#only a work of fiction based on what might have happened of course...

[cellarfulofnose]

Sack of Potatoes

John's harmonica overdub session for Thank You Girl.

At the sound of an engine approaching and idling, every head in the room went up. The studio looked like a house full of dogs. Beside her, Geoff swallowed, and Reggie thought he might start panting.

The main attraction had arrived, she guessed. In her year as a technical assistant, the most outrageous Beatlemania Reggie had ever seen came from men in jackets and ties. They didn't shake and cry like the girls, didn't scratch policemen and piss themselves. But they would go deathly quiet and ramrod straight, tidying this and that in the room like it was the bloody Queen they were expecting.

Of course, Reggie harbored all the same complaints against monarchists. From an early age, she'd truncated Regina, as much to distance herself from Her Majesty as to foil boys' attempts to make up vulgar rhymes about her. Besides which, she'd needed a snappy androgyne nickname to get ahead in the mod crowd, like her girlfriends Bobbi and Blake.

In any case, she didn't care for this quasi-holiness that her colleagues bestowed on rulers and rockers alike. Grown men, peering out the window over each other's shoulders like babes at the behest of the Good Humor man's chime, all for one lousy Beatle of the bunch.

That, to Reggie, was the kick in the pants. It was only John coming in. They were all gathered here, inhaling each other's cigarette smoke and nervous sweat, so that a school dropout her brother's age might record twenty-eight seconds of harmonica. And she wouldn't even get to see Ringo.

Malcolm had made a sort of huffing noise earlier, when Mr. Martin announced they were to hold a special session for John's overdubs. Reggie confronted him, and he merely shrugged. John was all right, he admitted. Just a bit crass. Made off-colour jokes when asked to be serious.

"He'll like you," he assured her. She hadn't asked.

Geoff snickered. "You'll know if he doesn't."

So he wasn't a politician. That, Reggie could respect. But she found out the previous night's show had been cancelled at the last minute. John, it seems, wasn't feeling well. What terrible ailment could have struck him down in his prime, forced him to shatter the dreams of ten thousand girls (and more than a few men)? Reggie hardly dared ask. Yellow fever? Scarlet fever? Dengue?

A cold.

"Bloody awful cold," Mr. Martin had appended, probably in reply to her incredulous expression.

Reggie said nothing. She didn't recount the time he had called her to work when she was soaking her sheets with fever, then tutted disapprovingly when she asked for a paracetamol. There wasn't much she could do but grit her teeth and bear it. If John was truly as miserable as the legend held, he was sure to be a fright to work with. She gave it five minutes before he started shouting at people to bring him a hot water bottle.

A car door slammed. The boys by the window turned their heads, watching John's path. Reggie poured tea.

She didn't hear the studio door open, but all the breath seemed to go out of the room, as if John had changed the barometric pressure.

"How are you feeling, John?" asked Mr. Martin.

A brief silence and scattered laughter. If Reggie had to guess, she'd have said that John pulled some amusing expression, or horrific gesture. She glanced up out of sheer annoyance. Her eyes started to drift away, but just as soon, her gaze flitted back.

John was ghost white. That was the first thing she noticed. Next in her study of colour contrasts, his formidable nose. Reggie tried not to gawk, really tried, but it was glowing. It was that bad.

There was nothing to say about his hair, really. Only it looked like a normal man's hair, leading Reggie to wonder if he'd really been wearing a Beatle wig all along. His small eyes...she couldn't see what colour.

Before she could spend any more time lamenting the sight of his nose, John wrapped a fist-size wad of facial tissue around it and blew feebly. Reggie's stomach flipped. There was half a second of sound, and from that brief static she knew the fresh tissue was spent beyond any future use. What's more, she knew John's sinuses were no clearer than before. What a sound—what a sight. As with a train wreck, she felt compelled to look despite her stomach's protest.

John rummaged through his pockets and pulled out a clean tissue. A small avalanche of balled-up sheets bounced to the floor as he freed them. Too busy abusing the next tissue, he didn't seem to take any notice of his loss. Reggie's throat tightened to see the discarded tissues linger on the floor like tumbleweeds. No one moved to pick them up. She curled her fingertips into the safety of her palms. That duty couldn't possibly fall to her.

Reggie searched the room for signs that she wasn't going crazy. Every eye was trained on John. She wanted to scream at the hungry way they stared at him, a band of hunters watching Diana bathe. Only Malcolm seemed to notice the tissues had fallen, and he was probably calculating how much they'd go for on the art market. It made Reggie—well, sick. Only one person here could know how she felt, and she half believed he deserved it.

"You've a harmonica in there somewhere, I hope," Mr. Martin said.

John listed his head toward Mr. Martin, ear first. He was stuffed to the gills, it seemed; could have hardly heard his own name in a dead silent room.

"Harmonica," Mr. Martin repeated. "Mouth organ."

John gurgled something into his tissue muffler. Judging by the way Mr. Martin chuckled, it was a single blunt curse. "Quite all right. We're very resourceful. Say," he addressed the room, "has anyone got a spare—"

"hh'tSchfh!"

John turned inward and buckled with a sneeze. Reggie jumped nearly out of her skin.

"...harmonica? Bless you. Anyone?"

Another sneeze rattled out of John, and another, caught fast and muffled to dull thuds in his tissue-paper muzzle.

"Bless you, John." Reggie didn't know if it was sheer professionalism or some kind of paternal instinct, but Mr. Martin looked so unaffected by his proximity to a sneezing John. Not that she was filled with sympathy for him. Nothing of the sort. But she was beginning to see the wisdom in postponing the last night's show. If he was anything like this yesterday, the front row would have needed rain slickers. The Beatle bug was bad enough when it was just mania. It wouldn't be right to expose half of teenage Britain to something this bubonic. Even as an autumn-leaf rustle of Bless yous began to fill the room, she couldn't bring herself to join in the ritual. It would be like condoning it. It would be like worship.

"Bless you. I have." Malcolm forked his over to Mr. Martin, who thanked him and waited patiently for John to finish sneezing.

"ha'tsCHgh!"

"God bless you." Malcolm's harmonica sat perched between Mr. Martin's fingertips as John tucked away his ruined tissues, yanked out another handful, and blew his nose. Reggie's eyes watered. God, the noise! More than one man turned away.

"How are we supposed to get anything recorded?" she whispered to Geoff.

He frowned. "Cold gone to your heart?"

Reggie rolled her eyes. It wasn't that she didn't care about John's suffering. She just didn't want it to spread.

John gave the harmonica a testing honk, and coughed. Mr. Martin cued everyone to retreat behind the glass and flipped the Recording light. Wheels of tape began to whir.

"Thank You Girl," said Mr. Martin, king-like, "track two, take one. Whenever you're ready, John."

There were only a few chairs, so most men sat on equipment. Reggie stood, arms folded.

"I'll give you a four-count, and you come in right on beat one." Mr. Martin held up his left hand in preparation to cue John, as his right hovered over the Play button.

"Have we started?"

They were the first clear words Reggie had heard John speak all morning. Perhaps clear was stretching the imagination too far—he sounded like a goat, thick and bleating. It was a much deeper, rougher voice than she expected to come from him. She'd heard his speaking voice before; just never fresh from bed, she supposed, and phlegm-wrecked.

"Start any time you're ready."

John looked pained, so Mr. Martin continued, "Need a moment?"

"I've gotta sneeze." John's eyes screwed shut.

A murmur rippled the room. Mr. Martin said, "That's all right."

Reggie was so busy watching the roll of tape diminish, it took her a few moments to consider that she might actually have heard "I'm gonna" mangled by congestion into "I've gotta". But that would suggest that a sneeze was imminent, and this one seemed shy about making an appearance.

John slowly covered his open mouth with a tissue. "Get on with it," someone muttered, and was immediately shushed.

Mr. Martin kept silent until John blinked dazedly and his shoulders lowered. "Whenever you're—"

The indecisive sneeze snuck up on all of them. Even John could barely cover his nose in time.

"ah'tchhuh!"

"...ready..."

"hh'SSHhyiw!" John's hair tossed as his head whipped forward.

"God bless you." A sage grin could be heard in Mr. Martin's voice. It put Reggie off a bit to see a man so committed to patience, a professional Sisyphus. She wondered where all that frustration went.

"Should I tape that over?" Geoff whispered.

Mr. Martin paused, then shook his head. "Everything's of some value." He raised his left hand, and after making sure he'd caught John's eye, he counted up four fingers.

At the press of the Play button, the harmonica note joined the instrumental backing like a handshake. Reggie's eyebrows went up. John's timing was seamless. She hadn't been expecting much from his tone, but it was positively blue.

Then the hiccup. A short off-key wheeze, a snatch of breath between long, smooth notes. He'd sniffled too hard and brought out an extra note, beyond the two he'd been tasked with playing. Malcolm sighed softly as Mr. Martin gestured to stop the recording.

John lifted the headphones off his ears, still sniffling. "Could you hear that?" The sound of his voice made Reggie's chest hurt. She swallowed dryly and resisted the urge to clear her throat.

"We'll try it once more," Mr. Martin purred. "As soon as you're ready."

Half a minute (Reggie counted) and two rounds of tissues later, John raised the harmonica to his lips. There was a drooping heaviness to his eyes; Reggie had heard he tended to squint when he scorned his glasses, only now it looked like he wanted to open them but couldn't quite. His thick brows met in a slight furrow. His nose was red as a drunk's, giving the overall impression of a sad Emmett Kelly tramp. As a matter of fact, he had clearly missed a shave.

"Thank You Girl, track two, take two."

John took a huge breath in preparation and sneezed it back out, exactly on his cue. This time, the sigh was collective. Reggie only flinched a bit. Malcolm met her gaze curiously and she looked away.

"Bless you. Take all the time you need," said Mr. Martin. Then, as an aside, "Reggie, darling."

Reggie unfolded her arms.

"Some tea with honey, I think?"

John coughed wickedly, holding his throat with each awful bark.

Reggie nodded at her feet. "Yes, sir."

---

In the time it took her to procure honey and serve tea, John had ruined seven more takes. No matter how quickly they tried to breeze through it, no matter how much time Mr. Martin allowed for John to blow his nose scarlet and raw, he couldn't go long enough without sneezing, coughing, or trying to catch a breath through his snuffling nose.

Reggie's face felt hot. It grew horrible to listen to in the isolation of the kitchen, having to guess what was going on. Occasionally Mr. Martin's soft rumble, or the sharp cry of the harmonica, would break up the monotony of John's weary ah-choos. They hadn't seemed so loud in the booth. But they cut through to the kitchen as if the walls were made of paper.

The opening notes rang out again, indicating the previous take had been unusable. Poor man, Reggie thought, then caught herself. Just because he was in agony didn't give him the right to inflict it on everyone else. Besides, she wasn't paid to care.

She tried to let her indifference show as she approached John later with the tray. He was hunched over in a chair, head in his hands, massaging the bridge of his nose.

"With honey," Reggie said. It came out softer than she intended. John gave no sign that he had heard.

She took a breath. "John."

Still ignorant of her presence, he sniffed, and something in his head squeaked. In a fit of impatient nerves, she nudged his foot with her own.

He looked up with a start, blinking severely against the light and the sudden change in altitude. A small cough escaped his lips, and he drug the back of his hand under his nose.

Reggie acted like she hadn't seen. "With honey," she said plainly, offering him the cup and saucer.

John took it without thanking her and began to slurp loudly. Reggie winced. She'd heard they had perfect manners; she'd heard they were swine. Nevertheless, she supposed it was hard to sip tea politely without being able to breathe through one's nose.

She wanted with all her might to leave him to it, but Mr. Martin had insisted that John drink it all in one go, and it was Reggie's job to see to it. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Luckily, John didn't seem to need encouragement. He sipped and sipped, pausing in between each to steal a few increasingly heavy, sniffly breaths.

The teacup shook in his hand.

"Are you cold?" Reggie blurted. The studio was notoriously drafty. She didn't even like to wear miniskirts to work in the summer, never mind early March.

John looked at her, right at her, and shook his head. "Too hot," he rasped, then cleared his throat in one gruff blast. "'M fucking sweltering." He sniffed wetly and swigged his scalding tea.

For the first time, Reggie noticed the light grey half-circles of sweat under his arms, the dew gathering at his hairline, a very slight flush on his pale cheeks. Her hand twitched—she tucked it to her side and froze before it could get anywhere near his forehead. Embarrassment like fever coursed through her, scorching her face. Had she already contracted something fatal? Some disease of the brain?

"Ah fuck."

He looked at her desperately, his eyes filling with tears. When he shoved the cup and saucer at her, Reggie was too baffled to do anything but take them. She opened her mouth to relay Mr. Martin's orders. He was to finish it in one sitting. She had to make sure he—

John threw an arm over his mouth, but a gasp sliced through. He turned as far away from her as he could. She heard him pull for air, making his shoulders lift once. Her stomach fluttered in fearful anticipation.

Nothing happened.

He heaved a disgusted sigh. Reggie's flutters had turned a bit sour themselves, the sickening swoop of missing a step on the stairs. She felt her palms begin to sweat. She closed her mouth.

No sooner had he faced her than he cruelly grabbed his nose, crumpling in on himself like a fist to keep from letting out the wayward sneeze. The sound was an arrow in the heart.

"ah'knxgghh!"

Now Reggie couldn't keep her mouth shut. "Mr. Martin says you ought to drink the whole—"

She didn't know how he summoned the air for what came next. By all accounts, he'd sealed off his mouth and nose to keep the sneezing under control, but his body wanted it badly enough to override his defenses and force a quick gulp of breath. It was his downfall. He trembled terribly and fairly exploded with the second sneeze, all the more violent for his efforts to strangle it.

"haH'NGcshhew!"

Reggie hissed in pain as a rivulet of tea spilled, piping hot, over her hand. She hurriedly straightened the cup and looked around to make sure no one had seen. Her speech was long forgotten. He was holding back, she realized, on her account.

John muttered something vulgar, just as easily Bloody hell as Fucking hell behind his hand and oppressive congestion. He threw out a "S'rry" as well before disappearing into a bundle of tissues.

"Bless y—"

Her whisper was drowned out by the first crackling blow. John barely had to expel any air to do it, his head was so full to bursting. He blew once more and coughed, coughed and coughed.

Reggie couldn't remain there a second longer. She spun around and retreated to the kitchen, hot tea sloshing dangerously in the cup. When she realized she was still holding it, it was far too late to backtrack and return it to John. Instead she splashed it down the sink, then washed the cup until she was sure her fingers would blister.

---

Mr. Martin was pacing.

"Have we got enough tape?" asked Malcolm.

"Hm?" Mr. Martin looked up from biting his nail. "Yes, of course."

Malcolm and Reggie looked over to Geoff, who gave them a shrug and an uneasy expression. Depends.

"Only I wonder if it wouldn't be..." Another tech shifted anxiously as he searched for the words. "...kinder to send him home."

"Kinder to whom?"

"Well, he's...Look at him, George, he can hardly stand up."

John's cough could be heard through the glass. Reggie squirmed.

"He's already had to miss one show," Ken added.

"Yes." Mr. Martin stopped pacing. "I'm going to ask Mr. Epstein to keep him from tonight's show as well."

"Ah, George, the girls, think of them, eh; you'll break their hearts—"

Mr. Martin put up his hand for silence. "If we drag him back here again tomorrow, he'll be bed-bound for the duration. Better we get it finished now and send him home when he can rest."

His steely eyes fixed on each of them individually. "Good. Thank You Girl, track two, take fifteen."

Reggie was sure she wouldn't be able to listen to this song when it debuted. By now, the first wailing note of the harmonica doused her in a cold sweat. Like the deathly click of a pistol's hammer, the sound was a portent of disaster. She couldn't even look out at John. Any minute he'd...

"Got it?" Geoff said softly.

Mr. Martin nodded. He held his fist out to John, counting him into the next section.

