#no money no prospects all i got is a little bit of writing talent an electric scooter and a dream. and libreoffice.

[quietwingsinthesky]

google how to inform places im applying to that id like to start at level zero. i have no experience. thats the point. you have to GIVE ME SOME.

[velvetures]

Hello loves💕 I still can't get over your writing I'm obsessed!!

I would love to request Roommate König x fem reader. König hears you fucking some guy on the other side of the wall and he can tell you faked it so once the dude is gone he's got you over his shoulder and is walking you to his bedroom to fuck you right. I love the idea of her trying to get him to confess to her and trying anything after months or years of mutual pining, her last resort is to make him jealous.

Overheard

a/n: I'm so sorry for being so slow my love... I always have the worst self-confidence with nsfw reqs. I constantly write them, delete them, and start all over... (this is like... the 8th full-draft retry) So I hope you'll forgive me if this isn't up to standard. Also, I know this trope has been covered by some really talented writers and I hoped to do it justice, and not feel like a carbon copy of something better. (ps. This shit is too long... but I knew if I deleted anything, I'd delete the whole thing over again.)

tw's: 18+ ONLY, nameless hookup, alluded unprotected sex w/side character, unintentional orgasm denial, the reader is mentally not in the best place for sex (disconnected), voyeurism, jealously, fem-oral receiving, fem-fingering receiving, dirty talk, König being a bit of a loser, König omitting his lack of experience, aftercare.

His mom kept saying it was about time to settle down. That the biological clock, normally pushed on women, was ever-present and ticking against his favor. But his sweet, innocent, mother didn’t know the depth of his awkwardness. Not even the slightest idea that her well-mannered boy, turned praise-worthy Colonel was nothing but a bumbling fucking idiot when it came to speaking with women. In the field, sure. He could give orders, discuss tactics, and even bullshit with the best of the best… but if a woman was among those? Oh hell. It was like trying to talk to a brick wall with a randomly developed stuttering issue.

He didn’t understand where it came from either.

It wasn’t like his mother was one of the overbearing types that made dating impossible, and nor did he exactly have the worst time when he was younger with women being interested. It was just… after they showed interest, that became the struggle. Relaxing wasn’t possible. Not when he knew that a woman’s perception of him was far higher than that of any man. Believing that even the smallest of gestures and phrases could earn him an immediate dismissal, and his name or photo being sent in some group-chat to be berated after a first date. He didn’t blame any of the women though… he knew what he looked like. What he sounded like… and God, how miserable his personality was compared to what his career and position would lead others to assume.

A shred of truth could always be found in his mother’s warning though.

He’d gone years without any meaningful relationship where the softer, side of a woman could be found. He found bastardized ways of getting a taste, but he could only allocate so much money a month to porn sites and camgirls without feeling like a total sleaze. The Colonel felt much more confident mapping out a prospective warzone than the contours of a woman’s body, and fuck… it made him more than a little embarrassed to admit. Enough so, that when you mentioned that your rental agreement was coming to an end, and you were trying to find somewhere new to stay, he offered for you to just move in with him.

He owned. Which made the idea of ‘rent’ or you paying it almost unquestionably stupid. It made the deal a little sweeter -in his mind- for you to agree, and then he wouldn’t have to be quite so personally diligent on logging onto online portals to pay utilities. That is, if he could get you to move in. And while in his own mind and body, every synapse screamed that he was being unrealistic, you hadn’t caught on. He’d looked just as stoic and cold as ever when he propositioned that you just start moving over your things into his house. Save money… it’ll be easier for you; He’d said, hard eyes glancing over your face. You thought saying ‘yes’ was anxiety-inducing? König nearly passed out in his office after walking there on numb feet and weak knees.

In the week following, he brought you a small ring of keys, and you started moving your life into his, one cardboard box at a time. And every night after returning from his on-base duties, he would have to physically restrain himself from opening up the taped flaps and getting a peek at the unattended items sitting by the front door. At the time, he thought it was nothing more than unchecked curiosity and instinct to feel-out a new situation. Just simply wanting to learn more about you before you started sleeping over. Merely the soldier in him. But box, by box, that curiosity didn’t dampen down. Even when your items began making their way out of their containers and enmeshing with his around the house.

Tea cups in the kitchen cabinet next to his thicker, coffee mugs. Throw blankets rolled and stacked in the far corning of the couch he rarely sat on. A little rug you’d tossed down in the kitchen in front of the stove with a little floral print that he’d been utterly possessed to not get any stains on while cooking, or by taking off his boots before walking inside. And while never claiming to be a ‘minimalist’ man, he learned right away that his house was nothing short of a hotel when it came to personality.

You’d brought at least five full walls worth of decor. Little trinkets and cute things from all over the world you’d been sneaky enough to stuff into the pockets of your gear. And all of it, had initially been shoved into an empty linen closet he’d been perfect happy with you claiming as your own since it was ‘on your side of the house’. That was, until he found himself noticing that you’d put more than “storage” things away, and had silently refused to put them where they belonged.

On the damn walls.

“I don’t decorate well anyways..” It’d been his excuse… or at least something along those lines. Maybe a little bit more gruff. Guarded. Because even in his own home, he had the tendency of walking around like someone was going to sneak up behind him.

So one week, while he was away, you took the permission and ran with it. Buying the picture hanging kits, and everything else needed to begin covering the Colonel’s walls with your amassed collection of utterly unnecessary, but brain-scratching decorations, art, and collectable junk. Spending a good half hour walking around the halls and rooms with a little smile of accomplishment on your face seeing the colonel’s house feeling more like a home. Totally unaware that he’d been checking the security cameras dotted around, watching you scale a shitty stepladder, climb the kitchen cabinets, and struggle to lift the more heavy items. All the while, growing more and more intrigued with this new arrangement. Debating whether he liked it or not. Rapt attention making the instinctive suggestion that you’d make a good wife far less perverse than he should’ve felt it to be.

Missions took precedence though. And it kept both of you busy more than not. Fully living adjacent instead of in a more dependent role. But there were decidedly small decisions that needed to be made. Like who was in charge of buying groceries, and getting essentials that you both used. König ended up just leaving cash on the counter once a week so you could take care of his end for him. Saving the trouble of a second loaf of bread being bought, or doubling up on paper towels after a miscommunication lead to fifty rolls of the shit needing to be stored somewhere. You did the job more than credibly, and it got you out of the house too.

Which was good, because you rarely left.

Not unlike him, you preferred your time spent in calm situations. Either reading reports, answering emails, and other related tasks before just closing that tab on your laptop and opening up an new one to watch a show or scroll on your phone. You appeared to thrive in his house when you could curl up like some little bird in a nest and just rest. Developing almost permanently sleepy eyes when you came through the door, and a softer tone of voice that took some getting used to. König didn’t exactly understand it. Why your demeanor changed so much within the house, and how it got substantially much more noticeable when your schedules aligned for both of you to be there at the same time.

A solid seven months or more passed before he got his answer. And from your late-night scrolling nonetheless.

Some woman, blabbering on about her husband, and all of the ways that he effected her life once she moved in with him. And, honestly, König wasn’t listening all that much. Having just begun sitting on the other end of the couch with you, since it was where you spent your evenings after dinner. And, it’d become a little bit of a new experience. Just being halfway close to you. Interacting, but not. A safe way to enjoy your presence without any expectations. But that woman on your phone caught his attention when she made the joke about being tired all the time. Tired. Sleepy. All the fucking time. He had to stare down at the TV to keep his head from snapping in your direction.

Apparently it was chemical. Some little thing in the back of a woman’s mind that men didn’t have the complexity to experience the same way. That this woman -and you- were so mentally focused for such a long time, that when the right person was around you, and created a safe space, it acted like a the strongest sleeping pill in existence. Flooding you with dopamine and melatonin to the point that your pretty face got even sweeter with those deep, sleepy looks and constant yawns at all times of the day. Getting a glimpse of you tapping the screen twice, and then tapping at your keyboard to leave a comment only reinforced his inquisitiveness. From the moving boxes, to watching you on cameras while away… and now realizing that you acted so sweet and docile around the house because of him..? He didn’t know how to control himself, and still find a way to keep figuring you out.

Wanting more…

Needing a chance to find out if things could go further than just living in his house.

Dating wasn’t a walk in the park for you either. Call it a hazard of military work. Computers and filing paperwork was more your speed than the guns and blood that König was accustomed to, but it still limited the amount of men who were interested. Especially in the long-term.

It really came down to the uniform and lack of free time that could be allotted to the guys that you did have the fortune to meet. They wanted to take you on dates, and your superiors preferred you stay late to take minutes for a meeting. They always suggested you take a vacation, since it was clear just how tired you were on a daily basis. But vacations were practically a laughable dream you knew wouldn’t come to fruition until you finally were sent the retirement packet everyone in the service dreamed of. But.. on the rare occasion, you did have the energy to entertain a man for a night. Just. One. Night.

Thankfully König was out.

Such good timing considering you’d spent nearly a week, taking your sweet time to wring orgasms out of yourself just for the sheer frustration of getting them, and still not feeling satisfied. Instinctively missing the warmth of skin on skin and the dynamic of having someone else provide and take pleasure from you. Even getting on the app had felt more like a shopping trip than a chance to go on a date. Looking through photos and bios with nothing more on your mind than someone big enough, and pretty enough to make the ordeal worth it. The guy who answered back to your painfully blatant request for a good fuck, didn’t ask any questions either. Just asked politely asked if you wanted to go to him, or vice versa and gave you ample time to get yourself ready before the knock on the front door.

Your mental ruined any chance of having a good time though.

The poor guy sucking at your neck and grunting soft praises was nice… but you couldn’t get into it. Feeling tense. Going through the motions. Foreplay becoming an act of forced moans to reassure the guy genuinely trying to make you feel good, and unable to even make eye contact for a slightly guilty feeling that pervaded your thoughts. Hell, you even refused to have missionary, just to make sure that your facial expressions didn’t have to constantly match the fake whimpers and whines.

John… Joe… Jacob… whatever his name was, he was honestly a sweet guy. Giving your clit attention, no just shoving his cock in you without prep, and actively checking in without making it overbearing. On another day, you’d have really been trying harder to impress him. Give the impression that you were interested in him for more than the sex you couldn’t surrender to. Hope that he liked you enough to stick around. But deep down, you thought better of it. Withholding your feelings to ensure that when he left you alone for the night, that you wouldn’t hate yourself.

König, on the other hand, came home a bit earlier than expected. Walking in the door quietly to expect a silent house, and you sleeping in your bed or on the couch after waiting up for him. Only to be stunned with wet, skin slapping and familiar, pathetic, whimpers getting overrun by deep grunts and low, almost whispered sounds from a man.

God… you were getting fucked.

His whole chest tightened in embarrassment and his face felt hot. You’d never been quite this comfortable… at least to his knowledge. Plenty of nights he had overheard the faint sounds of you getting off alone… soft little moans and gentle hums of a vibrator filtering down the hallway to him. But he’d never heard anything quite that… loud. Even when you fucked yourself on a dildo -he’d always been too curious not to listen intently- the slick sounds of your cunt always made louder noise than your voice. As mortified as he was hearing it… part of him knew something was wrong. Like his whole body was stiff, realizing that you weren’t enjoying it. Faking it… for some unknown reason.

Why couldn’t you say something? Surely you could ask him to… to do something different right? To let you use a toy? Or… or touch your clit? Whatever it took to help you enjoy yourself. But those pinched, almost broken moans starting grating on him within seconds. Stalking towards your bedroom door quietly, and leaning against the wall. Eyes closed and his breath getting heavier with each imagined scene in his head that developed. Picturing him doing all the wrong things… Touching you… tasting you… and living out his own pleasure without the slightest idea that every sound out of your mouth was a fucking lie.

König’s jaw clenched. Resisting a sudden desire to bang on the door or make some other loud noise that would bring this all to an end. Even his fist clenched at his side flinched towards the bedroom door, as if he was insane enough to actually bust in.

What would he even do?

The question rang out a bit too harshly in his mind.

He didn’t have the first idea how to… do better. To make you feel good, or any woman really. Plenty of jealousy rose in his throat at the thought of that bastard fucking you, but he hadn’t even touched a pussy in years. And the last time he did it, he was, pathetically inexperienced. Using his huge fingers to try and prep his partner, but not hitting any of the right spots. Accidentally taking a clinical approach, and it left him feeling like a damn gynecologist instead of a good fuck.

He couldn’t please you, no matter how much he wanted to…

The sobering thought forced him to back away from your bedroom door. But pride alone forced him into the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a glass of scotch in his hand. The last -and unavoidable- line of defense before the front door. No doubt in his mind that if nothing else, he’d get a good look at the man you’d brought home for a disappointing night of sex. Wanting to at least humiliate the bastard for a few seconds. Because while he knew himself to not be an acceptable partner, the guy currently riding out his high in your bedroom wasn’t going to know it. And seeing him -in his daily fatigues- and his hood, would give any man a moment of pause.

You felt sticky. Hot. And more than a little achy in all the wrong ways as Jeff… Josh… whoever the fuck he was, removed himself form your bed and began pulling on his jeans. Watching cautiously as he excused himself into your bathroom -sweetly- offering you a wet washcloth and a too-shy smile for a man who’d just come all over your stomach.

You didn’t bother putting on pants to walk him out to the front door. Too disappointed and stuck in your own head to see König standing in the corner of the kitchen. His dark eyes glaring daggers at your… ‘guest’ who was much more observant, and stood stock still. Shirt in his hands, and forced to raise his gaze more than normal to get the best look at the terrifying man looming in the shadows. It took you far longer than it should’ve. To trace Jonah… Josiah’s… gaze, and recognize your roommate. And even longer to remember that you weren’t wearing pants.

“Hey man…”

You had to give what’s-his-name credit for being as casual as he sounded. Because in all honesty, you were just as taken aback. Shuffling to stand behind the guy just enough that your bare pussy and ass weren’t totally out for him to see.

“Evening…” König sounded… bored? Not his normal tone. “Heading out already?” The guy you were using as a shield, just nodded his head. Looking a bit apologetic, but still anxious.

“Yeah, man…” He pulled his head over his shirt, patting his pockets for the jingle of car keys before glancing back at you with an truly apologetic smile, and a clear unpreparedness for the situation. “I… uh…. thanks for… letting me come over…”

You can’t manage more than a nod. No smile, no reassuring touch to him… nothing. Just a silent acknowledgment and the subsequent scamper over to the couch to grab a blanket to cover yourself up.

Shit… König fucking waved bye…

He didn’t expect you to come out. Nor to get his first-ever look at your pussy. And god it’d taken a lot of restraint not to just stare at you and memorize what he could get get a look at. You just looked soft. So fucking small and soft… A slight sheen of sweat on your face and the roots of your hair damp from the erotic affair.

Too bad it was all an act.

“Thanks for letting him come, huh?” He can’t resist… the guy just hadn’t been cautious enough to not fuel the fire of jealously in him.

Seeing you wrap that blanket around you tighter, avoiding all eye contact, and even turning your side to him a bit… it makes him smile under his hood. An amused one. A sickeningly happy sort of feeling rising in his gut where you appear vulnerable under his gaze. You’re already much more expressive just talking to him than you’d sounded with that bastards cock inside you.

“Didn’t think you’d be back for a while…” Your valid excuse falls a bit flat, especially when those dark brown eyes scan your entire body. He lifts his tumbler of scotch under his hood, nodding before taking a long drink. Feeling a secondary burn that soothes the heat building everywhere else in him.

“I can see that…” He chuckles lowly. To him, it sounds unsure… and maybe tinged with anger, jealously. But on your face, he’s clear that you don’t recognize it. Far too embarrassed to see that there’s just as much uncertainty flooding him as well. “Could hear it too…”

He literally sees your shoulders sink. The wave of embarrassment. Part of him loves it. Knowing you’re experiencing some of the same things he is. That you to, know what it’s like to leave a bed feeling like things didn’t go right, and there’s a guilt that hardens like sediment in your gut. Yet the other half, resists pushing harder. Using this same, defensive, and chastising tone. To give you just a bit of respite, because, he’s not really mad… he’s just fuming with jealously.

“If I knew… I wouldn’t have…” You can’t manage much more. Both of you knowing damn well this wouldn’t have happened if you knew what his arrival was going to be. You always kept so good to his schedules… and not just because this was his house. But because you were so genuinely sweet around him.

“Been so loud?” He suggests, downing the last gulp of his scotch and pushing away from the counter. “Speaking of that…” His gaze lingers on your throat… those faked moans echoing in his mind.

“I didn’t know it was common practice for women to walk their fucktoys to the door… especially when he doesn’t make you come.”

If your stomach was twisting before, there wasn’t a doubt now. And god… you couldn’t tell if it was that he was home, or his voice, or just the edged-feeling of your aching pussy; but König was making you squirm. More than he’d ever done before… and you’d gotten yourself off to the thought of him plenty of times before when no other fantasy had done the trick.

“I finished.” You defend, tightening the blanket around your waist and tucking your bare feet under the excess material pooling on the floor.

König’s eyes blacken, and he laughs lowly. It’s the closest you’ve seen to his behavior when he’s interrogating someone. His power of knowing all the right answers and just dangling the freedom to lie right in front of your face. Maddening, to say the least. And enough to make your thighs flex together.

“I’d like to believe you…” he begins, making leisurely steps closer. “Yet, I’ve spent more nights than I care to admit hearing you come… and what I just hear… is nothing close to the real thing.”

“It’s different with—when it’s not just me.” You gape at him, trying to find anger at the audacity.

Searching for something other than a feeling of arousal knowing that despite your muffled cries into pillows, he’d still heard you at night. Still listened, and if nothing else, knew what your true pleasure sounded like to call you on bullshit. He shrugs, massive hands resting on his hips. Watching them sway a little as he keeps getting closer. Testing the boundary lines you no doubt had. Pushing and prodding at weak spots, and wondering if he can set foot on the living room rug you stood at the center of.

“Different, huh?” The fake acceptance doesn’t last long. “So if I asked for proof… you’d have it?”

“Proof?” You choke out. “What kind of proof could I even give you?” There are plenty running around in your head, all of them raunchier than the previous. But you’re almost desperate to hear him say it.

“Sweetheart, you’ve got the wettest fucking cunt I’ve ever heard,” He growls softly. “You never finish yourself off without making the slickest goddamn noises. Can hear it from down the hallway like it’s playing off my phone.” He adds, voice getting gritty, eyes lowering towards your hips and back up.

“Show me, that is… if he really did make you come.”

Air in your lungs evaporates. God it’s criminal how fucking lewd anything could sound coming from his mouth. And your dry pussy is pathetically getting wetter by the second. Fluttering muscles twitching with each filthy admission he makes. You’re already resorting to putting pressure against your clit by flexing your legs, trying to deny the feelings. Excusing it all by the still-lingering desire for release and not König. Not moving, and a miserable lack of a response forces him to approach faster. Stepping onto the rug serving as a mental barrier for you.

“Embarrassed?” He asks, head tilting a little and stretching the hood to pull away from his chest a little. Putting a bit more of his chest on display in that tight t-shirt.

