year of high school. The only person in the family who likes Gree’s haircut. His maroon hair is starting to grow out now. It may or may not be his turn to get lost this time... Chat Name: T-Mobile. Subclan Chat Name: Ghosty Boi. Wolfpack Chat Name: Booster Seat.

Sinker Koon: 13, just finished seventh grade and it shows. His silver hair is also starting to grow out. Gonna cause some chaos, since he’s close in age to many of the Fett cousins. Chat Name: Banana Sink. Subclan Chat Name: Hook, Line, and— Wolfpack Chat Name: Stinker. (No, it hasn’t been changed back yet.)

Comet Koon: 10, just finished fourth grade. Still obsessed with penguins. Also gonna cause some chaos with some of the cousins. Koon most likely to get hurt during the reunion by climbing on and jumping off things he shouldn’t. Also too young for the chat.

Subclan Three (aka Cody + the 501st)

Alfred “Alpha” Fett: Twin to A, younger by 5 minutes and never talks about it. Married to Sevannah. Father to Cody, Rex, Fives, Echo, Tup. Owns a gym named Triple A. Used to be a personal trainer, which is how he met Sevannah. Technically the middle child of his siblings.

Sevannah Fett: Professional and Olympic archer. Married to Alph, mother to Cody, Rex, Fives, Echo, Tup. Yes, her name comes from seventeen as in “Alpha-17.″ (Maybe not) surprisingly, the more in shape out of her and Alph since she’s still competing lol.

Kote “Cody” Fett: 18, just graduated high school. Planning on attending college for sports management. Twin to Rex (he’s older by 7 minutes). Got his scar while playing football or something, I’m not really sure. Any Ghost member you can think of is probably his friend. Chat Name: *hacker voice* I’m In.

Rex Fett: 18, just graduated high school. Planning on being an athletic trainer. Twin to Cody. Naturally blond — and I mean blond and not dirty blond. Only one of subclan three who is. Any member of Torrent that’s not his brother is his friend. Chat Name: Jurassic Park.

Fives Fett: 13, just finished seventh grade. His full name will be revealed during Part 4. Twin to Echo (older by five minutes, yes). Wants to learn how to be a skydiving instructor solely to try to help Rex get over his fear of heights. Best friends are Domino Squad. Chat Name: Sixes.

Echo Fett: 13, just finished seventh grade. His full name will also be revealed during Part 4. Twin to Fives. Seems more chill than Fives but the reunion always proves that wrong. Best friends are Domino. Occasionally babysits the Havocs. Chat Name: ECHO Echo echo.

Tup Fett: 10, just finished fourth grade. Tup is his full name, yes. Starting to get into archery like his mom. Canon tattoo is a mole here. His hair’s down to his shoulders and super curly. Cody’s often pulling sticks out of it. Too young for the chat.

The Havocs (aka the Bad Batch)

Charisma Havoc (neé Fett): Interior designer. Married to Gunner. Mother to Hunter, Cross, Wrecker, Timmy. Also on the louder end of her and her siblings. The Havocs are pretty background characters, since their kids are much younger than Wolffe and also bc the show’s still establishing things.

Gunner Havoc: Carpenter. Married to Charisma. Father to Hunter, Cross, Wrecker, Timmy. Together Charisma and Gunner could probably start an HGTV show lol. But they don’t want to so they aren’t. Last name comes from the Havoc Marauder (tbb's ship).

Hunter Havoc: 14, just finished eighth grade. Part of his canon tattoo is a birthmark, though not all of it. His hair is also long enough to be put into a small ponytail. Keeli’s got some cousins to teach, doesn’t he lol. Chat Name: Hunter-Gatherer.

Cross Havoc: 12, just finished sixth grade. Grumpy almost-teenager. Wolffe doesn’t run into him often because he tries to avoid his older cousins (well, actually, most of his cousins) the entire reunion every year. Lurks in the chat but his username is Mad (courtesy of Thorn). I shortened his name because it is an actual name and Crosshair is only a clone name.

Walter “Wrecker” Havoc: 9, just finished third grade. The older cousins claim he got his nickname in the “Wrecker Incident” and make it out to be this overly dramatic thing that's classified to those 12 and under. In all reality, it was him accidentally crashing into a few things of his brothers when he was first learning to walk. Gree just thought it was hilarious to blow it out of proportion. Too young for the chat.

Timothy “Timmy” Havoc: 7, just finished first grade. Wears glasses. A bit too young to have Tech as a nickname quite yet, but he definitely would in the future. Also mostly in the background, considering he's 12 years younger than Wolffe. Too young for chat.

The Concords (aka let's add some more girls to this family)

Arla Concord neé Fett: She's the only adult beside her husband that I currently don't have a job listed for, but that's because my brain won't supply one. Second youngest of her siblings. Married to Felix. Mother to Clementine, Ansonia, Unique, Majorca, Tessa, Violet. Screw canon/legends, she's still alive.

Felix Concord: Again, haven't thought of a job for him yet, but he has one. Married to Arla. Father to Clementine, Ansonia, Unique, Majorca, Tessa, Violet. Last name comes from Concord Dawn.

Clementine Concord: 12, just finished sixth grade. Wants to be an astronaut or astrophysicist one day. Spends lots of time wrangling her younger sisters. Chat Name: Orange Gal.

Ansonia Concord: 10, just finished fourth grade. Wants to be an actress, really bring those dramatic Fett genes into play lol. Spends lots of time bugging Clementine and bossing around her younger sisters. Too young for the chat.

Unique Concord: 7, just finished first grade. Wants to be a doctor, spends lots of time hanging out with Ansonia. The two of them could probably do a pretty accurate hospital soap opera without prompting or knowing haha. Hangs with Corsica a lot at reunions, though. Yeah, idk where her name came from either. Dirty-blonde hair. Too young for the chat (duh).

Majorca Concord: 6, just finished kindergarten. Still learning basic writing and loves it so much she wants to be an author. Named after the city in Spain on accident — I totally didn’t realize that was why her name seemed familiar until like 2 months after I named her. Also too young for the chat or to appear much in the story.

Quintessa “Tess/Tessa” Concord: 5, preschooler. The other blonde kiddo. Picks on Gree’s hair without prompting from any cousins or sisters. Likes to play pretend with Majorca when they can. Also likes to draw stars and castles and such often. Obviously too young for the chat, appears slightly more because of her natural roasting abilities. 

Violet Concord: 3, maybe a preschooler? Again, doesn’t really appear much. Hangs out a bit with Boba and Tessa when the family gets together. Very very obviously too young for the chat.

Subclan Four (the OG Fetts)

Jango Fett: People usually make him one of the dads or the grandpa, but nah, he gets baby of his generation status. I wanted to keep with the “Arla is his older sister” thing but she’s the second youngest so he’s the youngest. Has been super mysterious about his life from the second he moved out but still shows up to family events. Knows who Boba’s mother is but refuses to tell. Father of Boba (obviously).

Boba Fett: 4, preschooler. Like I said above, hangs with Tessa and Violet during family events. More likely to accidentally reveal details about Jango’s life than Jango. Surprise baby but not for Jango. Jango knew. The family didn’t know until Jango showed up with infant Boba to a family event and went “this is Boba, no questions will be answered.” Also very obviously too young for the chat.

---

And that’s the extended Fett clan! Feel free to ask questions, I’ve got plenty of information about (most of) them and their roles in this au.

[thecleverdame]

Control and Release - 22

Series Masterlist

TEDTalk!Sam x Reader

Summary: With the rest of the staff caught in a snowstorm, you find yourself acting as a personal assistant to the notorious Sam Winchester.

Warnings: Dom/Sub, humiliation, embarrassment, sexual objectification, mutual masturbation, spanking, cum play, fingering, anal play, orgasm control, nipple clamps, dub-con, breath play.

Beta: @ilikaicalie

Words: 4.6k

Parts 23, 24, 25 & 26are currently available on Patreon for a monthly pledge of $2.50. This includes early access to all my stories, including the ABO series Gods of Twilight and Patreon exclusive content.  >> CLICK HERE <<

-

“Are you seriously going to pretend like that didn’t happen?” You trail Sam back down the hallway, glancing behind you. Pepper ran out as soon as she collected her documents, but you’re still on edge.

“I’m not pretending anything.” Sam wanders into the bedroom, waving a hand without turning around. “What reaction would you like me to have?”

“I don’t know,” you stand the doorway, trying to think coherent thoughts. “You’re not concerned? Embarrassed?”

“Why would I be concerned?” He pauses to turn back to you skeptically. “She won’t tell anyone. She’s a bitch and she hates you but she would never betray my trust.”

“Oh,” you nod, unable to believe how calm he is. “So that’s just it huh?”

“Why would I be embarrassed?” He cocks his head, asking it as a genuine question.

“I don’t know,” you shrug. “She walked in on us having sex. In your kitchen.”

“You’re the one who was naked. I understand why you'd feel that way,” he volleys back.

“And it’s not a thing for you?” you inch into the room. “That she knows you’re with me or sleeping with me at least?”

“You say that like you’re something to be embarrassed about,” he snorts, yanking his shirt off over his head. “I’m sure most people would think being with you is the best part about me. My sole redeeming quality.”

And with that, he wanders off into the bathroom and shower turns on. You smile to yourself, cheeks burning at his easy declaration. He always does this, says things that would be laughable if it was anyone other than him.

“Take your clothes off and get in here,” he calls from the shower.

“Coming!” you sing-song, shedding your shirt and joining him under the warm water.

His kisses are messy this morning, open mouthed and wet, the heft of his tongue sliding over your own. You find yourself trapped between his warm, dripping body and the cold tile of the shower as he lifts you up and slides his cock into your pussy in one easy move.

The first thrust is always the best, that forced stretch of your body opening up for him and the thickness of his cock filling up every last inch inside. One of his forearms presses on the tile beside your head, the other hand cupping your ass, as he ruts up into you again and again.

“Fuck, Sam,” you moan into his mouth. Grasping his shoulders you hang on as he thrusts hard and fast.

He stops to nip at your bottom lip, catching it. “We’ll try this in the kitchen again this weekend.”

-

You haven’t been up to Sam’s office since W & S moved into the new buildings. The old offices were modern, but these buildings are from the turn of the century with an aging charm you can appreciate.

With a controlled, neutral expression you approach Pepper at her desk. She glances up, sees you and then looks back to her computer.

“He’s out to lunch with a client,” she explains coolly.

“Actually, I came to see you.”

“Why?” She smiles, a frightening expression that’s so unnatural you almost flinch.

“You know why,” you whisper, stepping closer. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry that you walked in on us. It had to be really uncomfortable seeing us like that, seeing Sam with me.”

“Please, don’t patronize me. I’m an adult. I can handle seeing your tits,” she spits back, her cheeks turning red. “Are you honestly naive enough to think you’re the first? Two years ago I caught him getting a blow job in the middle of his living room. You, naked in the kitchen, doesn’t even rank compared to that.”

Stifling your reaction you take a step back from the desk. She invoked the idea of Sam with another woman to get a rise out of you but you refuse to play into her game. “I shouldn’t have come up here. I’m sorry.”

“You, of all people,” she mutters, unable to hold back.

“What the hell does that mean?” you counter.

“I mean, I get it,” she sneers. “You’re beautiful and good at taking orders, he likes that. But Jesus, how did the two of you even get to that point? What, did he save your life and so you felt like you should offer him your pussy?”

“What’s wrong with you?” You stare at her, trying to determine the root of this hostility. Does she want him? Does she just hate you that much?

“Just be sure to watch yourself,” she warns. “I thought he was too smart to hook up with some desperate woman at work but I guess all men are led around by their dicks after all. If you think you matter to him, you don’t. I’ve seen that side of him, he’ll fuck you until he’s had his fill and then you’re toast.”

“Why are you always so nasty?” Shaking your head you back away. You came here to offer an olive branch but she’s not going to allow that.

“Because I’m the one who put in the time!” She points at you, thrusting a finger forward. “I work ninety hour weeks. I take his shit day in and day out, I take the blame and responsibility for every Goddamn thing that goes wrong. And you suck his dick and now you’re in some made-up position making the same amount of money as I am but dealing with a fraction of the bullshit. Jesus! Honestly, you were the last person I thought would sleep her way to the top. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“It’s not like that,” you counter, wiping away a tear that’s managed to escape.

“What is it like then?”

“It’s not how you’re making it out to be.”

“How many blow jobs get you a position like that?”

“Now you’re just being cruel.”

“I’m being real.” Her face is beet red, her eyes welling up with tears. “You’ve been here a year and he’s given you special treatment from the beginning. I can’t stand to look at you anymore. I’ll send you an alert via email when he’s back in his office if you want to see him.”

-

Hours later you’re still seething from the confrontation. You’ve been locked up in your office, practically vibrating with anger since the encounter earlier that morning. Pepper has always been a grade-A bitch and you should have known that trying to explain yourself would get you nowhere. At least Sam was right about one thing, you’re sure of her allegiance. She takes her position seriously and she’s terrified of him. That makes for a powerful combination.

You’re about to go over next week’s schedule when there’s a knock on your door. Looking up you find none other than Pepper. Rolling your eyes you shake your head no, glaring at her.

“What are you doing here?”

Pepper leans against the door frame, watching you intently before stepping inside and carefully shutting the door. She silently takes a seat across from you, sucking in a breath before speaking.

“I was thinking. When you were leaving for Chicago, Millie wouldn’t shut up about your mystery boyfriend. She went on and on about what an asshole he must be to make you leave the city just to get over him. She thought it was Dale from accounting.”

You shift in your chair, uncomfortable with where this is going but even more appalled at the idea of Dale being your lover.

“He’s like, sixty.”

“Yeah, but a silver fox,” she grins. “Then I started thinking about Sam’s special project. All those last-minute meetings. In the entire time I’ve worked for him, he’s never once scheduled a meeting himself. I should have known there was something going on.”

“I wasn’t trying to get special treatment. It just kind of...evolved,” you admit quietly. “It was never my intention to use him to get ahead professionally. Despite what you think, that’s not what this is. I’m good at this.”  

Her eyes narrow as she studies you. She’s clearly been working with Sam for too long because she’s taken on several of his mannerisms, including his stare that could pry state secrets out a cold war spy.

“When did it start?” she asks.

“That is none your business,” you counter, suspicious of her motives.  

“Oh come on,” she sighs dramatically, leaning back in the chair. “Who am I going to tell? I signed a nondisclosure when I started working for him. If I ever spill any of Winchester’s beans he’d ruin my life.”

It’s an interesting juxtaposition. You and Pepper have more in common than most. Your varying relationships with Sam and the sex contract he made you sign. It’s strange to hear her talk about their own legal agreement. Sam knows the devil is in the details and he’s covered his ass from all angles.

“It happened early on,” you admit, feeling a weight lifted in telling someone, anyone. Even if that person is your arch-nemesis. “When you first had me cover for you during that snowstorm.”

“Shit,” she breathes looking at you in a mix of disbelief and amazement. “You’re sleeping with Sam Winchester. I don’t get it. I mean, women like power but this is Sam we’re talking about. Does he give you his frequent flyer miles or something?”

“If you’re going to be like that, you can leave.” You point to the door and she rolls her eyes.

“I just mean, it’s crazy from both sides. I always figured he hired high priced hookers or something, but you...I can’t believe I didn’t see it. Does he pay you?”

“Fuck you, Pepper,” you sneer, leaning forward. “I’m not a whore.”

“What? Are you dating?” She laughs at the idea.

You offer a shrug, then nod slowly in confirmation.

“Are you kidding me?” Her face falls, a look of genuine concern pulling her mouth into a nasty little grimace. ���Do you live with him?”

“No, I mean I stayed for a while after the shooting, but I’m not living there now.”

“I don’t even know what to say.” All the energy has drained out of her.

“Why is it so hard for you to believe that he would be with me?”

“It’s nothing to do with you,” she shakes her head. “I mean, I know he’s not a machine but he hates people. I can’t believe he would have the patience to be in any kind of relationship. You gotta be a masochist because he’s a bastard.”

“He’s not so bad,” you retort.

“Fuck, you got it bad for him, huh? You clearly haven’t been on the receiving end of that temper.”

Your face goes hot, and you swallow hard at the mere idea of being on the receiving end of anything he’s got to give.

“He can be sweet.” You smile to yourself and glance up. Her eyes have shifted, a sudden hesitation crossing her face.

“Please don’t tell him what I said,” she requests in a hurried breath. “What happened with the documents, that wasn’t my first fuck up recently and I can’t get fired, please don’t tell him. I know I’ve been a cunt to you, but I need this job. No one is going to pay me close to what he does and I’ve got people in my life who need that money. Please don’t tell him.”

“Okay,” you agree automatically, watching the desperation wash over her entire demeanor. There’s clearly a lot more going on with Pepper beneath the surface. “I won’t.”

“Why wouldn't you?” she snips. “If what you said about your relationship is true, he’d be furious if he knew I talked to you that way. After everything I’ve done to you, why would you keep your mouth shut? I’ve thrown you under the bus a couple of times.”

“I’m not you, Pepper.” You shrug. “It wouldn’t make me feel any better to get you in trouble. Not to mention we both almost died. I think that means we deserve a chance to start over. I’m not saying we need to be friends, but at least we can be kinder to each other.”

“Alright,” she agrees hesitantly. Rolling her eyes again she laughs, shaking out nervous energy. “I can’t believe this.”

“Sam thinks a lot of you,” you add and she snaps to attention. “He trusts you and we both know there are not many people on that list.”

“Well,” she shrugs, getting up and head to the door. “I wish someone would tell him.”

-

Cole’s office is exactly what you expected, meticulously organized with small personal touches that make it his own. He spends most of his life here, countless hours working hard to make a good impression and so far he’s exceeded everyone’s expectations, including yours.

Behind his desk, on a floating metal shelf, are multiple photos. One of him in military garb with his former unit. Next to that is a photo of an older couple you assume are his parents. Mounted on the wall are his degrees. There’s a NorthWestern diploma for his undergrad and then his law degree from Georgetown.

He’s incredibly proud of his history as a Marine and you wonder why he left the service. He went to school later in life than most but he’s certainly excelled. He’s roughly the same age as Sam, maybe a few years older but just as disciplined.

“Sorry I’m late.” Cole shakes his head, closing the door to his office and dropping a stack of folders onto the desk. “I had a meeting with the big guy.”

“How did it go?”

“Good,” he looks at you thoughtfully. “I think. He’s hard to get a read on.”

“That he is,” you agree.”But I think you’d know if he wasn’t happy.”

“I mean he doesn’t pull any punches but that's how I like to work. Let’s just try and not screw up, okay?”

“I’ll do my best.” You give him a little salute and he chuckles.

“We’ve got a client, it’s an intellectual property rights case and we’re representing Lavion. In fact is looks like moving forward we’re going to represent them exclusively.”

Lavoin is a tech giant, right up there with Google and Microsoft and it’s owned by none other than your biggest fan, Nick Luster. They’re still considered an up and coming company, but in a few years the talking heads expect Lavion to surpass their current competitors.

“That’s huge.” It’s a strange thing to feel excited about work, this is a first but you can’t deny how fulfilling it is to be part of a powerful team like this. “What’s our role in this?”

“There are 162 members of the legal team that are available for assignment or reassignment. Our task to determine what ten associates we’re going to assign and then oversee the case. Eventually, we’ll oversee everything, all the junior associates at least. But it starts here.”

“Holy shit,” you breathe, grinning at each other.

-

Your period runs like clockwork. It comes on the same day, at the same time, every month without fail. It should have started this morning, but when you checked the pantyliner during lunch it was pristine white.

There’s a sick feeling in your stomach as you double-check your calendar. You’ve never been late, not for years.

A day later you’re starting to panic but realize it’s time to man up and find out, so you head to Walgreens and pick up a two-pack of pregnancy tests, tucking them into your purse before you head to Sam’s house for the weekend.

He’s not home yet when you arrive. You lock yourself in a guest bathroom, deciding to make double sure of the results. You pee on both, then set them on the counter and set the timer on your phone.

There’s never been a longer five minutes in the history of the planet. You take this time to contemplate how little you know about Sam and how a tiny pink + sign could change the trajectory of your whole life. You don’t want children, not right now and definitely not with a guy that only confessed his feelings after you were confronted with certain death. Sam, especially in his current state, is not exactly father of the year material.

The timer on your phone sounds and you take a deep breath, shaking out your hands to release the nerves before looking.

Negative.

And a second negative.

“Fuck,” you whisper, laughing in sheer relief. “I’m such a drama queen,” you mutter to yourself, taking the tests and grabbing your phone.

You’re halfway back to the bedroom when Sam appears in the doorway, pulling the knot of his tie loose. He looks amused, smiling at you. “Where were you? I saw your purse in the kitchen…”

His voice trails off as he hones in on the tests clutched in your hand. His face drains of all color, just as panicked as you were earlier.