The control room scarcely breathed as they watched John play. The loudest sound behind the glass was Malcolm swallowing beside her. Outside, something very strange was happening. John was making music. His notes were a little sluggish, but they came uninterrupted. Not so much as the tiniest sniffle.

Malcolm tapped his foot—impatiently, Reggie thought at first, but his head was bobbing gently to the dull rumble of Ringo's recorded back-beat. They were necktied deer in headlights, all somewhat mystified by this truth universally acknowledged, though hardly spoken aloud: the boy could play.

John played a lick so bright and bluesy, Reggie felt he must be improvising. She jumped to feel Malcolm's hand on her leg. He was staring with barely contained excitement, not at her, but at Mr. Martin.

With a chunk, the whirring of the tape stopped.

Mr. Martin took a deep, controlled breath, and spoke into the microphone. "Well done, John. Well done."

"Did you get it?" John muffled a cough into his shoulder.

"We got it," Mr. Martin smiled.

Engineers whistled and cheered. Mr. Martin shook Geoff's hand. Malcolm stuffed a cigarette in his lips and offered her the pack. She reached a hand out, then drew it back and shook her head. She thought of asking him not to light up. Smoke couldn't be conducive to a speedy recovery.

Recovery. A sudden stab of unease struck Reggie when she thought about how careless she had been today. How close to John had she stood while serving him tea, breathed his air, touched his fingerprints on the cup? All the soup in the world wouldn't deliver her if she caught this father of all colds.

Then of course, the other Beatles didn't have it. Brian Epstein wasn't down with it, and they were closer to him than anyone she could name. Perhaps John was more than usually susceptible—or more than usually careless. It wasn't hard to imagine him going out with wet hair, neglecting to button up his coat. His poor girl, pleading her case to deaf ears, promising to withhold her kisses if he should come back with a chill...

John went digging through his pocket. He paused suddenly before sticking his hand in the other one. After another moment of hunting, it was clear he hadn't found what he was seeking. His eyes widened, his brows tented with fear.

Reggie craned her neck to investigate what he was doing. She'd seen some people turn to fiends when their cigarettes were scarce, but she had a hard time believing John was short on those. Had he misplaced his wallet? God only knows where it would fit, packed in with all those tissues.

John's fear turned to a watery daze. "I need..." A sneeze was coming. "I need—"

"Yes, perfectly all right, John," grinned Mr. Martin. "Go ahead, we're finished."

John shook his head once, briefly, almost as if to cast out what was ailing him. "I—" he began, but muzzled himself with a large hand before he could get the rest out. Before one more breath could find its way in.

Reggie saw the litter at his feet and realized why.

"He's out of tissues," she lamented.

Mr. Martin did a sort of double-take glance at John, then snapped to such alertness, his hair seemed to move back on his head. "Right, who's got a handkerchief?"

Several people, including Mr. Martin, looked at Ken. He was mopping sweat from his temple with a pale purple square.

"Thank you." Mr. Martin held out his hand.

"Surely you can't be..." Ken laughed nervously. "I mean, I've...It's dirty!"

"As God is my witness..."

While they argued, a small noise from John made Reggie turn around.

Her heart dropped into her stomach when she saw him. Instead of the cruel stranglehold he'd used earlier, he now cupped his nose gingerly, cradling it as though it were a new baby bird. Rapid, hiccuping breaths made his shirt buttons dance as his chest swelled.

"For God's sake!" Victorious at last in his hunt for a clean handkerchief, Mr. Martin blustered through the door of the booth.

John's body went fully tense. There was no more slack, no further for his lungs to expand. He couldn't hold it. Reggie caught a quick glimpse of his miserable expression as he went for a Hail Mary, employing both his hands to yank his collar up over his nose.

"John."

Mr. Martin boasted the longest legs and arms in the studio, with the possible exception of the local talent, but even he didn't make it there fast enough.

John shuddered with a heart-stopper of a bottled-up sneeze. Then the gates were open. He sneezed wretchedly over and over, no pause between. He sounded like a tape loop, stuck in a rut, a worn-out groove in a broken record, hitting the same grating note time and again.

Around Reggie, murmurs of "God" and "Jesus Christ" cut through the noise. Mr. Martin stood over John as his sneezing fit petered out, allowing him to catch his breath. A strong hand on his back told John he needn't worry.

"God bless you. There you are. Get it all out," Mr. Martin said after John sputtered out a final, subdued sneeze, the saddest sound Reggie thought she had ever heard. John's hand shook as it closed around the pocket square, blindly led by Mr. Martin until he found his purchase. When he started to pull his collar down, Reggie hurriedly looked away. Her heart threatened to beat out of her chest.

It wasn't pity. Reggie wasn't about to weep for him, like Magdalene with her camphor and eucalyptus oils. But there was something so wrong-feeling about this whole mess, the uncanny sense that the world had been turned upside down. She'd seen the Emperor with no clothes on. And now she was expected to go about her business as usual? Was she the only sane person in the building? Was she the only one who wasn't?

She was in such a fog, she didn't notice that the sounds of hacking and nose-blowing had stopped, or that everyone was standing. Or that John had made his way into the booth.

A path cleared when he stepped forward, but the engineers didn't throw any palm leaves to pave the way. Reggie suspected they would have parted just as hastily for a leper.

God, he looked terrible. There was no question that he had a fever. It was cool enough indoors to eat ice cream without fear of it melting, and John was drenched in sweat. No longer sickly pale, he was now ruby red in all the wrong places. His poor nose looked like it might fall off.

With a sullen expression, he held out Malcolm's harmonica and grumbled something.

"Like what?" Malcolm asked.

"Tastes like dirt," John snuffled. Then he was gone.

The crew began to chuckle as they saw how Malcolm was holding his recovered property. As if the harmonica were a small dead rodent left on his pillow by the cat, he held it at arm's length between his finger and thumb, wrinkling his nose in mild revulsion. No wonder. After that much time in John's cold-ridden mouth, singing with air from his infected lungs, it wasn't a musical instrument but a bio-weapon.

"You'd better disinfect that before you play it," Geoff laughed, to snickers of agreement. "You'll end up with one hell of a cold."

"I'll do it," Reggie heard herself say.

Mr. Martin tilted his head, his gaze softening into a grateful "You're an angel" sort of look.

Reggie ducked her head low as she went to retrieve the harmonica. She couldn't be further from that.

"I'm goin' home and bathe in Listerine, me," she heard someone grumble as she slipped out the door.

Once she was out of earshot, Reggie took off down the hall as fast as her penny loafers would carry her. As usual, she had the ladies' lav to herself, but she locked the door behind her nevertheless. With hands that were beginning to quiver, she lifted the poison apple to her line of vision. It was a fine instrument, in her layman's opinion; silver with black accents, a dozen fine teeth all in a row.

She wet her lips and wrapped them around the mouth of the harmonica.

The warmth of the metal made the breath kick out of her chest. A wheezing song whispered out the other end, soft as a dying wish. Reggie stopped breathing. When nothing came of the noise, she allowed herself to inhale: slowly, slowly, inviting only the faintest buzz of another chord, then deeper as she got used to it. She let her air out her nose. The metallic taste flooded her tongue like blood, but there was something else too, the crude organic taste of breath. She hummed weakly. The little organ harmonized with her.

Reggie pushed her tongue into the space between keys. She touched her mouth to every part of the harmonica, until her lips couldn't map the heat anymore, until it was all warm, all wet, until she confused its steady heave-ho with the whistle and strain of her own lungs.

She caught her breath. Haltingly, she raised the instrument once more and gently ran the length of it under her nose. One clean sweep.

Then she stopped the drain, switched on the hot tap, and opened a bottle of hydrogen peroxide.

[easy-there-leftovers]

I See You, Darling

[Astarion x reader] The idea never left my mind, and I so very badly need this right now. Heavily inspired by this cutscene where Tav chooses a dialogue option and Astarion's eyes just deviate-- (gif above, just wait for his eyes to look at you WKDKWKDK) |Word count: 2k.| Based off of this post I made.

Part 2 here!!

Also, this is more heavy on the world building rather than dialogue. If I end up making this a series, I might write with more dialogue in mind but it was just necessary to do this first afhjaqfbnjkafbnebn--

A story in which an overworked art student longs for a fictional character that they've devoted so much of their time to.

Alternatively; Astarion realizes there's someone else watching him. And he can't wait to get acquainted with them.

————━─━────༺༻────━─━————

One.

Two.

Three.

It takes you three seconds to comprehend what just happened. Three seconds for you to try and save the progress you’ve already made so far. Three seconds for you to feel the chill of dread run up your spine. 

You’ll admit, perhaps you were simply tired. Attending a prestigious school for the arts doesn’t exactly leave you with much free time to indulge in more calming forms of recreation. Your course requires you to consume a wide array of media to expand your library of creativity, after all. All in the name of generating more interesting media to entrance and enthrall your audience with your original work. 

Maybe all the moving pictures and swimming texts have caused you to greatly misunderstand what you are seeing. Surely, your favorite character isn’t looking directly at you, right?

Right?

But before that, let’s review what might have happened earlier to explain just what exactly in gods name is happening.

Shall we?

——

You purchased the game a few months back. “Baldur’s Gate 3.” A game that took the players and immersed them in the world of Dungeons & Dragons, introducing them to the mechanics of tabletop RPG as they did. It seemed interesting enough. And if the concept of character creation and storytelling didn’t sell you on the idea of it, the pretty faces on the cover certainly did.

So, with the little money you could spare from your part time job at your own institution’s library, and with what little sanity you had left to argue with, you impulsively bought said game. And it was fun. Exhilarating. Electrifying. 

Until you ran into a problem.

Astarion. The rogue, elven vampire that you have chosen to romance after careful deliberation. You scoffed to yourself. He was one of the biggest reasons why you purchased the blasted game at all. You’ve carefully studied the character in all his glory, from his striking carmine eyes and delicate unstained curls, to his aptitude for bloodshed and all manners of gore. He was such an interesting character, giving you more and more reason to pursue him as the story progressed. Yet the same can’t be said about your relationship with him. Or at least your “Tav’s” relationship with him. 

You’ve had some difficulty in deepening your relationship with the ex-magistrate. It seemed as if no matter what options you chose, no matter what manner of advances you made, he’d be quick to dismiss you. Painting you as a desperate little pup as he did. Denying you the opportunity of further knowing him. You’ve created and overwritten more save slots than you'd like to admit, perusing each one to select different lines of dialogue only to be rejected time and time again.

You thought it strange. But perhaps this was simply the way his route was meant to unfold. He was such an incredibly complex character after all. Perhaps this was meant to prove the party’s loyalty. 

But that didn’t stop you from being frustrated with other aspects of the gameplay. You've spent countless nights hunched on your work chair, back curving like a dead bug as you analyzed each and every possible outcome in combat. Eyes, bloodshot from cutting your sleeping hours short, just to endure the story until you were at an appropriate place to log out. And hair, flicking and curling out in different directions due to you weaving your hands through them in exasperation. 

You saw your reflection on your screen as it darkened to load the next scene and you couldn't help but stare at your character in slight envy. You know full well that however you designed them, it wouldn’t affect how the others perceived you, and yet you couldn’t help but pretty them up for your own interest. You designed it with yourself in mind, but making them far more attractive than you would ever be. Effortlessly beautiful as they stirred to wake up in the forest you settled in for camp.

How could Astarion ever turn this beautiful being away? If not for their heroism, then surely their looks would be enough to draw him in, no?

And speak of the devil. Once you could control your character again, you readied them to interact with your sharply dressed companion. Wanting to try your luck once more as the bright sun shone upon your character like a promise of a new day. Unfortunately, you’re greeted with a look of boredom, oh so familiar, that you sigh. “I hope you’re not here to beg—” Mocking him, echoing the words you’ve come to expect with faux mirth in your voice. But you cut yourself short when you realize he has yet to say anything. 

Strange.

 What’s even stranger is that he's just staring at you. Well,--- he’s staring at Tav. Your character.

“What the fuck…?” You move your mouse around, clicking to try and toggle the dialogue options to no avail, screen stuck in a cinematic close up of his face. Much like how the camera always pans when awaiting your response. 

However, unlike the common script of his actions that you’re used to, the one that you’ve memorized like a well practiced dance, his eyes smoothly glide off of your character and onto you. 

You freeze, but your heart doesn’t. The beating of your chest growing stronger the longer he looks at you. Eyes, blood red like rubies, boring into your own. He regards you, blinks, and then smiles that deviously charming smile of his before your screen turns dark. Your computer turns off, and you stare in shock of what just happened.

‘No fucking way, no fucking way, no fucking way—‘ You’re not delusional, right? Sure, you’re tired, but no fucking way did you just imagine one of the hottest characters you’ve seen in a while break the fourth wall just to fuck with you.

You laugh to yourself.

Yes, you’re just tired. Nothing like a good four hours of sleep can’t remedy. Although, as you get up from your chair, foolish as it may seem, you grab a used shirt from your floor, and hang it on your computer in the case that those piercing eyes come to life once again while you sleep.

——

You stir awake after your short slumber. Your body, heavy like lead, though not at all a feeling foreign to you. You think about what happened last night, wondering if it was all a dream. Yet as you get ready for the day, you notice your dirtied clothing still on your computer. Covering it as if it were a petrifying doll from a horror movie. You feel childish for doing so, reasoning that you were simply stressed from the events that taken place prior and removed the cloth.

As you did, your screen was brought back to life. Showing you the next night as if your little "tryst" with Astarion never happened. An entire thirty minutes or so of progress seemingly gone. Thankfully, you saved just before your game went haywire and you attempted to load up your last slot. 

Zzzt Zzzzt!

Alas, your game was not cooperating once again. You tried the save just before that and the same error screen presented itself to you. ‘Maybe this is a sign that I should just fucking work instead.’ Irritated at the thought, you moved to log out of the game but a familiar voice convinces you otherwise as the screen returns to normal. 

“Why, hello pup. How was your awfully short slumber?” 

‘Is this— a romance scene?!’ Astarion had never initiated an interaction before! Perhaps the game gods were granting you mercy. Or maybe, something you did last night might have given way for this line of dialogue to open up. Regardless, you happily took the opportunity and began reading your choices.

“Why, hello pup. How was your awfully short slumber?” ━─━────༺༻────━─━

Well. Thank you.

It’s none of your concern, fangs.

Better now that you’re here.

What happened last night?

━─━────༺༻────━─━

What…did happen last night? You don’t recall anything past the blackening of your screen, but it looks like you did something after that which caused this dialogue.

You don’t want to squander this opportunity, who knows when this will happen again, but your curiosity gets the best of you. So you save, and choose option 4. 

“Oh, you poor thing. Spooked you, did I?” He laughs, seemingly taking in the look of confusion that graces both yours and Tav’s face.

“What do you think happened last night?”

“My fucking game crashed.” You answer automatically.

Tav moves to open their mouth but is silenced with a tut. “Not you, spawn.” His eyes crinkle at the corners in amusement, but the way his mouth is pulled in a tightly-lipped smile offers you further insight otherwise. 

“I need your answer.” His eyes are on you yet again, and you feel the world begin to spin.

——

You stir awake after your short slumber. Your body, heavy like lead, though not at all a feeling foreign to you. You think about what happened last night, wondering if it was all a dream. Yet as you plan to get ready for the day, you notice you’re not exactly in a state to do so. You expected to wake at dawn, the dark and cool air to greet you as it fills your room and envelops your walls. Instead, you wake to see an endless amount of evergreen and the smell of the dark and damp grass beneath you filling your senses.

And if spending hours, weeks, months, of playing this damned game has taught you anything, you know that you now reside in the heart of the forest that you usually set up camp in. But this time, you're far from your bedroll and the fire that your party created.

One.

Two.

Three.

It takes you three seconds to comprehend what just happened. Three seconds for you to try and save the progress you’ve already made so far to no avail. Three seconds for you to feel the chill of dread run up your spine. 

And this chill so does love playing games.