You shake your head defiantly.

“Oh? Okay then… you should be able to show me then, right? Pretty girl like you, wanting to get fucked… Should be more than willing to brag that you got satisfied. That he left you satiated…”

Your face burns. Debating how to answer. If it’s even smart to try and test your voice in the first place.

“Nothing to see… got-got cleaned up…” God the miserable truth that your no-name partner’s cum was the only thing needing cleaned off of you hits like a punch to the gut.

A massive hand grabs at the blanket in your grip stops all possibility of lying anymore. A warning. Gentle, for sure and meant to be just a small test of consent. However, you too far into this to not want more. He’s just hitting all the right buttons, whether he means to or not.

“How about I… check for myself?” He asks lowly, free hand -covered in a glove- sliding up under his hood and returning into sight with the achingly sexy sight of a huge, scarred hand. His meaning isn’t lost on you, and it’s almost like your cunt floods in anticipation.

“Slide my hand between your pretty thighs, and see just how good he treated you…” He murmurs, trailing fingers down the two sides of the blanket pulled together. “Let me see if that pussy is fucking drenched like she deserves to be.”

“König.” You warn softly, eyes darting down to his hand and back to his eyes.

Not the slightest bit worried about him touching you. Not at all. But about what would happen after all the tension faded. What would come of your relationship if you fucked… or, just made things complicated in general.And he pauses, looking to you a bit cooler. His breathing still heavy, and laden with emotion.

“Yes, sweetheart?”

You’re desperate to think of a way to explain yourself, but the most basic, stupid, comment comes out of your mouth.

“I don’t want this to end badly.”

He straightens just a bit. But his hands don’t move. And while from your perspective, it seems he’s hesitating on whether or not to continue, that’s not what’s got him stuck mere inches away from slipping his fingers between your folds.

He’s worried you know. That you’ve caught on to his inexperience, and are merely defending yourself from a second bad experience in one night. And god it makes this throat burn. Desperate to defend himself and prove that while -yes- he’s more than a little bit lost when it comes to the manual process, he’s still going to be the most teachable fucking man you’ve ever met.

“I’ll listen so well…” He eventually mutters, stepping just a bit closer. Voice lowering and a hint of desperation entering it. “Can—can give you everything you want… Just need to tell me…” he adds, unable to look you in the eyes.

It’s not exactly what you were expecting to hear, but it still strokes that burn between your thighs. Especially when his hands grip your hips through the blanket wrapped around you. Groping softly, massaging at the fat over your muscles and feeling hungry just to touch you.

“I… I don’t want things to be awkward afterwards.” You try to reexplain. Hoping the clarification will help him see why you hadn’t already leaned into his commanding touch.

“Awkward,” he repeats, as if it’s a foreign idea. Like it’d never crossed his mind. “Don’t plan on ignoring you anymore… Not—Not after hearing that… and knowing… fuck…”

“He couldn’t have listened… please tell me you tried to tell him what to do… what you wanted,” His rambles get more panicked. Like every thought in his head is equally important and he can’t take the time to pick one and let me even answer. “Should’ve asked what your pussy needed… how to make you feel good… make those pretty sounds..”

You’re half dazed just watching his breathy words fan the material of his hood to react to his boot kicking your feet apart. Wide hand sliding between your thighs and groaning. A deep, guttural sound that reminds of him being winded. And really… he probably should be. Because your inner thighs are dry to the touch. The wetness he’d been creating still not enough to make much fuss over. But he’s not satisfied with that alone. Immediately curling a finger to spread your lips, feeling the thick, slick of new arousal that had been nothing, if not his doing.

“Ohh, you poor baby…” He sighs lowly, head rolling back at the mere sensation of your pussy under his fingertips. Feeling you a bit anxiously, yet getting a buzz in the back of his skull when your hole pulses against his prodding touch. “Left you so fucking hot…”

It’s a fast movement but he’s got you off your feet and dropped down onto the couch in one swift move. Your back arched in the slumped position and the blanket that’d been covering your -pathetic- modesty, fluttered open on both sides of your hips. Leaving your core exposed to his hungry and heavy-lidded eyes. Letting out a little whine of a sound when he slowly drops to a knee; tracing his hands down your inner thighs like he was scared of touching you too harshly.

“König, please…” You gasp out, watching his thumb run over your swollen labias. Pinching your fat lips together softly and inadvertently putting delicious pressure on your swollen clit. He curses under his breath, free hand grabbing your thigh with bruising strength.

“Tell me how to please you,” He commands, eyes flashing dangerously wide in the icy moonlight streaming through the living room windows. “I need to make you come.”

His desperate, and knows you can see it. His whole body shakes seeing your flushed pussy a mere foot away from his face, and nothing but opportunity and his hood preventing him from burying his face in it. Watching as you shyly reach for his wrist, guiding his hand where you want it. Extending his fingers and whimpering when your motion for him to rub small circles over your clit sends those to-intense waves of pleasure through your pussy.

“Like that… just like that…” You’re able to praise with a shaky nod of your head.

Rocking your hips in tandem with his movements and nearly crying out in relief when he diligently keeps the same pressure to you despite your little twitches and grinds. Allowing you the freedom to plant your feet on the edge of the couch and simply feel. König’s lost in it. Lost in the sight of you. Your pretty mouth gaping open and your hips chasing the touch he’s providing. His breath catching when you cry out or give a weak praise for his work. Like you’re enjoyingwhat he’s doing.

But god he’s happy to stay right where you want him, how you want him. Feeling his knee dig into the harsh floorboards, and ignoring it with a refreshed feeling of duty he’d long lost as a soldier. Never had he been given such a pretty fucking prize to work for. Nothing as sweet as seeing your cunt drip from his rough fingers rubbing soft, almost too-soft circles over it. Not even realizing that he’d spent almost fifteen minutes just rubbing your clit lazily when your hand reaches back down. Happy to direct him yet again, especially when he doesn’t even need a verbal direction to do exactly what you want.

“Fingers,” You whisper through panting exhales. “Give me your fingers…”

Your little hand grabs his pointer and middle fingers, spreading your own slick over them like a goddamn professional before guiding him down to your aching hole. Letting go just long enough to feel the thick digits press though that first little ring of tightened muscle. Forcing your eyes open to witness his mostly-hidden expression as he sinks knuckle deep inside of you.

“So fucking pretty,” His head shakes a little, lost in the creamy slick gathering at the base of his fingers as he curls him up towards your pelvis just a little. Subconsciously scared to do the wrong thing, but desperate to keep your cunt flex and mold to his touch. “Tell me, sweetheart… show me what she needs.”

You’re too possessed to chase your high to not listen. Readjusting your bent legs on the couch to gently lift your hips and sink them back down. Slowly getting used to the feeling of his thick fingers, already deeper than your no-name partner. Groaning when they bump into your g-spot just hard enough to make your clit burn. Grinding against his hand and keeping one hand wrapped around his wrist just to try and ground yourself to the present situation. Lost in the rhythm of fucking yourself -quite literally- stupid within mere minutes. Beginning to hear that vulgar, sucking sound of your pussy gripping his fingers and utterly drooling over his palms.

König’s helpless to so more than sing your praise. “That’s a good girl… so good for me. Using me like a fucking toy.”

It’s the best he’s felt in a long time. Watching you take from him. Too absorbed to even think about anything other than yourself. Not in enough control to even worry about the true moans and yelps escaping you. Real pleasure wracking your body and burning every nerve ending.

“More… please more…” You cry softly, hips slowing to a painfully sexy grind as you squeeze the tendons in his wrist with your thumb.

König takes a little more initiative than he’s normally comfortably using, but adds a third finger. Slowly pumping them in and out, little by little, to help you adjust. Watching as your eyebrows pinch together in focus. A low growl rumbles in his chest, his mouth practically watering as your cunt sucks him in.

“Let me taste it, baby…” He huffs, head flinching forwards before backing off, repeating the action a couple more times. “Wanna help… just—just let me taste you…”

You clench around his fingers when he rests his cheek against your inner thigh. Big, wide eyes pleading with you so innocently like he isn’t stretching your hole wider than the biggest of your toys can with nothing but a few fingers. Forcing you to slow the roll of your hips, a shaky hand reaching out to cup his face through the mask. Rubbing a thumb over his hidden cheekbone with a little whimpered hum. Pulling his head closer to you, hissing when the hem of his hood merely grazes your clit.

“How’d you want it?” He asks, head down and pulling his mask up so you’re stuck. Forced to merely feel his mouth so close to you, and not see the shape of his mouth.

“Lick-lick my clit… s-soft…” You whine, eye shutting when the hot fan of his exhale his your fevered skin.

Holding his head steady with one hand, you almost coming up off the couch when his tongue makes one, long, lazy, lap between your folds. Gripping at the material of his hood just tight enough that he ends up ripping the whole thing off. Tossing it to the floor with an aggressive snarl that rumbles against your clit. Sparks of pleasure forcing your thighs apart and jerking your hips back up. Chasing his mouth. The rough texture of his tongue, and the slight graze of his teeth against your slicked folds.

Your orgasm approaches fast from there. Between his fingertips stroking you deep, and the new rhythm of his tongue lapping your slick up to massage your clit, it’s hard to even warn König that he can’t stop for risk of ruining your long-awaited release.

“König… K… oh… fuucckk…”

Your back arches tightly, both hands grabbing harshly at his hair with an unintelligible shout as you come. Jerking wildly and one of your feet losing it’s hold on the edge of the couch. Trying to fight through the shocks of pleasure, and groaning curses with a hoarse throat. Feeling König’s free hand latch onto your thigh to keep you from running away too far from his still-working lips and tongue. Sucking up the wet drips of release trying to drip down his hand.

“Slow, slow down.” You whimper, pushing at his forehead just a little. The pressure too much. The stretch of his fingers still satisfying but overstimulating.

Your so fucking grateful that he doesn’t fight you on it, or force you to try for another. And maybe it’s just the mere sight of you. abdominal muscles twitching, forcing your upper body to do baby-curls with each flex of your pulsing cunt. Toes curled and an all-over buzzing sensation making it hard to even make sense of where your limbs are in relation to the rest of your body, much less König or the couch your hardly laying on.

“You okay, sweetheart?” His softened voice almost gives you emotional whiplash, especially when he bends over you forehead resting against yours softly.

Gently removing his fingers with murmured apologies when your little winces mar your pretty features. Both hands sliding up your sides to help lift you back onto the couch, moving to sit himself next to you just long enough to reposition your body on his lap. Pulling that blanket back over your bottom half and maneuvering your cold, tingling feet between his thighs like he can tell they’re freezing. He presses soft kisses all over your forehead and nose. Rocking you softly and squeezing at the muscles in the back of your neck reassuringly.

“You needed that… needed to feel good…” he murmurs almost lovingly.

You nod dumbly, laying your head against his shoulder. Letting out soft nearly unconscious whimpers and a soft repetition of his name in cum-drunk appreciation.

“Told you I could listen… could be good for you,” He adds, almost like he’s reassuring himself of the idea. “Wanted to be better than him. Needed to prove it.”

He holds up your weighty head, stabilizing it with care and a sickeningly sweet look of devotion in his eyes.

“You’re never going to fake it again, sweetheart.”

reblogs & comments are always appreciated <3

[bowlerhatwearer]

About Victor Owens

I mentioned yesterday that I want to write about Victor's obsession for rocks, minerals and metals, and I sure will keep that promise >:3

So Victor Owens, born as the fourth (or third as he claimed for some time) and thereby youngest of his siblings. Was someone who instead of education, strived for something else.

His parent were part of the lower middle-class, owning a small house where he, his parents and his siblings lived. Barely with any toys, if they didn't made them themselves, got them as presents or used ones from neighbors, friends or family.

So usually Victor, liked to play with rocks, he found their unique sizes and shapes thrilling. The little cat loved to collect them, looking at their differences and considering whether he should break one open, to see what is inside, or let the rock remain as it is.

For Victor it was fascinating how a rock was able to look completely different on the inside, as it did on the outside.

This all, next to being the "runt of the litter", lead to Victor having the growing ambition, of him wanting a better live. He was not unhappy how his youth was...but he wanted it to be different.

Which, made him similar to his father, both began and started to work, because they wanted to be independent and change things for themselves. Although for Lewis, Victor's father it was also to support his pregnant wife.

Similar to his parent, Victor began to work odd jobs to get his money, but at the same time began to learn things by himself, lending and reading books at the local library. Unlike his older siblings, he wasn't interested in going to college, and wanted to make a name for himself instead.

After having worked a few different jobs, Victor used the money he had saved to buy himself a plot of land. However, he never intended to built himself a home there, and neither a company, or well, not directly.

Instead trough research he discovered that the plot was rich on lignite and peat, given that there was no lignite mine, or distributor nearby and the city had to get it from other places of the country, Victor saw an opportunity.

And so Victor Owens, began to dig up the ground himself, using the last of his money to get himself a machine that was able to make lignite and peat briquettes himself by hand. Starting to sell them as a door to door salesman after he dug and made them in the morning.

With the money Victor collected, he began to buy more plots, but also expanded "Victor Owens Lignite and Peat Briquettes", his first company.

At this time Victor also learned more about geology, as well as prospecting, getting his hands on every book, magazine and article that wrote about the topics.

Having educated himself more, the cat decided to make his greatest purchase yet...and one of his close calls for bankruptcy.

For Victor Owen's interest in rocks caused him to buy a gravel bit, build around a dried out river. His fascination with rocks, his undoing when Victor was, unable to find at first anyone willing to purchase his gravel. (And also it paining Victor to sell his precious rocks.)

But luck would be on his side, for around the same time the country Victor lived in was in the midst of, geopolitical problems, importing cheap gravel was getting difficult due to the increasing hostility between this, and another country.

Alternative ways of getting gravel, which was needed for asphalt and concrete, were desperately needed by the government.

It was then that Victor saw a new opportunity, with a talent for marketing and a meeting with some government official, he was able to convince them to take his offer. (And with Victor also being able to let go of his gravel.)

With his growing wealth and expanding the company, Victor decided to make his hobby into a profession...prospecting areas and searching for valuable metals and minerals...

(To be continued...)

[mrsbrekkers]

Hi! I read your Jesper fic and it’s like my favorite that I’ve ever read honestly it was amazing! I was wondering if I could request a Jesper x reader where the reader is small and really sweet and he has a crush on her? And she like steals his clothes and he just gets rlly soft? Once again I love your writing have a great day/night and no rush!

hi there! we’ve talked over pm, but thank you again, those kind words mean the WORLD to me! i haven’t put my writing out there in a while, so this means a lot, thank you again :)

so i had a weird idea when i saw this when i woke up this morning. mind you, it’s been sitting in my requests for a few days, but i saw it and didn’t have a lot of ideas, but then inspiration struck me and brb i gotta cry over this. AHHHHHH

pairings! jesper x reader / kaz x inej ( being soulmates ) + nina x matthias ( also being soulmates ) + wylan van eck enjoying his pie

reader is again, gender neutral, but leans more female presented, BUT the pronouns they/their are used throughout

warnings! jesper and reader being the fluffest couple to walk the grishaverse, kaz endlessly shipping, kaz also pinning for inej, nina + kaz shipping reader and jesper, the crows in general shipping reader x jesper

word count; 3036 words

one-shot under cut!

this mood board was made by a friend and UGH IT TAKES IN THE FIC S O WELL!!! @r3tr0sp3ct !! thank you so much, SHFJD

5 WAYS TO TELL YOUR SIGNIFICANT OTHER YOU LOVE THEM

Courtesy Of Jesper Fahey, to my Dearest Y/N

5: Tease Them About How Short They Are

It was no secret that Y/N was the shortest of the crows. A mere five foot three, compared to the other Crows? They were short. Shorter than Inej by an inch or two, and by a foot compared to Matthias. Yet, it made them dangerous: able to move from place to place almost as swiftly as Inej. They were able to look unintimidating, when in reality, they could kill you, your family, and your relatives. They were able to lie their way through almost anything: another factor of people underestimating them. They were dangerous, which is why they were a part of the Crows after all. An asset, a leader even. Kaz saw them as valuable.

That didn’t stop the endless amount of teasing from the Crows though. And who had started it? Jesper Fahey.

First joining the Crows had been an impulsive decision, but one that Y/N didn’t regret. A family came with joining, and they’d lost theirs a pretty good time ago. What also came with joining was the teasing. Another day at the Crow Club, and Y/N, still relatively new to the Barrel life, was watching as Jesper gambled. They’d never understand the payoff of such quizzical acts of dumbness, but they stood there behind Jesper, confused.

Finishing the hand, Jesper glanced back at Y/N, chuckling slightly. Y/N’s eyes shifted, their glare at Jesper meeting him right in the eyes. It almost caused him to back down from what he was about to say, but he simply smirked the usual Jesper smirk. Flirtatious and bubbly. His hand swiftly moved, pulling Y/N to stand directly in front of him, the hand on their waist causing them to become flustered.

“You’re shorter than Inej,” Jesper inquired.

“I am not-” but Y/N didn’t finish their sentence. They’d already known such, but now Jesper was pointing it out. “So what?”

“It means I get to deem a new nickname for you! Inej would never let me call her anything related to her height, she threatened me with her knives. Or Kaz would glare at me, which scares me to say the least,” Jesper smiled now. He was going to have to find his way into Y/N’s good graces to fully engage in said nickname. They seemed conflicted for a moment, a pout making its way to their face.

“Does that mean I get to deem a nickname for you based on how tall you are?” Y/N asked, raising an eyebrow. They already had one in mind, considering Jesper was only a mere inch shorter than Matthias, the nickname still fit him.

“Well, that depends, Shortcake, what is your nickname for me?”

“Big Bear,” Y/N responded, smiling.

“Hmm, I like it. Shortcake and Big Bear. A powerful duo,” Jesper said, chuckling.

And thus, the teasing of how short Y/N was began.

4; Tell Them How Sweet They Are

The teasing didn’t stop there. Of course it didn’t. Because while the nickname ‘Shortcake’ was coined by Jesper, everyone had chosen new nicknames for how short Y/N was. Matthias called them Bubbles. Nina called them Babycakes. Wylan called them Munchkin. Inej called them Mini-me. And even Kaz had found a nickname for them; Firecracker.

But for Jesper, he wanted to find other ways to tease, or to tell Y/N what they meant to him, and low and behold, chance struck him. Eating with the Crows at one of the bakeries in Ketterdam, Y/N sitting next to Nina, with Jesper on their other side. Matthias sat next to Nina, squished between her and Inej. Wylan sat on the edge of the booth, opposite of Jesper, with Kaz sitting in a chair at the head of the booth.

Jesper glanced over at Y/N every once in a while, who was enjoying their creampuffs, he watched a bit of the filling be left on their lips. letting out a small chuckle, he watched Y/N turn toward him. “Hm?” They murmured, tilting their head. Sometimes Jesper wondered what someone like Y/N was doing in the Barrel. How Kaz had even found someone so sweet and kind roaming the streets.

