#this is why I have to avoid those ‘x man from England speaks x language to native’ videos cause I’ll start clawing at my walls in agony

[thecoolestfreakyouknow]

probably my most evil trait is being seethingly jealous of people who naturally pick up lots of languages quickly and can interact with other countries and cultures on a intimate level because of it

[prurientpuddlejumper]

Being Fake Soulmates with Dr. Chilton (Part 4)

<- Part 3 | Part 5 ->

Frederick Chilton x Reader | The Good Place crossover

Warnings: Fluff, cuddling, angst

1,560 words

He held your hand loosely in his, stroking the soft of your palm with his thumb—an almost ticklish sensation that sent goosebumps rushing up your arm, making your heart skip erratically.

You sat side-by-side on a velvet loveseat whose curling arms were inlaid with patterns of baroque gold—entirely Frederick’s style, but remarkably comfortable nonetheless. One of your legs draped lazily over his, and his arm created a nest for your shoulders. It was wonderful being close to someone whose presence you were completely comfortable in. To feel his soft breathing rising and falling beside you, and the texture of his skin against yours.

The remains of your morning tea rested on the coffee table—a rustic piece of reclaimed farmhouse wood in which the raw natural materials were the focus. Your eco-aesthetic should have clashed with Frederick’s old-world aristocratic style, but somehow the combination elevated both.

Soulmates.

The more you glimpsed of the insecurity behind Dr. Frederick Chilton’s pretentious mask, the more you realized what it meant to be soulmates. It wasn’t about being the same, but different in ways that complemented each other. You kept him humble. He taught you to put yourself first. You filled his loneliness, and he brought out your confidence. But more than that, he was always there—no matter what challenges the afterlife threw at you, you came back home to each other, held each other, and everything was fine.

So long as you had your soulmate, you could face anything.

The steady stroking on your palm stuttered and paused. You lifted your head from his shoulder to see the pensive expression quietly furrowing his brow.

“If we met on earth,” he pondered softly, “do you think we would have...?” Dark notes of distress clouded his voice, as he if already knew and didn’t like the answer to the question he didn’t entirely ask.

“I don’t know.” If you hadn’t been told by an immortal, all-knowing afterlife architect that this was your soulmate, would have ever in a million years given Dr. Chilton enough of a chance to see beneath his snobby crust? You’d rather not hurt him by focusing on a probable no, so instead you said, “I only went to Baltimore once, as a kid. To go to the aquarium. I think it was a side trip from when we visited DC. Were you ever in New England?”

His jaw tensed—the only outward sign of what you expected was a fierce internal debate on whether to correct you for answering whether they would have met when his question was if. He decided to let it go.

“I spent some time there. I went to Harvard, of course, so I am familiar with the region.”

“I went to Harvard. Of course,” you repeated laughing, exaggerating the snobbish drawl of his affected accent. You swung your other leg over his lap to straddle him and peck a playful kiss to his lips.

His green eyes returned none of your mirth as he observed, “You always mock me, and then act as if it is affectionate.”

Your teasing grin fell. A hand lifted to his cheek. The other remained cozily nestled in his hand, but the fact that he didn’t melt into your touch proved how irritated he was.

“Oh, Frederick,” you cooed. “You are ridiculous sometimes”—he must know that about himself, right? The glower he returned suggested, in fact, he did not—“And I love you.”

Your last three words hung in the air and heated his face under your palm. He stared back at you unblinking, some of the hardness evaporating from his eyes at those words. It felt like hours waiting for a reaction before he swallowed thickly.

“Oh.”

He added nothing further than that oh. Though you supposed falling in love was inevitable for soulmates, it was the first time you’d said it out loud, and you itched for more.

“Well?” you nudged. “Are you… happy to hear it?”

“No.” His brow furrowed.

The blunt rejection felt less like a slap to the face and more like leaning back in a broken reclining chair and finding yourself blinking up at the ceiling from the floor. You had expected something different.

“You chose to say it now to avoid blame for insulting me; that is hardly kind. But what should I expect? You… you—” His entire face began to twitch: eyes narrowing in thought, suddenly going wide, then narrowing again. Then he looked at you almost mournfully, the softest, most tender expression clouding his eyes.

“I’m sorry… I wasn’t thinking about it like that. I just thought you were so cute—”

“No, no, no. This—this is not right. None of this is right. It is more than that.” He stood and began pacing the room. “I have been bothered by things for some time, but I chose to ignore them”—he cast a pained glance back at you—“because I wanted to believe it was true. But this makes no sense. Why would you love me?”

“Why wouldn’t I? Of course I love you. We… we’re soulmates!”

He barked a dry laugh. “That is the only reason, is it not? Because we were told we were soulmates. How can we be sure we are?”

“Michael said—”

“Ah yes, Michael said. Naturally, we can trust Michael, the supernatural being we know nothing about.” His heel scuffed on the marble floor as he pivoted in his jerky movements to face you. “Think rationally. The existence of soulmates is extremely doubtful. How could every person have a perfect match? Are humans created in pairs? What happens if one’s soulmate dies in infancy? Or speaks a different language?”

“Just because they’re unlikely on Earth doesn’t mean they can’t be made for the afterlife.” You convinced yourself even less than him.

“It is not just you,” he said wistfully, eyes casting over your seated form next to the hollow impression he left on the velvet. “I do not think this is even heaven. No one likes frozen yogurt that much.”

“I like fro yo,” you muttered in a small defensive voice.

“But you like ice cream better. Why are there a dozen frozen yogurt shops and not a single ice cream parlor? It was a clue in plain sight. This place is a mockery of paradise. Every moment we have expected a reward, it has been twisted into a punishment, or a… a test!”

You stared back at him silently. Your tongue went dry, and you realized your mouth was hanging open, paused on the brink of something to say—some retort that would explain everything. But none came.

“Pairing us together,” he announced one syllable at a time, regretting his next words, “was never meant to be a reward. It was a trap.”

“But you make me happy! Not every pair makes sense at first, but I love you. We’re in paradise—”

“I would never have gotten into paradise!” The last piece of the puzzle exploded from his throat, a shouted confession. The air went still. “Perhaps you would have,” he muttered, “but I do not belong in the good place.”

At last, you stood and joined Frederick, your hands finding his again. They were warm, and big, and fit yours perfectly. You understood, then. As long as you were holding onto him, you could face anything.

Even the truth.

You shook your head. “No. I never did anything with my life. I tried. I recycled and drove a Prius, but I was too shy to call senators about environmental policy—too afraid or too lazy to lobby for infrastructure changes. I never did anything significant to fight for what I believed in. If the good place only takes the best of the best… I never came close.”

Frederick squeezed your hand. “I thought—” his breath hitched “—I thought I did. I believed everything had been worth it in the end. I finally achieved something; my work earned the recognition it deserved. Of course it didn’t! At least I am sharp enough to see through their farce.”

“But… but you’re my soulmate.” You clung to him like the wreckage of a sinking ship.

Frederick was silent, but you could hear his words in your head: There is no such thing.

“But you make me happy,” you argued.

But he also drove you crazy. But anyone reading the transcript of your lives would have expected you to make each other miserable. If you hadn’t walked in on him by chance while he was sulking and taken pity, you really would have tortured each other.

“Holy fork,” you muttered. “Is this the bad place?”

“That is the most likely possibility,” Frederick whispered.

Fear crept up your spine. If everything was a lie, then what else couldn’t you trust? Who else knew? Who was in charge? Could you even trust Frederick? You took half a step back from his grip and watched him return your glare with equal suspicion.

He wasn’t your soulmate. He was just a man you barely knew anything about.

You lurched forward and re-entered the radius of his spicy cologne, comforted by the familiar scent and the familiar texture of his tweed suit under your fingertips. “Wh-what do we do?”

“I do not know.”

His arms closed around your back, and he held you.

• ● • ━━━━━─ ••●•• ─━━━━━ • ● •

Tags:

@beccabarba / @itsjustmyfantasyroom / @thatesqcrush / @dianilaws / @permanentlydizzy / @mrsrafaelbarba / @madamsnape921 / @astrangegirlsmind / @neely1177 / @onerestein / @dreamlover31​ / @isvvc-pvscvl  / @shroomiehomie / @storiesofsvu / @welcometothemxdhouse​ / @feedthemadness-sweetie​ / @law-nerd105​ / @amelia-song-pond​ / @michael-rooker​ / @xecq / @madpanda75​ / @alwaysachorusgirl​ / @bananas-pajamas​ / @leanor-min​ / @mad-girl-without-a-box​ 

[demivampirew]

I would give up everything for you.

A Charles Brandon x Mary Tudor (written as reader) (Henry’s sister) one shot

You can find more of my writings in the Masterlist

Warnings: Death, heartbreak, crying, unwanted arranged marriage (and talking about being consummated).

Summary: Shortly after becoming a widow, Henry summons you back to England for he has arranged a new marriage for you.

A/N (Important to understand the story): For those who don’t know, in the show they’d merged both Henry’s sisters into one: Margaret. In reality, he had two sisters, the one mentioned who ended up marrying the King of Scotland, James IV, becoming the Queen consort of said country (and after the death of her husband, Queen regent in name of her son for two years). Mary, the other sister, was married to the King of France, Louis XII for a few months, until his death and soon he was succeeded by his son-in-law Francis I -the King of France from the show, and his daughter Claude as Queen Consort- she couldn’t reign for the law forbid a woman to rule the country back at that time. Shortly after the death of the King, Charles was in charge of bringing Mary safe back to England, but in reality that was a secret plan for them to marry in secret in France, as Mary confessed to King Francis. It isn’t known when and how exactly they fell in love but it surely was before her marriage to the late King of France. They married in secret but then they had a public wedding because they suspected Mary to be pregnant and they wanted their kid to be legitimate.

For my story, I mixed a bit of the show’s plot with actual events. The main characters are the same from the show, except from Mary, written from a perspective of reader, who wasn’t on the show (Margaret’s story in this one-shot is the same from history and not the one from the series). I used the arranged marriage with the King of Portugal’s plot from drama purposes (this never happened in reality, because like I’ve said, Mary married Charles before going back to London, and she had married the King of France with the promise that she would marry who she wanted after that or she would become a nun - which Henry did not want because he would lose the Dowager’s money if she did that. -although in this story she doesn’t threaten him with becoming a nun.)

Disclaimer: English isn’t my first language and write in another period of time can be a bit difficult. I tried my best, so I apologize if I made mistakes.

Tag list: @lunedelorient @henrythickcavill @wolvesandhoundshowltogether @mary-ann84 @desperate-and-broken @peakygroupie @summersong69 @ivvitm1109 @madbaddic7ed @iloveyouyen @the-soot-sprite @hell1129-blog @whyyoudothistomecavill @thetaoofzoe @thereisa8ella​

"The Queen of France, Your Majesty" announced one of the guards as you enter the room. Henry was sitting on the throne. There were a few guards there as well as Charles and William Compton, who were standing next to the door. - Dear sister! - your brother exclaimed as he stood up and approached you, grabbing your arms and placing a kiss on your cheek. - My poor sister, I'm terribly sorry for the lost of your dear husband.- "dear husband"? It felt as if he was mocking you, after all the only reason you married the late King of France, Louis XII was because he forced you to for that marriage forced an alliance between the two countries.

Being married to an old man was not a pretty thing. Being forced to consummate that marriage and with a crowd of people to witness it. Luckily, it didn't last for long because not long after your coronation as the new Queen, on Christmas' eve your husband died for an illness. After his death, his son-in-law, Francis I, inherit the throne with his daughter, Claude as Queen Consort. Even though your marriage was short, you were a loved Queen and you could have stayed in France if you desire it, but your brother had other plans for you. For you to agree to marry the late French King, he promised you that you were going to be able to marry whom you choose after his death, but sadly for you, he had no plans to keep his word. He ordered the Duke of Suffolk to escort you safely back to England. Charles was a loyal friend to Henry, but you succeeded to confess your brother's intentions for your return to England - you knew that if he wanted you back so quickly was not because he missed his beloved sister, but because there was something he needed from you. "He wants you to marry the King of Portugal" he confessed finally succumbing to pressure. After finding out that your worse nightmare was a reality, you ordered everyone on the ship to leave you alone and you cried on the way back.

- As sorry as I am for your loss, I must admit sister that I would need you to put aside your grief and take the King of Portugal as your new husband. With the rise of power of the Holy Roman Emperor, we need new alliances and he is more than pleased to become out ally if you marry him. He's seen your portrait and is enchanted by your beauty.- he informed you with a smirk. You remained silent and made no gestures. - So, my dear sister, would you consent to marry the King? - My consent is not needed, Your Majesty, for the King always does what he wants.- you finally said, your voice emotionless. There he was, your older brother. He could be charming for a moment and a second later be the devil himself if you crossed him. He didn't like when anyone defied him, especially women. His face showed no signs of rejoicing anymore, just contained anger. - We are at war, my dear sister.- he explained angrily. - We could face an invasion from Spain and if that would happen, we will need soldiers and money and he could provide that to us. - You are at war, brother. This is all because of you. If the Holy Roman Emperor is planning to attack England, it is because you broke your promise, like you always do, and set aside his aunt, humiliating her all. And that's because you had fallen in love with another woman. In your eyes, dear brother, you are the only one allowed to marry for love and you do not care who has to pay for your desires.- you replied bitterly. -If you want me to marry that old man, breaking the promise you once made me, at least you could have avoided me the displeasure of seeing your face and should have asked the Duke of Suffolk to escort me directly to Portugal since you know that no matter what are my choices, at the end I must be a loyal subject and obey you or I'll suffer the traitor's faith.

His hands were closed forming fists; he was containing his rage. If there was something Henry hated more than anything else was being defied. If it was not for the fact that he needed your Queen Dowager's money and the perks that your new marriage would bring to him, he would have you banned from court.

- Charles, take her to her chambers immediately.- he ordered and walked away, returning to his throne.

You bowed to him and allowed Charles to escort you back to your bedchambers. Once in the room, he closed the door to be sure no one would hear you speak.

- The Queen would be wise not to cross her brother.- he advised you. He spoke softly, surely it was because he did not want to be heard, but there was another thing in his voice: worry. - Why not?- you asked; it was a sarcastic question, you knew exactly why you should no speak to Henry that way for he was a King before your blood. - He could vanish you from court or worse.- he explained. - Great! I would rather be banned from court or dying to have to marry another old King.- you admitted, sighing bitterly. - You should not say that Your Majesty.- he pleaded. - Charles, would you stop calling me Your Majesty? I have known you my entire life. I'm still the same Mary I have always been, just less trusting and much more unhappy.- you confessed. - But now you are the King of France, Your Majesty. I should treat you with nothing but the proper respect. - I am Queen Dowager, I don't have the same importance that an actual queen has. - You are soon to be Queen again.- he reminded you and a tear fell from your eye; you wiped it away quickly. He stared at you with sadness on his eyes. He was probably hurt that you had to go through that again. - I rather die.- you repeated and look to the floor -You are lucky Charles, you could marry whom you choose.- you sighed. - I cannot.- he said with sadness. - Who is that you want and can't have, Charles? -you asked sarcastically.

The Duke of Suffolk looked you directly into your eyes, giving you the answer to your question without even saying a word.

Before leaving England, the two of you were close. He was this ladies' man and you were the King's little sister, but you started to see him differently in the year previous to your marriage. He was sweet, funny and protective. It was clear that you were not a just his friend's sister anymore, but a smart, funny and delightful woman. You had long talks while you played with carts and spent a lot of time together before your departure.

Charles excused himself and was about to leave. You called his name and when he turned to face you, you ran into his arms and kissed him. He pulled you closer to him as he stopped fighting his conscience. He probably felt that it was wrong, but he couldn't keep denying his feelings. After the long and awaited kiss, he pressed his forehead against yours and sighed.

- Escape with me.- you pleaded. - What? -he asked confused. - We could go to France. Francis is not a fan of my brother and he had nothing but sweet thoughts about me. He will be delighted to have me back there and surely he will support us and protect us if Henry decides to seek vengeance. - you assured him.- Please, Charles. - I... I cannot do that, I am sorry.- he said avoiding to look at you. - I will not betray my King. - Is it because he is your childhood friend or because you do not want to lose your lands and titles, Duke of Suffolk? - you questioned bitterly. He did not say a word, but it was not necessary; his shameful look said it all. Your poor heart broke into a million pieces. Not only you would have to marry an old man once more, but the man you loved preferred his nobility and money over you and your happiness. No matter what the future had set for you, it surely would not be a happy one.

A month passed before you were set to leave for Portugal. As you demanded, Charles stood away from you. The days passed and all you could do was crying about your cruel destiny. If at least you could have the luck that your sister Margaret had of marrying a young King whom she fell in love with, but no, that was not your fate. You were meant to be unhappy for the rest of your days.

Charles' eyes met yours. You could feel his pain but you could not be sorry for him, after all, he could have had you if he would have been brave enough to fight for you and, surely soon he would forget all about you and find solace in another woman's arms while you had to be with a man much older than you whom you didn't know. You quickly look to other side making sure he noticed that you were ignoring him and stood there, waiting in the room full of people for your brother to show up to say goodbye.

Henry appeared shortly with Cardinal Wolsey by his side. He approached you a kissed you " My dear sister. Fare you well on your journey. Remember the King of Portugal, your future husband, loves you and respects you. You must love him in return." - he said faking affection when in reality it was a command and a warning. He looked into your shiny, watery eyes but that didn't seem to have any effects on him. After crossing him the day of your return to England, he must be more than happy to see you gone.

The King was about to leave the place when the Duke of Suffolk called his attention.

- Your Majesty, I would like to have a word" - Charles pleaded. Henry looked at him with confusion but gestured him to speak. He walked a few steps forward and got on his knee in front of his best friend. - My heart forces me to beg you to save your sister from this marriage for that would make her unhappy.- he said firmly. There were gasps among the people present. You were breathless and your heart was beating an at exhilarating speed. Henry stared at him, his eyes showed both shock and anger. - As a sign of gratitude for your kindness towards the Queen of France, I will resign to my title, renounced to my lands and accept to be banned from court and any other punishment Your Grace sees suitable for my outrageous request.

For the first time since your mother's death, you saw tears fell from your brother's eyes. It didn't come as such as a surprise to you, you might be his sister by blood, but Charles was his brother by choice; they grew up together and he was his most faithful companion and now he put him in a position Henry must have surely hated. If he agreed to let you escape from this marriage, he would have to punish Charles from defying him in front of people from court. If he rejected his plead, people would know that he forced you into a marriage you didn't want to and he would further loss the affection of his subjects, who were already unhappy about his decision of leaving the beloved Queen Catherine for Anne Boleyn. Whatever decision Harry took, surely it would not have a happy ending for Charles. You knew you were right at the moment your brother stormed out of the room without saying a word.

Anthony Knivert, one of your brother's closest friends, walked you back to your chambers after Cardinal Wolsey ordered him to do so. The trip to Portugal has been postponed until after the King came with a resolution about the matter. As impossible as it seemed, you were even more heartbroken than before. There was no way Charles could cross your brother like that and no get punished and all because of your fault. If you just accepted your destiny quietly and had not made him feel guilty for choosing lands and his noble title over you, this would not have happened. Now, because of your stubbornness, he could face death.

It was around midnight when you heard someone knocking at your door. After permitting to enter your bedchambers, Charles walked in. You got up quickly from your bed and ran into him. He hugged you tightly for a moment and then softly pressed his head against yours. You could feel his warm breath. His hands grabbing your face provoked you chills. - Charles, you should not have done that.- you regretted. - I should have done it before, but it is ok. I would do it again if necessary.- he assured you and tears rolled down your cheeks. His thumbs clean the tears and then he kissed you. - You are not only the Queen Dowager of France but also the Queen of my heart, Mary.- he confessed. You smiled at him and your lips met his again.

After a knock, the door opened and Will Compton warned Charles to hurry for someone was coming. He kissed you once more and disappeared.

The King summoned you a few days after. There were some noble people present, Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk among others. Charles was already there waiting. About half an hour later Henry appeared with Wolsey and sat on the throne. He remained silent for a moment, as he inspected you. He knew; he knew his friend loved you and his love was reciprocated.

