#(the italics in the beginning is them speaking french!)

[sloanerisette]

Digi Secret Santa

Merry Christmas @stoppingtosmelltheflowers! I hope it’s a good one, here’s my Digi Secret Santa gift to you!!

Your letter mentioned that you love the 02 gang and especially Takeru! I thought of this little idea that would include both but especially be Takeru-centric.

I’m more used to writing from the basis of the dub, but I used sub names for this, so I hope the characterization is still enjoyable for you!

“Takeru?”

Even as his partner spoke, the blond continued to look out the plane window at the clouds they passed through and the full, green landscape far below.

“Takeruuuuuuu!”

Takeru blinked as he felt a tiny paw gently hit his chest.

When he turned to look at Patamon, who was floating in front of him, his lips turned upwards into a gentle smile.

“Sorry, I was spacing out, what’s up?” he asked, looking to the side as Patamon pointed to the aisle, to see the flight attendant standing with the drink cart.

“Something to drink for you, sir?” she asked in French.

“Oh, uh, sorry,” he said sheepishly. He ducked his head as a light blush settled on his cheeks, before he cleared his throat, “Tea for me and coffee for my partner, please.”

Patamon settled in Takeru’s lap as he spoke, and Takeru brought down the tray table, which the attendant set the drinks down on moments later.

“Thank you,” Takeru said with a nod as he picked up his paper cup, blowing on it gently before taking a sip.

“You better keep your French up. Remember how annoyed your grandfather was when we got to Paris?” Patamon asked before he took a large gulp of coffee.

“Slow down, you don’t want to burn your mouth,” Takeru chided gently as he slipped back into Japanese, “…I’ll definitely have to do my best. Maybe I can have you and nii-san help me out with that.”

Patamon smiled brightly, “I can do my best!”

Takeru chuckled gently, “I knew I could count on you.”

A young boy who was sitting next to Takeru started squirming in his seat, finally unable to hold back his curiosity any longer, and turned to look up at Takeru and Patamon.

“Excuse me, um… is that your Digimon?” the young boy asked with bright eyes.

“Hello!” Patamon greeted the child cheerfully, and the child’s jaw dropped.

“H-Hi…”

“His name is Patamon.”

“Oooh… I don’t have a Digimon partner yet,” the child said before he looked up at Takeru, “Do you think I’ll get my own Digimon partner one day?”

His heart felt warm at the sight of a child being so excited to see a Digimon. To be able to have Patamon out on a plane flight with him and have no one bat an eye or make comments about how adorable his partner was. This was definitely the kind of thing Hikari always talked about wanting, and it felt good.

“You’ll definitely get one. There’s going to be a day when you and all your friends will have partners of your own. I promise.”

His words left the kid elated, and he gave Takeru a quick thanks and a wave to Patamon before he turned back to the game he was playing.

The pair went silent for a while, Patamon remaining on his partner’s lap after he had finished his coffee, while Takeru continued to look out the window as the view turned from bright blue sky to dark orange twilight.

“Are you excited to see everyone again?” Patamon finally asked once the moon began to slowly rise into the sky.

“Of course I am, it’s been too long,” he said. He took off his neon green beanie by the pom-pom and ran his other hand through his hair, ruffling it slightly to distract himself. After a moment he put it back on, tugging it on slightly as his expression started to falter slightly.

“Takeru, what’s wrong?” Patamon asked.

It didn’t surprise Takeru in the slightest that his partner had caught the subconscious hint that something was wrong.

“Ah, uh, well…” he trailed off, going quiet as he started to think of what to say. Nothing came to mind, though, so he looked at his partner, forcing a warm smile on his face, “It’s nothing, really.”

However, Patamon was unconvinced.

“Takeru… if something’s wrong, I want you to talk to me…”

It was something he still struggled with— being open about himself and his feelings— and even with his chosen Digimon partner urging him to be open and honest, it still didn’t feel easy.

…But he had spent a long time in France and had learned plenty. It would be tough, but he’d have to work on it, even just a bit.

He sighed.

“I’m just… anxious about seeing everyone. A semester is a long time. They’ve all been together all this time and I’ve been… gone.”

“Takeru…” Patamon whined gently, his wings drooping as he frowned up at his partner.

Takeru looked out the window again, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

“I know we won’t suddenly stop being friends or anything, but I just feel anxious that things might feel different. I’m afraid of feeling like the odd man out.”

“That won’t happen,” Patamon tried to assure him.

“I’m sure you’re right, but…” he started, gently scratching at his cheek as he fell into thought, “…I’ve just been thinking about it the past few days. I just want things to fall back into place like they always have been.”

“I’m sure it will! Remember that video call we had with everyone yesterday? They’re so excited to see you! I bet they’re already at the airport waiting for you,” Patamon laughed.

That was enough to get Takeru to crack a smile, and he laughed alongside his partner.

“Well, they’d be a good…” he checked his watch, “…eight hours early.”

Patamon’s ears drooped, “Aww… we still have that long?” he asked sadly. Takeru nodded.

“’Fraid so, buddy. So no more coffee, ok? We don’t need you crashing as soon as we get off the plane,” he teased, poking his partner gently in the stomach.

“Ok…” Patamon huffed sadly, “I’ll do my best.”

“That’s all I ask,” Takeru said, before letting out a loud yawn, “…I think I’m gonna try and get a nap in. Everything has been so hectic and I think the adrenaline is finally wearing off.”

Both his and Patamon’s eyes began to slowly flutter closed.

“Yeah, it might not be that bad an idea to get a little rest…” the Digimon agreed.

In no time at all the two were out like a light, Patamon curled up tight on his partner’s lap.

***

Takeru woke up around two hours before landing and immediately his mind began to race as it started to really sink in just how soon he’d be landing in Tokyo.

His leg began to unconsciously bounce, though thankfully it wasn’t enough to wake Patamon up. The plane remained silent, save for the occasional whispers between a passenger and a flight attendant, and when he looked out the window, seeing his home left butterflies swarming in his stomach. It was a mixture of nerves and excitement, knowing that not too long from now he would see his friends again.

It was so long ago when he first left home to spend a semester abroad, and the time difference combined with how busy he was, how much he wanted to do and see while in France, and how busy everyone else was with high school… he hadn’t had a lot of time to keep in touch with his closest friends, as much as it hurt.

He was pulled from his thoughts at the sound of his partner yawning, and he looked down to see the Digimon that had remained nestled on his lap now turning and twisting onto his back before he slowly opened his eyes.

Patamon’s wings unfurled out from under him, and he looked up at Takeru, blinking a few times.

“Are we there yet?” he asked, then yawned again. Takeru laughed gently.

“Almost. You fell asleep for most of the flight,” he told Patamon, unable to help but yawn as his partner yawned again.

Patamon pushed himself up and took to the air, gently flapping over towards the window. He pressed his face to the window to look down at the approaching island. Takeru craned his neck to look at the small space that wasn’t blocked by his partner.

“Well… guess we really are finally back…” he thought.

The PA on the plane dinged, “Hello everyone, this is your captain speaking. We will begin the process of our initial descent into Tokyo shortly. The local time is 3:30 in the afternoon and the temperature is 12 degrees Celsius. Thank you for coming along with this flight, and we’ll let you know as we begin our descent.”

Takeru wrapped his arms around Patamon and held him close.

“Welcome home, Patamon.”

***

Aside from a bit of turbulence right before they started the landing, the last leg of the flight had been easy, and Takeru was more than ready to get off the plane. Patamon had settled on Takeru’s head as best he could given the pompom of his beanie, and Takeru grabbed his bags as quickly as possible, shuffling behind the others in his row as they disembarked. With the families that had been on the plane, as well as others who were making connecting flights or didn’t know their way around the airport, Takeru found himself taking his time to help point people in the right direction and slowly make his way through the crowds.

It also helped that this minor delay being behind so many people meant he could try and mentally prepare himself and psych himself up a little better.

By the time they reached the baggage claim, he was starting to feel a bit more at ease, and he began to crane his neck around to try and see where his brother was.

What he missed, though, was that through the crowds of people two of his friends were already rushing forward. As he and Patamon turned to look ahead, they saw that Hikari and Miyako just mere inches from him, and they instantly held onto him in the tightest hug he had experienced in a long time.

“You’re back!” Miyako squealed happily.

“It’s so good to see you again!” Hikari cried out.

They had nearly knocked him and Patamon over, but he had barely managed to stay standing.

“Hikari-chan! Miyako-san! W-What are you both doing here!?” Takeru cried out, staring at them with wide eyes and jaw dropped. Patamon hopped off his head and began to fly around the two girls.

“Don’t forget about me!” he squeaked out happily before he landed on Hikari’s shoulder.

“Aww, Patamon, there’s no way I could,” she assured the Digimon.

It didn’t take long for the rest of their group to come over, wasting no time in expanding the group hug. With Daisuke, Iori, and Ken there now, Takeru was in the center of a vortex involving his closest friends. When he was getting ready to take off, he had only expected his brother there to pick him up, but instead he had five of his closest friends rush him, and all of the fears and nerves he had melted away in an instant.

As he was being just about squished by his fellow Chosen Children, those very thoughts seemed so ridiculous in the first place. After nearly half a year in France, being back in Japan…

Takeru gently closed his eyes as he let the warmth of his friends and his Digimon partner overtake him. He could feel tears well up at the corners of his eyes, and couldn’t stop himself from smiling. As the group hug started to break, he wiped his eyes with his sleeve.

“Already getting that emotional?” Daisuke asked teasingly, a bright smile on his face.

“Emotional and surprised,” he choked out, “What’re you doing here? I thought—”

“Don’t worry, I’m here too,” came the voice of his older brother as he walked over with his arms folded and a satisfied smile on his face.

Takeru looked at his brother for a moment, then moved forward and wrapped him a tight hug.

“Whoa!” Yamato exclaimed, taken aback, but welcoming it all the same, “It’s great to see you, Takeru.”

The others let the brothers have their moment, Hikari and Miyako with big smiles on their faces in particular.

“Great to see you, too,” Takeru said simply. Patamon landed back on Takeru’s head.

“And it’s great to see you, Patamon,” Yamato said, “You kept him safe?”

“As could be!” Patamon assured him with a salute.

“I still can’t believe you’re all here, too,” Takeru said as he looked at his fellow generation of Chosen Children.

“How could we not be here?” Miyako asked, and her simple question caused Takeru to laugh gently. She was right. Once again, he felt so… so ridiculous for his worries.

“We asked Yamato-san if we could tag along and he was more than happy to bring us,” Hikari told him.

“Wait, but how did he—” Takeru started but Yamato spoke up.

“Have the room? Dad let me borrow his van,” he grinned.

“I still can’t believe that thing runs,” Takeru mused under his breath.

“It’s so great to see you again,” Iori said simply. And despite the usual tone of his voice, the look on his face made it clear to Takeru that his Jogress partner was really excited for him to be back.

“Welcome back,” Ken said with a smile.

“Yeah, welcome home, Takeru-kun,” Hikari said. Takeru swallowed a lump in his throat as he felt himself ready to tear up again.

“You guys… thanks for being here,” he said, then looked to his older brother, “And thanks for bringing them.”

“Sure thing.”

Daisuke wrapped his arms over Miyako and Ken’s shoulders, “So what’s the plan now, guys?”

“The plan…?” Iori repeated slowly, tilting his head curiously.

“Well, yeah! We got our friend back finally! We gotta do something fun!” Daisuke grinned as he leaned forward. The sudden weight nearly caused Miyako’s knees to buckle and she maneuvered out from under Daisuke, causing the gogglehead to have to be caught by Ken before he fell.

“Maybe it would be best if Takeru-kun and Patamon got a little rest?” Hikari suggested, looking over at Takeru for a moment to offer him a hopeful smile.

Daisuke’s expression instantly fell, while Takeru shook his head.

“We’ll be good for a little while. We both managed to fall asleep on the plane for a while,” he assured the group.

“Great! That means we can do something fun to celebrate!” Miyako cheered. Daisuke followed up with a cheer of his own.

“Well, I’m good to do anything, do you have any ideas, Takeru-san?” Ken asked. Takeru grimaced.

“Uh, well… not really…” he said as he sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck.

Iori sighed, “I don’t think we should be having Takeru-san decide what to do for him when he just got off the plane.”

“No, no, it’s fine, really,” Takeru said, waving off Iori’s concern, “I’d just need a bit to think of something,” he chuckled gently.

“Actually, wait, I have a great idea!” Daisuke spoke up, “I’ve been working on a ramen recipe and got some ingredients, we can all come over to my place and I can whip us up some food!”

“Are you sure your parents would be alright with that, Daisuke-kun?” Hikari asked with a hint of concern in her eyes. Daisuke shrugged nonchalantly.

“They’re gone for a few days. Me and V-mon got the place to ourselves,” he grinned as he put his hands behind his head, leaning back just enough so he wouldn’t fall over.

“Well, if you don’t mind, that sounds great, thanks Daisuke-kun,” Takeru smiled.

“You know, I’ve been wanting to make this recipe but I just haven’t had the chance, so this works,” Daisuke said.

“He’s been waiting for us all to be there before he made it for the first time,” Ken said with a smile.

“Ken! Aww, man…” Daisuke sighed.

Takeru felt his heart swell, and he couldn’t stop from smiling.

“Thanks. I’m really excited to try it.”

“Definitely beats airplane food, I bet,” Miyako added.

Takeru laughed, “Definitely.” Yamato stepped over, pulling out the keys from his pocket to twirl them with his finger.

“You kids ready to go then?” Yamato asked.

“Oh, uh, maybe we should stop by mom’s place real quick? Just so that way I can drop my stuff off and—” Takeru started, but was cut off by his older brother.

“Don’t worry. I’ll head over and drop your bags off and let her know.”

“Then let’s get going! We got ramen to eat!” Daisuke shouted, pumping his fist in the air.

***

Thankfully the drive back hadn’t been too bad, both between the traffic and the sad state his dad’s old van was in, and they had gotten back to Daisuke’s home in Odaiba without incident. Takeru had asked his older brother a few times if he wanted to at least stick around long enough to get a bowl of ramen, but Yamato had repeatedly insisted, “No, I’m fine, you should just enjoy the time with your friends.”

And once they were inside, it had felt so… strange. It had only been around a half a year since he had been in the Motomiya apartment, and it cemented just that he really was home. It was like nothing had ever changed, like he had been there all along. As happy as that made him, it also left him feeling a bit empty, in a way. They had been doing stuff like this all along without him. His chest felt tight at the thought. Even if he was glad that they were all able to spend so much time together, his heart panged knowing that he wasn’t able to join them.