“You got something a little-” Jesper raised his hand, his thumb brushing the pastry filling from Y/N’s lips. “There,” and with that, he chuckled before eating the filling. Y/N’s eyes had followed his hand the entire way, becoming flustered just as they had in the Crow Club just a few nights ago.

“That was my leftovers for later, Big Bear,” Y/N glared, their tone though was playful. The entire table now stared at them. Nina had a knowing look on their face, Matthias just seemed confused. Inej had let out a small laugh, Kaz’s eyes shifting to Inej upon hearing the sound. And Wylan? He just took another bite of his pie, his attention unwavered.

“Shortcake, you’re really telling me you would’ve saved any amount of those creampuffs as leftovers? I doubt it, they’re your favorite,” Jesper observed, making Y/N huff and taking another bite of a creampuff.

“They’re sweet and warm, of course I wouldn’t leave a single one for leftovers,” Y/N deemed, crossing their arms as they went to grab their last creampuff, but Jesper beat them to it, biting into it.

“Hmm, they’re not as sweet as you,” Jesper said, kissing Y/N’s nose, making them go cross-eyed with a smile.

“Hey! That was MY last creampuff!” Y/N said, coming to their senses after they realized Jesper had taken their last one. Before they could go to grab it though, Jesper raised it above his head. Oh, it was on. Before too long, Y/N was chasing Jesper out of the bakery, leaving the other Crows a laughing mess as they watched Jesper run, yelling for Y/N to catch him.

“Those two are soulmates,” Nina said, a wide smile on her lips as she watched Y/N practically topple Jesper onto the concrete, grabbing what was left of their creampuff and biting into it. Her eyes then shifted to Matthias.

“Soulmates.” Matthias agreed, smiling.

3; Save Them From The Bad Guy

Y/N was smart, Jesper knew that. They could probably give Jesper and Kaz a run for their money if they would like to. They were small, agile, talented. They were everything in Jesper’s eyes and more. But that didn’t make them any less susceptible to being overwhelmed during a job. They weren’t Nina Zenik. They weren’t Grisha, meaning if the right spots were hit they could indeed be overtaken.

But with Jesper by their side, that potential went down exponentially. Because whether Y/N believed it or not, and they did, Jesper would protect them with his life. They would do so for one another without hesitation. Which as Kaz put it: ‘is a dangerous prospect.’ The two didn’t care though. Well, in certain ways they did, but where was the fun in giving Kaz the satisfaction of thinking he was somewhat right? Answer: There was none.

Having just grabbed the package they needed during the job, Y/N and Jesper were about to be home free when they were spotted by the cashier, who undoubtedly worked for Pekka Rollins. Going eye wide, the two stared at the cashier for some time, and before they could come up with a Kaz level idea, the two bolted from the shop, Y/N’s hand in Jesper’s.

“We’re not dying today, Shortcake!” Jesper laughed over the commotion, the adrenaline of the job running through him as they ran.

“Hopefully not, Big Bear!” Y/N yelled, letting go of Jesper’s hand and breaking off from him. They were bigger targets together. Slipping through the crowds, Y/N ran as quickly as their legs could carry them. But speed could only make up so much when men who seemed twice your size were chasing after you.

Y/N knew Ketterdam well, but not Inej well. Not Kaz well. So when they came face to face with a wall that was too big for them to climb before the men managed to catch up, they scowled. Where the hell is Inej when you need her?

Turning to face the men who showed up, Y/N showed their hands. “Went after the wrong one,” They remarked, smirking. The men didn’t seem to be having it though, and as they stalked towards Y/N, a voice was heard behind them.

“And to think you’re usually the one saving my ass!” And then the three men fell, one bullet lodged in each of the men’s heads. Y/N looked up, smiling as they saw Jesper.

“Got the package?” Y/N asked, Jesper showcasing the bag of whatever it was Kaz had deemed they needed.

“I do, but I also have the most important package.” Jesper stepped over the bodies and took Y/N’s hand again, a wide smile on his lips.

“And what package would that be?” Y/N knew what he was going to say, but they wanted to hear it outloud

“Why you, of course!” Jesper winked, kissing Y/N’s forehead before they were off to bring the package to Kaz.

2; Let Them Borrow Your Clothes

Another night at the Crow Club, but something was unusual. Jesper was used to having a stalking Y/N behind him wondering how poker worked. This time though, they didn’t seem to be found anywhere in the Crow Club. It almost made Jesper not want to play. What was the point of playing if you didn’t have your lucky charm? There was no reason in his mind, especially as he began to have a bad streak of luck. So, standing from the table, he went to the booth Inej sat at, Kaz across from her.

“Have you guys seen Y/N?” Jesper asked, earning him a small smirk from Kaz, who simply glanced at Inej. He’d seen the newest Crow go to Jesper’s room while he’d gone down the steps. Kaz had been tempted to ask what they were doing, but he already had a feeling about what they were doing.

“They’re at the Slat,” Kaz said, deciding to rat out Y/N.

Jesper raised a brow. Weird. “Have fun you two! Inej, make sure he doesn’t come up with some more heist plans while I’m gone,” he joked, earning an eye roll from Inej. Turning from the table, he made his way out of the Crow Club, walking to the Slat and up to Y/N’s room, which was right next to his. Granted, they were really just tiny spaces meant to serve for the necessities. So, when Jesper arrived at their floor, he stopped in his tracks.

“Shortcake?”

Y/N turned, cursing as they realized they’d been caught. Instead of being adorned in their usual black attire, Y/N wore one of Jesper’s jackets.

“Listen, it was right there, it looked warm, I just really really . . . why are you walking towards me like that?” Y/N asked, watching as Jesper stepped towards them. If only they could see into Jesper’s mind, but the look in his eyes said it all. He was completely, utterly in love with the person before him. Letting out a gentle laugh, he kissed the corner of Y/N’s lips, earning him wide eyes.

“It looks better on you, although a little big, it’s perfect, Shortcake” Jesper said, in turn, he received a giddy laugh.

“Why thank you Big Bear. It is really warm, I may have to steal it,” Y/N remarked, crossing their arms and posing in the jacket for Jesper.

“You can’t steal it if I give it to you.”

“Hey! No fair. We’re criminals. I shall steal Jesper Fahey’s coat!”

“Mhm, now come on. I think you should show off your new attire at the Crow Club,” Jesper said, taking Y/N’s hand, but instead, they moved to stand beside Jesper, moving his arm so it wrapped around their waist.

When they arrived at the Crow Club once more, Inej glanced at Kaz, who now looked over his plans he’d been drawing out, his eyes on Y/N and Jesper.

“You’re so in on them being soulmates aren’t you?” Inej asked.

“Hmm, I don’t know what you’re talking about, my dearest Inej,” Kaz spoke quietly, making sure only she could hear.

1; Telling Them You Love Them

Whatever Jesper was planning, Y/N had a feeling it involved something big. They’d never seen him as frantic as he currently was. Then again, Jesper was a pretty frantic person at times, but still this probably took the cake for the most frantic. He had flowers, candies, creampuffs, not that Y/N knew all of that.

He was receiving different ways to tell people that you love them, and now he had no idea which one to go with. Nina told him pastries. Inej told him to simply be outright with it. Matthias told him some weird Fjerdan way they would do it. Wylan had shrugged, he’d never really been in love before. He hadn’t even DARED to ask Kaz for obvious reasons.

That left him with his own way of doing it. He wasn’t sure if Y/N would like it. He knew she’d like the cream puffs. But the candies? The flowers? Were they that kind of romantic?

It also didn’t help that when he’d asked everyone, he’d at first told them that he had feelings for Y/N, and they’d all replied that they knew. That didn’t help his nerves, because did that mean Y/N knew? Or were they just as oblivious as he was?

The night seemed simple enough - until it wasn’t.

The flowers didn’t smell right to Jesper, so he threw them out. The candies, as Nina revealed, were Y/N’s least favorite. The only thing he still had by the beginning of the night were the creampuffs. But he wanted to do this right. He had to do this right.

Entering the bakery, Jesper spotted Y/N at one of the booths, eating creampuffs. Well, there goes the last thing he had to give them. Making his way to the table, Jesper watched as Y/N raised their head to look at him.

“Don’t tell me Kaz sent you to come and ruin my night with some heist plans, Big Bear,” Y/N said, biting into their cream puff, humming in delight.

“Nope, just me. . . . just me,” Jesper murmured the last bit.

“Just you huh?” Y/N asked, finishing their plate and throwing it out. They stood, thanking the baker before leaving the bakery. Jesper followed behind. His mind raced with ideas on how to do this right. Maybe this was the right way? Stopping in one of the alleys, Jesper sucked in a deep breath.

“I love you!” He called to Y/N, who stalled for a moment, eyes going wide just as they did when Jesper had kissed the corner of their mouth.

“You make me rethink everything I know. You waltzed into the Crows lives, but most importantly, you waltzed into mine. I love you,” Jesper watched Y/N, seeing them laugh a bit.

“Go on, Big Bear,” Y/N spoke, walking slowly towards the gushing Jesper.

“I love the way you let me joke about your height. I love the way you get creampuff filling all over your face, you actually still have some on your lips. I love the way you joke with me during jobs, even when they go terribly wrong,” Jesper chuckled now, his smile wide.

“I love when you wear my clothes. They’re big on you. My jackets almost reach the floor. My sweaters reach your thighs. I love when you stand behind me while I’m playing cards, wondering how the game works. Or why it’s helpful. I love when you sneak into my bed late at night and lie across from me even with the small space we have, acting as if I don’t know you’re there. I love the way you chase me for your last cream puff and tackle me into the ground. But most of all, I love you . . . you, gosh do i love you,” Jesper felt out of breath. He wanted to yell from the top of rooftops that he loved Y/N. The things he’d do for them were endless.

“You know what I love about you, Jesper Fahey?” Y/N asked, tilting their head as they stopped in front of the breathless boy.

“What?”

“Everything,” and then they were on their tippy toes, their lips barely meeting Jesper’s.

The taste of cream puff filling hit Jesper first, a familiarity he knew with Y/N. Home. His fingers delicately moved to hold the back of their neck, his eyes shutting as he fully leaned down to kiss them. The pounding in his chest could likely be heard throughout the entirety of Ketterdam. He could feel the concrete underneath him, and it felt like the only stabilizer he had to keep him grounded. For if not for the concrete beneath him, he would’ve thought he was dreaming. Floating, even. But the feeling of their skin under his fingers, their lips. Everything invaded his senses and he didn’t want it to stop. He didn’t want them to stop.

Y/N had dreamed of this moment. The way Jesper’s slightly chapped lips would feel against their own, how soft his skin would feel, how his hair would feel. How he’d feel. Time felt lost, the world around them dimming as they let themself be consumed by this feeling. Nothing had felt so right. No one else existed except them.

Becoming breathless, Jesper pulled from Y/N, his eyes fluttering open as he placed his forehead against theirs. Then he felt the soft feeling of rain beginning to fall. “Isn’t that cheesy,” he chuckled, making Y/N laugh and take his hand.

“Ready to run through the rain, Big Bear?” They whispered.

Jesper didn’t answer, and instead he turned, pulling Y/N with him towards the Slat, their laughs being heard for miles.

[winter-fox-queen]

Small Gambles

Ezra (Prospect) X I pronoun character

I wanted to get this done before tomorrow, my unread – oh Lord – attempt at my second Writer Wednesday.

I might come back and edit it tomorrow.  It’s supposed to be stupid busy for me tomorrow so I might not have the brain for it, and I am so sorry.

Summary:  Ezra gets his new arm from a black market fixer.  I THINK it is a gender neutral reader…my writing tends to be from the female viewpoint so it is possible I messed up.  But I tried to keep it neutral.

Warnings:  Some violence.  Some pain? Blood assumed.  Ezra talking should come with a warning.  

“It’ll hurt,”  I say to him.  “You should get this done by one if the top siders.”

Ezra, his name was, gave me a wry smile.  “While I am aware that the pain will be exquisite, I am most certainly assured that getting back the use of my arm, be it a mechanical one, will be worth these moments of misery.”  He paused, and said, oddly and without any embroidery, “Besides, it can’t hurt worse than when I had it cut off.”

“Kevva.”  I whisper.

“Indeed.”

I’m on the third floor of a tenement in the Downsides.  We’re on my balcony, looking out at the rain soaked streets.  He asked to come out here “So I can day dream of petrichor and the soft lights of the stars while you work your magic” and after several moments of negotiations – where I let his words flow over me like a beautiful, over complicated waterfall, we struck a deal, and I pulled out the best black market arm his money could buy.

Actually, that’s a lie. The arm on my work table was actually a little better than his money could buy.  But I liked his smile.  I liked how he embroidered the air with his words and made the silence gentler.  A person could sit and listen to that voice forever.  

“First, the cap.  That’s the part that will hurt.”  I examined it carefully under the light.  I suspected that this was not the first man this cap had been attached to, but you ask questions in the Downsides, and you die. “This will cover the stump…I mean…”

“You are a being of most direct and forthright language, which, despite my loquacious nature I do appreciate.  It is kind of you to try to make a bad situation sound less dire, but it is not needed, I assure you.”

“Tell me how you lost your arm.”  I start preparing the cap.  The cap was (almost) the best I had, and the part I encouraged him to splurge on, because the arm attachment could be switched up.

There were two jars on my worktable.  One of them was conduction gel which would basically melt the skin to the cap.  The other had nanites who would much more gently and finely unite man and metal.

One had been paid for. One had not.  Which one do you think I grabbed?  I shoved the cap on, gave him a couple of shots to numb the pain and make the nanites work.  He gasped softly, interrupting his story about someone named Cee.

“So, you know, you can get attachments to switch out that will make prospecting easier…”

“I am afraid that you have quite emptied my pockets, dear sparrow.”  His voice sounded strained.  I sat in front of him, put my hands on his knees.  

“Look at me Ezra. So.  You killed this girl’s father…”

“He was stealing my…”

“Oh, no, I get it.  I’d have shot him, too.”  

He gave me a look.  “I have not always been a good man.”

I looked back at my workshop, crowded with junk parts, a bed in one corner.  Rent overdue.  “I’ve not always been good, either.  I think you can’t be good and desperate at the same time.”

“Perhaps.”  He managed to give me a smile, “Is that why there has been a – I do think it is a man – sitting on a motorcycle type conveyance, watching your domicile all this time?  I thought at first he was here for me, but to be honest, I am not that well known around these parts and have not been here long enough to cause offense.”

My eyes flicked up, met his.  I didn’t want to look.  “Is his helmet silver, with a blue star?  Doe he have a jacket with a star, too?”

“Indeed he does.  May I take it that you are familiar with our watcher?”

“He thinks I cheated him. He used to bring me salvage.  He brought me some bad parts and I refused to pay what he expected.  And I told others,”  I leaned forward, took his arm in my hands gently.  The cap was almost set.  “They refused to buy the parts.  Some of them were…well.  I recognized the logo.  They came off soldiers.  Upside guards.  People who put tracking chips in everything.  People you don’t want to catch the eye of.  SO…he wants to hurt me.  So far all he does is watch, but.”

“This is not the most secure of locales.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“Please rest assured, I did not mean to apply otherwise.  However.  Everyone must fall into the sweet embrace of slumber sometime.”

I picked up the arm. It was a good model – strong. Made of metal that was light, but durable.  “I wish I had a sleeve for it.  Something that would make it look like…robotic.”  

“I am not a man given to vanity, my pet.”  He was staring out at the road, watchful but not looking directly at the man on the motorcycle.

I started attaching the fine connections.  I did it with the arm on so I could do some of the work by feel…I could feel the thrum as each bit of the arm started to come online, the metal tendons and gears coming to life.

“Why does it feel so cold, up my shoulder and into my head?”  He asked.

“Is your head starting to hurt yet?”

He shook it.

“It will.  The nanites are making pathways, reconnecting your mind to your arm.”

“I did not pay for that.”

“No,”  I say.  “You didn’t.” Three more connections to go.

“And what am I to do, in exchange for your generosity?”  There was a slight edge to his voice.  The voice of the man who had shot a girl’s father, who had fought and gotten plenty of blood on his hands.  It didn’t frighten me, though I suppose it should.

When you go,  I want to say, Two things will happen. Either I will run, and manage to flee and find safe harbor.  Or I will flee, and I will die, either by the hand of the man below, or by some other desperate Downsider who wants to sell my bits and pieces.  I might as well give you the best I feel I can.  Because I’m probably not going to live to serve another customer.

“You have not told me the whole tale, I believe.”

“No,”  I say, and give into the temptation to rub his back gently, to trace the blonde gash of hair at his temple as I stand up.  “I have not.  But.  I’m done. Let your arm rest best you can over night…that’s why I gave you the sling.  If you can let it rest two days, you’d be even better off.”  I grab some pills off a shelf.  “Blue bottle.  That’s more nanites.  Your system is killing those little builders as we speak.  There should be five pills…”  I check, nod, “Take one a day.  And practice using your arm in a few days.  The more you practice, the better the connections will be.  Take it slow and build up.  The last three days of the pills are the most important.”

He took it without a word, strangely quiet.  His eyes flickered to the now empty road.  

“Red, for pain.  Take when you must.  And now…”  I smiled a little.  “How would you say it?  I bid you a fond farewell, and safe travels as you leave my place and rejoin the great mortal coil?”

He smiled at me softly, and with great, great effort and probably greater pain, made his new arm take my fingers in his, and lift them to his lips.  His good hand clenched into a fist as he shook with the effort.  His new fingers were very, very cold…and his lips were soft and very warm.  A coil of longing like a snake twined around my heart and squeezed painfully, fangs singing deep.

“Take care of yourself, Ezra.”

“And you.”

As the door closed, I grabbed my go bag.  It was already mostly packed with things I would need, and I finished packing.  I slipped my most expensive arm out from under my bed – it was state of the art and came with attachments.  I also had some eyes and other smaller parts I threw into the bag with the last of my tools and nanite cream and pills.  I didn’t intend on fitting the arm on anyone, but I could sell it.  Maybe I can get off world.  Maybe find my way to where the prospectors hang out when they look for jobs.  Listen for a deep voice like brocaded velvet spin tales with seven words when one would do.

I ran down the stairs, out the back.

My watcher was waiting for me.  I should have gone out the front.  Now I was alone, in an alley, with someone who would enjoy hurting me.

“Trying to run out on us?”  

“I owe your boss a lot of money…I was hoping to sell this…”  I raised the case “And with the money I made tonight maybe make a payment.  You know.  Show my good intentions.”

He sneered at me, but I never knew what he meant to say because a silver arm wrapped around, silver fingers gripping his throat, crushing him.  Ezra held him tight as he struggled, the new arm making little whining sounds of displeasure as he lowered the man to the ground.  

“I told you not to use your arm!”

“I am afraid…”  Ezra panted, “That it is not allowing me to let go of this unfortunate fool’s throat.”  He gave me a slightly panicked look.  Not because he (probably) killed someone, but because he lost control.  