- Dear sister, I would like to apologize to you, for I did not know you were unhappy with the marriage proposal.- he said with conviction as if that would make it true- I desire nothing more than happiness for you, my beloved Mary. So I have decided that it should be you the one to decide who your future husband will be. You have my word and my blessing. Of course, he would make it seem as if you pact before marrying King Louis XII was his idea, but you did not care, as long as he granted you that you were not mad about him credit it to himself. - As for Your Grace.- he said looking at Charles- Your title and lands were given to you as a reward for bravely fighting by my side to defend your country and should remain at your disposal. Furthermore, as a sign of gratitude for enlightened me about my sister's displeasure for her now announced marriage, I would like to grant you my blessing to marry her, if that is her heart's desire and I hope you live the happy quiet life you desire away from court.

There it was, your punishment was being banned from court, but it was a slight price to pay for all the great things you had achieved. You were now allowed to marry Charles and live happily with him.

Maybe it was the fear that Henry would change his mind that made you marry that same day. In a private ceremony, with a few maids and his friends Will and Anthony to witness it, you promised to love each other forever.

You had the opportunity to have another wedding since you have not bled and you were sure with child, you had a public wedding to show the legitimacy of your future child. This time, you had it at court. Henry was a proud man, but even if Charles did what no other man would have dared unless they wanted to lose their heads, your brother loved him too much and trust no other like he trusted your husband.

Henry Brandon. That's the name Charles choose for your newborn. He was the living image of his father.

Not everything in your remaining life was happiness. Even though you had been blessed with another two children, Frances and Eleanor, by God's will your little Henry died when he was six years old. A year after that, another baby joined your family, honouring his late brother by carrying his name.

Charles was nothing but a loving husband to you. He stood by your side when tragedy hit your family and later when you got ill. You survived the sweating sickness but never fully recovered from it, and five years later you meet again with your loving son. It must have hurt your love, who never left your side until your heart stopped beating. He loved you much and would be sad for losing you, but you were glad he had your loving daughters and son to keep him company and help him move on.

[incorrectbandofbrothersquotes]

I Don’t Think You’re An Angel (Anymore)

A Lewis Nixon x OFC One Shot

Word Count: 3.3k

A/N: Thank you to @basilone​ @softspeirs​ and @mercurygray​ for all your help on this! I am much happier with how it turned out thanks to y’all’s suggestions :)

Warning(s): Some suggestive language, but that’s about it

***

Her father once told her that nursing would make her feel fulfilled. It would get her back on her feet after such tragedy struck. Nothing healed like giving back and healing others, he said. Especially after downing whiskey and kissing strangers didn’t work, she thought. 

It did the trick, to be sure. Nursing school was rigorous, but it taught her a lot about herself. She met some of her greatest friends there, and new connections soothed the ache from the burn of the ones she lost. With a new support system, she wearily clawed her way out of the ashes of her grief, and stood up again. And when the war came, she and thousands like her were able to charge into the fray. 

But the last thing Bonnie wanted now was to be on her feet - in a much more literal sense. The Austrian sun shone outside, calling to her, coaxing her to come out and warm her face and rest her sore feet. But she didn’t have a day off for another two days. And after almost eight hours at the hospital, there were still more patients to check on before she could clock out. She felt that familiar throb in her heels as she headed into the next ward. 

Shit.

There he stood. The man she once knew as Lewis Nixon, but for many years, only referred to as “The Worst Mistake I Ever Made.”

Shitshitshitshitshitshitshit.

He was coming closer, accompanied by a red-headed major she didn’t recognize. To her dismay, they headed for Sergeant Grant’s bed, the very patient she was supposed to check on. He was still recovering from his surgery until he was well enough to be moved to England. 

She decided to grit her teeth and bear it. Years had passed. Why should he bother her now? He probably wouldn’t even recognize her. She knew herself to be an unremarkable part of his life. How else could he have done what he did?

She strode over to the bed and ignored the men standing beside it. She lifted Grant’s chart and scanned it, but she couldn’t absorb anything. She could feel Lewis’s eyes on her. Moments that might have been hours passed as he stared, and she pretended she didn’t notice.

“Bonnie?”

Shit.

Biting back a groan, she looked at him, and met his eyes. Those eyes that once made her legs weak and her heart soft. But now only activated her punching reflex. She glanced at his collar to get his rank.

“Captain,” she said coolly. 

She returned her eyes to the clipboard.

“Okay, I know it doesn’t take that long to read a chart,” he said. 

She snapped it shut and glared at him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were a medical professional. Would you like a white coat and stethoscope? Just clock in since you seem to know so much!”

“Still mad, I see,” he said with a grimace.

“Oh, get over yourself,” she shot back. 

“So, you two know each other?” the red-head observed, cutting the tension. 

“It was a long time ago,” she said. “We went to school together.”

“We used to date,” Lewis added. 

“Could not have been more obvious I preferred to keep that private, but I guess we’re in this room now,” she said. 

“Dick, this is Bonnie Butler,” Nix said. “Bonnie, this is Major Dick Winters.”

“How do you do?” she said politely. 

“Nice to meet you,” Dick replied. “Bonnie Butler...like the little girl from Gone With the Wind?”

“If fairness, I had the name first,” she pointed out. “And I haven’t broken my neck falling off a horse, but I avoid them just in case.”

They both chuckled, and she refrained from smirking with satisfaction. Her need to impress him disturbed her. 

“I gotta admit I’m surprised to see you here,” Lewis said. 

“We haven’t spoken in years, Lewis, anything I’m doing should come as a surprise to you,” she returned.

Now that the initial contact was made, she had an easier time going about her job checking on Grant. It was pretty basic, just taking vitals and ensuring he was still stable. Which he was.

“Well, I’ll let you visit now,” she said.

She started to go.

“Kathy’s leaving me,” he blurted out.

She turned to face him, expression level. “Is that supposed to mean something to me, Lewis?”

It should have felt like victory. Like justice. But it only made her sad. None of it meant anything now. Her loving him, him loving Kathy, and Bonnie hating them both for it. The agony she faced because he chose her friend was only worth a few years of marriage. 

Did everything have to fall apart? Was nothing truly built to last? The war showed her that even thousand-year-old buildings would crumble under a bomb. Just as she crumbled when Lewis dropped the truth about him and Kathy. But now they were in ruins as well, so what was the point in any of it?

He shifted his weight between his feet, as he always did when he was anxious. He looked at the ground and then back at her, his eyes revealing how deeply he was stung. 

“Guess not,” he said. “I’ll see you around, Bonnie.”

She didn’t answer for so long he feared she would not at all. But she was still looking at him.

“I should hope not, Lewis,” she finally said. 

With that, she turned on her heel and walked out of the wing. Dick looked at Bonnie and then at his friend. He had never seen Lewis look so guilty. There was a deep remorse there, which indicated a great impact on his life, but Dick could not recall Lewis ever mentioning this woman. 

“What did you do to her?” Dick asked. 

Lewis cleared his throat before he answered. “Did I ever tell you how I met Kathy?”

Dick shook his head. 

“Well, Bonnie and I were dating,” Lewis began. “Kathy was her best friend. And, well...we fell in love. Behind Bonnie’s back. We had an affair for six months before we came clean.”

Dick blinked, taken aback. He knew Lewis was not the most ethical person in the world, but he did not expect his friend to be capable of something like that. He didn’t blame Bonnie at all for the way she spoke to Lewis. That kind of betrayal went deep because it was not just her boyfriend, but the one person she was supposed to be able to rely on when her boyfriend messed up. And then, to add insult to injury, they ended up married. Now, Dick was impressed with how Bonnie handled the news of the divorce. She had every right to laugh in his face. And she didn’t.

“Did you apologize?” Dick asked. 

“Oh, only about a thousand times,” Lewis replied. “And even after some time went by, Kathy and I tried to reach out again, but she wanted nothing to do with us. And we didn’t blame her, of course, but it still hurt.”

A beat passed. Lewis watched the door where Bonnie disappeared and wondered now if his split from Kathy was his punishment for what he did to her. That he and Kathy - because they started as a transgression - were perhaps doomed to fail. 

“C’mon, Nix,” Dick said. “Let’s go get something to eat.”

“Or dink,” Lewis returned. 

They left the hospital, but he found himself wishing he could find her again. Explain some more. But he knew better.

The following morning, Bonnie went to change an IV for a young corporal who had drunkenly jumped from a fourth story window and broken his leg. Many of the injuries she treated these days were caused by the jubilance of VE-Day, and she couldn’t say she blamed them, but she did wish they would be more careful. 

“Thanks, Nurse Butler,” the corporal said. 

“I’m just doing my job,” she replied gently. “This’ll only take a moment.”

She reached for the bag, when she suddenly heard a dreaded voice from behind her. 

“Careful with those, they can get messy,” Lewis said. 

She whipped around. 

“I’m sorry, don’t I first open my eyes and realize it’s a new day?” she asked sarcastically.

“I didn’t -”

“What is this magic bag in front of me?!” she exclaimed, holding the IV bag out with taunting wonder. 

“Look -”

“I’ve done this before,” she said sharply, becoming serious again and facing the patient, who was snickering.

“I know that,” he said.

“Then stop telling me what to do,” she retorted.

“I was joking,” he said calmly. “I’m sorry.”

“You should be,” she shot back, with a bitterness that told him she meant more than just the joke.

He did not speak again until after the IV was replaced. When she finished, she ignored Lewis and began walking away. 

“Bonnie, wait, I think we should talk about things,” he said, trailing behind her. 

“I disagree,” she replied. “Besides, I’m working.”

“When is your shift over?” 

“You know I’m not going to tell you that.”

“Please -”

She halted and whirled around. He skidded to a stop a few feet away. 

“What is it you’re so desperate to tell me?” she demanded. “That you’re sorry? Because I’ve heard that before, Lewis, and I don’t care.”

“You really can’t forgive me?” he asked. “After all this time?”

She wondered that herself often enough. But there was too much. Not only the betrayal, but the effects of it. How could she forgive him for the worthless way she felt? How could she forgive him for her now ingrained lack of trust? How could she forgive him for the nights she spent crying on the kitchen floor, convinced that this was what love felt like? 

His eyes clung to her gaze, and she endured a long moment of weakness where she felt totally incapable of turning away from him. But she knew she could now because she had done it before. 

“No,” she said, surprised by the croak in her voice and the lump in her throat. 

She didn’t wait for him to answer. She walked away, and thankfully, he didn’t follow. 

Another day passed. Lewis did not return to the hospital, and Bonnie was relieved. She worked the rest of her shift in peace. The only disturbance was a violent thunderstorm, which rumbled in the sky and pelted rain down against the roof all day.

When her shift concluded, it was still raining. Unwilling to get drenched, she went to the doctor’s lounge, which nurses frequented as well, for a drink. She had the next day off, so she figured she could afford to get a little tipsy. Her true goal was to get Lewis Nixon off her mind, but as she walked in, she met a dismal sight. There he sat at the bar, nursing a whiskey, looking sadly at a letter. 

She looked at the heavens to address God directly.

“You think you’re so funny, don’t you?”

She waited a moment, but received no reply. So with a sigh, she went over to the bar and took the stool beside Lewis. 

“You know, if you’re not medical personnel, you’re not really supposed to be in here,” she said.

He looked at her. “Are you speaking to me now?”

“I never said we can’t speak in general,” she said. “Just not about our past.”

“I see,” he returned. “Well, to address your earlier statement, this is the only place they have Vat 69 in all of Europe apparently.”

“You’re still drinking that nasty stuff?” she asked, wrinkling her nose.

“You’re not?”

She shook her head. “No, I’ve moved on.”

With that, she ordered a gin and tonic. They waited in silence as the bartender prepared it. The soft clink of ice and pop of the gin bottle might as well have been explosions. There were no other patrons to fill up the space. 

“So, are we gonna catch up?” he wondered. “Like old friends?”

“I don’t think we were ever really friends,” she replied. “If we were, you wouldn’t have done what you did.”

“Ah, ah, ah,” he warned jokingly. “That is forbidden territory.”

“Do you wanna talk or do you wanna fuck around?” she retorted. 

“If we’re not gonna address the elephant in the room, I’d argue that all we’re doing is fucking around,” he said. 

She couldn’t help but chuckle at that. As she relaxed into her chair and took a sip of her drink, memories of them laughing together swam before her. Those tidbits of happiness that she locked away so that they couldn’t hurt her anymore. Back when she thought of him as her whole world. 

“Alright, let’s fuck around,” she said. 

She let him go first. He talked about his son, then about joining the Airborne, about meeting Dick Winters, and he even admitted that he never fired a shot in combat. She told him about nursing school, enlisting, and a bit about her journey through Europe. It was all very surface level and appropriate. But it wasn’t them. 

“Would I be trespassing if I asked about your parents?” he wondered after their third round.

She considered it as she sipped her fourth cocktail. They grew up together, so she supposed it was fair. 

“Fine,” she said. “But it might depress you. Dad passed away, and Mom really hasn’t been the same since.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “They were always nice to me. Even after…”

She nodded, turning her glass on the counter, keeping her watering eyes focused on it. As her mother deteriorated, she kept asking where “that angel Lewis” was. Mrs. Butler doted on Lewis Nixon as if he were her own son. And Bonnie’s was not the only heart broken when everything happened. But now Mrs. Butler was stuck in a time before that, and Bonnie never had the heart to remind her that things were different now. 

“She asks about you,” Bonnie blurted out. “Mom does.”

“And what do you say?” he asked. 

“I tell her you’re coming any day now,” she said. “Of course she doesn’t know the difference. She can’t remember anything.”

He half smiled. “Well, I better go see her so I don’t make a liar out of you.”

She half smiled back. “That’d mean a lot to her.” 

She paused a beat while a doctor and another nurse filed in and took up two stools just a few seats away from her and Lewis. The other two were obviously romantic - their knees touched, their hands lingered close to each other, and they hardly looked at the bartender as they ordered. They were so wrapped up in each other. Bonnie felt the distance between her and Lewis was cavernous in comparison. She took a dink.  

“Um, how are your folks? Feeling alright?” she asked after swallowing.

“Oh, they’re the same as ever,” he said. “A little cold, a little rich. They’re gonna lose it when I tell them about the divorce.”

“You’re a grown man,” she reminded him. “What could they do?”

“You act like growing up means your parents can’t be obnoxious,” he said. “They can and they will.”

She bit her lip with hesitation. “Can I ask you something? It might be crossing a line.”

“Honey, I’m on my fifth whiskey, you can ask me whatever you want,” he assured her, knocking back the last gulp in his glass.

“Why can’t it work between you and Kath - your wife?” she asked. 

She couldn’t bring herself to say the name. Calling her “Kathy” made her who Kathy was. Bonnie’s former best friend who betrayed her in the worst way possible. Calling her “his wife” reduced her to an abstract. She could be anyone in theory. 

“She met someone else,” he answered. “Ironically enough.”

The air around them felt thick again. 

“You can laugh,” he said. “It must feel like poetic justice or something to you.”

She shook her head. “The last thing I feel like doing is laughing. That kind of hurt is not something I would wish on anyone, not even you.”

“It feels like you’re supporting me, but just barely,” he joked. 

She offered a smile. “I’m sorry, Lew. Really, I am.”

“Thanks,” he said. “But how on Earth are you so goddamn understanding?”

Her brow furrowed. “What? I’m not being understanding. I still think you’re rude for what you did.”

He blinked. “Rude?!”

“Yes, rude!” she cried. “You wanna cheat on me? That’s fine! You wanna marry that girl and get her pregnant? Fine! But to make it my best friend? That’s just rude!”

He laughed. An old, buried admiration for his smile crept up into her heart - right along the very cracks he had created and she had forced back together, never fully repairing the damage. She looked away, only to see the other couple was kissing now, and Bonnie had to turn her back to them.

“Well, I apologize for my rudeness,” he said.

“Based on the situation, I’m sure it won’t happen again,” she replied. 

“Ouch,” he said. “But well deserved on my part.”

“I’ll say,” she agreed. “But...can I ask you one more thing?”

“We have already crossed way beyond the line, go ahead,” he said.

“If you two felt that way about each other,” she began. “Why didn’t you just tell me? If you had been honest, I would have told you I’d be fine. I would never have stood in the way of your happiness. The lie hurt me more than the blow to my ego.”

He took a drink of his fresh glass of whiskey and swished it in his mouth briefly before swallowing - a tactic she was familiar with. He was constructing a careful answer.

“First of all, in fairness to us, we had no way of knowing that,” he said. “Second of all, and perhaps worst of all, we...we didn’t want to hurt you.”

“But don’t you see how it’s worse that you -”

“Of course,” he cut across her. “Of course we see how what we did was worse. We were young and stupid and afraid. And look where we are now.”

At that, they both finished their drinks. She bounced her foot a moment as what she was about to say bubbled up. Could she really say it? Did she mean it? She glanced at his face and got her answer. 

“Okay,” she said. “I’m ready.”

“To what?” he asked. “I hope it’s to tell those two to get a room.”

He nodded down the bar at the doctor and nurse. Their drinks remained untouched, but the same could not be said for their legs or their backsides. Bonnie snorted.

“C’mon, give them a break,” she said. “You remember what it was like when it was new.”

“Oh, yeah,” he said fondly. “Remember that time at Joan Watson’s party, when you and I went upstairs and -”

She squeaked to cut him off and her face went beet red. A fleeting memory of his hands on a lot more than her legs made her squirm in her seat. She cleared her throat. 

“As I was saying,” she said firmly. 

“Right, sorry,” he said through a chuckle. “What is it you’re ready for?”

“To forgive you,” she told him. “We’re both different people now, aren’t we?”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah, I’d say that’s true.”

He sat up a little straighter, appearing lighter. He pursed his lips too, fighting the grin that was spreading across his face.

“Wanna get out of here?” she suggested. 

“I’m still enjoying my whiskey,” he said. 

“Don’t you think you’ve had enough whiskey for - I dunno - a lifetime?”

“Not my lifetime.”

She rolled her eyes. He met her gaze and smirked. Then, he got to his feet, and offered her his hand. She took it, and they touched for the first time since what they each thought was to be the last time. Who could have imagined they would find each other again in Austria? So far from home and everything they knew together? And yet, through clasped hands, they felt that home was not so far away after all.

He helped her off the stool, they paid, and then walked outside together. The clouds had disappeared and the sun was beating down a fresh, fragrant warmth. The air was clear. The storm had passed. 

[cloveroctobers]

SEBASTIAN “SEB” KATSAROS —

IG bio/info: @/s3bgl00m | 17.4k followers | i hate it here. i hate my username name too. Listen to my podcast wth my mate here...open.Spotify.com/podcast/?!.doomngloom

28 years of age

Born & raised in Liverpool, England...don’t ask if he’s met the Beatles he will completely ignore you if you do

Music shop owner in the heart of town

It’s called, “Kicking Kettles”

loves collecting vinyls, cassette tapes, & cds sorry, what did you expect?

His mother is a children’s illustrator

She’s Ashkenazi Jewish

His father is a graphic designer

And is from Nafplio, Greece

They’ve been separated for about a year now, with seb’s father living in France

His mother was skeptical on dating around while she was in a place of uncertainty in her marriage but with a deep discussion with her husband, then her children, she slowly went forward just to see what was out there & found that she wasn’t sure if she’d be open permanently with other beings

Seb was similar to his mother in many ways...

Has a older sister by 2 years named, Xenia...she’s very bossy, a busy-body, & is very vocal. The opposite of seb

she used to beat up guys just for them to turn around and ask her out on dates, a few of them tried to bully seb but Xenia was not having that ofc

very close to his family, even if things are a little off between mum & dad

I feel like he went through a buzzed hair phase & when he finally made the choice to start growing out his hair, going on 4-5 years now, everyone seemed to approve

Even if they didn’t? It be no matter, sure he’d feel a little awkward if someone he cared about didn’t like it but he was sure they would get over it OR get used to it

The hair only comes out when he’s showering or going to bed

His best friend who’s a barber (and a bit of a douche) tells him he’s got to let his hair breathe more often or he’ll have breakage, seb doesn’t think it’s that serious? He’s not sure how much longer he’ll keep the bun now anyways...

This same friend encouraged him to get a “Pompadour” haircut & seb’s never been so offended before in his life, “I wouldn’t want to look like the rest of you knob-heads.”