“Don’t worry,” you take a step toward him. “I’m not pregnant, my period is just late. I scared myself too.”

“Good,” he blinks, collecting himself. Pausing he starts to say something and then stops himself to reconsider the delivery. “I don’t want children.”

“Me either,” you agree. “Not right now, anyway.”

“Ever,” he clarifies. “You should know that, if it’s a non-negotiable for you.”

“Oh.” You’re stunned for a moment, taking in this declaration. First, it’s a pretty ballsy thing to say to your non-girlfriend girlfriend just minutes after she thought she might be pregnant. On the other hand, he’s talking about this information like he intends for your relationship to progress into the long term. “I’d prefer if you don’t use business jargon when we’re talking about personal matters. It’s not something I’ve thought much about. I’ve spent my adult life trying not to get pregnant.”

“Good,” he confirms, staring at you with uncomfortable intensity. Is this his ultimatum? A challenge? Whatever he’s trying to convey it has you on edge.

“What would you say if I told you I was pregnant?” you counter and he recoils, a grimace pulling at his lips. “You wouldn’t want me to have it, would you?”

He swallows, jaw tightening as he takes off his glasses. Taking a breath he remains collected and looks at you dead on. “It would be your choice of course, but I don’t want children.”

“Will you tell me something, Sam?” You inch closer, keeping your reaction in check. “Do you see us in a place where that would become an issue? I mean, when you think about our relationship, are we together in a year? Five years? What does the future look like for you.”

“I don’t deal in hypotheticals,” he quips dryly, suiting up in his emotional armor.

“We’re not wheeling and dealing in anything. We’re talking like two people who care about each other. I’d like you to answer my question.”

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, rolling his eyes and turning to walk back into the bedroom. You’re about to really let him have it for walking away but he sits down in the modern, upholstered chair tucked into the corner. “If I’m lucky, which I doubt will happen because the universe fucking hates Winchesters, but if I’m lucky in five years you’re still with me. Maybe we’re living together. But if you really want to know what we look like in the future, I’ll tell you what’s going to happen. You’ll be as far away from me as you can get. I’ll hurt you. I’ll make you regret that you ever gave me a chance. You’ll move on to find a happy life with some accountant from Idaho who thinks he’s won the lottery.”

“That’s bleak,” you respond immediately. This isn’t the first time he’s expressed his belief that he’s going to drive you away. “You know what I think? It’s an excuse for your shitty, closed off behavior. If you keep saying in the end you’re going to make me hate you, it’s just a self-fulfilling prophecy when it happens. You get to act like a dick, refuse to open up and when I leave, well fuck, you’ve known it would happen all along. Stop being such a coward and let me in. You’re using this bullshit premonition of our inevitable demise as a reason to not let me know you.”

His nostrils flare out, eyes narrowing. He hates being called out, but you’re not done yet.

“Maybe I will want to have a baby one day, but I can’t make that decision right now. I can’t even start to think about that because we’re still learning how to become us. I want to know you, to fall in love with you, hell maybe I already am in some twisted way, but I don’t know that yet. Maybe we’ll hate each in other in five years, but there’s also a chance that we really fucking enjoy each other too. Maybe we get married and adopt a dog. My point is I don’t fucking know what’s going to happen and you don’t either. So stop acting like you can see the future and just open up a little and be here with me. Show up now, Sam. I’m waiting for you, I want you. All you have to do is try.”

He’s silent, his jaw set with each hand resting on either thigh. His eye twitches, mouth pulling in discomfort.

“I think about you all the time.” He delivers this as if he’s making a weighty confession of some tawdry affair. “It’s been hard for me...for a long time...to concentrate on anything good in life. In my experience, the things I care about always have an expiration date. I don’t deal with loss well. The more I care about you, the greater that loss will be for me.”

“Sam,” you walk over to him, kneeing your way onto his lap. His hands slide over your hips as you look down at him. “What if there is no expiration date? What if you don’t lose me? You are the only one running away.”

“I’m not good at this,” he snorts, thumbs sinking into the meat of your waist.

“Well, lucky for you that isn’t news to me.” You pat his chest, looking over this handsome face you know all too well. “We should go on a date. Like a normal, real people date.”

“A date?” He raises an eyebrow.

“Yeah, you know, dinner and a show or something normal.”

“What if someone sees us?”

“Well,” you shrug. “We can’t hide in the shadows if we want to move forward. I’m not ready to shout it from the mountain tops that I’m sleeping with my boss’s boss. I’d be happy for everyone to know that I’m with you, it’s the assumptions people will make that give me pause. But this is more important than my ego. If people find out, they find out.”

“I’ll make a reservation,” he shrugs.

“Good,” you nod, leaning down to kiss him, but pull back before your lips meet. “There’s actually one more thing I wanted to talk to you about.”

-

“Pepper!” Sam calls through the open doors of his office.

He normally uses the intercom; when he hollers it means she’s about to get it. Pepper scrambles out of her chair and into his office, pulling her blouse into place. He sees her as an extension of him and when she looks less than put together he lets her know.

“I’m here,” she stands up straight, hands clasped together.

Sam’s standing in the middle of the room with both hands in his pockets. Never a good sign when he’s out of his seat. It means he’s got energy, something has riled him and she takes the brunt of his mood swings.

He stares right through her, eyes narrowing, the two of them locked in silence.

“It’s been brought to my attention that you had quite a conversation with Y/N.”

This statement sends her heart into her stomach. You bitch. You said you wouldn’t tell him but she should have known better.

“Y-yes,” Pepper stammers.

“I’ve also been advised that you feel you’re more qualified than Y/N for the position under Cole Trenton.” He lifts an eyebrow awaiting her answer.

She’s not normally a crier but life has been harder than usual lately.

Pepper feels like she might throw up. She’ll never forgive you for this. A single tear falls down her cheek but she wipes it away immediately. He hates it when people cry and she doesn’t want to make this worse.

“I-I said something I didn’t truly mean,” she offers, voice wavering. “I’m sorry. I should never have said anything.”

“No,” he shakes his head, walking leisurely back behind his desk. “You shouldn’t have.”

Here it comes. She closes her eyes and prepares for one of his monologues on her many failings and her impending termination.

“There are two reasons that you aren’t a fit for that position.” He sits down in his chair, leaning back and resting a forearm on the desk. “One, no one wants to work with you. Even if you and Cole worked well together, I needed someone that people like. Someone people will talk to. It’s a liaison position, I can’t have a person in that role who’s burnt as many bridges as you have.”

“I understand,” Pepper whispers, staring at the carpet.

“Look at me, not the floor,” he snaps. Pepper gulps, clearing her throat as she lifts her chin. “The second reason is that I need you. No one else is capable of doing what you do. You balance my schedule, you understand the differing levels of importance when it comes to people, meetings, and tasks. You’ve managed to work directly for me for years without cracking. I trust you and the number of people I trust I can count on one hand. You are invaluable to me.”

She’s stunned, she stands there staring at him, no longer shaking but in complete shock. He doesn’t offer praise, especially not to her.

Sam taps a file on his desk.

“Your mother’s been sick.” He’s not looking for confirmation. He already knows the details. “Now your brother has been injured.”

Her mother’s been sick for a while, slowly dying a painful death in a hospital bed in Ohio with no insurance. Her brother, Dan, went to check on their mother every day. But last week he was in a car accident, he’s in intensive care.

Now it’s just her.

“Yes,” she stares at him, wondering where this is going.

“Do you need to go home?”

“I...I don’t know.”

“You should go.” He waves his hand at her. “When you’re at work I need you to be on your game. If that means you need to handle what’s happening with your family, then go and take care of it. Be with your family and come back when you’re ready.”

“My mom, um,” she wipes her eyes again. “I was waiting until she was closer to the end to ask for a leave. It could be a month, maybe longer.”

“I understand that.” Sam stares at her, emotionless and stoic. “Find a suitable replacement that won’t turn my life upside down. Take as long as you need.”

“Thank you,” she whispers, already backing out of the room before he changes his mind.

“Don’t thank me. It’s selfish. I need you long term. When you get back we can discuss your salary.”

-

Parts 23, 24, 25 & 26are currently available on Patreon for a monthly pledge of $2.50. This includes early access to all my stories, including the ABO series Gods of Twilight and Patreon exclusive content.  >> CLICK HERE <<

[smolbeandrabbles]

Selfish Pt.3 - Sheriff of Nottingham x Reader (Robin Hood 2018)

Part 1 / Part 2

Author’s Note: Michael Buble lyrics...?! Yeah! Her home town may or may not be heavily influenced by my trip to Norway back in March... and the fact that we had a bunch of lectures on Vikings. ...And the show Vikings itself...!  I apologise for the length of time it’s taken to get this one out to you - basically I wrote all of it, then not only was it far too long, but I was attempting to get all the characters into their places for Part 1 / 2 (future state!) right away. Where as I realised I was allowed to do that bit by bit! Therefore I had to decide which went where... And opted for this order! (That means you may well get the other parts quicker, but I’m making no promises!)

Disclaimer: Characters not mine, his name was not my idea. It’s all Wikipedia’s fault! (More on that below!)

Premise: With an arranged marriage on the cards, all she wonders is who he is and what she could be getting into. Determined to use her strengths to his advantage, the Sheriff has a proposal for his bride-to-be...  Words: 6606 Warnings: None (Depending on your feelings for Arranged Marriage!)

I'm not surprised Not everything lasts I've broken my heart so many times I've stopped keepin' track. Talk myself in, I talk myself out I get all worked up than I let myself down. I tried so very hard not to lose it I came up with a million excuses I thought I thought of every possibility Oh I might have to wait, I'll never give up I guess it's half timing and the other half's luck Wherever you are, Whenever it's right You'll come out of nowhere and into my life And I know that we can be so amazing And baby your love is gonna change me And now I can see every possibility And somehow I know that it'll all turn out And you'll make me work so we can work to work it out And I promise you kid I'll give so much more than I get I just haven't met you yet And I know that we can be so amazing And being in your life is gonna change me

--- Quick note on his name: I did a fair amount of research when I began writing this. Because she would address him by name. And I wondered if there was a record of what his name should be... Turns out noone really knows. But , Wikipedia seems to have an idea? And also when I looked him up you get this nice piece of information: William de Wendenal (also William de Wendeval) was a Norman baron probably born during the mid-12th century. He was one of the highest officials left in charge of the Kingdom of England when King Richard the Lionheart was away at the Third Crusade to reclaim the Holy Land from the control of Saladin of the Ayyubid dynasty.

And considering our Sheriff and his big “plan” I thought it played perfectly.  Look out for future plot points ;)

--- The journey to England was far longer than she thought it would be. Though, that could be perhaps she was in nervous anticipation. Her father was doing this in order for his kingdom to strengthen. To create bonds and international ties; trade perhaps... Being the eldest daughter, however, she was to be married off to a King. Perhaps. If that’s how the people of England called it. Several of her sisters and brothers were making the trip too, and they clocked in at just under 20 strong. For Norsemen that was a formidable force.

She wasn’t particularly against the idea of arranged marriage. She had expected nothing less, given her upbringing. Still it was strange for her to think about marrying a man she barely knew. What would he have her do? Give everything she loved up? She had to prepare for that scenario. Or would he let her be herself. She wondered many other things about his personality, and his looks. What would he look like? How old would he be? 

She worried sometimes... but, was thankful that she knew her father wouldn’t marry her off to just anyone. He was a valiant warrior who earned the right to his kingdom and held the respect of everyone. He was a good family man too. She thought that a man like he would make an agreeable husband and only hoped her father would think the same. 

*

 The King listened seriously to Eskil’s proposal. He sighed; “It is regrettable for me to give you the news that myself and my sons are unfortunately spoken for. However, I would not lose hope. Your proposal is certainly not one I would have England pass up. You are most welcome here... We have many jurisdictions in our fair country of wide scope. They will not be Kings, as such, but they will run their land in a similar manner. Fine, respectable, men...” He thought on it for a moment. Who, though? He studied her very carefully. He had to make the right choice. To send her to the right part of the country. He couldn’t start this off on the wrong foot... it may end badly for everyone involved. Most Lords were old, ailing, through several wives and strings of children already. 

Eskil had travelled from the North to offer his eldest daughter. To offer trade and a treaty. The King began to narrow his options, the man had to clearly be single... or at least ACT single... for a trade to take place and the fact that the Norse Kingdoms all relied on ships, it would have to have a good water network. Coastal or by river... He titled his head, regarding her. She was young... all her best years ahead of her, she looked like she was what they called a Shield Maiden. Even if she was prepared to give that up, she was likely a free spirit. Which meant she’d need someone with some new age thinking...  Most of the real warriors were at war. So that narrowed his options down even more... hmmm... decisions, decisions... One of his advisors leant in “Your highness... I have a suggestion...” “Please, do...” if he was on the Kings list... “Why not send them to Nottingham.” .... Nottingham!? To William!? The King didn’t quite laugh; that silver-fox known playboy?? A string of 5 or 6 different women every other week? A man not to be tied down... just enough under the thumb of the church? He wasn’t sure sending him a wife for an arranged marriage would stand him in good graces with the Sheriff. However, when he thought about it, the man did fit the bill. He was old-er... but his management of Nottingham has been nothing short of incredible during this war effort. It could certainly be classed as a little new age management...

The King nodded, a fine suggestion. Maybe a woman such as her could finally whip that loose cannon into shape. She could be just what he needed. “There is a man who I can certainly send you to. His name is William de Wendenal. And I would not send you his way if I did not think he would be a good man for your daughter. He resides in Nottingham. It will be a few days ride North from is here in London, but it will be worth the trip. I shall send him a letter right away to inform him of your impending arrival. He is a Sheriff... a little more elected than a King... but he holds a wide jurisdiction none the less and it will be no less impressive. Enjoy the English countryside. And Nottingham itself is a spectacular city.” 

*

 The King has allowed them to stay in London to prepare for their ride North. But she spent the majority of it nervously pacing... William... William... the Sheriff of Nottingham.... she didn’t doubt that the King would keep his word and he would be a fitting match. A good man. But she knew nothing about him other than his name and title... she could only pray that she would like him... though she might have little choice on that... However, whenever she managed to get the King on his free time; he would sit her down and tell her stories about this man in Nottingham. He sounded like a good person, who did plenty of good things. She liked that, even though she hadn’t met him the King was allowing her to get a sense of the man she was likely to now marry. It made her excited to meet him in person, she couldn’t deny she might have feelings based on all these great stories… She hoped against hope that he might live up to them… In the Northern territory that the Sheriff commanded the feeling could not have been any more different. A letter from the King arriving made his heart swell at the honour, until he cracked the seal and read. “ARRANGED MARRIAGE-!? ME---!?” He turned to Tuck; his blue eyes hard “What is this-!? A jest-!?” Tuck gave a shrug “I wouldn’t have through the King would… joke about something like this Sir…” The Sheriff’s sigh was angry “Do we know anything about her!?!” “Besides what is in the letter for you? No. I wasn’t even aware of the content Sir…” His face pulled into an angry frown as his eyes scanned the parchment, hand to his forehead “Oh…” that groan didn’t sound all that pleasing to Tuck either “…She’s from the Nordics… Marrying me off for trade it seems. Well, she better be worth it.” The friar looked heavenward; Please God let it be good trade at least…!! The Sheriffs frown turned inquisitive for a second “Oh-! Her father is a King of a Norse Kingdom… I suppose that makes her a princess…” He pressed the corner of the letter to his lips curiously “…Does that make me… married up?” William threw the letter onto the table and turned back to Tuck; “Well. I suppose we best be getting Nottingham ready for their arrival.” Tuck decided there could be no better time to try a last-ditch effort; “Do you have to accept?” otherwise the Sheriff would be in a foul mood all week until they arrived. And if she wasn’t exactly right he’d be in a bad mood for life. That didn’t seem like something the people of Nottingham would want. Especially in the middle of this War. The Sheriff chuckled, darkly; “It’s from the KING, Tuck. There’s nothing else to say. Of course, I must accept.” ** Her sisters stood together giggling. The general consensus of their whispers was that whoever he was, the Sheriff was likely to be the worst one amongst them. She was determined to ignore that until she knew for sure. But the procession from Nottingham castle almost left her disheartened. And her sisters didn’t help. It got worse the most Lords that appeared. This was awful… This wasn’t what she wanted. Or expected. She should have known to keep her expectations low – hell, maybe her expectations were low and at this point they should have been through the floor. The line was still for a moment and she had a hard time not reaching out for her father to call it off. Her brothers all seemed to be uneasy as it was. None of them were likely to want her married to just anyone… She was glad for a moment that they might fight for this, instead of her. But then the doors opened again, and one last man swept out. Tall, lean, older by his grey – but neat – hair. He looked finely groomed, the type of man who would not tolerate one single thing out of place. He stepped in front of the line. Nope. THAT had to be him. Looking like a badass in a long grey leather trenchcoat. She found herself smiling and her eyes flicked to her sisters; tongues all held and regretting their words. William scanned the girls quickly. It was hard to tell the oldest… He was apparently being given the oldest. Only, he also felt he might get to choose. The King surely couldn’t expect him to marry one he wasn’t interested in. He was surprised the King expected him to marry at all. If this is your idea of reigning me in you have another thing coming… All of the females in front of him had their heads bowed forwards politely. Save for one. Standing slightly away from the others, she was placed with the men of the family. She intrigued him by how she was essentially stepping out of the line of respect. He found himself smiling internally. He liked her.  Askel was unconvinced “Dad he doesn’t even look like a warrior.. I don’t know about this!” She glared across at her brother, jabbing his arm with her elbow, she hissed “Be quiet! Askel!” Askel raised an eyebrow with a smirk “oh! She likes him already?!” Then his face fell, his eyes hard “Y/N! You haven’t even met the guy! You don’t know him!” She remained glaring at him, but Eskil, hearing his children bicker merely chuckled. If she had feelings for him already, it meant the King had probably made a good choice.  The Sheriff nodded politely to the Norse King. Respect was everything at this game. And if he would play it like a game, he would win it. “Eskil, King of the Northern Realms of the Northmen. Or… Southern realms from what I have gathered.” Geographically speaking, Eskil presided over a kingdom in the Southern part of his country. “The honour is mine. My name is William de Wendenal – The Sheriff here in Nottingham…” “Sheriff.” His English was spoken in an accent but was still understandable “We have heard much about you! And I certainly appreciate your willingness to see us.” The Sheriff didn’t think he had much of a choice, but held his tongue with the appropriate smile. “I believe we may have much to discuss…” “Certainly…” His curious blue eyes flicked to the row of girls now peaking at him from under their lashes, and then to the single woman alone. Her inquisitive stare respectful, like she was weighing him up. He thought she could be standing alone because she was not to be selected… Now he felt that she might be the woman he was here for. He asked the question by looking back to Eskil. “Ah-! Sheriff, of course. My daughter… Y/N…” He stepped to the side and held an arm out to bring her forward. Although her step seemed hesitant and shy, he could tell by those eyes that she really wasn’t. William offered her his hand, which she took. Allowing him to kiss the back of her palm; “Y/N…” OH-! To hear him say her name. He had an accent; one that fit with the English words she knew how to speak perfectly. Where every word was pronounced properly and without effort. And the blue eyes he was casting upon her were gorgeous, up close and in the sun like this… She prayed… Harder than maybe she ever had before that he was as good a man as he had been made out to be. “…It is a pleasure to finally make the acquaintance of such a woman as you… This is a great honour you are doing me…” He let her go, all too soon, with a respectful bow of his head and turned back to her father; “Eskil, you make an excellent point. There is much to attend to! Without further ado-! Please… Do step this way…” William took a step backwards, but did not turn his back on the King, his arm outstretched, reaching towards the doors he had just walked from. *** The sheriff considered the proposal carefully. As if he had a choice, he’d already read it whilst scoffing about the letter from the King. Because as if he’d get married...But now it was being spelt out for him. Now this girl... woman, he corrected himself, she’s a woman. ... was standing in front of him he was beginning to scrap all resistance. Marriage still wasn’t his thing. He would hold off from that as long as he was able. Just another way he could stay under the thumb of the church he had no doubt. But courting her...? She was respectfully quiet as her father set the terms.  They were good terms. They also meant that she would not be the only Norseman to stay. Her brother would set both her father and her at ease... and the Sheriff himself on edge. That was the point. Well, William wouldn’t argue with that one. He nodded along gently. “It all seems to be in order...” He stood, drawing himself to height. “I would gladly accept your proposals King Eskil. Nottingham and its rivers will welcome trade of any kind with your kingdom. I will also allow safe passage to continue your travels further into my jurisdiction, toward the farther reaches of the North of England. No trouble for you and your people of course. Adding your son, Askel to the guard of my fair city would give it power and guidance unlike it had seen before. And of course... his priority over Y/N will be respected...”