“I’ve got it.”  I approached gingerly, pressing the arm in a few places to make it relax.  “The cap’s messed up.  I’m going to have to reset it…Ezra.  Why did you come back?”

“I thought I could repay your generosity by making certain that you had at least one night of relative safety. If I had known you were about to flee…”

We rolled to body against the wall.  I frisked it for useful items before covering it with trash.  

“Your hands are shaking, dear doctor…I am afraid you will not be able to assist me in fixing the problems I so egregiously caused by using my new arm.  May I propose that you take safe harbor with me?  I have a small ship…she is not much but she will get us somewhere else. Anywhere is better than here, I do think you will agree, and there are many who would value your talents greatly.”

I finally ask one of the many, many questions I had been wanting to ask him, since he showed up at my door.  “Ezra, do you always talk so much.”

He draws himself up a little.  “I assure you, I can be silent when the need arises.”

“No.  No.”  I stand in front of him.  “I want you to promise you’ll never stop.”

I struck him silent, again, I think, for just a moment and he just gives me that slight, curious smile.  “I think I can promise that.”  I liked that.  I liked the idea of his words wrapping me in soft comfort.  

“Then I gratefully accept your generous proposal.”  

“Right this way,” he bowed.

I didn’t look back, as I followed Ezra down the alley and away from everything I’d known, and feared.

There was too much to look forward to.

[hatterstan-shameblog]

Oh yeah? A random head canon? Well, this is more of an idea but still-

Okay, Hatter hiring Tatta to work at his hat shop because hat squad~✨Tatta is the hat son. :3

OOOOOH BUDDY OKAY this is getting a lil somethin-somethin

The Apprentice

Rating: PG (for Tatta for being a beautiful and wholesome boy)

Relationships: None (Hatter/Aguni implied because it’s basically always gotta be implied)

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

“So, uh,” Aguni asks, “how’s the new guy doing?”

It’s a beautiful Thursday afternoon. The birds are singing, the sun is shining…and, perhaps most importantly, Aguni and Takeru are splitting a bucket of fried chicken with a side of potato wedges, and two fresh-from-the-oven biscuits.

“Splendidly,” Takeru says, sinking his teeth into an extra-crispy chicken leg and smirking around the audible crunch sound that echoes against his teeth.

Aguni nods and twists the top of his biscuit off of the bottom.

“You’re not working him too hard, are you?”

“Mori,” Takeru says between lip-smacking bites, “I would never!”

Just then, a young be-hatted head pokes out from behind the back door. A handsome young fellow, with shaggy hair and a hopeful look in his eye—why, even Aguni, in all his gruff distrust of strangers, can’t help but find him charming.

“Mr. Danma, sir,” the energetic young man says, “the new shipment just came in! Shall I place it in the stock room, or would you like to look at it now?”

Takeru smiles, setting down his half-eaten drumstick and wiping his mouth on one of the flimsy paper napkins that came with their meal.

“The stock room, I think,” he replies, “we’ll go through it together after my meeting with Mr. Aguni.”

“Oh, so lunch with me counts as a ‘meeting’ now,” Aguni scoffs, “didn’t realize I got a promotion.”

“Yes, well…”

Takeru picks up a potato wedge and studies it for a moment. He frowns, then puts it back and selects a second, (apparently) more suitable option, which he dunks into a plastic container of ketchup.

“The newest associate at Hat Danma LLC has informed me that our lunch meetings may be tax deductible,” Takeru explains, gesturing with the ketchuped wedge in his hand, “If I count this as a business luncheon, I can write it off on taxes and get a refund.”

“Refund for what? I’m the one who bought the chicken,” Aguni argues, shoving his hand into the bucket for another deep-fried morsel, “I spend the money, and you reap the benefits?”

“Uh, yeah,” Takeru says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world, “that’s how it works.”

“Fine,” Aguni mumbles, “but you’re using your technically-fraudulent earning to take me somewhere nice.”

“Oh, yeah, okay,” Takeru shoots back, “I would love to know what, pray tell, is your idea of ‘somewhere nice’ that isn’t the Shibuya Denny’s.”

“The staff is polite and the prices are reasonable,” Aguni huffs, slathering a half-melted pat of butter onto his biscuit, “besides, every time we’re there, Akiko makes sure we have fresh coffee. How dare you imply that we don’t have a nice time at the Shibuya Denny’s…”

“Uh, I’m sorry to interrupt again—“

Aguni and Takeru table their squabble in favor of looking up at the young man who has, once again, stuck his head out from the back door.”

“Ah, Tatta, my dear,” Takeru says, “my favorite employee…”

“He’s your only employee,” Aguni grumbles, taking a sulky chomp out of his well-buttered biscuit.

Takeru smacks Aguni’s knee lightly in reprimand, but otherwise remains his usual perky self.

“I just wanted to let you know,” Tatta says carefully—almost nervously, but maybe that’s just his golden-retriever-like energy taking, “the Yamato’s have just ordered an additional two fedoras for the wedding. I know I should have asked you first, but…I paid an extra 1,000 yen for expedited shipping to Osaka, just to be sure the order gets there in time.”

“As you should have,” Takeru concludes, offering his new apprentice a nod of approval, “I’m pleased to know that you can handle an emergency situation with grace and tact.”

Tatta beams—a big, bright smile that stretches the corners of his lips to dig into the slight plump of his cheeks.

“Thank you, Mr. Danma, sir,” he responds, “I��m just glad I can be of help!”

“I have a way you can help me further,” Takeru says, that irresistible little lilt in his voice that has gotten more than one person into a heap of trouble, “if you’re willing, of course…”

“Of course,” Tatta replies, “I’ll do whatever you need!”

Aguni rolls his eyes. Of course Takeru likes him; the boy is all but begging for his approval. Nothing feeds the older man’s ego more than a young fellow looking up to him.

“My associate and I were just talking,” Takeru says smoothly, “and it seems we’re at a bit of an impasse. We’re looking for somewhere…hm, a bit more upscale for our next tete-à-tete.”

“Oh, well, I dunno,” Tatta says nervously, shoving his hands into his pockets, “I, uh, I don’t really go to too many fancy places.”

“Neither do we, son,” Aguni says with a sigh, “neither do we…”

“Oh, wait! I have an idea,” the vivacious young man says, “I mean, I don’t know if you’ll like it, but…”

“Aren’t you sweet,” Takeru coos, “See, Mori-chan, you don’t have to be so grumpy all the time. Why, you could benefit from—“

“Let the kid talk,” Aguni interjects. He wordlessly reaches into the bucket and pulls out another piece of chicken and holds it out for Tatta to take.

“Oh, uh,” Tatta says nervously, “are you sure?”

“Go on! The thigh is the best part,” Takeru insists, then chuckles to himself, “of the chicken and…of a lover.”

“Oh my God.”

“Breasts,” Tatta says quickly, “they’re, uh, they’re good too. On a chicken! I was talking about chicken…”

Takeru points at his bashful new protege, who’s now nibbling on the deep-fried breading and trying to hold back a blush.

“You, my young friend, are a man of culture,” Takeru turns to look at Aguni, “wherever he says to go, we’re going.”

Tatta full-on blushes at that.

“Well, uh,” he says, “The only place that really comes to mind is the bar from Lost in Translation…”

Aguni raises his brow in surprise.

“You mean the one with Bill Murray and Scarlet Johansson?”

“Yeah, that one,” Tatta says with a smile, “I just watched it last night and I thought the place looked really cool! It’s got that really great view of the city, and it’ll only be better when it’s dark and you can see all the lights!”

“Brilliant! Absolutely brilliant,” Takeru exclaims, “Mori, you’ll have to break out the suit.”

“The suit is a privilege,” Aguni responds, “I’m not convinced you’ve earned the right to see me in it…”

“So you’ll be wearing the black,” Takeru muses, his attention shifting back to the young man munching on his impromptu lunch, “and I, of course, will be wearing the red. But what about him?”

Tatta fumbles with his chicken.

“Wait,” he asks, “you mean I’m coming with—“

“Normally, I’d suggest the blue,” Takeru continues, “but I’m just not sure…”

“Put him in the olive,” Aguni suggests, “he looks to be about the right height for it.”

Takeru beams.

“Mori, I could kiss you,” he begins to say, but then his eyes slip sideways to see Tatta standing there, “but I won’t, because this is a business meeting and that is not something that professionals do at the office.”

“Well I’m busy eating, so…”

“Wait, uh, guys—“

Aguni and Takeru pause and look at the uncomfortable young man before them. Tatta shifts from one foot to the other, gaze fixed on his scuffed sneakers.

“I can’t go,” Tatta half-mumbles, “I’m sorry but…my shift doesn’t end until nine, and I need the paycheck, so…”

“You,” Takeru says, “are so goddamn precious.”

“Keep him on the clock,” Aguni tells Takeru, “count it as a business dinner. Hell, you could even pay him overtime to carry your drunk ass home.”

Takeru claps his hands together in glee.

“Oh, that is a genius move,” he says.

Takeru leans forward, resting his chin on his elbow and looking up at Tatta.

“What do you say, Cinderella,” Takeru asks him, “will you give up your chores for a few hours and let your fairy godfathers take you out for a truly legendary Boys’ Night out?”

“Hanging out with two middle-aged men at an overpriced bar is hardly a Cinderella moment,” Aguni grumbles, “but, hey, if you wanna come along, we’d be happy to have you.”

“Wow! Thanks,” Tatta says, sounding honest-to-goodness excited about the prospect of going out with his boss and his boss’ friend, “I, uh, I guess I’ll get back to the shop! I’ve got a lot to do if we’re closing early!”

And with a quick bow and an exuberant bite of his chicken, he turns on his heel, heading back into the depths of the hat shop to organize ribbons and restock shelves.

“Just adorable,” Takeru clucks, “Like a puppy that can do basic math and knows not to chew on my shoes.”

“I like him,” Aguni says, wiping his hands on his jeans, “kinda weird that he’s so enamored with you, but that aside, I think he’s a fine young man.”

“Well, what can I say? I have an eye for talent,” Takeru sets his now-finished chicken leg on his plate, “So, you’ll pick us up at six?”

Aguni tries to grimace, but a reluctant smirk sneaks its way onto his lips.

“If I must…”

[theownerofshuanghua]

Hello, can I request mdzs boys with foreigner reader, can be male or female. They don't understand reader's language but they understand their actions and signs they make. Reader could master martial art and sorcery which was seen as witchcraft in their country but was accepted by the mdzs boys. Sorry if this is weird.

A/N: Yayyyyy my first request! I wasn’t sure who you wanted to have it with so I just chose those I was most comfy writing. I hope you don't mind. Also since its easier for me I chose to do it for a female cultivator. I hope you like it!

Jiang Cheng:

You were a travelling cultivator, and you ran into the Jiang Clan’s nighthunt by mistake

Since you didn't speak the language of the area, you very rarely actually associated with others

 But when you heard the cries coming from a little ways off your path, you decided to immediately go see what was happening and maybe even help

After the spirits were properly dealt with however, Jiang Cheng wanted to know your name

When you didn't answer, he asked again, but this time, you made a sign that you didn't understand what he was saying, which he understood pretty well

During the battle and exorcism, you had shown great skill, so to thank you, you were invited to stay in the Yunmeng for awhile

In the course of your stay, you were able to showcase your cultivation talents to the juniors of the sect

Jiang Cheng stood out of sight watching you practice and was amazed at the talent you showed

It had been quite a bit of time since he’d someone wield a sword so proficiently

Day after day, he wanted to talk to you but he never exactly knew how, with the language barrier and all

But the others seemed able to communicate with you quite well

So one day during your training, he went up to you

And did his best to awkwardly start a conversation

It was kinda sweet and even though you didn't speak mandarin all that well, you still were able to understand it

So you were able to communicate a full conversation

He was able to translate his awe to your cultivation skills

And you were able to reciprocate and give him your thanks

After that, you spoke often

He would tell you about his worries and difficulties as sect leader

And you would tell him of your birthplace, as best you could, and how cultivation wasn't allowed there

He always understood what you were ‘saying’, and loved listening to your stories

Occasionally you would even teach him a couple words in your language

After a while you were ready to continue travelling, so you decided you would leave

But Jiang Cheng wanted you to stay so bad he almost begged for it

And so you did

Lan Xichen:

Lan Xichen found you in the forest surrounding cloud recesses on a nighthunt

You had run away from your hometown, where you were to be prosecuted for sorcery

But you had no money and your food had all run out, so you’d passed out in the forest

You though it would be the end, until you woke up in one of the rooms in cloud recesses

Lan Xichen was by your side, asking questions, but you didn't understand what he was saying

You tried speaking to him in your language but it didn't work

So you tried to communicate with signs, which he understood well enough

You told him about your skill in sorcery and how it wasn't allowed where you came from

He assured you that if you wanted to stay in cloud recesses, you could be trained and maybe even become a disciple

This prospect made you happy and so you acquiesced

The first few weeks of training were hard, since no one understood you, you understood no one and you weren't used to all the rules

But it got easier as time progressed, and you always had Lan Xichen watching over you

Speaking of which, Lan Xichen made sure that you were well taken care of and, even with all his duties as sect leader, took time out of his schedule to teach you Mandarin

Everyday after training, you would go to his office and study the language

He would help you by talking to you and telling you stories in mandarin

In exchange all he asked was that you taught him your language

And so you did

Now you could speak his language well enough and he could speak yours

You enjoyed these afternoons you spent with him

So even after your lessons where over you would stay in his office and talk

You would tell him about your family

He would tell you about his

After a year in cloud recesses, you were a head disciple, and you’d come to accept your gift in cultivation as well ad having learnt the basics of mandarin to be able to communicate

All in all, you were very happy

I hope you liked it!

Thank you for reading!

[jeannereames]

Hi Dr Reames, I hope you're well! I think I might have asked this before, so sorry if I'm being obnoxious, but do you think there is very much studying left to be done in regards to Alexander/Macedonia? Looking at the field from the outside, it seems a little bit like all that can be said, has been. Would you recommend studying Alexander specifically as a prospective academic path, or would you advocate pursuing other areas of classics?

The problem with studying ANYthing in the ancient world is always a problem of the sources. Unless there’s new material, then we’re all just doing ring-around-the-rosie with what we have. That doesn’t mean new things can’t be said. I’d point to my own work on Hephaistion, or for that matter, Alexander’s bereavement. I wasn’t looking at anything new, just looking differently at what we already had. As someone who’d done bereavement counseling, Alexander’s mourning of Hephaistion didn’t strike me as particular unusual, except in the amount of money he had and power to have his desires put into practice.

Also, scholarship tends to go through “fads,” like anything else. That is, someone makes a splash with a new approach, one that can be applied more broadly, and suddenly, a lot of people jump on board. That’s not necessarily bad, but it can result in oversaturation. Right now, one of the big fads is “reception studies.” So the rise of new directions in the study of old fields can offer alternative approaches to familiar material.

Another thing that can happen is for old fields to give birth to new ones. E.g, Charles Edson, Harry Dell, and then Nick Hammond all started asking questions about the country that produced Philip and Alexander, instead of writing just about them. Edson’s 1939 dissertation at Harvard, “Five Studies in Macedonian History” widened the lens but things really began to churn in the 60s and 70s. In 1972, Nick Hammond published the first volume in that massive A History of Macedonia, after having done Epiros earlier. He got Griffith to work with him on vol. 2, Griffith writing much of the material on Philip (which is still, btw, a pretty damn good summary of Philip’s reign, if you allow for material discovered since), then Walbank, already well-known as a scholar of Philip V, worked with Hammond on Vol. 3, which is the Hellenistic period.

Macedonian Studies was born, and by 1990, 3 different histories had appeared: a short version by Hammond on Macedonian Institutions called The Macedonian State, Gene Borza’s (still) excellent In the Shadow of Olympus, that goes up to Philip II, and Malcolm Errington’s A History of Macedonia that included ATG and the Hellenistic period. What followed (and was in between) involved numerous articles, then companions and conference proceedings. Alexander (and Philip) were still hot property, but many articles had nothing to do with them. New direction had been found.

Yet notice most of those early scholars were English-speakers. Partly, that owed to where it got started: Edson and Dell were Americans. They trained students who were also Americans. So Bill Greenwalt (Dell’s student) would go into Argead Macedonia with an interest in Illyria (and Thrace) because Dell had the same. There were some Greek scholars, such as Miltiades Hatzopoulos and Argyro Tataki doing a lot with epigraphy, and Manolis Andronikos himself, but the field was dominated by English-speakers for a while.

One of the bigger shifts in the last 20-25 years has been an expansion into other languages, plus the Greeks dominating the archaeology. When you take up high-level scholarship, there’s an assumption that you will read material in languages besides your own. When I got my PhD, aside from the ancient languages, common wisdom dictated I learn German and French.

BUT my NUMBER ONE piece of advice to anybody who wants to do ancient Macedonia today is LEARN MODERN GREEK.

Why? Because, as I said, the Greeks have taken back their own archaeology and most of their reports are in Greek. They’re talking to each other, and most (non-Greek) scholars don’t read modern Greek [that well]. That’s not entirely accidental, and some payback for the colonial dominance of the late 1800s and 1900s. (Elgin Marbles anybody?) The best way to keep out “interference” is to write mostly in a language few other scholars read well. That keeps Macedonian history in Greek hands. I would now advise young scholars that modern Greek is more important than French. Just as, if you really want to do Thracian history, learning Bulgarian and/or Russian might be a good idea.

It’s getting increasingly hard, as scholarship expands, to keep up with all the languages one needs. Current work is being done on Macedonia, as well as Alexander and the Hellenistic world in English, Spanish, Italian, German, modern Greek, and even Russian, and that doesn’t look at the wider world outside Europe (and colonial states). We’ve got a ton of talented young scholars on the continent, while jobs are lacking in many English-speaking countries, meaning students just aren’t going into it. English still remains a major language, largely because Americans and Canadians suck at learning other languages while the Europeans might speak 4-5. But English is becoming less relevant. As a grad student, I couldn’t have guessed I’d need Spanish and Italian more than French.

But LEARN MODERN GREEK, as that’s where the NEW stuff is. I doubt we’ll get much (if anything) new in textual evidence. By contrast, archaeology is rewriting what we thought we knew about north Greece. E.g., Methone now vies with Pithokousai for the earliest Greek script. Think about that a minute. Euboian Greeks and Phoenicians weren’t just hanging around off the coast of Cumai in the late 8th century, they were poking about the Thermaic Gulf, too, interacting with whoever the hell was at Pella before the Macedonians moved in (Bottaians, Paionians, somebody else…?). Who [what people] were buried at Archontiko between 650-450 BCE?? What was happening tradewise between Aiani in Elimeia and Corinth? That, to my mind, is where scholarship is going: or it should be. The Early Iron and Archaic Ages…periods before Macedonia even shows up in the written record with Herodotos.