You clamber away on your knees when you hear that deep chuckle of his emanate from right beside your ear. Creating as much distance to inspect this figure you’ve yet to face.

You see Astarion in all his vampiric glory. ‘Well, for a vampire spawn, I guess.’ You comment to yourself. Crimson eyes, darker than you imagined, with full, dark lashes contrasting his pallid skin and pure hair that glow under the moonlight. An unsettling, and cursedly attractive, smirk curls onto his lips. His ivory fangs on full display as he does.

“It seems as if those useless artifacts were worth something.” He marvels at his handiwork, his prize, and approaches it with confidence. 

“Well, your character certainly is more ‘prettied up.’” He circles you, carefully appraising his newest asset, and grins. “But you are far more intriguing.”

A simple, “What the fuck?” is all you can muster.

“Although, you are very cute. Cheeky little pup, aren’t you?” He jests.

A simple, “What the fuck?” is all you can muster which earns you a click of his tongue in response.

“You’re not broken, are you? Or am I to anticipate your little ‘what the fuck?’s as your only contribution?” Long, and incredibly masculine, fingers crawl and curl to grasp your chin like a spider. 

“I’ve waited months to have you. And now here you are, finally within my grasp.” The statement causes something to stir within you.

“What do you mean, ‘months?” 

He narrows his eyes, possibly trying to comprehend your stupidity.

“I’ve been watching you. Waiting, for the right moment. Interacting with this– caricature of yourself until you could deny yourself of me no more.” Blood rushes to your head. Your cheeks burning in embarrassment for seeming overly eager. And in panic as his intentions have yet to be cleared.

“And now that I’m here? Do you want to kill me?” You feel your heartbeat in your ears, awaiting his response. Your eyes wide in fear, yet trying to fake heroic bravado in the attempts to gain the upperhand.

And in this moment, he thinks you absolutely invigorating.

“Oh no, sweet pet. I’ve waited far too long for that. I’m going to make you mine.”

————━─━────༺༻────━─━————

Should I make this into a series? "The adventures of a misplaced artist in Baldur's Gate!!" Or something like that. Let me know, lol

[sagesolsticewrites]

Kiss It Better (pt 2) 💋

That lipstick mark leads to a surprising turn of events 👀

a/n: Y’all didn’t think I was gonna leave it like that, did you? Ask and you shall receive: Kiss It Better pt 2! (Also! I’m having sooo much fun with these MOTA requests 🥹 feel free to send more in, or request other characters y’all think I should write for!)

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction based off the portrayal by the actors in the Apple TV+ series. I hold nothing but respect for the real life individuals referenced within.

Read pt 1 here!

Masterlist

You stopped into sickbay early the next morning, to catch up on paperwork.

The fact that you’d be able to see Buck was just a bonus; at least, that’s what you told yourself.

But when you stepped inside, there was already someone sitting at Buck’s bedside.

“Bucky,” you sighed with relief once your surprise had faded, “Should’ve known you’d stop by sooner or later.”

“He’s gonna be okay, right?” Bucky asked, and you could just make out worry lining his face as you approached.

“He’ll be fine,” you assured him, “The scrapes will heal up in no time, and after a week or so of rest he should be cleared to fly again.”

“Good,” Bucky nodded, shoulders visibly relaxing, “That’s good. Now, uh…”

A smirk appeared on his face. “Wanna tell me what this is all about?”

He tapped his forehead, and after a moment of confusion glancing between him and Buck, your eyes finally landed on the bright red outline of your lips somehow still visible on Gale’s forehead.

You felt heat flood your face, and you were suddenly hyperaware of the same red lipstick that you had painstakingly applied only an hour earlier.

“Oh. Oh! That. Well, um…” You tried to look anywhere but at Bucky and his sleeping friend as you explained, “Buck was a little out of it when he was brought in yesterday, and when I was explaining the protocol for his head wound he asked me to, uh… kiss it better.”

You silently prayed for the ground to open up and swallow you as Bucky just barely held back a snicker.

Noticing how uncomfortable you were, however, he quickly said, “No, sweetheart, it’s not you, it’s just…”

Bucky shook his head, seemingly in exasperation, “Of course it took a head wound to get this guy to ask you for a kiss.”

Your mind seemed to have trouble processing this, and for a moment all you heard was ask you for a kiss before you were able to reply with a confused, “I’m sorry, I— what?”

Bucky let out a soft laugh.

“I was really hopin’ I could get him to tell you himself, but at this rate we’ll be well into old age before that happens, so…” He took a deep breath.

Sensing that you should probably be sitting down for whatever he was about to say, you perched on the edge of Buck’s cot, trying very hard not to think about the mere inches between the two of you.

“I don’t know how you haven’t seen it, but Buck’s been head over heels for you since the first day he saw you, sweetheart.”

“I— But he’s never—”

“He was always goin’ on about being worried what telling you might do to your friendship,” Bucky explained with a shrug, “That’s just how he is. Tends to keep things bottled up inside. But seein’ you two just dance around each other for the past three months has been absolute torture, so this is me puttin’ an end to my misery once and for all.”

Bucky stood, giving you a friendly pat on your knee, “Tell him how you feel, sweetheart. I promise it’ll be worth it.”

He left with a wink, a smile, and a quip about not getting too handsy — “This is a hospital! People are trying to heal!” — that left you blushing.

And just like that, you were left alone with a sleeping Gale Cleven.

Unsure what to do, you simply stared at him for a moment, taking him in. He was so… unguarded in his sleep, despite the scrapes and bruises, and your heart went soft at the lack of worry lines that seemed to be ever-present when he was awake. You resisted the urge to run your fingers through his dirty blond hair, still mussed from the battle and from sleep, instead choosing to run your fingertips over the slightly faded lipstick mark on his temple.

You just barely managed to stifle a gasp when he stirred, but it was too late.

“Y/N?” Your name slipped drowsily from his lips, and a small thrill ran through you at the sound— until he seemed to wake more and corrected himself hurriedly. “I mean, Nurse L/N, um. Good morning.”

“Good morning, Major,” you replied, once again falling back into the safety of professionalism.

There was a bit of an awkward silence, neither of you wanting to disrupt the rare quiet of an early morning on base.

Buck eventually cleared his throat, looking determinedly at his blanket and nowhere else as he spoke.

“Yesterday… After the battle’s a bit of a blur, but unless I’m misremembering I might’ve asked you to, uh…”

His hand drifted almost automatically up to his forehead, and you couldn’t help a small laugh as you tracked the movement.

“Kiss it better?” You asked teasingly, hoping to get ahead of the inevitable embarrassment, “You did.”

You couldn’t help your eyes flicking to the imprint of your lips on his forehead, and Buck, observant pilot that he was, noted it instantly.

“What? Do I have something on my face?”

And here you were once again wishing the ground would open up and swallow you as you wordlessly handed Buck a small mirror from your pocket.

“Oh, you actually…” His face turned beet-red, and he scrambled to apologize; “I’m sorry, you didn’t have to— you know I would never—”

“Hey,” you lowered the mirror, gently removing it from his grasp so his focus was on you, “I know. You were a little out of it, it’s alright. And you never know, it might’ve helped.” You couldn’t help but add with a teasing grin before asking with genuine concern, “How are you feeling now?”

He seemed to take stock of his condition internally before answering “A bit better, all things considered. I’ve got a friend who’s one of the best nurses on base, y’know.”

“Please, Major, I’m just doing my job,” you replied, avoiding his gaze as you waved away the compliment.

“No, really. I honestly—” He seemed to steel himself for something, his expression as he took a deep breath not unlike when they were called for a mission — pure determination.

“It got… pretty bad up there yesterday. And at first I was thinkin’… as long as we get the mission done, and the other boys get home safe, I don’t particularly care what happens to me. And then…” His fingertips edged towards yours, just as they had yesterday, “I got to thinking about you. About wanting to make it back to you, to tell you I—”

His voice faltered as his soft blue gaze met your own, and there was a beat of silence. Your own eyes were welling up with tears, but you blinked them back as best you could.

“Buck…”

You couldn’t quite form the words, so you decided to show him that you knew exactly what he was trying to say.

Taking his face in your hands, mindful of his head wound, you pressed your lips to his as gently as you could.

He froze, and for a moment you thought you’d made a horrible mistake. Was Bucky wrong? Was this his idea of a joke?

But then Gale was sitting up, leaning into you, pressing his lips to yours with a fierce tenderness. One scarred, callused hand came up to cup your cheek while the other — Gale Cleven, ever the gentleman — rested just above your waist, pulling you closer.

You weren’t sure how long you stayed there in that small bubble of bliss. It felt like an eternity that ended all too soon as the two of you parted for air.

“I never thought—” Buck let out a soft laugh, almost in disbelief, his nose brushing against yours, “I mean, I loved being your friend, but…”

“This is probably a good time to tell you that I’ve been absolutely head over heels for you since the moment we met,” you said, fighting back a blush.

“Finally!” A familiar voice came from the entrance to the hospital, “Only took you three months, but I’m happy for you two—”

You buried your face in Buck’s neck as he tossed a pillow at Bucky.

“Get outta here, Bucky, I’m trying to have a moment with my girl!” He called good-naturedly.

“I want all the details later!” He called back as he retreated to the safety of the hallway, “Congrats, sweetheart!”

You assumed that last part was aimed at you, but you were preoccupied with a different pair of words.

“Your girl, huh?” You said, meeting Gale’s gaze with a shy smile.

“Yeah,” he grins down at you, the scars doing nothing to diminish the joy on his face, “That is, uh… if you want.”

You briefly pressed your lips to his once again, the smile on your face all the answer he needed.

Pulling back to take in his smiling face, an idea came to you.

You leaned up to press a kiss right where the stain of your lipstick was still visible on his forehead.

Then again to the scar just between his eyebrows.

And again to the bruise just below his right eye.

You scattered kisses across all the scrapes, scratches, and bruises on his face. Buck spoke up as you pressed kisses to a series of shallow scrapes along his jaw.

“Not that I don’t, uh…” he began in a slightly strangled voice, “really like this, doll, but what are you doing?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” You said, pulling away to meet his gaze for a moment before you pressed your lips to a scratch on the bridge of his nose, “I’m kissing it better.”

Buck let out the loudest, fondest laugh you’d ever heard from him, and your heart felt like it filled with pure sunshine at the sound.

“I knew there was a reason you were my favorite nurse,” he grinned, pulling you in for yet another tender kiss.

Buck our beloved 🥰 This was so much fun to write, I hope y’all enjoyed! 😊 Tagging a couple friends just for fun 🤍: @sassy-ahsoka-tano @mpmarypoppins @austinbutlermischief @austin-butlers-gf @dontbesussis

[reflections-in-a-critical-eye]

This is complaining day because I realized there's more than one thing that got on my nerves lately and it's not just about the treatment of a kpop idol's mother. Let's begin.

Please, stop refering to Jungkook's mother as mama Jeon. I know the tendency is to ignore so many of the cultural differences that exist, but in SK, people don't change their surname after marriage. It just sounds idiotic and westernized in a ridiculous way.

So, Jungkook's mother loves all BTS members. She LOVES them all. How does army know that? How? I'm genuinely curious and genuinely asking. Because they say it as a certainty. Or, forgive me if my memory is faulty as well, but the only instance that we as outsiders were privy to in which we heard that woman speak for the first time, it was in early 2021 on another phonecall with Jungkook when she said I love you to Jimin.

Of course, the same ot7 narrative came as a buldozer at that time too. Damn, does that mean Jimin = BTS? Sometimes yes, but only when Army wants to diminish Jimin's importance and doesn't allow him to stand out individually too much. Musically or otherwise. But back to this Big Love that Jungkook's mom is supposedly feeling for everyone and which has been invoked once again when that woman mentioned Jimin twice while talking to Jungkook on the phone. Cause she already knew they were in Jeju. I bet she didn't have to find out randomly from a schedule group chat.

So what happens? An assumption is turned into certainty because of small people being extremely insecure. Because they see that one person is once again given more importance on a personal level and we can't have that. No sir! So in a panic, they tweet, they post on tumblr, tiktok, youtube the old age, boring af, sounding like a broken record sentence: "Mama Jeon loves all seven". Fuck me gently with a chainsaw cause that sounds a lot better than the feeling of throwing up I get whenever I read such things.

No, she doesn't love all of them. That is not a fact. It could be true and it's not impossible. But it is not a fact based on the knowledge we have at the moment.

Also, it shows once again that an entire fandom is actively creating a reality of their own which is not even like some sort of simulacrum of the reality they must live through. In Army world, the mother of one member of a k-pop group must love all the members of such group. It doesn't matter than irl, our mothers a lot of the times don't even like all our friends, besties or partners. We might have the most incredible connections and it would mean nothing to our mothers.

In that same vein, another narrative that makes me want to pull my eyes out is the "awww, their bond is to die for, they are (like) siblings after all". Do any of them never had any siblings? Never saw other people and their relationship with their siblings? Or with their family?

I also had to read (which was followed by me blocking it immediately) how Jimin and Jungkook's relationship is the sum of the other relationships they have with other BTS members. I mean, why would I have any sort of expectations from any of these people when they are completely incapable of looking at JM and JK as actual people. As persons with individual minds and an intellect of their own. Let alone the fact that their world does not stop with the presence of 5 other men. In what realistic scenario does this translate in real life? That's not how it works. Yes, we are social creatures and a product of our surroundings, but it is not in the way in which these stans believe it to be. They think that living in a dorm for a few years and working together with other people, it means that those experiences are the only ones that actually shape the personality of a person. They are real people, not fictional characters. I've never heard such ridiculous theories in my entire life, to be used as talking points about someone's behavior or relationship with another person.

Maybe the need to create this elaborate fantasy comes from the lack of love in their life, which then gets projected into this Disney, kumbaya, capitalist heaven narrative in which everyone is a big family and they love each other so much and equally and all the parents of all the children love every single member and thus, harmony is created. Love is always platonic and ever present. The complexity of human relationships must not exist.

[joenotexotic99]

Hello Doll! New fan here! You're so precious! 🥰 we NEED pt 2 of BoB "Sleeping with them for the first time", my request: Speirs, Toye, Eugene, Webster, Buck. AND pls wrote more Lovetropes! I've read it so many times, that I can quote from memory! xoxo

A/n this might be dirtier than pt1. Will do a pt 2 of love tropes ofc. Lmk if you have some people in mind for that

<3

-this is a work of fiction based on the actors portrayal only. Every ounce of respect to the real heros-

Warning: NSFW, plain sinful smut. Lots of language. Minors dni

Masterlist

Ronald Speirs

- this man will change your whole perspective of sex afterwards. You've both been pinning each other for a while and decide to go on a date. Yet the whole time you both have been practically removing each other's clothes with your eyes. Lingering touches, flirty behavior. Lets just say that you didn't quite make it through all the courses before Speirs asked for the check. You make it back to his place before he immediately kisses you. You start removing clothes while grabbing and feeling any skin you can both get your hands on. He turns you around to unzip your dress, taking it off your figure. He spun you back around to pick you up and set you down on the kitchen counter. You remove his belt and tug at his pants and boxers until the both of you are head to toe naked. He gives you a looks off 'are you sure' you nod yes before he lifts you legs up and fucks you. Praise after praise, surface after surface. It's a wild ride.

"Fuck you feel so good you know that princess?"

Joe toye

-he's sweet and spontaneous. It's a similar experience to George luz where it happens after a few dates. It starts slow, careful almost. But eventually you melt under him. He kisses you harder, Backs you to a wall. You remove each other's shirts. His hands unclips your bra. He makes hickies after hickies up and down your neck. He picks you up and brings you to the bedroom. Kisses down to your skirt to take that off as well. This man would love to praise you. And his voice!? He will mutter the most downright bad into your ears. He could make you come from just that alone. I feel like he's big on moaning you know. Your make him feel so good he's going to let you know that. Will do anything you ask him to do. You want him to touch you. He's instantly rubbing your clit, you want him to suck you Titts, he'll do that too. Fuck you harder and faster. He'll break the mattress. Will make you finish at least twice. Once on his cock. Then he'll clean you up with his tongue. But he is sooo sweet with the after care.