Thankfully none of them, even Patamon, didn’t notice that brief moment of sadness that flashed across his face, instead all too focused on chattering away. It helped him distract himself from his own thoughts, too, so focused on all that was going on.

“Maaaaaan, I can’t wait for for this ramen to be ready! This is gonna be crazy good, you guys!” Daisuke grinned as he set a large soup pot on high, then rubbed his hands together.

“It’s been way too long since I’ve had any ramen and I know this is going to be great. I can’t wait,” Takeru said. Daisuke’s face turned a crimson red and he ducked his head sheepishly.

“I mean, like I said, it’s no big deal…” Daisuke mumbled, unable to help the small smile that came on his face. Hikari couldn’t stop herself from giggling.

“It’s really sweet of you,” she told him, which only intensified the goofy look on his face.

Daisuke opened his mouth to speak again, but Miyako quickly held a hand up.

“We need to hear about Takeru-kun’s time in France!” she shouted.

Takeru’s eyes went wide, “Really? I mean, I’ve already talked about it a bit.”

Brief video calls using less than desirable when it could work out were the most they could all manage, which had never been enough.

Even still, Takeru couldn’t imagine many exciting things to talk about, trying to wrack his brain for anything exciting.

“But there’s gotta be something, right?” Miyako asked.

“Well…” Takeru mumbled.

“Did you have a good time with your grandparents?” Iori asked.

“They’re great! Takeru’s grandfather is always so fun and he took us so many places!” Patamon said happily.

“Was there any good food?” V-mon asked as his head finally popped up from behind the counter.

“Oh, the food was so yummy! Lots of bread and cheese and the desserts were sooooooo good!” Patamon squealed. V-mon sighed.

“Oh, that sounds good. I could go for a fancy dessert,” the blue dragon Digimon said.

“What? But I buy you so many chocolate bars from Ai Mart!” Daisuke whined.

“Sometimes I could go for a fancy French dessert,” V-mon said as he scratched the top of his head.

“You didn’t even know about French desserts until just now,” Hikari laughed.

“Maybe one day we can all visit France together,” Takeru suggested.

“That’s a great idea,” Ken nodded.

“Oh! I would love to visit France!” Miyako said as she clasped her hands together with a dreamy look in her eyes, “It’s supposed to be so romantic and beautiful and all of that food sounds so good!”

“Maybe we can go after we graduate?” Hikari suggested. Miyako narrowed her eyes and let out a loud huff.

“That would be so long to wait, though!” she whined. Iori cracked a small smile.

“We can always go when Miyako graduates so she doesn’t have to wait as long,” he teased gently. However, that just left Miyako lighting up even more, and she shot her arms in the air.

“That’s a great idea!”

“Don’t worry about France right now! We’ve got delicious ramen coming your way! V-mon, help me serve these up!” Daisuke called out to his partner, who scrambled over to the stove to assist.

“It’s done already?” Ken asked.

“Yeah,” Daisuke said before he let out a sigh, “I would’ve liked to let the broth sit longer, but if I did it wouldn’t be something I’d want to serve until tomorrow.”

Takeru blinked.

“You’ve been taking cooking really seriously since I left,” he said.

Daisuke looked over his shoulder after ladling some broth into a bowl, “You know it! I had always thought about it and wanted to do it, but, I dunno… I’ve felt really driven lately. I’ve just been thinking about how much I want to be the best ramen chef ever…”

V-mon gently and lovingly placed pieces of pork in the bowls, before setting them to the side.

“Well it smells delicious!” Miyako said, unable to stop from licking her lips.

“It really does. Thank you so much, Daisuke-san,” Iori said with a brief bow of his head.

“Well come on! It’s not gonna eat itself!” Daisuke said as he lifted a tray that was now holding ramen for the group, and carried it over to the table.

Bowls, chopsticks, and spoons were passed out, and the group of Chosen Children, as well as V-mon and Patamon, slowly began to eat in silence, aside from the occasional content noise.

It wasn’t just the soup that warmed his entire body, but the company, too. Sitting next to Hikari-chan, their shoulders occasionally bumping into each other, watching Iori so meticulously go about eating his ramen, while Miyako and Daisuke ate so ravenously one would’ve thought they hadn’t eaten for a few days, and Daisuke asking Ken for feedback every so often.

Patamon and V-mon had gorged themselves near immediately, even faster than Miyako— which Takeru wasn’t sure was even possible— and were quick to run back to the kitchen to get some of the remaining broth.

Back in France, he would get up before school, have a quick meal with his grandmother, grandfather, and Patamon, something that was completely unceremonious compared to breakfast back home. Some butter and jam on a piece of baguette and a quick cup of coffee, or maybe a chocolate croissant as a treat, before he’d have to hurry off.

“It’s pain au chocolat, Takeru! Never just a ‘chocolate croissant’!”

He remembered his grandfather scolding him the first time he had made the mistake, and the thought brought a smile to his face. Even if he had teared up as he bid his grandparents farewell before leaving to meet his flight, he was just glad to have had all that time with them. He would treasure it just as much as he was treasuring this meal with his best friends. That he was able to be close, to watch in content silence as he slowly ate his fill of this delicious ramen, he…

“Takeru-kun, are you ok…?”

Hikari’s voice was so quiet, so slight, that he was surprised he even heard it, especially considering how deep in thought he was. He turned his head to look at her, suddenly realizing the wetness gathering at the edges of his eyes. He blinked away tears, which fell onto the table silently, and he felt at a loss for words.

“O-Oh, I’m—” he started, but was quickly interrupted.

“Takeru-kun, is something wrong?” Miyako asked, barely able to be understood with her mouth full of noodles.

“I bet it’s because the ramen is so good,” Daisuke grinned, which left Miyako rolling her eyes in annoyance as she swallowed her food. Takeru could feel more tears well up, but at the same time he couldn’t help but chuckle gently hearing their bickering. It had been so long since he heard the two of them go back and forth that it sounded almost foreign to his ears, and hearing it again brought in a rush of emotions all at once.

Sitting with everyone, eating ramen, watching his partner loudly slurp the broth before getting more without any hesitation, it was all of these little things all at once that washed over him like a tidal wave, memories from what felt like forever ago flooding back as he witnessed the same things again.

“Takeru-san…?” Iori asked quietly, gently setting his chopsticks down as he watched his Jogress partner with worry clear in his eyes. Both the spoon and chopsticks fell from Takeru’s hand as his body started to gently shake, and he couldn’t stop himself from sniffling loudly.

“Takeru-kun, what’s wrong?” Hikari asked again, voice rising as panic overtook her. Instead of an answer, though, Takeru buried his face in his sleeve, his body to shake rougher than before as he started to cry, tears staining the fabric of his shirt.

“Takeru-san!” Ken shouted with worry, and Daisuke, Miyako, Iori, and Ken all shot up from their seats.

“What’s wrong, are you ok?” Hikari asked, and after a few moments, Takeru slowly nodded, not moving his face as he continued to cry.

He felt bad for worrying his friends, no, he felt awful about it, but it had been so good to just… be back home. To be with everyone. To know that nothing had changed even when he was worried that something might. But no, everything went right back to where it was as if Takeru had been gone for six hours as opposed to six months. He slotted back into place so easily when that had been his biggest fear in the week leading up to the flight back.

On the flight he had been terrified that things might be different between him and the others. Even earlier, when things had gone well and he knew he had blown it out of proportion, there was an inkling of fear deep in the back of his mind that maybe something would change after this first hang out back. Maybe he would seem too different to them, or they might be hurt because of the lack of opportunities to talk over all that time.

It was ridiculous, it was all so ridiculous. Those first thoughts had been ridiculous, the anxiety that left his stomach churning and his leg bouncing on the plane had been ridiculous, and the way he wracked his brain to over complicate how something could go wrong when nii-san drove them to Daisuke’s place had been ridiculous.

“I-I’m just so glad to be back,” he choked out, finally pulling his arm away to reveal red, puffy eyes that were still welling up with tears. He let out a gentle cough in between his happy sobbing.

“I was… I was so scared that things might be weird, or that I wouldn’t… wouldn’t fit in with you guys after so long,” he admitted weakly. The faces of the other Chosen Children fell.

“Why would you think that, man? Come on, there’s no getting rid of us, and we aren’t getting rid of you,” Daisuke said, unable to help but sniffle as Takeru could tell from his own crying eyes that Daisuke’s were getting a bit misty.

Takeru wiped his tears away and let out a long sigh, “I don’t know why I thought that would happen, but… six months is a long time. You’ve all been in school here while I was abroad, and I thought it might feel… different because I was gone for so long.”

“But that never changed our relationships with our Digimon,” Hikari said kindly, setting a gentle hand on Takeru’s shoulder, “We were separated from them for nearly three years, and that didn’t change anything between you and Patamon, right?”

“That’s right!” came Patamon as he flew from the Motomiya kitchen to land on Takeru’s head, “You were still my best friend even when I was stuck in the Digital World!”

“And if all that time wasn’t enough to break down yours and Patamon’s friendship, then this wouldn’t be enough to break down ours,” Iori told him confidently.

“He’s right. We’ll always be a team,” Ken added immediately.

Takeru couldn’t help but smile as his body began to shake again when more tears started to pour down his cheeks.

“Thank you, you guys,” he choked out.

“Aww, Takeru-kun! It’s just like Daisuke said, nothing will change between any of us! You could’ve been in France for years and nothing would be different,” Miyako said.

“You’ll always have us,” Hikari promised him, “Even when you’re all the way across the world.”

“I think this calls for a group hug!” Miyako called out as she rounded the table.

“I think this calls for another round of ramen!” Daisuke and V-mon shouted at the same time, looking at each other in surprise before they scurried off to refill their bowls.

Takeru couldn’t help but laugh at the synchronicity between the two, the tears falling now ones from joy as those emotions started to wash over against the anguish he was feeling just moments ago. Miyako ran over to give Takeru a tight hug, which Hikari followed suit in. Although Ken and Iori weren’t always the most overly affectionate, they too wasted no time in participating in this warm moment with the group.

“Daisuke, get over here!” Miyako shouted, while Daisuke hummed to himself in the kitchen.

“Ok, ok! I’m coming!” Daisuke grumbled, the bowl clattering against the counter top as he hurried over with V-mon in tow. The two just about leapt onto the group to join in.

After a few moments, Daisuke finally peeled himself off and ran back to the kitchen, “Ok, more ramen for everyone! We still have a lot left so you guys gotta eat up!”

V-mon started to grab a few bowls, and Ken picked up a few more to assist in the process.

“So do you want to talk about anything fun that happened in France?” Hikari asked. Takeru looked at the group at the table, then looked over his shoulder to see Daisuke walking over with more food, a look of sheer elation plastered on his face as he licked his lips.

“Yeah! Tell some more stories while we eat!” Daisuke encouraged him.

“Well, if you insist,” Takeru said as V-mon handed him a fresh bowl of hot ramen. Takeru inhaled the scent and let out a content sigh. He really was home and he couldn’t ask for anything else, “Thanks V-mon.”

“Sure thing!” the Digimon said, giving Takeru a thumbs up before he started to just about inhale his own food once he sat down next to Daisuke.

Takeru took a moment to take a few bites, thinking long and hard about what to talk about. Now? He couldn’t wait to tell stories about his time abroad. And he couldn’t wait to hear about everything that happened here in Odaiba. There was so much to catch up on, and even if he wasn’t there for it, they were still adventures he wanted to hear all about.

“Ok, well, I was still a bit shaky on some of my French for the first few weeks, right? So during one of my classes…”

The night continued on with eating, stories, laughter, and even a few tears as the group finally broke apart towards the end of the night, all of them happy to have their group whole again.

[blurredcolour]

In My Blood | Part Five

In My Blood Masterlist

Curtis "Curt" Biddick x SOE!Female Reader

Putting your safety into the hands of a group of anarchists with no allegiance to anyone but themselves is a necessary evil to ensure your safe passage across the Pyrenees. But it is not the only uncomfortable truth you and Curt encounter on the last leg of your flight from occupied Europe.

Warnings: MAJOR canon divergence, Language, Weapons, Spy Craft, Fear, Cold, Exhaustion, Angst, Inevitable Historical and Military Inaccuracies, Mature/Explicit Themes [Oral Sex - f receiving, Unprotected Vaginal Sex, Pull-out Method] - 18+ ONLY.

Author’s Note: This story contains revisionist history, read at your own risk. Reader is half-Belgian, half-English and has been given an extensive backstory and family tree. While they have been given the codename of "Marie," no physical descriptions or Y/N are used.

Italics used for non-English words and to indicate dialogue spoken in a language other than English.

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

Word Count: 8078

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The final deadbolt had barely clicked into place behind Françoise, on her way to the market in search of both food and news from the Ponzán group, when Curt crept down the hallway, pulling the door to her room shut, thus trapping the sleeping Charbon within.

“Curt!” You hissed softly as he returned to slide to his knees on the carpet before you, quickly folding your skirt higher on your thighs before beginning to push your legs apart.

The distracting sensation of his lips trailing kissing up your inner thighs briefly jarred your train of thought, making your eyes flutter shut. The feeling of your underwear being peeled from your hips restored your focus and you gulped.

“Wait, wait I have to tell you something important about our guides…” You whispered, frantically trying to pull him up to meet your eyes with his, fingers trying to cup his jaw.

“Mmm, I can listen while I do this.” He murmured, mouth remaining stubbornly close to its goal.

“Yes, well, I cannot speak while you do.” You huffed, trembling slightly at the caress of his breath against your folds.

With a dramatic sigh, he sat back on his haunches and looked up to you expectantly, though a faint smirk still tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“It’s…a difficult four day walk to the other side – if we are lucky. And our guides are not friends of the French, the English, or the Americans. They are focused solely on their own cause and simply see the money and weapons they can gain through this endeavour as useful. We are a means to an end for them. Baggage to be delivered. There is no allegiance or alliance involved, do you understand?”

“What is their cause, then?” He tilted his head thoughtfully, fingers idly caressing the skin of your knee where they still rested.

“The overthrow of Francisco Franco in Spain, yet another Fascist. But promise me you will not be too trusting, alright? We have a cautious, monetary-based relationship with them. That is all.”

A cheeky grin tugged at the corner of his lips, and he leaned forward to kiss the inside of your knee. “Don’t you worry, gorgeous, not taking any of them to bed, I assure you.”