Sure, I love Alexander, and I write about him a lot here, or Hephaistion, but I’m really an Argead specialist. I’m just as curious about how Alexander I used Persian power, then Persian absence to consolidate his own power and create Macedonia as we know it. When I first got to UNO, the Hellenistic Era was the “happenin’” place, but there are now a number of Macedoniasts doing that. Pat Wheatley (Brian Bosworth’s student) and Charlotte Dunn just (2020) published a new (probably definitive) book on Demetrios Poliorketes for instance (I’ve been waiting to see that for years). And there will always be Yet Another book on Alexander or Philip, but the place that is WIDE OPEN for research is the archaeology of Archaic and Early Iron Age Macedonia. That shit is interesting.

Go to Macedonia. Drive around and visit the museums (not just the big ones in Athens and Thessaloniki, or even Vergina). Go to Veroia, go to Pella, go to Aiani, go to Ioannina, go to Florina. See what’s up there. It’s COOL.

[vaire-gwir]

Some Cat and Wolf fanfic I had in mind pt.4

I wanted to write why Aiden didn’t kill humans anymore, so here it is, I tried. At least it can’t be worse than that horrible attempt at smut, right? Right? 

Everytime I think I’m finished with this I get new ideas and I have to write them or they keep me up at night. There is plot if you squint, still not canon, but as always, I hope it makes sense and you like it <3 

Edit: Sorry I forgot the title, you wouldn’t believe how stupid I am. 

***

Alps were a bit of a pain in the ass to kill, just like every other vampire. Tricky, loud, and cunning things they were, not incredibly dangerous but granted to give you a good rattle and one hell of a headache. Years ago, he shared his first kiss with Aiden after they cleaned a nest and now he thinks about it every time he's disposing of one. It's weird, cause who would think of sharing a first kiss in front of a pile of dead vampires, but it was one of his best memories.

Then again, the first time he told Aiden he loved him, the Cat was almost dead in a grimy cave, covered in blood, and Lambert was panicking cause the gash under his ribs was bad enough that no potion in the world would buy him the time to find a healer.

Toussaint didn't disappoint him: three days after arriving in Beauclair and he was already waiting for 200 easy crowns. The prospect of payment should be enough to lighten his mood, but his mind is elsewhere, namely on the black cat running around the garden he saw last night before entering the crypt where the Alp was praying on ladies and princesses. Another cat, another pair of stunning green eyes, another painful twist in his heart. He even asked the guard currently stationed outside about it and the idiot said there were no cats on the property, something about ruining the lawns or whatever, as if Lambert didn't see the animal with his own eyes.

It was the second beast with disturbingly familiar green eyes that he saw, and it's two cats more than what he had seen in months. Lambert wasn't even sure if he was hallucinating or if the boy was making fun of him when he said there were no cats. Maybe both. Is this what happens to people that go mad, they start seeing things, they hear voices, and next they're wandering in villages alone at night muttering nonsenses? 

Is this what is going to happen to him, he'll start seeing cats with green eyes everywhere and people will pity him? He was already hearing voices in his dreams, this was just one step further toward insanity, and the path to get there looked suspiciously short.

Lambert picks himself and his headache up from the tomb and walks to the marble arch covering the entrance of the crypt, where an over-enthusiastic guard is waiting for him, hopefully with his money.

"So, is the beast dead? You must have been very brave!" Lambert would laugh if his bones weren't aching so much. He knows that look: he's too young to know that what witchers do has nothing to do with bravery. Even the night before with all his questions he made the job sound fascinating and charming, probably someone didn't explain to him the difference between Witchers and knights in shining armor. He was hoping to see a hero but all he got was a dusty, cranky and hallucinating witcher with the beginning of a headache throbbing in his skull. Not exactly the heroic stuff fairytales are made of. There was nothing charming about this life.

Lambert ignores the voice and grits his teeth at the sudden burst of light and sound that overwhelms him as soon as he steps onto the paved path that leads to the house. Being subjected to the creature's horrible shrieks and screeches for half of the night has his nerves fried and now everything is too loud and too close even if it's barely past dawn. He wants to hear nothing but blessed silence for the entire day or he's going to seriously hurt someone.

"I'm curious, have you been here before?" Lambert starts moving in the general direction of the mansion chasing the promise of quiet and the soldier scrambles after him. He's still staring expectantly, as if he thinks he's owed something.

It annoys him, that for one reason or the other people are gawking all the fucking time. He learned to disregard it with experience but he never fully discovered how to ignore the stares. His brothers get them too, and he knows for a fact that it often bothers Eskel, but for reasons unknown to him, Geralt never seems to give a fuck. He's slightly jealous of that talent. He'll see them next winter if he's not completely out of his mind by then.

When they finally leave behind the crypt where he just killed the Alp, Lambert has regained enough presence of mind to check the garden again, hoping to catch a glimpse of the black cat he saw earlier but it's like the feline has disappeared from the face of the earth. 

The luxurious garden that surrounds the old house is perfectly still, the gardeners are not at work yet, the only note is the faint buzzing of birds. He tries to catch any sound or scent resembling the one he felt before but it's like the cat was never here. Probably he wasn't. What if there was no cat at all and his mind was just playing more tricks on him? He's not sure Witchers can go insane, he can't recall any lore on mad witchers, but maybe he'll be the first one, just his usual luck. He tunes out the noises around him, trying to detect a trail of the animal when the voice of the guard breaks his concentration again: "You have been here before, haven't you?"

Regular people seemed to have a hard time shutting up, he should know this after an entire winter with Geralt's bard, the Gods know he never kept quiet for more than 10 minutes unless he was sleeping. Maybe he even talked in his sleep, go figure. It's not like he asked Geralt. 

"I've been everywhere. Listen, I'll take what I'm owed and leave. Got things to do." Lambert answers this time just to make him shut up. No one needs to know that the things he has to do include tracking down a disappearing black cat. That is if there was one at all.

"Oh, of course, you must be very busy. Here it is, though I think my Lord wanted to see you tonight, throw a feast for the Court, but if you insist you can't stay it's better to..." "I can't." Lambert takes the velvety pouch and stuffs it in his pack, eager to put some distance between himself and the rambling man before him. He knows all about feasts in Beauclair, he suffered through them enough for a couple of lifetimes already. 

He's about to turn away when the guard exclaims: "Wait, I remember! You were working for Lord Launfal with the other Witcher, green eyes, very pretty thing, if I say so myself, you..." He makes a pitiful weak noise as he doubles over himself, words dying upon his lips as blood trickles from them. Lambert is on him in a second and pins him to the nearest wall, he's not thinking about anything except that he wants to hurt him. Before he knows, he's hitting him again and again, driven by some fucked up instinct kicking in cause this idiot is talking about his best friend and he has no right to do so, especially not in that way. He doesn't get away with describing the best person in his life as a pretty thing, not in front of him, not like that.

"Shut your damn mouth, you don't fucking know what you're talking about!" He can hear the faint sound of a bone breaking over the boy crying "Please," and "Stop," and spares a look at the bloody mess he made of his face. He lets go of him as if he's been burned and he sees the guard collapsing to the ground. He fucked up. 

He feels like his mind is swimming and he can't focus on anything but the blood on his hands. He stares at the unconscious form slumped against the wall and takes a step back, streaks of red marking the gray stone. Lambert knows he went too far. His hands moved of their own accord when he realized that man was talking about Aiden. A pretty thing, he said. Lambert can't tell why those words were so painful, but it felt like pouring salt into an open wound. 

Of all people in the fucking Continent he had to run into someone that remembered him, of course, he had to meet a guard that was here the last time he was in Toussaint with Aiden, cause apparently the universe, chaos and the Gods were having a field day of messing with him. Again.

He spares one more glance to the guard just to make sure he's still breathing, collects what he's owed and leaves in haste. When the boy wakes up and tells everyone what happened Lambert knows he won't be spared. He almost killed that stupid boy, not much he can do about it now. He just wanted him to shut up and stop talking about Aiden, the fucker didn't even remember his name. 

He's past the iron gates when he finally manages to stop his hands from shaking. It scares him how dangerously good it felt for a couple of minutes to make the man shut up, it scares him to the point he just wants to forget it happened. For a short time, he felt like he had complete control over something, and that was rare for him. He enjoyed being in charge, knowing that whether that man lived or died was in his hands, it was like playing God and winning. It was like having a choice.

He may have a couple of hours before someone decides to hunt him down, which is plenty of time to find work. Before taking the Alp contract Lambert overheard in a tavern not too far from the market about an archespores problem in the valley where a certain Lord keeps his precious vineyards. With a little bit of luck he can go back to the main square and someone will point him in the general direction of this new Lord's palace. He just needs a few hours, and then he'll have the perfect excuse to stay out of Beauclair for a while.

***

Lambert prefers the nights when sleep eludes him, they're more peaceful than the ones filled with ghosts and blood, or as close to peaceful as he can get. He was never very good at meditating like his brothers, something about how his stupid brain would not shut up long enough for him to fall into a proper state of reverie. Both Eskel and Geralt never had any problem with that, he had seen Geralt kneeling in the same spot without moving until morning, absolutely unbothered by anything that happened around him, as if he was in his own world. 

In a patient attempt to help him, Eskel told him once that meditation works better if you try to recall a state of peace or calm you already experienced and lose yourself in it. Peace and calm was not something Lambert ever experienced, at least not back then. Not before Aiden.

The room he's currently occupying is surprisingly comfortable, he even had a bath, but his brain still refuses to relax. Finding his next contract proved a little more complicated than he expected, he wandered around the narrow streets for a good while before arriving at the indicated house, growing more anxious by the hour, expecting someone to chase him down at any turn of the road. Luckily the man he found outside a heavily guarded black gate was the old farmer in charge of the orchard, and he was as eager as him to go back to the valley. 

Lambert joined him on the trip, but he instantly disliked the place: whoever needed that much security was not just a simple vineyards owner. Thank Gods the old man was not the chatty type, and they reached the old castle in silence just before nightfall. When they arrived the farmer pointed to a small house next to the main castle, told him to find an empty room and disappeared immediately after. Lambert was grateful for the silence.

He washed the blood and the dust out of his clothes but he couldn't wash the feeling of it from his hands, his ears still ringing with the sound of some bone cracking as he hit that stupid man just for talking about Aiden. 

Lambert feels weary and worn but it's not because of the vampire last night. It's not the monsters that tire him: killing is easy, but the rest, traveling, talking, living and functioning in a world where he has no place, it all leaves him drained, that type of bone-aching exhaustion that's beyond physical, it keeps you awake even if you're spent and it gnaws away at your nerves.

He still can't figure out why Aiden would go after (possibly) two griffins all on his own, the Cat was careless and a bit reckless but not completely stupid. He was pretty smart about his work, he had to be, all things considered. Aiden was the one that at the beginning insisted on how they should stick together just because some jobs were easier that way. 

Besides, he was supposed to spend the last week before spring traveling north with the Caravan. There was no deep sympathy between Aiden and most of the other Cats, cause many were not particularly pleased with his decision to stop taking contracts on humans, but traveling together was still supposed to be safer. Lambert tried for days to put the pieces together but the more time he spends thinking about it, the less everything makes sense: Karadin told him he was there when it happened, but he finds it hard to believe he killed the two monsters all on his own. 

Lambert remembers one winter Eskel and Coën went off to fight a pair of griffins in the mountains and they came back three days later, bloody and with a good amount of soon-to-be-scars that needed to be patched up immediately, a broken shoulder (Eskel) and four cracked ribs (Coën). He had seen what griffins can do to experienced Witchers, there was no way a Cat the same age as him disposed of two monsters like that without any serious injuries. He even had time to take the medallion! And if it was not just the two of them, how did Aiden sustain wounds that couldn't be fixed by two or three other witchers for the short time it took to get to a healer? Griffins were only dangerous to humans when they ventured past the mountains and closer to the villages, which meant they were not too far from the possibility of getting help.

His brain keeps churning an explanation, keeps conjuring up different scenarios but nothing he can think of leads to Aiden's death.

Lambert knows Aiden killed people too, but most importantly he knows why he stopped. They both found out very early in their relationship that confessing things in the dark, naked and hidden by the blankets, worked for them. They could say whatever was on their mind and come morning things were still fine between them, they could look at each other's in the eyes without shame, cause things said in the dark were like spirits disappearing with the sun, they couldn't hurt them anymore. The ghosts of their pasts and their fears had been there, and now they were gone, chased away with burning lips and soft touches. It was during one of those nights that Aiden explained why he couldn't kill humans anymore.

They were back at the inn after killing a striga but two innocents died and Lambert knows Aiden blamed himself, he could feel how shaken he was in the way his kisses were almost too harsh and he was tearing away at their clothes. Aiden tastes of something almost-burnt when he's angry, but much later, when Lambert hides his face in the crook of his shoulder, sore in all the right way even if he'll never admit out loud that Aiden fucks him even better when he's like that cause he's less gentle, the taste is gone, and only the honey remains. That's when he can start talking.

The Cat told him that he was fine with being considered a monster by everyone else as long as he didn't feel like that. He was just doing his job and it was not his fault people were too judgemental and prudish to accept that, it's not like he asked for a mage to play with mutagens and mess up his blood. He woke up one day outside of Stygga and he was too young to have any memories of how he arrived there. 

He didn't remember his family, or where he was born, his first memories were of the Cat School, there was nothing before that. He liked to say he had no past, but everyone has it, and they're usually running away from it. And no future too, cause there were not many options for a witcher. Still, not his fault the same people he worked for, the same ones that begged him to get rid of a monster or paid him handsomely for killing a problematic cousin, were also the first ones to throw stones at him or ask a Lord to imprison him cause he was a danger for the town. Not so much of a danger when they needed him for their dirty deeds. But people were quick to forget and even quicker to point their fingers, and after so long Aiden couldn't find it in himself to care anymore. 

He didn't feel like a monster just because they said so. But he certainly felt like a monster for killing innocents. He was taking away their choice just like a mage took away his. He was no better than the people he despised so much.

It all started when he was sent to kill Lord Darnay cause his own family decided he was no suitable successor to the name and heritage they represented. Aiden was presented with 1000 crowns to get rid of the unwanted heir, and he was not in the position to refuse. His last contracts were unsuccessful, he had run out of money weeks before arriving in town and now even his potions were running low. It should have been an easy job, kill a dumb Lord who probably never hold a sword in his life. It should have been easy, but that's not what happened.

Right after entering the royal chamber, Aiden faced a wide-eyed kid staring at him. He was no older than 7, maybe 8 years old, but he was not terrified, a little surprised yes, but not scared as everyone would be after seeing a stranger entering through their window. No one mentioned that this Lord Darnay was a fucking child! There was absolutely nothing in the world this boy could do to represent a problem, for anyone, he was barely old enough for school for fuck's sake. 

The knife in his hand felt like lead rather than silver. The room was utterly silent, Aiden looked at the kid expecting him to scream, but he didn't. He simply said: "It's my turn now?" Aiden stared back disoriented, he refused to believe this kid understood why he was there.

"Uncle sent you?" His throat was not fully cooperating and he had a hard time finding the words to answer, he nodded, the dagger in his hand felt heavier by the minute. The kid sitting up on the huge bed keeps worrying a loose thread in the blue blanket above him, he speaks as if he's confessing a terrible sin. "He doesn't like me. He did something to my father but I'm not supposed to speak about it. Dad was very brave. Are you brave?"

Brave, as if! He was sent to slit his throat, that was not bravery. Brave means you have a choice, he never had one. He could choose between Ghouls and Bruxae and humans for his contracts, that's how far his decisions could go. He could pick whether to stay with the Caravan and risk being killed with his brothers or he could travel the Path alone and be killed by a monster or zealous townfolks. At best, he could decide how he dies, certainly not how he lives. No one with a real choice would turn into what he is or do what he does. 

In that room with the boy, in the deep silence of the night with a sliver of moonlight illuminating their surroundings, Aiden felt like a monster. He hadn't felt that way in a long while. It was the first time he was sent to kill an innocent, all the others were different, he felt that the assholes he was sent to murder deserved to finally meet their fate. Not this time though.

A servant entered the room unexpectedly and held back the scream already on his lips. He frantically moved his gaze between the child and Aiden as he started muttering something about how Lord Havilland already killed his own brother. Finally, he understood.

He was sent to kill this kid so a rich Lord could become even richer and more powerful. He couldn't fake another hunting accident so he sent the Witcher to do his bloody job. Great, just great. Nobles and their obsession with money and titles, what did they even do to deserve all they had? Killed someone, won a tournament, led soldiers to be slaughtered in a war for a nameless King that didn't give a fuck about them? They had wealth, titles, castles, a legion of slaves and mages at their service, and yet it was never enough, they wanted more, more wealth, more slaves, more titles, more. Disgusting. They could be anything they wanted to be and yet they decided to be awful.

Aiden spared a glance toward the kid and decided right there and then that this kid was not dying because his uncle was an asshole. "Another one will come to finish my job, he can't stay here." The butler is faster than what he gave him credit to be and answered immediately: "I have a sister in Oxenfurt, she can take care of him." 

"Go then. Get as far away from here as possible." True to his word, the servant took the child and was out of the door in a heartbeat, minutes later Aiden saw them riding past the southern gate. He didn't feel worse, at least and that will have to do for now. The kid will live to see another day. His uncle won't though.

[twit-moonstar]

as long as we’re together - brian may x writer!reader

N/A: This is purely a self-indulgent fic I wrote mainly for myself, but I though it be nice to share and see what happens. First half of it it’s just y/n having a crisis, tho, and the second part is like domestic fluff. hope u enjoy! comments, reblogs and likes are greatly apreciated <3

As if being an adult wasn’t difficult enough, you had the dream of becoming a published author and, before starting to try to write, you hadn’t thought about the bohemian lifestyle you would have to face and embrace.

Your parents had pushed you—well, forced seemed a more appropriate word—to study Law, but after a few months after starting you dropped it. It wasn’t what you wanted, you were constantly stressed and unhappy by the prospect of the future that waited for you once you graduated.

Abandoning your career, though, meant the extra help your parents offered was snatched away from your hands. Rent wasn’t extremely expensive—you shared a little apartment with Brian and you only paid half of it—, but you still had to buy food and other necessary things.

Without your parent’s income, you had found work as a waitress at a restaurant and started to send your short stories to some newspapers and magazines to get a little extra money.

You had been suffering from a hard writer’s block lately, though.

Rereading for the second time the paragraph that you had already written five times, you ripped off the paper and made it a bun, throwing it on the floor. A new blank sheet confronted you and you decided to throw away your notebook and pencil with fury.

You were at the edge of tears. Not even that glass of cheap wine you swallowed half an hour ago had helped you to take off the feeling of utter desperation and defeat. If anything, it had only made you feel worse.

The words your father spate at you once or twice came to your mind. ‘All writers are just a bunch of alcoholics’. He had never appreciated your art, no one on your family did actually.

They wouldn’t probably support you until they had a properly published book of yours in their hands since your short stories on newspapers did not seem to impress them.

People have the impression that anyone can write but the truth is very few can manage to write words in a way that has any meaning something. Of course, you were starting to doubt you had that kind of talent.

You check the clock on the wall. 1 a.m. Fear starts to creep from your chest to your throat where it left a lump to settle on your head at this hour, usually, if you’re not sleeping.