 His blue eyes flicked to her, this time her head was gently lowered. She was tense. He assumed she understood every word he was saying... if her father spoke English this well he would assume she could too... at least he hoped so. Communication was likely to be important here... The Sheriff took a step away from her father as he turned his attention to her, making her heart jump in her chest. “... As for the marriage proposal... on that I do accept all terms...” now those gorgeous hazel eyes met his. She looked a little fearful. A little hesitant. And the first thing he wanted to let her know is that he would not force this upon her. “... But I would wish to court your daughter first. Get to know her a little...” Her lips parted but whatever she was going to say got lost as she clamped her mouth shut with her lips. He turned back to Eskil “I will marry her. But it will be under the correct conditions.” Eskil gave a curt nod “I accept those terms Sheriff. I believe the King has made an agreeable choice.” He held out his hand, to which William had to smile, “I do my best.” “Yes. As you should.” That was much more a threat than Eskil’s smile gave away and the Sheriff knew it. Lay one finger on her when she didn’t want it and he’d be dead. Dead and likely to bring the wrath of a Norse kingdom raining down on Nottingham City. If not England. 

Kings be damned… 

***

 She watched her family leave. It had been a few days of the Sheriff allowing them to stay, for her to get accustomed to the principles of an English city. Askel had grumbled a lot, but she knew how much he really didn’t mind. This assignment would allow him to step out of their older brothers’ shadows. And he would enjoy it once he got used to it. 

But she had not spent any time alone with the man she was supposed to marry yet. And it made her exceedingly nervous. He was attractive, certainly more so than she could have hoped for, and he spoke with an authority that could be soft when he addressed her. He cared. He wanted to get to know her. He could have had her sitting next to him in silence for the rest of her life, but he didn’t seem like the type. Still, she didn’t know him. Did it matter that he looked so good if he was a monster? She left her window as soon as her family were out of sight. Tears stinging at her eyes. It was painful. She was independent, but it was still painful. Askel was up at her room before she got to the door. She turned; how did he get up here so fast?? “Didn’t you....?” “Wait? I said goodbye. I’m now concerned about you.” “Why.” “I don’t trust him. And I’m your only protection.” “... Well will you let me get to know him?” “Only because if you are to marry him you must...” he shook his head “I can’t believe father agreed to this.” She sighed gently “…I feel I could have done a lot worse.” “He’s not a warrior. By his age he never will be. What is he offering you? In return for all you have to offer him. It really is injustice.” “Askel...!! Right now I don’t know do I? I don’t know him... but you need to give me that CHANCE. Before I do have to marry him.” “Well that’s even worse. What if he decides never to marry you!?” “Well... maybe he won’t.” “I’ll have his head.” “Askel!!!” Her eyes widened and she looked up and down the corridor for those who might be listening, even though they were both speaking Norse. She didn’t want talk like that, she needed to believe this was all going to work. She needed to get to know him; which meant having her brother on side. This had to be successful. For both of them. Maybe he was forgetting that...

Maybe he was also forgetting that there was one of him, and a whole host of Nottingham guards that could take him on... On second thought maybe that Norse overconfidence was a good thing. 

*

She knocked gently at the door to his office. Her brother had been sceptical enough to have followed her here but she forbid him to enter the room. “Come.” It was single worded and harsh. As if he didn’t wish to be interrupted. She took a deep breath and opened the door, closing it behind her with another warning look to her brother. Stay out or else. “Oh. Y/N...!” He rose from his desk, papers almost instantly forgotten “... I apologise I did not expect to see you here so soon... I had thought you would want some time alone...?” The Sheriff crossed to her slowly, his body language open, calm... he remained at a respectful distance constantly. He spoke every word with great care too. Both in the ones he chose and the way he spoke them. She smiled; it was still not done in a way that made it sound like he was belittling her, only to make sure she understood. “Now my family are gone... I felt it necessary for us to spend some time together.” “... Alone?” His eyes flicked uncertainly to the door. She followed his line of sight “My brother is outside... but... I was just thinking... perhaps it would be best alone. I would very much like to get to know you...” He smiled then, “I would like to get to know you too, Y/N... is that the correct way to address you? If it should be something else...” She shook her hand “Y/N is fine...” then immediately took his prompt “...How should I address you.. Sheriff?” He smiled “That is your choice. Sheriff, Sir... William... it will naturally progress to Wil... always spelt with a single L... if you are to write to me. I pray that does not need to happen often...” he wouldn’t like to be far away from her whilst getting to know her, but he may need to deal with something outside of Nottingham from time to time. He thought on it for a moment. It would be much easier to take her with him. Then she would learn of his true reach. The power he controlled, that she would preside over with him. He had no doubt looking at her that this would be no ordinary marriage. William found that thought had him nodding to himself. Ordinary would not be what he was ever after as it was. He may not know about her yet, but he was certain the woman in front of him - looking at him with uncertainty in her eyes (that he would change. With time. He would make sure he was a good choice.) - would put him through his paces. ** She loved talking to him. She couldn’t deny that. How when he had finished attending to his duties, he would walk with her around the corridors of the castle. He liked to see her in sunlight she knew that by the way, depending on the time of day it was, he would look for and subsequently follow the sun. He seemed like a very private man, he showed emotion where appropriate but in all kept his cards close to his chest. He could get angry easily. She’d seen it, but he tried – if she was in the room and he knew she was present – to curb that. But that was all part of the job. And his work was not his private life. To her, he could open up a little. He told her about his family, where he had grown up with his parents in a town just outside of Nottingham. In the country. His father was a Lord of the Manor so, that paved the way for him to become Sheriff, and in his youth he’d moved around until he ended up in Nottingham. Then he had worked diligently to be in office. And here he was, and certainly not intent on giving up. Although, he did add when she questioned him, that he could leave… And he would likely go back to his family’s house if necessary. She told him about growing up in Stavanger – the capital of her father’s Kingdom – based on the sea with the towns spread into the country and she spend a lot of time growing up with her brothers. He loved hearing her talk about her siblings because it was a relationship he’d never got to have. And with one of them here, he hoped to get Askel to warm to him. It wasn’t the easiest thing to do. Clearly her older brother was here to protect her, and was therefore weary of the man that had been chosen. But he wanted to give Askel a good life. To prove himself. He had suggested that he begin training and sparing with the Nottingham guard. And apparently that hadn’t been a bad idea. At least Askel had smiled when she had translated it. On this particular day talk had awkwardly progressed to religion. He’d noticed her staring at the church more than once, and always hoped she wouldn’t ask. Inevitably today as they walked, she paused. Staring up at the structure visible from the courtyard “…What is that?” She asked like she knew it had significance. The Sheriff was hesitant; “OH… It’s…” She caught the movement of his head the shrug of his shoulders and the way he stretched his back. “…It’s a church. I mean, that one is slightly more significant than a lot of the little ones you might see… But… It is… the house of our God.” She raised an eyebrow; “A place of… worship?” “Yes, that’s exactly what it is.” “Oh.” She turned towards it again; “…God, singular. I have heard this notion…” “…Does it bother you?” He wanted to kick himself as soon as he said it. At the same time, he’d made a fair point – The North, from what he knew, had many Gods. To be expected to marry him, she would have to at least accept the idea of just one. The Church wouldn’t have anything less “No... But I would need to learn more…” She turned back to him expectantly and this time he tried his best to stutter through a sentence to no avail; “W-Well I – I – Uh… I Could-” He could not have been saved at a better time by a better man. “SHERIFF!! Sorry-! Sorry-! My apologies-! I just wanted to.. oh-! You have company…!” TUCK! The Sheriff turned on his heels with a genuine smile “Tuck! No! Not at all. Come here. You can help me with this…” The friar couldn’t help his look of surprise; “Oh! Of course-! Sir…!” He hurried down the corridor to them both “How may I assist.” “Tuck, this is Y/N… I have mentioned her a number of times but I believe I have not yet introduced the two of you…” “Oh! The girl from Stavanger! YES!” He took her hand excitedly “It is a pleasure to meet you- Now, forgive me if I get any of this wrong but…” Suddenly it was the Sheriff’s turn to be surprised as Tuck lapsed into Norse. William only recognised it from hearing her talk to her brother – and she was just as shocked as he was. But he watched the way that she lit up, hearing someone else speak her own language. That wasn’t happiness she’d yet shown around him, and he found himself disappointed. Tuck was giving her someone to talk to in her own language that wasn’t her brother, that wasn’t someone she knew. He’d made her happier in 5 seconds than the Sheriff had managed to make her in weeks. She laughed, and responded in kind. The natural way those words rolled off her lips – and she got animated. He wanted to watch this exchange go on all day… He found himself not only smiling but laughing – which turned the two of them back to him, with a pause in conversation. The Sheriff folded his arms “You wouldn’t happen to be able to explain the church in her own language now, Tuck, would you?” “Oh! Is that what you were asking me for Sir? I would certainly be happy to! Of course-!” “What did you want me for?” “Oh-! Sir, yes, Um… Pembroke said it was important. Something to do with the war effort. Though, I wouldn’t want to take you away from Y/N…” “No no…” He waved away the suggestion and turned back to her; “She is in good hands…” He bowed gently “You must forgive me my dear.” She gave a nod back; “I understand… you have work to do.” “I wish I did not.” “Hopefully you can hurry back.” “…Indeed…” He turned back to the friar “Thank you… I pray not to be long!” “Don’t worry, I’ll keep her company, Sir…” With that the Sheriff took off down the corridor – eager to return to the image of her he now couldn’t get out of his head. He paused, before he turned to run through the door, turning back to the two of them. Now lost back in Norse conversation. He smiled to himself; he would have to learn it. He vowed to learn it. It was the very least he could do… *** William had heard the term Shield Maiden mentioned far too many times now to believe that she wasn’t one. She’d even mentioned it herself, but said it wasn’t something they used. Women were warriors just as much as men were, if they wanted to be. Just because she was content to walk around the castle here as if she was a fair maiden – didn’t mean that was who she was. And he was concerned that she might become bored of it. 

“I have a job for you…” “Like a real job?” She sat back in her chair with a quizzical look “Yes. Like a real job.” “Isn’t my place here?” “Well, it could be… But, I want to put your skills to use… And I think you’ll enjoy it.” “My ‘job’ is to be a good woman, is it not?” He chuckled “If your father really sent you over here to get married and have children – nothing more – I have a feeling he sent the wrong daughter.” He waved a roll of parchment at her “I want you to take a look at this. Offer some fresh perspective.” He unfurled it “This is a map of Nottingham. What I would like you to do, if you want to, is head up our Security; our guards and defences. And I happen to think you’re the right person for the job.” She took to the map instantly, but her eyes flicked to his, and it was a tentative look. Was he serious? Her? He presented some more sheets to her; “This is a list of every man currently enrolled. Put them to good work.” “Why are these men not in the War?” She held a small teasing smile on her face that he didn’t miss. “Perhaps they should be – but someone has to defend Nottingham! Keep the peace at home too!” She laughed “Maybe I can free a few up for your effort…” Then looking to the map again she bit her lip “…I’m not forcing someone out of a role… Am I?” “Certainly not. Our Master of Arms has been on the way out for some time – I should think he would welcome this…” ** “So... tell me about her.” Lucien was always one to cut straight to it. “Y/N.. What do you need to know? I believe she will be more than competent at succeeding you…” “Ah-! She is from the North, of course. Formidable! And also female! It will certainly be a change. I am confident, however, that my men will handle it with respect…” “I am a little concerned with your men.” The Sheriff wondered how the majority would react being led by a woman. Even one like her. “They will treat her with respect so long as she does them, I will make sure. But I doubt that you would have seen her in combat.” “I would take a Shield Maiden at nothing less than her word.” “Oh. I do not doubt, Sheriff. Is she commanding?” “I would also suspect. She doesn’t take any nonsense from anyone. Not even her own family. She’s... possibly a little more outspoken than she comes across. She’s... trying to become a proper lady.” “Would you rather she wasn’t?” “Do you know another man in all the kingdoms who has had this privilege? I intend to make her, not break her.” “As long as you wise up to what may break her, Wil.” “Meaning-” Lucien looked at him with slight contempt “This one will not put up with your games for longer than she feels she must. You think a Shield Maiden would give anything of herself to a man who will not even give her his full attention?” Lucien’s words were sharp but true. “Do not. For the love of God, William, let this one return home. Because she will. I have no doubt. It might take her a while, if she has feeling for you at all. But eventually, she will know she is worth more than you think she is.” 

She was standing at the far end of the corridor, sword on her hip and bow across her body. He liked her already. He gave William a significant look – that conversation would come around again before long; the Sheriff knew. “My Lady. I am Lucien. Master of Arms. It is a pleasure to meet a Shield Maiden such as yourself.” She bowed gently “Y/N… Please… And it is an honour for me to meet the man who had served Nottingham for so long.” “Alright- what’s be been telling you!?” Lucien grinned, looking to the Sheriff, whose amused look told him he simply wouldn’t say. “And Nonsense! Honour! These boys deserve the real honour. They are tried and true. They will prove that to you themselves, but I can make you the promise that they will not let you down.” Lucien spent the next few minutes giving her a high level overview of how things in the guard worked. Similar to the information she had gathered from what William had already given her. She nodded along with everything. It was all as she expected it to be; it was nice for it all to be reaffirmed. “Any questions?” “Sir, I would very much like for you to transition me in. It would not feel proper of me to simply take this from you…” “Oh-! Miss.Y/N!” Lucien looked like he hadn’t expected it; she studied the Sheriff’s expression carefully – but it was reading as agreeable. “It would be my pleasure. We’ll have them up to scratch and following you to the letter in no time!” *** She’d been watching him for some time. And Marcus knew. It was starting to make him nervous. He wasn’t sure if it was with disapproval. But he was about the only one she didn’t offer a smile to as she watched.

She. Y/N… That was an interesting choice, but Marcus wasn’t deterred by that. In fact he saw it as refreshing; what would she bring from the Nordics that could help out Nottingham. She was the greatest gift in his book. The King was a fool not to use her in London. And Marcus hoped he’d never found out and pulled her back. However, she looked far less impressed with him than everyone else. She would tsk every so often, she would give a small shake of her head, she would ask Lucien questions and her eyes would flick to him and it made him nervous. This was all he had. There were several reprimanding reasons why Marcus couldn’t join the war effort. If she wasn’t impressed, the new head of Nottingham’s guard and security would surely throw him to the streets.

Apparently today, was such a day. After one final sigh she marched down the row of practicing soldiers to him and dragged him out. She was smaller than him. But her strength was incredible. “What??!” She pointed to the door “Leave.” “What?! Why I!” “Leave. Go, now.” Her English only held a slight accent, but it was almost icy. “But- my lady- I-! Please I-!” “I don’t want you here. Leave. Go.” “Lucien-!” Marcus pleaded. He had nothing. And the master at arms knew this. This was pretty much his life’s work. Even though he was young, what work could Marcus really do after this? “You heard her. Y/N is in charge now...” he didn’t even seem sympathetic. “But Sir...” She flicked her head again, and this time he obliged… one step at a time; “Where do I go...?” “The Sheriff’s office would be a good start. Marcus.” Lucien looked grave and Marcus suddenly felt cold - no! No, no, no! That was a guarantee to be banished from Nottingham and its surrounding counties. Not good enough for the guard. Not good enough for anything. The shield maiden looked across to Lucien and they both shared a look that Marcus could explain. Before she stepped towards him again and took his arm in her vice like grip. Geez! She was so strong!

The next thing he knew he was being literally dragged to the Sheriff’s office. “Wait here.” She pushed him to the wall and knocked; upon the Sheriff’s beckon she stepped inside. Marcus thought about stepping over and pressing his ear to the door. But he knew the wood was thick and it would look even worse if he was caught. He didn’t know how long he was standing outside anxious and alone with thoughts he didn’t like chasing themselves around his head. Long enough for training to clearly be over as Lucien appeared, refusing to acknowledge him as he stepped into the Sheriff’s office too. That was final then. Marcus’ life was almost guaranteed over. Eventually the door opened and Marcus was faced with Lucien again. “Sir I-” “Come in, Marcus.” He swallowed hard and entered. The Sheriff was sitting behind a desk fingers laced together pressed against his lips. She was standing just in front of it; arms folded. That same unreadable expression. Marcus turned to the Sheriff expectantly. Who shifted; “Marcus. Tell me how long you have been part of the guard here?” His eyes flicked between the three of them; no such luck. None was giving an inch “... since my late teens I suppose, Sir... over 15 years. But, I suppose as a real useful contributor, around 7 or 8.” He seemed to be trying to implore her, he hoped it was working. “And tell me why exactly you were not drafted?” Marcus found this an odd question for the Sheriff to ask. He would know, he was in charge of drafting. A good number of the guard had been drafted. But, Marcus had a reckless streak. Sometimes what he had to do came before what he was told to do. “I believe I was told I was too unruly for war... Sir.”

Then she smiled, it was small, bordering a smirk; and she turned to her lover with a raised eyebrow.. He nodded in confirmation and she turned back to Marcus with a renewed smile this time genuine, friendly; “Marcus. I have a proposition for you.” “A... proposition...? I’m... you’re not kicking me out?!” He couldn’t keep the surprise out of his voice or the relief off his face “Told you he’s think that.” Lucien couldn’t help his chuckle. She unfolded her arms “No. The fact that you did not complain, get wound up, or protest even once despite me doing what I was doing further cements it. When I take control of security I’m going to need a right hand man. Someone I can trust.... I think I can trust you. You come highly recommended. You sound like the kind of man I need... I only hope that you will accept my offer?” “—! Me!? Your...” Marcus shut his mouth in order to compose himself “My lady I would be... honoured. To accept.” He gave a firm nod “I will not let you down.” “And he means it.” Lucien nodded to her “He’s a good choice.” She gave her own nod and walked forward. “Marcus. You do not have to address me so formally, please, Y/N is enough.” She held her hand out, and he knew immediately it was to shake, not kiss “...Y/N.” He shook it firmly with a smile, to which the Sheriff laughed. “This is going to be a great partnership.” She turned to him with a smile “Sir. We will endeavour to ensure your city is safe.” “Oh.” He leant back, and despite the other people in the room, gave a smirk meant only for her “That you will.”

--- GIF CREDITS: @dennismitchell & @benmendo 😘

@dennismitchell @krnncsbtch @happyskywhale #MendoTagSquad.

[caladhel-iarian]

Talking to Dhel is like going to dinner at Dick’s Last Resort

General Information—— —

FULL NAME:  Caladhel Ia’rian.

NICKNAME(S):

Dhel.

Dek.

Hardass.

The Ice Prince.

Smokestack.

Ladle.

Daddy. This is an excellent way to ensure he never talks to you again. Use with caution. And by caution, probably don’t ever call him this if you like his company.

Various other silly, syrupy endearments his brothers come up with on the fly.

TITLE(S):

Crown Prince Caladhel.

Master Caladhel.

Professor Ia’rian.

AGE:  305. Roughly the equivalent of a human in his mid-to-late 30′s.

BIRTHDAY:  October 29.

RACE:  Highborne. Yes, he has distinctly Sin’dorei colouring. But take a look at his ears, his height, his build, his face--he is not Sin’dorei. 

GENDER:  Male.

ORIENTATION: 

Heteroflexible.

Sapiosexual. 

Demisexual.

MARITAL STATUS: 

Married to his work.

(He’s single. Good luck changing his mind.)

Physical Appearance—— —

HAIR:

Thick, black as pitch, and silky. Mostly straight, though the jagged ends tend to swoop in all directions. He has two long strands that drape over his shoulders and touch his abs, long bangs (often swept to one side in a ponytail), and the rest is a choppy mess.

EYES: 

The irises are a rich chocolate brown with gold flecks. If they didn’t glow lime green, they’d resemble a deeper, darker tiger’s eye stone held up to the sunlight.

His eyes are narrow and almond-shaped, and they slant up at the outer corners. They’re also rimmed in black lashes thick enough and long enough to make many women envious.

HEIGHT:  8′ even. He’s a big boy.

BUILD: 

Many students express surprise when first confronted by this professor. They expect withered, hunched old men with beards longer than table runners, or frail, fragile dolls who would shatter in a stiff breeze. Instead, they get an enormous, broad-shouldered elf who looks like he could probably swim the entire Great Ocean without getting winded.

While he’ll never resemble a walking refrigerator, if you catch him naked, you’ll find plenty of lean, defined muscle. Dhel has a swimmer’s build.

DISTINGUISHING MARKS: 

A lip piercing that he doesn’t always wear.

Glasses. If he’s not wearing contacts, he’s wearing his glasses. Otherwise, he can’t see his hand in front of his face.

Tattoos. Many, many tattoos.

Knotty scars around his ankles, his heels, and his soles.

He has a birthmark on the tip of his right big toe; it resembles a bird with wings spread.

Both cheeks dimple when he smiles.