Your huff of minor annoyance dissolved into a whimper of pleasure as his tongue delved into your folds, his hands gripping your hips as he took full advantage of Françoise’s absence to wring an orgasm from you. He was still taking his time, savouring the fruits of his labour, when the scrape of her key in the first of the deadbolts sounded. Gently but firmly prodding him away with a foot to the chest, you retrieved your underwear from where it lay forgotten on the area rug, shimmying into it before resuming your seat on the sofa with a novel just as she opened the door.

Curt excused himself to the washroom, making you bite the inside of your cheek as you could only imagine just what he might get up to in there, as you stood to help your host with the bags of food she had returned with. Potatoes, mostly, a few sad carrots and a shrivelled head a cabbage, along several unlabelled cans. Shortly after Curt’s departure, a rather frazzled looking Charbon burst onto the scene, surely just released from his captivity in Françoise’s bedroom.

“Cheaper for the mystery.” She muttered in regards to the tins as you helped unpack it all in the kitchen, doing your best to ignore the fluttering echoes of pleasure in your lower abdomen. “Payment has been received, the pair of you are to arrive at the newspaper office just after curfew ends tomorrow morning. The paper delivery truck with take you to Saint-Girons on its regular route, supplies contained within.”

A swirling mixture of relief and trepidation filled your veins and you nodded quickly. “Thank you, Françoise, it has been a real pleasure, but I am sure you will be glad to see the back of us.”

“We are leaving then?” Curt’s hushed voice piped up from the doorway where he was now leaning, remnants of a flush still painting his cheeks, making you swallow thickly.

“First thing tomorrow.” You nodded.

“I’ll go check my bag.” He murmured, slipping off to his room as you turned to Françoise.

“We will make you a loaf of bread and I will send you with a can of beans.” She murmured, producing a tin from her pantry.

With a nod of deep gratitude, the pair of you set to work, using the subpar ingredients she had on hand to bake a heavy loaf of coarse bread to stash within your pack. Dinner was a quiet affair, assembled of potatoes, as usual, with the addition of a bean-and-cabbage stew, before you turned in early. Waking at three, each of you bathed and dressed, setting your rucksacks by the door as Françoise fed you one last breakfast. As soon as the clock hit five, you parted from the woman and her cat with cheek kisses and whispered well-wishes, winding your way through the chilled and silent streets to the appointed pick-up location.

As arranged, the canvas-covered delivery truck was waiting, the driver offering a boost to help you inside before loading bundles of heavily censored newspapers to be delivered to the smaller communities around Toulouse, including your meet-up point. Deep inside the truck, you found the winter clothing and accessories you had arranged for, a small smile of relief come to your face.

Sorting through the items, you took the boots in Curt’s estimated size, passing them to him before you shrugged out of your light coat and began to layer the wool trousers and heavy knit sweater atop your skirt and blouse. It was by no means a smooth ride, the roads around here well-worn, roughened dirt tracks in some places, making your wardrobe change less than easy, but once you were properly dressed with warm boots on your feet, you were indisputably more comfortable. Tucking your hair inside the knit cap to try and disguise your femininity, given that the Vichy had resurrected some ancient law that made it illegal for women to wear trousers, you stowed the scarf and mitts into your pack atop your shoulder bag and the rations. Quietly biding the remainder of your time through several stops at communities along the way, Curt eventually stopped looking to you each time the truck lumbered to a halt until at last the flap pulled back to reveal you were sitting on a bridge just outside the town of Saint-Girons.

“This is you.” The driver muttered and you nodded to Curt, the pair of you quickly climbing from the back to wait amongst the trees.

As the truck drove away, silence overtook the valley, the foothills of the Pyrenees looming to the south. A glance at your watch told you it was just before eight o’clock, and though the sun was well up it held very little warmth. The breeze rolling down from the mountains was even colder than the crisp of autumn, hinting at the ice and snow that surely awaited you at even higher elevations. You were about to dig through your pack to retrieve your mitts when the rustling of brush across the river halted your movements. Two faces, crowned by dark hair, peered out between the leaves, beckoning to you with a short, sharp whistle.

“Come on.” You whispered to Curt, stepping into the open and slowly making your way across the bridge to link up with them.

“Tomás,” the taller of the two introduced himself with a hand to his chest once you had reached them, “Diego.” He gestured to his shorter but more muscular companion.

“Marie, Curt.” You introduced the pair of you in kind, earning a nod.

“We go.” Tomás murmured and started off down a well-worn track, not even allowing you a moment to sort out the mitten situation.

Diego waited until the three of you were in motion before silently bringing up the rear.

“Here.” Curt muttered, passing you the mittens from the pockets of his wool coat after watching you bury your hands in your pockets, and you shot him a look of gratitude just as Tomás spun back to eye him coldly.

“Silence.” He snapped before resuming his brisk pace, clearly eager to put civilization behind your small group as quickly as possible.

Curt raised an eyebrow at you, and you pressed your lips together guiltily but did as instructed, well aware that you were no longer the guide – you were now simply another person desperately fleeing Nazi-occupied territory. And so your quartet walked in silence. Leaving all houses behind, you began a slow climb along a woodland trail, passing small communities below as you put one foot in front of the other for hours. Four hours, to be precise, of steady, gradual ascent before Tomás brought your group to a halt in a thicket of trees and pulled out a canteen to drink deeply.

“Ten minutos.” He uttered, barely winded, before stepping off to the side with Diego to engage a conversation in tones so low you could not hear them, even at this distance.

Setting your pack down, you pulled Curt’s mittens free as you sat heavily on a fallen log to unbuckle your bag and retrieve your own along with the parchment-wrapped loaf of bread, tearing him off a bite. Holding it out to him, your lips twitched fondly as he held out a flask – for that was the only liquid-holding container Françoise had been able to spare – filled with water. Trading your items, you took a sip as he quickly ate his snack. Handing the flask back, you grabbed a chunk of bread yourself, trying to ignore the throbbing on your heel, quite certain you were nurturing a blister in your new-to-you boots. The pair of you had just finished your small meal when Tomás nodded, all brusque efficient and urgency.

“We go.” Came his clipped command and you quickly closed your pack and secured it on your back, wearing your own mittens now as the endless walk resumed.

Risking a glance at your watch, you noted it was just after noon, the sun’s position almost directly overhead confirming as such. Your route began a minor descent, the land up here home to ranchers and rolling green pasture, before there was one final push upwards into a small farmyard as the sun was preparing to set. All told you had walked over eight hours, your legs feeling fit to fall right off your body by the time the four of you climbed into the hayloft of a weathered barn, wood gone grey with age. Just two rungs from the safety and comfort of the bed of hay, you were not quite sure if you could summon that last bit of effort.

The feeling of Curt’s firm hand shoving against your left butt cheek proved the be the last, necessary bit of impetus to push you up and over the edge. Crawling into the back corner of your sweet-smelling shelter, you settled in with a heavy sigh, letting your eyelids fall shut for an indulgent moment, only semi-aware of the movements of your companions around you. After an indiscernible amount of time, perhaps a few minutes or perhaps as many as thirty, Curt gently prodded you awake to offer you a slab of bread covered in thin slices of cured beef, a pair of apples cupped in his other hand.

“Eat, you’ll feel better.” He whispered and you nodded obediently, leveraging yourself up to regard to sudden feast with curiosity. “Farmer came out to check on us, brought us some food.” He smiled a little as you took the open-faced sandwich and one of the apples, watching him then settle in to sit beside you.

Picking up another for himself, he made a slow meal out of the bread you and Françoise had crafted along with the very locally sourced meat – something neither of you had seen in quite some time. Retrieving the flask from his pocket, he took a sip of water before offering you one as well. As you methodically polished off your dinner, you could not help but notice the studious and calculated glances Tomás and Diego were shooting your way.

On the surface, the seemed friendly enough, rather standoffish, but professional and efficient. Looking to Curt once you had eaten your share, you swallowed. “I’m going to sleep, thank you.”

He nodded slowly, his own gaze travelling over to your guides, entire body tensing as the action seemed to summon Tomás over.

“You two sleep. I sleep now. Diego watch. Then change. Seven tomorrow, we go.”

Nodding slowly, desperately trying to hide your exhaustion, you glanced at your watch and swallowed to note that it was only seven in the evening, and you were already struggling to keep your eyelids open. “Thank you.”

He nodded and moved back to their corner of the loft. You cast a soft glance to Curt before putting a respectable amount of distance between you two and nestled into the hay, almost immediately falling asleep. The next day, as you were crawling up a rain-slicked incline, fingers scrabbling for purchase on wet rocks and muddy terrain, you were glad you had taken the chance to rest as much as you had. Your group had reached such an elevation that you were practically walking amongst the clouds, barely able to see the path ahead, which would have meant certain death without your guides. They would never be your friends, but you would always owe them your lives.

You could feel the air growing thinner as you doubled your elevation, the rain changing to fluttering flakes of snow, your sodden clothes making you shiver in the dropping temperatures. Canteens and flasks were refilled as you came across a crystal-clear, yet icy cold lake, fingers still chilled inside your mittens hours later. Your shelter that night was a stone climbing hut, one of many which dotted the Pyrenees, built by enthusiastic climbing clubs in happier times. The small stove in the corner was purposefully left cold as, despite the known lack of border patrols along this route due to the rugged terrain and typically abysmal weather, it was prudent to attract as little attention as possible to your small group.

Instead, the four of you huddled back-to-back in a circle, wrapping up in mildewy but nonetheless warm blankets that resided in this shelter, sharing body heat as your breath hung in foggy clouds from your lips. Dinner consisted of cold beans from your can, shared four ways, and bread. Breakfast, more bread. Leaving your shelter with its mildewy blankets behind, you dragged your aching body out into the brilliantly white landscape the next day, gratefully accepting a walking stick from the ever-silent Diego. It was made of a dense wood, worn smooth by countless hands, all four of you carrying similar tools that became incredibly useful as you entered terrain of year-round ice and snowpack.

Feeling as though you had climbed straight up for over eight hours, while in actuality it was only an elevation gain of one thousand metres, you were unspeakably grateful as Tomás announced ‘we stop’ at another simple climbing hut. It was Diego, this time, who produced two tins of tuna, the language on the labels speaking to their origin in Spain, the protein a welcome addition to your dwindling bread before the four of you resumed your circular sleep set-up from the night before.

Up this high, 2245 metres above sea level, the shared body heat beneath even more pungent blankets was only enough to take the edge of the biting cold. You found it very difficult to control your shivers and as soon as the sun broke the horizon, Tomás was rousing you from your fitful sleep.

“We go…down…” His voice contained a touch of sympathy, and you could not help the small, hopeful smile at the thought that soon, soon you would be in Spain.

In safety. In relative warmth.

It did not mean your fourth and final day of the trek was easy, however. The landscape remained just as cruel and unfeeling, luring you downwards before forcing you to climb back up steeply. Diego’s first words since your meeting back on that bridge in Saint-Girons, however, were like a shot in the arm.

Traversing yet another stretch of dirt track with mountains towering above you, it felt no different to any other landscape before it, yet to him something had changed.

“España.” He murmured from behind and you inhaled sharply, looking back to him, eyes bright with hope, to which he nodded.

“Spain…Curt we’re in Spain…” You whispered, watching with delight at the brilliant grin that etched its way across his features hardened by exhaustion.

It was downhill from there, mercifully, the mountains falling away beneath your feet back into rolling hills. Homes began to dot the landscape again, the patchy snow yielding to the brown of late autumn grass. Of course, it was not as though you were completely safe here. Spain, though technically neutral, was not overly fond of people sneaking into the country illegally. If detained by Spanish police, Curt was at serious risk of being returned to the Nazis as a prisoner of war while you? If you were lucky, you would be handed over to the British, but most likely returned to France with only French papers on your person.

After learning this lesson the hard way, the Pat-now-Françoise and Comet Lines had both determined that escapees were not truly safe until they were in Gibraltar. Thus once they arrived in Spain, contact was made with the British Embassy in Madrid to arrange for transport in a diplomatic car through the dubiously neutral and espionage-riddled Spanish landscape. This was what you suspected Diego was managing as he peeled off from your group on the outskirts of Esterri d’Aneu, while Tomás continued on, leading you into a charming apartment building, taking you down to a suite in the basement.

Producing a key from the inside of his coat, he unlocked the door to the darkened space, leading you inside and turning on the lights once he had secured the door behind you.

“Rules – Curtains, closed. No noise. Bath ok. Knock on door four times is food. Car comes in morning from England embassy.”

“Gracias, Tomás.” You spoke as emphatically as your dwindling energy could muster and were rewarded by the tiniest of smiles from the serious man.

“Goodbye.” He nodded to both of you before leaving, the key tucked securely in his pocket, and you quickly locked the door behind him.

Struggling wearily with the straps of your rucksack, you looked to Curt softly as gently pulled your hands out of the way before taking over, sliding the heavy pack from your back to set on the floor, shrugging out of his own as well, before grasping your still-icy fingers.

“C’mon.” He whispered and dragged you through the apartment in search of something, stopping when he located the bathroom.

Guiding you to sit on the closed toilet seat, he turned on the tub faucet, adjusting the temperature to his liking before plugging the stopper then turning back to carefully begin stripping your clothes. Still beyond-cold and barely awake, you wordlessly complied, allowing yourself to be guided into the deliciously warm water as he shut the tap off. Leaning back with a dreamy sigh, you watched through half-lidded eyes as he stripped down to his undershirt and trousers before kneeling at the side of the tub to help you wash days of grime and effort from your skin and hair as the ice in your bones melted.

Slowly emerging from the sluggish state that the cold had induced, the way his fingers lingered on the raised mark on the back of your right arm made you lean up to press a tender kiss to his lips. “You should get it here, it’s miraculous.” You spoke in hushed tones and watched his throat flex as he swallowed thickly.

“You really are.” He whispered, the pink tinge to his cheeks driving home the fact that, for all your intimacy you had not yet been fully naked before him.

“It’s your turn.” You whispered, pulling at his belt, helping him out of his clothes before slipping from the still-warm water to wrap yourself in a nearby towel, grasping his hands to guide him into the tub which was sadly not large enough to hold both of you.

Taking up his position beside the tub, you ensured he was cleaned in turn, indulging in more than a few exploratory caresses before the water began to grow cold. Grabbing the second towel from its place on the rack, you held it out to him as he pulled the plug on the drain and stepped out to pull you close into a warm kiss. Navigating through the unfamiliar surroundings half-blind, the pair of you located the bedroom and took a moment to finish towelling off before diving beneath the inviting pile of blankets.