"God I wish you could see yourself right now doll. Getting fucked properly"

Eugene roe

-he's honestly a little nervous. He doesn't want to hurt you. It starts back at your place. Some wine after a good home cooked dinner. The alcohol helps with confidence. It's slow and passionate. He would be completely fine with kissing you for hours on end. But you've had one too many dirty dreams about this man so it's now or never. Eugene will be so great with foreplay. Makes you feel worshiped like no man has ever made you feel before. Always checking to make sure you're ok. When it gets time to really dance if you know what I mean he's super scared that something is going to go wrong. This poor man. You are so worked up from his touch that you have to tell him to just shut up and fuck you. It's like a switch goes off in his head. And the only thing he can suddenly think of is you. He fucks you until the only thing you can think of, only thing you can scream is his name. He robs you of every last breath in your lungs. It's dirty, passionate, sweaty and oh so good. Best God damn orgasm of your life. When you both finish and clean up. He definitely raps you up in his arms.

"Thank you"

"For what?"

"Giving me the best dick of my life"

David Webster

-HERE ME OUT! One bed trope. But it's not at a hotel or anything. You head to his place, have dinner, watch a movie, whatever. Oh no it's dark and raining. How about you stay the night? Oh crap this is a one bed apartment. You get the point. He offers you the bed and he'll sleep on the couch but you say that's silly and to just share the bed. Webster already had a huge crush on you so his ears turn a bright red, but how can he turn down the offer to share a bed with you? You get ready and both go to bed. It's awkward at first until he breaks the silence with one of those deep questions and you start talking for hours. One thing leads to another and he's on top of you. He kisses you until you lose your mind. You run your hands up his bare chest until you reach the stubble on his face. You slowly remove each article of clothing on the both of you. The air is thick and warm. Can you imagine how feral this man will go if you praise him. This man just wants some love ok? He asks you how sure you are about this, not wanting to cross any boundaries. You agree enthusiastically. You tug at his hair. Run your hands down his back. He kisses your neck, holds your waist. He's so gentle with aftercare too. From here on out you stay the night more often.

"Just like that web don't stop, so good, you're so good"

"Fuck sweetheart you're gunna make me come"

Buck Compton

-I know this is sorta cliché but fire sex. It's around the holidays. It's cold, snowing and dark outside. Inside it's warm, cozy and comfortable. You are still in puppy love faze. It's sweet. You are both on the couch blanket on top. Fire crackling. Buck reading you a book. You have thought about it a lot, sex. Yet you've never really got there. Steamy makeout sessions. Been there and done that. But it hasn't made it farther than that. But gooood you want it to. Your hands wander over him. Getting more and more close south each time. You rub his thigh, testing the waters. You can tell he notices by how his adams apple moves. You slowly undo his belt as he continues to read the book. He lets you pull his jeans down and slowly remove him from his boxers. You move your hand tauntingly slow. Not moving any faster in hopes of riling him up. He puts the book down and pulls you up to his lips. He removes your shirt and bra. Flips you over to remove your pants and underwear. He's sweet and confident in each move he makes. He kisses up and down your inner thigh until he finally makes it to the center. He gives you a taste of your own medicine. Slowly keeping you on edge with his tongue until you beg him to fuck you. And he does just that. It's better than you could have ever imagined.

"For fucks sake buck if you don't get up here and dick me down"

[sunnywalnut]

As someone who *was* a Helluva Boss fan for a really long time because of the obvious love and care that was put into the show by the animators and voice actors.... I really can't overlook the kind of things that Vivian has done.

And honestly?

Knowing that all of the money from views, likes, media, merch and so on goes into her pocket (and NONE of the people that actually put in the work to CREATE the show) just horrifies me to no end.

I know that all of us have heard about her tyrades on Twitter, or her tearing apart critics and cursing them out, or just her all around messy and rude attitude towards everyone and anyone who pokes even a LITTLE fun at her(like that one video of "The Amazing Digital Circus If It Was Written By Vivziepop). I know that we've all heard about it. And a lot of us have already made up our minds about her. Good or bad.

But the fact of the matter is that a lot of us don't have the full story. And for me, it was because a lot of it was either conspiracy, treated as a one off thing, or just an assholeish thing that happened years ago. And her fans defending her poor behavior and claiming she's apologized for it or that it's "okay" because she's been through trauma haven't really helped.

Plus. I'm a firm believer that you shouldn't have to put that much extensive research into figuring out if the person you are supporting(through watching videos, buying merch, etc etc) is a good person or not.

Which is why I want to share with you all a link to a post I found on Twitter. A compiled list of evidence of things that Vivziepop has said or done without additional commentary(besides simply just labeling what the screenshots consist of) so everyone can make their own decisions on what they want to believe or not.

I for one am not the kind of guy to care about what kind of things you do with fictional characters(or at least. What you write with them. All of us are capable of writing shitty stories and posting them online) and honestly? I don't care about what personal things you have going on in your life.

A lot of people do.

And that's not wrong, of course. Some people believe that it is a way to see what kind of person you are based off of how you treat your fictional characters or the ways that you interact with sexuality. Which has some truth to it. To some extent.

However. It holds a problem when that is the ONLY evidence you find against a person.

Making a shitty joke 3 years ago doesn't condemn you to hell. Or at least. It shouldn't.

Making a sexualized character? I mean. Who doesn't?

But running a hierarchy where you are running your friends mental health into the ground for the sake of a show you aren't even animating for anymore? Now that is something that I would like to educate myself on.

And this thread does just that.

I definitely recommend you read. Or at least bookmark for later. Because it has a LOT of new information that people might not know yet.

[grandmother-goblin]

Okay, I’m gonna share some thoughts about Astarion in regards to sex and sexuality now that the full game is out and I’ve played through his romance twice at the time of posting this!

Now, I will say this as a preface: THIS IS MY OPINION ABOUT A FICTIONAL CHARACTER! My own experience colors my interpretation of the character, just like your experiences colors your interpretation. I’m not saying any interpretation is wrong or right, and if you happen to disagree with me, that’s fine! I’m not fighting you. I just wanted to share my thoughts because I enjoy this character and I enjoy writing him in fanfiction!

First, to me, Astarion is pansexual. The voice actor and game developers have confirmed this from what I know, and I’m not about to disagree with them. With all the attention to detail that the developers and writers put into the story, if Astarion was meant to be anything other than pansexual, he would be. I firmly believe that. He expresses interest in men and women both in game, so to me, he’s pansexual.

This is probably just a personal ick for me, but it feels pretty bad when someone says they are (or in this case, a character is) bisexual or pansexual and others respond with “We know what you really are 😏.” Yeah? People have literally been told and taken it upon themselves to draw another conclusion than the one given. I feel like it’s dismissive and it makes me sad that I see it all over the place.

On to his attitude towards sex in general, I’ve seen a popular post saying that he is “sex-adverse”. I don’t agree with that. At least, not with the definition I’m working with which puts “sex-adverse” on the same spectrum as asexuality such that it’s just a trait someone has rather than a state of being. Someone can not want to have sex, or not want to have sex for a long time, without being sex-adverse. (Now, my definition might be wrong, Google may have lied to me, and if that is the case I am very sorry. I’m not a smart woman but I try my best lol)

I think sex is something he used to enjoy, and it’s something that he wants to enjoy again, but it was tainted after everything he went through. I think he craves the emotional intimacy/closeness that can come with it rather than just the purely physical sensations. With what he had to do for Cazador, separating his feelings from what he physically did seems to have become second nature to him. I think this is apparent when the narrator or Tav noticed that he’s “not all there” when it comes to intimate scenes. It’s something he had to do, and the ramifications of being forced into something like that is not something that can be undone overnight.

He wants to take some time to figure out how to reconnect physical intimacy with his emotions. He needs time to build a relationship with a partner and know for certain that it’s not based on sex alone. Of course he’s gonna want to step on the breaks for a bit. It makes sense. If Tav really wants him, Tav won’t push it. This is confirmed when Tav pressures him into sex after he confesses his feelings towards it, Astarion decides immediately afterwards that Tav only wants him for “the one thing he’s good at” and breaks things off with them.

Astarion craves a romantic relationship built on something more than just the physical. But he just doesn’t know how to go about that anymore! Feeling close to someone, or showing genuine compassion or care for someone, is something that was turned against him in the past. The fact that he feels anything at all for Tav is probably terrifying to him!

Is Tav the first person to genuinely care for him since he became a vampire? I don’t think so. Not by a long shot. But I think Tav is the first person that he got to spend enough time with that he realized that they cared. I’m sure plenty of his victims actually cared for him, but he couldn’t open himself to care back. He needed to kill them anyway, so what was the point?

Tav is potentially the first friend he’s had in centuries. I am of the odd opinion that he actually kind of liked Tav by the time he first tried to seduce them, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t manipulating them. After the bite scene, especially if Tav lets him feed on them, it has to register to him that Tav can be more than just another one of his victims. He can use Tav, and ally himself to Tav for protection so they don’t turn on him, but he also has an opportunity that he hasn’t had in a long time: the chance to actually get to know someone.

And once he gets to know a Tav who actually has his best interests at heart, and he realizes this, Astarion doesn’t know how to act. He was used for his body for centuries, so surely that has to be all Tav is after as well, right? I think this ties in with his confession and what I said earlier really nicely. If Tav still wants him for him after he confesses that he was trying to manipulate them, if Tav forgives him and still wants a relationship regardless of whether or not they have sex, then he knows for certain, for the first time in centuries, that someone isn’t using him for his body.

That probably needs time to sink in. Not only that, but taking a break from sex altogether would help reaffirm to him that Tav likes him for him. Now, this is where the Halsin/polyamory thing kind of bugs me. If Tav hooks up with Halsin, and asks Astarion’s permission, he gives permission but also says something like “is this because we haven’t done it in a while?” IT IS STILL ON HIS MIND! That’s why the polyamory route with Astarion bugs me because Tav hooking up with someone else, especially when he’s in such a vulnerable state, probably just tells him “well, we stopped having sex and now I’m not enough for them.” Now, I think Astarion is perfectly capable of having a healthy polyamorous relationship, but I think he would have to be close with everyone involved in order not to feel like he did something wrong.

I can probably keep talking about this topic for a while, but I’m gonna leave it here. Again, these are just my opinions about a fictional character! Your opinions may differ and that’s totally fine! Don’t yell at me, I'm fragile.

[where-theres-smoak-2]

Ok I am in rant mode again, sorry, this blog just happens to be a place where I dump all my thoughts negative and positive both, unfortunately for all who follow me. But I have seen some bad and incorrect takes from anti darkling/darklinas. So here’s just a few things I want to say.

Firstly LB has never stated that she based the darkling on her ab*sive ex. This is misinformation that was spread by antis. The only thing she has ever said about an ab*sive relationship was that she wrote the first book, Shadow and Bone, at a dark time in her life right after she had got out of a bad relationship. She has said in the past that the darkling was inspired by every bad boy she’s had a crush on in fiction including david bowie’s the goblin king. 

So it seems from these comments like the character was supposed to emulate those types of characters that woman find attractive, the ones you would fall for. 

I’ve also seen the argument that LB clearly wrote the darkling as a villain, well LB might disagree with you there as she herself has said on multiple occasions that she doesn’t write villains: 

LB says that the darkling believes he is doing the right thing and that ‘you can make a case for most of the choices he makes, even the despicable ones.’ So if LB says that she doesn’t write villains and that you can make a case for his actions you can’t really blame darkling fans for doing the same. 

The truth is LB promoted the heck out of both the darkling and darklina (or as it was known back then Darlina and Alarkling) when she was writing the og trilogy, even admitting to ‘fanning the flames’ when talking about people shipping m*lina and darklina and was clearly encouraging the shipping of both ships: 

She also put out teases for the darkling and darklina:

And promoted darklina fan edits even using the ship tags: 

It was only post the release of book three that she changed her tune, likely because of all the backlash she got about the ending of the books. So no LB wasn’t always against fans shipping darklina or liking the darkling. All of this information is easily found with a simple google search, I wasn’t even in the fandom back then being a show watcher first and yet I was still able to learn all of this with minimal difficulty. 

Which brings me to the whole darklina being an allegory for a older man manipulating a younger girl and how the darklina fans ‘missed this’. Well if they did miss it then it was for a very good reason, but the truth is darklina’s didn’t miss it, we just didn’t think it made sense within the narrative, the darklina fandom have talked about it, myself included, in fact I’ve already posted a whole pretty much essay on the topic. But let me explain why some people may have ‘missed it’ and why it doesn’t work in the story or with darklina as the allegory. The first is because LB chose to use an immortal/immortal couple for this allegory. The thing with immortality in fiction, especially as love interests, is it makes age pretty much meaningless. The whole point of immortals is that they are ageless. Immortal ships have always been accepted within fiction and this whole age gap issue has never come up before. Nobody was going omg but the age gap yuck with Bella and Edward when twilight came out, or when Magnus and Alec got together in Shadowhunters or with any of the ships in Vampire Diaries. Yet now anti’s are trying to use the argument that the darkling is 100s of years older than Alina and that’s creepy all of a sudden. Sorry but not in my book, an immortal is always going to be significantly older than anyone else what’s the alternative they spend eternity alone, never knowing love? At least with darklina they are both immortal. Another reason why it doesn’t work is because of how the darkling is described in the book, he is said to not look much older than Alina, so in the books he looks like a teenager. So of course people weren’t going to pick up on the older guy/younger girl allegory because the darkling isn’t presented in the books as an older guy. He’s described the same way every other immortal being in every YA book at that time was. It’s also worth noting that I am not sure if LB ever actually said that darklina were supposed to represent a older guy with a younger girl or whether that was something the fandom came up with. I’m not saying she didn’t just that I myself have never seen a direct quote from her that I recall and I wasn’t able to find one. I think the first time I heard of it was when someone sent me an ask about the topic. I know that she has said it was meant to serve as a warning of attractive and charismatic men being able to manipulate young girls but I don’t know that she herself has ever talked about an age gap or specifically mentioned older men? 

Another thing that I have been seeing alot of are comments like darkling/darklina fans only like him because he is hot. What bothers me about this is firstly even if that were true and the only reason people liked him was because he is hot, so what? There’s nothing wrong with that, its fiction and fiction is used to escape for a bit, its for enjoyment and entertainment, so if that enjoyment and entertainment comes in the form of staring at the hot guy irregardless of whether they are the hero or villain, let them be. Why are you criticising the way someone enjoys fiction? Sometimes a gal just wants to look at the hot guy. Secondly its just a really irrelevant argument because the darkling is not the only hot, charismatic character in the books or show. M*l is also described as being attractive and charismatic with no shortage of friends and girls, Nikolai is another character that fits that description, so by this argument the only reason M*l fans like him is because he is hot, and the only reason Nikolai fans like him is because he is hot. Thirdly its just plainly not true, whilst I am sure there may be some fans who only like him because he is hot, again nothing wrong with that, most fans like him for a variety of different reasons because he is an interesting and complicated character. As someone who spends a fair bit of time in the darkling/darklina tags the most common reason I have seen for fans liking him is because of his dedication to the grisha, his willingness to fight for the grisha something that he has dedicated 100′s of years of his life too. Personally I like Aleksander/the darkling because he has a sympathetic backstory, because he is fighting for the grisha and when seeing that they had no place to go where they could be free from fear he vowed to make them a safe place, a sanctuary, of course I am going to root for that goal too. I like him because he is complicated and complex and despite being an immortal being who has become deeply effected by past traumas there is still something beautifully human about him, particularly in the show. I also like the connection he has with Alina, the whole yin/yang of it and them being each others balance. I love the complexity and angst of them having this deep connection and pull to each other but also having this anger and sense of betrayal, how they have to try and navigate around having different points of view and seeing the world in a different ways, it makes for a very compelling story and their chemistry in the show is electric. The fact that he is hot is merely a bonus, but even if he wasn’t a conventionally attractive person I would still like his character because of those complexities, because of that connection he has with Alina. But one thing this rant has done is make me curious as to what my other fellow darkling/darklina fans like about the darkling? What drew you to the character? Anyway that’s enough ranting for one day, again my apologies, I am going to go and rewatch season 1 of shadow and bone in preparation for season 2′s release tomorrow...sheepishly shuffles off my soapbox, waving awkwardly.   