His smile is crooked; the left side of his mouth pulls up higher.

You’ll rarely see him without a cigarette and a cloud of purple smoke hanging around.

TATTOOS:  Left arm:

Family crest on the inside of his forearm (a massive tree on a hill with the sun rising behind it).

Infinity symbol curling around his wrist. It looks like a musical staff.

Musical staff around his bicep. The staff contains notation and a few lyrics.

A trio of fox kits chase a red butterfly down the outside of his forearm.

Right arm:

Azure cloud serpent Ouroboros on the outside of his forearm.

Marionette with cut strings on the outside of his bicep.

Words from his favourite poem on the inside of his forearm.

Fleur de lis on the inside of his wrist.

A Punch ‘n Judy stage with the titular characters on the inside of his bicep.

From his neck down, he is covered in runic tattoos that are only visible when he uses magic. They glow a vivid violet during his spellcasting. 

PIERCINGS:  A lower lip piercing. He doesn’t always wear it.

COMMON ACCESSORIES: 

Cigarettes.

Pen and paper.

Eyeglasses.

A mithril ring on a simple silver chain around his neck. The ring is shaped like an ivy vine set with emerald leaves and tiny moonstone flowers.

A string of jade prayer beads wrapped around his wrist like a bracelet.

Books.

A briefcase and/or messenger bag filled with folders. The folders contain assignments he needs to grade and outlines for future assignments he can give his students.

Personal Information—— —

PROFESSION(S):

Crown Prince and Heir Apparent.

Vocalist, pianist, and lyricist for the rock band, Dysphoria.

Adjunct professor for the Sunfury Spire (Silvermoon) and the Violet Academy (Dalaran). 

He teaches World Mythology, Ancient Runes, and Advanced Evocation for the older students during the fall term, and general education for the kiddies during spring and fall terms. 

On occasion, he also teaches ballroom dancing as an afterschool elective.

HOBBIES: 

Collecting books.

Reading everything he can get his hands on.

Writing poetry and short stories he never publishes.

Ice sculpting.

Working on the book he does plan to publish.

Traveling and urban exploration.

Baiting people with harsh banter.

Tutoring kids.

Tea ceremony (both teaching and indulging in).

Making paper lanterns.

Solitary walks.

Playing piano.

Pointing out all your faults.

SKILL(S): 

Natural inclination for frost magic.

Conjuration.

Evocation.

Singing.

Playing piano.

Undefeated champion of hide and seek.

Making people upset.

Making people cry.

Born to teach.

Martyrdom.

Being an asshole. He’s real good at it.

Likes to think he’s great with words.

Despite how acerbic he is around adults, he’s fantastic with kids. 

Observant. Probably too observant.

Analytical to the point of paranoia.

Pointing out your flaws.

Hypocrisy.

Scrying.

Making a damn good cup of tea.

He’s a walking, insulting bag of dicks, but he’s surprisingly good at picking out gifts for people.

Getting pissed off faster than you can blink.

Fashion. The man’s a snappy dresser. Just as snappy as his mouth.

LANGUAGE(S): 

Thalassian.

Darnassian (ancient and modern).

Shalassian.

Gutterspeech.

Taurahe.

Common.

Zandali.

Pandaren.

Orcish.

RESIDENCE: 

He owns a penthouse apartment in Silvermoon. It’s located near the Court of the Sun and he shares it with both Lin and Bren--and the rest of his family whenever they come to visit.

He also has a penthouse apartment in Dalaran, smack in the middle of Runeweaver Square.

In the Brydydd Theatre outside Tranquillien (Ghostlands), an entire suite of rooms has been set aside for him.

Back in his homeland, he still has his private suite in the royal palace.

BIRTHPLACE:  Sunset Palace on Skyfire Isle. It sits at the end of Morning Glory Lane in the capital city of Berl’din Mor.

RELIGION: He’s about as religious as a rock.

Relationships—— —

SPOUSE: 

Unmarried--whether by choice or because no one can put up with his acid tongue, who knows? 

If you’re interested in getting him down the aisle, best of luck to you.

CHILDREN: 

None at the moment. But he’d love to have a large family of his own.

Because his genes are just as dominant as the rest of him, if he ever knocked a woman up, she can expect that her first child will be children, either twin boys or triplet sons. His line has bred true in this fashion for countless generations.

PARENTS: 

Taenaran Ia’rian (father).

Sumire Ia’rian nee Ker’anith (mother).

SIBLINGS:  In order of age:

Calaglin Ia’rian (triplet and elder brother by two minutes).

Calabren Ia’rian (triplet and younger brother by two minutes).

Ylinderwyn Ia’rian (sister).

Kethian Ia’rian (sister).

Istaunna Ia’rian (sister).

Kouwin Ia’rian (brother and twin to Kouyuu).

Kouyuu Ia’rian (brother and twin to Kouwin).

Yenchul Ia’rian (brother and twin to Tevryn).

Tevryn Ia’rian (adopted brother and twin to Yenchul).

Phirayaela Ia’rian (sister).

OTHER RELATIVES:  Too many to name here. Suffice to say, he comes from an enormous clan and holidays are busy. Both his grandmothers are still living, as well as his many-times great-grandmother.

PETS: N/A

Traits—— —

•extroverted / introverted / in between.

•disorganized / organized / in between.

•close minded / open-minded / in between.

•calm / anxious / in between.

•disagreeable / agreeable / in between.

•cautious / reckless / in between.

•patient / impatient / in between.

•outspoken / reserved / in between.

•leader / follower / in between.

•empathetic / indifferent / in between.

•optimistic / pessimistic / in between.

•traditional / modern / in between.

•hard-working / lazy / in between.

•cultured / uncultured / in between.

•loyal / disloyal / unknown / in between.

•assertive / timid / in between

Additional Information—— —

SMOKING:  never / sometimes / frequently / to excess.

DRUGS: never / sometimes / frequently / to excess.

ALCOHOL: never/ sometimes / frequently / to excess.

Extra—— —

FACECLAIM(S):  Aoi of the GazettE (Shiroyama Yuu). But mostly, I just draw him.

VOICE CLAIM(S):  His own, I suppose.

ALIGNMENT:  Chaotic. 

NAME PRONUNCIATION:  Caladhel

CULL-uh-dell

CULL-ay-dull is also a possible pronunciation, but this is considered obscure and doesn’t really see use anymore.

Ia’rian

YAH-ree-ahn

IN GAME NAME: 

I don’t really play WoW anymore, but if you’re interested in him and you play Final Fantasy XIV, you can find him on Balmung under the name Kaito Fujiwara.

Otherwise, you can hit me up on Discord. Ask me for it. But be warned that I am slow to respond both because I have projects to work on and I make drafts of all my posts; I want to give you the best I can write.

OTHER:

You May Know Them If:

You’re a fan of music and you follow any bands around Azeroth and/or Eorzea. He and his band have been featured a few times in a popular music magazine called “Azerothian Axes.”

You’re a Magister/Magistrix. He’s part of the Conclave of Mages in Silvermoon and a decorated war veteran.

You ever attended classes at the Sunfury Spire or the Violet Academy; he’s taught there for several years now.

You also teach classes at either of these locations.

You’ve been to music concerts, including the concerts held each month in the Darkmoon Faire. He and his band have performed on this stage.

You’re friends with a girl who’s had her heart broken by this icy bastard and you’re out for some revenge.

You grew up in Silvermoon and played with the other kids. He’s probably kicked your ass at hide and seek.

Rp Hooks:

Find him in a bookstore and he’s more likely to be mellow enough to carry on a conversation with you. He likes books. Get him talking about them.

Find him in his favourite cafe in Silvermoon and he’s probably sitting at a table alone, grading student papers. Be smart in your approach and he’s less likely to try to bite your head off. Tea is a good way to get him interested.

If you’re a fan of his band/music, interact with him after the show. Approach him during the meet and greet. Just be sure he’s around his brothers or he’ll probably say some unpleasant things. And for the love of all that is holy, don’t bring him gifts. Or do, if you’re the sort of person who really enjoys conflict.

If you’ve ever taken one of his classes, talk to him. Ask him about his lectures. It’s a surefire way to get his attention and if you can speak with him intelligently, you’ll get on his good side. Or at least not on his “I wish you’d fall off the face of this planet” side.

Are you the adventurous, treasure-seeking type? Meet him on one of his journeys to collect ancient knowledge from ruined cities and tombs. Just be wary of his brothers lurking in the shadows.

Have kids who are fond of wandering off when you’re a little distracted? They are a bazillion percent safe with Dhel. Let your kid approach him and they’ll find a stern but gentle caretaker who will protect them while he helps them find their lost parent/sibling/nanny/governor. Just be ready for him to give you a tongue lashing for being an inattentive adult. And definitely do not call him “daddy” unless you never want to see him again.

Dhel is pointing out your flaws.

[diinofayce]

Parties and Promotions

This is for @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan Full Figured Fantasy writing challenge. Hopefully I hit the mark for you. I realized as I was writing that maybe Tony is a bit of an awkward duck for me to write. I hope it comes off natural enough? Feedback really appreciated on this one. 

Pairing: Tony Stark x PlusSized!Reader | Word Count: 1.4k | Warnings: none, just some insecurities | Fluff mostly | Prompt: I got 99 problems, but my curves ain’t one

You hated these Stark Industries parties, they were full of pomp and circumstance and beautiful people putting on their best faces and you were just…you. Plain and simple, average features with a little more to love around the edges and it always made you so insecure to stand next to these model thin women with their slim flutes of champagne. You sighed and brushed your hands down your front, trying to smooth away non-existent wrinkles in the fabric of your dress; it was a gold sequined number with a scoop neckline that accentuated your breasts in the best possible way, it hugged you perfectly to give you that classic hourglass figure that guys claimed to fall down over but you still found yourself as single. But no matter how much you hated the parties, being on the direct Stark payroll meant your mandatory attendance.

Your phone chirped on the desk and you hit the home button to bring up the text message. It was from your boss, Tony Stark, wondering where you were. You smiled softly and returned to your mirror where you replied a coat of your favorite shade of lipstick before throwing it in your little black clutch and headed up to the rooftop where this shindig was being thrown. You took a deep breath to steel your nerves and put your pleasant Stark assistant face on as the elevator opened up to the rooftop. You looked up from the entrance platform out on the sea of perfectly trimmed topiary and fairy lights. It had been a painstaking week of planning the soiree to every minute detail, Tony had given you free reign to take some of the burden off of Pepper’s busy schedule.

You made your way down the stairs and headed straight for the bar, giving a little wave to Steve and Sam as you passed and quickly ordered yourself a martini and a shot of Svedka. Shooting back the shot quickly you winced at the rubbing alcohol like burn before chasing it with a swallow of martini, the dry vermouth not doing much to take the sensation away.

“Hey, sweet cheeks, getting good and party ready?” the familiar voice had you plastering on your best smile before turning and facing him. Tony Stark stood in front of you in a navy blue suit with a silvery silk shirt underneath. The top few buttons were open, flashing a bit of chest hair and the soft glow from his arc reactor. His brown hair was gelled to a perfectly tousled mess and his black rimmed glasses were void of the rosy hue the lenses normally had to hide the red of his eyes from lack of sleep.

“Of course, Mr. Stark,” you responded stiffly, raising your glass to your painted lips once more.

Tony frowned and fiddled with the cuff links on his jacket. “Come on, it’s been three months now and every day I tell you to call me Tony.”

Your smile falters for a moment before you nod in understanding. “Sure thing, boss,” you tease, skirting around getting too informal with the man himself. He rolls his eyes, knowing what you were doing. “Are there any important people here that I should be taking note of?” You ask to distract him as you open your clutch to fish your phone out. No matter how tiny your purse was it never ceased to amaze you how your phone always got lost in them.

Tony’s hand reached out and settled gently on yours. “You’re off duty tonight, Y/N. Come dance with me.” You opened your mouth to protest but he held his hand out. “Come on, it’ll show them I still have good taste.”

You snorted inelegantly, but placed your hand in his none the less. Tony pulled you out onto the dance floor and even with your hand folded in his and your other arm draped around his neck you couldn’t help but anxiously cast your eyes around and focus in on the women who did double takes every time they noticed who Tony Stark was bothering to dance with. You flushed and dipped your head slightly, your hair falling to hide your face as Tony spun you both slowly around the floor.

Tony pulled away from you a little to look at you properly and brushed the hair out of your face to tuck it behind your ear. “I can’t be that bad of a dancer,” Tony teased, trying to lighten whatever mood had you suddenly downtrodden.

“I just don’t like everyone staring,” you murmured.

“Oh, they’re just trying to figure out where I hide the super suit,” Tony continued to joke.

“No, they’re trying to figure out if I’m going to be the next woman to try and tame Tony Stark. They’re either feeling bad for me or brushing me off because I’m very obviously not your type,” you answer with a little more venom then you meant, it shocked you a little the ferociousness of it but it didn’t seem to faze Tony in the slightest.

One of Tony’s eyebrows raised and the corner of his mouth quirked up in a boyish smirk. “I didn’t know I had a type.”

The tempo of the band had picked up, but Tony continued to move around the dance floor at his own pace. It was a such a Tony Stark thing, it didn’t matter what everyone else around him was doing he was always going to do what he thinks is best regardless.

You laughed at what you assumed was his feigned ignorance. “Please, Tony. Look, I have 99 problems and my curves ain’t one, but they obviously aren’t your type. That’s okay, everyone has a type.”

Tony’s brows furrowed in contemplation and he simply hummed in understanding, his lips pursed slightly. You were about to apologize, afraid to have offended the man, when the cloudy look disappeared from his face and he retrained his laser vision to you.

“Well, I can assume short aging men aren’t your type. So maybe they’re all pitying me,” Tony shot at you. You narrowed your eyes, his tone came off as him trying a little too hard to be flippant.

“Shows what you know. Silver foxes are very much my thing.” You laugh at his attempt to hide his shock at your comment and he tries to hide it further by dipping you down suddenly and whisking you back up.

You laugh more and push him away slightly so you can get your hair unstuck from your lipstick and back in order. You thank Rihanna for the wonderful bra that kept the ladies snugly in place during that move of his. Tony chuckles at you and helps dislodge a lock of hair from your fake eyelashes without pulling them off. Without skipping a beat he has you back in place in his arms, but this time a little closer than before.

“So if after three months I don’t have you figured out, what has you so sure you have me figured out?” Tony asks suddenly.

You pause and run your tongue over your lips, missing how Tony’s eyes followed the movement with rapt attention. “Forgive me if this sounds too forward, Mr. Stark.”

“Tony.”

“Tony…But you have a bit of a paper trail. You’ve never been off the publicity radar and they don’t really build super models and bottle girls and high class reporters like me. I mean, look at Ms. Potts, she’s gorgeous. It’s not exactly a secret that you hired me as her replacement because I’m less distraction,” you admit freely, the vodka finally catching up to you and making you a little loose lipped.

Tony cocked his head to the side and sucked his lips against his teeth in thought. You quirked an eye at his intense gaze and stopped letting him lead you along the dance floor, he stopped easily as if you had been leading him the entire time which you very might have been now that you thought about it.

“I find you incredibly distracting,” Tony admitted blinking rapidly at you in confusion. “I find it distracting how you carry yourself with such a dominating confidence. I find it distracting that in three months of working with me you know my needs better than anyone ever has. I find it distracting that someone as stunning and bright as you lets herself get knocked down by snarky comments. I find it distracting that apparently you have 99 problems and haven’t bothered to come to me with any of them.”

You were acutely aware that the two of you were stood still in the middle of dancing couples, some of them had even stopped to watch you while the others simply stared as they danced past. But you ignored them in favor of the man in front of you. You licked your lips nervously and ran your hands down his suit jacket lapels to smooth them. You were too aware of the weight and warmth of his hands on your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh softly to stop you from escaping.

“I don’t come to people with problems that can’t be fixed, Tony,” you chuckled darkly, trying to gloss over his admission.

Tony pursed his lips and nodded and with a smooth step you were both moving again, your arms wrapped around his neck as his hands hadn’t left your sides.

“I think the world needs more women like you, Y/N. You’re strong and you’re confident, even when you’re mentally beating yourself up. I wish you’d be a little more take charge, but I guess that’s just going to have to come with a position of authority,” Tony said.

“Are you firing me, Tony?” you asked, stopping the dance once more.

“As my assistant? Yes. But that’s because you’ll be too busy heading the public relations team,” Tony said simply, taking your hand and leading you off the dance floor and out of the way of the couples that had started subtly glaring at the two of you.

“Excuse me?” you gasped and took the flute of champagne he offered you.

“I filed the papers with Pep this morning. You’ll get dinner with me tomorrow to discuss the details?”

You took a shaky gulp and nodded. “Y-yeah. Yeah, I can do tomorrow.”

Tony nodded and smiled brilliantly. “Great. Maybe now that you aren’t my assistant you’d like to accompany me to a gala I have to go to on Saturday as my plus one. I’d hate for the rumor mill to start saying my type is my assistants.”

With a wink he was whisked away into another business conversation. You made your way back to the bar where you started and smiled as Natasha approached you from the shadows.

“You seem to be having a good night,” she commented coyly.

“Yeah. Yeah, this is a pretty good party,” you answer with a smile and watch Tony from across the rooftop, already planning what to wear on your upcoming date.

[decadentrpg-blog]

WELCOME BECKY, YOU’VE BEEN ACCEPTED FOR THE ROLE OF PROSERPINA BLACK

Admins Note: The Queen of master manipulation has arrived and I couldn’t be more excited! I absolutely adored the power and ambition that your Proserpina exudes. But as high and mighty as she is, every queen has their weakness too. She speaks sharply, glistens like a diamond and commands attention as any Black could. I can’t wait to see the schemes she creates and the strings she threads across all who fall for her ploys. Your faceclaim request for Vittoria Ceretti has been approved. Congratulations on your acceptance again, please make sure to head your way to the checklist and submit your account within the next 24 hours!

OUT OF CHARACTER.

Name / Alias: Becky

Pronouns: she/her

Age: 21

Timezone: PST

IN CHARACTER APPLICATION.

Full Name:

PROSERPINA. In actuality, is there a more suitable moniker for her than Proserpina? A woman in two parts: sweet Spring, the perfume of roses blooming from the heart of her, wildflower honey tone, and cruel Winter, the carmine of her lips turning morbid with fanged smile, poison steeped words cocked and primed. An ode to a goddess who is all cycles and rebirth, manipulating herself to be everyone’s dream of spring, only to reveal a heart of desolate winter; she wears both flowers and sin equally well.

EVE. God’s beloved creation, the world’s first woman, crafted from flesh and bone of man — by man’s account, a woman who had it all: paradise, the love of a God, the adoration of a husband — and the first to gamble it all for knowledge. By any and all means, Proserpina can relate: what good is having it all without the fear of losing it all? Sugar tastes all the sweeter after acid, as victory is to loss. She embraces the implications of her middle name with pride — if it were her in Eve’s place, she’d have eaten the apple whole. And so, she is what she is called: temptation’s mistress, creation divine, agony’s sweet kiss.

BLACK. The most noble and ancient House of Black. Toujours Pur. Always pure. It’s a mantra that’s been repeated over and over, all but branded into every recess of her brain. She is very much the pinnacle of her house’s ideal — dark hair and romantic features, sharp in all the wrong ways and beautiful in all the right ones. Beautiful, empty beasts, does the House of Black raise, and she is no exception.

Sexuality: “Bisexual” — She hardly likes to define such things as pleasure, which to her, is without boundaries: and as Oscar Wilde once wrote: “To define is to limit.” She doesn’t mind men, both in that she won’t begrudge them their presence, and that she barely heeds them past a certain point, all at once — but she does enjoy toying with everyone and anyone. Simply put, she enjoys cutting her teeth on the fractured egos of men, and enjoys lavishing her attention and affection on the lovelier things in life, namely, women.

Gender/Pronouns: cis, she/her

Hogwarts House: Slytherin ( expounded upon in headcanons. )

Head canons:

KNOWLEDGE IS POWER. A firm believer in the idea that if you have the information, you hold the cards, she was a little bit of a dilemma for the hat during her sorting. Despite the very firm and sure Slytherin she eventually got, the hat debated the merits of sorting her into Ravenclaw — purely for the half-starved approach she takes to all things learnable, gorging herself on knowledge, insatiably learning. She was always near top if not top of her classes in Hogwarts, but her quest for knowledge hardly stopped at classroom limits; any tidbit about anyone was considered useful and interesting, and stored away for further examination. After all, you can’t be a mastermind if you’ve no mind of your own.

POWER IS POWER. And yet, ultimately, she was sorted into Slytherin. Knowledge is nothing if you don’t know how to convert it, how to wield it, weaponize it. She may share traits with Ravenclaw in her pursuit of knowledge, but rarely, if ever, is she satisfied with leaving her knowledge in theory, in abstract — no, knowledge in practice is what delights her most. A well uttered spell, or a difficult non-verbal cast, or even the right whisper in the right ear — knowledge is nothing but a whimsical theory if not put to use.