Anyways, he takes care of his hair the best way he knows how and it seems to work for him...some slightly expensive haircare products here and there & a trimmer & he’s good to go

When he first started growing his hair out, he felt like he needed to go to the salon to know how to manage it. After awhile he learned how to do it on his own + you save $ that way

uses his hands to talk or holds one hand in the other when having a conversation since he doesn’t know what to do with his hands exactly

He’s a chapstick kinda guy who always loses his before he can finish it (been there)

Absolutely loves Japanese food and eats it almost everyday

Japanese Mayo is the superior condiment, bill can stfu!!

probably watches anime

owns a bunch of vans, beanies, and hoodies

smokes hookah every now & then but isn’t too crazy about it

canon: catlover! I feel like he would have a Sphynx, Abyssinian, Ocicat, or oriental shorthair + was over the moon when his baby had babies !!!

He wanted to keep all 5 of the kittens but knew he probably couldn’t, at least not forever but he was going to wait until they were all at least a few months before he decided to put them up for adoption...which sucks but would ultimately be the best choice, maybe???

tried eyeliner again outside of the villa & finds pencil or pomade is better than the standard liquid liner

likes black nail polish but is slightly embarrassed to be seen out with it, it’s the same thing with the eyeliner...he’s not that confident

the guy is a huge blusher & he despises the fact that his face betrays him 80% of the time

often gets nosebleeds

loves red wine especially if it’s on a rainy day and he’s home to fully enjoy it, he feels like he’s on his grown man shit when he does so

I feel like he’d be a fan of the umbrella academy & thinks it’s way better than stranger things...him & nick have argued over this on doom n gloom!

Five is his favorite

Everything he owns is in either black, red, gray/grey, or green

His main phobia is emetophobia (fear of v*mit) & he won’t share why, that’s just what it is

Introvert!

Canon: he’s not a Aquarius

So wtf r ya? Nick & I would like to know plz

Virgo sun? + Taurus moon? + Pisces rising?

I feel like he’s one of those people that feels the need to bring a backpack with him everywhere and you can imagine it to be black ofc

“Who tf are you Linus? But with a backpack?” His sister often jokes (I do this with my sibs, both of them love carrying backpacks. Me on the other hand? I don’t have time for the shit)

He drives a shitty car from the 90s that’s Engine sounds as if it’s about to blow

but 100% perfers to drive his moped, Atticus around

played football (soccer) growing up to help get rid of his asthma

Cannot sleep with the tv on or any form of light around him, it has to be completely dark & quiet!

He’ll only do so if it’s with Genevieve since you know they’re trying this whole long distance thing out

Are one of those couples that will fall asleep on the phone/cpu together

Genevieve might be the, “no you hang up first” & seb will actually hang up the phone and get into bed lmao

Just for vieve to call back like?!! “I can’t believe you’ve done this!

“Well you said—

“Never mind what I said, sebz!!! It’s extremely rude...”

his last relationship before Genevieve lasted 6-8 months (there was a time when he felt like he was unsure if he was still in a couple with that person, isn’t that a shame?)

his love language is acts of service, he’ll do things for you to ease your worries out of love and not obligation so that you feel valued as his partner & I believe he wants this in return as well

I think he’s a bit of a worry wart too when it comes to certain things even if his exterior might show him trying to hide it

He was super nervous to get his first tattoo on his chest, “if words fail, music speaks” but he found that the slight pain was worth it? And quite nice! then he kept going back monthly and soon enough his arms were completely covered

mum hated it, her baby boy was becoming a man! (It’s not like he’s almost 30 but you know how moms are)

Deff has a collection of silver rings, he’s tried out necklaces but he thinks he looks better with his rings

The slit in his brow came from trying to squeeze thru the broken patio glass door with his sis as if it were some booby trap (not exactly, but a safety hazard forsure!) & a piece of glass fell from above slicing his brow and left him with 4 stitches

Secretly into watching those dating shows before and after experiencing it himself

people he enjoyed seeing on the Telly from previous seasons: jen, jake, talia, erikah, lottie, Noah, Carl, Kassam, Priya, & Hannah

AJ is his best girl friend (besides vieve) they FaceTime quite a bit & chat shit to each other on the daily

Feels like she fits in well with his friend group, which just contains his barber friend — they put up with his banter & give it right back to him but he can also be vulnerable & comfortable with those around him so that’s always a plus

It’s the same with nick, except they share a hobby together, their podcast & that’s what seb wants to keep it as, a hobby, for fun & giggles yet nick is thinking about getting paid for what they do. He thinks it’s a great idea whereas seb doesn’t want this to turn into a career/chore

He’s perfectly happy at kicking kettles

He feels strongly about his stance while nick is on both sides

They’ll figure it out, soon.

How are things outside of the villa & since the boat party? They all have a group chat that they randomly speak up in, in the beginning they would do morning and goodnight texts but that became tedious so they settled for either or. Or simply just checking in to see how each other’s days went with seb secretly being the most curious to everyone’s days

Things are awkward between him and Yasmin, he kinda avoids talking to her tbh & not because he doesn’t want to...its just yeah it’s not the same with him and aj where they can easily move forward, it feels like pulling teeth with Yasmin since they’re some what similar & it seems like she’s waiting on him to take the lead on fixing some imagined issue they have with each other? It’s weird idk

Lives in a cramped studio apartment, it works for him so he doesn’t need any inputs thank you

celeb crushes? Demi lovato, Hwasa, Amanda Seyfried, & Birgundi Angel Baker

as for music? Sleeping with sirens, pierce the veil, teagan & Sara, the pierces, panic!at the disco, all time low, twenty one pilots, x-ambassadors, awolnation, jon bellion— listen when atl dropped? Seb felt like he was reborn okay?! , Japanese breakfast, & great grandpa

Anthem = The Postal Service, “Such great heights”

[queenbirbs]

surrender | Edward Mortemer x f!MC

Pairing: Edward Mortemer x Elena McTavish

Word count: 7.5k+

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: N*FW

AN: In the words of Kacey Musgraves: I’m alright with a slow burn. But when you want to speed it up a little, that’s what fics are for, right? Takes place pre-chapter nine and also kind of skirts around the very end of chapter eight.

**Re-post due to my dumb ass trying to edit the original on mobile and it wiped the whole damn thing. Cool. Cool cool cool. 

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“Good evening, Miss McTavish?”

The words aren’t so much of a greeting as a question. It’s silly, then, that her breath catches a little. She hides it with a stretch, raising her arm above her head and letting out a throaty noise of content when her spine lengthens. Dropping back onto her heels, she watches Edward finish his ascent up to the crow’s nest where she stands watch.

“Nothing but sea and sky,” Elena replies.

“Aye, should be more of the same on through ‘til morning.”

He settles at his preferred spot, just a few feet from her. She wouldn’t be surprised if his boots have worn divots into the wood from the amount of time he spends up here.

“I’m no Al Roker, but I’d say the nice weather will continue. The sunset was as gorgeous as ever.” She tips her head to the side and bites down on her lip, trying to pull a script line from her memory. “What’s that saying, ‘red sky at night, sailor’s delight’?”

“Al Roker?” he repeats the name, his brow furrowed.

“He’s... a person who predicts the weather. Sort of.”

Edward’s gaze flickers from the sea to her, and then back again, huffing out a short laugh.

“It seems that you speak another language, sometimes.”

“Comes with the territory, I suppose.” Elena shrugs. “What with being a twenty-first century transplant and all.”

She doesn’t miss the quick search he does of the ship below, looking out for any wayward pirates with curious ears, but she knows, just as well as he does, that most everyone is tucked away in the galley below deck. The only other soul around is Maggie back at the helm, who makes a show of feigning interest towards the starboard to give them more privacy.

“I hope you don’t find me rude, that I still don’t know what to make of your… claims.”

“No offense taken,” she assures with a nonchalant wave of her hand. “I thought about what I would do if someone suddenly appeared in my house, claiming they were from your time.”

“And what would you do?”

“Call the cops and then threaten to sick my dog on them.”

“The dog wearing the life preserver?” he lifts a single eyebrow at her, the corners of his lips twitching upwards. “Aye, a truly terrifying sight to be sure.”

“Was that a joke?” she asks, her eyes wide as she makes a show of looking him over.

“You didn’t care for the one about falling in battle, so I thought I’d try out another.”

“Not bad. But I wouldn’t give up your day job quite yet.”

Edward hums his agreement and turns his sights on the ocean before them. Elena understands why he enjoys being up here -- she likens him to a king, high in his tower, or a lion, perched atop his rock; all the world is an oyster from such a height.

Tipping her head up, she takes in the night sky’s view. With little to no light pollution, especially this far out at sea, the stars come out in droves. The Milky Way is a cloudy, violet river that commandeers the horizon. It’s almost dizzying, the amount of stars visible, layers upon layers of them blooming across the sky. Elena’s never seen anything like it. Even when she and her sister would skip their Friday classes, drive up to the nearby state park, and spend the weekend up there, pretending they knew how to camp.

She thinks of the text on her phone from Gabby and the plans they were in the process of making for her to come visit Elena in Los Angeles. When she dropped out of college to follow her dream, the few family she remained in contact with ceased their feeble attempts at communication. When she made it to LA (or, rather, to the one-room hovel she could barely afford), Gabby was the only person on the other end of the line, trying her best to cheer her up. The pang of loss strikes her hard, somewhere behind her ribs. Other than her sudden departure from the set, Gabby might be one of the only people that notices her disappearance -- which is kind of sad, when Elena thinks about it, given that her sister still lives back in Austin.

That thought launches a thousand others. How long has she been gone? Is time moving at the same speed in the future? Is she even going to make it back home?

“Lovely, isn’t it?” Edward’s voice jolts her from her thoughts.

“Yeah,” she agrees, clearing her throat of the emotions that clog it. The railing is steady below her hands; she clings to it, trying to ground herself as best she can.

“Tis... not the same, where you’re from?”

“Where I live, it’s hard to see this many. I feel like if I could get a little bit higher, I could almost touch them.”

Edward looks back to the east, where the moon hangs low in the sky.  

“I don’t see why not,” he murmurs, making a show of leaning close to continue, “if what you say about the moon is true.”

“The stars are a lot farther. And the moon isn’t exactly suitable to live on. At least, not right now. Or,” she pauses, her lips twisting into a grimace, “well, not in my time, it’s not.”

“I’m glad, then, that I’ve made the sea my home.”

If his words are tinged with melancholy, Elena doesn’t mention it. Though she could encourage him to elaborate, she doesn’t want to ruin this peaceful moment. The thought brings with it the memory of their afternoon swim: of his arm wrapped tight around her waist, of the hungry look in his eyes as he took his fill, of the ache in her chest when their moment was broken by the need to surface.

The crystal-clear, turquoise water of the cove brought its own reminder of the summer before her sophomore year of college. It was Gabby’s idea to use their open water diving certifications for something other than taking up space in their wallets. Having spent so much time after her gender affirming surgery entertaining herself with shipwreck documentaries, she booked the trip to the Florida Keys, flights and all, before informing Elena -- in typical Gabby fashion.

“I would never get tired of the views, that’s for sure,” Elena sighs. “Or the constant opportunity to explore whatever island I sailed upon. Like that tiny island we stopped at, I would love to dive there, spend some time exploring underwater.”

Glancing over, she spots Edward’s furrowed brow; she sifts through what little historical knowledge she has of diving. Have those weird, space-age looking suits even been invented yet?

“Sometimes, Miss McTavish, I wonder if I have not happened upon a selkie, with the things you claim.”

“Selkie?” she repeats, rolling the word around in her head, but recognition never comes.

“Aye, a creature of myth, though some people believe they do exist. My mother used to tell me stories when I was little, of the women who came from the sea. Once they reach dry land, they shed their seal skin and transform into a human.”

“So... kinda like a mermaid?”

Edward tips his head in consideration. “In a way. But selkies are usually considered to be gentler. Unless their seal skin is stolen, they favor their time spent among humans. And, when they tire of us, they return to their skin and resume their life under the sea.”

“That sounds sad, in a way. But I promise I went down in a diving suit, not a seal skin.”

“I’ve heard rumors coming out of England, of a man who salvaged sunken ships by trapping himself inside of a barrel. I assume that is not what ye mean, though.”  

“No, not in a barrel,” she grins, pulling her phone from her pocket. “I can show you, though, if you’d like to see.”

“Ah, the black box of witchery.”

He moves closer as he speaks, though, clearly interested in taking another look at it. If he was truly frightened of it, she supposes, he could just lob it into the sea. Her grip tightens on the phone at the thought.

Navigating to her photos, she taps at the folder (embarrassingly titled we’re in miami bitch!!) and turns the phone so the images can expand into greater detail.

“Some of these I took with a disposable camera, so they aren’t the best,” she laments, swiping her thumb across the screen every few seconds. “But my sister -- she has this fancy underwater housing, so her pictures are nice and clear. I would message her for more, but I don’t think Verizon has that great of service.”

She can’t help but chuckle at her own bad joke. Edward, it seems, couldn’t care less -- entranced as he is by the colorful images of the coral reefs and the sponges sprouting from the USS Spiegel Grove’s rusted frame.

“These paintings are exquisite.”

“Pictures,” she corrects.

“You say that as if I’m to know what it means,” he counters.

She swipes to a selfie her sister had taken, the image capturing little else but their masks and the blue world around them. The next photo is better: a full-body shot of Elena in her wetsuit and gear, a cloud of bubbles floating above her head. “I suppose this explains you being such a strong swimmer, when you jumped in after Ginny.”

She shrugs at the veiled compliment and returns the phone to her pocket, avoiding his intense look that she can feel burning into the side of her head.

“Well, swimming in thirty-foot waves is a bit different from the calm waters of Key Largo, but thanks.”

Edward reaches down and skims two fingers under her chin. He tips her head up to meet his gaze, his dark eyes flashing with certainty.

“Make no mistake, though: I am to see that you do not perform such a stunt again.”    

Elena knocks his hand away; irritation bubbles up inside her, heating her cheeks and neck.

“I wasn’t performing. I’m not the Wonder Twins. And I’d do it again, if Ginny or anyone else went overboard. Even for you.”

His expression sharpens, his mouth twisting into a frown. She crosses her arms across her chest and serves him a look right back. Whatever he’s about to say, she cuts off as she continues, “Just because I haven’t been sailing the high seas or… or crossed swords with some real buccaneers as long as you all have been doesn’t mean I’m not capable. I fought Robert and won -- I even got his fancy-schmancy sword -- and I sailed our ship through a storm, didn’t I? You need to learn to trust me and-- and… why are you smiling?”

The irritation fades from his face in one fell swoop, there and then gone, replaced by a soft smile that he seems to reserve only for her.

“Something you said, Miss McTavish.”

“I said a lot of things,” she points out. Despite the opening she leaves dangling for him, he doesn’t elaborate. She’s not sure why she expected him to; the man is stubborn to a fault. “Okay, fine. You can keep your charming and mysterious act. You certainly have it down pat.”

“As you do with your… turns of phrase.”

The tension between them cools, aided by the winds that blow towards them from the north. Elena settles at his side once more, the railing at her back. He gives a cursory glance over the horizon.

“You know,” she says, “I realized today that I never said thank you.”

“For what?” he returns his sights to her, curiosity warming his eyes.

“For getting me the hell off the Admiral’s ship. I knew he wasn’t a stand-up guy when he shot one of his own men, but knowing what I know now, I’m especially grateful.” She reaches out to touch his wrist, squeezing it for a long beat. Edward brings his other hand up and covers hers. “I know you took a risk, not knowing if I was a navy spy, but you brought me aboard anyway.”

“Even when we made you stand trial to prove such innocence?”

“Do you think I would’ve been given such a chance on his ship?” she asks, her tone thick with sarcasm.

“No, I do not.” Edward’s face darkens for a moment. “A man capable of such depravities would have treated you… terribly, no doubt.”

“Hey, like I said: white dude of high rank in the eighteenth century? He’s got about a two percent chance of not being an awful person.”

“You--” Edward pauses, lowering his voice as he continues, “are things… different, in your time?”

Elena bites at her lip, wondering how much she should divulge about the twenty-first century. Hope works much better if the outcome is still uncertain, and she doesn’t want to dash any he has for his own future.

“Different, sure, but also very much the same. There’s a famous expression: ‘those who forget history are doomed to repeat it.’ It’s -- let’s just say it’s been accurate more than once or twice.”

“I’ve never heard of such a phrase, but I understand its meaning rather well.”

“And, hey, that’s the second time now that you’ve referred to my ‘situation,’” she marks the term with air quotes. “Does that mean you believe me?”

Edward makes a show of heaving out a sigh. “I am making a valiant effort to do so. Your box certainly helps your case. It -- all of it -- ‘tis still rather wonderful and strange, though.”

“There are more things in heaven and earth, Edward, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”

“You’ve read Hamlet?”

“I’m an actor by trade. Of course I’ve read it. And by read it, I mean that Shakespeare’s works were forced on me in every English class in school.”

That gets an exasperated chuckle out of him. She can’t help the smile that forms; she really enjoys the sound of his laughter. For as much as he tries to play up the stoic, unfeeling pirate captain, he seems to lose the battle whenever she’s around. “It’s all right, you know, if you don’t believe me. I know this is kinda crazy.”

The humor on his face is there one second and then gone the next.

“’Tis… not that.”

“Then what is it?”

No answer comes.

“Charlie was right,” she teases, knocking her elbow into his. “You’re really not great at changing the subject.”

That gets her a snort of amusement, but nothing more. Before she can prod, a cold gust of wind sings through the rigging, whipping up past them and sending her hair into disarray. Despite the residual heat of the sun-warmed railing, Elena can’t help but shiver, and hugs herself to conserve what little heat she can. Edward wraps an arm around her waist and pulls her close, his hand running up and down her back with gentle strokes. Her heartbeat quickens at the gesture, now familiar since he helped pull her up out of the raging waters.

“I apologize, Miss McTavish. I shouldn’t have kept you up here so long. You should go down to the galley -- you missed dinner, after all, while on watch. Can’t have you on a chameleon diet. And you’ll be much warmer down there.”

Elena shakes her head and reaches up, placing a hand on the warm plane of his chest where his shirt parts. His breath catches under her palm.

“No, I’m alright. I’m glad you were the next on lookout duty, actually. I wanted to ask you a question.”

“Ask away.”

“Do you really think the Admiral cares about getting his property back?” Edward’s body tenses under her touch; she shoves down the wiry ball of nerves in her stomach at the movement. “That lieutenant I ran into, he didn’t mention anything about--”

“Need I remind you of what I promised on our walk from the mayor’s estate?” he interrupts.

Confusion sweeps through her. Elena quirks her head to the side, trying to connect the dots between that conversation and her current fears. “You are no man’s property,” he spits, his voice gone rough from obvious fury. “And for as long as you are here, you are under my protection.”  

The wave of realization hits her.

“I was, uh, talking about the compass.”

“Ah.” He sucks in a deep breath and lets it out. The hard line of his shoulders softens. “I… see.”

“But it was interesting, to say the least, to see you puff up like that. I’m sure it would make any other lass swoon. I mean,” she lifts her hand from his chest and holds her thumb and pointer finger inches apart, “I was this close.”

He rolls his eyes at her. “Aye, I’d pay top coin to see you swoon.”

“I can think of a few things you could do to make that happen,” she teases.

Edward takes her hand in his and drops a kiss to her knuckles. Before that familiar swell of longing in her chest can rise, though, he shakes his head.  

“I will not risk it.”

“You would sail your ship into every storm across the Caribbean, but this,” Elena glances down to their entwined hands, “you won’t take a chance on?”

“That should tell you how serious I am.”

“I can’t follow your line of thinking, Edward. Do you think the Admiral will suddenly know? That he’s some omniscient god, overseeing all that goes on?”

“People are fond of gossip.”

“Who? What people? Because if it’s the crew, I trust them with my life, just like you do, and I don’t--”

“Not them. But anywhere we’d go, we’d have eyes on us -- eyes that could report back to the Admiral. And if we were -- there would be no world where I wouldn’t want to have you by my side.”

“But we--”

“Jealousy is a hideous trait to have, but I’m afraid I would not be able to stop it from affecting my actions. I’ve seen the people at port, the way they flirt with you.” Edward frowns at the dark sea ahead. “You don’t think I wouldn’t challenge anyone who tried to -- to woo you? I would not be able to stand idle while--”

Elena barks out the short laugh she’s been holding in. “What is so humorous?”