[aphroditeslover11]

Exam Shenanigans

Oppie x Reader

Summary: Oppie helps you through a tough exam.

A/N: My first time writing anything so please be kind. Lloyd is totally fictional, as is Oppenheimer in this as he is mainly based on Cillian Murphy’s portrayal. If you like it please feel free to get in touch.

It was just a regular evening, Robert had been working at the university as usual and had just got back to his house in Shasta road, hoping that he’d just be able to have a quiet evening in, maybe get on with a bit more of his current paper or discuss the new book that you’d been reading together. Instead he walked through the door to darkness. The house seemed empty until he reached the living room where he found you, single light on in the corner and hunched over, seemingly heaving.

“Y/N, are you alright darling?” he asked, switching on another light before making his way over to you. It soon became clear that you had been crying, leaning over a book that you had been trying to read through your tears.

“I’m fine Robert, nothing that you need to worry about.” Not satisfied with your response he adjusted the cushions of the sofa, sitting down beside you. He wasn’t always the most sensitive to the emotions of others, but he could at least tell when you were lying to him.

“Love, you’ve been crying, something must be wrong.” He noticed then that you were moving to hide the book down the side of the sofa. “Was your novel sad, unhappy ending?” he pushed a little further. You just shook your head at him, still silent, as if speaking would set you off again. “What is it you’re reading anyway?” With that he gently reached across you, taking the book from your grasp and noticing your brief reluctance to release it. As soon as he saw the title he understood why you were crying: ‘A Comprehensive History Of The Late Western Empire’, a history textbook.

As soon as you knew that he had seen it you started to explain. “My professor set a surprise exam on the Roman Empire and I don’t know anything about it. We were meant to be doing the French Revolution when I took the course, but he changed his mind on units last minute. ”

“I’m sure we can sort it out, you don’t need to be so upset love. Who’s your professor? Maybe I could pull some strings and get you transferred.” he said taking you into his arms, the reassurance driving any tears away. You were a student at Berkeley, having met Robert through friends at a social event and quickly falling for him. After a period of dating your accommodation had fallen through and he had insisted that you move in with him. It was fast, but you stayed over half the time anyway, so it made sense.

“Lloyd, but I don’t want to transfer, he already doesn’t like me and I don’t want it to look like I’m giving up.”

“Lloyd wouldn’t do anything for me anyway, hates my guts, that’s probably why he’s difficult with you.” Although Robert loved it at Berkeley and was friends with half of the faculty, he didn’t get on so well with the other half, who openly hated anyone with his kind of politics.

“Well then, there’s only one other solution, we’ll have to work through it together.”

“Robert, I love you, but the exam’s in a week and I have no idea what’s going on, all the people in that book have the same bloody name. What do you know about the Roman Empire anyway? You’re a physicist.” The man chuckled slightly at that remark, lightly stroking your hair to relieve your angst.

“You happen to be very lucky, because one of the classes that I took when I was at Harvard was history, and I happen to have read all 3,000 pages of Edward Gibbon’s ‘Decline And Fall Of The Roman Empire’. I might just be able to remember a thing or two.” Robert really was unbelievable sometimes, you just had to hope that he had the knowledge to face the challenge as well as the cockiness, though he usually did.

The next week was spent with your head in and out of books. Robert would borrow books from the Berkeley library whilst he was at work, bringing them home to you. He spoke to a friend who worked in the history department who gave you some pointers on what to focus on. By the end of the week you weren’t perfect, but you knew a lot more about Rome than you used to, thanks at least partly to Oppie’s efforts. He drove you in on the day of the exam, smiling at you softly as you went through some last minute notes from the papers sat in your lap. He delivered a chaste kiss to your lips, offering reassuring words as you left the car, ready to face the music.

~

Five days later you came into Robert’s office at the university, interrupting him grading papers, but he would always drop everything for you. He looked up to see you waving an envelope in your hand.

“We got the grades back today, but I couldn’t bring myself to it open without you.” He extended an arm to you, scooting his chair back so that you could situate yourself in his lap.

“Well, aren’t you going to open it?” he asked once you had yourself settled, handing you a letter opener. Nervously, you took the proffered tool, ripping across the top of the envelope in one swift motion. Pulling out the piece of paper, your eyes immediately went to the letter written at the top of the page. A.

You immediately jumped from Robert’s lap, squealing in happiness. He was reserved as ever, though his face broke into a wide smile once he saw the piece of paper that you had dropped in your excitement. He stood up to join you in celebration, pulling you into his arms before planting a firm kiss to your lips.

“I’m so proud of you love, I knew that you could do it.”

“Not without you Rob, you’ve been a godsend this past week.”

“Have a little more faith in yourself love. But forgetting everything else, what do you say to going out to celebrate? Maybe grab dinner and have a couple of drinks?”

“That sounds wonderful Robert,” you replied, leaning your head back against his shoulder.

[pallisia]

hi! i didnt realize you were back on tumblr but im really happy to see you working on a new project with such passion! if i may ask, and i realize this might be an eclectic and difficult question to answer, but what was the process of realizing this project like? I read mentions of this first being conceptualized 15 years ago or so, and im curious how the story evolved and changed over time. I dont mean content-wise of course (since im pretty sure you cant talk about the specifics of what actually happens in the story) but in a more general sense of like, how an idea germinates and how you build it up over time, and what sort of decisions in the writing process leads you to making it more of what it currently is. sorry if this is really vague.

the earliest idea for what would become soulsov wasn't much. i had been vaguely imagining an rpg adventure starring two characters i was drawing a lot at the time: loic's daughter and another guy i have not reintroduced yet. I remember daydreaming about them fighting monsters in class.

back then, it was more of a "look at my collection of ocs" kind of project. the characters had elaborate profiles and everything, but i didn't have a coherent story to go with any of it. this is less because i wasn't trying and more because i was a kid who thought in terms of what a story "had" to have rather than what i wanted to write about.

i made cq and gained some experience actually writing stories. proto-soulsov had kind of a revival around 2017, where i thought i wanted to write YA fiction. it was going to be set ~in a world where writing is outlawed.~ loic got arrested for owning a library and his daughter had to save him. it was completely stupid, and i later realized i was still writing for imaginary film execs. however, the earliest concept of a language-based magic system started there, so it wasn't all bad.

eventually, i took a good look at these characters and tried to figure out what i (me) (myself) (only) liked about them. this led to the realization that, at this stage of my life, i was simply more interested in writing about a dad in sexually-charged peril than a shy teenager saving the world. this was when i threw out basically everything else and tried to focus on the dynamic between loic and the character that became ysme. (if you are feeling sorry for loic's daughter in all this, don't; she is also a better character for the shift in perspective.)

basically i gained a better understanding of myself over the years. soulsov is, in many respects, a story about being selfish, but i had to look at it selfishly to realize this. it is for me, but i hope you can enjoy it too.

[tyrantisterror]

I'm creating a fantasy world of my own, and sometimes I have a hard time deciding between making fantasy creatures based on real biology or straight up fantasy. I love speculative biology and the art of making mythological beings (semi)plausible; dragons that evolved from pterodactyls/maniraptorans, giant rhino unicorns and insectoid fairies but also mountain-sized dragons with fire-breath that live for thousands of years.

Do you also deal with this dilemma, and do you have any solutions for it?

In the Victorian era, there were two incredibly prominent science fiction authors with utterly opposing views on how to go about writing science fiction: Jules Verne, and H.G. Wells. Verne did so much research trying to make every speculative element of his science fiction as plausible as he could, and poured that into his writing so people could see for themselves how his fantastical submarines and flying machines could possibly work if we advanced our technology a bit more. Wells, on the other hand, thought up whatever he felt his story needed, created handwavey explanations for things he/then current science could explain ("this machine flies by a special rock that defies gravity" or "their aliens with millions of years of technological advancement we haven't had yet, of course their stuff is advanced"), and only explained the "how" of his creations when it mattered for the story - i.e. we don't know what powers the martian heat ray, but we know what the martian heat ray does to the atmosphere and the things it hits when it turns on.

The funny thing is that both approaches, as opposite as they are, proved to be 1. compelling to audiences and 2. pretty much equally accurate at predicting the future. Yes, H.G. Wells' "I'm gonna make up some bullshit because it sounds cool and not bother worrying about if it's plausible approach" resulted in some scarily accurate predictions - his martian heat ray is to this day one of the most accurate descriptions of how a laser works in all of fiction, and the poison gas his martians used predicted the creation of mustard gas in WWI by a couple decades. Verne and Wells are still remembered fondly - and have their works adapted time and again - today, even though they're stuffy Victorian authors from over a century ago.

I bring this up because this "dilemma" is only such if you feel one of these choices is objectively superior to the other, which is itself a fallacy. You can be Verne or you can be Wells or you can vacillate between them according to your own whims - it doesn't matter because in the end, both approaches work just as well as each other despite being opposites. Verne's approach worked for his writing because that approach was what gave him passion for his work, and passion is what makes a work of writing last. Wells's approach worked for the same reason. And, ultimately, neither man was the paragon of their path - sometimes Wells did get into the details more than he usually did, and sometimes Verne bent his rules and let some weird bullshit happen in his stories just because.

They followed their desires and passions as artists, and wrote what inspired them the way it inspired them regardless of what peers in their fields might argue is the "right" or "wrong" way to do it. That, ultimately, is the secret to making a story that matters. An audience can always tell when you're writing in shackles, and a story that's written according to the author's muse will always read better than one that was written in chains.

[rileythelonelyalien]

Dottore x GN! reader: Medical ordeals

A/N: Hello! it's been a hot minute since my last post apologies for that, I've been quite held up with all my courses but I have some time off now so hopefully I'll be writing up all the idea I have saved up but for now I do hope you enjoy this fan fiction . This one is in fact based around an experience I've actually been through .

cw: description of a bad medical experience , mentions of blood.

You and Dottore had only become an item a short while ago , although feelings had blossomed much further back it had only become an official thing as of late. 

Dottore being a man of science and arguably medicine (albeit the medicine and ‘cures’ he provides are not orthodox to what a morally sound doctor would prescribe) over the time that he has known you he has done his best to collect medical records of yours so that he was aware what either ails you or what you would be prone too. However, try as he might he could never manage to find or secure your dental records and so he had to turn to his last option, asking you himself. Of course, he had asked you to bring anything concerning the matter to him under the premises that he needed more data for a statistic table that he was drawing up , although this was not the case.

You enter his lab the lights just as blindingly bright as always as you walk further into the sterile environment making sure to not touch anything as you wouldn't want to compromise your boyfriends work because of something so trivial. Tightly clutching you proceeded further into the laboratory. As you make your way to the back which is where your lover is most likely is, you notice a few of his clones working some of them were already acquainted with you and in your presence sent you a small wave before continuing their assigned tasks. However, some of the others who were still in the process of warming up to you snarled at you some even hissing , quote the amusing sight yet still very threatening. Doing your best to pay this unusual behaviour no mind , you quicken your pace once his desk come into view with his back facing you. Cautious to not startle the man you walk around the desk so that he is able to see your figure and alert him that you have arrived. Gently setting down the papers you give him a gentle smile. He brings his head up from the paper filled with many equations and diagrams scrawled on with seeming quick haste , he brings his face to look at yours. Somehow he claims he can see perfectly even with his mask on that looks like it covers his eyes , you struggle to comprehend just how he has managed to do this but knowing his genius this was entirely probable. Beneath his mask you watch his features soften and a sharp toothed smile take over the previous frown that was etched onto his face. Yet before you could point anything out or begin to say anything he quickly picks up the papers you had brought him flicking though them reading them at an incredible pace , although this may have been an adaptation in order for him to reduce time wasted on reading so that he can progress even faster with his projects none the less it was still immensely impressive. 

You decide to sit down on one of the few chairs by his desk and wait patiently until he finishes. A loud slamming of papers sounds thought the lab , Dottore has quickly set down the papers you had brought to him , the abruptness of the sudden sound making you jump slightly. You tilt your head slightly as you gently ask your lover ‘ Is everything okay ?’ you watch his features change from annoyance to a much softer expression at the mere sound of your voice. After a few moments of silence, he offers you a reply ‘ There seems to be some missing parts to your documents , do you happen to know what happened ?’ at the mention of this your expression changes ,your mouth in resemblances of an ‘o’ as you realise what he was talking about ‘Ah, that….’ you hesitate. Dottore leans in closer so that his face is closer to your own and places his hand on top of yours as if to provide some comfort and as a way of reassurance that what ever you say to him will be safe. With this gesture from him you feel much more comfortable in explaining everything to him. 

You take a small breath before conveying what happened in that one undocumented appointment:

You were young and were taken to the dentists in order to get a check up however this ended up with the need of tooth extraction… Unfortunately for you this was not going to be a straight forward as they promised it would be. You were sat in that chair a clear liquid being put onto your gums they were meant to stop any pain form affecting you , yet it wasn't taking effect. Despite knowing this they did not look to find a solution to this and proceeded with the extraction. Metal tools clamping down on your tooth steadying themselves in order to rip it out. Within moments the tooth is pulled out with immense force you could hear your own screams echo through the halls as your mouth began to pool with blood. The throbbing pain echoed thought your mouth and face with tears spilling over and running down your cheeks. This was a moment in your youth you would never forget. The emotionless faces that inflicted such pain on you the lights shining into your face and eyes , the throbbing pain. Everything was etched into your mind. Yet despite this entire ordeal the clinic that you had went to wanted to keep their pristine record of always satisfied patients and so they wiped this appointment and the results clean from any records that would exist. Of course, they are not able to erase someone's memory.

As you finish relating this story to him you noticed how his hand now gripped yours , tight but not tight enough to cause you any harm his face now contorted into a scowl. This was not what he was expecting to hear not in the slightest , although he has witnessed much worse when he conducts his experiments but when it came to you it was … different. You were worthy of being treated like the most precious jewels , so gracefully without bringing you any harm and yet some had the audacity to do such a sloppy job and dare to cover their tracks? Not on his watch. ‘Dottore? I hope this hasn't upset you dear’ You try to bring Dottore back from his thoughts yet as soon as you utter out those few words Dottore quickly proceeds to grab both of your hands with his own. ‘What a bunch of preposterous fools , treating you so poorly have no shame to act in such a way in the name of medicine?!?’ The hypocrisy from him was intense yet you were oblivious to his medical ‘ordeals’ and such his statement seemed comforting. He brings a gloved hand up to touch your cheek staring into your eyes through his mask ‘ My love in my hands you will only be treated with the upmost of care I can assure you with that!’ he vows to you. Being so infatuated with him all you can do it lean into his touch and hum in approval ‘I know my doctor will take good care of me’ you state before kissing his palm. 

[natasha-in-space]

Thank you for your previous work. I was wondering if you could write a headcanon of RFA (excluding Saeyoung, as you have already done him) and Saeran with MC. In this scenario, chaos follows MC everywhere without any logical reason, but REMINER IT DOESN'T HARM MC, ONLY THE PEOPLE AROUND HER. This ability also runs in her family, so if they have a gathering, chaos happens without fail. Additionally, I have a funny scenario in mind where Saeran kidnaps MC to Mint Eye, and as a result, chaos ensues, but MC casually escapes. I search Kofuku and I see some similarities but the idea of MC having this "ability" is actually come from an Disney Show called Milo Murphy's Law

Yoosung

I feel like the poor guy will get rather spooked by this strange ability of yours. He's already prone to getting into some very embarrassing situations without any external force pulling the strings. Do you mean to tell him that he'll have to deal with even more disasters in his daily college life!? It's more humorous than serious, though. He may act a bit startled by it at first, but he's definitely the type to get very curious despite his initial reservations. It baffles him how such a thing could actually happen in reality, and not in fiction. Is it appropriate for him to call you a superhero...? He'll also probably want to try and use this ability of yours for his advantage. Not anything bad... But, hey, maybe, just maybe... you could make his professor miss his bus today? He has no desire whatsoever to study for the philosophy test tomorrow morning.