Limbs tangling immediately, your mouths met hungrily, repeatedly, after days of denial under unfamiliar and scrutinizing gazes. Gripping the back of your knee, he pulled your leg overtop his hip, grinding his cock along your ever-slickening folds until you where whining into his mouth. Obligingly sinking into your warmth, you welcomed him with a hungry moan, fingers buried in his hair as your bodies mirrored the push and pull to drive each other over the precipice of release, his cum coating your inner thighs thanks to a timely withdrawal at the last second as he buried his face in the crook of your shoulder.

Gasping for breath, covered in a delightful sheen of sweat, you at last felt well and truly warmed after your descent from the mountains. As his arms pulled you closer into his chest, lips pressing a tender kiss to your forehead, you felt a dangerous sense of contentment unfurl deep within your belly.

“I was clean.” You teased to chase it away, his resulting huff of a laugh ruffling your still-drying hair.

“I’ll take care of you in a minute, I promise.” Another kiss was pressed, this time to your nose. “Now that we’re free, can I please know more about you?” Curt pleaded, pulling back just enough to weaponize his piercing blue eyes against you.

At your hesitancy to even draw breath, he pushed onward. “Here, I’ll show you how its done since you’ve probably forgotten. I’m Curtis Rundle Biddick, son of Ernest and Delphia Biddick. Born 1915 in The Bronx, New York. I had three little sisters, but God saw fit to take little Elizabeth from us when she was just two. Ann and Charlotte still live with my mother, which is good because we lost our father when I was eight.”

As he spoke, you had been fighting the urge to clamp your hand over his mouth to shut him up. An urge born purely of the fear that he might succeed at chipping away completely at your already fragile defences and irrevocably entrench himself in your heart. Yet when he came to the loss of his father, there was an undeniable shift within you, a falling away of that need to keep him at arms length.

“So young…” You whispered, your fingers reaching out to affectionately trace along the scars that curled up the side of his neck, brow furrowing slightly as he eyed you with an alluring blend of intensity and patience. With a deep breath for courage, you released your tight grip on that final barrier between you and let it all pour out – your full name, your father’s lineage, your mother’s, the reason why you were in England when the Nazis invaded, just how your parents had met their end. As you spoke, his eyes grew impossibly wide, raking across your face as if trying to detect a lie in your surely absurd-sounding words. Unaware that tears had began to seep from your eyes, you jumped slightly when he reached out to brush them away with the backs of his fingertips before smiling softly.

Only to jump once more as four solid knocks resounded from the front door followed by eerie silence.

“That’ll be food.” He whispered and kissed you softly. “You stay, I go.” He muttered in a tragically accurate impersonation of Tomás that had laughter dangerously close to escaping your throat.

Watching his wonderfully naked figure slip from the cozy nest you had built, you deliberately disobeyed him, slipping back to the washroom to clean up and collect your clothes, returning to the bedroom just as he did. Taking both packs from his arm, you set them on the floor, digging out your nightgown to slid over your head, to match the trousers slung low on his hips. Diving back into the warmth of the bed, the pair of you settled in for a picnic of plentiful local foods, including several in-season vegetables and meats. Spain really was beginning to feel like paradise.

“Can’t believe you’re royalty…” He shook his head in awe before taking another eager bite of food.

Swallowing back a laugh you shook your head quickly. “Distantly related.” You clarified, taking a long sip of fresh water.

“Mmm whatever you say, princess.” He winked with a lopsided grin, reaching forward to wipe at the corner of your mouth with one of the cloth napkins packed in amongst the food.

Brilliant grins echoed one another’s across your humble feast, whispered questions traded back and forth as you could not help but want to know more about him and share more about yourself in kind. As you settled in for sleep, things tidied up, outfits hung up for the morning, you pressed a drowsy kiss to his throat before surrendering to the depths of sleep in the warmth of his arms.

Four sharp knocks awoke you early the next morning, a glance at your watch confirming it was just before six. Slipping from Curt’s protesting arms, you carefully retrieved breakfast, laying it out on the small table before getting ready for the day in the bathroom to hopefully avoid his interference in the name of efficiency. A sleepy and still half-dressed Curt awaited you at the table when you emerged, the pair of you eating quietly and then he went to the washroom to tidy himself for the day.

Setting your walking sticks and heavy winter clothes in the corner, you slid back into your lighter jacket given the warmer weather Spain was famous for, though you kept the scarf and mittens just in case. Moving to the bedroom, you had just finished tidying the bed when there were two knocks on the door, a number Tomás had not prepared you for. Meeting a fully dressed Curt in the hallway, you approached the door together, clutching your shoulder bag, peering through the peephole to see a man in a suit sporting a union-jack armband. Exhaling slowly, you unlocked the door.

“Your car is out front.” He stated quietly and the pair of you nodded quickly, grabbing your luggage and promptly following him out, realizing you had no way to lock up afterward, but not wanting to wait around to worry about it.

The black Fiat stood parked outside on the sleepy streets of the small mountain village, the driver quickly ushering you into the plush backseat where a basket sat on the floor. Climbing into the front seat, he seemed eager to get the vehicle in motion before addressing you once more.

“Sorry we cannot put your luggage in the boot, it is filled with petrol cans. There is food in the basket between you, we’ll only stop to refuel as needed, otherwise straight on to the Embassy in Madrid.”

Nodding your quick thanks, you watched out the windows quietly as the Spanish side of the Pyrenees melted away into flatter, more populated lands. The first refueling took place at a service station where you and Curt were permitted to make use of the facilities after some light coaching on the Spanish terminology, but you were all quickly back on the road again. It was not long before Curt was dozing, slumped against the car door and the peaceful sound of his deep breaths lulled you to sleep as well. The second refuelling was after a gentle prodding to rouse the pair of you, the boot only accessible by folding down your seats and the cans used to fill the fuel tank pulled off in the twilight in desolate countryside.

Taking advantage of the stop, the pair of you indulged in the delights of the food basket but were quickly asleep once the journey resumed. The clang of a gate awoke you sometime later, your surroundings altogether different, metropolitan, day having completely given way to a night lit up by streetlights which seemed altogether novel after years of blackout.

“We’ve arrived at the Embassy. For the moment you are on British soil. Please come inside while we prepare another driver to take you the rest of the way.” The driver pulled up to the front of a grand building beneath a portico, another formally dressed man stepping forward to open the door to the car.

Grabbing your things, you slid from the vehicle carefully and followed him inside, looking to Curt startled as the man stopped and gestured to a small sitting room. “In here please, miss. No, sir, you will follow me.”

Watching Curt’s face harden you quickly reached out to touch his arm reassuringly. “It is fine, they will want to confirm we are indeed who we say we are.”

Somehow, his frown only grew. “After everything you’ve done for ‘em…”

“Sir, Miss, if you please.” The well-heeled man in his perfectly pressed suit, not a hair out of place nor, surely, a meal missed interrupted in that cruelly polite English way and you narrowed your eyes in response before turning sharply into the appointed room and shutting the door firmly behind you.

It was a room of soaring ceilings, gilded moldings, finely upholstered furniture, and fringed lampshades. The paintings on the walls were only those of known artists. The Dowager Marchioness would have fit right in. To you it read as cold and impersonal, a room to impress and intimidate, not to welcome someone. Setting your worn and filthy pack on the ivory sofa, you sank into the plush cushions, desperate to get this over with.

After about twenty minutes they sent in a yet another impeccably dressed Embassy official, offering sandwiches and cigarettes. You were beginning to wonder if they did anything in Spain other than eat. Declining both, you got right into the meat of it, easily answering the key questions and explaining all aspects of your journey, confirming yourself as an agent of the SOE whose identity had been burned and thus was in desperate need of returning to England.

“Thank you for your indulgence, Miss, it shouldn’t be much longer before the car is ready to continue onto Gibraltar. Are you sure you’re not hungry?”

Shaking your head, you only asked to use to facilities, freshening up afterwards before being shown to where Curt was in a much more utilitarian office, busily tucking into a sandwich and sipping on a Coca-Cola.

“Knew they’d come ‘round.” He muttered once he had swallowed, and you smirked a little.

“How on earth are you hungry?” You shook your head affectionately, stealing a sip of his drink, closing your eyes slowly at the long-forgotten taste.

“M’not, just not sure when we’ll get something this good again, y’know?” He muttered defensively as he polished off the last few bites and you squeezed his shoulder softly because you truly could not argue with that.

A knock on the door summoned the pair of you back to the car, a different, younger driver behind the wheel to begin the drive to Gibraltar. It was still dark as you left the embassy behind, the orange splotches of the streetlights hypnotizing as you wound through the city out onto the road south. Always south. It would only be hours now, a day at most, before you were back on English soil for real. And then what.

Your eyes drifted back towards the man seated beside you, sleeping once again, head bobbing lightly as the car traversed the worn gravel roads. His life. Your life. While they had been so very unified over the past several weeks, they would inevitable diverge would they not? They would surely have to. The fact that you had been forced out of occupied Europe did not mean the war was over – not by any stretch of the imagination. There was still so very much to do to help liberate the people of your homeland – Dr Legot and his assistant Edda, the Maes boys, Tillens and his daughters. But also the people of France – Delphine and Hugo, Emile, Gilles, Victoire and her young son, Françoise…all their lives had touched yours, had become a part of yours. They had helped you escape, to stay alive. Turning your back on them now was inconceivable. You would find another way.

As the lights of the city receded in the rearview mirror, you eventually succumbed to sleep once more, waking only as the driver needed to access the boot to refill the petrol tank. Breaking into the fresh basket of food, you shared some sandwiches with the drowsy Curt on the roadside in the weak light of dawn before climbing back in to rest once more. The brilliant glare of the sun woke you next as the car wound through the city of Seville, another refuelling stop and bathroom break was undertaken before, at last, you were crossing the border into the British territory of Gibraltar. Driving past the airport, you pulled onto the military base.

Stretching your legs stiffly, you could not help but note how much warmer it felt down here, even though the sun had set a few hours ago.

“Lieutenant Biddick, right this way sir, we have a bunk for you amongst other escapees awaiting evacuation on tomorrow’s flight.” An RAF orderly stepped forward to great the car and you nodded to Curt as he glanced at you for direction.

Another man stepped forward to address you. “Ma’am, I’m Lieutenant McIntyre, please follow me, we have separation accommodations for you.”

“Thank you very much, Lieutenant.” You nodded, thanking him once again as he insisted on carrying your bag and you followed him in the opposite direction, glancing back at Curt as he disappeared into the night.

The room, if you could call it that, appeared hastily prepared – a cot in a back office with thankfully no windows. After spending nearly two days sleeping upright in a car, you were just pleased to have the chance to lay down.

“Washroom is just across the hall, there’s stationery on the desk if you want to write home. I will be back to fetch you at 0530 for breakfast, Ma’am.”

“I appreciate your help Lieutenant, thank you.” Nodding warmly as he dismissed himself, you stepped across the empty hall, surely bustling with humanity during regular hours, to prepare for sleep. Having no one to write home to, leastways not from Gibraltar or even London without raising terrible suspicions, you climbed onto the cot to sleep deeply.

You did not stir until Lieutenant McIntyre knocked at five-thirty, rushing into fresh clothing as the poor man waited in the hall, though he assured you it was no trouble. Pinning your hair back as you followed him to the mess with your handbag hanging from your shoulder, headscarf tied to the strap for use during the final leg of your journey. You were startled to see a table filled with men a dozen men, a cacophony of accents filling the room speaking to the fact that they were from all manner of hometowns. Curt seemed to be deep in discussion with three of them, speculating about their future assignments as you grabbed a tray to collect breakfast, your luggage set in the corner with the rest of the bags.

“But you know, Richie, we can’t just keep flying in the ETO, we know far too much about the escape lines to ever fall into German hands.” A young, nasal voice chided sharply.

“Pearson’s right an’ you know it.” Curt chimed in as you nodded to the man offering you a scoop of some dubiously textured eggs. “It’ll be flight school stateside…”

“Or the Pacific…all them gorgeous island girls…” Their friend with a remarkably deep voice for his diminutive stature chimed in and you suddenly found you did not have much of an appetite.

Accepting a slice of bacon and a cup of coffee nonetheless, you took an open seat at the end of the table to pick at your food, blinking at the appearance of a massive orange on the corner of your tray.

“Gotcha somethin’.” Curt beamed down at you, and you looked up at him, eyes wide with astonishment.

“How did you…” You whispered, picking up the rare piece of fresh fruit as though it was made of fine china.

“‘pparently, they grow around here.” He shrugged before looking over to his friends as they called his name.

“Thank you very much. You should go talk to them.” You nodded encouragingly, filling your mouth with food even though it tasted much like sawdust – and not just due to your inner emotional turmoil, the powdered eggs were truly atrocious.

You could feel Curt’s eyes on you, narrowed, hesitant, until that deep voice bellowed at him once more. “Yeah, alright Bergman, keep your panties on.” He hollered back, earning a smattering of laughs from both his friends and a handful of other men gathered at the table, before turning back to you. “We’ll talk on the plane.” He murmured lowly, just for your ears, before resuming his seat amongst the group.

Forcing about half of your food down, Lieutenant McIntyre and the Orderly from the night before appeared, announcing that it was time for your group to depart for the airfield. There was much excitement amongst the crowd, all of them bursting from their chairs and grabbing their luggage to rush out the door. Returning your tray with its unfinished food, you cradled the orange as you followed quietly, earning a seat at the very rear of the transport truck by taking it slower than the rest. Tucking the orange into your rucksack, you secured your hair beneath the silk scarf as the truck began to pull out.

It was a short drive today, retracing the roads almost to the border where just enough land had been reclaimed from the sea to build an airstrip. The streets were quiet, attesting to the fact that the majority of the civilian population had been evacuated, leaving only those with essential occupations and military personnel on this tiny peninsula. While the rest of the men were busy chatting away, you rode in silence, watching out the back as the scenery blurred by, already consumed by thoughts of what you might do to remain useful now that you were thoroughly exiled.

The vehicle came to a stop, jostling your distracted body into the man seated next to you, making you mumble an apology as you stood to climb down. A man dressed in British Naval uniform, a Captain if you remembered your rank badges correctly, appeared at the tailgate and offered you a hand. But it was when he greeted you by name that you nearly stumbled off the back of the truck and found yourself truly in need of it.

“Manfred Smythe, I’m a friend of your uncle’s – went to Eaton and then Oxford together. Allow me.” He offered his hand to take your rucksack and you handed it over to him in stunned silence, still trying to determine if this spelled utter disaster. “The plane is just this way, follow me.”

He urged you forward with a smooth gesture of his hand, and you nodded your thanks, walking quickly towards the large plane sporting four engines, gleaming silver in the morning sunlight. Casting a cautious glance behind you, Curt’s furrowed brow was pronounced and unmistakable, making your throat clench in unspoken apology.