These quiet moments at night are where you feel the most that you will never make it, that all your dreams are not more than a little dumb girl’s dream. The letter you received today just seems to fuel that thought. 

It’s like running behind a car, you think. You can never be fast enough to reach it, no matter how fast you run. 

You look at the notebook on the floor, just a few steps ahead of where you are sitting. You need to write something and send it to the newspaper tomorrow but nothing you wrote was good enough. You needed the money. You couldn’t allow Brian to pay again for your part, he was as short of money as you; especially now that his band was spending their money in their first album.

"What are you doing?" Brian asks with his arms crossed and his head resting against the wall, one of his curls falling over his eyes, but he doesn’t bother in push it away.

You don’t dare to look at him in the eyes, so instead, you keep your eyes down. "Just writing," you mutter.

He enters the living room, sitting next to you on the sofa. "Something is bothering you, isn’t it, my love?" Brian takes a lock of your hair and puts it behind your ear, then cupping your cheek.

You lean into his soothing touch with a heavy sigh that comes from the deepest of your chest.

"I- I just -" you sobbed and Brian hugged you immediately upon realizing it, his arms drawing you to his chest and one of his hands caressing your back in circles, comfortably. He shushed softly, whispering sweet nothings in your ear, but you couldn’t hear more than your sobs drowned against his shirt.

Your eyes land on the ripped envelope on the table. You could recite the words on the letter inside by memory by how much you’ve stared at it. 

“What’s wrong?”

I’m a fucking fraud, that’s what’s wrong. What if I’m not good at writing? What if this isn’t what I was meant to be? If I’m not a writer, then who am I? But you can’t bring yourself to say that, the lump on your throat doesn’t allow you, so you just pull away and after taking the letter, you hand it to him. He starts to read with a careful expression. You recite it internally.

‘Dear Y/N Y/L/N Thank you very much for allowing us to consider your novel, which we have looked at with interest. However, I regret that we have reluctantly concluded that we could not publish it with commercial success…’

Did I waste all these years? 

“This is bullshit.”

You don’t expect to hear him curse so angrily, but his brows are furrowed and his usually soft hazel eyes are sparkling with fury.

“You’re extremely talented and your book is amazing! You spent years working on it!”

“Yeah.”

“I think it would be a fucking commercial success,” he states but you bite your inferior lip to avoid the tears from spilling. The editorial doesn’t think that way and seems like the rest of the others who received your novel didn’t either.

At least you got a response. Most people don’t even get that. 

“It’s the only response I’ve got, Bri. I don’t think I’ll ever get published,” you whisper and he throws the letter to the floor and kneels in front of you, wiping away your tears.

“Whatever. I’ve got to keep working,” you reply dryly, cleaning your face with your hands and picking up the notebook and the pen. Brian stares at you.

“No, you’re tired. I’ll prepare you a bath and then you can go to bed,” he states, taking away the notebook from your hands and you whine. 

“Brian! I have to do this!” You say furiously, but he doesn’t even flinch to your elevated tone of voice. You, on the other hand, close your eyes with regret and breath deeply.

“Bri, I’m busy. Let me alone.”

You hate yourself for asking him that because you don’t mean it. Being alone is the exact opposite of what you need, but you decide the money is far more important than your emotional state at the moment. 

You could always cry later.

“No. I know well enough to know what you’re trying to do. You’re overworking yourself while you drown on your self-pity.”

“I’m not doing that,” you say but the quickness on your reply gives you away.

“Please, take a bath,” he asks, taking your hand. 

You shrug. “I guess I could drown in the tub.”

He laughs with little amusement and leaves to return for you after ten minutes. You would be lying if you said the hot water didn’t look appealing. Brian helps you to take off your clothes and you sit on the tub. 

“Please tell me you didn’t use my oils and scents.”

“Uh, I did.”

“That was the last I had! I was saving them for a special occasion!”

“Drowning seems special enough,” he says with a shrug.

“Very funny.”

“What were you trying to write, anyway?”

“A story for the newspaper.”

“Why have you been selling your stories for cents? You know they have much worth than that,” he asks. He reaches for the shampoo, putting a bit on his hands and starting to wash your hair. You close your eyes and let him do it. Brian’s hands always find a way to relax.

“I need the money,” you reply.

“What for?”

“Rent and food.”

“Y/N, you know I can take care of it,” he says, almost reproaching you.

You feel a little uneasy before the idea of Brian paying for you, you didn’t like to ask money borrowed and less if you knew that he would be too gentlemanly to accept your money later, even if he needed it.

“We’re not a married couple in the thirties, Bri. I can’t ask you to pay for me. I don’t even know where did you get the money from last rent. I didn’t cover my part.”

“You don’t need to ask for anything, love.”

“Still, I don’t want you to do that”

“I know you just said we’re not a married couple but as long as we’re together, I’ll support you when you need me, y'know?”

Your eyes teared once again and you smiled as you tried to prevent crying again. How were you blessed with such a kind and considerate man like Brian? You were such a mess, lately, but he never backed off from being a firm yet gentle shoulder to cry on. 

“Thanks. I promise I’ll repay you,” you say. 

“You don’t have to. C’mmon, let’s get you out of the tube before you start to get too wrinkled,” he replies, helping you to stand out. As Brian leaves you to dry yourself, he gets you some comfortable clothes. Once you were dressed, you both lied on the bed, you on Brian’s arms. 

“Tell me about your day,” you said and you felt him smile against your hair. 

“We tried recording a new song today, I’m not quite sure if the name is good, though,” he commented, running his hand through your hair. You closed your eyes and let him ramble about the problems they had with today’s recording.

“You’re falling asleep already?” he asked in a whisper.

“No, I’m listening,” you mumbled but you felt yourself drifting away more and more.

“That’s okay, my love. Sleep.”

“I love you,” you mumbled.

“Love you too,” he replied and you finally fell asleep.

[morethanonepage]

wip meme: 6, 13, 20

6. the world, safe and sound for you

lmfao the shara bey backstory fic i will legit never finish bc ugh, star wars. some #commentary in this section you haven’t read before, at least:

“Your father’s an illegal merchant." 

“He’s unlicensed." 

“There’s a difference?" 

Shara sits back in her chair. It’s very uncomfortable but she thinks it adds to her air of casual nonchalance. “Of course." 

“How about a more neutral term, then. A smuggler." 

She narrows her eyes. “My father provides goods and communication between planets that the Empire has decided are without value. He doesn’t trade in drugs or weapons. His prices are fair and reasonable. You’ll find no complaints." 

The officer looks at his holopad; obviously, there have been complaints. “Tell me more about his business model." 

“Primarily barter based. We don’t have a lot of liquid assets, you understand. That makes things like licensing fees a little complicated." 

“Yes, not breaking the law can be so difficult,” he drawls. “What else?" 

“What do you mean, what else?" 

“I mean how else does your father make his living, aside from smuggling contraband?" 

Shara tries not to react. “I don’t know what you mean." 

“I think you do.

13. ok I’m about to spam you with prompts sorry friend: Finn/Poe Regency bc I am always thinking of that fan art John instagrammed

you prompted this! amongst many other prompts which I also started and then uhhhhh did not finish. But it’s basically my Belle (2013)/Portrait of a Lady on Fire Regency era finnpoe au mashup where Poe is hired to paint ~a portrait of the Han/Leia + Rey & Finn family on their fancy English estate. Their backstories are like, Finn was Luke’s son that was left with Han & Leia to raise after Luke died, and bc he’s black the family’s a little bit like 🤷🏻‍♀️ with regards to his prospects but he has $$$ from Luke’s inheritance; and Poe was born in colonial Guatemala but when he was little there was some Spanish artist guy commissioned to paint the flora and fauna of the New World and bb!Poe had some talent for that kind of stuff so he got apprenticed to painter guy and taken away to Spain to become an artist and it’s all very tragic BUT ANYWAY i love coming up with historical fiction plots and then NEVER WRITING THEM. I don’t think I’ve shared this part of it before?

“Will you marry for love as well?" 

Finn shook his head. “I doubt I’ll marry at all, Mr. Dameron." 

Poe glanced at him. “Why?" 

Finn looked at him, long and incredulous. “Even if there were a family — a proper family — willing, for the name, and the money, if naught else — a child from that union — what life would it have?" 

“Nonsense,” Poe said. “I was born of such a union." 

Finn stopped short. “Were you?" 

Poe nodded. “My father is Spanish. My mother was not.” 

“And you…” Admit it. Advertise it. You needn’t, but you do. 

“I take pride in it. As should you." 

“It’s different for me.” 

“I know,” he said, low and sad, as if he did. Glanced over at Finn again, and hesitated for a moment. “I will…likely remain a bachelor, as well." 

“Why?” Finn said, sudden and thoughtless: it was none of his business, terribly presumptuous of him. Poe did not seem to notice his embarrassment, and merely shrugged. 

“It’s an unpredictable life,” he said, not quite meeting Finn’s gaze. “Living commission to commission. I wouldn’t want to try and raise a family on it, or burden anyone else with it. One could not live on paint alone, after all." 

“Not for long, at least.” 

Poe laughed at that, shaking his head. “Indeed not." 

“I must apologize, Mr. Dameron." 

Poe’s brow furrowed, and he cocked his head in genuine confusion. “What for?" 

“To speak to you so, with such—candor.” It was unbecoming, Finn knew: Poe had no reason to listen, no reason to care about Finn’s fears, about the uncertainty of his position. 

“Think nothing of it,” said Poe, waving his hand as if to shoo away the suggestion. “People often speak to me that way. I’ve that sort of face." 

“The handsome sort?” he found himself saying, and resisted the temptation to compound the indignity by slapping his hand over his mouth. Stood, instead, with his shoulders inching up to his ears and his hands in fists by his side. 

Dameron, at least, did not seem to take terrible offense. “If you say so,” he said, smiling. “Perhaps I should’ve been a spy." 

“Perhaps you still could be.” 

Poe laughed at that, shaking his head. Turned to look at Finn again, as if to ask another question, and Finn leapt at the chance to forestall him. 

“And what of you, Mr. Dameron? A bless’d childhood of your own?"

20. when the leather runs smooth on the passenger’s seat

oh lol this is a john and chas fuck in the cab fic, the title’s from The Smiths’ “This Charming Man.” I mean WHAT else can i say about that except that it’s hard to come up with a position that would work given uhhhhh how tall Chas is, which is why I never get any further than the blowjobs when I try to write a version of it:

"Who indeed," John says, rubbing the inside of his thigh against Chas's ribs, running his fingers lazily through Chas's thick hair. 

Chas lets out an amused huff. "Did you want something else?" 

John arches his back, stretching contentedly over the leather seat. “Dunno,” he drawls. “What else’ve you got?" 

Chas throws him the usual indulgent smile, but there's a softness in his eyes that John's too satisfied to worry about. He crawls up along John's body carefully, knees digging into the seat on both sides of John's waist. His kiss is just as carefully, gentle even after John opens his mouth to it and sucks at his tongue. Chas tastes, unsurprisingly, of spit and come. John wraps an arm around his neck and pulls him closer.

[tessatechaitea]

Cerebus #18 (1980)

This is the kind of cover that probably kept me thinking this book was too adult for me and that I should just stick to Groo and Elfquest.

In Dave's Swords of Cerebus essay, he explains how he didn't know what the fuck he was doing when he was writing this story and I'll tell you a secret: it fucking shows. He explains how he wrote one idea but realized that idea wasn't going to work and then wrote some other ideas but they weren't going anywhere and then he went back to the first idea and wrote a small novella which still wasn't going to work so then he tried some other idea but couldn't really get anywhere and pretty soon his week that he plans for writing was over and he just had to start drawing one of the scenes. So he picked one and strung it out and then he needed a new scene and took the Lord Julius epilogue and stick that on page 5 and 6. By that time, he sort of had a new idea with the help of his brother-in-law and even though that new idea was pretty lame, what more could he do?! He doesn't admit that his new story is lame; I think he thinks he really pulled one out at the last minute. But it's really kind of lame. I get it though! He's written seventeen previous stories (plus some Cerebus stories that appeared in other magazines) and they were all pretty good and working toward building a portrait of Estarcion and Cerebus and some kind of weird aardvark mystery. He was due to slip up some time! I'm just glad he was honest about how the writing part when all wrong and since he couldn't fall behind on the art, he had to just kind of start drawing and hope for the best. I suppose in that regard, the comic wasn't so bad. It told a coherent story that moves Cerebus' plans for the invasion of Palnu ahead and Dave even gets some funny jokes in. But as far as the extended story goes, not much happens? Cerebus and the T'gitans took over Fluroc by murdering everybody in it and then needed more money for troops and they got more money for troops by conning a merchant that came to town. That's it! That's the whole story! Did we need this story? Probably not! But did we really need any Cerebus story so far? Almost certainly not (with the exception of all the stories that showcased new characters!). But what I really liked about this comic book was the Aardvark Comments section! Things are really getting good finally! It's not just a few nerdy nerds nerding it up for Dave Sim.

I mean, it is some nerdy nerds nerding it up nerdily!

The first letter is what I'm assuming was the introductory or cover letter from Marvel's Jim Shooter when he sent out contracts to prospective employees.

Is this the worst thing Jim Shooter ever wrote? Sadly, it is not.

If you're one of those people who like to describe 95% of everything as "cringe," you'll love Dave Sim's response:

Remember, this was 1980 and "written blackface as hyperbolic response" was probably just something taught in creative writing classes.

Casually whistling past the terrible method of his response the way you simply steer the conversation away from racist tirades every time your grandfather speaks up at Thanksgiving dinner, this feels like the first time Sim really calls out the two big publishers and how they conduct business. It'll become a hallmark of Dave Sim in his crusade for independent publishers. And this sarcastic and also racist response (I can only whistle nonchalantly for so long!) isn't his only response in this Aardvark Comments. But as his first response, I'll assume it's the most closest to how he truly feels about Marvel and DC. In 1980, he's already calling them out on their practice of stealing their employees' intellectual properties. Okay, "stealing." The contract is to make the "stealing" legal so they don't wind up in constant lawsuits and can continue to offer the artists whose creations make them scads of money little to no future compensation on their efforts. Dave Sim could think of no other attack on Marvel than to pretend he's a caricature of a slave. I'm not in disagreement with Dave here and, believe me, in 1980, I almost certainly wouldn't have thought the mintrelesque response was anything but a clever way of making his point. Although I was also 9 in 1980 so I probably would have had to ask an adult why the fuck Dave was writing like that. But as I said, there's more! The next letter is a bit of a response to Dave's crusade against the Big Two Corporations. And from his peers!

I guessed I missed the comments in Issue #15. I'd better go back and see what the Pinis were talking about.

Here's what Dave said in Issue #15's "Aardvark Comment": "Maybe Marvel can turn its corporate back on you. As they never grow tired of explaining, fan sales make up a very small fraction of their profits. They don't think much of your taste in comics, artists, writers or anything else." It's a little hard to parse this comment being that I don't know what was happening in comic books in 1980 concerning the fans and Marvel but doesn't this sound a lot like the Comicsgate argument of today? That Marvel doesn't give a shit about what its "real fans" want? Anyway, back to the Pini's letter. The Pinis' letter reads like Elfquest trying to talk Cerebus out of gutting a merchant. I suppose when you point out that artists and writers working for Marvel and DC are idiots for not publishing their work as an independent, I can see how they might get upset with you. I'm sure Richard and Wendy had a number of discussions with Marv Wolfman where Marv would say things like "I'm not dumb! You're dumb!" or "I'm not a piece of property! You are!" or "I'll show you who's a slave to the man! I'll kill Cyborg!" After that, the Pinis were probably all, "You know what? Criticizing work-for-hire in the comic book arts just isn't worth all these Marv Wolfman tantrums. Let's just bite our tongues." After a couple of letters from some nerd groupies in which Dave laments the target audience of comic books, he responds more in length to the . . . well, wait. Let's first look at his response about his core audience!

I'm offended! I always fix it immediately when a headlight goes out.

I mean, after seventeen issues, "Aardvark Comment" is finally getting interesting! Okay, so now to Sim's actual response to Wendy and Richard Pini.

Dave Sim being serious. Probably.

I'd like to point out the end of this letter in which Dave states fairly plainly the main theme of criticism behind Eee! Tess Ate Chai Tea for nearly a decade: "I just don't happen to think that the system in operation now is the best thing for this medium and that it is not the most conducive way to get the best from the creative talents that exist. Quite the opposite, it seems to encourage half-assed efforts in order to guarantee that you are not surrendering your rights to something of value. And how many of us, Steve Gerber included, could know in advance that our ducks were of any value?" This was as true in 1980 as it is now. It's just that in 1980, it was much harder and a lot more work to retain the rights to your creations through self-publishing. So most comic book writers and artists were doing their best work at DC and Marvel. What other reasonable choice was there? Dave and Deni have discussed multiple times across the last dozen and a half issues how hard self-publishing has been for them. Now imagine a company like Image exists or a place like Kickstarter. Creators now know to save their best ideas for places that will give them full control and full potential earnings on their creations. DC and Marvel can't help but be full of writers doing half-assed jobs with their half-assed ideas and saving their truly monumental and mind-blowing work for Image or another, now more easily accessible independent publishing venture. This was in 1980 and Dave Sim was seeing creators screwed out of future royalties on ideas that wound up making fortunes for the parent companies. Some people accept this as business as usual and would be able to garner no sympathy for a creator stiffed out of royalties. But those people are unimaginative, pitiable, and sad. Something being legal has never in the history of everything been a convincing argument that that something is ethical, moral, or just fucking compassionate. Hopefully this "Aardvark Comment" begins to stir some serious discussion with Cerebus readers because I'm eager to read a lot more of Dave's thoughts about comic book publishing and fandom. Eventually there won't be a whole lot of separation between the comic book and the letters page. I mean, when the author inserts himself into the story as both some sort of omniscient being and also another fictionalized author, it gets hard to separate what you believe from the ideas expressed within the story. Cerebus #18 Rating: B-. That rating was for the lackluster story! The "Aardvark Comment" page gets an A! Oh, and I forgot to mention "The Single Page!" Imagine my surprise when I turned the page and saw this:

Tim Kreider in 1989! (Remember, this is from the 1989 Bi-weekly reprints of the 1980 Cerebus #18.)

You can just see Tim's eventual style in these early characters. The main male character is basically a baby-faced version and immature style of his eventual renditions of himself.

This is from Tim Kreider's book of essays and cartoons, We Learn Nothing.

I can't recommend Tim Kreider's essays and cartoons highly enough. Read his books, We Learn Nothing and I Wrote This Book Because I Love You and maybe search the Internet for a cache of his old cartooning website. You probably won't be disappointed. I say probably because I've learned that a lot of people on the Internet aren't exactly like me like I expect you all to be. Idiots.