Zen

Zen is able to take it all in stride. He won't be shocked by this revelation of yours, as he has a few unique abilities himself. It's actually kind of exciting for him to meet someone in a somewhat similar situation to his own. Though, your little quirk is far more chaotic than he would expect. It's a good thing he has supernatural healing powers and prophetic dreams on his side! He will be able to avoid most adversity coming his way, and, even if he does get injured, he will probably be strutting down the street without a fuss after a day or two. He'll also be very fussy about you not blaming yourself for anything. He actually finds your bad luck kind of cute! At any rate, that's what he asserts to you.

Jaehee

To put it simply, she is stumped. Since she's the most logical person in the group, she'll have trouble believing you at first. Not until she encounters the undeniable proof of your ability with her own two eyes. Out of everyone in the RFA, having bad luck following this poor overworked woman will probably make you feel especially bad for her. Much like Yoosung, she'll get rather spooked once she accepts it as reality. I could see her beginning to steer clear of you even. She's already so incredibly stressed... the last thing she needs is even more trouble on her hands. She does mellow out once she sees that you are a genuinely good person, though. She'll even apologize to you for acting rashly with you. It's possible that you and Jaehee could find ways to overcome this cursed quirk of yours.

Jumin

Without a doubt, the most enthralled among all. You might think he'll be the most skeptical one of the bunch, but no. This is a man who has a huge infatuation with the occult we're talking about here. Once he sees actual tangible proof, you have a real annoying observer on your hands. Will ask you dozens and dozens of questions, do his own research in his free time, maybe even ask you to provide him some of your blood samples or something. With your consent, of course. It may become too much to handle for you. But, what you don't need to worry about is Jumin avoiding you or treating you as a threat. He makes it a point to let you know that he will not judge your character based on factors that are out of your control. With his resources, you might even come to learn more about your abilities!

Saeran

He'll be anxious. Much like his brother, but in a more subdued manner. I feel like your constant bad luck would be one of the factors that pushed Ray into choosing you, believe it or not. He can relate to bad things happening around you, while all you can do is watch helplessly. He will also take the effects of your bad luck in stride. Almost to a fault. You'll have to remind him to please take care of himself and not put himself in harm's way because of you. Suit Saeran, on the other hand, will curse you and your ability. He'll definitely think that you are doing it on purpose. That you want him to suffer. He'll ensure that you understand your position beneath him. He hates the feeling of losing control, and that's exactly what drives him mad about you and your stupid bad luck that he can't control, no matter how hard he tries. He will apologize to you for blaming it all on you, though. You can expect him to tell you that he has come to the realization that you had no intention of harming him, and that you possess a good heart. A heart that is too great for someone as dark and rotten as he is. GE Saeran will be way more balanced about it all. It'll take you two some time to figure it out, with him not putting too much pressure on himself, and you not worrying too much about harming him. Maybe you could develop a working system between you two that will help you keep disasters to a minimum, while also having a reliable plan for any accidents that may inevitably occur.

[isabella-kr]

Chapter Two: Routines

THIS STORY WILL INCLUDE MATURE THEMES, PLEASE ONLY READ IF YOU ARE 18 YEARS OLD OR OVER.

IF YOU ARE UNDERAGE, YOU CAN READ THE WATTPAD VERSION INSTEAD AS IT WILL CONTAIN NO SMUT.

THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION AND DOES NOT REPRESENT THE REAL ARMY!

Chapter Synopsis: No-Face hated breaking her routine, but when it is John Price who forces you to do so, you have no choice but to obey. 

Pairing: John Price x Female!Reader (This used to be an original character, and whilst I have revised this chapter, I might have missed something; If there is any physical description (aside for her athletic build) please let me know)

Warnings! Mentions of traumatic past

Word Count: 3.7k

Note: I have changed her name from A-26 to A-326. It’s not a big change, but I didn’t want people to be confused; it will just make more sense for the number to be higher :)

Series Masterlist  I  COD:MWII Masterlist

Previous Chapter I  Next Chapter 

The first few weeks – or rather months – went by in a blur. No-Face had quickly fallen into an unbreakable routine, no day drifting away from the normalcy she had created for herself. The pace at which she adapted to her new situation was surprising, and made even Price raise his brow, but he didn’t put much thought into it; he was just glad she wasn’t stuck by his side like a lost puppy.  

At 06:00, she would wake up to the blaring alarm from her bedside table. Her hand would slap against the flat surface of the phone she was given, eagerly silencing the noisy machine. She would grumble to herself, her eyes seemingly stuck together; begging her to stay in just a little longer. She refused, practically jumping out of the bed and readying herself for the day ahead.

07:00; make her way to the mess hall and eat breakfast. Every day, without fail, she would roll her eyes at the whines of the other soldiers who would rather return to their beds. She usually sat alone, enjoying the peaceful silence that surrounded her.

07:20; enter the shooting range and – under supervision, of course – practise her aim. She cursed the first few times she had went there, missing the head of her target by millimetres. Yet she had quickly gotten the hang of it, and now she was proud to say she had not missed a single shot.

08:20; leave the shooting range and begin cleaning her weapons. The supervising officer, whom she recognised from her time of glorified imprisonment, remained in her vicinity. She was only glad he remained inconspicuous, doing his own thing to make it look as though he was in the same room by pure chance. The soldiers on base didn’t seem to pick up on the strange relationship between them, or that No-Face herself wasn’t a normal soldier; she was glad for it.

09:50; be forced to take a break by said supervising officer. Despite being her superior, he had a nervous aura around him. The poor lad stuttered over his words, and she could only assume he was much younger than her, likely with little previous experience. She wondered how good his fighting skills were – not that it mattered, as she would not attack the young man, but she had to wonder. Perhaps it was like bait, a simple ‘Hurt him. You know you can. Maybe you’ll get a chance to escape with him gone’. But she knew what would come next had that happened; she’d be dead.  

10:05; make her way to the gym to regain the muscle mass she had lost over the years. Thankfully, due to her refusal to sit still and do nothing during her time of imprisonment, she had not lost as much muscle as she was afraid he had. Her strength was compromised by the years of inactivity, but she was sure she would get it back to where it once was.  

11:25; be forced to take yet another break. She would be sure to send the supervisor a harsh glare and watch amused as he took a shaky step back. She doubted he knew what she had done in her past – the information strictly confidential – and yet he was already soiling his trousers. It was comical, to say the least.  

11:40; practise gymnastics. Her agility was the more difficult skill to get back. Although she was making progress - her movements swift and almost expert-like – she knew they would never be as they once were. Not only because they had laid mostly dormant for a decade, but because she had aged. She wasn’t anywhere near what society would deem as ‘old’ but it still affected her, and she hated her body for it.  

12:40; wallow in self-pity whilst making her way to Price’s office. Report her progress, and watch as he analysed every single word that left her mouth. The smoke from his cigar would always swim around him, and a glint would appear in his eyes every time she coughed in discomfort.  

13:00; attempt to skip lunch. She wasn’t hungry. Her stomach felt full – bloated even. Perhaps it was due to the constant stress she was under for the past few weeks, or maybe it was the overcrowded base that ruined her appetite. Beforehand, she used to think being between people was ideal, but now as they surrounded her from every corner, she has never felt more on edge.  

13:10; Have Price yell at her – not from anger or hatred, but from frustration after her supervising officer grassed on her. The captain would grab her by the forearm and drag her to the hall, watching her like a hawk to ensure she had finished her lunch.  

13:30; go for a run around the base. Her muscles were aching at this point, but she ignored the voice that begged her to stop and catch her breath.  

14:20; take a long break. The lack of sleep was starting to catch up with her. She would often make herself some tea and hope the hot beverage would wake her up.  

15:00; begin a sparring session with the sergeants she had met on her first full day on base. Thomas Southwick, the taller of the two, was a nice man; he was energetic and full of life, often making jokes during their sessions. Dan Morris was more serious, his mouth always pressed into a thin line, and his eyes were blank, as though no emotion ever ran through them.  

At 15:20, John would often enter the training area and watch from the corner with a judgemental eye. His words had progressively turned less harsh, and instead of insults disguised as words of advice, he gave his support. There was still a look of hatred in his eyes, but she quickly grew to understand this would never change. The wound was far too deep to forgive.  

16:00; take a long walk around base. Eventually, as every single day, she would end up sitting on the floor and leaning against the brick wall of one of the barracks, watching as the sun began to set. The crisp January air bit at her skin, turning her nose cold and fingers numb, but she paid the shivers no mind.  

Oftentimes, Thomas would join her in her solitude. The tall sergeant would usually come baring snacks, sharing a chocolate or two with her as he told her stories of his deployments. There was a certain warmth that radiated off him; a kindliness she hadn’t experienced in over a decade. He was a curious one, and sometimes found himself asking questions about her past. Each attempt was quickly shut down, but a feeling of guilt creeped up on her whenever she saw his dejected expression.  

“It’s confidential,” she told him one day.  

Those two words caused his head to snap in her direction, his brows furrowed deeply in confusion. “What d’you mean ‘confidential’?” he questioned, as though the meaning of the word was alien to him.  

She hummed, the tip of her tongue wetting her lips, “I could get us both in trouble if I told you something I wasn’t supposed to.”  

This time, he was the one who hummed, handing a bag of chocolates over to her. She happily took some and popped them in her mouth. “That why you got the nervous kid following you around everywhere?”

A small laugh left her at that, “You noticed?”

“Think I’m the only one who did,” he admitted with a laugh, “probably ‘cause I’m the only one who actually talks to you.”  

A comfortable silence fell upon them after that. The sun was almost completely set, painting the evening sky in vivid oranges and reds. There was a distant screech of seagulls somewhere, and although most people on base loved to refer to the birds as ‘sky rats’, she could see the beauty in them. The freedom they symbolised was something she wished she had, and so she admired it every time a ruffle of feathers caught her attention.  

“The confidentiality thing...” he spoke, “Does it have something to do with the way cap’s been treatin’ you?”  

Her eyes widened at his words, “What do you mean?”  

“He was rude to you when you first came in,” he told her, “He’s still got that look in his eye whenever you’re around. Like he’d rather have you gone.”  

In truth, a part of her hoped her mind was fabricating those looks. She hoped she was overthinking it, that her imagination was playing tricks on her. But now that Thomas had confirmed her thoughts, unknowingly letting her know she wasn’t making them up, a certain tightness appeared in her chest.  

“So?” he looked over at her, “Does it?”  

She only nodded, a sad smile pulling at the corners of her lips.  

There were times Price himself had joined her by the barracks. His boots were the first thing she would notice – or rather hear; loud stomps moving in her direction – in her peripheral vision. The black, polished leather reflected the bright moonlight, catching her attention.  

She would hesitantly look over at him, and suddenly feel small under his hardened gaze. His arms were always crossed over his chest, and although his eyes were angled in her direction, it felt as though he was looking through her, rather than at her.

She felt herself grow tense in his presence, swallowing thickly as she analysed his posture. He looked as though he didn’t want to be there – as though he was forced to approach her by his superiors. She knew that was untrue, but the thought both amused and saddened her. The idea of his superiors scolding him enough to make him approach her was comical, but also devastating; she felt like she had some disease that he was trying his best to avoid. Except, in this case, the metaphorical disease was just her.  

“You alright?” he eventually asked, his voice gruff from the many cigars he had smoked throughout his life.  

She nodded with a small – almost silent – hum, “You don’t have to do this, sir,” she assured him.  

“Do what?” he raised a brow.  

She sent him a knowing look, shaking her head when her gaze eventually returned to the sky, “Act like you’re concerned about me. I’ll be fine, sir, you don’t have to speak to me when you don’t have to. I know you don’t like to, anyway.”  

John let out a heavy breath and moved from his spot beside her, and towards the bench which was sitting in front of her. He rested his elbows against his knees and finally looked up at her; into her eyes.  

“You’re right,” he admitted with a nod, “I don’t like talking to you. Every time I do, all I can think about is the past. But I need to get over it; you’ve changed, you’ve improved your ways, and you’re one of us now. I can’t be treating you like an outsider when you no longer are. I’m your Captain, and I’m supposed to be helping you, not making your life more difficult.”

She was taken aback by his words. That is not to say she wasn’t happy about his change in attitude, because she was. It was shocking, however, and she guessed the expression on her face made her feelings clear because the man before her let out a sharp exhale, and made sure his eyes were focused solely on her.  

“Look,” he scratched his beard, “I won’t trust you until you prove that I can; until you show me you won’t betray us the first chance you get. Until then, I-” he took in a deep breath, “Until then, I will do my best to not let our past influence how I view you.”  

Their eyes remained locked for a few, long seconds; hers focused on the blue of his iris, and whilst his remained dull, hers brightened just a little bit. A stiff, yet thankful smile pulled at her lips as she let out a pleased hum, “Thank you, captain.”  

“You’ve got nothing to thank me for,” he told her, “I’ve been acting immature; not like a captain should, so enough of that.” He got up from his place on the bench and wiped his trousers from any dirt that clung to him, “From tomorrow onwards, we’re on the same team.”  

She smiled at his words, eyes following him as he turned and began making his way away from her. His shoulders looked visibly less tense, and she could only assume this conversation was long overdue.  

“Captain,” her voice stopped him in his tracks, “Thank you... for giving me a chance.”  

His mouth opened, as if to say something, but he quickly abandoned the idea. He sent her a small nod instead, and swiftly walked away, leaving her be for the rest of the night.  

By 18:30, she was back in the large hall and eating her dinner. She enjoyed the military food; the variety was larger than what she was used to. She didn’t shy away from exploring and trying out different things even when she wasn’t hungry, and soon found herself being particularly excited about flapjacks and brownies, making sure she had some every time they were available.  

By 19:00, she was out once again, making her way to the small library in the corner of the base. It didn’t have a large variety of books, mainly holding academic, and non-fiction books, but it was better than sitting around and doing nothing for the rest of the day. In the end, she would end up staring off into space rather than focusing on the words on the pages, but the silence that always resided inside the building brought her great comfort.  

At 20:45, she always made her way to the showers, where she let the hot water envelop her aching frame. And by the time 21:20 hit the clock, she was back in her room.  

She never fell asleep right away, despite the fact her eyes begged for some rest. The sleep just never came, avoiding her like the plague as she battled with the exhaustion. It was as though she could feel the dark circles forming under her dried-out eyes, painting her skin in purples and light blues.  

02:30 - 03:00; her body would finally begin to relax, and she would fall into the very much needed state of unconsciousness. She would awaken periodically - her eyes fluttering open - but she would not fully wake up until her alarm decided to ring in the early hours of the morning.  

She had a routine.  

Which is why she was confused when, on a random Tuesday, John Price cut her sparring session short and ordered her to follow him. Sending Thomas a tight-lipped smile, she got off the thick mat and trailed closely behind the captain, her breathing heavy from the work out.  

They had made their way through the crowded buildings of the base until they reached his office. Her nerves were eating her alive by the time she entered the small room, only negative thoughts plaguing her mind. “Have I done something wrong, sir?” She asked, her back painfully straight as John made his way around the wooden desk and sat in his chair.  

He shook his head at her and gestured at the chair beside her, urging her to sit down. “We’ve been cleared for a mission next week,” he let her know, “I need to know if you’re ready.”  