It’s this inborn cunning and ambition that surely sees her into Slytherin.

HEIR UNAPPARENT. The elder sister to a single brother, she hardly is slated to inherit much more than the Black name, although she is privy to the deep wallets it comes with, until, at least, she’s married off into some other pure-blooded family. And yet, it was soon apparent to her as it was to her parents that her brother could barely hold a candle to her own mantle of manipulation and conquest. And so the deal was struck after her graduation, perhaps to both her father’s dismay and begrudging pride: he would turn a blind eye to how she conducted affairs and who she consorted with, and she would manage the Black empire from the shadow of her younger brother, ever watchful, and ever-present to insure that their fortune never diminished, even as he ruled in name. It barely bothered her; the shadows were where she best operated — far less scrutiny. After all, what was one more puppet to her collection? Aelius would appreciate the company, she was sure.

She’s been sent to New York to scope out the possibility of expanding business over to the Americas, and it’s a rush, gambling with the family name and fortune. After winning for so long, she imagines failure must taste sweet — the only flavor she’s never quite sampled, only knowledge she’s not quite accrued — and that subsequent victories would be even more so.

GRACE OF BIRTH. Proserpina was born on May 22nd, making her a Gemini. Gemini’s are witty, charming and resourceful, but commonly reviled for being two-faced. Known for fun wordplay, Proserpina takes that trait to another level, subtle barbs laced across the flat of her tongue, sharp enough to flay the flesh off any unsuspecting person who gets too close. She incites and thus is insightful; she wields words as one might a sword or a wand.

The twins Castor and Pollux rule over Gemini, and so represents the inherent duality of her — both serpent and flower, both spring and winter. Intelligent and adaptable, Proserpina can read the room and anybody in her line of sight like no other. Listen closely, and people will tell you how to conquer them.

STYLE, NOT FASHION. Proserpina rarely cleaves to society’s fashion standards; this is to say she is not fashionable, no, never one to be influenced when she can be the one influencing, but also to say she is never out of style. Expensive cuts of jewelry are commonly found tastefully adorning her figure, as are luxurious cuts of mink and ermine, and dark swathes of silk and velvet cling lovingly to her like a second shadow.

WANDLORE. Yew wood, dragon heartstring, 12 ½ inches, pliable — an unusual wand by all means: deceptively dainty, elegant, light in coloration, but a powerhouse when it comes to spellwork.

Yew — a rare wood, with a rumored predilection for the dark, and a notorious dislike for mediocrity and timid owners, hewn from a tree that is all at once long-lived and life-sapping with its toxins. It’s a contradiction wrapped in shadows, perfect for her, by any stretch of the imagination. That said, Proserpina tries to minimize usage of her poisonous wand, powerful though it may be.

Dragon Heartstring —  known for being a particularly strong and flamboyant core, it’s quick to learn, much like its owner. And much like her, the wand derives its power from the core, able to master spells quickly and executing them without hesitance.

Pliable — wands are known to be extensions of their owners, and whilst stubborn and inflexible in her ideals, Proserpina is undoubtedly adaptable, always landing on her feet, no matter the situation. Such is the life of the eternal victor.

HIGHEST HEIGHTS, DEEPEST DEPTHS. Proserpina’s patronus is a fox: naturally cunning and brilliantly charismatic. People with foxes as their patronus are known to be observant, ambitious, and manipulative. Silver tongued, and willing to use other such skills to their own benefit, the fox often gets their way. It’s fitting for her, is it not? People watch as the fleet footed vixen erupts from the tip of her wand, wiling around the crowd, curling around her heels.

Her boggart happens to be herself — her, but different in several subtle ways, almost imperceptible to any but herself. She sees the wear and tear on her clothes, the hollow of her cheeks, the fear in her own eyes. Her boggart is herself, but ruined. A foolish woman fears nothing, a cowardly woman everything, and a wise woman, herself — secure in the knowledge that nothing will ruin her more than herself.

CONNECTIONS.

FOND // FAWNED. She remembers her first impression of the girl: a little fawn, wide-eyed and on tenuous legs, walking as if she was haunting the halls, quiet as a mouse. It was something endearing, to watch as she grew into the loveliness bequeathed to her. Back then, she was wildly off limits — purely something to keep a keen eye over, a budding flower in the greenhouse that needed the pests swatted away, needed space to grow — but recently, her little doe’s found a voice and a blooming bit of courage, and has come to play. And who is she to deny pretty girls that which they desire?

KINGMAKER. Some people are socially adept, good at reading any room they walk into, good at reading people — and others, not so much. Those who don’t know how to rule shouldn’t, in her honest opinion, but if he wants so badly to play king, then she’ll let him — so long as he never forgets who’s granted him the throne. She plays by chess’ rules: kings are the weakest pieces on the board, mere figureheads. Everyone knows queens are much more valuable — but if he wants to take the flak for the decisions she makes, who is she to turn away a blank check?

HEARTBREAKER. Every connection that Proserpina has ever made serves a purpose, be it for social advancement, business connections, or even simply for pleasure, there is always an underlying motive that serves in her best interest. Her relationship with Genevieve was no different — another bridge to cross or burn, and she thought she was prepared. Not only prepared, but scared to proceed without burning: the closer the relationship got to not purely serving her best interest, the more control seemed to flee from her grasps. So she broke it off, expecting never to look back, and yet as Orpheus could not tear his eyes from Eurydice, a backwards glance was all it took to doom her once more: confirmation that she wouldn’t be able to help herself should the opportunity present itself.

In Character Paragraph:

She sighs when she lands in the fireplace, brushing nonexistent floo powder off her coat, stepping out into the familiar sitting room, looking for any signs of movement, searching for wards. There is neither scurry nor spell to be found, so she continues out on her way, heels clicking ostensibly loud against the marble tiling of the floor; usually, that’s the way she likes it — to be heralded before her arrival — but she so enjoys catching people off guard, at their truest, if one will, when she has business to attend to, so she slips the heels off and makes her way down the halls of the manor to the study on silent feet. The floor is shockingly cold against the pads of her feet, but it bothers her not — not when she’s single-minded in following the dark hallways of the house to the only point of illumination.

The study door is cracked open slightly, and she pushes in, meticulously careless, letting the door swing out and ricochet off the adjacent wall, eyes on the figure pacing the study. The crashing of the door startles him, and he whips around, blue hex warming the tip of his wand and then slamming into the doorframe next to her head; she turns to see the miniature crater blasted into the expensive wooden frame, and it sends her heart flying with adrenaline, even as she turns back to the man. She could easily repair the damage done with a wave of her fingers, so simple is the spell, but she hardly wants to afford the man any measure of convenience.

“You missed,” she notes instead, stalking closer to him, hips swaying, smile cocked; she, the predator, he, her unwitting prey.

“Merlin, Proserpina,” he swears crossly. “You can’t come sneaking into my house in the dead of night— this isn’t a joke. If a hex hits you, it will hurt.”

“Do you promise it will?” she asks archly, craning forward as he leans back.

He doesn’t dignify her with a response, just turns from her.

“Fine,” she dismisses with a sigh, waving a hand vaguely, moving once more to perch on top of his desk, errantly pushing stacks of scrolls and tomes to clear a spot for herself, uncaring of the mess she makes. “I’m here for business anyway, not pleasure.”

“Then you should have owled,” he says coldly, his back insistently to her, as if in hopes of dissuading her stay. He peers at the spines of all the books lining the shelves, eyes flicking over each worn title with a nervous celerity that tells her he’s not actually looking at them.

She takes advantage of this lapse in attention, shuffles through the papers on his desk; this prompts his concern, and he turns around. He starts with long strides over to her, a warning on his lips, a frown brewing in the purse of his lips — but not before she finds what she’s looking for. She holds the envelope between her index and middle finger, displaying the wax seal of her family, tilting her head to the right, unimpressed. “I did,” she drawls, impressing her point further most unnecessarily. “I don’t take well to being ignored.”

He moves to grab the letter, and she jerks it away from his grasp, raising her eyebrows in reproach.

“No, no, darling,” she coos, all sucrose condescension. “This letter was a limited time sort of offer, and I’m afraid my patience has quite expired since.”

Silence swells, stifling, between them, as she holds his gaze, and he hers. He doesn’t want to back down, that much is evident — and yet, it becomes increasingly apparent who has the upper hand, and it’s with a sigh that he relents. “So now…?” He asks, swallowing concealed distress.

“Now,” she purrs, contented. “You take what comes. If I say jump, you ask—“

“—I ask how high,” he finishes, disgusted.

“Don’t interrupt me,” she snaps, a voice of poison, honey, and ice, before amending herself with a smile.

“And if I say no?” He hedges, cautious, watching her measuredly.

“Oh!” She exclaims, before dissolving into delighted laughter. “Did I say this letter was an offer?” She asks, revlon red lips bursting with faux-incredulity. “How absentminded of me. I should have said this letter prompted an offer from you, if you’d read and responded in timely fashion, of course — but then at least you could’ve had the reins on making the offer, no? Well, tell you what: why don’t you take a look for yourself, my dear?”

He takes the envelope slowly, gingerly, watching her like he thinks she’ll jerk it away again — she lets it slip from her fingers easily. He reads the first line in alarm, eyes flashing to her face, and she winks. He reads the rest voraciously, before peering at the included photos, a subtle sneer on his lips as his own movements taunt him from the frame; she waits, humming lightly, slipping her heels back on — she can tell he won’t last much longer.

“Still want to say no? I can assure you, I’ve been very instrumental in keeping this from the police and the press.”

“I wouldn’t dare dream of it,” he answers, a forced smile put upon his lips. “What do you need from me?”

“Oh, I don’t need anything from you,” she says in turn, tapping a finger against her smile contemplatively. “Yet. No, today’s little drop in is just to make sure that when I do call, you’ll be ready to respond. You will be, won’t you?”

“As if I had a choice,” he says through his teeth — half grimace, half smile.

“Honey,” she says in mock sympathy, hand wrapping around his bicep, bottom lip jutting out in a pout, before it melts into patronization, baring her teeth in a half-hearted approximation of a grin. “We always have a choice.”

She slides off his desk, landing with a neat click of her heels on marble, already sauntering away, already uninterested in the defeated man left in ruins behind her. “No need to see me out,” she calls over the clicking of her heels, not even bothering to turn to address him, conquest grin on her lips for no one but the dark in front of her to see. “I know my way.”

Extras: I didn’t have the time for any extras, my apologies!

[enniewritesnsk]

Namseok potatoe #31

Another night of horror.

🔞graphic depiction of violence below

Kim Namjoon is one of the guards in charge of the district, and this is now the second mutilated corpse they are called for. He tries to keep his calm, not wanting to link to fast to that serial killer the whole country is afraid of. But they usually are in the big cities, so what are they doing here, in the countryside? 

The crime is pretty similar to the first one though, and he can’t help but shiver. Both victims  are young men with their torso ripped and their heart missing. The last time they were seen was at that gisaeng house. Too much similarity to be accidentally, right?

Everyone is now afraid and the inhabitants have difficulties to live normally, even though their governor encourages them to do so. He decides to take his disposition and re-enforce the security in the little town, and Namjoon is affected in the gisaeng district.

From where he is located, he can have a glimpse of the inner courtyard of the prestigious Nabi house. And can witness the training of the young ladies. One of them drew his attention by the powerful but still so beautiful movements, each of them performed exquisitely. What piques his curiosity more is the hair color of the delicate dancer. Indeed, instead of black silk hair, there you have long white one, white as the color of snow. And the smile? A beautiful heart-shaped smile every time the dancer is satisfied with one of her moves.

The guard is lucky enough to be able to witness one day one of the free representations proposed by the house, in their attempt to get more customers. They have opened their doors to everyone, not just to their usual elite members.

The young women, all so beautiful in their gorgeous garments, are showing their delicate skills. They are singing, playing music, and having some conversations with those who are willing to talk with them. Namjoon appreciates his time, but he is eager to meet the one that has been haunting his thoughts since the first day he saw her.

And then, the room is going dark and they just keep a few candles to maintain some visibility for the waitresses. The young guard can feel the chill on his skin right before he can *see* her.

The beautiful gisaeng with white hair.

What’s her name?

Someone murmurs in awe behind the young guard “It’s the Silver Fox! The most precious jewel of the Nabi house!” with the ohhh and ahhh of the other admirers.

The ethereal appearance is now in the middle of the room, the big and white fan hiding her face. She is wearing a light blue hanbok that is molding her fragile frame. She would perfectly fit in Namjoon’s embrace, he knows it. She is observing the room when her gaze stops at him, and their eyes lock. She starts to move, the only instrument accompanying her is a Samulnori, a little drum. Her dance is hypnotic and sensual, everyone is definitely in awe. The guard's smile goes wider every time he recognizes some gestures she has repeated so often in that inner courtyard. And she just meets his eyes and smiles in return. With that pretty heart shaped smile he adores so much. Just like they were sharing an intimate secret. 

Once the piece is over, the beautiful dancer is quickly surrounded by the men who want to have a word with her. What’s her name? Her age? Would she agree to have some private time with them? and so on and so on. Namjoon hates it of course, but he can’t do anything right? Until the owner of the house appears and shoos all these courtiers because “she is not available, she’s just here for dancing, so please, just ask this beautiful young lady behind you, she will be delighted to spend more time with you Sir.”

The beautiful dancer then bows to take her leave, and her eyes lock one last time with Namjoon’s, smiling to him before disappearing behind the flowery screen hiding the private part of the house.

Few days later, Namjoon is taken in the middle of a fight which turns pretty badly. Daggers and blood are part of it, and he is left on the ground, feeling the pains engulfing him into darkness.

Then he hears a soft gasp and hushed “no no no…” before feeling soft lips claiming his, something warm going from his throat to his chest. First warm, before becoming scorching hot, and then, nothing.

Opening his eyes with difficulties, he recognizes this beautiful white hair, and the concerned gaze of the beauty next door. “You…” he tries to articulate.

“Shh- You’ll feel better soon… Just live…” is murmured next to his ears.

And then, darkness once again.

[monkeystrokes8]

FIRST SET.

Bill spotted Charlene coming into the bar as the drummer-of-the-week put a shimmer on the high-hat for an overdramatic finish to “I Still Miss Someone,” meant to tug heartstrings but making Bill laugh. Probably because they were only five songs into the set and he’d already downed half an Old Style and three fingers of tequila and Charlene was especially dolled up in a velvet-curtain red jumpsuit, white fringe spilling off her shoulders like carwash drying strips.

It was a worrisome moment too. Like the song said, there was a real good chance he’d "never get over those blue eyes."

The crawl of circling dancers quickened as Del hit the opening notes of “Fox on the Run.” Coca-cola cowboys in white straw Stetsons two-stepping with Mary Kay consultants flirting with hippie college kids shuffling around with unstoppable geriatrics. The Broken Axle was the most confounding joint Bill ever played, a broke-down country-western roadhouse smack dab in the middle of an R&B mecca. The Sunday afternoon gig was a three-hour affair, a last hurrah before the tragedy of Monday morning, with time to sleep most it off.  

Charlene blew Del a kiss and settled into her regular booth with the books. From the angle of his piano bench, Bill could steal as many looks her way as he could handle. A blessing and a curse.

Bill never intended to fall for the May pinup girl recently hitched to December’s falling Nashville star taking one final bow as proprietor and house-band leader of a honky-tonk Memphis bar. But after just a few weeks playing this gig, Charlene was in Bill's head but good. Anyway,it wasn’t all his fault. She kinda started it.

In about an hour, Del would call his young wife to the stage for a George-Tammy or Porter-Dolly or Conway-Loretta number to end the second set. As mismatched as their ages, they made a classic country duo, and true to stereotype of young women knocking boots with yesterday’s headliners, Charlene’s eye seemed to wander. Last week, leaning into the mic for harmony on "Golden Rings” she glanced past her husband’s neck to give the new kid on keys a salacious wink that would make Tanya Tucker blush.

Del Hopkins and the Railroad Spikes was once the hot ticket; Saturday nights at the Ryman, flame-job customized tour bus, 8x10 taped to the front window at Ernie’s Record Shop. The reason Bill took this gig. A resume including a stintwith the man who co-wrote “Double Eagles on a Single Bed” opened doors.

He was just setting out. He'd heard the horror stories coming out of Nashville. The Broken Axle on Sunday afternoon was the place for an ivory-tickler with a quarter in his pocket and a shirt on his back. Riding a legend’s coattails in a town where he could afford rent.

At the casual audition, after running through Del’s mandatories (Ray Price, Charlie Rich and other piano-centric standards) on the bar’s banged-up but surprisingly bright tack piano, Del offered him a trial run that Sunday, “That is, if you think you can keep up.”

Del wasn’t talking about music. “Sunday's a party here,” he said. “We play it loose, have a big time, and the crowd follows suit. A day of hoots, hollers, longnecks and picklebacks. And I expect the band to lead the charge."

That was the deal. You had to drink like a steam locomotive and still stay in key. According to Del, it didn’t get tricky until halfway through the second set, when the boozin’ picked up speed like the Orange Blossom Special.

“Only trouble we ever had was a drummer who went squirrely and turned into Neil Peart after a couple shots. But our last piano player handled it fine. May he rest in peace.” Del raised his bottle.  

It was a smart business model. Del would mumble something into the mic about being thirsty, or hair of the dog. Fans jumped to buy the band shots. Del would lift his glass. “Bless your hearts, you sweet things,” “Thankee kindly to the good folks at Table 5”, etcetera, then roar the Hee Haw catchphrase, “Sa-lute!” The crowd would howl like a pack of hounds picking up a scent and head to the bar for shots of their own. Then Del would do the Ole Possum hiccup and cheek-pop from "White Lightnin’." The crowd drank it up.  

And therein lay the rub. Bill didn’t drink hard liquor. Gave him the spins. A couple beers, fine, but liquor was not his friend. Never had been.

The first time the pigtailed barmaid showed up with a trayful, Bill tried to slyly dump his shot into the cuff of his Wranglers. The crowd bellowed and Del cracked wise about how he thought Carolina hillbillies were wet-nursed from a still.

From then on, Bill did his best. The band was harmless enough: a doughy family man with a penchant for thrift-store ties on stand-up; wispy-haired guy with a scrunched-up face on fiddle; and drummer-of-the-week, so far a runaway teenager, a poker-faced Lurch and a grizzled hipster looking like he just woke up. Whoever felt like sitting in. Del handled vocals and guitar, white pompadour piled ridiculously high, Sun Session tee with rolled-up sleeves, silver-dollar-studded Telecaster on his knee.

The problem was Charlene. When Cupid runs out of arrows, he calls his pal, Inebriation, the cherub with the cocktail shaker of Love Potion #9. Bill pried his eyes from the curvaceous cowgirl, pushed the soft crush of velvet out of his head, and concentrated on the 88s.

Del hit the closing licks of “Mama Tried” and the band broke for smokes and leaks.

Charlene was waiting at the edge of the stage with a chopped-pork sandwich on a paper plate. “You hungry, sugar?”

Bill hesitated. Was it proper to accept a BBQ sandwich from another man's wife you’ve pictured wearing nothing but a smile?

“Oh. Hey. Thanks.”

Before he could take the plate, Charlene walked it to her booth. “C’mon over here, baby. Let's get to know each other a little.”  

She slid into the banquette. Red velvet on red vinyl, a devil's playground. Bill took a nervous glance around, then looked at the sandwich, determined not to make eye contact.  

He’d seen sandwiches coming out of the closet-sized kitchen slopped together by the cook who also maintained the ancient building's plumbing and electric. This one was made with TLC, the perfect balance of sauce and slaw, hickory-smoked hunks tucked neatly in a warm bun. Had she made it herself?

“So you just moved from Carolina, huh? All by your lonesome?”

The word “lonesome” struck a chord. A sour one.

He was alone in a small apartment in a greasy-grit-gravy town. It wasn’t just sex he was missing. He was looking for a friend, too.

Bill squirmed. Del was nowhere in sight, but with the whole bar stealing looks in their direction, he felt more on stage than when on stage. He nodded yes and took a bite.

And then, goddammit, he looked in her eyes. A pale-blue invitation to go skinny-dipping.

The eyes on the back of Carly Simon’s first album. Eyes he’d been in love with since rummaging his father’s record collection at age six.

And Carly’s lips. Charlene had those, too.

Bill didn’t put all his love marbles on looks, but he believed in physiognomy. Granddaddy was the spitting image Jimmy Stewart, and by god, they were the same stand-up guy,cracking knuckles and folksy truths.

And here, glowing like a heat lamp over a BBQ sandwich, was the face of his dream girl. He couldn’t help but think--just like Carly sang it--loving her would be “the right thing to do.”