“Because you already do all that.”  

Self-awareness rushes in like the tide, flooding his brain. His jaw goes slack, as does his hand in hers, before he collects himself. Elena feels pinned under those eyes of his. She watches them drop down to her lips before returning to her gaze.

“May I?”

“You really have to ask?”

“Aye, of course.”

He starts to say more -- probably a long-winded explanation about his gentlemanly values -- but she’s waited too long for this to be delayed another second. Elena leans up and silences him with a kiss. He doesn’t turn and flee, like she expects; when he breaks the kiss for air, she gets but a second to collect her own breath before his lips return to hers. She hums her encouragement when he lets go of her hand to sink his fingers into the loose wave of her hair.

His lips, cold from the ocean breeze, warm under hers. Elena finds that his kisses are exactly like him: brash, and quick, and intoxicating, with the slightest hint of steel. When she draws her tongue against him, she can taste spiced rum and saltwater. He growls from the deep well of his throat when she bites down on his heavy, bottom lip. His arm cinches tight around her waist and hauls her against him; their bodies meet in a delicious roll of pressure.

“Miss -- Miss McTavish--”

“Elena,” she corrects, her hand skating up his back, searching for purchase so she can drag him closer.  

“Elena.”

His breath is hot against her skin where his lips trace the line of her jaw. The world dips and sways suddenly, the railing digging into her back. She clings to him when the sensation of weightlessness shoots up her spine.

It takes her a moment to register that it's only the ship underneath them, crossing over a rough wave. Concerned that she’ll end up pitching over to the deck eighty feet below, he picks her up and spins until her back meets the mast. Elena reaches for the lapels of his coat, but he’s faster, and snatches her hands in one of his and pins them above her head.  

“I have dreamed of this,” he murmurs, skimming the pads of his callused fingers along her throat, his mouth trailing behind with fervent, open-mouthed kisses.

She swallows back the moan that wants to form. A shiver dances under her skin, now damp from his attention.

“I have too,” she admits with a sigh. “Except mine deserve an NC-17 rating.”

“You know I don’t understand what that--”

“I certainly fuckin’ can!” someone shouts from below.

The wonderful spell they’ve found themselves under shatters. The voice might as well have been a gunshot, with the way Edward leaps back from her. Elena mourns the loss of his mouth on her as she adjusts her waistcoat and smooths down her hair.

Flipping and tumbling their way across the deck, Ada and Ax continue their argument about who can reach the top of the main mast first. Charlie, Jonas, and Ginny trail behind them, wagering their bets. Maggie’s thick accent carries across the ship, telling them off for circusing about, and ordering them to stay away from the rigging.

It’s not as if their tryst could have continued much longer, Elena considers, given that the crow’s nest wasn’t exactly a secluded spot. The twins make a good show of pouting, but eventually head for their quarters, Ginny giggling as Ax twirls her round.

“Maggie deserves a raise,” Elena tells him.

“Because she knows how dangerous ‘tis for them to be climbing about with no light?”

“Because she knows they would’ve caught us up here, making out like a pair of horny teenagers.”

“Ah. You--” his hand lifts in an aborted move towards her before he redirects it through his tousled hair. “--you should get down to the galley. I’m sure Henry is waiting on you, by now.”    

“Okay,” she says, because it’s the only thing to say. Swinging down onto the rope ladder, Elena starts to descend but pauses, peeking over the railing to catch his eye. “But don’t think this conversation between us is over.”

“Aye.” A wry grin flickers across his face. “I know much better than to assume that.”

+

Edward is right -- about the food, at least.

When she makes it down to the galley, Henry sits her down with a covered plate. Well, as covered as it can be with the dirty rag he’s thrown over it. She’s learned not to make a fuss, though, especially to the man cooking the food.

“Thanks for keeping it warm for me.”

“Took ye long enough,” Henry huffs, but makes a show of looking over his shoulder at her. His face, streaked with ash that he sifts with a makeshift poker, makes it easier to spot his sly grin. “Find somethin’ interestin’ up there, hmm?”

“I was distracted by the view.” Which is the truth, although she doesn’t include that Edward’s lips were part of said view.

“Nothin’ beats a clear night at sea, to be sure.” Swinging the stove door shut with a satisfied grunt, he jerks his chin towards a small barrel on the nearby shelf. “Charlie made some punch, if ye want more’n water to wash yer food down.”

She shakes her head; she’d made the mistake once of drinking their ‘punch.’ It put the jungle juice she drank back at college parties to shame. Charlie now called it Caribbean moonshine, thanks to Elena and her fiery round of swearing after taking a sip.

With the comforting noise of Henry’s humming as he cleans up, she takes a seat on the tin-lined floor and eats her dinner. Not for the first time, she notes Maggie’s touch in the confined space. Fitted across the shelves are iron bars to keep the contents from taking a tumble in rough waters. Tied round the necks of bottles with twine, scraps of parchment label each oil and spice in her spidery handwriting.

“I worked up a new dessert for ye to try, if ye’d like.” He produces a bowl of something that might come out the other end of her garbage disposal back home. Elena inspects the concoction with interest. “I boiled some hard tack in a little bit o’ rum and brown sugar, and then boiled mangoes with some sugar to mix in with it.”

“Ooh, like a compote?”

“Aye, sorta.”

In another world, three hundred some-odd years in the future, she could easily imagine Henry with a cafe or food truck, selling ‘deconstructed desserts’ and other kitschy items. Scooping up a sample, she’s surprised at the delicious flavor of it. The enjoyment on her face must be obvious, because a grin appears behind the ash. “Good, init?”

“Really good! Except, and this is going to sound weird, but maybe add a pinch of lime juice? I think it would really bring out the sweetness of the mango more.”

“Yer right, lass. That might do. And then maybe I can finally get the others to try it.”

“I’ll vouch for you,” she promises after sampling another portion. “Unless I die of food-poisoning tonight, and then you’re shit outta luck.”

Henry shakes his head and huffs out a laugh. “Edward’d have my head first.”  

“Did he at least try it?”

“I doubt he would’ve, if he’d come down for dinner at all. Too busy broodin’ in his cabin, I suspect.”

Elena hands off her empty plate when he motions for it. Curiosity, instead of hunger, gnaws at her insides.

“Can I take this with me?” she gestures to the bowl in her hands.

“Aye, have the rest of it -- and see if ye can convince the cap’n to get in a few bites, hmm?”

She doesn’t bother asking him how he knows where she’s going; the rest of the crew isn’t as blind as Edward claims them to be. “But if ye break it, yer buyin’ me a new one.”

“Deal. Thanks, Henry!”

+

Elena climbs up to the deck carrying her pilfered bowl.

From where she’s manning the wheel, Charlie throws her a two-fingered salute from the bridge. High overhead, Jonas wishes her goodnight from his post in the crow’s nest. Grateful that she won’t have to try holding onto the bowl while climbing up the rope ladder, she continues on towards the stern.

“What can I do for you, Miss McTavish?” Edward asks before his door is fully open.

“How’d you know it was me?”

He shoots her a deadpan look. Moving aside to allow her entry, he shuts the door behind her.

“No one else would dare bother a captain’s sleep, lest there was an emergency.”

“Henry told me you skipped dinner, so I brought you something to eat.” Elena gestures to the bowl in her hand. Stepping close to give it a thorough once-over, Edward grimaces.

“I will take my chances with starvation.”

“Hey,” she scolds, “it isn’t that bad.”

He does a double-take between her and the food. “You ate it?”

“In college, I once ate stale Wheat Thins drizzled with an expired bottle of honey mustard. And before you say anything,” she holds up a hand to stop the statement she knows is coming, “I know you don’t know what either of those are, but trust me: it was the most disgusting thing I’ve ever eaten.”

“And this bowl of slop is better than that?”

“If it weren’t, would I be forcing you to eat it?”

He mutters something under his breath, too faint for her to catch, but seems to concede. After a brief hesitation, he takes the bowl and spoon she offers him and shovels in a mouthful of the mixture. His eyebrows pinch down at the initial taste, and then lift in bewilderment.

“Not bad, right?”

“Not… horrible, no.” He sounds just as surprised as he looks. “This is one dessert of Henry’s that I may live to tell the tale of.”

“Good. But that’s not the only reason I came.”

“Aye, would it have anything to do with continuing our conversation from earlier?”

“All that time, Robert was accusing me of being a witch, but here you are, able to read minds.”

Edward gives a soft snort at that, collapsing into his chair. The desk in front of him is littered with maps and parchments and various trinkets. Elena crosses the room and comes round the side of the desk, taking in the starry view from the windows. Out of the corner of her eye, she watches the spoon swirl round and round in the gruel as he assesses her.

“Ye would’ve been a good jester, Miss McTavish, in a previous life.”

“It’s just us,” she murmurs. “You can drop the surname.”

“No, I can’t.” The grief in his voice is as clear as a bell. “In another life, yes, but here--”

“--here,” she interrupts, turning at the waist to study him, “in your cabin, alone. Not even then?”

Edward sets the bowl down onto the desk and glares at the floorboards. “We can’t let our emotions cloud our judgement.”

Folding her arms across her chest, she lifts a single brow at his attempt to backtrack.

“Says the man hell-bent on playing cat-and-mouse with an enemy to exact revenge on him for something he clearly feels guilty about? Talk about the pot calling the kettle black.”

His gaze shoots up to her, those dark eyes of his flashing in the candlelight. “That phrase I indeed do know.”

“Then you should know that you can’t kiss me like the world is ending, and then shoe-horn me back into a neat, little box, Captain Mortemer.” Elena doesn’t see it coming, she’ll admit that. She’s too busy ranting at the starry night, too pissed off with the man beside her, too afraid she’ll lose the runaway train of her thoughts if she focuses on him and sees all the emotions he claims to be above, all that longing and heartache and desire, painted across his face. “Since you’re so insistent on using surnames to avoid--”

In the second it takes her to draw a breath, Edward surges out of his chair and crosses to her. In the next, his lips are on hers. That passion she saw the mere beginnings of up in the crow’s nest roars with intensity. He cups her cheek and tilts her head just so, deepening the kiss; she can taste the mango’s sweetness on his tongue.

All at once, he pulls away. She mourns the loss of him with a quiet moan.

“My -- my apologies. I’m--”

Before he can worry himself into the ground with another fit of propriety, Elena holds up a finger to his lips.

“Stop being so polite and kiss me again.”

That familiar grin breaks free, lighting up his face with a naked delight that sends her heart racing.

“As you command.”

His mouth claims hers again. A muscled arm circles her waist, one hand splaying wide across her back to pull her close. She comes easily, readily into his embrace. His shirt twists in her hand where she holds on for dear life, parting for a quick breath of air, before diving back in. His other hand strokes a molten path up from her waist, brushing over the beaded point of her nipple. The moan she releases is louder this time, wanting more than anything for him to do it again.

For all his faults, he’s no fool. Sure, he takes his sweet time with it, dragging his fingertips along her collarbone and up into her hair to push the blonde curtain back, but he eventually makes his way back down. Cupping her breast, his thumb rubs circles against her -- even through the layers of lace and cotton, Elena’s breath catches at the immediate flare of pleasure.

Emboldened by her response, Edward backs her up against the cool, glass panes, his mouth leaving hers to suckle at her throat. Elena tips her head back, her lips parting as his stubble prickles against her skin. His thumb works steadily over her and she’s dizzy with the primal need to have him.

Braced by the window behind her, she hooks a leg up and around his ass. He needs no more encouragement to invade the space she’s created, his hips rocking tentatively against hers. Frustrated with the buffer of all her layers, Edward retreats to the buckle at her waist, his eyes searching hers.

“May I?”

Elena swallows to free the words from her throat, but they won’t come; instead, she nods her permission. The belt hits the floor with a thwack. Her waistcoat comes next, which she tosses off with a flourish. Edward captures her hands and tugs off her gloves. Spotting the gleam in his eye, Elena distracts him with a roll of her hips and frees her hands, chuckling when he mutters a curse at her.

“You’re a cunning lass.”

“I can’t wait around for you to strip me of my garments.” Her fingers making quick work of the corset’s laces. “Besides,” she drawls, “between the two of us, I’m probably the one with more experience taking off a lady’s corset.”

His eyebrow raises in response to her claim. The image of her and another tangled together plagues him; his jaw clenches tight at the thought.  

“That may be so,” he growls, reaching down for his own shirt and tearing it off, “but it won’t be their names you’ll be calling soon enough.”

Her blood flash boils at the promise. She grabs the hem of her blouse and yanks it up over her head.

“Jealousy is a good look on you,” she teases, tracing the line of his jaw with her fingernail.

Seizing her hand, he laces their fingers together and presses a kiss to her wrist. Goosebumps raise across her skin as his mouth trails from the tendons in her forearm to the curve of her shoulder. Nudging her bra strap down, Edward continues his trek to the rosy flush blooming across her chest.

Not one to play the passive participant, Elena cards a hand through his shoulder-length locks and nudges him down. He takes the cue and moves further south; she whimpers at the wet heat of his mouth closing over the lace of her bra.

“God, stop teasing and--” her gasp echoes across the cabin at the sharp bite of his teeth closing around her nipple. His tongue darts out, soothing any hurt, and turns to lave at her other breast.

Once she regains motor control, Elena unlatches her bra and flings it to what might possibly be the furthest reaches of the universe -- she doesn’t care, as long as Edward will keep doing wondrous things to her with that mouth of his.

“Miss McTavish,” he rumbles, tilting his head to run his stubble along her naked flesh, enjoying the ragged, little noises she makes. “You are well on your way to looking thoroughly ravished.”

Her wandering hand smooths over the tight curve of his ass and grabs hold. She smirks as he bucks up into her.

“Then get on with it, Captain.”  

Deft fingers pop the button on her pants and dip down below the waistband. Elena stretches up and rests her bare shoulders against the glass, tipping her hips up to encourage his exploration. She cries out when he slides two fingers inside of her. He gives her a moment to adjust to the intrusion, nuzzling the curve where her neck meets her shoulder.

“I’ve long wondered,” he murmurs, his tongue skimming across the salty sweat of her skin, “what you taste like.”

At the sudden loss of his hand, Elena opens her eyes to tell him off for his teasing -- but her throat goes dry when he brings his fingers to his mouth and sucks them clean. It’s a long moment before her world centers on its axis once more for her to ask.

“How do I taste?”

“Decadent,” he growls.

Crowding against her, he props himself up with one hand spread wide against the window above her head, while his other draws a wet trail down her belly. A short grunt of pleasure sounds from both of them when he slips back inside her.

Elena reaches a shaky hand up to hook around his arm, her nails digging into the muscles there. Arousal clogs her veins like molasses -- slow and syrupy and sinfully sweet. The movement of her hips turns clumsy and erratic. Sweat beads across her forehead as his fingers work her open, the heel of his hand circling her with delicious pressure.

“Edward -- fuck, I--” she cries out.

“Will you come for me?” he asks, his gaze snapping to hers. Desire clouds his eyes, the brown irises eclipsed by the black of his pupils.  

“Please--” he cuts off her begging with a kiss.

“Will you?”

“Yes,” she answers with a gasp.

Covering his hand with her own to guide him exactly where she likes, she stretches up for another kiss and grinds down against his hand. The heat inside of her reaches its critical point, flaring to life and scorching through her bloodstream. Clenching tight around him, her hips convulse as she rides out the quake of her orgasm.

Edward slides his fingers out, dropping a kiss to the crown of her head when she whines with oversensitivity. He brings her into his arms, smoothing a hand over her hair as her body shudders with the last of its tremors.

“Fuck,” she sighs, a delirious sort of giggle bubbling up. “Well, how do I look now?”

“Exquisite.”

Leaning down, he captures her lips with a kiss. She blames the blush from her recent orgasm.

“I think it’s my turn, then, to ravish you.”

“We don’t have to--”

Elena silences his gallant protest with a heady kiss, raking one hand through his hair. Her other runs along his side, where she hooks two fingers into his waistband and yanks him closer. Continuing down, she runs the flat of her palm against the obvious sign of his arousal. Edward groans into her mouth; he ropes an arm around her waist and carries her to the desk. With a wide sweep of his arm, he knocks documents and equipment to the floor before depositing her atop it.

“Careful!”

He jerks back at her yelp, casting a worried eye over her form. “Have I harmed you?”

“No, no -- I promised Henry I wouldn’t break his bowl.”

Edward rolls his eyes and grabs the dinnerware before she can reach for it, then tosses it to the floor.

“I will buy him a new one when we stop at the next-- why are you laughing?”

Elena shakes her head at him, avoiding any explanation by dragging his mouth back onto hers. It’s a rather effective technique, as she’s finding out tonight. Their remaining clothes join the messy pile on the floor. Edward huffs a laugh at her threat of injury if he rips her underwear, but seems to heed her words and takes care to drop them onto the desk. Moving into the space between her thighs, he grabs two handfuls of her ass and drags her closer. The soft giggle that sounds from her delights him; he leans down and savors the taste of it on her lips.

Elena’s hand wanders over his stomach and down the trail of coarse hair to take hold of him. He thrusts into her touch with a grunt, choking on an inhale when she twists her wrist on the next upstroke.

“May I have you?” he manages to rasp.

“You may,” she purrs, and guides him to her entrance.

With a surge of his hips, he plunges into the slick heat of her. At her gasp of encouragement, he slips out and then back inside, grinding his teeth against the clench of her. Pleasure is a ripple on the surface, building into a wave that banks higher and higher as they move together. The world outside slips from its perch, losing what little control it has over the confines of the cabin. There is only the two of them, lost in the frantic rocking of their bodies.

A shameless staccato of moans falls from her lips as he fucks her. Edward wraps a fist around a length of hair and pulls her head back, exposing the long line of her throat; he nips at her pulse point and then at her bottom lip, swallowing her cries of pleasure.

“If you shout any louder, the whole ocean’ll hear you,” he playfully scolds.

Spotting her opening, Elena tightens her legs around his hips and digs her heels into his lower back. Retaliation sings its sweet tune as she jerks him forward on top of her, the both of them crashing back onto the desk.

“Don’t underestimate me.”

“Nay, I would never.”

Edward props himself up with one hand next to her head, his other clamped firmly around her thigh as he drives into her, the angle somehow that much sweeter. “God, but yer a pretty sight, spread underneath me.”

It’s impossible -- that she’s here, that the desk underneath her is scattered with papers that would be considered treasure in her time, would be framed in a museum and ogled by historians. A quill digs into her spine and she’s certain they’ve spilled a pot of ink, but Elena can’t find it in herself to care. If she’s lost in time, then at least she has Edward to guide her through it; her beacon of light, keeping her adrift, illuminating her way through the confusing, treacherous world she’s been transported to.

“Elena,” he gasps, his chest gleaming with sweat in the candlelight. “Elena.”

His hold slips from her thigh and down to where they’re joined, rubbing quick circles against her bundle of nerves. Whatever he’s asking of her, she gladly surrenders. The wave of her climax rushes over her, flooding her veins and drowning her with euphoria.

The sight of her lost in the throes of pleasure is an anchor; he sinks.

Edward curses with his release, collapsing beside her onto the desk. Their sweat-slick bodies heave as they catch their breath. Something catches flame in Elena’s chest and simmers there when he folds her into his embrace, his palm cradling her head against his chest. His heart thunders against her temple.

She sees no better time than now, lying naked in his arms.

“I have a question.”

He hums with what little strength he can gather for her to continue.  

“When we were up in the crow’s nest, after discussing our love of Shakespeare--”

“--as I recall,” he interjects, “I am the only one who willingly read his works.”

Elena makes a waving motion with her hand, which would prove more effective if his fingers weren’t laced with hers.

“Whatever. What I want to know is, when I said that it was okay if you didn’t believe me, why that made you…?”

“Disquieted?” he finishes for her.

“Yeah.”

She can feel the weight of the sigh that empties out of him.

“Because I do believe you. Your mannerisms, your accent, your magic box with its…?”

“Pictures.”

“Pictures, aye. Everything about you should not fit here. But it does, you do. You’ve adapted remarkably well, given what’s happened to you. You are a strong woman, Elena.”

“I would blush, but I’m too tired from our activities.”

He brushes a kiss against the crown of her head and huffs out a laugh.