[graveyard-in-the-void]

I suddenly felt the urge to make a series of posts where I look at different AUs and their characters and how they became the way they are. Staring with an old favorite of mine- and it will probably stay a while with that. Mainly because I can’t find motivation for anything and wouldn’t even know where to continue, god help me. The Director (Henry Miller, “Actor AU”) "Time waits for no one, actor. Do not waste ours. Act." - Layers of Fear 2

Starting with this quote should make obvious, but Henry's fate as director was heavily inspired by the depiction of the director in Layers of Fear 2. Or rather, lack of depiction of him? There isn't much about him, he's a narrative tool. But the set up? Crazy. The director is willing to lock off an entire section of an actual ship, prop it full of mannequins and actual vintage weapons to force out the childhood trauma from the actor he wants in his lead role. The RENOUNCED actor who is already crazy successful- Yet somehow he still gotte retraumatize him to get him to "build the character". Sounds pretty Henry to me! That's how Henry would cast his actors. Method acting? More like "I will use your trauma to brainwash you to some degree until you fully internalize the character I want you to play." While in the original game there were level of supernatural elements involved, director Henry... lives less in a world like that. For the better, certainly. Because NO Henry could resist the temptation of the supernatural. And it would be a shame, because while still his usual obsessive, controlling self, he isn't actually dangerous this time around. At least not so far. Unpredictable, psychopathic, but not outright harmful. It is indeed a very different path for Henry to go down. A path so utterly... meaningless, it would give normal Henry a shudder. But his life was also very much different! His attempt to murder his sister was caught, in the act. Undeniable. But now, what do you do with a violent, murderous eight year old? Especially one who is awfully aware of his right to NOT speak to strangers he doesn't want to speak with. Therapy is really wasted effort with Henry, even as a child, he has a very strong hold on what he wants and what kind of people he trusts. They can't FORCE the child to talk. And the kid was clearly a danger to his baby sister. Thus, what was the solution? Their solution was to send him away, to other family members. Without kids. Namely his very eccentric aunt. She lives fairly far away. Not to mention she travels a LOT. She and Henry traveled even to Europe, she didn't stay long at her main place of residence, a place that Henry LOVED, because it was full of dangerous and mysterious things. Dusty things, things that were solely picked up because they were novel. His aunt was a little bit like him- perfectionist, cold and calculating at her worst. And not at all capable of raising a child. Though, she also was charming, had an eye for talent and very emotionally intelligent. Not to mention she had experience- she knew how to keep the growing Henry in check. And busy! While growing up, Henry was surrounded by stars, big and small. Somehow she was an influence, somehow she was famous, even if she always stayed in the second row, never outright in the spotlight. Capable of social manipulation and a well-liked guest... she had connections, those all-valuable connections, which was a worth that could not be measured in money. She raised Henry not harshly, but with high demands, if it's not happening perfectly, he might as well should stop doing it completely. Henry, who was stubborn and competitive, seeing his aunt more as a rival than a parental figure, would double his efforts thusly. There were plenty of fights, but never outright malice between the two and he came to admire and emulate her, especially what she managed to do to a room full of people. He got into the fine arts far more than in his normal life. Music, art, writing and... theater. Oh, theater quickly became his favorite. It was the ultimate protection. If he ALWAYS acts, plays pretend, then nobody will ever be truly able to figure out that You Are Hollow And Henry values that a lot. It is easier to feel when he has someone else's skin to wear, it gives him a view on things he sadly enough isn't blessed to have. Like empathy, true friendship and love. But eventually, he found something even better. Directing. Not only could he create his own vision, making himself UNDERSTOOD by all those different people- but he also could finally puppeteer people as he pleased without anyone minding it! His aunt died when he was fairly young, when he was seventeen- Natural causes, as natural of a death as a lifestyle with plenty of smoking and drinking would lead to. But it would have been the death she wanted. While she was fully aware and in control of herself. And Henry went on to study the thing he loved so much- in a field without much prospects, with lots of competition. And... he aced it. Like Henry would. Over the year he QUICKLY build a reputations. He MADE actors. People rose up overnight. Where did he get them from? He seemingly picked them from the streets, from the void, from nowhere at all and then they were... actors. His movies were masterpieces, at most you could claim about them that they were confusing or sending uncomfortable messages. Though… wasn’t that what art was supposed to do? But people, actors... they didn't talk a lot on how it was to work with him. They kept quiet, it was at most described as... complicated. Hell, some actors that Henry made famous lost their minds, eventually. A loss of reality. Nobody though could really point Henry out as the source of it. How even? Oh, the scene of glitter and glamour was riddled with horrible, horrible people, using up those trying to live their dreams- Henry was, compared to that, a refuge. A demanding director, who wouldn't cut his actors any slack, but he went into it with the same passion and willingness to sacrifice. Some people even think Henry doesn't have an actual personality, that is how easily he melts from one into another, how easily he seemed to discard reality, recreating it how he chooses it to be- The set could be a whole other world and Henry was the one feeding it, tying his chosen ones to the new reality until the performance was over. He took them. He broke them. And then he recreated them. Not everyone managed that process. A few people however learned to deal with his awfully odd behavior and came to enjoy working with this man, a man that took everything, but included himself in that. Thus he has a very specific and pretty loyal team of people he works with, producing his movies. The actors came and went. ... but the family of misfits stayed together. Merciless, he forces his will, he forces the characters upon helpless vessels, dancing with possibilities and dreams, with flashes of emotions, with painful memories, that he heartlessly overwrites, uses as fodder for his characters. They say Henry can look at you and know all your pain. And then he makes you grab inside of yourself, bring it to the front. Make you give up on it so you may give it to your character. Or, give up everything else aside from the pain, so the character can get ahold of you. Both is fine. No sacrifice is too great for the vision. Which, on a slightly funnier note means that he is fully fine with getting stabbed by a person impersonating a killer. He once got kidnapped for a week and it was incredibly hard to stop him from employing the perpetrators afterwards. … though they did let him go, because they couldn’t bear his constant demands to “improve the composition of the scene”. Anything for the sake of show!

[collegeessayexamples128]

paper help

About me

Essay Writing Service From Top

Essay Writing Service From Top Buyessayonline.org reviews from prospects on the Internet are principally adverse. The web site of the corporate doesn’t supply a clear description of the companies they provide as a result of they require registration to view them as well as the details about prices. The website’s usability is one other important facet of an essay service evaluate. It’s not too heavy on the content material, however it nonetheless keeps you informed. Writing a great essay requires each creativity and technical writing abilities. It assumes that you've got personal interest regarding the given matter in addition to the flexibility to specific it in a transparent and informative manner. We double-check all papers with similarity software program to make sure the content you receive is one hundred% authentic. However, should you require the writer to do a fair amount of analysis, source pictures, and tag your content, you can anticipate to pay more within the range of $75-$100 per article. If you need your writer to also do things like take pictures and do multiple interviews for a bit, count on to pay within the upper vary of $125-$150 per submit. Add funds to your steadiness & stay in contact with your author. The reviewers get money by directing you at a website. Now I know to not ask a ridiculous quantity but additionally not to underestimate the value of my effort and time. As a new freelance writer it's difficult to gauge rates. The low end of the vary you listed is a bit scary. I suppose that $0.03 per word is simply too close to the rates earned on sites like Text Broker. It’s a priceless source of firm news and a helpful way to give tips and tricks on finest practices and finest uses of your services and products. The reply is one page single spaced or two pages double spaced. Now, relying on how you have setup your doc your page count might differ barely, however with Arial or Times New Roman 12 point font and traditional margins you must see similar outcomes. 500 word essays are very common all through middle and highschool English curriculums, particularly as e-book reviews, or summaries of present occasions. You can simply check page count in word processors like Microsoft Word and Google Docs, but for a fast reference use our table below. I was paid $7.70 for a 550 word article ($zero.014/word) that I completely researched. It was well written and accepted right away, which leads me to consider that that fee is far below what I could be probably incomes. As far as blogging content material goes, $0.10 per word is fairly cheap assuming you've some experience and are a decent writer. I know plenty of bloggers who charge more, but personally my charges hover around $zero.10 per word, and I would encourage others to shoot for that vary as properly. By now, you’re conversant in freelance author pricing works and appropriate per word fees. You wish to pay for their experience and knowledge just as you’d pay another freelancer. However, if the person isn’t a talented author, you may must enlist the assistance of an editor to assist the subject matter professional write better copy. Consider this extra expense when looking for alternative content in your blog. If you determine on one voice, bringing somebody in-house full-time may convey some other aspect benefits. If you hire somebody who’s not solely an excellent writer, but also a little net savvy, you possibly can have him or her write a couple of articles per day, and make updates to your website. However, depending on the extent of experience of a person like this, this place may cost in the $50,000-$80,000 per-yr range. Blogging has confirmed itself as a powerful medium to get your company’s message out. The purpose is that tutorial content material is more complicated than only a rewrite of current sources. Maybe, it is a nice idea for some other kinds of writing, however when your professor gives you an inventory of difficult questions that require pondering and experience, EssayBot isn't an choice in any respect. There are a number of classes of essays, each suggesting completely different styles of presentation and pursuing completely different objectives. It’s attainable that you’ll have to provide strong arguments to help your viewpoints or need to make an informative essay written in a narrative and impartial fashion. For an essay reviewer, the provision of the client support brokers is an important matter. The creators of A-Writer understood that, so they hired and skilled great customer support brokers. Whenever you ask a query, someone is there to answer it right away. In addition, every analysis paper must pass a radical plagiarism check. We are aware of how badly this nuance can influence your grade; that’s why we take all necessary steps to craft excellent educational work with distinctive content material only.

[winterisakiller]

Get Better - Chapter Two

Title: Get Better

Chapter: 2/18

Character: Tom Hiddleston/Cath Richardson (OFC)

Genre: Romance

Rating: Teen and up

Summary: Love. Companionship. Family. These are all of the things Tom Hiddleston desperately wanted. But his life and his choices left that a distant and unlikely prospect. So he did his best to move on and live his life as is. When an opportunity to return to the theater arises, he jumps at the chance and along the way finds that maybe, just maybe, those distant and unlikely prospects are closer than he could have imagined. Sequel to Brave Face.

Authors Notes/Warnings: So as I was writing Brave Face I knew that Tom’s story wasn’t over, even if that particular part of it was. And while I knew, more or less, what the overall ending to the story would be, its taken me a while to figure out the time in between. Thanks to @redfoxwritesstuff for letting me continually throw ideas off and at you. I still can’t fathom why you put up with it, but I am eternally grateful you do. This story will update on Thursdays.

Tag list: @tinchentitri @theheartofpenelope @nonsensicalobsessions @blacksuitofdoom @noplacelikehome77 @messy-insomniac-bookgirl @wolfsmom1 @just-the-hiddles @theoneanna

Previous Chapter

CHAPTER TWO

 The heat of August gradually cooled into early September. It was with a twinge of nostalgia that Tom found himself sitting around with Joanna Hogg, Mary Roscoe, and Kathryn Worth discussing Unrelated. It had been his first film and therefore quite the learning experience. But one that he remembered fondly. Later that same week he’d found himself on a red carpet and then on a stage presenting an award to a man he’d first seen on a big screen in a film he adored, and feared, as a young boy. The same man he later had the pleasure of working with in another film in Australia of all places. Funny thing time, he thought smiling as he stood beside Jeff Goldblum, chatting about life and film and the world. It still brought him up short the chances and opportunities he’d been blessed with in his career. Funny, sometimes painful, but wonderful all the same.

 And now he found himself once again waiting on the side of another stage, adrenaline coursing through his veins. He chatted amicably with his fellow actors and readers, waiting for the signal from the now closed double doors. He could clearly hear the excited murmurings of the crowded auditorium and felt the familiar nervous energy bubbling in his gut. It was the same feeling he got anytime he’d prepared to walk onto a stage or a set. It was an old friend at this juncture and one he both missed and dreaded.

 When he’d been approached with this project two months back, he had all but jumped at the chance. Getting not only to read but debate with fellow actors and writers over literature he’d loved for years, to be able to perform and share that love with others. It would a nice testing of the waters, so to speak. He hadn’t been on stage in a performer sense in over a year, and hadn’t done something of this nature since school. It had seemed like an interesting challenge and one he couldn’t see turning down. Rehearsals had been full of laughter and amusement.

 Tom was sharing the stage with several talented actors; amongst them an actress in talks to join him in the Pinter production he was very much looking forward to in the New Year. Zawe Ashton was her name and while he’d seen bits and pieces of her work in the past, she was not someone he’d had the pleasure of working with beforehand. He found her funny and a delight to play off of. She had a wicked sense of humor that went very much along the lines of his own. And what was best was she hadn’t seemed to give a toss who he was. Yes, she’d known his name and was familiar with his work, but none of that seemed to matter to her. He could very easily see them getting along quite well during a grueling show run. If things went well tonight and the following week at the gala, then schedule permitting she would be a shoe-in for the role of Emma.

 Beyond the doors, a hush fell over the crowd and he could see the lights begin to dim. Not long now. He could feel the tension and excitement running through their small group as the talked and laughed amongst themselves.

 “Alright, places,” the woman manning the door called. Tom took a deep breath and walked through the doors and onto to the stage.  

 The debate itself seemed to fly by and Tom found that he had enjoyed himself immensely. His competitive nature was certainly getting its chance to shine and he was absolutely delighted when his team, the correct team as far as he’d been concerned, won. They’d taken their respective bows and headed off stage in ones and twos. “That was absolutely fantastic,” Zawe breathed, smiling as she turned back to face Tom.

 “Oh completely. I haven’t had that much fun in longer than I care to admit.”

  Zawe laughed in earnest. “Same.”

 They were ushered around the auditorium and handed collection buckets before being let loose to collect as much money for charity as they could. Tom had smiled, laughed, and talked with as many people as he could; never fully able to turn off the ‘public Tom’ persona he’d worn for so many years now. It was him, in a way, but more like a perfectly sculpted mask. Something he could slip in and out of depending on the place and the company he kept. In the past he’d been more open, more playful and less guarded with how he spoke and acted, but time and experience had taught him to pull back. To keep a respectable distance between who he was and who he was expected to be. To still be warm and engaging, but to never cross that line. It had been a difficult lesson to learn.

 It was with a grateful sigh that Tom folded himself into the backseat of the black cab, leaning his head back against the seat rest. He watched with half lidded eyes as the brightly lit streets of London flitted past. He loved the city; loved its hustle and history. It was one of the main reasons he still lived in the converted terrace he’d owned for several years now when he could so easily have moved to California like so many others had before him. London held his heart in a way very few other places had.  

 He blinked in momentary confusion as the cab slowed to a stop. It took far longer than he cared to admit to realize that he was, in fact, home. With a warm smile, Tom paid his fare and lumbered slowly to the black gate surrounding his home. He absently entered the code, pushing the gate open and heading up the dimly lit walk to his door. From behind it, Tom could hear Bobby’s excited barking and smiled to himself. It wasn’t quite the welcome home he’d longed for, but it was nice to have someone waiting for him. He made quick work of the lock and slowly pushed the door open.

 The spaniel’s barking increased in pitch and volume, jumping and wagging his tail as if his life depended on it. Tom sighed and shook his head. “Alright you heathen, let’s get you outside.” More excited barking followed as Tom padded through the hallway and into the kitchen towards the back door into the garden. While Bobby rummaged around outside, Tom filled his food bowl and topped off his water bowl. “Come on now, food’s ready!” he called out the door to little effect.

 Tom let out a grunt of exasperation and headed out into the dimly lit back garden. Bobby was snuffling around the bushes at the far end of the garden, telltale small piles of dirt surrounding him. Tom grumbled under his breath and yelled for the dog again. Reluctantly, Bobby heeded his master’s call and trotted back up the yard and into the kitchen.

 “You, my friend, are very lucky indeed that I am as fond of you as I am.” Bobby raised his head from his supper bowl and gave Tom an astonished look before returning to his meal. Tom merely shook his head and headed back through the house and towards the stair case to the upper level and bed. He stripped mechanically, making a brief stop in the bathroom to wash his face and clean his teeth, before falling into bed.

 The next morning dawned bright and cool. Tom stretched his arms above his head, a jaw cracking yawn echoing through the sunlit room. Bobby, who had been curled up contentedly at the edge of the bed, raised his head. He’d tried, when the spaniel was younger, to keep him downstairs in his own crate overnight. It had lasted all of about the span of a week for the puppy’s pitiful cries to break Tom’s resolve and allow him into the bedroom. ‘Just for the night,’ he’d sworn. And now nearly a year later, it was quite clear Tom had lost that battle.

 With determination, Tom pushed himself up and out of the bed, padding down the stairs and into the kitchen, Bobby quick on his heels. He opened the back garden door and let the spaniel out, turning his attention towards the coffee press and feeding his much needed caffeine addiction. He set to work boiling his kettle and gathering the bag of coffee from the cabinet above the sink. Tom took great pleasure in setting about brewing his morning coffee, loving the way the strong, warm scent filled the kitchen.

 Once it had brewed he poured the steaming liquid into his mug; a green one with a chip in its lip, one that Amy had given him. The thought of her still stung, though the pain had lessened throughout the intervening years. He still missed the life they’d had…Still bitterly regretted the stupid and selfish choices he’d made that had broken them. But he had slowly begun to come to terms with them and, in turn, with himself. Little things still caught him off guard but he’d learned to accept them and to try to move on from them. It was a hard road but one he was beginning to believe he could navigate on his own.

 Coffee doctored to his liking, Tom headed out into the back garden. He lowered himself into one of the wooden patio chairs and watched Bobby run around like mad chasing squirrels. It was a wonder any still dared to enter the garden with how valiantly Bobby guarded his territory. That dog was a menace and Tom loved him dearly for it. Closing his eyes, he savored the warmth the bloomed inside him as he sipped the gently steaming mug in his hands. There were many things he could make do without, coffee was most definitely not among them. He took his time, enjoying the sun on his face and the slowly dwindling coffee in his mug. His stomach grumbled, reminding him that man could not survive on coffee alone.

 “Bobby!” He called, pushing himself to his feet. The spaniel, paused mid-bark and turned to face his master. “Come.” Tom laughed as the spaniel broke off into a mad dash towards the door, nearly knocking him off his feet. Apparently someone was wanting his breakfast as well. Once kibble was added to Bobby’s bowl, Tom turned his attention towards his own meal; a quick toast and egg would do. He’d glanced at the clock above the stove when he’d entered the kitchen and found it to be well after nine. He would need to get moving soon, especially if he wanted to get a decent run in before heading into town to meet Emma.

 Not bothering with a shower, after all what would be the point if he was just going to end up a sweating mess again, Tom changed into his running kit and slipped into his trainers. He thundered down the stairs and towards the front door, grabbing Bobby’s lead from the key hook. Bobby, sensing walkies were afoot, was standing at the front door and began to twirl in tight little circles as Tom approached. He laughed and hooked the lead to the spaniel’s collar before leading them both out the door and into the crisp, late morning air.

 Several circuits around the neighborhood and nearby park helped to clear his head and focus his mind. He loved running, loved being able to lose himself in the rhythm and peace of it. It was the one pastime he could do anywhere and had been a godsend on long and grueling shoots. Tom was, in fact, a sweating mess when he and Bobby pushed their way back inside the house. Unclipping Bobby, and patting him playfully on the back, Tom climbed the stairs two at a time, stripping his clothing as he went.