“On loan from the Yanks, does a marvelous job of covering the distance between St. Mawgan’s and Gibraltar in just five hours.” Smythe’s voice snagged your attention again as he smiled and gestured you up the small set of stairs, tucking his cap beneath his arm to follow you onto the aircraft with room for twenty-one passengers and five crew. “Take a seat in the row of front, it has the most leg room.” He coaxed, tone still warm and friendly, but even the Gestapo could sound that way if they wanted to.

Shuffling along the aisle, you sank into the seat against the window on the left, watching him lift your bag into the cargo hold above before he sat next to you, talking about the weather as the rest of your cohort filed on. Curt, you noted, managed to secure the seat directly behind you. It was nigh impossible to determine what the purpose of any of this was, even as the door to the plane was shut and the engines roared to life one-by-one. It was not until you were leveling out, high in the air above the ocean, that he said anything of real substance.

“I must say it is nice to finally make the acquaintance of the Belgian niece ‘toiling away for the ATS in the wilds of Scotland.’”

The glint his in eye, mixed with the tone in his voice, made your stomach drop, leaving you with the sensation that you had somehow left it behind on the runway.

“Please do not fret, we are in…how best to say this…rather similar lines of occupation?” He quirked an eyebrow, the words jolting the sickeningly erratic beat of your heart into a more normal rhythm. “I can imagine you are feeling rather defeated right now – as opposed to the rest of the men on this flight. They have escaped.”

“I have failed.” You quickly rushed to complete his comparison with a nod.

“I can assure you that is untrue – for the majority of our set, failure is death in a ditch. While the location of your employment has changed out of mortal necessity, there is much you can yet do.”

Eyeing your nicked, uneven nails for a thoughtful moment, you suddenly turned to look him directly in the eye. “Do you really mean that or are you simply trying to soothe me in my hour of need?”

A furious set of rapid-fire blinks overtook Smythe for a moment before he chuckled in response, shaking his head. “I had been warned you were a bit of a livewire…you do not disappoint. While I was in Gibraltar for other reasons, I can assure you my presence on this flight is entire for the purpose of making good use of your talents for the remainder of this war and into the next if you so choose.” As you opened your mouth to question his use of the words ‘the next’ he shushed you with a minute flash of his palm. “We will discuss more in the car back to London. So, do tell me, how is the Dowager Marchioness these days?”

His ability to drone on rivaled that of the aircrafts very engines, surely a ploy to discourage any eavesdropping from risk of shear boredom. Yet his skill at donning the mantle of his upbringing like some kind of cloak of stealth was rather inspiring. You could still feel Curt’s seething presence at your back, making the hairs on your neck stand on end, the muscles of your shoulders aching with the desire to look at him, but to indulge in such an urge in front of a man like Smythe would be suicide – both socially and professionally, though it was the latter you were most preoccupied with at this moment.

Courtesy of a stiff tailwind, the flight was just shy of five hours, England welcoming you back to her shores with open arms of rain and mist as the wheels bumped down onto the tarmac to cheers of elation from your fellow passengers. Sliding slowly to your feet, the first sight that greeted you was the intense gaze of Curt, and you nodded softly in acknowledgement. Acknowledgement of his obvious distress at having been robbed a plane ride at your side and the yawning pit of dread that had opened up within your stomach. Following Smythe from the aircraft, you stopped on the wet cement of the tarmac.

“Captain Smythe, might I beg your indulgence just five minutes before we leave?”

He tilted his head, cap restored to its rightful place, somewhat protecting him from the rain. “I’ll go find my driver.” He replied after a moment of eyeing you skeptically.

Only once he had turned did you look to Curt who had come to stand at your side expectantly.

“Who the hell does that guy think he is…” He muttered bitterly, watching Smythe’s back recede.

“My superior, from what I can gather.” You swallowed and offered him a brave smile. “Well, I wish you the best of luck, Curtis Biddick of The Bronx, New York, wherever they send you next.”

His eyes snapped to yours sharply, a heavy weight settling over your chest as you slowly watched the realization that this was goodbye dawn across his face. “No wait, this, you’re really…”

“You have your job to finish, on the other side of the Atlantic, perhaps the Pacific even, and I have mine. Here.” The pained look of pain in his eyes made you gulp roughly against the bitter bloom of guilt in your breast.

“But we can keep in touch…”

“I can’t,” You voice trembled fractiously, and you clenched your jaw to summon the will to carry on, “promise anything, Curt. I cannot promise to write or even receive letters until this war is over for every single person who helped us get out of there.” Tears began to pool along your waterline as you reached up to tug at the knot holding your scarf in place. “I can promise that I will never forget you.” You whispered, slipping the square of silk into his pocket as cracks slowly began to etch their way across your heart.

He watched your movements, unspeaking, before suddenly reaching into his jacket pocket to retrieve an envelope, tearing it open. He shoved the contents back into his jacket before forcefully depositing the ragged envelope into your coat pocket. You were vaguely aware of the sound of a vehicle approaching but found yourself unable to tear your eyes away.

“If you’re ever in New York, after you know, you’re done saving the world, look me up.” The shaky, hurt quality to his voice made you clench your eyes shut, tears spilling down your cheeks.

As the sound of his shoes striking the pavement reached your ears you forced them to open again, vision still blurred by tears, but clear enough to see him stalk away before turning back sharply. Within a few determined strides he returned to you, grasping the back of your neck and pulling you close for a firm, salty kiss. The sound of a car door closing firmly made you wrench back from his grip with a barely conceal sob before you darted through the precipitation to slide through the door held open by a uniformed driver beneath an umbrella into the backseat with Smythe.

Desperately fighting with your lungs to restore your shaky breaths to normal, you listened to Smythe instruct his driver to head to London with your head bowed. Doing your best to surreptitiously wipe away at the evidence of your tears, including the fresh ones that stubbornly continued to steal down your cheeks, with the frayed cuffs of your jacket, you were startled with Smythe offered you a fine linen handkerchief.

“It can be so terribly difficult when some of them get attached.” His voice was rather clinical about the whole thing, making you wonder how he would feel if he realized the one who had grown too attached was you.

-------------------------

Read The Epilogue

In My Blood Masterlist

Tag list: @precious-little-scoundrel, @luminouslywriting, @polikabra, @beingalive1

[lutiaslayton]

« Introduction || Masterlist || Next (coming soon!) »

Hello everybody! This playthrough is finally starting, and with it goes my sanity. I am playing on DS (French version but you will probably never see photos of it), mobile (UK version, I might sometimes give screenshots), and emulator for the Japanese “Friendly” version, of which I will provide the most footage.

The “Friendly” version is a re-release of the first DS games which added the furigana to the text, made all weekly puzzles available from the start instead of locking them out as downloadable content, and perhaps had a few other features I am not aware of. I only realised once I reached the title screen that this was not technically the original, but oh well. When I compared the DS, non-“Friendly” version of London Holiday with its mobile re-release version, the differences were completely anecdotic (the kanji 言 replaced with its hiragana spelling twice, and hint coins being renamed from ヒントメダル to ひらめきコイン, their current name); so I hope that the differences will be just as minor, because I unfortunately do not have the means currently to check them.

Major disclaimer:

I DO NOT SPEAK JAPANESE. KEEP THAT IN MIND. All my conclusions are based on what little stuff I know here and there about the language, but I am not at all a reliable reference in the subject. If you can speak Japanese, then please do feel free to correct me anytime, add details I forgot, etc. Thank you!

Important Note:

In the Japanese version, puzzles are consistently referred to as 「ナゾ」 (pronounced “nazo”), while 「ナゾトキ」 (pronounced “nazotoki”) will usually refer to the act of solving such a puzzle. Both expressions are written in katakana, which is in Japanese a way to emphasise words (kind of like italics, if you will). Normally, you would expect to find both expressions written as 「謎」 and 「謎解き」, but the fact that they are written in katakana instead will be interpreted here as “the characters are talking about something similar, but distinct from the original meaning of these expressions.” In other words, not all puzzles are the same, and a distinction must be made between simple riddles or mysteries, and 𝓹𝓾𝔃𝔃𝓵𝓮𝓼™.

I will try to consistently translate 「ナゾ」 as “puzzle” all throughout, and will use any other word if the Japanese version did not use this specific magic word (e.g. if the Japanese version uses the regular spelling 「謎」 instead of the katakana spelling). Therefore, when characters use the word 「ナゾ」, I will consider that they are talking about something far more specific than simply a “mystery.”

Why do I emphasise on such a nitpick? Because a big part of this lore analysis… is to try to define what a “puzzle” even is to begin with.

In this post and the future ones, if you find screenshots which have coloured text, the rule is basically this: red if it’s a “puzzle”, blue if it has a similar meaning but is not the same type of “puzzle” as the one we are most interested in.

Anyway. Digression aside, let’s get started!

HD Version only: The Extra Cutscene

I don’t have all that many things to say about it, since you can watch it on Youtube just fine and the Japanese version doesn’t have much to say that the English translations don’t say as well. Still, just a few things:

Layton has packed a very small suitcase, while Luke has filled the trunk of the Laytonmobile to the brim. Could it be that after Last Specter, Miracle Mask and especially Azran Legacy, Luke is expecting to have yet another long journey? After all, it is just around the very beginning of August, so he’s probably on summer vacations (and that is assuming he isn’t homeschooled anyway during the rest of the time; he definitely was during the time they were travelling around the world in the Bostonius).

Layton, on the other hand, does not seem to expect to stay in St. Mystere for long; but then again, we are talking about the man who, about three years earlier, went off to Misthallery without even packing anything and ended up having to stay there for a few days. (Speaking of… neither did Emmy, for that matter.)

Also, I could analyse the fact that in order to reach St. Mystere, they crossed the Thames, and that thanks to Diabolical Box, we know the approximate location of Gressenheller within London (~9 Earlham St., Westminster); however, I will not do that, because DearestHershel already made a video entirely dedicated to locating St. Mystere using these exact points and others, and I do not disagree with his conclusions.

Letter from Luke to the Player

🇯🇵 親愛なる友人｛プレーヤー｝　へ 🗺️ To my dear friend, {Player}, 🇺🇸/🇬🇧 To my dear friend, {Player},

🇯🇵 ボクたちが、あの日、あの町で体験したことは、誰にもいえない秘密になってしまったんだ。なぜなら、これは… 🗺️ What we experienced that day in that town has become a secret that we can’t tell anyone. This is because… 🇺🇸/🇬🇧 The things we saw that day in the village became a secret we would have to keep from everyone for the rest of our lives. Because, you see…

Nerd talk aside, I would personally consider this letter to not be canon in-universe, notably because Luke specifically states that he will never divulge the secret of St. Mystere… only to proceed to do exactly that in his letter. Also because of the fact that this letter being canon would imply that someone sharing the Player’s name exists in the Laytonverse and that Luke knows them well enough to want to share details of his cases to them, including this one.

Whether you decide to make your personal self-insert character canon or not, this still raises the question of just how many people are aware of what transpired in St. Mystere. Layton and Luke seemingly decided to not tell anything to anyone at all in order to protect Flora; Bruno and the inhabitants of St. Mystere have been aware of pretty much everything for years (perhaps less so in the case of the robots) and will keep doing their thing; and Don Paolo is quite unlikely to tell anyone either due to the fact that pretty much every plan he had for the town, its treasure, and its robots, ended in failure (and also, depending on how we interpret his character, he would also keep the secret for Flora’s sake).

And yet, there is something that has been bothering me for many years…

親愛なるレイトン教授へ

あれから数か月になりますが、教授、お元気ですか？ 一緒に仕事をしている仲間からレイトン教授が遺産相続騒動を解決したという話を耳にして思わず手紙を書いてしまいました。

タージェントから世界を救ったあのレイトン教授が単なる遺産相続のナゾトキの依頼を 引き受けるなんて。 まさか…と思いましたが、ナゾには目がない教授ですし、きっと知的好奇心を刺激される不思議な出来事だったんでしょうね。

Dear Professor Layton,

It’s already been months since then, hasn’t it? I hope you’re well. When I heard from my colleagues that Professor Layton had resolved an inheritance dispute, I couldn’t help but write a letter.

I couldn’t believe that the same Professor Layton who saved the world from Targent accepted the simple request of solving an inheritance puzzle! But since you always have a penchant for puzzles, it must have been a curious case and quite the intellectual workout.

This letter was written by Emmy Altava and was revealed in the Japan-exclusive Azran Legacy art book (For the translation, I borrowed the one made by @the-azran-legacies​ for the general style, but took the liberty of altering a few words when I felt like their translation was deviating a bit too much from the original text). Needless to say… If only at first glance, this is an issue. Not only did Emmy hear of the case, but she also heard of it from her journalist coworkers? Well, then again: perhaps what should be said here was that Layton did indeed talk about the case to the media (reluctantly so), but left it at “We solved an inheritance dispute in a remote village, it was boring, nothing to see here.” And perhaps the reason Emmy heard of it from her coworkers was either because Layton had not solved a single case between AL and CV, or because this case was simply a “really, there is nothing to see here, I promise” and some journalists are not buying it.

PS: Wild ass theory. In the original trilogy, Luke isn’t writing his letters to “the player.��� He’s writing them to Emmy. And in the case of Curious Village, Emmy received Luke’s letter some time after she sent Layton her own. After all, did you know that while CV, DB and UF all start with Luke writing a letter to someone, there is not a single letter to the player in the prequel trilogy games? In fact, perhaps we could even theorise that Luke only got Emmy’s address thanks precisely to the letter she sent to Layton? And he decided to write her a letter explaining her the whole story after he finally got news from her?

Cutscene #01

There is not much to say about the cutscene itself, apart from the fact that the country road they are taking leads to absolutely nowhere else (which is precisely what Puzzle #001 is about), and that aside from said narrow country road, there is not a single human-made element around them for miles. My 2018 past self had already emphasised on that, but St. Mystere is consistently described as being particularly isolated and secluded (due to the fact that it has only one exit, and that the crank being stolen later will close that only exit).

The Car Scene

Phew! We finally made it past the, um… first two lines of dialogue in the game after the mobile cutscene. Wow. This is going to be a long ride, isn’t it.

I will not give the entirety of the dialogue, but I will show the parts that caught my attention:

🇯🇵 …２ヶ月前、資産家、アレン・ラインフォード氏が亡くなった。 🗺️ …Two months ago, the wealthy Allen Rhineford passed away. 🇺🇸/🇬🇧 Two months ago, Baron Augustus Reinhold passed away. 🇯🇵 その後、彼の遺言状が開示されたが、そこには、実に興味深い内容が記されていた。 🗺️ Later, his will was disclosed, and it contained some really interesting details. 🇺🇸/🇬🇧 Shortly after his death, his will was disclosed. The contents of it were fascinating, to say the least.