“Yet, despite how well you’ve adapted, I know that this is not your home. Your true home, that is. I promise you, once we stop the Admiral, I will do everything in my power to send you back home. But, I confess, I will be… terribly upset to see you go.”

Tears prickle at the corners of her eyes; she shuts them against the fading candlelight.

“Me too.”

His palm skims up and down the soft skin of her back, marred here and there by the cuts and scrapes from life aboard his ship.

“Stay.”

For a terrifying moment, Elena isn’t sure what he means -- and is terrified all the more that she isn’t sure if she wants to return home, at least not so soon. Realizing that he’s probably (hopefully) meaning for the night, she musters up a reply.  

“The crew will talk.”

Edward scoffs. “They do little else.”

Her shoulders shake from her smothered laughter.

“Is this what passes for pillow talk in the eighteenth century?” she wonders aloud, making a show of stretching and enjoying the noise of interest he makes. “But yeah, okay, I’ll stay. I might even make it worth your while.”

“Of that, I have no doubt.”

+

+

+

References: an LMFAO song (it was between theirs or Will Smith’s “Miami,” but MC skews younger to me, so I went with the former), a line from Peter Pan, the ‘those who forget history are doomed to repeat it’ is actually a misquote, but I consider it enough of a ref to list it here. There’s a few slang terms from 17th/18th century and various pirate research sprinkled throughout. The USS Spiegel Grove is a real artificial reef, located off the shore of Key Largo. You can dive it with an OWD certification, though it’s recommended to have an AOWD to properly explore it. ~~the more you know~~

Thanks for reading!

[letterstothemidnightsociety]

It’s week three of my Global-Pandemic-Induced decision to rewatch all of Supernatural, and so I’m still attempting to make this watch more productive than the last show that I binged.

So I’m on disc two now - that’s episodes 5 - 8 for those of you watching on Netflix. By the time we get to this disc, we know the basic formula for Supernatural as a series - Two Hunks + Fighting Evil to the Power of Acceptable Levels of Gore x Missing Dad = Ratings Gold. Or at the very least, good enough ratings that we’ll give you a season (or fourteen). And then...well...then.

Episode five is “Bloody Mary”, easily the scariest episode of this first season and, based on the nose dive that the formula takes after season 1, probably the entire series. Maybe it’s that the Bloody Mary legend was one that really got me as a kid, maybe it’s just that I don’t do so hot with ghosts, but guys this episode still made me turn on all the lights and avoid all my mirrors. I accidentally turned this episode on at 9pm and regretted it immediately. I walked away at one point to go clean my kitchen to strategically miss some of the spookier points and I walked back in during an even spookier point. I was mad that there were no commercials at the commercial break cut-to-black! The first time I watched this episode, I’m pretty sure I watched it through my fingers. This most recent viewing, I ALSO watched it through my fingers. Guys, THIS EPISODE. 

I will say it a-hecking-gain: This episode scared the SHIT out of me.

AND THEN, THEN! Then this show has the gall to go ahead and drop a major season/character plot point right there in the middle of all this content that I am actively trying not to look at: SURPRISE! Sam has premonition powers and sorta kinda knew that his girlfriend was gonna die a terrible death weeks before she dies. Because sure, why not? 

Ohmiglob the DRAMA.

I’m gonna take a moment to say that, yes, technically this piece of plot gets dropped within our first six episodes, so we can still safely say that, you know, they’re still setting up the story for the rest of the series. It’s not like a sudden twist they drop half way through the season, it’s being laid down as ground work. And I know that this turns out to be a MAJOR issue for the next four seasons at least, but can I just say: Kripke, you’re really throwing a lot at us. I mean, OK. here’s what we’ve got - 

The Winchester’s lost their mom at a young age to some evil thing. Cool, got it.

THEN they have daddy issues with C-minus Single Dad John Winchester. Alright, that seems logical. 

The brothers hunt bad guys looking for the thing that killed their mom. Ok still on board. 

There’s family drama, relatable. 

Dad’s gone missing and we gotta find, ok ok ok. 

Also Sam’s girlfriend dies in a fire, alright, so we’re looking for that thing now too. 

OH! And now Sam has magic powers. 

I mean, it’s a lot, right? We got a lot of layers here. That’s all I’m sayin.

So “Bloody Mary”, right? Big episode, big bad guy, they kinda loophole their way into defeating her but I’m not mad. Big reveal at the end, so kind of an important lore episode. And then...well...then we get the following episodes:

“Skinwalker” - gross-out fx, establishes Dean as a lonely asshole with a lot of APB’s out on him

“The Hook Man” - takes the Urban Legend angle of the show and dials it up to 11

“Bugs” - Does what it says on the tin.

Now to be fair: all three of these episodes have at least ONE shining moment that reveals a little more about the characters we’re working with, and that character development plays out in important ways in the rest of the season/series. But all three of them are arguably---

FILLER EPISODES-ODES-ODES-ODESSssssssss. 

Alright, maybe that’s unkind. Maybe we should call them standalones or self-contained. A Filler is an episode designed to “fill out” your season. It doesn’t necessarily move the overarching story of the season forward, although it may contain some concepts or revelations that are important later. I’d argue that Supernatural has only ever had two kinds of episodes - Series Arc and Filler. Not that that’s a bad thing -  I like a filler episode now and again. Depending on how heavy your season gets (and by all accounts Supernatural gets pretty heavy), they can be a nice breath of fresh air - also known as a Breather Episode. Or they can be just for fun. I’mma reference “Once More with Feeling” again because sure, why not throw in a musical episode in season 6 of a show about vampire slaying, that’s fine. I wanna reference something from Community here too, but honestly anything after season 2 could probably be called filler or self contained, so who even knows. I’ll point at the Voltron episode where they spend a day in the mall to gather some unobtainium for the ship and wacky shenanigans ensue. Point being, they can be times to break the mold and experiment and have fun with what you’re writing. Or they can be ridiculous nonsense. Mileage may vary. 

The crazy thing about these episodes is that they most closely resemble what Kripke intended the show to be in the first place. Kripke wanted a show that revolved around characters investigating American urban legends. What is more quintessentially urban legend than Bloody Mary, the Hook Man and curses from ancient Native American burial grounds? These were stories that I as the viewer was already sort of familiar with because I’d heard of all of them before. What I appreciated, specifically about the Bloody Mary episode, was that they a) acknowledge the fact that these are Urban Legends (capital letters and all) and then b) acknowledge that the legends vary wildly so a part of their job is figuring out what is true and what is rumor. I guess you could also call that a cop out but when I was a kid, I was told that Bloody Mary was the ghost of Queen Mary of England who was sister to Elizabeth I and was also violently anti-protestant. WHERE did I get this story? I have no idea. But I also have no idea where Sam got the “mutilated bride” story from either. 

In an old article I found circa season 2, Kripke actually talks about preferring standalone content to mythology/lore episodes in television. Both as a creator and as a viewer, he wants a show where people can jump in at any time and “join the party” wherever they are. That’s the beauty of procedurals - you don’t need to start from the beginning to enjoy them.

But what really got me personally hooked on the show was the mythology, was the season long arc to find John Winchester and whatever killed their mom. Those mythos episodes were where the meat of the show was for me - it usually involved a lot of feelings and a lot of character development which is still mostly my jam. If I’m obsessively watching a show, it’s because I’m connected to the characters and watching them struggle through the challenges in their path, not because I want to see what monster they kill next. 

And again, I’ll reiterate that each of these episodes contains an important nugget of character. In “Bloody Mary”, easily the least likely to be called Filler, we find out that Sam has weird magic powers that are the real source of his guilt over Jessica’s death. 

In “Skin”, we find out a lot about Dean’s inner landscape from the DopppleDeaner, who reveals that Dean is probably most afraid of people leaving him (be still my 19-year-old heart). 

Wasn’t mad about this bit...

Coulda done without this bit tho...

In “Hookman”...alright, you kinda got me on “Hookman”, but we do get the first appearance of the rocksalt shotgun and Sam talks with a girl about her dad issues which is really Sam talking about his own dad issues in the language of tv shows. Also, he maybe starts to move on from Jessica???? It’s unclear, and also a little weird but I guess he’s only 22 and that’s not that far off from 18/19. 

Really, WB?? Sneaking into sorority houses?

And then in “Bugs”, yes, even in “Bugs”, we get juicy little bit of tension between the brothers as they advise some teen boy about family dynamics. The fight shows a lot about what each character feels about their own experiences growing up the way they did, how they manage the expectations from their own father, and how they believe those family dynamics should exist. I mean I guess you could also argue this is the episode that plants the seed for Wincest, but I don’t really want to go there, let’s not talk about it.

This kid’s like, “This is...not a conversation about me and MY dad, is it?”

So they could be worse. I mean the last two definitely aren’t great, and we’ll see how they measure up to the Monster Truck episode later in the season, but they’re not bad episodes. 

So let’s flash forward to Now again - have we seen the end of Filler Episodes?

As I have mentioned in previous posts and will probably continue mentioning in future posts, the 22 episode season is not the norm anymore. A lot of articles I’ve read point to Breaking Bad as the first American show to really break that mold. Breaking Bad released only 7 episodes in it’s first season in 2007. When you’ve cut your story down that much, there’s no room for filler - you’re basically producing a 7 hour movie. 

Now notice I said American TV show. I’m pretty sure for most of the rest of the world, 22 episodes is way outside the norm, but really I can only speak to UK TV. Seasons in the UK do not last as long as seasons in America. Doctor Who, one of, if not the, longest running show on BBC, aired its first season with 42 episodes, which is mind boggling. But since the series revived in 2005, it hasn’t had more than 13 episodes in a season. Spooks/MI5 never had more than 10 episodes. The IT Crowd only aired 6 episodes per season. Broadchurch had only 8. And because I must complete the Superwholock trifecta, Sherlock seasons were only 3 episodes a piece. These are the shows that spring to mind while I’m writing this, but you get the idea.

So why does American broadcast TV have such long seasons? Well, the answer is: moneymoneymoney.

We live in an age of “prestige” TV. Some throw around “Golden Era”, but there’s been like, a Golden Era of television every 10 years since tv’s became household commodities, so that phrase basically means nothing. TV today is more similar to long-form film making than it was a decade ago. We associate terms like “film” with other terms like “art”, and sometimes we forget that television is, and always was, a business. It’s a business that’s making a lot of money entertaining you for hours on end, but a business nonetheless. I’d argue that it doesn’t mean it’s not art, but I don’t think we can separate the art and entertainment value of tv from its actual monetary value. 

Strategically, the 22-episode season was to get a show to a magical number of total episodes - 100. Once you hit the 100th episode, somewhere around season 5 (thanks math), then you can sell the show in syndicated reruns. This is also referred to as second-run syndication or off-network syndication. When a show is syndicated, that means the production company that produces the show can now sell the right to air episodes to other channels. Think channels like TBS or TNT or even USA Network - they don’t really dabble in producing their own content, they just repackage content from other networks to plug in to empty slots in their programming. And because these channels can air episodes 5 days a week, 365 days a year, that means the production company can actually make more money by selling the show in syndication than when they sold the show to the primary network. The more episodes you have in a season, the faster you get to syndication, and sometimes that means a show that’s on the brink of cancellation due to poor numbers may still get greenlit for another season or two if they’re closer to that magic 100th episode. For a show like Supernatural, that has a very procedural, not-super-heavy-mythos, structure, you can do very well in syndication. Just cuz another network agreed to air your show doesn’t mean they agreed to air it in order, so procedurals work better in syndication than your season-arc shows do. And that’s why we have episodes like Bugs, that have nothing to do with the overarching plot of the season and also phone in some questionable CGI. 

Apparently they DID use real bugs to shoot this scene and everyone got bit to hell but the bugs didn’t show up good and they went with CG anyway?!?

But these days, you don’t have to hit 100 episodes. Sometimes only 80 episodes will do. Sometimes, you run a streaming site and you don’t have to worry about reruns at all because your revenue isn’t generated from air time or even ads, but from subscription prices. Honestly, when you think of it that way, it makes way more sense to greenlight shorter seasons so that you have the budget to buy more and more diverse shows that will appeal to a broader audience of viewers. 

So if Supernatural was produced today, would we get these off-shoot, self-contained episodes that have little to do with the plot of finding Sam and Dean’s dad? It’s hard to say. Knowing what I do about Kripke’s original plans for the show and his thoughts on procedural standalone episodes in general, its possible that he’d still try for a traditional season aired on a traditional TV network. But in that same interview I quoted above, he also mentions that the only way to get into a show with a heavy mythos is to buy the DVDs. We don’t need DVDs anymore - we have Netflix. And Hulu and Prime and any number of other streaming services that pick up any show they can get just to have a larger library of content and attract new viewers. I think a good indicator of what Supernatural would look like if it aired today is Hulu’s Helstrom - a show about two siblings with a childhood marked by strange and terrible happenings, who spend the season trying to defeat an evil demon. This show is a Hulu original that dropped all 10 episodes on October 16, 2020, and damn if that doesn’t sound familiar. I told a friend, “it’s like Supernatural but more emotions.” (Her response was, MORE emotions?!?!?) And before you dive down the rabbit hole, the characters in Helstrom made their debut in a Marvel comic back in the 70’s, so you can just chalk it up to nothing new under the sun. 

Big Mood, guys. Big Mood.

I’ll close this one by reiterating I don’t mind a filler episode. Some fillers can be weird and great and wonderful. I’d say “Tales of Ba Sing Se” (Avatar the Last Air Bender, Season 2)  is a great example - with the possible exception of Appa, the vignettes presented in “Tales” are basically side quests that have nothing to do with the main quest of season 2 and only serve to develop characters. The stories are sweet and touching and also light and fun.

I’m not crying, YOU’RE crying! It’s ok, I’m also crying. 

 And the longer a show runs, the more likely you are to run into these fillers - episodes that take a break from the main action to bring something that’s new and out of the box and possibly/probably writers getting bored with the every-day formula of the show. I think season 1 of Supernatural does a decent job of balancing the two styles of episode so that neither gets boring. In fact, I’m pretty Supernatural was what taught me the difference between the two episode styles in the first place. And the first time around, I was hyped for those season arc episodes, because back in the late 2000’s, I hadn’t seen a lot of TV content like that. Now, 15 years on and mired in a sea of seasons that stick mainly to a season arc story with little to no room for breathing, I think that if all TV became nothing but season arc episodes...well, it’d get pretty boring. 

[giulyshipsarelife]

Just a favour

[Pairing: Fp x Alice, Riverdale. Fake dating AU]

They say that one really falls in love only once in a lifetime and at this point, Alice is more than certain caffeine is undoubtedly the love of her life.

She knows every single code of the machine on the second floor of her office by heart, so much so that by now she doesn't even remember the real names of the various types of coffee. When she goes in front of the machine she thinks “mmmh I could take an 04 today, with sugar level 3 "; probably if she went to a real bar she wouldn't even be able to tell the bartender what she wanted.

This morning she is in the relaxation room on the second floor (for a change) and on the radio, they are broadcasting a song that she is sure to have already heard somewhere. It has a good rhythm, and Alice finds herself moving her hips slightly with music while waiting for her 04 sugar level 3 of the day to get ready.

The break room has two small machines, which is a great relief as the queues are avoided, but also a huge waste of space given that almost nobody besides her takes a coffee every morning. Which makes her morning extremely solitary, but also extremely pleasant.

Alice is still dancing, allowing herself to sing even the words in playback, putting body and soul into the performance, when suddenly someone enters the tiny room and heads for the free machine on her left without lingering over.

She suddenly freezes, praying and re-praying all the Hindu gods present that the man had just not seen her shaking her pelvis at the sound of "You're indistructibleeeee always believiiiing".

When she finally manages to recover from the embarrassment and her corner of the eye manages to see the face of the new intruder, Alice must restrain herself from not letting out a noisy “ugh” from her mouth, because the intruder just entered is none other than Mr Forsythe Jones himself.

"Good morning, Alice," he greets her, without even looking at her.

"FP...."

She and Fp don't like each other very much, in fact, she can even say that they hate each other. They have been working together for three years, but their hatred goes back many years before they became colleagues, precisely to an embarrassing and prehistoric past back in 2010, when Alice was fifteen and her sister Penny was in her last year of high school. Alice had been single for a lifetime and Penny had just become engaged to the most disputed boy in the school, the beautiful and reckless FP Jones, the star of the school, the one that all the girls craved.

Her sister and FP had been together for only five months, until he decided to break up with her on their graduation day, just to go to Australia to pursue his dream of studying Aboriginal languages.

The story between her sister and FP seemed to have ended there, except that, seven years later, she and her sister's ex had found themselves by chance working for the same publishing house in the same office and in the same area at London.

The first thing Alice had told him when they met had been, "Why aren't you in Australia?" And FP had replied with a sarcastic: "There were too many snakes".

Alice and the boy who had broken her sister's heart into a thousand pieces to go to Australia and then return to England seven years later found themselves (obviously) working on the same level, but after three years in close contact in the same office, even now it is rare for them to speak. (And if they do, it's almost certainly just an excuse to argue).

The fact is that Alice does not like Fp for three main and very sensible reasons: the first obviously concerns what happened between him and Penny in high school and, although they did not speak much then, his attitude towards her sister was absolutely unacceptable.

The second reason is a bit more recent, namely the fact that, by spending almost every day together, Alice realized that she and FP Jones are two completely different people. FP Jones is one hundred and eighty centimeters of pure bliss and love for himself that is too exaggerated, he is a slobby person and he loves beer. Alice Smith is one hundred and sixty-two centimeters, she loves to change her hairstyles every week, her main features are that she loves frozen yoghurt, coffee, high heels and she absolutely hates beer, preferring wine. FP is twenty-seven years old, originally from Brighton, but lives in Camden is the son of a CEO and has lived alone for six years in an apartment with three bathrooms and two kitchens.

Alice is twenty-five, living alone for a few months in an apartment in Greenwich, her parents have a small pub called is Pop’s and she doesn't even have a kitchen in her house.

The third and final reason, on the other hand, concerns the novel that Fp published a month ago with his own publishing company which became a best seller in a few weeks.

It could have been a fact that Alice would have easily ignored, except that it was her dream, that was what Alice had been trying to finish for more than two years, and FP Jones stole her dream, stole her dream and then he took all the credit.

Alice has been preparing her novel for two years, with sleepless nights, working on every word and mulling over each sentence until it becomes perfect, two years in which she dreams of becoming a bestselling author herself, and she cannot conceive of the fact that someone who hates so deeply has managed to reach her goal before her.

At this point in her life, Alice came to hate and envy Fp Jones with all of herself, so much so that she hardly even tolerates his presence.

Today FP wears an elegant suit, as usual, complete with a tie and a steel watch on his wrist, which makes him look more like a Gucci model than the employee of a publishing house.

Alice quietly admits that FP is really an attractive guy, with his black hair always in order, those perfectly shaped eyebrows that make her die of jealousy every time she sees him and his face always and in any situation completely shaved.

The problem is that FP is handsome and knows that, which makes him even more unbearable in Alice’s eyes.

He has always known he was beautiful, since high school when the girls died behind him and Alice spent day and night studying how it was possible for a male to have such damned perfect eyebrows.

FP gives her a quick smile, then takes a few seconds to go to the machine next to her and press 08 for his coffee.

Decaffeinated, Alice acknowledges. That sucks, she thinks.

"Look, I need you to do me a favour this weekend," he says suddenly, bringing his plastic cup to his mouth as soon as the machine tells him he's ready.

Alice looks up, slightly surprised. They've known each other for almost ten years and it's the first time Fp has come to her for a favour.

"Oh, okay. What is it?."

"I need you to come to Brighton with me for three days and pretend to be my girlfriend in front of my family."

Alice stares at her colleague in silence.

[...]

Continue to read it on AO3

[sherlockxreader]

A Time Of Change - Chapter Eleven - The Man With The Umbrella

Title: A Time Of Change Chapter Eleven: The Man With The Umbrella Summary: Ava Bradford is a former Behavioral Analyst of the Miami Police Department. After the events of the past force her to journey to England and take up a job away from the family she had created, she tries to start anew. At Scotland Yard, she struggles to keep to herself and her life under control, as her nightmares from her past come to haunt her once again. Author: Alexa @alex-awesome1023 Words: 3240 Characters/Relationships: OC x Sherlock Warnings: Depression, Anxiety, Past Physical Abuse, Nightmares Author’s Notes: Ho ho ho ho... Wow four chapters in one day is just crazy

All you could hear was the ringing of your ears and the fiery pain coming from your upper arm. You let it a grown as you felt your adrenaline lessen and the pain rush in. Holding your arm you slowly get up and walk over to Jeff who was whining and squirming from the painful gunshot to his right shoulder.