She hummed in thought. On one hand, missions are what she was born for; what she was trained for most of her life. On the other hand, however, she was not exposed to them for the past decade, and despite the many hours of training, she felt as though she lacked experience.  

Yet despite her worries - despite the fear – she nodded. “I am, sir.”  

His eyes were set on her face, as if analysing every micro expression that appeared on her face. At times like these, she wished she could look into his mind and find out what he was thinking; whether his thoughts were positive, or indeed negative.  

“Alright,” he gave her a firm nod and stood up from his seat. His hand clutched onto the duffel bag that sat by his leg, and he picked it up, moving it to the sofa that sat in the corner of the room.  

She followed behind him, though keeping her distance as she focused on the black bag. When he finally unzipped it, her eyes almost popped out of their sockets.  

Her clothing, her gun – her belongings – were all in the large bag. They seemed to still be in good condition, and she had to wonder whether they were waiting for her all this time, or whether they were repaired not long ago.  

She hesitantly reached inside the bag and pulled out the first object that she could reach; her boots. The leather was thick and heavy in her hands, but the familiarity of them made her release a breath of relief.  

She looked over them, searching for any sign of deterioration; any sign that they were no longer fit for wear. She found none. They were as good as new. Even the soles were thick and sturdy; a promise that they would last for years to come. In the middle of the soles, the numbers that haunted her dreams were still proudly on display.  

“A-326,” John spoke from beside her, lighting a cigar after opening a window. He was watching her with curiosity in his eyes – with a desperate need to know more. To learn more.  

She nodded, her tongue wetting her lips as she placed the boot down, “My name. Well, more like my number.”  

He hummed, watching as she ruffled through the bag, “Laswell did say that was your name. I assumed it was only for the organisation, to remain as anonymous as possible.” 

She pulled out a belt and tugged on it, smiling approvingly at the sturdy material, “No, Sir. It was easier than having to come up with hundreds of different names. This way, there would be no repeats and... I guess it was easier to send us to our deaths when they saw just a number... and no humanity.” 

“Hm,” he replied with a puff of smoke, “They dehumanised you.” 

She gave him a nod, “I didn’t see it that way at the time. It becomes normal when everyone around you also has one. Viktor especially liked to use them. Always had this sneer on his face whenever he did, though back then I didn’t understand why.” 

“Viktor?” 

“The Director – the boss.” She explained, “At least he said he was, but I doubt it. He had too much of a superiority complex to really be the one in charge.” 

Price’s eyes never left her figure, eyes narrowing as he listened to her speak, “Think you could recognise him? I’m sure if you could, it would be vital information, and could aid us in taking the whole organisation down.” 

A soft, almost defeated, sigh left her lips, “I’m sorry, sir,” she looked up at him, “I already told Laswell this but whenever he entered the room we had to turn around or look down at the floor. He claimed eye-contact with him was disrespectful. After a few years of therapy, I realised he just didn’t want to be identified.” 

There was a pause when her fingers grabbed onto the heavy material of her mask. It was rough, and she could remember the many times it left an uncomfortable rash around her mouth; but it was useful, covering her face and protecting her from the enemies.  

“This thing blinded my men,” he let her know, gesturing at the mask in her hands.

She let out a soft hum, “Yeah, it’s made from special material. If you look at it through night vision goggles, it’ll temporarily blind you-“

“And if you take a picture, it’ll blur your face.”

“Well, more like make it flash,” she corrected, though nodded in agreement.  

“Useful,” he admitted.

Price remained quiet for the next few minutes, silently digesting everything she had told him so far. How awful her childhood must have been; how she couldn’t experience things children brought up under normal, healthy circumstances could. Even something as simple as a name was stripped away from her. And yet, in her eyes, it was a normal existence.  

John was barely half way through his cigar when she turned to look at him, “Why was I given this?”  

“We thought you’d feel more comfortable in something you’re familiar with,” he told her seriously, “Unless you’d prefer the usual military uniform, then you will be given that instead.”  

She thought about it. Hard. Both uniforms had their pros and cons, and it was difficult to decide which one would be better. Whilst her old one was more familiar to the touch, and allowed for swifter movements, it clung too tightly to her skin. She could remember the many times it dug into her body, the uncomfortable feeling distracting her during missions.

The military clothing, on the other hand, allowed for a greater storage of weapons and, if need be, a medical kit. The material was less rough, and the breathable fabric prevented overheating. The tactical gear was heavier, but more useful than the one on her old uniform.  

Sucking in a small breath, she looked over at the captain, who raised a questioning brow in return, “Do you think I could… use both?”  

He tilted his head to the side and puffed out a thick cloud of smoke, “Why?”  

“I could use parts of both,” she told him, “Some bits from my old uniform are better – like the boots, the belt, and the mask; but the trousers and tactical gear are not as good as yours. I could improve it by using both.”  

He hummed, seeing the logic in her request, “Don’t see why not,” he told her, “I’ll have it ready for you tomorrow. You can take this back to your room – aside for the weapons; I’ll be storing that – and pick what you’d like to keep and what can be discarded. Sound good?”

“Yes, sir,” she told him with a happy nod, “Mission next week, then?”  

“Yeah. I’ll brief you in tomorrow and then we’ll begin to prepare.” He paused in thought, “Are you sure you’re up for it?”  

“Yes, sir,” she assured him, “Maybe it’ll be a step in gaining your trust.”  

Her tone was light-hearted, but there was seriousness behind her words. She wanted him to trust her; to make him her acquaintance, or perhaps to befriend him. Maybe one day, even gain his respect.  

But there was also something else behind her expression – behind the need to show him he could trust her. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, and he wasn’t sure whether he was accurate in his deduction, but there was a certain sadness in her eyes. Perhaps it was the guilt peeking through, or maybe it was just nerves and he was over-analysing her every move. Whatever it was, he shrugged it off.

“Maybe.”  

Tag List: @jxvipike @smoggyfogbottom @stressyanddepressyfoodservice @boniscute @ohgodthebogisback

[istherewifiinhell]

IS FLYING GENDERED?

On the masculine default, typifying gender in genre, and women as the other in the transformers cartoons.

question for the ages

once again i said back in the halcyon days of watching g1 (aka 5 months ago) i was like. Nooooo, decepticon is NOT a gender that's Silly. It's funny, but as a Read Of The Text, I thought it largely unneeded. (The concept came about, as a joke, involving dismissing the bad guys using the same language you would abt women (sexistly) that they're emotional [heh, flighty], vain, and shrill) after all. If in the 80s era there are 5 whole named/speaking woman tfs, its only ever gonna get better from here right? (<- booboo the fool)

anyway

Let's consider the axiom that the assumed default gender is male, that maleness is often seen as LACK of gender, and femaleness and gender variance are the PRESENCE of gender. In certain reasoning and worldviews, of course (See Androcentrism). Then add that, for transformers, the assumed default thing a transformer turns into, is car. (Autocentrism, if you will)

(The most general term for what a tf turns into is "Alt mode" as some of them are not vehicles at all. The other mode is "Robot Mode", whether its humanoid or not)

So I will be laying out why I believe the cartoon iterations support: non standard alt modes = non standard genders. This is in spite of the fact that FIRST lady tfs were all cars. Sleek cyber cars, but still. For whatever reason, (possibly, the reason for everything in tf, toys) they might as well not exist for how woman tf characters presence in the cartoons progressed over time.

And, to be clear, this is a reading of how these works of fiction are created, not a new unified bioessentialism but for robots aliens I'm proposing for like. In universe lore reasons. I hate that idea.

That said, alt modes in order of most to least gender: Spider, motorcycle, flying (in general, with rotors, jets), tank, and then FINALLY, car. (water and space crafts are already too marginal to rank, but they too can be assumed in relation to default maleness, AND that in making one a woman, would still qualify as othering her).

The NUMBER one reason for this is the bizarre need to have an ESTABLISHED woman tf character before making new ones. AS YOU MIGHT IMAGINE. With a g1 gender ratio something like.... (counting even the most marginal cases for the ladies) 9:120? (That's a rough count from a quick scanning of the tf wiki g1 char list) Shits dire out here.

The second is, ofc, character design based. cis people [stand in phrase for the hegemonic world view] are not okay, and their opinions about how tf gender must need be depicted visually is. uh? Im not a fan. Size and shape dimorphism in general is a given, and specifically having women tfs as far more humanoid and curvy in specific. Also general cartoon lady face syndrome but, whatever. I think there's exactly one character here who doesn't have "lips" or "lipstick" as a distinguishing factor. I'm so tired.

Third is generally, the idea of The Girl Of the Team. When there's The Girl, she often isn't JUST a normal character, who happens to be a girl. See, of course, the Smurtfette Principle. But in my view there's also a trend to give The Girl "special traits" on top of "Girl", maybe even to directly combat the idea that the Girl Character has no other traits? To stop this from being a General Primer on Woman in Media, my explanatory focus is things specific to the tf franchise.

(A phrase I use for thinking about normative modes [in general, not just the Alt ones] in within the tf universe is "unique transformerdom" or, even more clunkily, "A transformer of unique transformerdom". The excessive verbosity is amusing to me personally. All I mean by it is to have an umbrella term for any of the ways tfs can be made unique from their peers in the non allegorical realities of the fiction).

I could, and do, and greatly want to, speak about this AT LENGTH. But it keeps spiraling away from me. So I'll say for now were looking at ways a character is being depicted different from her peers, not because she is the only woman (which she likely is), but cause she's a different kind of transformer, AND if she's othered for it.

(IN SOME forms of the lore. Being a transformer woman, IS A UNIQUE KIND of transformer unto itself. Let's just say I hate it and move on)

Fourth, is the gender of villainy. There is much to be said about gender presentation of villains, the ways they are allowed to be aberrant. We will get to it. There is also all the tropes specific TO evil women, and the modes of villainy open TO female characters. But a general thing I think impacting the gender ratios of the factions is the how "Good" and "Evil" female characters are written. I'll generalize and call this the "Damsel vs Temptress" dichotomy. (See concepts like the Madonna-whore complex). Transformers, is by and large, an action franchise. Unless special reasons are made, characters who can impact the action– have more screen time, and likely more memorable, and iconic presences. A villainous woman can be unchaste, violent, aggressive. While a heroic woman, even if not a literal damsel are more likely to be in a support role. The secretaries of the action genre: medics and techs.

(Another factor is that tfs are giant robots, and the good guys are often friends with tiny squishy little humans. These make very good damsel fodder, and can be taking up the spots on the roster that might, in a different franchise, go to women. Additionally, while woman characters in transformers overall is an interesting topic. When I say tf women, I'm referring to ones that are in fictionally, transformers.)

SO, now understanding our points of attack/obstacles for getting woman into transformers. (Getting established, gendering the designed, uniqueness of existence, and general villainy). Lets go over those alt modes, and the characters that have em, in more detail.

Spiders

The "Beast Era" (1996) intro-ed the spider ofc. And what don't we have with this one. She's a villain, but shes also misunderstood, the era and design style let to these more organic shapes. And they used them to make sure she was very sexy. She's genre aware, she's quippy, she's an absolute icon. So naturally. She gets ported to other later shows. Which means we just have sexy spider ladies running around when everyone else is a fucking truck and shit.

Her own origin is, well think of her as a "Bride of Frankenstein" to the resident evil scientist, also a spider. She was designed for, and manipulated by him in multiple ways. Her protoform (A blank robot base), was supposed to be one of the good guys (a Maximal), but was reprogrammed into a bad guy (Predacon). Even then, she eventually joins them, for her own reasons. She's not even the first predacon to do so, the difference? Well the characters are a lot more NORMAL about his autonomy. Both of these characters stress that being a predacon is an identity they still see as important. But only the woman is told that really, she is was was always MEANT to be a maximal. And while that's true in a sense. There's also a plot were she's forced (by plot contrivance, not the other maximals) to get corrective robot surgery for it. And when they think she died from, everyone's more sad for her boyfriend than for her. Ouch.

The second spider, in the 2007 show, is now one in a world where she is the only "techno-organic" transformer, hence, she is spider, everyone else is a vehicle. Similar to the first, her narrative is very gendered, but less in the way were, like, I do literally think the first was was experiencing in universe sexism from other characters. Here, they really focus on the "techno vs organic" narrative, and the tragic circumstances on how that happened. In this case its just real world sexist writing.

THIRD SPIDER, (2010), instead of misunderstood and tragic evil, this ones just super mega likes to cause pain evil. She also occupies a strange place between the typic vehicular tfs, and the insecticons. This is because she has a helicopter alt mode, and her robot mode is just, a lady with spider characteristics. And, more than just a passing bug like similarity, she has the power to control the insecticons (you know, cause evil woman mind control). However, she doesn't fit in with them either, as the insecticons are at the most insect like they've ever been, in look, living in hives and that most don't even speak.

They may vary in exact character, relationship to the story's moral conflict, and design. But they stay comfortably established, dimorphised, flirty and flirting with villainy. And bonus points, always, for black widow spider trope.

SO. SPIDERS. Established: ✅️ Gendered designs: ✅️ (Extremely!) Unique: ✅️ Othered: ✅️ Villainy: ✅️

Motorcycles

Tooooo my knowledge the first bike lady was in 2004, and fairly minor, in the actual plot, but rest assured, they did go the previously established woman route, by being pink, though, which one shes named after varies by language. But neither were previously motorcycles. (And yes, there is also this problem of mixing together or swapping out one woman tf for another. As if we have the ladies to spare). Even though motorcycle men also exist, this one just stuck for a bit. Maybe something to do with Those Movies. I think the Gendered Existence of a motorcycle is pretty evident though, general sex appeal, being smaller, the mode of riding a motorcycle is different, more physical and intimate. Mainly this ranks so high for the level of grossness they can pack in. Just how objectifying it can be, particularly with two instances where the human rider is an annoying teen boy. Naturally, I've also never seen a male and female motorcycle in the same room, but the approach to design tends to be different. And yeah most of em are Arcee, who's first alt mode was cyber car, but it's not just her.

Established: ✅️ Gendered designs: ✅️ Unique: ✅️ Othered: Depends on iteration, I do NOT like the way one gets called "tough, for a two wheeler". Villainy: ❌(they wouldn't need to be motorcycles if they weren't making them the Special Girl Autobot, after all)

Flying

General: It just tends to stick out when your one girl is only flyer in the group, even she's otherwise tactfully done. Only flyer of the Maximals, a falcon, only flyer of the dinobots, a Pteranodon.

Rotors

I can barely even figure this one. Maybe it's just a general, aesthetics and use case of the actually vehicles, the associations? None of these ladies (and special case) are very connected otherwise. As previously mentioned, the spider helicopter. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

A big one for this is the preschool demo shows, which are rescue team focused. In the first one the only woman on the human response worker team pairs with the helicopter, they mention she does medical at times. The helicopter is male, like the other tfs. But also he's afraid of flying, and while not the first case of a flyer with a fear of heights, their personalities are, pretty different. As he's both fearful AND effeminate, fine as character traits go but, with the tone of humour used, marks him as Other.

In the second, Whirl (pointing to icon) becomes a girl for the first time, now with standard humanized face. I assume as move to keep with the previous show of having a girl one, as there's no human team mates. She's also the only one who really likes rescue school. Aaaand that's all know of her. What more do you want from me.

Helicopters: Unique: ✅️ Othered: ✅️ (milder than some)

But why'd I call this section rotors instead of helicopters? That would be because one of the latest Sole Female TF we just put in everything™ is a VTOL jet with rotors. She'll tend to be the only jet of her type, which is also smaller than the type of jet used for the villains.

And, of course, aside from alt mode, the thing that makes her stand out most in the cartoons? That she's very clearly a comics character. (I find the emphasize that she's "fan created" over done, as it only controlled minor aspects, and irrelevant cause tfs get completely overhauled in new versions all the time). From her design, which is a bit busier than most characters she stars with. And also uses Japanese aesthetic signifiers in ways that I think are a bit misappropriated and untactful. (VERY USamerican comics). Also, when she stars next to a guy, also from comics employing Japanese aesthetic, you can tell its not deployed in the same manner. (E.I she has hair and makeup, he has armor). Either way, her depictions have her either as badass sword lady on mission from god who's constantly getting hit on by an annoying guy. Or have her be from a different planet and has special telepathy.