Baron Augustus Reinhold is actually named Allen Rhineford in the Japanese version, according to the romanised version of アレン・ラインフォード. Also, it is to be noted that the Japanese version does not seem to refer to him as a baron, at least not yet.

(EDIT: I mistakenly wrote it as Lineford, thinking that there was no official romanised version; however, there actually is one, and it is indeed Rhineford, not Lineford. The source is this Japanese wikipedia page, which gives the romanised names of the characters according to the Japanese version. My bad!)

He died two months earlier; or rather, his death was publicly announced two months earlier, as we will learn much later. Either case, the event Layton refers to took place more or less two months before the day they arrive in St. Mystere, which means that this would have happened around the end of May/beginning of June 1963.

🇯🇵 …我が一族の家宝、「黄金の果実」をこの町のどこかに隠してある。 🗺️ …My family's heirloom, the "Golden Fruit," is hidden somewhere in this town. 🇺🇸/🇬🇧 "The Reinhold family treasure, the Golden Apple, is hidden somewhere within this village. 🇯🇵 「黄金の果実」を探しあてた者に、私が所有するすべての遺産を相続させる… 🗺️ Whoever finds the "Golden Fruit" will inherit all of my property… 🇺🇸/🇬🇧 To whomever successfully locates this treasure, I offer the whole of my estate."

Fun fact: the original Japanese version refers to the Golden Apple as 「黄金の果実」, meaning Golden Fruit, rather than specifically an apple.

🇯🇵 遺言の内容を知った一族の者たちは、その「黄金の果実」を、先を争うように探した。 🗺️ The members of the family, who knew the contents of the will, scrambled to find the "golden fruit". 🇺🇸/🇬🇧 Naturally, those who attended the reading of the will immediately set out in search of the Golden Apple. 🇯🇵 しかし、結局、誰も見つけることはできなかった。 🗺️ However, in the end, no one was able to find it. 🇺🇸/🇬🇧 But in the end, everybody came back empty handed. 🇯🇵 そもそも、そんな家宝があったなんてことを誰ひとり聞いたことがなかったという。 🗺️ In the first place, no one had ever heard of such a family heirloom. 🇺🇸/🇬🇧 It turns out that no one had even heard of such a treasure existing until its mention in the will.

The Japanese version specifies “family members,” while the English translation is more general—which could have implied that other unrelated people might have been present during the reading of the will (or at least, that is how I have interpreted it for years). It is a nitpick, since we are probably few to imagine that people from outside St. Mystere would have actually been present during the reading, if you think about it hard enough. But it is interesting to note that Layton is thus more or less saying here that the only people who bothered searching for the Golden Apple were the family members themselves, and that there is no clear mention of other outsiders coming to look for it.

If no outsider aside from Layton was warned, then this raises the question of just how Don Paolo came to hear about it in the first place… Current hypothesis is that he is stalking Layton and perhaps even reading his mail, simply put. There are dubious ways to read letters without opening them.

Did you notice that the scenery changes after Layton is finished explaining the basics of the case? It seems like the country road led them to go through a forest dense enough to block some of the sunlight. After Luke solves the puzzle, the background goes back to the brighter scenery.

🇯🇵 ああ。彼は莫大な財産をかけて、生涯最後のナゾを仕掛けたというわけだ。一体、何が目的なのかもわからない。 🗺️ Yes. He set up the last puzzle of his life with his vast fortune. I don't even know what the purpose is. 🇺🇸/🇬🇧 Quite. Augustus Reinhold staked his entire fortune just to create one more puzzle before his death.

Hey, would you look at that! ナゾ has been said in a dubious context, you know what this means. Take a shot everybody (I’m joking. Please don’t. Tea is amazing but there are health issues related to drinking too much of it).

Joke aside, there is something else to note: depending on how the sentence is read (I do hope someone who can speak Japanese could help clarify), Layton might be either saying that the baron staked his fortune on that “last puzzle,” or that he used said fortune to set up the puzzle in question—or, most likely, both, given the fact that we have another case of “ok perhaps this isn’t magic but you literally have to be the richest person on Earth to pull this off” on our hands.

Additionally, in the Japanese version exclusively, Layton has this additional line: “I don’t even know what the purpose [behind the treasure hunt] is.” This line was most likely removed from the translations due to the lack of space.

In fact, there was another instance in which the translations had no choice but to add another dialogue box and split Luke’s dialogue in two! This happened in this case:

🇯🇵 確かに先生とは気が合いそうですね。ところで、「黄金の果実」っていったい何なのでしょうか？ 🗺️ I’m sure he would have gotten along with you. By the way, what exactly is the “golden fruit”? [1|2] 🇺🇸/🇬🇧 It certainly sounds like you two would’ve gotten along, Professor! [2|2] 🇺🇸/🇬🇧 By the way, just what is this Golden Apple anyhow?

To be honest, I believe that splitting this dialogue into two different dialogue boxes makes more sense, since they are two vastly different sentences and lack a clear transition.

🇯🇵 宝石なのか、骨董品なのか、それもまたナゾだよ。実に興味深い。 🗺️ Is it a jewel or an antique, that is also a puzzle. Really interesting. 🇺🇸/🇬🇧 Some speculate it's a rare antique, while others say it could be a gem, yet its identity remains elusive. 🇯🇵 だけど、ルーク、私はこの一件に、他にも何かとてつもない秘密が隠されているような気がしてならないんだ。 🗺️ But, Luke, I can't help but feel that there are some other great secrets hidden in this case. 🇺🇸/🇬🇧 But, Luke, I can't shake the feeling that this matter is linked to some larger mystery. Something huge.

So, have you noticed? The English translations have failed to account for the fact that Layton used the magic word in order to describe the nature of the Golden Apple. Just thought I would let you know, it would be a shame to forget to take a shot :p

Oh, and speaking of removing an important “puzzle” magic word through the translation, we have another one just a bit ahead:

🇯🇵 このナゾトキをラインフォード夫人に依頼されただけさ。 🗺️ I was commissionned by Mrs. Rhineford to do this puzzle solving. 🇺🇸/🇬🇧 Augustus Reinhold's wife, Lady Dahlia, has asked me to investigate the situation.

Anyway. Layton “can’t shake the feeling” that there is a lot more to the Golden Apple puzzle than a simple treasure hunt. But what could possibly lead him to this feeling? Well… the fact that St. Mystere is so isolated, that the Golden Apple would be an heirloom whose existence is unknown to the members of the family which is supposed to own it, even the fact that Lady Dahlia Reinhold would contact him specifically, perhaps… are some ever so slightly peculiar details, I suppose. Not to mention, perhaps, one thing related to the map puzzle, depending on how the puzzle lore goes. All this is not necessarily enough to truly raise the red flags just yet, but enough to spark some curiosity and suspicion.

🇯🇵 先生、なんだかはりきってますね。考古学者でありながら、どんなナゾでも解決する名探偵、 🗺️ Professor, I'm kind of excited. The great detective who can solve any puzzle while being an archaeologist, 🇺🇸/🇬🇧 This is all so exciting! 🇯🇵 エルシャール・レイトン、さっそく現場へ急行ってわけですね！ 🗺️ Hershel Layton, rushed to the scene immediately! 🇺🇸 I hope St. Mystere is ready for the famous archeologist and puzzle-solving detective, Hershel Layton! 🇬🇧 I hope St Mystere is ready for the famous archaeologist and puzzle-solving detective, Hershel Layton!

Come on, Luke, you have seen much harder puzzles than this. Though, if I were to open a map and see this blatantly not-to-scale drawing instead, I too would have at least a little moment of surprise.

So… This is when the crazy talk really starts getting in. What are your thoughts? Luke is evidently shocked just at the mere sight of it, so I fear that the Doylist explanation “Luke actually is holding a regular map, it’s just that the players are shown the puzzle instead” seems out of the table. Somehow, Luke is able to take this paper, solve the puzzle on it, and deduce from this drawing real life directions for what is for him, currently, the middle of nowhere.

Strange, really strange… It is almost as if the drawing itself were less the key to figuring out the real life directions to take, and rather a gatekeep preventing whoever looks at it from accessing the true map until the puzzle is solved.

Hm? Ah, don’t mind me, I was just rambling. I have not seen enough evidence in this particular instance yet, so the hypothesis that Luke would be surprised less by the fact of seeing a puzzle, and more by the fact that he would find a puzzle that would do Lady Dahlia’s bidding, is at this stage baseless conjecture. I will just keep this little bit of speculation in the back of my mind and see if more evidence to confirm it shows up later, under similar but different circumstances. (Spoiler alert: it does happen regarding the puzzle lore, and it is even crazier than I expected.)

🇯🇵 その地図を解読しないと町には着けないらしい。 🗺️ It seems that you can't get to the town without deciphering this map. 🇺🇸/🇬🇧 Lady Dahlia seems to have given us a test. We'll need to decipher this map in order to find the village. 🇯🇵 どうやら夫人は、私を試すつもりのようだ。 🗺️ It seems that she is going to test me. 🇺🇸/🇬🇧 She wants to see if we're capable of cracking the mystery surrounding the Reinhold fortune. 🇯🇵 私が遺産の謎を解ける人物かどうか…君はどう思う？　ルーク。 🗺️ I wonder if I'm the one who can solve the mystery of the inheritance... What do you think, Luke? 🇺🇸/🇬🇧 Care to give it a go, Luke?

Um. Ahem. Excuse me? That last sentence is quite intriguing, all the more so since it could have used the puzzle magic word, but decided to go with the regular kanji spelling instead. Funny how it was not translated at all in the English versions… I can imagine why, but that is still surprising. This sort of reminds me of the cryptic sentences Layton will sometimes say in the prequel trilogy for no reason other than to sound cool and cryptic.

Anyway. We FINALLY reached the first puzzle! Yayyyyy… oh, dear.

So, uh… You know what? I think I will leave the actual puzzle for another time. This post has already been WAY longer than I anticipated and I am exhausted x’D I would rather go back to it with a clearer mind rather than rush it.

And that is all! Just getting to the first puzzle has been quite the adventure, and trying to keep track of so many languages at once made things even worse. To be honest, in the future I will probably drop all languages other than Japanese and US + UK, including dropping French despite the fact that it is my mother language, because searching through the files is not a short task… and because I did not even get to show them here at all anyway, so this was pretty much extra work for nothing.

I guess I will go back to them one day if I ever make my archiving work public, but that will be the question for another time. For now, the website I made for CV is for local use only, because uploading it and its assets would be quite the hassle (not to mention “arguably illegal…?” I have no idea here).

In either case, the Italian, Spanish and German versions are certain to be dropped when I will move to other games. The European version of Curious Village contains the data for all languages at once, but starting from Diabolical Box onwards, this will no longer be the case; so unless I were to get the roms for all EU languages each time, I wouldn’t be able to do the datamining if I wanted to.

Still, speaking of languages! There is one last thing I would like to share, and that is a thorough comparison between the US and UK versions. Here goes!

The differences are either nonexistent or subtle most of the time, but as we can see, there are a few differences still. So… Should I refer to the US and UK versions as two different languages? One language and a half? Eh. Who knows. I have been treating them as two entirely separate languages so far, just to be thorough.

« Introduction || Masterlist || Next (coming soon!) »

[pittrarebooks]

“I started to wonder about the history of Latin”

This post was written by Natasha Skorupski, a Department of Classics Intern in Archives & Special Collections for the Spring of 2022.

During my internship with the Hillman library and the Classics Department of the University of Pittsburgh I worked in the Archives & Special Collections, looking over Latin manuscripts.  While looking through these I started to wonder about the history of Latin and how the spoken language fell yet the written word continued.  

 (Above)  Evangeliorum quattuor Codex Durmachensis or The Book of Durrow, Olten: Urs Graf; sole distributors in the United States: P.C. Duschnes, New York by  Arturus Aston Luce, 1960 facsimile.  Archives & Special Collections, University of Pittsburgh Library System.

Due to that I have found out the following information.  Latin is thought to be derived from ancient Greek and Italic languages.  Italy used to be made up of many different tribes that spoke many different languages, and these languages are called Italic languages today.  The first evidence of Latin is an inscription on a cloak pin that was found from the sixth century BCE.  On the pin it says, “Manius me fhefhaked Numasioi” which translates to “Manius made me [this] for Numerius”.  The first literary records of Latin have been dated back to 250-100 BCE.  The popularity of Latin increased with the rise of Roman political power.  This spread was initially in Italy and then continued to most of Western Europe and parts of coastal Africa.

Latin has been classified into three groups. There is the written Latin, oratorical Latin (public speaking), and colloquial Latin (common speaking) (When Did Latin Die? and Why).  The later Latin saw the greatest variation in its use and continuous divergence from it eventually evolved into Vulgar Latin.  From Vulgar Latin we get the Romance Languages we know today, which include Italian, French, Spanish, Portuguese and Romanian.  

The beginning of the end of the western Roman empire occurred in 395 CE.  It fell for multiple reasons, some of them being military invasions, economic troubles, overreliance on enslaved labor, overexpansion and overspending of the military, political instability and corruption, among others (Andrews).  With this fall came the decline of colloquial and Vulgar Latin.  

There was a small period of resurrection for Latin under the “Roman Emperor” Charlemagne during 768-814AD. At this point in time, Latin was spoken, written, and read predominantly in religious settings as Italian, French and Spanish were rapidly evolving, allowing for a great decline of Latin (When Did Latin Die? and Why). During the mid-14th century, the Black Death Plague occurred.  It killed millions of people, including numerous scholars and professors, creating a negative ripple effect on the entire education system (When Did Latin Die? and Why).

During the 15th and 16th centuries, there was another slight resurgence as people started to read Latin literature from classical authors.  This was the time of the renaissance that spread mostly through Italy, France and later Britain.  With the greater developments in science, Latin terminology was put into place as a way to regulate findings and encourage international research (When Did Latin Die? and Why).

 (Above) Cosmographia Petri Apiani. Antwerp: Veneunt Antuerpiæ Gregorio Bontio sub Scuto Basiliensi .. by  P. & Gemma Apian, 1553. Archives & Special Collections, University of Pittsburgh Library System.

Latin was seen as a status symbol at this point—you were seen as educated if you could read and write it.  Though it was no longer spoken, it was used predominantly in literature and religion. Until the 19th century, Latin was a requirement for all that attended college.  College was usually attended by white males of a privileged background (When Did Latin Die? and Why). However, this changed around the mid 1960s when the younger generation decided they also shared the right to higher education.  