Sherlock rushed over to the window seeing the bullet trail lead to the other building across the courtyard. You knew it was John… It was a good shot. You stood over Jeff's body watching him squirm with pain and discomfort making a grin appear on your face.

“Who is your sponsor?” You said sternly glaring down at his body, you watched as he shook his head at you which made you clench your teeth. “You're dying but there's still time to hurt you.” You said a you lifted your foot above his wound and applying slight pressure. “Tell me!” You didn't register Sherlock’s gaze as your vision became closed with determined rage.

“Who told you about me?! You shouted

“A name!” Sherlock interjected as you put pressure into Jeff's wound. His agonizing scream filled the classroom.

“Moriarty!” You removed your foot and the whole room was silent once more. You met Sherlock's gaze and he was as confused as you were. What kind of name is Moriarty?

The question rattled in your mind, never dulling as you sat on the back steps of one of the ambulance with a paramedic tending to your arm. Good thing was that it was just grazed from the bullet; nothing a few painkillers and gauze couldn't fix. Across the way, you see Sherlock similarly sitting on the back of another ambulance and you watch as a paramedic puts an orange blanket around his shoulders as Lestrade walks over to him. You couldn't help but laugh at the sight of him waving it around in Lestrade’s face. They're talking about the shooter I bet.

As the paramedic finishes tending to you, they placed another blanket on your shoulders and you instantly felt warmer, bringing the edges closer to your chest to tighten the cocoon. You thanked them and stood, noticing Lestrade was gesturing you to come over. Reluctantly you obeyed making your way over. You started nibbling your lip as soon as you got within hearing distance.

“Ok, before you fire me let me just say this. After you sent me home, I deduced that it was the same cab driver that had drove me home earlier this morning. And then I figured it was him and he had the phone so I tracked it with the tablet.”

“Detective Brad-” Lestrade said but you were too immersed in your own guilty words.

“I'll take the responsibility for any reckless endangerment. I worried because I figured out that he was after Sherlock so I took action. I know it was dangerous but-”

“Ava!” Lestrade said raising his voice a bit to get your attention. The sudden outburst made you flinch but not enough for him to see, but of course Sherlock noticed. The middle of his eyebrows creased in concern. “I'm not firing you. You did what you were trained to do and both you and Sherlock caught us a serial killer.”

“Well, more or less.” Sherlock said bluntly to Lestrade.

“So you're not firing me?” You asked looking to Lestrade with hope.

“No, I’m not. If anything you helped Sherlock catch him. You were the one who found him.” Lestrade said confidently looking between the two of you, making you look to Sherlock for a moment watching as he mumbled out a yes and cleared his throat, avoiding eye contact. “But next time call it in first.” Lestrade said jokingly making you smile. “Now, since we have nothing on the shooter, I'll need to pull you both in tomorrow to take statements.”

“Yes sir.” You said quickly nodding your head, as you did you noticed John standing some distance away behind the police tape, looking as if immensely interested in the architecture of the school. The sight made a smile appear on your face. Sherlock seemed to noticed him as well and without a word he walked over.

“Hey, wait up!” You jogged to his side, waving to Greg over your shoulder kindly. “Have a good night.” As John notices you both approach, he scuffs the toe of his shoe on the concrete and Sherlock, taking his time in crossing the street, takes the opportunity to speak to you privately, albeit briefly.

“Thank you, for um, what you did.” Sherlock said lowly making sure those words were only for you. Turning your head to him politely, you watched as he threw his shock blanket through the window of a nearby police car, his eyes darting to look everywhere after except to meet your own. You smile at his obvious nerves. You could tell he didn't do ‘Thank yous’ well.

“No problem, you're worth keeping around.” Your cheeky smile brought his gaze to your face and you could see the surprise, amazement and genuine relief upon his own.

“Um, Sergeant Donovan's just been explaining everything to me, about the two pills. Been a dreadful business, hasn't it? Just dreadful.” John mutter nervously looking around. Sherlock looks to you for a moment, confirming his suspicions.

“It's a shame about the shooter.” You said giving him a small, knowing smile, shrugging towards the building.

“Ava, I'm so sorry that I-” John started muttering an apology but you cut him off by look him in the eye.

“No, I told you not to miss and you didn't. End of story.” You said quietly putting your hand on his shoulder to reassure him that it wasn't his fault, and really, it wasn't. You were the one who jumped in front of the bullet.

“But good shot nonetheless.” Sherlock said quietly to John making him shuffle once again in his shoes trying, and utterly failing, to look innocent.

“Yes. Yes, must have been, through that window.”

“Well, you'd know.” John looked up to him, still unsuccessfully trying not to let his expression give him away. “But you’re getting rusty.” Sherlock added gesturing over to you making you glare at him. You knew John felt horrible and you didn't want him feeling any worse.

“Anyways, you need to get the powder burns out of your fingers. I don't think you'd serve time for this, but let's avoid the court case.” Sherlock finished noticing the glare you sent his way making him think twice about what he was going to say. You notice John clear his throat and look around nervously.

“Are you alright?” You asked as you squeezed his shoulder making him look to you.

“Yes, of course I'm alright.” John says with a smile trying to his his nerves.

“You’ve just killed a man.” Sherlock says looking intently to John.

“Yes, I…” John trails off making Sherlock look at him closely. “That's true, innit?” Making you grin, Sherlock continues to watch carefully. “But he wasn't a very nice man.” You watched as John’s expression change and his body language relax you knew he was okay in a sense and you dropped your hand back inside your blanket. You look to Sherlock who noticed the same and continued, nodding in agreement.

“No. No, he wasn't really, was he?”

“And frankly a bloody awful cabbie.” John adds making the three of you burst into quiet chuckles as you start to walk away. You couldn't believe these two grown men. Laughing at a crime scene.

“That's true. He was a bad cabbie. Should have seen the route he took us to get here.” Sherlock continued making you and John burst into giggles and Sherlock smile.

“Sherlock! Quit it, we can't giggle, it's a crime scene! Stop it!” You whisper shouted over your shoulder trying to shush the laughter coming from the two men behind you. But you couldn't help the laughter coming from your lips. You couldn't believe these two.

“He's the one who shot him. Don't blame me.” Sherlock sassed back to you making you turn and face a face at him.

“Keep your voices down!” John looked around and found that Donovan was walking past the three with a distasteful look. “Sorry - its just, um, nerves, I think.” John said towards Donovan as she passed. Hearing Sherlock mutter a ‘sorry’ in her direction as well.

“You were gonna take that damned pill, weren't you?” John asked spinning around and looking puzzled to Sherlock. As he did, Sherlock shot a look your way, knowing what you heard and saw…

“Course I wasn't, I was biding time. Knew you two would jump in at some point. I needed Ava to figure out the end game beforehand so I bought her time, well she did but not long after you fired your shot, hence her arm.”

“No you didn't. This is how you get your kicks, isn't it? You risk your life to prove you’re clever.” John says looking at him with disbelief and amusement.

“Why would I do that?”

“Because you're an idiot.” You spoke up answering his question simply making John chuckle and agree with you.

“Exactly.” John agreed with a satisfied grin on his face.

At that moment you saw Sherlock's eyes soften and his lips form into a beautiful smile, one that you could tell doesn't come often. It was a look of contentment and delight. He had finally found people who understand him and, more to the point, didn't care about his eccentric behavior. But he only showed it long enough for you to witness before forcing his smile down.

“Dinner?” Sherlock asked looking to both of you.

“Starving.” John simply replied. You on the other hand watched as the to men walked ahead of you. You watched the back their heads and couldn't help but feel a crack in your mask. You had never met any men like these two and strangely, it was comforting and refreshing. As you were getting lost in your inner thoughts, John’s voice brought you back.

“Ava, are you coming or are you gonna stand there and shiver?” John yelled turning to you making your train of thought come to a stop. Quickly you sped up to catch up with them. 

“Yeah, sorry. Where are we going?” You asked as the three of you continue to walk. Unconsciously you snuggled closer to your shock blanket. Was I meant to return this? Oh well.

“At the end of Baker Street, there's a good Chinese place that stays open ‘til two. You can always tell a good Chinese place by examining the bottom third of the door handle.” Sherlock starts to explain as you walk. Looking down the road you see a car pull up and a tall man with an umbrella and a very pretty woman exit. Apparently John noticed them as well.

“Sherlock. That’s him. That’s he man I was talking to you about.” John says quickly not braking his gaze on the duo. As Sherlock’s eyes lock on the man, his expression and body language change.

“I know exactly who that is.” Sherlock says before walking over to the man with an angry look. John looked around searching out where the police were in case they needed to be summoned.

“So, another case cracked. How very public spirited… Though that's never really your motivation, is it?” The man says pleasantly to Sherlock who returns it distastefully.

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock asks angrily.

“As ever, I'm concerned about you.”

“Yes, I've been hearing about your ‘concern'.” Sherlock replied gesturing slightly to John who was avoiding the man's eyes. At this moment you too the opportunity to ‘look' at the mystery man.

Telling by the suit, he had money and the way he held himself with such high regard means that he has power but he's humble about it, but still wants to subtly show others his success. Tiny ink stains on his fingertips and jacket; he's a busy man, probably government official of some sort going by the car and assistant. You tilted your head as you started picturing a brotherly figure. Telling by his shoulder and body language he’s an older sibling, probably seven or eight years apart. John said that he was interested in Sherlock and his whereabouts… Looking down to the man's umbrella you notice an engraving ‘To my brother, Mycroft’. You smiled to yourself as you read it, looking up to Sherlock who still held a distasteful look for the man. You looked between the two of them for a long moment. Sherlock and the man had noticed your movement and turned to you. John had seen the change as well and looked to you as you were spaced out in your deductions.

“Ava?” John's voice went unheard as you continued to gaze at the two men.

Looking back and forth between the men you start to make the connections. The structure of their faces are a bit off but uncanny. The heights are right and the mannerisms are on par. Finally you looked hard to their eyes and made the final conclusion. 

“You both have your mother’s eyes. But Mycroft, you have her smile.” You said aloud making the man, Mycroft, freeze in shock for a split second. Sherlock on the other hand, grinned at the fact that you had figured out that he was if fact his brother so quickly, exactly 7.4 seconds. Mycroft tightened his grip on his umbrella but other than that, he seemed as composed as ever.

“And you must be Ava Bradford. Sherlock’s new colleague?” Mycroft started to ask in a annoyed manner, his voice making you snap out of your thoughts and look quizzically to the men.

“Oh! I’m sorry, did I say that out loud? I didn’t mean to, I swear.” You asked worriedly to John who had disbelief written all over his face and Sherlock was in complete awe.

“No, no, wait. Who’s mother? Ava, are you saying that they're brothers?” John spoke up trying to figure out what was happening.

“She's not wrong.” Sherlock said looking to Mycroft with a raised brow.

“She’s good, almost better than you. She might even be faster.” Mycroft said with a challenging look on his face to Sherlock who rolled his eyes at the comment.

“Oh I wouldn't say that at all, I’m just… He’s more precise and to the point with his deductions. I’m mostly… wrong.” You spoke up looking between them then down to your shoes realising the words as they left your mouth. Unconsciously you spun the ring that was on your right ring finger. And once again Sherlock notices your thoughts change.

“He’s your brother!?” John sputtered with disbelief, thankfully pulling you out of the spot light for a moment.

“Of course he my brother.” Sherlock says rolling his eyes, annoyed of how obvious it was.

“So he’s not…”

“Not what?” Sherlock asks as both him and his brother turn to John who shrugged out of embarrassment.

“I dunno - a criminal mastermind?” You could see him grimace at even having suggested it. Sherlock looks to Mycroft disparagingly. All you could do was laugh at how childish their brotherly bond was.

“Close enough.” Sherlock replies looking to Mycroft who rolls his eye and sighs. Even their eye roll is the same! As the thought came, you couldn't help but cover your mouth to try to muffle the laughter trying to escape.

“For goodness sake. I occupy a minor position in the British government. Nothing more.” Mycroft says with a sigh looking to John.

“Oh please, you practically ooze ‘British government’. By the car, video surveillance, your tailored suit and freshly polished shoes.” You said looking him up and down to emphasize his authority. Mycroft was taken back by your knowledge, not confirming his use of video surveillance.

“Did John tell you about the cameras?” Mycroft asked with raised brows. Looking to John with distaste.

“Lucky guess.” You said coldly making your point clear. Mycroft stayed silent, failing to look unmoved by your skills. You could practically see his skin crawl. “I’m not a fan of people who use power to intimidate others, especially my friends. Now, it was very nice meeting you Microsoft, but I haven't slept in forty-seven hours and all I've eaten in that time is coffee and sugar cookies so good day!” You stated with an innocent smile but your eyes held only a cold stare. You spun on your heels, the orange blanket flaring out spectacularly and, with your nose in the air and a Cheshire Cat grin on your face, you began to make way, yet you turned back briefly at hearing the eruption of laughter come from Sherlock and John.

“Good evening, Mycroft. Try not to start a war before I get home. You know what it does for the traffic.” Sherlock bids him goodbye, walking away to catch up to you. John starts to follow him but then turns back to Mycroft, who has turned to watch his brother.

“So, when- when you say you’re concerned about him, you actually are concerned?” John asked making Mycroft turn his attention to him.

“Yes, of course.”

“I mean, it actually is a childish feud?” Mycroft turned back to watch his brother.

“He’s always been so resentful. You can imagine the Christmas dinners.”

“Yeah… no. God, no.” John shaking his head to rid himself of the image he had created, before half-turning to follow the both of you. “I-I’d better, um…” John said to Mycroft but before he could he eyes the woman from earlier,  ‘Anthea’, who has been standing nearby throughout the conversation with her eyes fixed on her BlackBerry. “Hello again.”

“Hello.” She looks up and smiles brightly.

“Yes, we- we met earlier on this evening.” John explains but she only stares at him as if she's never seen him before.

“Oh!” She says pretending to remember him making John give up hope on her.

“Okay, good night.” John quickly bidding her and Mycroft a somewhat exhausted ‘goodnight’ before catching you to you and Sherlock. “So, dim sum.”

“Mmm! I can always predict the fortune cookies.” Sherlock says confidentially, side glancing John.

“No you can't.” John says straightly without having to look up at him.

“Almost can. You did get shot, though.”

“Sorry?”

“In Afghanistan. He’s talking about your shoulder, John.” You spoke up, leaning forward to look past Sherlock to John innocently. Sherlock wasn’t even surprised

“Oh, yeah. But how did you…”

“When I had squeezed your shoulder back in flat when I thought you needed a seat. You didn't notice but your shoulder tensed by the pressure. I thought it was just because you were nervous but when I did it a moment ago to the opposite one, there was no tensing.” You explain simply without taking a breath.

“So you can tell that my shoulder was shot but Mycroft’s cameras? That was a guess?” John stops in the middle of the pathway, looking at you in puzzlement. Sherlock had also stopped to see what you'd say.

“Oh but John, I never guess.” You said spinning on your heels to look at the boys. “Now, come on. I don't know the way back home and I'm starving.” You turned your attention back to the road leaving the boys to catch up, all the while your smile hid the worrying topic racing through your head. Who is Moriarty?

As Mycroft watches the three of you walk away down the street, ‘Anthea’ turns to him.

“Sir, shall we go?” ‘Anthea’ gestures towards the car.

“Interesting aren’t they? That soldier fellow and the detective woman.” ‘Anthea’ looks briefly at the departing trio, then turns her attention back to her BlackBerry. “They could be the making of my brother – or make him worse than ever. Either way, we’d better upgrade their surveillance status. Grade Three Active.” ‘Anthea’ looks up from her phone.

“Sorry, sir. Whose status?” She asks looking between him and the street. “Sherlock Holmes, Doctor John Watson and Detective Ava Bradford.”

MASTERLIST

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[actuallylorelaigilmore]

14. "I don’t have the words right now so here’s a kiss" -- Luke/Lorelai.

Happy fifth night of Hanukkah to my Ander.

Luke x Lorelai, Gilmore Girls. Also on AO3.

“Thanks for coming over,” Lorelai said as she escorted him out. “I’ll get Rory to help me understand my notes next week when I can’t read my handwriting.”

“Here’s an idea: type it up. Helps you remember, and takes care of the handwriting thing.”

“Good tip. Seriously, I really appreciate you talking me through everything, Luke.” She dropped down to sit on her porch, smiling over at him when he joined her.

“Anytime. It’s nice. Reminds me how far I’ve come since I started.”

“God, I can’t even imagine life without your diner. The town wouldn’t be right without it. And if Sookie and I can be half as successful running our inn, that’d be amazing.”

“You will.”

She shook her head. “New businesses are tough. It’s going to take a lot of luck, even with our obviously brilliant talent and hard work.”

“Nobody–and I mean nobody–is as persistent as you, Lorelai, when you put your mind to something. You’re going to make it happen. Believe me.”

“Thanks.” She leaned into his shoulder a little. “It’s so weird that summer’s almost over already.”

“Rory excited for school starting back up?”

“Oh, you know. She spent a week organizing her school supplies by color and anticipated level of use…and that was before our Harvard trip. She’s even worse now.”

Luke made a noise in agreement as they listened to the leaves overhead rustle. The air was starting to change, bringing the chilly autumn snap that New England offered along with colorful trees and small town festivals.

Lorelai broke the comfortable silence, her eyes trained on the carved archway he had helped her move a few days ago.

“I think you were right, about marriage.”

He followed her gaze across the yard to the chuppah and shifted uncomfortably. “I really wasn’t thinking, when I said that. I never thought you might hear it and…” Luke cleared his throat. “Well.”

“Hey, no, I didn’t mean your rant. I’m used to your rants. I like your rants.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“It was the other stuff, about only getting married once. I couldn’t stop thinking about it after we talked. That’s the only way to do it, right? Where there are no doubts. It’s what I want, to wait until I’m absolutely certain.”

He’d never intended to ask exactly why she and Max had called it off, though his policy of avoiding town gossip meant it still wasn’t clear to him. But refusing to stick his nose in on principle didn’t stop him from being curious.

Luckily for Luke, Lorelai rarely needed prompting to spill her secrets. Especially to him.

“It was me who ended it,” she confessed. “It just wasn’t…right. I wanted it to be, I wanted him to be the one, but he wasn’t.”

“You seemed happy.”

“I was! That’s the worst part, Luke. I was happy. I really liked Max. I know what you think of him, but he is a great guy. He was nothing but good to me. And I thought…well, when he proposed, after I got past the shock of it, I thought, there are worse things than marrying a great guy you like. I even convinced myself I loved him. I talked myself into it. Does that sound crazy?”

He considered it before replying. “No. No, it sounds like you.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Didn’t mean it like that.” He turned toward her. “Lorelai, listen. You love everybody. You’re one of those people who genuinely likes the world, and can be really annoying about it.”

Luke smiled, to make sure she knew he was teasing. “I know, because I’m not like that. People bother me. But you want to love them–and you’re willing to take risks to be happy. Those are good things.”

She shook her head. “Tell that to the man I just left at the altar.”

“You didn’t leave him at the altar. You broke off an engagement. It happens.”

“If it happened to you, wouldn’t you be devastated? Max will never forgive me, and I can’t blame him. I can’t forgive me.”

“What else could you have done? I mean it, Lorelai–what was the better option? Marrying him when you didn’t love him, just to avoid hurting his feelings? He’ll be okay, eventually. And so will you.”

Luke put his arm around her. “You don’t have to settle. You deserve more than that.”

She hugged him from the side, burying her face in his shoulder.

“You deserve everything you want,” he promised her.

Luke didn’t realize that they were overly close on the step until Lorelai pulled back, when she was still watching him seriously from only a few inches away. Her eyes dipped down to his mouth and lingered there before she looked back up.

It was too soon, he told himself. It was all wrong.

He knew how to be her friend. He’d gotten really good at it, supporting and encouraging and maintaining the deliberate distance between their friendship and what he wanted beyond that. He was happy just being in her life.