“Well you won’t be flying solo for long, I’m sure of that. Cutie pie like you is gonna get scooped up lickety-split in this town.

Bill was hoping his infatuation would cool. Now she was calling him “Cutie pie.” Worst of all, Del was a decent guy.

An impatient snare drum counted down. The band was back. Bill looked from the raised eyebrows of Del to Charlene to his half-eaten sandwich.  

Charlene gave his arm a pat. “I’ll wrap it for you.”

There was a shot waiting on the piano.

SECOND SET.

“You’re leaving us hanging, boy,” Del twanged. “Much obliged to the lovely fillies who drove all the way from Knoxville. Sa-lute!”

Tequila. Bill swallowed his gag reflex as the band kicked into “Only Daddy That’ll Walk the Line.”

The dance floor filled, promenade line colliding like state-fair bumper cars.Del took a request that Bill had to fake his way through. Thankfully, Charlene would be up soon with her usual song list.

Only she wouldn’t. The music stopped, and Del reached for the tallboy tucked into an overturned toilet plunger clamped to his mic stand. Charlene gave a playful finger snap and he dug out keys and jangled them,teasing her, then handed them over.  

“You know I love my wife,” Del told the crowd, “when I let her drive the Caddy.” Del drove a 1966 red convertible. “But we’ve got important people flying in from Nashville today, and they get the best. Y'all are just gonna have to put up with us ugly plugs until she gets back.” Charlene blew another kiss and waved goodbye to the bar. There was a chorus of comic disappointment, followed by opening licks of “Kiss an Angel Good Morning.”

Important people from Nashville. That explained Charlene’s get-up. Del had lots of old pals from his salad days in the biz. Bill fantasized some big-buckled scout discovering the fresh talent on keys. “Son, I'm gonna make you a star.”

The band was two verses into “Streets of Bakersfield" when a procession of rowdy bikers in cheap leather vests plowed though the front door. Sunday cruisers, bellying to the bar slapping clumsy high fives. By the sound of it, this wasn’t their first stop.

Del didn’t seem to notice.

Pigtails was back at the stage with another trayful. Bill suddenly didn’t feel so hot. Del raised a glass. “This one goes out to the cowpunchers at Table 8,  

           May you never lose a stirrup,            May you never waste a loop;            May your can stay full of syrup,            And your gizzard full of whoop!

           Sa-lute!

The fiddle player screeched into “Orange Blossom Special.”

Holy hell. Bill was smashed.

The bar roared with drunken thunder as the Special picked up speed, chug-a-chugging through the pass like a runaway train, pistons clanking, smoke belching, letting off steam, as the fiddler tried to saw his instrument in half. Woot woot!

Del was grinning wide, the bell of the antique register clanging away like the Old 97. As the train pulled mercifully into the station with a final scratch of the fiddle, Del made a slashing sign across his throat. Break time.

“Play some Johnny Paycheck!” One of the bikers.  

Del held up a palm. “The boys and I are getting pretty tuckered up here, gonna take a pause for the cause and be right back for the last set.”

The bikers weren’t having it. “Paycheck!”

Bill knew from experience. Always keep an eye on yahoos yelling "Paycheck!" These guys were assholes.

Del remained composed. “You fellas cool it. Don’t start no shit there won’t be no shit.” He took a swill of beer. “Back in ten. Play nice, everybody.”  

Bill stood up, his head spinning. He bolted out the fire exit for some fresh air. And possibly a place to puke.

Charlene was back, leaning against the Caddy, now wearing a denim jacket, daintily puffing a cigarette (she smokes?) talking to an older gent in a rumpled suit and woman in a flowered dress that reminded him of his mother. VIPs? Whoever they were, they’d seen flashier days. Nonetheless, Del seemed overjoyed to see them, bounding over with enthusiastic handshakes and kisses. “C’mon in, we’ve saved you the best table in the house!” Charlene waved them away, lingering to finish her smoke.

The bikers came ‘round the corner. Bill smelled reefer. "Hey-hey mama say the way you move, gonna make sweat gonna make you groove," one sang with hackle-raising lechery.

Within seconds, Charlene was surrounded by the saddlefat gang of wanna-be toughs, like a fat farm production of West Side Story.One darted forward as if to touch her ass, then pulled away, a show-off kid putting his hand over a fire.  

The tequila did the talking. “Piss off, dick lips,” Bill said.

Five heads twisted. “Excuse me, douchebag?" said a gray flattop.

“You heard me fuckface.” Bill balled a fist, then remembered the piano player’s credo. Protect the hands at all costs. He was praying for a crowbar to magically appear when a bald guy the size of a gas pump cold-cocked him in the nose. Lights out.

THIRD SET.

He woke surrounded by cases of beer and canned tomatoes. Charlene was dabbing his bleeding nose with a bar towel.

“There you are. Big man without a plan. How you feelin’, honey?”

Bill adjusted his makeshift pillow, a restaurant-sized pack of corn tortillas. “Okay, I guess. Stupid, but okay.”

“Ain’t nothing more heroic than a man who can’t fight jumping into one. Specially defending a damsel in distress.”

The glorious lips descended onto his, her face backlit by the storeroom fluorescents. Bill allowed himself two seconds of heaven, make that ten, okay screw it, a full stanza, before turning away.

He was about to sputter this ain’t right or some such nonsense when Charlene entered the storeroom. Bill blinked. He was either hallucinatory drunk or suffering one mighty concussion. Seeing double. Two Charlenes looked down at him.

“I see you two are getting along just like I thought you would.” Charlene looked at Charlene. “Give the guy a chance to wake up, Carla. Otherwise you’re taking advantage.”

“He’s as cute as you said, Charlene. Sweet, too. You know what I like alright.”

“Twins know.”  

“Indeed we do.” Carla stroked Bill’s hair, laying the damp towel on his forehead. “Everything good out there?”

“Fine and dandy. Del and a couple cowboys ran them a-holes off, they was scooting anyway thanks to Prince Valiant here. Worried about getting sued or whatever BarcaLounger bikers worry about."  

“Mom and Dad good?”

“Yep, already having a time. Dad’s eating peaches and peanut butter, and Mom just bought a round. She wants to know if you’re okay.” Charlene shifted her gaze to Bill. “Del says take the rest of the day off, and I’m gonna dedicate 'Fist City’ to you for sticking up for my Sis."

Charlene turned to leave, stopping at the switch by the door. “You two coming out, or should I turn the lights off?”

Bill grinned, still goofy. He play-slapped Carla on the thigh. “Go have a shot with your folks, I’ll be out in a few.”

“Baby, that’s the one thing that separates me from my sister,” Carla cooed. “I can’t drink worth a damn.”

[lothrilzul]

Things about my Dovahkiins

A recent convo with @mrninjapineapple reminded me of this unfinished thing.

I started this questionnaire around March 28th, 2015 and it’s been sitting in my sta.sh unfinished for so long that I forgot who tagged me to do this.

Looking back, it’s quite a silly list of questions, and I originally wanted to scrap the whole thing, but I liked some of my answers, so here it is. You can compare the personalities of my different Dragonborns by their answers.

[I’m planning to make a more serious questionnaire for the characters involved in our collection of stories (The Age of Restoration). I’ll also plan to post some screenshots of them in a later post.]

Onto the questionnaire with 40 silly questions!

1. What is your name? Z: Zinnia(h Fire-Hearth) Y: Yrgrod Ragvirsson C: Casts-First-Asks-Second N: Nicholaus (the Goldsmith) S: Shurag gra-Burz

2. Do you know why you were named that? Z: No. [After a horse called Cinnia, because I thought it sounded unique.] Y: I was named after an old hero and I inherited my fathers family name too. [It was formed from parts of my name, "rág" & "Vir"] C: Yes, I named myself. [And it sounded cool!] N: No, I was too little to ask it by the time and later I was already used to it. [Because he was created on 6th of December, the day of Saint Nicholas (Mikulás in our country)] S: I don't really care about it, it's just a name... [it was formed from a part of my name, "s Virág" sounding "shwirag", with different spelling] 3. Are you single or taken? Z: Taken. Y: Taken. C: Single? I'm unique! N: Was taken. S: Single. 4. Have any abilities or powers? Z: I'm the Dragonborn and a werewolf and I have an ability called Ancestor's wrath Y: I'm the Dragonborn and a werewolf. C: I'm a Volkihar vampire N: Not that I know of, other than still being alive. S: I can go berserk answering such questions. 5. Stop being a Mary-Sue! Z: I do have a bunch of titles, but this one, I never heard of... Y: Isn't that a female name? C: Why should I? N: Silly... S: You mean Shu, right? 6. What's your eye color? Z: Pitch black. Y: Somewhere between blue and green. C: White with a red pupil. Originally my pupil was light blue. N: Green as an emerald. S: It's red. The other one's blind. 7. How about hair color? Z: It's almost black. Y: Some kind of blonde. C: Hair? Phew, filthy thing! I have beautiful horns! N: It was brownish, now it's grey. S: Brown. 8. Have you any family members? Z: A husband and adopted daughters. My parents are dead. Y: I have a wife and adopted kids. My sister and her son died during his birth. C: No, and I'm happy about it. N: I had. S: I adopted a daughter, but I haven't found true love yet. 9. Oh? How about pets? Z: I love horses and I have four: Arvak, Blaze, Frost and Shadowmere. My daughter's pet fox, Vix sometimes lets me cuddle her. Y: I'm a dog man. C: I don't know the Dead Thrall perk yet. Pity. N: I like animals, but I don't want to attach anyone again. S: I have a good horse. I don't need useless critters around me. 10. That's cool, I guess. Now tell me about something you don't like. Z: The Blades. Y: Unnecessary friction. C: Werewolves, Vigilants of Stendarr and the Silver Hand. N: Boots. S: Dragons. 11. Do you have any activities/hobbies that you like to do? Z: Reading. I have a library of around three hundred books. Y: I like to sing (though some say that I shouldn't) and listen to the bards. C: I tend to drink guard's blood in Riften. Broad daylight. N: I like to craft jewellery. S: Exploring the vast wilderness of Skyrim. 12. Have you ever hurt anyone in any way before? Z: Pretty much. Bandits, creatures, some people. But I only regret some of them. Y: Yes, and he deserved it. He was the reason why my sister died. C: Most possible ways, yes. N: I did, but I wish I shouldn't have. I'm not afraid to protect myself, though. S: I gladly smash in anyone's faces, who deserves it. 13. Ever... killed anyone before? Z: I did. Most time I followed orders, but sometimes for my own good. Y: To name the most important: the usurper Ulfric Stormcloak. C: With pleasure. Also, I need hearts and flesh for crafting. N: Same as Q12. S: It was me or them. No question. 14. What kind of animal are you? Z: I'm a werewolf. And the Dragonborn. Y: I'm a werewolf. C: I'm beastfolk, not animal. I should shed your blood for this question. N: I always considered myself a small and peaceful creature, therefore a squirrel, I guess? S: Orcs are no animals. Oh, you mean metaphorically? I'm a sabrecat. 15. Name your worst habits? Z: Hoarding stuff. Especially ingredients and books. Y: I tend to be hot headed and sometimes I regret things. C: In others eyes, killing for my own amusement is one. N: I tend to be melancholic. S: Smashing in faces. 16. Do you look up to anyone at all? Z: Talos. Y: Sometimes, but they mostly prove they were unworthy to it. Sad. C: No. N: Quite a number of people, yes. S: My mother, Shuzhra was the greatest personality ever. I miss her. 17. Are you gay, straight, or bisexual? Z: Straight. Y: Straight. C: I'm not picky. N: I always thought I was straight, but now I'm not that sure... S: Straight-in-your-face, what kind of unashamed question is this? 18. Do you go to school? Z: No, but I learn new tricks on a weekly basis! Y: No, I'm old enough. C: I never needed school to achieve my goals... N: No, but you are never too old to learn! S: I don't need that, unless it's about potions or fighting! 19. Ever wanna marry and have kids one day? Z: Already married, first child is on his way! Y: I already am, and that second... would be good. C: I don't think so. No kids. Never. N: I had a beautiful wife and daughter, but they both died long ago. Now I'm searching for my grandson! S: Maybe... maybe not. 20. Do you have fangirls/fanboys? Z: I don't know. Maybe. [She’s just modest, she has some.] Y: I... have? C: Of course. N: If I have, that's cool. S: I don't need such admiration. 21. What are you most afraid of? Z: That something happens with my family or with those who I care about. Y: Having to fight those who I called my friends once. C: The Sun. Hiss. N: Bonding. S: That I hurt someone who’s not deserving. 22. What do you usually wear? Z: Light armor crafted by myself and a hood. Y: Heavy armor without helmet, or a helmet which doesn't cover my face. I need my foes to know who bested them. C: Light armor with dark tones, hood, sabatoons, veil or scarf and a mask to hide my teeth. N: Plain clothing. I was dressed in burlap clothing with bare feet before the Sparrows made it cool. No, I'm not a religious fanatic. Does it mean I'm a hipster? S: Blades armor with a Greybeard cloak, to shorten the cooldown of my Shouts when I kill dragons. 23. What's one food that tempts you? Z: Most kind of sweets. Y: Milk. C: Hehe. Blood, my dear. N: Elves ear. My favourite spice. S: Dried venison. 24. Am I annoying you? Z: No, these questions are interesting. I love to explore myself by thinking about stuff I usually don't. Y: Not really. C: I don't know yet. N: No. S: A bit. But I manage it. 25. Well, it's still not over! Z: Good! Y: Alright. C: Go on! N: Alright. S: Oh. 26. What class are you? Low class, middle class, high class. Z: Started as middle class, now high class. Y: High class from born. C: Low class to high class in two years. N: Middle class. S: Orcs are orcs, not classy people. 27. How many friends do you have? Z: I don’t like to count, but many. Some are close, the most not much. Kharjo, J’zargo, Brelyna, Aela, Farkas, Lucan, Belethor, Urag, Lydia, Sasha (mod) and my Housecarls. Oh and Paarthurnax. [Non canonically she likes Aronansa and Jenna Sajpa] Y: Who can be sure about that anymore? The Companions, especially after purging our beast blood together. C: Anum-La, The Swamp Knight [from the interesting NPC mod] N: Some people here or there, but I don’t make want to make new friends, I’m too old. S: A few. Why? 28. What are your thoughts on pie? Z: Delicious! Y: I hope it’s a meat pie. C: Bleh. N: I don’t mind one coming my way sometimes. S: Uh, they’re food? 29. If you could meet anyone, living or dead, who would it be? Z: Talos! Or my father. Y: My beautiful sister Hroda. C: My enemies, so I can flay them! N: My grandson, Mercer. You heard about him? S: Right now? 30. Favourite drink? Z: Red wine and clean water. Y: Milk! C: Fresh blood. N: Mead. S: Magicka potions. They are good for thirst. 31. What's your favourite place? Z: Hm. Skyrim, as a whole, but I like Heljarchen because that where we live now. Y: Dragonsreach is nice. C: Lakeview, my place. N: Solstheim volcanic side. S: The Reach. 32. Are you interested in anyone? Z: My husband, Balimund! Y: My wife, Zinnia [copy of Zinnia as a mod] C: Not now. N: Don’t tell him but I fancy Tolfdir. S: Not right now. 33. How tall are you?

The game gives the height of the character compared to the average. Different races and sexes have different base values. (e.g. Nord males are 1,03, while Khajiit women are 0,95) I headcanonned the average to be 175 cm (5’74). If you think the average Skyrim player character has a different height value, it modifies my calculation (also, sorry, my brain works in centimeters ))

Z: 175 cm (1) Y: 187 cm (1,071=1,04*1,03) C: 175 cm (1) N: 175 cm (1) S: I'm tall enough, thanks! [It’s a bit sensitive topic for her. She’s 164 cm (0,94=0,9x1,045)] 34. Would you rather swim in a lake or in an ocean? Z: A lake. Salty water is not my type. Y: Both are fine. C: I’d rather not, but if I need; the Ocean. N: How about neither? S: Swimming in heavy armor is not good idea. A brook, maybe? 35. What's your type? Z: Bulky nords with beard! Y: My wife. C: Zero negative, but I can eat any blood type. N: Um, people like Tolfdir? S: Someone who’s brave! 36. Any fetishes? Z: Why would I tell you? Y: No. C: I might have some but it’s none of your business. N: None. S: No.

37. Seme or uke?

[I googled what these mean and not going to answer, because my dragonborns don’t know about such things.] 38. Camping or indoors? Z: Indoors. Y: Both. C: Outside. Hunting. N: Indoors. S: Camping? Adventuring! 39. Are you still wanting this quiz to end? Z: I could do other things, yes. Y: It’s indifferent to me. C: Yes. N: If there’s more question, ask. S: Kind of. 40. Well, it's over! Now tag five people to do this.

*Inaudible mumbling, noises of chairs scratching the floor, bootsteps as they leave to their realities.*

[I’m not tagging, I was tagged more two years ago!]

[cksmart-world]

The completely unnecessary news analysis

by Christopher Smart

March 10, 2020

WHY ELIZABETH WARREN LOST

Everyone knows by now our system doesn't necessarily select the most qualified candidate: Exhibit #1 — Donald Trump. So, our political analysts here at Smart Bomb did some numbers and crunched some exit polling snacks after Elizabeth Warren pulled out: Among the things they found was that Warren's sweaters cost her big among among young male voters who said she reminded them of granny. This group said they weren't against a woman president but wanted someone who looked more like Melania. Our analysts also noted that Warren's strongest support came from men and women with Ph.D.s in economics and astrophysics. They liked that Warren had a plan for everything from maternity leave to nuclear submarines. Unfortunately, this group is smaller than the American Bowling Association. Another weak spot for the senator was middle-aged plumbers, who wanted a strong male who would go off half-cocked when provoked. Although Warren outlined a progressive agenda, a large number of men and women in their late 20s and early 30s favored Bernie Sanders because he was grouchier and yelled louder. But in the end, it was suburban housewives who abandoned Warren because she was weak on shoulder rubs and hair touching. They're voting for Biden.

WILBUR ROSS: VIRUS WILL BOOST JOBS

Commerce Secretary Wilbur Ross says the Coronavirus pandemic is yet another opportunity to put America First and make some quick bucks. “The fact is, it does give business yet another thing to consider when they go through their review of their supply chain,” Ross said on Fox News For Real Americans. “So I think it will help to accelerate the return of jobs to North America.” (We are not making this up.) The Coronavirus, is still quite mysterious. If and when it goes away, it may not really go away, according to some epidemiologists. Like influenza (flu), it could come back every fall. Already, entrepreneurial televangelist Jim Bakker is hawking a snake oil cure called the “Silver Solution,” developed by naturopathic doctor Sherri Sellman. It could (or could not) kill the virus in 12 hours. And in Australia, the Darwin-based NT News is doing its part to make up for the panic run on toilet paper by printing extra pages. “Run out of loo paper? The NT News cares,” the front page reads. “That’s why we’ve printed an eight-page special lift-out inside, complete with handy cut lines, for you to use in an emergency.” It's too early to tell whether the virus will benefit free trade. Maybe Trump could slap a tariff on the virus, because if we're gonna die, we should at least make a buck off it.

BLACK WATER KEEPS ON ROLLIN'

Remember that Erik Prince dude, who founded the mercenary outfit Black Water that killed civilians in Iraq. Well that dude — who happens to be Education Secretary Nancy DeVos' brother — never went away. Nope, he just changed the name of his private security firm to Academi, because this Dark Prince didn't want to miss out on the big bucks from the DOD. And after all, who is the Army going to send on illegal black-ops, while retaining deniability. (Dead civilians? We didn't kill no dead civilians.) Well, good ol' Erik has now branched out and hired former British and American spies to infiltrate Democratic congressional campaigns and groups that happen to be on Donald Trump's shit list. These undercover ops are in concert with Project Veritas, the right-wing cabal set up to embarrass mainstream media, Democrats and liberals. Typically, Project Veritas sets up undercover "stings" using false cover stories and covert video in an effort to expose “media bias.” (No surprise, Fox News and Rush Limbaugh aren't on their hit list.) Of course, Trump knows nothing about it. In fact, he barley knows who Erik Prince is. He might have met him once, but, you know, he meets so many people.

IN & OUT AT BYU

LGBT students at Brigham Young University don't know if they're coming or going. Last month, in something of Richter 7 earthquake, the Mormon school updated its “Honor Code” to allow “homosexual behavior.” Like a parting of the waters, LGBT BYU students celebrated: “Free at last, free at last, thank God Almighty, we're free at last.” But then a strange storm swirled in and it rained frogs: The Tower of Power announced the revision did not mean “homosexual behavior” was copasetic, after all. According to BYU officials there was a miscommunication. “Even though we have removed the more prescriptive language, the principles of the Honor Code remain the same.” Well, that clears things up. It's kinda like a bad April Fools prank — just kidding, kids, back in the closet. But then, there was this from the LDS Church-owned Deseret News: “For the first time, BYU will allow same-sex partners to compete in a national dance competition the university is hosting this spring.” Confused? You're not alone. It couldn't be that BYU bigwigs pulled the old Itchy-Switchy on the International Dance Council in order to qualify for the big event, could it? Nah, they would never do something so cynical — would they?