Today very few people can read Latin, even fewer can write it, and almost no one speaks it.  However, it is one of the official languages of Vatican City and plays a vital role in Catholicism.  Latin words are all over Catholic scripture and there are many recited terms that come from it (Is Latin a Dead Language? Let's Explore Why?).  

(Above) Inni sacri, per tutto l’anno : à quattro voci pieni, da cantarsi con l’organo e senza ... : opera quarta by G. A Silvani, 1705.  Archives & Special Collections, University of Pittsburgh Library System.  

A fun fact, Pope Francis is the most influential Latin speaker today with about 40 million followers between his multiple accounts that vary in languages.  One of these accounts posts solely in Latin! With his bio stating “Tuus adventus in paginam publicam Papae Francisci breviloquentis optatissimus est” which roughly translates to “Your arrival to the public page of the Tweeting Pope Francis is most welcome” (Pope Francis).  

Latin words also dominate in modern science as names of medicine, drugs, diseases, body parts, and it is especially used in binomial nomenclature (the system for naming plants and animals). It is also greatly prevalent in the legal field.  Amicus curiae, habeas corpus, and ex post facto being just a few of the more common ones.  A fun fact is the jury comes from the Latin word “jurare” meaning “to swear” (Is Latin a Dead Language? Let's Explore Why?).

Latin is a dead language as it is no longer spoken. However it is not extinct, and still can be encountered more than most people in the world today would expect.

Works Cited 

Andrews, Evan. “8 Reasons Why Rome Fell.” History.com, A&E Television Networks, 14 Jan. 2014, https://www.history.com/news/8-reasons-why-rome-fell.

“Is Latin a Dead Language? Let's Explore Why?” The Language Doctors, 14 Mar. 2022, https://thelanguagedoctors.org/is-latin-a-dead-language/.

Pope Francis. “Pope Francis Tweeter Account.” Twitter, Twitter, 23 Apr. 2022, https://twitter.com/pontifex_ln?lang=en.

“When Did Latin Die? and Why?” Global Language Services, Global Language Services Ltd, 3 Feb. 2022, https://www.globallanguageservices.co.uk/did-latin-die/.

[beloved-child-of-the-house]

Fic Writer Questions! (you can find me here on AO3 if you're interested!)

tagged by dear @theburialofstrawberries mwah!

1) How many works do you have on AO3?

112 yowza!

2) What’s your total AO3 word count?

750,421 kinda tempted to go delete one word so it can be 750420 which is a far more Pleasing number

3) How many fandoms have you written for and what are they?

12ish but some of them overlap: BBCS/Sherlock Holmes/ACD (these are all different bc my bbcs fics are not the same as my own modern fem Sherlock Holmes adaptation are not the same as my ACD Holmes fic; Good Omens; Harry Potter/The Werewolf Draco Malfoy Cinematic Universe; Captive Prince; The Hobbit; Fleabag (it was a crossover with BBCS but Fleabag is the perspective character so it still counts as a separate fandom imo); Doctor Who; The Office; Parks and Rec; Broad City (one a piece for those last 5 but I AM going to write a Parks and Rec polycule fic for @gaykagome)

4) What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

They're all Good Omens fics from the 2019 Summer of Good Omens! Susceptible to Summer, Fragments Shored Against My Ruin, Something So Magic, Enter Serpent, and Anything We Like

All of those have over 2k except the last one, but average engagement for me is like 400 kudos or so

5) Do you respond to comments, why or why not?

I try! It depends on what's going on with me. Sometimes I just don't have the energy, and I figure people would rather I spend my brain power on writing new fics than on writing replies to comments. Wish I had a fave button tho so I could let people know I read and reread comments, because I do!

6) What’s the fic you’ve written with the angstiest ending?

Oh I wrote this ficlet series called A Chemical Defect about John and Sherlock's relationship in s3 of BBCS, and it's WILDLY unpopular. People don't read my fic to cry sad tears I guess! John and Sherlock are having an affair in the story, and it ends with the implication that their relationship is unsustainable and that Mary knows about it anyway. I intended to come back to it after s4 and write a more optimistic ending but LOL! Didn't have the heart.

7) What’s the fic you’ve written with the happiest ending?

I know this answer is kinda up my own ass, but like. I think stories that feel true to life sort of feel like they end on a beginning if you know what I mean? You don't really consider a chapter of your life closed until you look back on it from the next? SO that said, I think I'd have to say that it's my big BBCS serial The Only One in the World. I spent 2 years writing it, and it ends with John retiring from medicine to solve crimes and write books full time.

Could also be my WDMCU (werewolf Draco Malfoy cinematic universe) series Moonrise, which starts with Draco isolated in his abusive mother's house, trying to cope with lycanthropy essentially alone and ends with him in love and surrounded by found family in a cozy cottage in Hogsmeade, having gotten some lycanthrope rights legislation passed after working at it for years and talking to Harry about whether they want to have kids. Oh man I feel warm and fuzzy just thinking about it

8) Do you write crossovers? If so what is the craziest one you’ve written?

I have written one crossover. It's BBCS/Fleabag, because me and @loudest-subtext-in-tv were laughing about how John seems like one of the horrible guys Fleabag sleeps with basically out of self loathing, so I wrote this fic to make Nattie laugh, and you should read it bc it's so good and so underrated.

9) Have you ever received hate on a fic?

Not really, but people don't seem to know that authors can read bookmark tags unless you private the bookmark, and someone once put in the bookmark tag on one of my fics 'writing was meh but it was okay.' Okay so why bookmark it then??

10) Do you write smut? If so what kind?

Fuck yes! I'm not sure what 'what kind?' means? People fucking? Sloppy, silly, and awkward, with lots of laughing. I also really like writing afterglow scenes which are even sillier and gigglier and often involve one character cooking for another. Food as love language is a very distinct pattern of mine tbh

11) Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not that I'm aware of, but occasionally I'll write a post on here where I make some elaborate head canon, and I'll see people in the tags talking about how they want to write fic of it, and it makes me breathe fire out of my nose like a dragon like PLEASE DON'T. The WDMCU came out of a ficlet post I made on here like a year before I actually wrote the 60k series so like!!! Please don't do that!

12) Have you ever had a fic translated?

Yes! To Russian and I believe Chinese. Not my entire oeuvre but a handful of BBCS and Good Omens fics

13) Have you ever co-written a fic before?

No, but I wrote a fic inspired by an RP I did with my gf right around when we met (actually now that I think about it, it's two fics), and I waaaaaaanna do a WDMCU collab with my beloved Sally @clytemenestras at some point if he has time bc he inspired me to even write werewolf draco with his original lesbian werewolf story

14) What’s your all time favorite ship?

favorites are hard for me? I always think I'm currently doing my best writing lol so I'll say drarry

15) What’s a WIP that you want to finish but don’t think you ever will?

I don't post fics unless theyre finished, so I don't have any WIP up on AO3, but I did intend to continue with my fem Sherlock Holmes series, Your Many Tendencies. I just haven't been in a Holmes mood for a long time. Maybe I'll come back to it idk. This particular series is honestly very unpopular? People will just straight up say they don't read femslash, and it hurts a lot. This series feels really personal too, bc it's about a Black autistic nonbinary lesbian, so it does hurt my feelings that no one seems to care, yknow? I mean the people who read it are extremely kind and thoughtful in their engagement with it, but it has vastly less engagement than my m/m fic, and that's painful. It gets literally 1/10 the attention my fics usually get.

16) What are your writing strengths?

Almost all of my writing is romance, but I tend to write concurrently about recovery and found family, and I think I'm very good at doing that in a way that connects with my audience. I once had someone ask if they could use my words in their wedding vows, and I've had people tell me they started doing things with their spouse that my characters do with their partners in order to express love. I think about that all the time. My Impact. It makes me feel like I have a real duty to my audience yknow?

17) What are your writing weaknesses?

This question is hard for me like I've been writing so long and so much that I'm literally always happy with my final draft! It's always exactly to my taste, yknow? I suppose I could say that my fics tend not to be terribly plotty but so WHAT? That's beside the fuckn point for me. Plot who? I don't know Her. Also honestly like. Stories feel more True to me when they aren't ruthlessly devoted to plot bc like life isn't like that yknow?

18) What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

If you're not fluent in that language, get a beta who is!!!!! That said, I have written scraps of very simple dialogue in French using mostly Google Translate (sometimes I check w Sally bc he speaks French but I am usually too impatient), and I am perfectly well aware that I take my life in my hands each time!!! Also don't do that bullshit thing where it's in italics? That shit is weird and exoticizing. Just write it in quotation marks like normal dialogue.

19) What was the first fandom you wrote for?

BBCS babey back in 2012. Ended a 5 year dry spell for me after I got my writing degree.

20) What’s your favorite fic you’ve written?

Hmmmm I think it's probably gonna be the fic I'm working on now that I haven't posted yet, but I know it's called Names for a House, and here's a tiny bit of it

Thanks again Shreya for asking me to do this bc I really love talking about myself. I tag @the-moon-loves-the-sea, @clytemenestras, @tomiano, @gaykagome and @totallysilvergirl

No pressure <3

[sophiexteresa]

Thomas Sanders Instagram Q&A Transcript

From @thatsthat24’s Instagram story, 25/8/2020. Questions in bold. Text added to the story in (parenthesis/brackets), and descriptive info in *italics*. I tried uploading the video(s) too, but Tumblr is having issues, so here’s the transcript only! 

Thomas: I had some time this evening so I figured, hey, why not? Another lil’ Q an’ A, so if you want to ask a question *posh French voice* be my guest!

When approximately will the next sanders sides be out? Very good question! Uh, we are aiming this for a late September release, that’s what we’re all working towards.

Favourite musical you have been in or just favourite musical in general? This is really tough, I can’t decide. I’m between Rent where I was in the ensemble, Peter Pan where I played Slightly Soiled, which was just one of the lost boyos — boyos? Boys — and, uh, Into The Woods where I played Cinderella’s prince and that’s where Roman’s first costume came from.

Are you ever gonna due your hair purple again? I loved it! Yes! I miss the purple hair too.

Do you love me? *laughing* Yes of course! I do love me.

What would each of the sides’ reaction be to seeing the Grand Canyon? *speaking very quickly* Roman would be revelling that we made the journey, Patton would be marvelling at the memories being made, Logan would be telling you to look at these fascinating signs for important information, Virgil would be telling you to ‘get back from those cliffs!’, Janus would be telling you to take pictures to make it look like you’re next to the cliff, ‘for clout’, and Remus would be like *Remus voice* ‘you could push somebody and get away with it’.

Also when will we get more Picani, I miss him? You and me both, Bri, and honestly with the amount of amazing cartoons that have come out recently *sighs while smiling* yeah, I am a-hankering (?) to get back to Emile!

How have you been doing, like really? Mental health is important as you teach us: I feel like everybody’s kinda struggling with mental health right now, especially people in the USA with COVID. Uhm *clears throat* for me I continuously struggle with the balance between work and leisure time, um, social media makes that difficult, blurs the lines, and I’m working on it.

Do you have any tattoos? Umm, I don’t, uh, I struggle with the permanence of tattoos. And like do I, can I, make a decision that I like? But! There are tattoos that I might like. Where I’d put them, I have no idea, umm, but I think like, maybe like, little stars!

What rank of “Gay” are you? Big gay? What rank? *speechless pause* uh... General. You know? I wanna do my duty. Come back a hero. An all-American Queero *gets an idea* *roughly quoting Hamilton* Queer comes the General!

Can you please make Logan day something Patton would say? *Logan’s voice* Something Patton would say? Umm... please, I request more baked goods from the kitchen so that I can fill Thomas’s body with more trans-fats at 3 am. I don’t know, I don’t like this game.

Have you ever dated a girl? *awkward silence* I have. It was pretty uneventful.

Do you miss your friends? *laughs* Oh... *face crumples as if he’s about to cry*

What are you voice acting in or are you now allowed to say? Not until tomorrow.

When did you know you were gay? I think I answered this one on the last Q&A, but it was early. I was like, 9 or 10 at least.

When will we see Gavin? Gavin has started school! He’s back in his hometown, so I don’t know when I’m gonna see him. He’s still getting taller — I can actually include a picture of him that his mom sent me after he got a new little hairdo *insert photo of an awesome Gavin here*

Do you miss vine? For like, sentimental reasons, yes. Uh, I mean, technically it had its issues and I don’t miss being restricted to 6 seconds anymore *laughs*

What has been your favourite part of the day? My favourite part of today was actually... I came up with this last minute short video, and I got it done and I sent it to some friends and they really liked it. I have to save it until Thursday thought, but it’s just nice to come up with stuff that makes your friends laugh.

Janus acting like Remus? *Remus’ voice* Remus here! Looks like the Dukey just dropped in! *Remus’ laugh* *Takes a breath and snaps into Janus’ character* I spend a lot of time with him so I’ve had a lot of practise.

Why do I feel like we’re gonna have another angsty Virgil moment? When is Virgil not being angsty...?

Please can you say trans rights? Uh, heck yah trans rights! I, uh, this one was very simple but I wanted to say it!

Do you think Virgil would be into anime? Actually, if you remember from, uh, Accepting Anxiety, uh, part 2, there’s actually a Death Note poster in his room, so he definitely likes some anime.

Hi! Can you say hola to the Hispanic fanders in el vecindario fander? Please? We love you! Oh my gosh, *a very naturally american pronunciation* hola! that’s very kind of you guys. I appreciate all of the support you guys give, and I love all of you guys. 

STORYTIME! I love you: *upbeat voice* Storytime! I love you back.

How gay are you? Like, 15 gay! I rank General! 

How did you end up meeting and babysitting Gavin? Gavin is actually Leo’s nephew, so he would come up here, uh, during the holidays or during the summer, and alternate being baby-sat between me and Leo’s mom - his grandma.

What was the inspo for Janus’ outfit? Ooh, that’s a really good question, uh... Joan had a vision in their mind for almost kind of like this early 20th century or late 19th century kinda Jack the Ripper vibe.

Any advice for gaybies to fit in with society? Don’t apologise for being yourself. If people have an issue, that’s their issue that they have to work through. Do not apologise for being yourself. 

What type of gay are you? (Math gay, plant gay, caffine gay, etc): Wait, there’s such thing as a math gay? I am absolutely that, and I feel like I’m just gonna be naming traits about myself but I’m a trivia gay, a driving gay, apparently a math gay, a Disney gay *laughs* and a theatre gay.