Do we see how both her gender AND the cultural signifiers are having affects here? That the main woman tf in a series can be a literal alien even among our alien robots, with cultural signifiers they don't have?

Ratings Established: ✅️ (made the comics to cartoon jump) Gendered designs: ✅️ Unique: ✅️ Othered: ✅️ (SO SO EXTREMELY, using methods in fiction and real life)

Jets

I think my association of jets with tf gender is stronger, than some of the above examples, even if there's less reason to it. And why is that? Well, lets get socratic. Here's another question.

Is This All Starscream's Fault?

No. He's not real, he can't do things. But. His legacy as THE main stay transformers character that gets to subvert gender? Yeah. (Sure, the G1 autobots have their own effete, but he's not in every single cartoon they ever made now is he? Plus now that I think about it, he is a FLYING car...)

From the get, he's not a Man's man. He's shrill, he's manipulative and duplicitous, petty and emotional, cowardly and wheedling. He is, of course, the Perfect character. Now naturally, the 80s cartoon was not concerned with your paltry logics. Starscream and his ilk are the jets, but every decepticon can fly. The gun, the cassette player, the camera, the cassettes.

And each to a last, more masculine than he is. Vocally or behaviorally, physically. Every one of them fit the gender expectations more than he does. Even being a small time grunt, is a masculine trait, after all, more so than unchecked ambition. So its not femininity from flying, from jets. But direct relationship, reference, and descendancy from Starscream that makes it. I've yet to see female versions of Jet fire and or the aerialbots, for example.

So what to do when an effeminate male villain was less maltese falcon and more that man has effeminate hips? Well. We had to start getting his ass for being effeminate, explicitly. They made the female clone of him, which yeah, is an offensive joke stemming from the various The Gender Anxieties. (Transmisogyny, homophobia and sexism. General relation toxic masculinity. A heady mix of all and more).

But I mean. It's free girl tf... Once given a name in extra canon materials, she start's showing up in other things. Once you're in books, video games, comics, and most importantly, toys, you're real. And then eventually, her first non clone appearance in a cartoon, and how her presence shaped it.

That being, Cyberverse. Which is a cgi show, you need to know this for reasons of production. Making new models is expensive. This has always been the reason you just make recolours of Starscream and name them different things. Chicken or egg on this one, I don't know, But because CV has Slipstream, and the only difference between her and the generic "male" decepticon jet, is a more feminine face; Suddenly, any random decepticon goon can be a woman.

An absolutely revolutionary take for striving to populate a fictional world with gender parity. By at large it also means they're way more lady villains, and specifically flying model of villain. The show has other woman, but none who get the same androgynous body mold treatment.

Established: ✅️ Gendered designs: Mildly to NO. Unique: By design, no. Othered: Yes for the clone, and Screamer himself, I suppose. No, otherwise. Villainy: ✅️(That's, the whole idea)

Tanks

It needs to be said. Sometimes, when doing things that transgress a norm, anteing up is less subversive. This is another reason why gender variance, female agency and overt sexuality are more common traits of villains. When already defying strictures of society. What's one more.

That's Right. TANKS ARE THE BUTCH WOMAN OF TRANSFORMERS.

Alright. Let me back up. Strika is the stone cold knock out undefeated champ of lady tf designs that, actually has a reoccurring cartoon presence. She is, admittedly, only a reoccurring to minor character.

Her introduction is in another show with techno-organics, this one involved in the struggle between well, the techno and the organic. Strika as we see her, and as the design that will go on to be iterated, is not in her normal transformer body. She has been transferred into a 'vehicon' body. Without a preexisting essence contained in one, vehicons are not considered alive, in the way a transformer is. Visually, they lack the more human body plan, a standard face, feet and hand like appendages.

To further contrast Strika against the two techno-organic woman. Both of them are tall, and slender. Their softer organic shapes designed towards elegance or beauty, whatever your subjective opinion of that result might be. They both have romance subplots too. By the way. Or honestly one subplot and one main plot. Strika. In contrast. Is built like a brick shit house. Her face is. Minimal. And her goal: protecting her planet... by terminating the heroes.

Now, existing as a character that can be referenced for other media, and given the detail that she was a "Famous general", it's off to the races. She makes a wonderful big tank menace that can fill out a background shot, too.

Without her I hardly think we could have Clobber, also from CV. Who is. The true goat. The finest thing, the achievements of all we could ever hope for. A big fuck off woman, gender swapped from a previous male design with minimal faff, with now even more personality and show presence. Friends, wants, desires. Emotions. Thank God for Clobber, Thank Clobber for Clobber. Thank Randolph Heard and Mae Catt for Clobber.

Established: Depends if you want to count that Strika had so much swag they kept drawing/modeling her Gendered designs: FUCK NO Unique: ✅️ Othered: only originally Villainy: ✅️

Cars

So now you have the final piece of the puzzle. In transformers, Autobots are Cars. Yes, there are plenty of autobots that are NOT cars, and there are cars that are not Autobots. But they're exceptions, they're aberrances. They're unique. And Autobots are the norm. They oppose the Decepticons. Decepticons are Villains. And Decepticons can fly. Modal simplified binaries and false dichotomy abound!

And the thing about those original Autobot woman, the one's who largely did not influence all of this? They were cars, it's true, but not like how the men where cars. They've not been designed from transforming car toys, with a shellac of humanoid gender over top. Their designed in the way of human gender. With the car on top.

When the preexisting clause leads to the original designs to be revisited, which, has largely only happened in more recent years. They aren't car woman robots. The cars are literally not part of their bodies, they are additional. Instead of a unifying identity of a robot who is a car, its Arcee and her backpack. Parts of cars get grafted onto their petite lady bodies, and placed anywhere out of the way.

In order to make a transformer a woman, they have to give her a gender, not understanding that that's always been the case. And to give her a woman's gender, she's got to LOOK like a woman, not a transformer. And to look like a woman, she's got to act like a woman. She must be heroic but reactive instead of active, or else, villainous, conniving and or self centered. To be a woman, we must have some other previous woman to explain her presence, or else explain it anew with her unique, strange, or exotic origin. How could she ever be a woman if she simply, existed, looked average, talked average. How could she be a woman if her body is hunks of ungendered car. How can she be a woman if she's everything we expect a transformer to be.

A woman is transgressive, a woman is not normal. Autobots are normal. Autobots are heros. Autobots are men. And Autobots do not fly.

[dilemmaontwolegs]

Running from the Flames {17}

Pairing: Pierre Gasly x OFC Warnings: 18+ only, fluff, panic attack - this is a work of fiction and the events are not based on reality. Chapter: One || Two || Three || Four || Five || Six || Seven || Eight || Nine || Ten || Eleven* || Twelve || Thirteen || Fourteen || Fifteen || Sixteen || Seventeen || Eighteen || under construction

Ilies was kind enough to take Pierre, Addie and I to the airport early on Monday morning. Pierre had put his Audi on one of the car transporters heading to Alpine’s mechanical headquarters in Paris and he would pick it up from there later in the week when he returned for some training. With the next race being in Canada there was a two week break so he was going to spend a few days in London with us as long as he kept up his fitness routine. 

I was apparently the one in charge of making sure that happened but his personal trainer might have been shocked to hear that my idea of exercise involved us tangled in bedsheets. I kept that to myself of course and just agreed. As long as I got to watch while Pierre worked out in my home gym then it was a win-win to me.

“Thanks for the lift, Granny,” I said as I kissed her cheeks after boarding the private jet. 

“It’s on the way to New York so it’s no hassle, honey. Are you sure you don’t want to come to Fashion Week with me?”

I grimaced at the idea. “And have you try to use me as a model again, no thanks.”

“What?” she asked innocently as she buckled up into her seat. “You’ve got the legs for it.”

“She’s not wrong,” Pierre whispered in my ear. “They are very sexy.”

I elbowed him lightly but he just laughed it off and I continued on my way down the aisle. Two rows down I found dad, who was half asleep, and heading home to see mum. I sat Addie into the seat beside him and buckled her in before setting up her latest animated fixation, Mulan, on the screen in front of her. 

“Let mummy know if you need to go to the loo,” I reminded her before pulling the earphones over her head.

There was no reason to be all sat together so I passed the last two rows before sitting down. There was only the galley behind us but since the flight was a little over two hours I doubted anyone would ask for refreshments and we would be left alone.

“Are you okay?” I asked as we hit some turbulence coming into Heathrow and Pierre clutched the armrest between us. His eyes were closed and his lips pressed in a firm line as he nodded his head. He had been uneasy since takeoff but repeatedly lied and said he was fine. “You couldn’t have picked a sport with more travel if you tried.”

“I’m fine with flying…until it gets bumpy.” He let me pull his hand from the leather material and replaced it with my own as we watched the GPS of the plane inching closer to the airport. 

“Miss Vowles, Mr Gasly, if you could please fill these out before we land that would be wonderful,” the stewardess said as she handed me three Passenger Locator Forms before moving on to dad.

I filled out mine and Addie’s while Pierre did his but he took a little longer since he wasn’t a UK Citizen like us and had more pages to complete. I actually had dual citizenship through the ‘grandfather scheme’ which meant I was entitled to apply for citizenship where my parents and grandparents were citizens. Legally, I could hold a passport of Mexico, the USA and the United Kingdom but I preferred to use my UK one since it had the least restrictions.

If Erik ever tried to petition for access to Addie and won, then she could have all three passports and a Norwegian one too.

The thought turned my mood sour and as we touched down on British soil I began to rue my decision to come back. I knew I needed to be here to pack up the house for the move and visit Dr Pascoe in person but there was always a little storm cloud in the back of my mind when I was in London. 

The city was tainted of memories with Erik, the restaurants we had eaten at, the cinemas we have gone to. I couldn’t even drive near Islington because that was where our house had been. Just thinking about it had the walls of the plane closing in around me and I reached for the paper bag in the storage pocket.

The paper crinkled in and out with each breath, the speed too fast for any rational thought and shadows moved around me until two faces came into focus.

“Sweetheart, look at me,” dad said but it was hard to catch the slippery words as my head swam. “Deep breath, in through your nose. Do it with me.” I tried to copy him but my intake was as shaky as my hands. “Good girl, now out through your mouth, nice and slow.”

My clothes felt too tight and my hair clung to my clammy forehead and I tried to brush it away but my hands were shaking too much. The strands of hair remained and I grew frustrated.

“I’ve got it, Bri, just focus on breathing,” Pierre said as he brushed it back for me. A cool damp cloth came to rest on my forehead and I closed my eyes as I leant back in the seat. “Mama’s alright, princesse.”

My eyes flashed open to see Addie looking afraid and I opened my arms for her. “Mummy was just a little overwhelmed, sweetie, I’m sorry it scared you.”

“Was it a bad dream again?” she asked as she clung tight to me.

“Kind of. You know, I could do with your help.” She perked up at the idea of helping and listened intently. “We have no food at home, so I need you to choose where we will have brunch. You don’t have to tell me now, but why don’t you hop back in your seat and have a think about it while we land.”

“Come on, little bug,” dad guided her away, his own worried stare looking back at me as he went. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Pierre asked when we were alone but I shook my head.

“No, I just want to erase the memories of this place.” I tipped my head onto his shoulder and looked up at him. “Tell me that it’s possible.”

He kissed my forehead and I cringed as I realised I was a sweaty mess but he didn’t seem to care as he wrapped an arm around me. “I don’t know about erasing them, but we can make new ones instead.”

–

We landed without a fuss and while we were taxiing to the terminal we started to say our goodbyes before we would part ways. Dad was already out of his seat, ignoring the seatbelt sign, and kneeling next to Granny having quiet words with each other before they both looked at me with concern. 

Dad rose to his feet and let Addie climb up for a hug, a bright smile deepening the wrinkles at the corners of Granny’s eyes. “I’m going to miss you, honey. You let me know if you want to come visit alright? We’ll get rid of that posh accent in no time.”

“Don’t want you to go, Granny,” she replied with a trembling lip.

Betty sniffled and blinked away the tears that quickly built along her waterline. “You’re going to make me ruin my makeup.”

“You’d still look beautiful,” I said as I gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you for the visit and the ride.”

“Of course, you’re welcome to use it whenever you need, especially trying to juggle work, motherhood and a long distance relationship,” she said looking between Pierre and I. “Take all the help you can get to make it work.”

Pierre’s hand took mine and gave it a squeeze while I answered through my widening smile. “I might take you up on that.”

The Gulfstream had come to a stop and I saw two cars parked outside the little window as the stewardess opened the door. Dad would take one to the domestic terminal for his next flight to Manchester while we would be in the other heading home to Twickenham. 

“Oh, and Damien, give my love to Otmar when you see him,” Granny said with a fond smile for the man she thought of as the second child she never had. “I’ll see you in Italy, unless I decide to pop by before that. Never know when I might need a holiday at my age.”

“Mom, you’re retired.”

She scoffed and waved him off. “I retired from designing but I still own the company, dear. I can’t trust anyone else to run it right, unless it’s family.” Her eyes darted to me and I held my hands up.

“Don’t finish that thought, Granny, I’m an engineer - I like tinkering with mechanics and engines.”

“I’ve heard Pierre’s a man of fashion and business or so the internet tells me. You could always marry him. Just an idea, honey.” She sent me a wink and I stumbled over my feet, nearly sending myself out down the steps. “Take care of my precious babies, Mr Gasly.”

“Nothing would make me happier,” he replied with such sincerity that I missed the step in front of me and his hand shot out, catching my arm and pulling me back. “Was that a test?”

“No,” I sighed and blew a strand of hair out of my face with a huff. “That's just how clumsy I am. Let’s go before I break my neck and never get to walk down the aisle Granny’s busy daydreaming about now.”

“I’ve had the design of your wedding dress waiting since you were 18. You tell me when to start sewing it.”

“Bye Granny, bye Matthew!” I concentrated on walking down the stairs with an amused Pierre behind me carrying Addie and dad coming down last. 

“Your mother said she’s blocked out her calendar for Wednesday if you can come to dinner.”

I looked at Pierre since he was meant to be flying to Paris on Thursday morning and Addie and I would be flying into Rouen to meet him on Saturday. “It’s a four hour drive.”

“It shouldn’t be difficult to change my flight to leave from Manchester instead, if you want to stay the night?”

I nodded to dad, “it’s a tentative yes but I’ll let you know once he’s checked the flights. Addie say bye-byes to grandad.”

Our farewells were far quicker and our luggage had already been put into the cars by the time we were finished and going our own separate ways. I would have preferred to have my own car but it was at home after getting a cab to the airport when we left two weeks ago but thankfully it wasn’t peak rush hour and it wasn’t too far to get home.

“Addie, have you decided where you want to eat?”

“The dog park!”

Pierre looked aghast as he spun in his passenger seat at the front and I laughed at the face he pulled. “It’s just a cafe that happens to be on the same block as a dog park. It’s called Ivy and she knows it too,” I said as I tickled Addie’s toes for being a little trickster. “It’s just around the corner from our house so we can drop the bags off first and walk.”

He relaxed back into his seat knowing he wasn’t going to be eating in a dog park and I scoured the inside pockets of my handbag until I found my keys. I gripped the remote to the front gate as the driver pulled onto our street and suddenly had a new fear - had I tidied the house before we left? No. The answer was, no. I had been running around like a madwoman trying to get Addie ready so I decided the toys on the floor and unfolded washing on the couch could wait for my return.

“Shit,” I muttered under my breath and Pierre’s eyes shot to me through the little mirror on his sun visor, his eyebrow cocked in a silent question. “My house is a fucking mess.”

Click here for chapter eighteen.

Tagging: @my-only-way-tocooperatewithlife @anotheroneiforgot