Post Script — Well, holy shit, as they say on Wall Street. Whatever you do, don't look at your IRA or 401-K, you could lose all hope and start thinking your retirement will be spent in a sleeping bag under the viaduct. But as we learned from the Great Recession of 2008, just wait 10 years and things will get back to where they were. OK, almost where they were, unless you're rich, then you'll make a killing. Word from the White House is that things are going very, very,very, well. That means we're going to hell on The Princess of the Seas. The more “verys” Trump uses equates to exactly the opposite — as in, very, very, very, screwed up. Just be glad you're not on a cruise ship or in jail — there's not a lot of difference when it comes to Coronavirus, although inmates don't have balconies. Of course there is some good news: now Trump and leading Republicans admit that Coronavirus is a real thing. Since the outbreak in China last month, it's been a hoax perpetrated by Democrats and Fake News. This is what happens when one of the talking points of the political right go south. They just don't talk about it, like it never existed. Of course, global warming is still a hoax. But someday when the Atlantic laps up on Mar-a-Lago, it will be like Trump and Hannity had warned us all along that Democrats were creating a crisis. But as George W. Bush once said after winning the South Carolina primary thanks to a rumor spread by his campaign that John McCain had fathered a child with a black woman, “It's just politics, John.”

Well, Wilson, with the apocalypse looming and Trump at the helm, what have you and the band got to ready us for the coming shit storm:

I saw a newborn baby with wild wolves all around it / I saw a highway of diamonds with nobody on it / I saw a black branch with blood that kept drippin' / I saw a room full of men with their hammers a-bleedin' / I saw a white ladder all covered with water / I saw ten thousand talkers whose tongues were all broken / I saw guns and sharp swords in the hands of young children / And it's a hard, it's a hard / It's a hard, and it's a hard / It's a hard rain's a-gonna fall...

[the1975hqs]

Matty’s Interview with The Sunday Times Style

I wish I had a teenage daughter. Why? Because here I am with Matt Healy, the frontman of the 1975, who has just offered to take his shirt off in order to give me a tattoo tour. There’s the one dedicated to his nana; his mum, Denise “Loose Women” Welch, is on his foot; his dad, Tim “Auf Wiedersehen, Pet” Healy, is on his arm; and his brother, Louis, on the back of a calf; there’s the one dedicated to William Burroughs, the author of his favourite ever book, Queer; then there’s the one on the inside of his left wrist… of his passport number. “I got bored of being constantly woken up by a woman offering me a landing card while my tour manager, who always carries my passport, is conked out somewhere behind me. I thought it would be useful. It’s really all I need on a plane.”

Welcome to the world of the 1975, whose second album, I Like It When You Sleep, for You Are So Beautiful yet So Unaware of It (yes, really), went straight to No 1 in both America and the UK last year, and who won the best band award at the Brits in February. They have just announced that their third album, Music for Cars, will be out next year, and when we meet they are about to go on tour, kicking off in Mexico and ending in July at Latitude Festival in Suffolk, where they will headline alongside Fleet Foxes and Mumford & Sons. If you’re not familiar with their music — think Pete Doherty mixed with One Direction, maybe — it’s probably because, like me, you’re too old. That said, Mick Jagger, whom the band supported when the Stones played Hyde Park in 2013, is a huge fan — so fond of their hit single Chocolate, he has been known to put it on after dinner for guests.

“Yeah, I remember that gig,” says the 28-year-old Healy, with a faint Northern accent. “It was before I had my eyes lasered and I wasn’t wearing my glasses. Pointless. There were 50,000 people there and I could only see about four of them, but out of the corner of my eye I could just make out this gyrating figure and it was Jagger dancing to Chocolate. Mick Jagger — can you f****** believe it?”

Dressed this afternoon in a billowing silk shirt and tartan drummer-boy trews (“Not sure where they’re from, we rent a lot of stuff from the costume-hire department at the National Theatre”), Healy cuts the perfect figure of postmodern pop star: a kind of hybrid of Adam Ant and Robert Smith of the Cure, but sexier somehow, with those pouchy eyes and chiselled curls. Sprinkled across his fingers are an assortment of knuckle-dusters by Gucci, at his feet a women’s saddle bag, also by Gucci, all part of the vague Louis XV look, as he calls it, that the band are currently channelling. Gucci, McQueen, Loewe — these are some of his favourite labels at the moment. “Although if you are talking a label for life, it’s probably Dries [Van Noten]. He’s my Sir Alex Ferguson of fashion — beaten once or twice in his career, but always the best.” Then there’s his “mate” Erdem, with whom he likes to discuss “Fellini, contemporary dance and the concept of elegance”. Oh yes, Healy likes his fashion, although he admits he’s not mad about going to the actual shows. “They make me realise I’m more famous than I think I am. It’s like, ‘Don’t take pics of me, I’m here to look at the bloody clothes!’ But I’m not sure how you’re going to write that without making me sound like a dickhead.”

The pair of us are sitting in the spotlessly tidy, pine-surfaced kitchen of Healy’s east London townhouse, which he shares with the artist and creative director Sam Burgess-Johnson and Allen Ginsberg, his beloved year-old bull mastiff. Like Healy himself — a sylphy 5ft 8in and 10st who can fit into his girlfriend’s vintage clothes — the house is small and perfectly formed, and it is filled with well-tended spider plants, candles and stuffed birds. The only blot on this exemplary tableau of millennial domesticity is the unmistakable smell. (If you saw the grainy film that emerged the day after the Brits, of him and fellow band member George Daniel sharing a, um, “cigarette” under their table, you will know what I mean.)

“Like the inside of Bob Marley’s sock, right?’ he sighs apologetically. “Yeah, I know I’ve got to be careful here, haven’t I? But, yes, if I’m honest, I do like to smoke.”

Brought up on a farm in Northumberland, before moving to Cheshire at the age of 10, Healy likes to describe his upbringing as middle-class suburban, but obviously that’s not quite accurate. Regular visitors to the family home included his dad’s mates Rick Wakeman, Jeff Lynne of ELO and Mark Knopfler, and there was never any question that Healy, who got his first drum kit when he was only five, was going to do anything other than perform. When his mother was struggling with a dependence on cocaine and alcohol, he wrote a song about it (he proudly tells me that she and her third husband, the painter Lincoln Townley, have been clean and sober for six years; his parents divorced in 2012). Healy has referred to his own struggles with addiction when the band first rose to fame. “But I don’t drink any more, or at least I don’t drink at home. And although I still smoke weed, I consider it a lesser of many evils.”

Healy is a master provocateur: during the band’s Brits performance, lines from the some of their worst reviews flashed up on screen — “Pretentious”, “shallow”, “punch-your-TV obnoxious” and so on — causing some of the audience to think they had been hacked. That’s his role, as the Mick of the band, but not everything he says, and goodness does he have a lot to say, is merely for effect.

In the two hours plus I’m at his house, he treats our interview a little like a therapy session, talking about how he struggles with his “carnal impulses — a beautiful woman, that’s the closest I’ve ever come to divinity”, and how he is all too aware of his messianic influence over a certain demographic, girls between the ages of 13 and 17. Upstairs he has a suitcase full of the gifts he has been showered with on tour: artwork, books, knickers, you name it. One of his most treasured is a rare signed copy of Truman Capote’s In Cold Blood that was pressed into his hands after a gig in Sheffield.

“I wouldn’t accept it until she brought her dad backstage to say it was OK,” he says. “I’m not sure she realised what a find it was. But then look at Mary Shelley, who wrote Frankenstein when she was only 18. The desires of a teenage girl can be as sophisticated as mine, and when they are looking to me as a source of information, that’s a big responsibility. You can see where impostor syndrome sets in.”

Self-aware, in other words, doesn’t describe the half of it. But then, like Stormzy with his depression and Zayn with his anxiety and even Riz Ahmed with his views on Islamophobia, public emoting is part of Healy’s schtick. As he shared in his acceptance speech at the Brits: “In pop music … they tell you to stay in your lane when it comes to talking about social issues — but if you have a platform, don’t do that, please don’t do that.”

“Well, that whole ‘I don’t give a shit’ thing has never really gone far with me,” he says. “It’s why indie is my most hated [music] scene — a scene where you pretend you don’t care in order to not get judged on how bad you are as a musician. But times have moved on. I’m a privileged middle-class kid from Macclesfield. I can’t pretend to be what I’m not.”

Back, please, to his love life. He was rumoured to have dated Taylor Swift, but I can confirm they never even kissed, they “only fancied each other”. At the Brits there was a Lily-Rose Depp lookalike in a silver dress sitting next to him — Gabriella Brooks, an Australian who, yes, is a model, “but not a model model. She’s a chilled-out surfer chick who has never once asked to go out to an event, which is just amazing because I hate those big red-carpet events.” So, is this the future Mrs Matt Healy? Might he, at the tender age of 28, be settling down?

“Oh, bless. I’ve put her through the mill, brought her closer, pushed her away, brought her closer. See, although I know now I don’t need my equal on the intensity spectrum, I enjoy fantasising. What if someone like, say, Rihanna wanted to marry me? Am I shutting myself off from the opportunity of marrying someone like Rihanna?

“Oh, I don’t know,” he says suddenly looking terribly young.“I’m still trying to figure it all out.”

[smokesrp-blog]

OFFICIAL DATA FROM THE NEW REGIME…   SEALED FOR YOUR EYES ONLY.                                                 (   LOADING PROFILE OF N°. 2020, ELVIRE HANG.   )

(   TRIGGER WARNING. GORE.   )

un. your mother.

your mother is kronos, the black-star death of the world and its beginning. her mouth gapes open, wet and dark and empty enough to dangle your feet over while you rest on her teeth. your mother is kronus, owner of the world before their is one. 

your mother is the witch in the fairytale surrounded by sweetbread walls. she lives in the forest, she beckons inside. she eats children with that mouth. swallows them whole. 

your mother is the witch and your mother is the god both. 

your mother is a legend and your mother is a cautionary tale. nothing good ever comes from the beautiful ones who live in the woods, piping hot smoke out their pretty crystalline cabins.

your mother is a fox and your mother is a wolf, and she prowls without ever baring her teeth in the night. she kisses the necks of ghouls and goblins in the night. your mother is unafraid of the dark. your mother comes away with their flesh between her bicuspids when she pulls away.

your mother has many lovers, and your mother has many children. only three live. it is pointless to ask you their names. they only ever had bodies. 

your mother keeps only the ones who birth full, birth whole, birth true.

your mother is a witch, your mother is a god, your mother is the tale they tell men to ward them off beautiful women. your mother is a vila.

deux. your sisters.

your sisters are two-fold. your sisters are younger, and older, and neither are your better.

your sisters learn as you do, perfecting the art of woe and widowdom at your mother’s wane feet at your place in the cabin. your sisters know as much and as little as their middle 

your sisters are pale and lovely and look half like you but half foreign, like a dream that sticks out your ear in the moment you wake up. familiar, disorienting. dissimilar. your sisters share only their motherhood. 

your sisters come to paris in the age they call the beautiful one, when wet spring mornings turn the streets into shining silver spiderwebs. they name it belle epoque in the years that come.

your sisters join hands. your sisters smile, each one of you feeling the mean black stone your mother has slipped under your tongues, the daggers between your teeth. your sisters hold your chin steady and tighten the top knot of your hair as they apply your lipstick. your sisters are your competition and your salvation. 

your sisters are your blood.

trois. you.

you are meant for many lives. you have too much beauty and too little heart to survive for just one. you are half-ageless, and that is your saviour.

you have your first life in paris, a foundling searching for her knees. you are young to the world but they do not understand how young. you have your spun-sugar dreams of pointe shoes and stagelights, darling men in masks and a statuette in your figure. you taste diamonds and spit out silver. you have been borne in a fairytale and raised in a dream.

you have your next true life in new york, where the devil draws the skirts higher and pours the gin hotter. you shimmy-shake shimmy-shake across town and turn your hips so fast the beads fly off your dress. you are beautiful enough to pressure bullets out of guns on your own, but when you dance you molt the metal and halt the lead. you are town darling, bright thing in a burning city. you are a star, a name of your own put up in lights that will never do you justice.

you have your third in melancholy, morose. you have lived too brightly, your sisters hiss, your mother complains. you are nigh-immortal and have many lives left, but have spent the first two too quickly. you are told fame doesn’t suit those with ages like yours. you don’t care. you drink champagne in a bathtub and wait for the arrival of the next great generation. 

you spend much of this last one in fear. you have always been beautiful, always been terrible, but there are things that haunt even the great and terrible beauties - and it is war, death. your sister meets death, and your mother too. you fling yourself across the globe with grace and fright, macabre swan song, eloquent pas de deux with the devil. you look for the place farthest away from he who shall not be named and ingratiate yourself there.

you seek safety in the blackness, black velvet curtains that will hang heavily against the stages that you wish to grace. you know it is war, but you cannot give up art. you see the man on the arm of the throne and put yourself in his way, breasts first, wit second. you want his arms for the walls they make but soon find he is a roof too; windows, floors, and high arch beams. he is a castle of a home, and you cave him in around you to keep safe. 

you are the bride of darkness.

[vieuxnoyesrp]

     Kate Argent  ⚜  Hunter  ⚜  35  ⚜  The Incendiary  ⚜  ESTP  

Whatever doesn’t kill me …

Though she grew up the very definition of a tomboy, Kate Argent never had the slightest interest in being ‘one of the boys’. And why should she, when she had the good fortune of belonging to a family where the women called the shots? She wouldn’t trade that; and she sure as hell wouldn’t trade the many womanly charms she had at her disposal. It was the sort of guile that reduced her inferiors to mindless, salivating drones eager to jump through hoops for so much as a wink or a sly smile.There was no waiting around for the odds to stack up; if an opportunity wasn’t present - Kate would create one. 

She’s been that way as far back as she can remember; it’s the mark of a visionary, like her father before her. Gerard had a vision for all of them - something that’s been known from day one. Every family had their secrets; theirs were just a little different. The Argent legacy went back a good four hundred years and had not tarnished with age. They remained every bit the powerful and wealthy aristocratic family of werewolf hunters. To her elder brother Chris, it always seemed a responsibility, a burden. To Kate - it was an aspiration, a mark of pride.

So she trained, she hunted, she killed until she’d mastered every single one of the weapons in her father’s armory. Her favourites were always the handguns; there was nothing quite like the feeling of explosive firepower in her hands that came with a good sniper rifle or a sawed-off shotgun. And while Chris debated the ethics of their hunters’ code (’ "Nous chassons ceux qui nous chassent"), she never wavered from her own ambitions. Kate never questioned it - she never saw reason to. Everyone made their choices in life; werewolves and vampires had to take life in order to become what they were - taking theirs in return was simple justice. 

    {Oh no, honey, I’m an angel, I swear. The horns are only there to hold up the halo.}

The older she grew, the more apparent it became that she - and not Chris - was the true chip off the old block; the one who could carry the Argent name higher, further - If only her father would see.  But what she lacks in patience, Kate more than makes up for in both skill and spunk; and she’s seen firsthand how daring gets one further than caution ever will. It was the beginning of an ever-growing wedge between the siblings; Chris favouring temperance and the middle-ground, while Kate dismissed such values as marks of the lukewarm and the faint-hearted. So she took matters into her own hands. Always a people person, a natural leader, Kate looked at the shambles of the New Orleans Hunters’ Guild and knew that her coup de grace wouldn’t be beneath its tarnished flag. She would, she could think bigger. Using her family’s extensive contacts, Kate began orchestrating the single largest coordinated attack against werewolves in recorded history. After carefully profiling packs up and down the East coast, five packs were selected. All of them isolated, comprised of inter-related mongrels, easy to gather in one place. The attacks were all carried out within one month of each other–swift, brutal, and efficient. It was just sheer luck that they got wind of a pending attack in the French Quarter at the very same time. 

                                                           … Had better start running.

Already preparing to personally execute the assault on the Hale pack, Kate passed word onto Ensaf Masri, a close friend of hers who was fighting to take the reins of the NOLA hunter’s guild back in hand. Kate was surprised and disgruntled when she heard that the hunters had aligned themselves with vampires, though the resulting decimation was rewarding. Such a move wrested complete power of the Quarter from the waiting hands of the hunters, the power she had imagined rekindling after her onslaught, and invested it even more powerfully in Marcel Gerard. Preferring to distance herself from the Hunter’s Guild in New Orleans, Kate has spent the past few weeks preparing a new, coordinated attack; bigger and deadlier than the last. A subscriber to the mentality of ‘work hard, play harder’ - Kate is eager to sit back and reap the rewards of her latest plan. These rewards? They come in coffins.

Web of Connections:

Allison Argent: If Chris has one thing to redeem him, it’s most certainly his daughter, Allison. It’s been a few years since she last got to see the girl, but she remembers Allison to be as spirited and sly as she is alternately sweet and docile. Really, Allison’s practically her mini-me; so Kate likes to believe. She really hit it off with her niece and she’s certain that the more the girl grows, the more they’ll have in common. Until then, Kate’s happy to play ‘cool aunt of the year’ to the teen she hopes will grow up to be just like her.

Caroline Forbes: This blonde bitch made the mistake of trying to feed off of her one night as she was leaving a bar. After a quick take-down, Kate recognizes her as Police Commissioner Forbes’ ditzy daughter, Caroline. She'd done her research on the who’s who of New Orleans and PC Forbes was no small figure to overlook. Interrogating the commissioner only confirmed Kate’s suspicions that she knows and is abating her daughter’s new lifestyle. So she gave the woman a choice - and the daughter a deadline. Caroline has one month to end her own existence as a fanged abomination, or Kate will do it for her. If the girl had any dignity, she’d have chosen to die in the first place; rather than to complete the monstrous transition. Any decent human would’ve chosen death over life as a blood-sucking undead.

Rogan Jones: If she arranged the who’s who of New Orleans into a hierarchical pyramid of who she doesn’t want to kill - few names would remain, and of those, Rogan Jones would be at the apex. She knows everything about the clandestine Arcane Society that an outsider can know - and all the dirty details about Rogan’s personal life that an outsider shouldn’t know. It wasn’t easy to come by, but it certainly helps that her family name can loosen more than its fair share of tongues. Still, there are several aspects of his life and precious society that remain under lock and key - and Kate wants in. She’s certain that Rogan would be an impressive ally to have under her thumb, and she’s willing to use any trick in the book to see whether the man is as pliable as he is powerful. Be it a platonic proposition - or the more classic method of charming her way into his bed. His wife doesn’t look like she’d mind.

Davina Claire: For a girl who’s barely finished with her Barbies, Davina Claire’s sure causing a lot of ugly headaches in the Quarter. There’s no love lost between Kate and the witch-folk; they are after-all, only a small step up from the weres and the vamps infesting the globe like a virulent disease. But she’s wiser than to try and split a bullet three ways. After-all - been there, done that. So she’ll do the witches a favour and capture the illusive Harvest Girl before offering her up on a silver platter in exchange for as many favours as she can squeeze out of them. Maybe it’ll help her eliminate the dogs and the dead in New Orleans... And if not? Well then she’ll just have to start the species cleanse by burning the occultists at the stake herself.

Matt Donovan: Admittedly, most of the people of interest on Kate’s radar are targets. Matthew Donovan is a notable - and according to Kate - generous exception. She’s met the guy a couple of times when he - get this - ‘volunteers’ at the NOPD. Bless his sweet little soul. Still, he’s smart, curious, and mature - which is saying a lot for a guy his age. She doubts the NOPD will satisfy his thirst for knowledge, and seeing as he’s into community service, Kate thinks her line of work could be right up the young man’s alley - if pitched correctly, of course. He has potential; if nothing else she’s certain of that. So the huntress intends to do a little pro-bono herself and take the guileless human under her wing. 

Also mentioned in the following bios: Chris Argent, 

Plot Teasers:

While Kate has more than accounted for all the external threats she faces thanks to her line of work and the choices she’s made, she’ll soon find that discord is often all the more dangerous when it comes from within...

Kate's been almost obsessive in her search for more information on the Arcane Society. Little does she know that she's about to get through those locked doors much, much sooner than anticipated, but perhaps it'd be better for Kate if these particular doors had stayed locked.

On the soundtrack of her life: Horns - Bryce Fox (x)

FC: Jill Wagner, non-negotiable.

Fortunately for you, Kate is  O P E N!! | Follow

[thisdaynews]

Why Is Andrew Yang Still in This Race?