 He showered quickly, enjoying the feel of the steaming water on his protesting muscles, and padded back into his bedroom to dry and dress. A quick glance at clock on the bedside table told him it was half eleven. With a grunt, he pulled on a pair of jeans and his well-loved blue jumper, which he noted with a fair bit of disdain was starting to get a hole in one of its sleeves. He ran a quick comb through his damp hair and shoved his feet into the grey boots he’d had for nearly as long as he could remember.

 Another quick glance at the watch he’d fastened onto his left wrist as he pounded down the stairs told him he needed to leave, and quickly, if he had any hope of meeting Emma at the restaurant she’d chosen on time.

 “Shit,” he cursed at himself, ushering Bobby into the back room and his kennel.

 Things situated, Tom grabbed his wallet and keys from the hallway table and darted out the front door. He considered trying to cab it in, but all things being equal and knowing London traffic far too well, he dismissed the matter out of hand; the tube was often a great deal faster than the car.

 Forty minutes later, Tom dashed into the warmth of the fairly busy café; woolen coat open and breathing heavy. He’d made a mad dash from the underground station once the train had finally come to a stop. He was late and Emma was sure to give him hell about it. He scanned the room, finally resting on her strawberry blonde head at a table in the corner.

 She smiled up at him as he took the opened seat across from her, leaning over to kiss her cheek. “I’m dreadfully sorry. I lost track of time and…”

 Emma simply rolled her eyes and held up her hand. “Tom, the day you show up to a non-work event on time is the day I know the world’s ending.”

 “Oh ha ha,” he retorted, shaking his head. “I’m only what, ten minutes late?”

 She snorted, “Only…But I guess coming from you that is actually pretty decent. I was honestly expecting at least twenty minutes.”

 Tom looked up at her, affronted. True he did tend to run slightly behind if not harassed, but surely not that badly and with such consistency? “I am not that bad.”

 “My darling brother, unless you’ve got someone there to push and pester you, you are indeed that bad. Need I remind you of mum’s birthday last year…?” Emma quirked an eyebrow at her brother as if daring him to challenge her.

 He scoffed. “That was once time…”

 “And I can list at least a dozen others offhand, if you’d like. My wedding, Sarah’s wedding, last Christmas, the Christmas before…I could go on,” Emma countered. “But I don’t have all day. I left Jack minding Alice and while I love that husband of mine, our offspring has been cutting a new tooth and has frankly been crankier than you on a bad day.”

 Tom narrowed his eyes in mock annoyance. “Why are you always such a brat, Brat?”

 “Because someone needs to put you in your place, brother dear. And since I am here, I guess that leaves me.” Her eyes sparkled with mischief as they locked on Tom’s. “Lord knows you aren’t going to manage it yourself and Luke’s earned a break don’t you think?”

 The teasing volleyed back and forth throughout their meal. It had been a good while since he had done anything with his baby sister, save for larger family gatherings. She’d been busy between the chaos of new motherhood balanced with local and national theatre work and he’d been in and out of the country with promotional work. He smiled as he watched her talk, the way her face lit up as she told him about the latest thing his tiny niece had done or the mishap she’d had with a prop during a sold out performance. It was difficult to reconcile the grown woman before him with the bratty little sister she’d always been in his eyes, but it was wonderful all the same.

 “Oh,” Emma started, placing her half-drunk mug of coffee onto the table. “Have you talked with mum recently?”

 Tom shook his head, “Not in the last week or so? Has something happened?” He leaned forward, anxiety clearly painted across his features.

 “No. No, she’s fine. She’s just trying to get things sorted regarding Christmas.”

 “Christmas? It’s barely October,” he countered.

 “Which I tried telling her, but alas, she wants to get everyone together this year and with you and Sarah and your insane schedules, she figured starting sooner rather than later would make sense.”

 Tom laughed and shook his head. He loved his mother, loved her dearly, but she was a planner. Had been his entire life. And the holidays were her weakness. They had always attempted to gather for Christmas, with varying success; between Tom’s own insane schedule over the last several years and Sarah and her family living and working in India, it was rare to have all three Hiddleston siblings under one roof. And as inane as it sounded, Tom could see the sense in her trying to plan so far in advance.

 “…usual nonsense. And she is thinking of trying to have Amy and her family around on Boxing Day.”

 Tom blinked in confusion as Emma’s words sank in. “What now?”

 “Mum is talking about inviting Amy, Teddy, and their little one over for either lunch or dinner on Boxing Day.”

 His heart clenched at the mention of Amy and her husband but slowly relaxed as he let out a breath.

 “Is she now?”

 While he’d run into both Amy and her husband on several occasions since the wedding, the idea of spending time with them in his mother’s home felt…strange. Not as unbearable as it would have been even a year ago, but still strange. ‘And their little one.’ He’d known they’d been expecting, Emma had mentioned it months back, but hadn’t really let himself think on the matter. He was…happy for her, for them both, even if they idea set uneasily in his gut. And it wasn’t the idea that it should have been him, he’d long since come to terms with that, more so a longing. Something he’d felt when he looked at Sophie as she held either of her and Ben’s sons. Stupid and selfish, but very much real.

 Emma nodded. “Henry will be four months by then and mum is desperate to meet him.” She sighed, “You’d think she didn’t have any grandchildren of her own with the way she’s acting.”

 Tom shrugged. “You know mum, she always had a soft spot for Amy…”

 “That she did,” Emma echoed. “But still…The nerve of the woman.” They both chuckled at that. “So just be aware that she’s most likely going to call and pester you.”

 “I don’t doubt that for a single moment,” Tom laughed. “Has Sarah said if they were coming yet?”

 Emma took another sip of her coffee and nodded. “Yeah, they should be able to come. You are the wild card at the moment.”

 Tom stroked his beard with his free hand. “I should be able to come…As of now I don’t think I have anything that would make that impossible. The con in Phoenix isn’t until the new year…I’ll double check with Michael and Luke to make sure.”

 “I still cannot believe people pay actual money on purpose to meet my dork of a brother. Cannot wrap my head around it.”

 He chuckled, “It’s still strange for me, Em.”

 “I bet.” She paused and pulled her mobile from her purse, glancing at the screen. “And on that note, I have to run. It’s nearly three and I promised Jack I’d be home before four.” She reached for the bill their server had left on the edge of the table but Tom beat her to it, flashing her a warm smile.

 “My treat,” he said in way of explanation.

 Emma shot him a pointed glare, “You are a menace, you know that right?” She pushes her chair back and pulled on her coat.

 Tom chuckled, climbing to his feet himself and pulling his sister into a warm hug. “Give Alice a kiss for me and give Jack my best.” Nodding, she slipped her bag over her shoulder and headed for the door. Tom followed behind, pausing to pay the bill before venturing into the chill of the late afternoon and home.

 He spent much of the following week juggling the things he’d been putting off. He’d called and visited his mother; and she, as Emma had predicted, pestered him about his schedule around Christmas. He’d assured her, with back up from Luke, that he was indeed free and would most definitely be coming home this year. He’d also started sorting through his clothing and washing and packing for his trip to the states. He found himself both excited and wary for the trip. Conventions could be a thoroughly enjoyable experience; he’d had several wonderful ones and had enjoyed interacting with fans at the events. But just the same they could be draining and demanding. Sometimes it seemed, no matter what he did, it wasn’t enough. Tom hoped for the former this time around.

                                                             —

 The evening of the gala celebrating the life and work of Harold Pinter arrived far sooner than Tom had anticipated. He was excited and anxious and terrified all at once. He’d been so wrapped up in trying to organize his life and make sure he had his lines memorized, that when the driver rang the bell on his gate he’d stood staring in complete confusion for several seconds before realization dawned. God, feared he’d lose his head if it weren’t attached. Tom had been approached for the event shortly after talks began regarding his involvement in reviving Betrayal in the West End. He’d agreed almost immediately, looking forward to sharing the stage with several talented actors and testing out the material on stage before fully committing to the play. The nervous energy had run off him in waves as he’d darted upstairs and dressed quickly. Thankfully, Luke had seen to having his suit pressed and waiting in his closet. Tom dressed in a mad dash before heading back down stairs and out to the waiting car.

 It was half past five when Tom slid into the leather backseat, apologizing profusely for his tardiness. Luke would murder him if he were late. As the car started off, Tom pulled out his mobile, shooting his publicist a quick message that he was on his way. It most likely wasn’t necessary, but Tom knew Luke liked to be kept in the loop as much as possible. Shoving his mobile back into his pocket, he turned his attention back to the present. He made small talk with the driver as they moved along, chatting about the weather and later about the dismal amount of traffic they’d run into. They’d pulled aside the theatre half an hour later and once he’d climbed from the car, Tom was ushered inside and backstage. He chatted with Zawe and several other familiar faces as they waited for the theatre to fill and for the start of the evening.

 Things had been going rather well, in Tom’s humble opinion until he’d gone to grab his folder and managed to slice his thumb open. He’d stared, dumbfounded, at the welling blood before he was rushed towards the side of the room and quickly patched up. “Score one for my dumb luck,” he joked as he once again picked up his folder, this time taking much greater care. His scene with Zawe had gone off splendidly. They played well off each other and he looked forward to working more with her, providing she was willing and able to commit to the run.

 Bows taken, they were all rushed backstage and then quickly to their waiting cars to be driven to the Brasserie Zedel for the after party. Once arrived, Tom walked the short carpet and took his time talking with the various reporters encamped along it. He enjoyed talking about not only Harold Pinter and the fun he’d had that night but of theater and acting in general. He knew, without a doubt, that he was allowing his inner theatre and literature nerd run amuck, but couldn’t find it in him to care.  

 Tom mingled with the arriving guests. He caught sight of several familiar faces and did his best to talk with them all. As he allowed himself to scan the room once again, he found his eyes drawn to the short dark haired figure talking animatedly with Zawe. She was all of five foot nothing in her heels but commanded the attention of those around her as though she were much, much taller. Her dress was navy in color and came to mid-calf, clinging to her curves in ways that made Tom desperate to trace with his own hands. Her dark hair hung in a low, loose pony over one shoulder. She tossed her head back, laughing at something Zawe had said and the sound that echoed from her lips was captivating even from such a distance.

 Stealing himself, Tom made to start for the both of them, wanting nothing more than to know just who this tiny, vivacious woman was. He just managed to work his way through the densely packed room when the announcement was made for all to begin to filter their way into the restaurant proper. He cursed under his breath and allowed himself to be moved with the crowd inside. He’d found his table easily enough and was quickly pulled into conversation. He caught glimpses of the mystery woman throughout the night but never quite managed to catch up with her.

 He’d managed, however, to catch Zawe on her own and, despite feeling very much like a desperate twelve year-old, ask her about her earlier companion. Confusion flitted across Zawe’s features for a moment before understanding seemed to dawn. “Oh! That was Cath. She is a doll. Worked with her on a few projects a handful of years back.”

 “Is she an actress then?”

 Zawe shook her head, “Nah. She works behind the scenes; hair and make-up. Talented as hell, that woman is.” He tried then to arrange an introduction, ignoring the odd regency undertones such a thing invoked, but the woman, Cath, had been nowhere to be found.

 Tom sighed, just as well then. He did his best to let the disappointment flow off his back and made a few more circuits around the room, smiling and talking with various guests before calling it a night. He had a flight to catch in the morning (an international one at that which tended to be a headache at the best of times), and while he could sleep just about anywhere, he wanted to have at least one last good night’s rest in his own bed. Hotel beds, and airplane seats for the matter, were never quite as comfortable as his own bed. A few moments later, Tom stepped out into the brisk October evening air and climbed once more into the backseat. He closed his eyes, resting his head back against the seat and allowed the hum of the car’s engine to lull him into a state of almost sleep.

Next Chapter

[tillidontneedfantasy]

No. 6 Collaborations Project - Ed Sheeran: I’m not like a regular musician, I’m an Uncool™ musician.

When Ed Sheeran emerged onto the American pop scene in 2011 - 2012 as an understated solo act, he famously utilized the loop pedal in his live shows, creating the sound of a full production with just his voice and one little guitar. This is just one of the elements that made Ed Sheeran such a compelling rising star; one singer-songwriter could cast a very large shadow. 

Sheeran’s dominance over the pop scene since then and throughout the last decade is undeniable, and he really wants you to know it and acknowledge it on No. 6, as he (rightfully, but not so moderately) celebrates his musical achievements and endeavors over the years on tracks such as “Take Me Back to London” featuring Stormzy and “Remember the Name” featuring Eminem & 50 Cent. But he also doesn’t want you to forget that still, despite all of his success, *Amy Poehler from Mean Girls voice* he’s not like a regular musician, he’s an uncool musician. Travis Scott opens “Antisocial,” a well-produced but underwhelming song about Sheeran’s introversion and anxiety, by stating, “All you cool people, you better leave now,” which sounds silly coming from an artist as "in” right now as Travis Scott. This is a message Sheeran attempts to drive home even more so on the opening track “Beautiful People” featuring Khalid, where Sheeran explains how he does not quite fit in with the lifestyle of his industry. For someone who is so adamant that he remains uncool, he sure scored a heap of very cool artists to collaborate with him on this new record, even including a DJ, loop pedal be damned.

Funny enough, the song including DJ and producer Skrillex, titled “Way To Break My Heart” is one of the few that is reminiscent of Sheeran’s roots, both sonically and lyrically. While Sheeran’s singer-songwriter chops have not particularly diminished with success, they feel repetitive and at a stalemate on No. 6. Sheeran still holds his own on the strongest tracks, but the voices featured on this project are what hold them up the most.

BEST TRACK: “I Don’t Want Your Money” featuring H.E.R.

No. 6 is thematically heavy on Sheeran’s relationships with fame and with his wife, Cherry. Sheeran is generally most triumphant when he focuses on the latter, a love song master as displayed by the overwhelming success of the overly cliched “Thinking Out Loud” and “Perfect” (from x and ÷  respectively), but is most effective on this album when he integrates it with the former. On “I Don’t Want Your Money,” Sheeran outlines the strains that celebrity life put on a relationship in a way that is universally relatable, whether you’re a pop mega-superstar or an average Joe from Chicago who’s had one viral tweet. In the 2nd verse, he sings: 

“Baby I’m doing it for us, so why you taking that tone like I’m the bad guy? / I thought it would have made me better in your dad’s eyes / I’m busy stacking up the paper for the bad times / ‘cause baby, you never know / I’m popping right now, but there will come a day when I won’t.” 

No matter the lifestyle or job, anyone who has ever been a working individual in a relationship knows the struggle of a work-life balance, and the pressure when things are going well to do all you can to maintain that lucrativeness in case it all falls apart in the future; it’s a sacrifice for the sake of security. Sheeran’s awareness that his height of fame for any musician is not built to last forever is also a refreshing note of modesty. H.E.R. graciously lends her magically soothing vocals as the voice of Sheeran’s wife, assuring him that his time is much more valuable to her than his money, beautifully supported by a very sweet guitar riff. There’s a lot of horns in this song as well, which don’t necessarily fit with the theme or vibe but somehow work anyway, because horn instruments can improve almost any pop song exponentially.

WEAKEST TRACK: “1000 Nights” featuring Meek Mill & A Boogie Wit da Hoodie 

Directly following the relatability of “I Don’t Want Your Money,” Sheeran reminds us that, despite the trick he might have just played on us, we, in fact, cannot relate. Sheeran chronicles his “faded” tour ventures as he casually hops through continents on “1000 nights.” Following a recent trend of artists dismissing any criticism or opinions that are not glowing, Sheeran proclaims in the 2nd verse, “I don’t need to read reviews if you can’t do the things I do.” Although Ed Sheeran will most definitely not need to read this blog post, I hope he and his peers remember that ubiquitous success does not make anyone impervious to imperfection, and that consumers are allowed to and should continue to think critically about art. Maybe that sentiment will mean more coming from me once I tour multiple continents.

THE IN-BETWEENS

One of the strongest tracks, “Best Part of Me” featuring YEBBA, showcases Sheeran’s longstanding ability to churn out a heartfelt ballad, musically stripped back with the simplicity of his earlier work and his staple romantic prose. “Feels” featuring Young Thug and J Hus is short, sweet, and catchy, yet feels easily lost in the fray. A bit too often, Sheeran sounds out of place on his own album. On “South of the Border,” a fun track that feels slightly derivative of the mega-smash lead single “Shape of You” from ÷, Camila Cabello and Cardi B steal the show. And on the jarring yet intriguing closer, “BLOW” featuring Chris Stapleton and Bruno Mars, Sheeran’s first verse is quickly dulled by Mars’s shine. Kudos to Sheeran for gathering such talent, but when it works best, Sheeran’s in the passenger’s seat while his contemporaries are driving, making you forget who even owns the car.

BEST PROSPECTIVE SINGLE: “Put It All On Me” featuring Ella Mai.

Ella Mai is the true star of “Put It All On Me,” and the slight growl in her voice when she sings the line, “grab my waist,” is a pure knock-out. Riding off the magical spell she cast on us all with “Boo’d Up,” she can help Sheeran keep the momentum of his Cool Uncool Guy image. It’s got the perfect tempo for the radio and has “make me into a club remix” wisely written all over its DNA. 

***

As Sheeran has released his past 3 solo major studio albums, + (2011), x (2014), and  ÷ (2017) (seemingly having a thing for math), he has evolved yet always stuck to his strengths. All artists should experiment, bend genre boundaries, collaborate, and step out of their comfort zones. But No. 6 mostly makes the listener feel like Sheeran is trying to prove that hip-hop is his comfort zone and strength, as he laments “I wanna try new things, they just want me to sing / Because nobody thinks I write rhymes” on “Take Me Back to London,” apparently backtracking from the x deluxe track “Take It Back” opening assertion, “I’m not a rapper / I’m a singer with a flow.” Well, it turns out 2014 Ed was correct. Ed sounds great when he sings with a quick “flow” and sticks to what he knows. The most effective way for any artist to successively evolve is by utilizing their strengths to create something different. In the few moments on No. 6 when Sheeran does so, his spark glimmers through and we’re reminded of why all these artists jumped at the chance to work with him, though he should feel just as (if not even more) lucky. Hopefully, his next release will leave behind the numbers by subtracting a bit and return to the basic equations. Grade: 2/5

DISCLAIMER - REVIEWER’S BIAS: I have been an Ed Sheeran fan since his debut release in 2011; I remember watching a video livestream for the American release of + that only 12 other people joined. I love all of +, a majority of x (which hold, in my opinion, his 2 best songs, “I’m A Mess” and “Nina”), and very little of ÷. I was very disappointed by ÷, but still consider myself a fan. I really wanted to love No. 6 and went in with an open mind and heart, but it just felt like a conglomerate of failed crossover attempts that just didn’t do it for me. I truly believe Ed is talented and has the potential to make an album in the future that I can proudly call myself a fan of, but No. 6 doesn’t quite qualify.