So it was one thing to talk her through a breakup, or family drama, or work stress. He had the script for that, and could usually predict how it would be received because there had never been anyone he knew as well as he knew Lorelai Gilmore.

But in that charged moment, Luke didn’t have any words. To stop himself, or explain it…or turn it into something else.

Whenever they froze in the middle of their usual banter, whenever they almost crossed the line, Lorelai looked not only conflicted but a little bit scared. He had to admit now that there was some fear involved for him, too. He didn’t want to lose her. He’d always been afraid to risk it.

How many moments would there be? Luke wondered, with the chuppah mocking him in his peripheral vision. How many chances would he have before she really did find it, that mysterious thing she’d been looking for since he met her–with another man?

He would lose her then, in one way or another.

That was the surge of urgency and panic that pushed him past his usual hesitation.

Sure, it was a risk. But if there was any possibility that this was his moment, the one moment they were going to get, he had to take it. Surrounded by the quiet light of sunset, Luke turned toward her, and leaned in.

He gave her time to back away, but she didn’t. Lorelai watched him, eyes wide, until their lips met.

Her little sigh before they kissed was his new favorite sound.

The timing was terrible. They would hear all about it from Miss Patty, Taylor, even Sookie. None of that mattered right now.

Pulling away, Lorelai rested her forehead against his and took a breath. With all of his worries rushing back in, Luke braced for a gentle let down.

“Babette is probably pulling out her binoculars as we speak,” she whispered. “Unless you’re ready to be the stars of Kirk’s next photography exhibit using one of those paparazzi zoom lenses, we might want to take this inside.”

He should’ve known, Luke decided, kissing her again before standing up. Lorelai had a habit of doing the opposite of what any rational person would expect. It was the most reliable thing about her.

He finally found his voice again as she shut her front door. “You, uh…you want coffee?”

“Well, Luke, now that’s a truly silly question.”

But she understood what he wasn’t saying, what was harder for him to express. He didn’t use words like she did–one of a million ways that they were different.

Some things were better than words anyway, like the look he shot her on the way to her cupboard, the affectionate hint of a grin. Or how easily he moved around her kitchen, so at home in her company it was hard to remember there had been a time before they met.

Kissing Lorelai quickly became a new kind of language for Luke, one that went beyond what he did–and didn’t–say.

Their first kiss was the most important one, though, when he stopped trying to talk himself out of loving her and she stopped trying to use nervous words to hold him back. That was when they both realized that after years of conversation, they didn’t need words at all.

[directionlessbuthappy]

The Red Queen

Bjorn x Reader

Since the death of King Ecbert, England was in chaos while the regions sought freedom from their previous assembling. The country of England was divided once again, and with Aethelwulf in hiding with his family, Mercia was no longer under anyone’s rule. Until you came along... The first Queen of Mercia to be a warrior as well as a queen. Of course, word of a warrior queen in England gets around. The sons of Ragnar need a favor, and this time, they want to talk to you.

Warnings: lotsa blood, language

He was a scared little boy, a betrayer. He let York be burned, Wessex be sacked and unavenged...he was the cause of many monarch's end. Like water fowl hiding in the grass. A prince who was given an kingdom and instead of avenging or conquering it back from the heathens of the North, he hid away until the Northmen left. But they hadn't left.

Aethelwulf was nothing but a coward. And you were no coward.

Ultimately, after all of England bled out the bloodlines of Offa and his deranged family, word reached Mercia that Ecbert had become deceased. Your home region scrambled to regain its freedom from the other regions of England. And it had, with you as queen. You rallied your armies and counselors the way friends do. You did not pay those who followed you with money or women. Offers such as that were beyond someone of your estate. Instead of these temptations, you offered your sword. You had always been willing to fight for what you wanted. 

Mercia belonged to you and your family's name. It would not be taken by Aethelwulf's pathetic army he'd rallied against the pagans in York. He may have thought himself a king, and he was. But he was not king of England.

You were cautious to avoid repeating Kwenthrith's mistakes. Instead you held a will of iron. This was your kingdom, you were not hear to oversee it or abandon it to seek allies. You were here to rule it. Your banners held their blood red color through the years, and the crown you had fashioned for your head alone had rubies encased within the gold. You were a young queen but you proved yourself worthy to your reign.

You sometimes wondered if decisions like this would make your reign shorter.

Counselor Morros arrived with a parchment only a few days ago. It was a missive from Deganwy; the fortress was burned to the ground, and the heathen army was seeking...contact. Instead of trying to blaze through your castle like you'd expected a bunch of savages to do, they wanted to speak. How humanizing... You figured they were trying to trick you. Wanted a way into the castle at least to stake out the place. You weren't a fool, but you were advised not to advance communication with them. You ignored that advice and invited them here instead.

So there you were. Surrounded by guards along the marbles walls, with the sons of Ragnar at the water's edge of your bathtub. You kept up appearances though; it truly wasn’t every day you took a bath with blood, but they didn’t need to know that.

It wasn't all blood, sure, just water mixed with the red droplets of your enemy. Another assassin sent by one of the noble houses you hadn't executed out of kindness.The family was small now, with only an ailing mother and her three daughters. It was obvious one of those daughters wasn't as innocent as she seemed when she begged you to let them stay within Mercia. Mistakes, mistakes...

"The spawn of Ragnar Lothbrok...you lot are much shorter than I expected," you snickered against the side of your tub. "Do you even understand what I'm saying? Oh you poor boys..."

"Men," one of them growled. You giggled obnoxiously.

"Oh! The beast speaks!"

If looks could kill, you'd have a slit throat with the way they all looked at you. Half in hunger and half in pure annoyance. It was pleasant to see all their faces so distraught. You wanted them to consider this meeting a meeting between kings. Being a woman made no difference to you, and it shouldn't to them if they wanted to keep their heads.

"Yes, the beasts talk. Me and him," the tallest of them insisted. He gestured to his brother, a dark haired man leaning on a crutch. If he was weak in body, he may be smart at least...

"Oh? Well, if you must address me, I am Queen of Mercia. Her Highness, The Red Regent...you get the idea, hmm?" you keened. "Whats your names?"

"Bjorn Ironside. This is Ubbe, Hvitserk, Sigurd, and-"

"Ivar the Boneless," his brother interrupted. "Are you going to invite us in, little queen?"

You scoffed at the way his eyes practically drank you up. Smirking up at him, you leaned back in your tub and crossed your arms, trying not to seem bashful but rather unamused. "Private party."

Bjorn raised his eyebrows. No protest from him. He sat down on one of the marble staircases while you let your legs gently flow with the water, rolling them up and down gently. His brothers all kept standing, save for Ivar leaning on one of your marble pillars. These were all from Rome; a fact you doubted would interest them.

"We wanted to discuss passage through Mercia."

Laughing rang in all of their ears. "Oh this should be interesting...tell me, Bjorn Ironside. Why on earth would I let a bunch of crazed heathen rampage through my country? Shall I inquire what it is you need to get to?"

"Spain," Bjorn answered. "In honesty, we’re not in good standing with Frankia. We’d like to avoid them by going through Mercia and traveling South. Our boats can take passage through the river you have to the north."

"And if you take the route by sea, the outer countries of England will pick you off til you have little left to invade Spain. Right?"

The brothers looked dumbfounded for a moment like you'd deciphered some code. But you were simply wise, like some of the men before you.

Ivar shrugged at Bjorn. "Do we really need her permission? We could just-"

"You do, Ivar," you snapped at him. "Or my armies would cut you down and pick their teeth with your frail little bones."

The guards moved quickly the second Ivar's hand disappeared into his vest. Spears aligned to throats, but your quick applause caught attention before anyone drew blood. 

"Oh begone with you! Can't you see I'm having conversation? Honestly, you lot are terrible at keeping company."

The guards reluctantly drew away from the heathens. Hvitserk looked intensely nervous between you and his youngest brother; what the hell was he doing? Bjorn had a plan, just let him do his thing dammit...

"You would offer payment for me letting your armies plunder through my rivers, hmm? Wouldn't want you to widen our channels for nothing." Your little smirk at Ubbe wasn't lost on him; the elder brother started to sweat now.

"I'm offering fifty of our men as collateral. They stay, fight how you see fit, and when we round about after Ireland to return to our home, we will take them back," Bjorn offered.

"Fifty of your men? Useless thralls who would hardly understand a command I give them?" you snorted.

"Ivar would be staying with you," Ubbe interjected. Your eyes shot over at the taller of the other brothers; he understood you the whole time.

"So you can teach new dogs old tricks..." you whispered. Glancing at Hvitserk to see if he got any of that, he seemed to be avoiding your looks. You snickered at this.

"No," you replied plainly. "I won't take that offer if he's the one staying." You turned to Bjorn and grinned wildly. The red of the water in your tub reflected off of your eyes as you sunk into the bath further. "I want you to stay."

Bjorn sighed heavily. Wary as he was to be approaching the seat of a queen, he was proud to have gotten this far. You were beautiful like all the prisoners had said.  The water was too murky for him to see your wholeness as queen, but he felt it from your eyes. You had the eyes of leadership, of honor and calculation. The same eyes that would take a man anywhere, so long as you were with him...

Bjorn turned and started speaking to his brothers quietly. Ubbe and Hvitserk both looked angrier by the moment.

"Bjorn, that isn't the plan," Ubbe growled. He glanced at Ivar, who they had planned previously to leave with you. He seemed bored...he must have known where this was going. He struck you as the “smart” one.

"I know," Bjorn Ironside muttered to his younger brother. He turned and they all spoke in rushed Norse. You picked at one of your fingernails in the meantime, looking up to find Sigurd staring and gave him a wink. His face turned as red as your bathwater.

"Water's getting cold, sons of Ragnar. So what is it then?" you interrupted them. Ubbe angrily turned on his heel to walk out already.

"It is a deal your highness. I'll stay with my men, my brothers will go on ahead," Bjorn agreed. You smiled and closed your eyes for a moment.

"I'll allow your passage into Mercia, then. And this intrusion on my bathtime."

"You are not to kill him," Ivar demanded. You scoffed and grinned at the crippled viking who was staring at you dryly; he didn't like being outmatched in a game of bullshitting and sarcasm. You could tell.

"Can I kill the rest of them then?" you giggled. Ivar smiled at you; you half expected him to have sharp teeth, but he didn't. Odd.

"While I'm here, I'll take charge of my men," Bjorn stated. He gave Ivar a warning glance.

"Such nobility, Bjorn Ironside. You're starting to sound Christian!”

Ivar hissed in anger and followed Ubbe out. Hvitserk and Sigurd were with him without complaint.

You giggled and turned to Bjorn, tucking your arms behind your head and jutting out your chest. If he was amused, angry, or afraid of you, you couldn’t tell. The seering stare into your eyes was a pleasant burning, however.

"I don't think your brothers like me very much..."

[tiny-loudness]

Why are there two Wikipedias in Belarusian? The two Belarusian orthographies and why this is a question of policy

You may have noticed that there can be two Wikipedias for (sort of) one and the same language: Norsk and Nunorsk for the two Norwegian written standards, a few Chinese Wikipedias. You can choose between Cyrillic and Latin scripts to read the edition of the site in Serbian. The same thing is with Belarusian – you see Беларуская and Беларуская (тарашкевіца) in the list of languages. Should you assume that each of the two orthographies is used by a half of the population or at least by a significant number of people?

The short answer is no – Belarusian is written (and spoken – there are some differences in pronunciation and vocabulary between the two norms, though very few) by almost everyone in the official orthography (Беларуская). The classical written standard (Беларуская (тарашкевіца)) is used by a few mass media (I managed to find four of them) and by a small number of Belarusian intelligentsia.

❓ Why is that so and why are there these two written norms in the first place?

❗ And now, my fellow nerds, it’s Belarusian language history time!

1. The establishment of the two orthographies

The first official orthography and the set of grammar rules in the newly independent Belarus were set in 1918 by a linguist Branislaw Tarashkyevich. It was called Taraškievica (after its author), or (later) the classic orthography. Between Cyrillic and Latin alphabets, both having been used before for writing Belarusian, Cyrillic script was chosen.  

In 1933 a reform on Belarusian orthography was introduced. It was carried out by a commission in which no linguists were included; the reasons for the reform were almost exclusively political: the first orthography brought Belarusian closer to Polish, and the politics of Russification was being pursued in the USSR and similar reforms took place in other USSR minority languages to assimilate them into Russian culture and language. Unlike Taraškievica, the new official orthography (or “Narkamauka”, as it is informally known, after народны камісарыят, People’s Comissariat) didn’t represent phonetic peculiarities of the Belarusian language as well as the previous orthography did, bringing some of the language norms closer to the Russian ones.

2. Post-USSR time

In 1990s after the dissolution of the Soviet Union some mass media began using Taraškievica again. But in early 2000s many of them went back to the official written norm; I can’t positively say what the real reasons for that were.

From one point of view, the reasons were quite simple: Belarusian language teachers wanted to use books, newspapers and TV programmes to teach children Belarusian, so it was better to use one variant of orthography to avoid confusion. An editor of a newspaper in Belarusian explained it as a measure to attract new readers, that had had problems reading the paper in the classical orthography. People of different political views adhere to this point of view.

Another point of view claims that those were political reasons. The fact is that writing in old Taraškievica, as well as speaking Belarusian, using the old white-red-white flag and the “Pahonia” coat of arms are all aimed at alienation from the Soviet past, when people were discouriged from using their native languages instead of Russian. On the contrary, the state policy now doesn’t tend to alienate from it: for example, the state symbols are the reformed Soviet ones, and the Russian language is mostly used officially. The opinion of those people is that the reason for the change was pressure from the authorities. 

Aaaand here come political quarrels and fights, let’s leave the topic.

I think that the people who write and edit Wikipedia pretty much fall under the description of intelligentsia (regardless of political views) – that is, those who are interested in language, culture, and science, who care about what happens around them and are ready to do things voluntarily and create something.That’s why there you have it – an entire edition of Wikipedia in the written norm that very few people in the country know anything about – by the way, the edition that was founded before the one in the official orthography.

3. So if the changes were unnatural and imposed, should we go back to the classical norm?

Alright, let’s get back to linguistics. That’s a difficult question. Some reasons why we should:

The first thing you hear when you start learning Belarusian spelling is my all-time favourite rule “як чуецца, так і пішацца” – “you write it as you hear it”. (“As you hear it”, yes, I’m looking at you, English and Russian, it works like this too) The first three for-Taraškievica arguments I’m going to mention deal with reduction of the exceptions to the rule:

The soft sign (ь): the first thing associated with Taraškievica is this letter of the alphabet – you find arguments like “who cares about the soft signs as long as people speak and write Belarusian” or “YOUR NATIONALIST ASSES CAN TAKE THOSE SOFT SIGNS AND SHOVE THEM UP YO-” in the holywar discussions about Belarusian politics and orthography.  The letter is used much more widely in the classical orthography to notate the assimilating softness of consonants. I know, not everyone is a linguist here, I’m going to explain that! Belarusian is said to sound soft and melodious -- you can agree with that or not (I do, though), but there definitely are more soft consonants in the orthoepic norm of the Belarusian language (than in Russian, for example). “Narkamauka” doesn’t have soft signs after the consonants which aquire their softness from the soft consonants after them; that’s why in modern Belarusian most people make a mistake of pronouncing them hard.

Showing the assimilation ( ≈ change) of sounds preceeding certain types of consonants: безь мяне, ня бачу, бяз рук instead of без мяне, не бачу, без рук (without me, [I] don’t see, without hands)

The letter ґ:  in the 2005 variant of normalization of Taraškievica, a new letter is introduced: ґ, indicating a plosive [ɡ] (same as the English [g], as in ‘get’), as opposed to the fricative [ɣ] (the voiced variant of the [x] sound, as in Scottich English ‘loch’). I remember our Belarusian teacher mention that both sounds exist in Belarusian and asking us to remember a few words with the [g] sound. Introduction of this letter would help people avoid pronunciation mistakes.

Many geographical names are the old, pre-revolutionary variants: Расея, Менск, Гародня, Эўропа, Ангельшчына instead of Расія, Мінск, Гродна, Еўропа, Англія (Russia, Minsk, Hrodna, Europe, England). (Probably another feature of the orthography rather than an argument for it, though, I just wanted to mention that too) 

Now the last and the most subjective argument I’m going to mention, which seems to me the most persuasive one: when I read the ‘Morphology’ table, almost all the features of Taraškievica mentioned in it just sound better to me. I can’t explain it clearly: I just look at the classic orthography’s morphological norms and think: “That’s what it’s supposed to be, that sounds so much more natural, so less forcedly Russian-like!” 

However, there are arguments for leaving it as it is:

The change will inevitably lead to confusion 

If it has been so widespread for quite some time, maybe we should accept pronouncing those sound hard as a norm and never bother about it?

While writing this, I looked up Belarusian words with the [g] sound and found a list of like 40. Around a half of them I don’t remember hearing ever before, in about 10 of them the two sounds are interchangeable. I mean, a special letter for like 40 words...?

Again, should we maybe leave those variants of geographical names instead of the old ones sounding a little bit odd now, as well as the small exceptions from the “you write it as you hear it” rule? It won’t be as bad as the English spelling rules (or a lack of them *looks at the English language angrily*).

Another subjective opinion here: in Taraškievica some transliteration rules are different: the syllables ‘la’, ‘lo’, ‘lu’ are transliterated with a soft [l] in words of Western European origin except for Anglicisms. That leaves us with бiялёгiя, лёгiка and фiлязофiя instead of бiялогiя, логiка and фiласофiя (biology, logic, philosophy). Non-East-Slavic people, just believe that for me as well as for many other people it sounds terribly weird.

All the fights around the Belarusian language would probably just discourage people (especially children and teens) from learning to speak Belarusian casually. (Ask me if you want to know why they don’t speak it now, it’s a long story)

So, again, should we?

If I were to decide, I’d change a few things to the classical orthography. I am really for the old morphological rules and reducing the exceptions to the “you write it as you hear it” rule. And for some reason I like the soft variant of pronunciation. But for god’s sake, no ґ‘s and фiлязофiя’s!

Again, this change is also a question of politics – and whether anyone will bother with it. I guess that's unlikely.

A few sidenotes just to clear my consciense (probably skip that)

No, this isn’t a particularly important issue. But it deals with linguistics and the history of language – and isn’t it curious that an entire edition of Wikipedia, as big as the one written in the official orthography, exists in such a little-known spelling?

I’m not a linguist, though I have taken a course in linguistics at college. I’m just curious about languages and I have read a ton of articles on the topic and tried to pick out the most significant and interesting.

Speaking Belarusian casually is associated with people from rural areas as well as with intelligentsia. And I can’t say that the official policy discourages people from speaking Belarusian... oh man, that’s so complicated and I don’t want to make it about politics, google it, the post is already way-way-WAY too long. 

P. S. I like the pettiness of the authors of the Taraškievica and “Narkamauka” Wikipedia pages about the two written norms. Each one goes like: it’s obvious that our orthography is much better. Here are the arguments proving it, which we present from a totally neutral point of view, as we do in Wikipedia.

My other posts about the Belarusian language The linguistic situation in Belarus (I’ll probably write a longer version explaining it in detail… one day)

[seriouslyblacklikemysoul]

Hexes and Charms - James Potter x Reader

Request: Can I request a James Potter imagine where the reader meet him at the diagon alley and she just hex him accidentally because she was trying her wand(I know magic is not allowed outside Hogwarts but it was before they started Hogwarts)so he basically get impressed by her skills and slowly they become good friends but when Sirius tells James that he like the reader,James feel jealous but do nothing and reader getting irritated by James's behaviour and kiss him all of sudden in middle of great hall Warnings: My English, language, idk. Gifs aren’t mine. Credits to their original owners. Also, Harry Potter Wikia. And guys I am so sorry. The semester has taken its toll on me. Word Count~1.8k MASTERLIST Pending Requests

 You had no idea why you could do some pretty weird stuff. You had absolutely no idea why you could levitate objects or why you could vanish things. You just did. At first, you tried to keep it hidden; you didn’t know why or how was something like that possible and you definitely didn’t want your parents to find out. What would they think of you? Slowly, you gained more confidence as you found out ways to use your ‘ability’ to help injured animals or even your friends. You still didn’t know how you were able to do stuff like that but that didn’t bother you anymore. Until a letter came for you. A letter from Hogwarts. What was Hogwarts? You didn’t know and you wouldn’t know if it wasn’t for Professor McGonagall. She looked strict but she was a really sweet person. The verdict was that you were a witch. Yep, a witch.