New Post has been published on https://thebiafrastar.com/why-is-andrew-yang-still-in-this-race/

Why Is Andrew Yang Still in This Race?

BEAUFORT, S.C.—Andrew Yang was sitting here in a rented silver Suburban outside a black chamber of commerce surrounded by five members of his rapidly growing campaign staff when he saw a new Fox News poll in which he was tied for fifth in the sprawling Democratic presidential primary.

He stared at the screen of his phone and scrolled.

Story Continued Below

“Three percent!” Yang said, in his characteristically dry, droll way. “This team. Is the team. That’s going to go … all. The. Way. To the White House!”

Yang breezily walked into the chamber building and got onto a packed elevator. To the county party chair squeezed into a corner, Yang excitedly passed along the results of the poll, listing in order the only people who were ahead of him—a former vice president (Joe Biden) and three high-profile senators (Elizabeth Warren, Bernie Sanders, Kamala Harris).

“And thenme!” he exclaimed, flashing a goofy, exaggerated smile.

Perhaps you haven’t noticed, but Andrew Yang is … surging? It sounds crazy, and who knows how long it lasts? But for now he is one of 10 candidates who have qualified through sufficiently robust polling and fundraising for this fall’s third and fourth debates. The exhausting cluster of Oval Office aspirants, at least for these purposes, has been whittled to this: the aforementioned top four, two more senators, a mayor, a former member of Congress and … this guy. Yang is a 44-year-old entrepreneur from New York and a father of two young sons who’s never run for any office of any kind before this, and whose campaign is fueled by a deeply dystopian view of the near future (trucker riots, anybody?), a pillar of a platform that can come off as a gimmick (a thousand bucks a month for every American adult!), and a zeitgeisty swirl of podcasts, GIFs, tweets and memes. Last week, as a successful governor from a major state dropped out and the bottom half of the bloated field continued to flounder, Yang passed the 200,000 mark for unique donors—outpacing an array of name-known pols. He’s gotten contributions, on average $24 a pop, from 88 percent of the ZIP codes in the country, and he’s on track, he says, to raise twice as much money this quarter as he did last quarter. Just the other day, he made his Sunday news show debut.

It’s a phenomenon hard to figure—until you get up close and take in some strange political alchemy. At the heart of Yang’s appeal is a paradox. In delivering his alarming, existentially unsettling message of automation and artificial intelligence wreaking havoc on America’s economic, emotional and social well-being, he … cracks jokes. He laughs easily, and those around him, and who come to see him, end up laughing a lot, too. It’s not that Yang’s doing stump-speech stand-up. It’s more a certain nonchalant whimsy that leavens what he says and does. Sometimes his jokes fall flat. He can be awkward, but he also pointedly doesn’t appear to care. It’s weird, and it’s hard to describe, but I suspect that if Yang ever said something cringeworthy, as Jeb Bush did that time in 2016—“Please clap”—the audience probably would respond with mirth, not pity. Critics ding his ambit of proposals as fanciful or zany (getting rid of the penny, empowering MMA fighters, lowering the voting age to 16) and question the viability of his “Freedom Dividend,” considering its sky-high price tag (“exciting but not realistic,” Hillary Clinton decided when she considered the general notion in the 2016 cycle). And his campaign coffers are chock-full of small-number contributors and even $1 donors. Still, at this angry, fractious time, and in this primary that’s already an edgy, anxious slog, Yang and his campaign somehow radiate an ambient joviality. Of his party’s presidential contestants, he’s the cheerful doomsayer.

His most foolproof laugh line—“the opposite of Donald Trump is an Asian man who likes math”—suggests that his candidacy is premised on distinguishing himself from the president the same way as his fellow challengers. But it’s not quite that simple. He’s attracting support from an unorthodox jumble of citizens, from a host of top technologists, but from penitent Trump voters, too. He’s one of only two Democrats (along with Sanders) who ticks 10 percent or higher when Trump voters are asked which of the Democrats they might go for—a factoid Yang uses as evidence that he’ll win “easy” if he’s the nominee come November of next year. Trump, of course, is the president, and Yang (let’s not get carried away) remains a very long long shot to succeed him.

But to spend any time with Yang is to grapple with this unexpected Trump-Yang Venn diagram. While Yang talks in different, far less overtly divisive ways, identifies different scapegoats (robots, not immigrants) and offers different solutions (cash, not walls), he’s zeroed in on the same elemental problem Trump did en route to his shock of a win in ’16: A large portion of the populace is being left behind, and it’s not remotely OK. Similarly, Yang’s campaign packs an anti-Washington, convention-bucking, on-the-fly, filter-free vibe. There are four-letter hats—not MAGA, but MATH (Make America Think Harder). And his Trump train? It’s the Yang Gang. Yang is not thenot Trumpof the 2020 trail. “Yang is thenewTrump,” a traveling Trump-voter-turned-Yang-Gang-YouTuber told me.

There are plenty of differences, too, of course. To wit: In the chamber building, after the elevator disgorged a floor up, a lobby was filled with the bouncy beats of line dancing emanating from a different room. One of his staffers joked that Yang should join in. And then … he did. Apparently unafraid of looking silly, or potentially creating an embarrassing, indelible, campaign-altering moment with the presence not just of me but also a state-based reporter from The Associated Press, Yang proceeded to team up with a handful of senior citizens for what most onlookers ultimately agreed was a quite credible, rhythm-keeping rendition of the catchy “Cupid Shuffle.”

“Down, down, do your dance, do your dance,” went the lyrics—and Yang did.

“Get it, Andrew!” the group leader called into her microphone. “Lookin’ good!”

When it was over, Yang jogged around the room to hearty cheers, grinning and giving everybody high fives.

“Thanks for letting me crash your class,” he said to the head of Family Slide Dancers.

“Thank you all!” he said to the members of her class.

By the time we got back to the Suburban, my phone was buzzing nonstop in my pocket. A tweet of the video I shot was starting to zoom around the internet.

***

“We are basically fucked,”Yang said, sitting in the Suburban, earlier in the day, not too long after we met, “unless we un-fuck ourselves, systematically and collectively.”

This blunt declaration didn’t surprise me. That’s because I’d read his most recent book. It’s one heck of a downer.

InThe War on Normal People, which came out last year, Yang sketched a stark picture of “broken people” and “jobless zones” and “derelict buildings” and “widespread despair” and “hundreds of thousands of families and communities being pushed into oblivion” and “a society torn apart by ever-rising deprivation and disability” and a “best-case scenario” of “a hyper-stratified society like something out ofThe Hunger Games.”

“It’s possible that we may already be too defeated and opiated by the market to mount a revolution. We might just settle for making hateful comments online and watching endless YouTube videos with only the occasional flare-up of violence amid many quiet suicides,” he wrote.

“The group I worry about most is poor whites,” he added. “There will be more random mass shootings in the months ahead as middle-aged white men self-destruct and feel that life has no meaning.”

My copy of his book is littered with my disconsolate scribbles.

“Yikes.”

“… bleak …”

“… hellscape.”

Know what else, though, I penned into the margins?

“Ha!”

“When I was 13,” Yang wrote, for instance, “I had to have four teeth pulled in preparation for wearing braces. I was actually kind of excited about it because I saw my dad’s teeth and was like, ‘whatever it takes, let’s not have those.’” He said the answer for out-of-place workers was not a career as a home health care aide because “former truck drivers will not be excited to bathe grandma.”

And as we traveled around, a busy, six-stop day in this sweaty, marshy terrain—from Bluffton to Okatie to Beaufort, from town halls to meet-and-greets with local Democratic clubs to a quiet, private stop at a shelter for abused women and children—the laughter never stopped for long.

Nibbling on a belVita vanilla oat biscuit, he praised the company for marketing the product as a healthy option. “It’s, like, you’re clearly good for me,” he said, “and then it’s a fucking cookie for breakfast!”

He referred repeatedly to his $24 average donation. “My fans are cheaper than Bernie’s!”

Entering a Mexican restaurant for a town hall, he said, “The best thing about running for president is I walk into a room and people clap!” The crowd roared.

He wasn’t always this way. His parents came to America from Taiwan. His mother was a computer services administrator before becoming a pastel artist. His father grew up poor on a peanut farm and got a Ph.D. in physics at the University of California at Berkeley and worked for General Electric and IBM in New York. Yang described him as a “workaholic” and “a brusque lab geek.” Growing up in the suburbs of Westchester County, Yang as a kid was “angsty,” “brooding” and “sad,” he said. He read science fiction and fantasy and Herman Hesse and listened to Pearl Jam and Soundgarden and Sarah McLachlan and played piano and decent tennis and lots of Dungeons and Dragons. He was, for a time, a tad goth. He suffered racist slurs. At prep school at Phillips Exeter in New Hampshire, and then at college at Brown, where he majored in economics and political science, he began to come out of his shell. He started to lift weights, mostly to try to get dates, and was proud to be able to bench press 225 pounds eight to 10 times in a row.

Now, here in the Suburban, as we crossed the Broad River, I brought up “Rex and Lex.” That’s what Yang named his pecs, “Rex” for the right, “Lex” for the left, when he was lifting all those weights. I knew about this because he wrote about in his other, earlier book,Smart People Should Build Things. He “could jostle them on command,” he had written, “to make them ‘talk.’” Obviously, I wanted to hear more.

Yang obliged. Having shed his blue sport coat, he looked down at his chest, and he … channeled “Rex.”

“He’s, like, almost mute,” he said, “but he’s still like”—and here the candidate for president made his dad-bod-dormantpectoralisundulate under his checked, collared shirt and assumed a diminutive, sing-song cadence—“‘Andrew, I still have a little bit of voice left. You haven’t fed me in a long time. You used to looooove meeeeeee.’”

Zach Graumann, Yang’s 31-year-old campaign manager, looked some combination of mesmerized and mortified. “You’re such a tool,” he said.

Yang was undeterred. He was on a roll. He turned his attention to “Lex.”

“Oh man,” he lamented, “Lex is wimpier than Rex!”

Everybody inside the Suburban laughed and laughed.

***

At the town hall in Hilton Head—a standing-room-only crowd of mainly older folks wearing boat shoes and flip-flops—it was hard to miss the young guys in the pink hats.

They listened intently as Yang introduced himself. “Hello, everyone! I’m Andrew Yang, and I’m running for president! … I’m going to be honest. I’m the last person anyone thought was going to run for president, in terms of my high school, my upbringing. My parents were not like, ‘You’re gonna be president someday.’” This assertion drew laughs. After Brown and law school at Columbia and five unhappy months as a corporate attorney, he started a company (Stargiving.com) that failed, he said. He was the CEO of a company that succeeded. He launched a non-profit that did a little bit of both. Then Yang gave his political pitch, about truckers, and soon-to-be self-driving trucks, and so many other kinds of workers, and automation, and artificial intelligence, and the real reason he thinks Trump won—millions of jobs automated away in the most important Midwest swing states—and the coming “buzz saw” and “the race to the bottom” and “suicides, drug overdoses, anxiety, depression,” and how the average American life expectancy has declined for three straight years for the first time in a century, and how “D.C. is not up to it at all,” and about $1,000 a month for every adult.

“How am I doing so well?” he said. “It’s because Americans recognize the truth when they hear it.”

The guys in the pink hats were impressed.

“He nailed it,” Mike Gallagher, 29, told me after Yang finished.

“Awesome,” said Wayne Boyce, 28.

They had driven the hour or so up from Savannah, Georgia, and both of them said they had voted for Trump but would not be doing it again.

Ditto for their other friend. “He’s an asshole,” Jordan Snipes said of the president. “And he hasn’t done anything he said he was going to do.”

They were members, they all said, of the Yang Gang now.

I asked if there were others like them where they’re from.

“Most of our friends,” Snipes reported.

A few hours later, at the Mexican restaurant, I met the Yang Gang YouTuber. Russell Peterson, 43,from Union County, North Carolina, was with his wife, Elasa, who was wearing a MATH shirt, and their toddler son, Zephaniah—“country folks,” Peterson said, and “former Trump supporters.” He had a lot to say.

“We all saw a problem, and that’s why we elected Donald Trump,” he told me. “Because he was saying he was going to go in and he was going to drain the swamp. He was a larger-than-life figure, you know? We all knew that there was a problem. We just didn’t know what that problem was. But then, when you listen to Andrew Yang, you realize: Oh, yeah, it is automation—it’s not immigrants. It’s automation. We’re all losing our jobs. We’re all being phased out. I’m an ex-landscaper. I just saw yesterday they’ve got a mower that just goes and mows your yard, just like a Roomba, you know, does your house.”

And what’s he do for work now?

“This is what we do,” he said. “We follow Andrew Yang full-time.”

He doesn’t work for the campaign, but …

“This has become my passion. There is nothing more important than getting this man elected,” he said, breaking down his video equipment.

“I’m tired of politicians. I don’t want a politician. I want somebody who’s going to tell me the fuckin’ truth, tell me what’s going on, and thenprovidesomething that’s actually going to impact my life! Since I’ve been an adult, there’s not beenonepolitician that has directly impacted my life, but I promise you that freedom dividend and putting $2,000 a month into my household would directly impact my life. I mean,game over.”

He wasn’t finished.

“People are so disillusioned,” he said. “Donald Trump? He was the WWE superstar guy. You know, he was going to take his metal chair into Washington, and he was just going to use it on everybody. We were finally going to be working like we were supposed to be working—and I’ve only seen the country get more and more divided. And then when you have Trump acting like he’s acting, I can’t support that, bro’. And then there’s a lot of people in the center who are like me who are moving over to Andrew Yang because we don’t like what we see. Wedon’tlike what Trump has done to the country. He’s only divided us more and more. So now we actually have some solutions and a guy who’stalkingabout solutions—so, like, let’s get this guy in, because he makes too much damn sense!”

All day long, everywhere we went, Yang was asked about Trump. How was he going to handle him? How was he going to debate him? How was he going to beat him?

He said he “would make him seem ridiculous.” He said he “would just diminish him by dismissing his arguments and making him seem like the buffoon and joke that he is.” He said Trump was “fire”—and he said he was “ice.” He told people he was on the debate team in high school that went to the world championships in London. He said he would “use humor.”

And at the last stop of the day, here at the Grand Army of the Republic Hall, outside of which I spotted parked a red Ford F250 pickup truck with a bumper sticker that read TRUMP, the throng of a couple hundred that had gathered couldn’t fit inside. They spilled out onto the lawn off to the side. “Let’s do it!” Yang hollered. He had no microphone. “Let’s project!”

And at this last event the last question was about Trump.

“When you become the nominee,” a woman asked, “how will you stand up to that nastiness in the White House?”

“Voters around the country have said to me they cannot wait to see me debate Donald Trump,” Yang said. He was all about “logic and reason and problem-solving” while Trump was “all bluster, and Americans can tell the difference very quickly,” he said, snapping his fingers. “There’s a reason he hasn’t touched me,” Yang continued. “Because he knows I’m the wrong person to touch. His supporters are all coming my way. … I’m peeling off Trump supporters right and left.” And one more thing: “I’m better at the internet than he is!”

More laughter.

“On that note …”

A snaking line of people waited for pictures. The sun set. Through the buggy, muggy haze, a single orange orb of a streetlight glowed past clumps of spectral Spanish moss. Yang autographed MATH hats. Flashes from phones pulsed in the dark.

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[everythingisgreenandsubmarine]

Entertainment In the Age of Trump

RESIST.

This has been the word that liberals and Democrats have been using since November 9, 2016. It has been a rallying cry – an expression of anger and resentment melded with a refusal to sit by with idle hands. For almost two years, we have been saying this word, marching with it adorned on cardboard signs, posting it on Facebook when we see an article that angers us; this word has been a unifying symbol for the left.

The Walking Dead, while approaching the second half of its controversial seventh season, used a similar phrase: RISE UP. It was written in huge, red letters, indicating a turn of the tide for the main characters of the show who were battling a cruel despot, Negan, and his crew in the middle of the zombie apocalypse. The second half of this show aired February 12, 2017 – 23 days after Trump was sworn into office.

Coincidence? Of course, but there is something to be said about entertainment in the age of Trump. With Republicans controlling all branches on the federal level, most of the governorships on the state level, and a number of judgeships, liberals in the United States are feeling astray. We know we need to fight back, but we’ve been kicked in the gut. So this word – RESIST – becomes more than just a word: it becomes a symbol for the way forward.

While The Walking Dead’s message of RISE UP was only a coincidence in its timing, there has been a clear ripple effect across film and television culture. The inauguration of Donald Trump can be seen on our screens and in our movie theaters.

The most overt example of this is Spike Lee’s masterpiece, BlackKklansman, which was both a brutal exploration of racism in the early 1970s and a clear example of how the Klan of the past still lives on, in many ways, in our current era.

It goes beyond Lee’s film, though. Steven Spielberg’s 2017 film, The Post, was also eerily relevant to our current situation, as it explored the Pentagon Papers and their publication; it was released on January 12, 2018 – two days after the Steele dossier came to light, which Trump immediately called “FAKE NEWS” in an all-caps tweet. Even documentaries, like Eugene Jarecki’s The King, subtlety explore a world in the era of Trump; it’s one fueled by desire for the American dream, yet barren in terms of possibility.

At the Sundance Film Festival, two of the features that premiered dealt directly with Trump (among others), including the Netflix documentary, Seeing Allred, about women’s rights advocate and attorney, Gloria Allred and Alexandra Shiva’s documentary, This Is Home, which followed four Syrian families struggling to make it in the United States.

Even Marvel, arguably the largest cinematic entity right now, has taken on this RESIST message with the devastating Avengers: Infinity War, which details heroes attempting to fight to save the world against insurmountable odds, being released in May 2018 and the optimistic, woman-powered Captain Marvel, which seems to promise a new era for superhero films and silver-screen heroines, slated to be released in March 2019, after the midterm elections in November.

In the age of Trump, we have also seen the rise of #MeToo, which has led to its own explosion of women-centric narratives, directed by women, taking the silver-screen by storm. Jennifer Fox’s heartbreaking film, The Tale, was based on her own experiences with sexual assault as a child. Greta Gerwig’s impeccable coming-of-age story, Lady Bird, explored what it means to become a woman in modern-day America. Sofia Coppola’s remake of The Beguiled took on new meaning as it explored distrust and betrayal on an intimate, gender-driven level. Patty Jenkin’s Wonder Woman even explored issues of sexism and empowerment, all within the confines of superhero(ine) film. Lady Gaga was the star of her own documentary in 2017, which was both intimate and raw in many ways, exploring her personal struggles with mental and physical pain while she continues to pursue artistic ambition and creative fulfillment.

Release dates are easy to chalk up to coincidence as they are often decided on well before the actual film is released. However, substance is important to pay attention to. It is no coincidence that The Post was released in 2017, after an entire year of Trump assaulting the press, labeling them as Fake News. It’s no coincidence that we have seen a proliferation of female-driven narratives, often helmed by women and starring women, at the same time that we have seen women marching in the streets against an administration that consistently shows how little it thinks of them. It is not a coincidence that we have seen films like BlackKklansman and Mudbound and Sorry To Bother You when we see Nazis and white supremacists marching in our streets, carrying Confederate flags, and chanting the phrases “blood and soil” and “Jews will not replace us.”

It’s not controversial to say that entertainment, film, and television have changed in the age of Trump – it’s a fact. It’s something we have noticed. It’s something that we have latched onto. Just like that one word we use as a flashlight to find our way through this dark tunnel – RESIST – we look to media, to films, to television, to our culture to represent our innate fears. We have always looked to these creative outlets for support.

I don’t know when the age of Trump ends. Maybe it ends tomorrow, when Mueller releases some damning information that will turn even the most ardent supporters against the sitting president. Maybe it ends in 2019, after Democrats have fought to win back the House and the Senate, effectively ending the efficacy of the Republican mission. Maybe it ends in 2020, after a Democrat defeats him in the general election. Maybe it ends in 2024, after he can no longer run for president. My inclination, though, is that the age of Trump will not officially end; not really, at least. The man may disappear. His administration will eventually be dissolved, either by defeat or constitutional necessity. The feelings he has elicited, though, and the way the majority of Republicans have jumped on his train, no matter where it leads, is not something that ends with an election, or a damning report from the independent counsel. The emotions he has elicited – from MAGA to RESIST – will remain with us for many decades, and our art is going to represent that.

In 1976 – just two years after Nixon resigned – a film was released, starring Robert Redford and Dustin Hoffman. It was called All the President’s Men, and it explored the ways in which two journalists from The Washington Post – Carl Bernstein and Bob Woodward -  helped take down Richard Nixon while reporting on Watergate. It was also helping people make sense of what had happened, though. No sitting president had ever – and since then, has never – abdicated the seat by choice. It was a confusing time for many Americans, full of uncertainty, of distrust for the government, and of political unrest. In that time, through art and through the silver-screen, things began to make sense and we found a path forward.