He always knew what Hogwarts was. He always knew why he could practice magic. He was born into the Wizarding World. He was a Pureblood wizard. He didn’t need McGonagall to explain or introduce him to a completely different world.

It was a miracle, a scene from the most beautiful fairy tale. Diagon Alley was a cobblestoned wizarding alley and shopping area located in London, England behind a pub called the Leaky Cauldron. Inside the alley was an assortment of restaurants, shops, and other sights. All items on the Hogwarts supply list could be bought at Diagon Alley and it was completely hidden from the Muggle world which was right outside of its boundaries. It was very large in area and essentially the center of wizarding London. And you only lived moments away, yet you had never seen it. All those colorful places and people made your head spin. It was full of life. You had bought your supplies except for your wand and that’s when McGonagall told you about Ollivander’s. He was the best wandmaker in history, according to her. When you entered there was one other kid waiting for his wand. You didn’t pay attention to him because you were too fascinated by the shop. Everywhere you looked, there were wands, wands and more wands. “This is a mahogany wand. Eleven inches. Pliable. A little more power and excellent for transfiguration and… trouble, young man” an old man-Ollivander?- informed the black-haired boy in front of you, before his blue eyes landed on you. “But you… maybe…  Ten and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow?” he trailed off as he gave you a wooden stick- that must be your wand, cool. You held it, unsure of what to do when he prompted you to give it a wave. Maybe he shouldn’t have. Everything made of glass was broken within a matter of seconds. He looked genuinely surprised but he nodded kindly nonetheless. “No, no. Willow is no match to your power. Maybe eleven inches, beech, flexible” he told you as he handed you another wand. It felt… better, if you could use that word for a wand but still something felt off. You gave it a wave and even though it did perform excellently, Ollivander was skeptical. “Perhaps, Alder wood with a Phoenix feather core, ten and three-quarters long and Slightly Springy flexibility”. This wand looked amazing and once you held it you realized what McGonagall had told you about the wands and their owners. You gave it a try but… blue sparks hit the black-haired boy and he started sneezing uncontrollably. Ollivander, instead of helping the boy, he smiled brightly and told you that your wand had picked you. If you were puzzled before, now you were utterly confused. After a while, the sneezing stopped and you tried to apologize but he wasn’t even listening.  It was so clear that you were a Muggle-Born and yet, you managed to perfume a non-verbal hex without even knowing the incantation. He was impressed, to say the least. “It’s fine, really. I am James, by the way” he introduced himself and you blushed slightly. “Y/N. Nice to meet you, James”. Little did you know that that particular boy was trouble and you were willingly walking its way.

It had been six years. In those six years, you had formed bonds that you knew they would last. Gradually, you had become friends with the Marauders and by the end of your third year, you were inseparable. You knew about Remus’ condition before he told you; you just waited for him to trust you enough. You knew about Peter’s awfully low self-esteem and family problems and you tried to help me as much as you could. Speaking of family, you were very well aware of Sirius’ family-issues. You weren’t sure if they deserved that name. You had been a shelter for him and his nightmares. Unfortunately, you knew about the infuriating crush James had on Lily.  You would be happy for him-you wanted to be happy- if it wasn’t for own crush on him. You hadn’t realized when you stopped seeing him as a friend and started seeing him … as more. You were already caught in the middle of it when you figured it out. But what could you do? He was so in love with Lily. No, he wasn’t in love with her, he was just… infatuated. That was not love. That was an obsession. Or so you wanted to believe. You were lost in your own world that you didn’t notice that what you have been feeling about James, someone else was experiencing it for you. That was a lie. You did notice. How he would always want to be by your side, how you were the only one he would talk to about his problems, his nightmares, his fears, his dreams… but it felt natural and you didn’t question it. Just like he knew that you would never be his because he saw the way you were looking at his best friend and as much as it hurt, he accepted it. The only thing that he could never accept was the fact that his best friend was being an arse and was trying to woo over Lily, while he should be with you and care about you and only you. Because that was what he would do. If you were his, he would never let you go. And you kind of felt that. You just happened to be at the right place, the right time. Sort of. “Well, yes -  there is something I wanna tell you” you heard Sirius’ voice coming from the empty classroom that you had just passed by as you were walking down the corridor. You halted and hid in the corner trying to peer inside the room. There wasn’t enough light to give you away but you did manage to sneak a peek. “What has you all worked up Pads?” James asked him, teasingly. The boys were brewing a potion, probably something illegal, you guessed and you were thankful that they weren’t looking at their map because you didn’t have an explanation for eavesdropping.  “Okay, here it goes. I like her. I like Y/N” he admitted and your jaw hit the floor. You didn’t know how to react, mainly because you knew but still… that was a big confirmation. How this would affect all the other aspects? You saw James furrowing his eyebrows. He was such an idiot. “Um, we all like her. She is our friend” he stated and Remus facepalmed. Yeah, you wanted to do that as well but you just waited for the realization to kick in. “That’s the thing. I don’t like her as a friend. I like her as… more” Sirius sheepishly told him, blushing lightly. He was cute and adorable and you just wished that you could feel like you felt about James, for him. How much easier would everything be? James blinked a couple of times and he opened and closed his mouth too many times, but nothing ever came out. He just stared at Sirius.  You didn’t know what to think and you left. That was something that they should deal with alone.

For the next month, things had gone from confusing to downright weird. And even more confusing. You had expected that after that night, one of them would feel obligated to tell you that they had been talking about you. But no. Nothing like that ever happened. Sirius had been even closer than before and was trying his best to avoid-yes, avoid- James while James had been acting as if he was jealous -which was impossible because Lily!- but at the same time he had grown colder towards you. You didn’t know what to believe- what had happened after you had left? Did they get into a fight? Why would they? Even when James was ignoring you, because that was what he had been doing or trying to, you still were under his charms. And you felt pathetic. Emotional rollercoaster. You had had enough. It was party time You were in the middle of your breakfast and your annoyance towards James was only growing. You were sitting right next to him and he felt colder than an iceberg. You had a long talk with Sirius last night. Everything was out in the open and you both had come clean with each other. Now it was James’ time. He was talking to everyone about everything; but you. Something was boiling- your tolerance? Perhaps. You recalled that first day you had met him-oh, how you wanted to hex him right now. Where was that sweet boy? You missed him. “What have I done to you?” you asked him out of the blue. That simple question stopped every single conversation. His eyes narrowed, his brows knitted and that familiar line appeared between them while a muscle in his jaw twitched. He didn’t respond. Your eyes drifted away from him. “Fine” you simply breather out. Within a matter of seconds, you had concocted a plan. To hell with your reputation and your dignity. And probably everything… but who cares? You grabbed his shirt and pulled him closer, turning his whole body so he could face you. And you kissed him. It wasn’t a gentle kiss. It was fierce and brutal, it was angry and desperate- and long overdue. But it was worth it. Merlin, it was worth it. You felt like fire was running through your veins as you breathed in his intoxicating scent. What surprised you was that he responded. He was kissing you back, eagerly, hungrily, almost impatiently. And if you asked him in that moment ‘what about Lily’, he would answer ‘Who’s Lily?’. And if you asked him after two years ‘What about Lily’, he would still answer ‘Who’s Lily?”. Because, with that hex, you had already won him over.

Tags: @orionsirivsblack @kapolisradomthoughts @nadinissavage

[tumblunni]

Today’s weirdass yokai watch fact I have learned: Agent X is Injun Joe. He’s just.. Injun Joe. His japanese name is goddamn Injun Joe.

“Hey what’s an american thing? Men In Black and uhhhh RACISM”

His entire design is just fuckin Injun Joe, the version from a very particular tv show in japan, just fuckin recoloured purple. I never would have even known!!

So uhh yeah, good on you dub team for removing all that loaded roulette of a thing, holy fuckin shit...

I feel kinda bad for the japanese developers though because there’s no indication they really uhh.. KNEW anything about the whole native american situation at all. Apparantly the tales of tom sawyer was one of a few classic american books that got a kids show in japan, so the thought process behind this was probably just “this was my first childhood impression of what america is like, i should give it an affectionate reference”.

Which is uh.. its the same reason we have Jynx. Seriously! “Little Black Sambo” was another “classic western franchise” that japanese kids read in the 50s and 60s. Taking it completely out of context like that, the racist stereotype design of the earliest illustrations became seen as an iconic cartoon character and the japanese audience had no idea of its origins in anything negative.

This is why i really hate that whole “its a classic, so you’re not allowed to complain about the racism”. like there’s a big ol fat difference between simply understanding that the racism is a product of its time, vs YOURE NOT ALLOWED TO BE SAD ABOUT IT. Teaching friggin “classics” in this atmosphere of out of context dancing-around-the-elephant-in-the-room is how we get situations like this where people who don’t already know the context can just pick up the racism accidentally. Also seriously if we even had the slightest fuckin warning or even ACTUALLY TAUGHT KIDS that the racism is bad and its only here because this is an old book, then maybe itd be less goddamn traumatizing for the actual non white kids in the damn class...

I can still remember how my high school did this with of Mice Of Men, regarding ableism. Like it was friggin HIGH SCHOOL, there’s less of an excuse of ‘oh we cant explain, its too complicated for kids’! (Which is dumb anyway cos kids not already knowing about racism is like THE BIGGEST REASON you should tell them the thing is wrong/take the thing out when you talk about the book, otherwise it just goes into their brain unquestioned) Anyway, if you didnt already know, Of Mice And Men is a story all about a Scary Developmentally Disabled Man who is Just Like A Big Adult Child and is Big Scary Murderer and Too Dangerous To Live and The Only Way For Him To Be Happy Is To Die and Everyone He Ever Loved Is Finally Free Of The Burden of Him And He Would Be Happy That They Can Finally Be Happy. Yeah. Its fucked up and I hate it and I hate that it was just taught unchallenged and unquestioned. I didnt know I was autistic until i was an adult and this sort of message was the only perspective i was ever being given on what mental disabilities were, which probably contributed a whole lot to why i never got diagnosed and why i was goddamn terrified when i did finally find out. I’m so fuckin glad that being autistic is just.. like.. exactly the same as how I fuckin think, instead of this ridiculous gross fatalistic stereotype. And I hate looking back on how i blindly believed it and how i was rude to other autistic kids cos i fuckin DIDNT KNOW I WAS ONE OF THEM and thought it was a goddamn death sentence i had to avoid by being Aggressively Neurotypical At All Times.

But yeah this was indeed a book made in an older time where autism hadnt even been properly investigated by medical science and didnt even have a name. And by the standards of the time it’s comparatively progressive, because the story does indeed say this mentally ill man isnt actually evil, he’s just ACCIDENTALLY dangerous, and you’re supposed to feel sad that he has to die. But that doesn’t mean its goddamn true, it doesnt mean it should be taught as true, and it doesnt mean its not harmful to real people with real disabilities who are very likely sitting right there in this classroom listening to this tripe. I’m not saying don’t read any “classics” in class, just itd be nice if the teacher remotely aknowledged the problematic shit instead of reading it out as-is and not discussing a single thing. Like seriously it could flesh out the curriculum quite a bit if you added some essays like “explain why this thing is bigoted and the cultural context as to why it happened”. Or even just a goddamn warning at the beginning of the lesson that this chapter is gonna contain emotionally harrowing stuff! And its not even like its JUST “classics” that do this, the book directly after this in that same year of highschool was a modern thing about “oooh the scary inner mind of an autistic”, full of loads of stereotypes and weirdass child abuse apologism cos ~oh the kid was such a burden~ :/

So yeah. That stuff. Its bad.

It can lead to super outdated horrible stereotypes getting reintroduced into the brains of kids who dont know any better, or in this case foreign audiences who arent familiar with the cultural context. So that’s why I don’t blame nintendo for making a random villain named after the really insensitive name of an old not-exactly-well-portrayed villain from a “classic”. Instead I blame the people in the west who act so flippant about racism/other bigotries as long as its “classic”, its our fault that we’re sending this impression out to other countries.

Also its super depressing imagining this dude is meant to be the ghost of a guy with the same backstory as that dude from tom sawyer, aka a half native american mixed race man who only turned evil because he was treated like shit by racist bastards. Seriously it sucks how unsympathetically and scarily ‘ol IJ is portrayed in tom sawyer, but i guess again its a ‘for its time it was ahead of the curve’ sort of thing. Still not good though. The only thing more not gooder than that is if after he died with no sympathy from anyone forever he also came back as a weird purple slime ghost and continued suffering for more centuries :(

:(

:(

Man i usually love learning development trivia about games but this was really one of those facts thats more of a cursed thing :(

Aaaand ending with a random piece of trivia his japanese name is Injaneno which is a goddamn pun on That Damned Name mixed with a stereotypical italian mafia speak version of “dontcha know”. Or, well, the japanese stereotype of what italian mafia speak sounds like in japanese. Apparantly hokkaido accent is their equivelant of the ‘this character is foreign’ accent! Like how texas accents are for america and literally-everywhere-except-england accents are for britain. Its such a dumb trope, isnt it? “How do we know this character isn’t from this country? Cos they speak a very specific local accent of this country.” Its just the dumb stereotype of certain accents being uncultured or stupid or whatever so its a shorthand for ‘not fluent in the language’ even though being not fluent in the language sounds entirely fuckin different.

So yeh. Facts. Some of them kinda cursed. Also even more reasons to cry for goddamn MIB slime man...

oh and also his slime form in japanese is just “Demon Injaneno” instead of “The Executor”. which is an added layer of pun thats just like ‘dontcha know’ with an even more heavy accent. So i’m glad they kept the idea of scary alien blobman doom agent having goofy cute puns, and the whole X obsession is a nice way of punning without all them layers of weirdness.

[dalewood]

New Post has been published on Its just life!

New Post has been published on http://bit.ly/2wDQLKf

Freedom - the Thought Police Strike Again!

Freedom  –  the Thought Police Strike Again!

Another great article from the Gatestone Institute by Giulio Meotti, although we supposedly live in a censorship free age of freedom, freedom of speech and freedom of thought, after all millions died for it during 2 world wars, those freedoms are fast vanishing and will if we are not careful. The attack on our freedoms is primarily from the left of politics where we have safe areas in universities to protect our precious students from ideas they may find difficult allowing in, in the main, only left wing speakers, Unions, left-wing Labour activists and Students shouting down politicions such as Nigel Farage requiring him to have body guards, we must become very aware of the intolerance of the left!

by Giulio Meotti September 15, 2017 at 5:00 am

https://www.gatestoneinstitute.org/10388/thought-police

This politically correct nonsense highlights even further the infantilization of our culture — such as the demand for “safe spaces” and “trigger warnings”. It may look like a comedy, but its effect is deadly serious.

Groupthink is a debilitating force. in any civilization. It undermines one’s ability to resist the real enemies of democracy and freedom: it makes us blind to radical Islam and jihadi terrorism, and it gives the impression that our society is a joke.

Instead of being intellectually diverse, universities are trying their utmost to impose homogeneity of thoughts and ideas. So-called “right wing newspapers” are banned from certain universities. Recently, at the City University of London, the student union, devoid of irony, fascistically voted to ban some conservative tabloids in order to “oppose fascism”.

Headlines every day proclaim the new religion: political correctness, cultural vandalism and censorship — not from Islamic emirates such as Saudi Arabia, but in Western cities right here.

The Writers Union of Canada, for instance, recently apologized for a magazine editorial that defended the right of novelists to create characters from a backgrounds other than their own.

Just think of that: a writer defending the right to use one’s imagination?! What an insult! At least, to “the new Stalinists” it is.

“In my opinion anyone, anywhere, should be encouraged to imagine other peoples, other cultures, other identities,” Hal Niedzviecki, who was the editor of the union’s magazine, Write, defended freedom in an editorial. The Union then announced that Niedzviecki had resigned.

Another journalist also fell victim to this new religion. Jonathan Kay also recently resigned as editor of the magazine The Walrus. Defending Niedzviecki’s right to use his imagination cost Kay his job.

Their unspeakable crime was, it appears, “cultural appropriation” — one of the new “groupthink” expressions that the theologian Paul Griffiths condemned as “illiberal and totalitarian“. Griffiths, too, had to resign from Duke University after criticizing his colleagues for a “diversity program” that “provides foundational training in understanding historical and institutional racism.”

Every revolution needs to master a new “language” to achieve uniformity of expression and thought. George Orwell, in 1984, called the replacement language “Newspeak”.

Cardiff Metropolitan University, one of the largest in Britain, compiled a list of 34 words that it “encouraged” teachers and students to stop using, and replaced them with “gender-neutral” terms. “Fireman” should be replaced by “firefighter”; “mankind” should be replaced by banned “humanity”, and so on. Princeton University also expunged the word “man” in its various uses, in favor of supposedly more “inclusive” expressions. City University of New York decided to ban “Mr.” and “Mrs.” California State University replaced commercial terms such as “businessman”, “mailman”, “manpower” and “salesman” to avoid that horrendous, forbidden word.

While at it, why not also purge Christianity’s religious language? Some of the most famous theological universities, such as Duke and Vanderbilt, invited professors and staff to use “inclusive” language even when they are referring to God, because the masculine pronouns are “a cornerstone of patriarchy”.

This politically correct nonsense highlights even further the infantilization of our culture — such as the demand for “safe spaces” and “trigger warnings”. It may look like comedy, but its effect is deadly serious. British philosopher Roger Scruton has said that a kind of “moral obesity” is crippling Western culture.

Groupthink is a debilitating force. in any civilization. It undermines one’s ability to resist the real enemies of democracy and freedom: it makes us blind to radical Islam and jihadi terrorism, and it gives the impression that our society is a joke.

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That is why Algerian writer Boualem Sansal, whose novel 2084 depicted a dystopian state governed by religious law, said “literature and arts are not playing a big role in this struggle against barbarism”. Those writers are, instead, far too busy implementing political correctness.

Universities in Britain are now even holding workshops to “deal with right wing attitudes in the classroom”. Instead of being intellectually diverse, universities are trying their utmost to impose homogeneity of thoughts and ideas. So-called “right wing newspapers” are banned from certain universities. Recently, the at the City University of London, the student union, devoid of irony, fascistically voted to ban some conservative tabloids in order to “oppose fascism”.

Dozens of personalities, conservative and liberal alike, have been prevented from speaking on many U.S. campuses. This is just a short list: Milo Yiannopoulos, Janet Napolitano, George Will, Condoleezza Rice, Madeleine Albright, Ayaan Hirsi Ali, Henry Kissinger, Christine Lagarde, Charles Murray and Jason Riley.

First, students asked to limit freedom of expression to a specific place on campus. Then they started issuing declarations about no rights to free speech. Finally, in a crescendo of hysteria, they ended up throwing firebombs. How can we pretend that freedom of expression in the West is protected — from fascism, Islamism, anything — when we restrict it in our universities?

When the “politically incorrect” commentator and writer Milo Yiannopoulos was due to speak at the University of California, Berkeley on February 1, 2017, a mob of 150 people proceeded to riot, smash and set fires, causing more than $100,000 of damage. (Image source: RT video screenshot)

A few weeks ago, the 2017 Whitney Biennal in New York opened with a protest in front of a painting by the American-born artist Dana Schutz. The picture depicted Emmett Till, a boy lynched by racists in Mississippi in 1955. More than 25 black artists signed an open letter, written by the artist Hannah Black, to the Whitney’s curators and staff, asking that the painting be removed from the Biennial, allegedly because “the painting uses black suffering for “profit and fun'”. Ms. Black also asked that the painting be “destroyed and not entered into any market or museum”.

That request not only aimed at censoring different ideas, but, like the Grand Inquisitor, of destroying the “wrong thought”. The new religion — featuring political correctness, cultural vandalism and censorship — is dismantling the West.

Giulio Meotti, Cultural Editor for Il Foglio, is an Italian journalist and author.

© 2017 Gatestone Institute. All rights reserved. The articles printed here do not necessarily reflect the views of the Editors or of Gatestone Institute. No part of the Gatestone website or any of its contents may be reproduced, copied or modified, without the prior written consent of Gatestone Institute.

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Facebook’s Secret Censorship Rules Protect White Men From Hate Speech

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