Not a question but I’m glad to be alive at the same time as someone as great as you: Dude, this stuff is really sweet. *laughs* That’s really sweet, umm, trust me, I feel the same way about all of you. Honestly.

Why don’t you own a doggo yet? I... went to Petsmart today - I didn’t get an animal, but like... I’m thinking about it and this question is like... hmmm...

I’ve run out of cartoons to watch, any recommendations? Owl house! Owl house, owl house. I just tried it, and I immediately got hooked. Infinity train’s also a really good one, duck tales is amazing, and I’m getting ready to start Tangled: the animated series, so *shrugs*.

What is Patton’s opinion on rats? *adorable Patton voice, slowly zooming in on his face* They are tiny little squishy precious babies!!!

How do I ask people for their pronouns? I don’t know, I mean, I don’t think it’s like a big deal? I hope we could get to the point where we could just be like ‘what are your pronouns?’ and then they would tell you, and then you’d just, you know, carry on the rest of your conversation. 

A circle has no bounds and it’s the same with your beauty: This is really precious, and it of course came from Nash (?) who is a poet, he published a lot of wonderful, wonderful poems on twitter, they are are amazing, and you are once again far too sweet, Nash. 

Dream role? This is a pretty broad question, so maybe dream theatrical role would be Sweeny Todd, dream movie role would be anything in the marvel universe, uh, really just give me anything in any voice acting role, *smiling mischievously* egg rolls are also really good.

Can Remus please say ‘I am the sand guardian, guardian of the sand’? *Remus voice* I am the sand guardian, guardian of the sand! (love that vine)

Are there still plans for the Roman series? *nods* Oh, yeah, yeah, it was definitely hindered by COVID, uh, as was this Sanders Asides episode that’s coming up, which is why it’s taking longer in the editing stage, it is our, uh... strategy, for circumventing the obstacle, and we hope you like it.

Are we still getting an August playlist? Uh, heck yah you are! But honestly, actually, if you guys have any suggestions I should include in the playlist, lemme know! I’d be happy to get some suggestions - but yes. You will be definitely getting one.

May I please see your feet? *confused, slightly disgusted expression* *begins to move the camera away from his face* *holds up a tape measure, extended to 1 foot long* *grins*

Any shows on Netflix to recommend? Umbrella Academy is really good, Dragon Prince, uh, She-Ra, of course, umm The Hollow (?) is really cool, there’s a documentary about video games called High Score, that was really fun.

Roman, who would you say the gayest side is? *Roman’s voice* Oh, we’re all equally gay, okay? *chuckles* it’s a sexuality, not a personality trait. *takes a breath and speaks quickly* I’m just kidding it’s *sings* meeeeee!

If you were not a YouTuber, what would you see yourself doing and why? Uh, maybe putting my chemical engineering degree to some use. *laughs awkwardly* Uh, I went to school for 5 years for that one.

Like you literally make me so flipping happy: I’m glad! I don’t know what I’m doing to do that, but the feeling is absolutely mutual. 

Can we have Virgil saying “Falsehood”? *hair already over one eye, in Virgil’s voice* Uh, c’mon, okay, sure. *very quietly and unenthusiastically* falsehood. Is that good? Is that? I don’t know, I don’t wanna steal his bit.

Which Sanders Side do you feel you embody most? Ah, I would probably say it’s either Patton or Roman because Patton can be definitely me, all the time, just really enthusiastic about things and finding things cute, but Roman... Roman’s sensitivity, oh. That’s me. 

What was the first job you had? I actually worked as a page in a library! A- pages basically just kinda like, shelve books, check books out; it’s one of the chillest jobs I’ve ever had, one of my favourites, and my dad always had a lovely dad joke for it: ‘you’re working as a page, when do you get promoted to a book?’

How tall are you? I usually say 5ft 10, but I think I’m trying to be a little more realistic with myself. And I’m probably 5ft 9 and a half. *zooms in on his face, staring into the camera* I’m holding onto that half a foot for all dear life. 

DROP THE SKIN ROUTINE PLEASE! This is very sweet, uh, I, *laughs nervously*, uh, I use Curology? They’re very nice. Umm, just... different kinds of lotion, I guess. (I suppose I should write down what I do lol)

Can we get a FALSEHOOD? *is standing* *clears throat* *points upwards from his eyeline* FALSEHOOD! 

Do you have a boyfriend if not are you planning on dating soon? I do not, uh, dating is kinda difficult right now midst COVID, you know, kinda tough... love... in the time of Corona... umm, but, you know, option’s open.

When was your first kiss? I’m sure I’ve answered this somewhere, it was in high school, I might have been 15 or 16. It was with a girl. *Shakes head* And all I can remember is hitting teeth. A lot.

Can we get a super super vague hint about the new Asides episode?  Alright, I’m getting ready to end the Q&A, so this, you know, if you’ve made it so far you deserve this super vague answer, umm... it includes a side that was not in the last episode. (This isn’t much, I apologise lol)

Thomas: And that is it for this evening! Thank you so much, you guys, for watching. I know some of you are still over in Europe watching and it’s like 4 in the morning, and I need to go to bed so thank you all so much for your questions - I gotta do this more often ‘cause I really enjoy it. Love you guys, gals, and non-binary pals. Peace out!

[mugiwara-rosewolf]

what do you think an average day in the strawhat kitchen would be like?

Yay!! My first ask! Thank you so much, Anon! I decided to write about the morning part of the day, if that’s okay. I’m setting this scenario after Water 7 and before Thriller Bark because I forgot about Brook & Jinbe. I hope you enjoy!

Italics = dialogue (including rudimentary French)

Bold Italics = Japanese (spelled out, idk kanji)

Gif by 1997onepiece

An Average Day

The day begins early. There’s a thread of light leaking under the door even before dawn. Peeking in, a familiar lanky-noodle of a man can be seen in rumpled clothes, still wiping the sleep from his eyes. The soft clatter of dishes can be heard as his hands shuffle about on autopilot. One fist lifting a pan from a cabinet. Another fidgeting with the silk knot of his tie. A wisp of smoke trails from the corner of his lip and out the porthole window.

Every color of dawn passes through the windows. Dusky grey as the seas and shadows of night give way to light. He readjusts the buttons on his shirt that he missed. Faded indigo grows bright as flares of sunlight scatter across the wide open sky. He settles the loop of his tie under his collared shirt. The knot sits right beneath his throat. By then, the world out the window is nothing but blue.

Freshly pressed and clean as a chef can be, ‘Black Leg’ Sanji sets to work. The sizzling of ingredients over an open flame is enough to draw a few groaning bed-heads and rumbling stomachs into the room. Most are aware enough to mumble a greeting, which the chef appreciates. A small smile tugs at the edge of his cigarette as he registers each voice.

“Good morning, Chef-san,” a sweet voice croons into the room.

The click of recognition in Sanji’s brain is enough to send his heart a-flutter. “Robin-chwan!” Steam erupts from his ears like grease in a hot pan. “What a wonder it is to see you this lovely morning!” he crows. Spinning around on a perfectly-polished heel, he serves his beloved crewmate on the pristine porcelain plate she so admired back in Water 7. “A breakfast sandwich for our lovely nightingale. Bon appetit, mon amie.”

Robin hides a darling chuckle behind a delicate hand. Sanji can feel his knees wanting to crumble under the rush of hearing her laughter. Sparkling joy rushes down his spine. But he quickly shakes himself. There are more meals to be made, after all. And many more crewmates to feed.

Just as the willowy blonde cook turns back to the stove, he hears the crisp clop-clop of hooves on the hardwood floor. “Bon-bonjou--” A bright, squeaky little yawn follows the groaning of the kitchen door. “Bon morning, Sanji~”

The older cook chuckles to himself. “Très bonjour, Chopper,” He says, passing him a little wrapped package from the pantry. “This chocolate has some nuts in it, that okay?” The little reindeer gives a sleepy nod before wandering to sit next to the elegant Robin. Sanji smiles a little, gnawing on his cigarette.

All-too-soon, that chain-smoking cook hears the all-too familiar stomps of boots. The tinkling of scabbards like wind chimes rambles closer and closer until a bulky black shadow stands in the doorway. Sanji grits his teeth, nearly sawing his smoke in half. “Marimo.”

“Curly brow.”

“Go sit down.” The chef ground out. “Your food’s almost ready.”

“I think I’ll just stand here, actually.”

Sanji whirls around towards the swordsman. “You trying to piss me off, moss-hea—“

“Morning, Sanji-kun!”

Suddenly it was as if the clouds parted and the heavens opened up before him. But even the clouds of Skypiea could have hosted such a gorgeous angel. Sanji’s spinning feet nearly collapse underneath him. He pushes himself off the counter, eager to greet the darling of the Strawhat crew.

“Ah, Nami-swan!” He smiles, his heart singing at the sight of her. “What a blinding vision you are, a gift from the sea goddess herself!” He takes her hand in his, as if inviting her to dance. Her fiery sunset hair flares in the early morning light. Her warmth amber eyes dance with flattered mirth. The softness of her hand against his calloused palm has Sanji’s pulse fluttering in his ears. He leads her gracefully to the table, where she’s seated with fresh squeezed orange juice and a bowl of equally-Colorful fruit salad. “Profiter, belle mademoiselle.”

“Merci beaucoup, Sanji-kun!”

If it weren’t for the brooding Marimo glaring a variety of blades into his back, Sanji may have just fainted on the spot. However, determined to maintain his composure, he simply lifted a bento from the table and showed it to the man over his shoulder. “I told you to sit down, Moss-head. You forget where your spot was?”

Zoro grunted. Marching up to the table he swiped the bento from Sanji’s grip and dropped himself down on the dining room bench. The chef huffed. Ungrateful brute. And a messy one at that. Within a moment of sitting down, he has rice grains stuck to his cheeks and chin. Sanji rolled his eyes and returned to work. At least Zoro was enjoying the meal. That was all a good cook could ask for.

“urgh-guh-morning...” the rambling natter of a long-nosed sniper sounds almost gravely at such an early hour. Sanji can hear the soft scritch-scratch of the young man ruffling his mop of unruly curls.

“Mornin’ Long-nose,” he greets the younger man. He thinks he might hear a grumble of protest from the rumpled boy. Sanji chuffs to himself. Wordlessly, he passes Ussop a seafood omelette and a bottle of tabasco on his shuffle to the table. After a moment of hushed tapping, ceramic and silverware and murmurs of morning voices—Sanji blinks. He turns to the sniper once more. “Where’s Franky?”

“Bulled in all-Nighteye in da-shop again,” Ussop slurs. “He’s passed out. Da-sided to let’em sleep this time.”

The chef absorbs this information with a thoughtful nod. He knows there’s another bento box in the cabinet somewhere. He just needs to find one to fit Franky’s appetite. The shop is his anchoring place. Sanji will take the shipwright’s meal down there before washing up. Everybody gets messy in that place.

Speaking of appetite—“SANJI~!!”

Everybody looked up. The cook turned and braced for impact. Sure enough—THWAP! The rubbery captain smacked into him with all the force of a Marine cannonball. Sanji heaved, but managed to stand his ground. All the while, Luffy was chanting.

“Oi, Sanji! I smell food, you got food? I smell meat, do you have meat? I love meat, ‘specially meat on the bone. You got any of that, Sanji?!”

“You bet your ass I do,” Sanji retorted. Pulling open the SUPER deluxe oven Franky made last week, the chef reveals his culinary masterpiece. Three dinosaur-sized legs of meat, with a cleaned bone on one side, just like his captain liked it.

He’d had to let them marinade overnight just to make sure he didn’t make the rubber-twerp sick with undercooked meat. He wasn’t sure the impulsive freak could get sick. But he didn’t want to be the one to test that theory. Franky had to assure him many times over that the oven wouldn’t catch fire if left in attended. Just looking at the finished product, Sanji could feel his tired bones sag with relief.

Luffy had all three ‘meat sticks’ in hand in the blink of an eye. Sanji turned and growled at him. “Go sit and eat at the table, you rubber animal!”

“Course I will, Sanji. I’ll always eat what you cook!” Luffy replies with a beaming grin.

“That’s not what I—”

“Hey Ussop! I got more meat than you!”

“Of course you did, Luffy, you’re a freak of nature.”

“I think you mean force of nature—“ Nami-san commented dryly.

And so their chatter continued. Every voice overlapping and rising in a joyful noise unlike Sanji had ever heard before. Even when he sailed on the Orbit, or with the fighting cooks on the Baratie. The next time he blinked, that thrice-blasted swordsman was in front of him again. Empty bento in hand, mossy green hair mussed in all directions—the stoic fool eyed him with a level stare. Sanji was just about to bark an insult at him when...Zoro’s sash brushed past his arm. He walked just close enough so Sanji could hear:

“Itadaki—merci, Ero-cook. You did good.”

Where little embers of embarrassment were glowing on the swordsman’s ears, Sanji’s face caught fire. He stomped out his cigarette. Then quickly lit another. One deep breath. A plume of smoke follows his exhale like a sleeping dragon.

“De-rien—Dou itashimashite. Anytime, Baka.”

[moonstruckbucky]

Come Over (4/7)

Summary: You’re new to New York City. Fresh out of post-grad and wanting a change of pace, and this change comes in more ways than one.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!Reader. Neighbor AU.

Warnings for Chapter: A lot of cursing, a lot of italics, and a lot of football talk. (Ya girl’s a NE fan so.)

Series Masterlist //  Main Masterlist

“Bucky, Sharon, this is my brother Clint and my best friend, Sam.”

The words are acrid as you say them, your throat constricting as if it wants to choke them back down. But you don’t, and you ignore Sam’s pointed look when you mention the words “Bucky’s girlfriend”.

Following your embarrassing event in the hallway, face aflame, you’d repeated your question, this time directing it at both of them rather than just Bucky. Sharon had agreed, and though you plastered on a smile, there was a sinking feeling in your gut. She’s nice enough, from what you’ve seen so far. But there’s an underlying tension between you.

At Clint’s, she plants herself between you and Bucky every chance she gets—in the kitchen as you socialize and on the couch when the game starts. You’re not dumb; you know she feels some sort of discomfort with you and Bucky being friendly with one another, and you idly wonder if this is who he’s always arguing on the phone with.

At first it’s uncomfortable sitting beside her and not saying a word, but then the beer and the excitement of the game kicks in and you kind of forget she’s there, she's so quiet. You, on the other hand, are on your feet with your brother and Sam and surprisingly Bucky, all yelling obscenities and orders at the players on the screen.

“Where’s the fucking flag?” you holler, gesturing at the TV. When the game continues with no penalty, you and Sam collectively groan. “Helmet to helmet and there’s no goddamn flag? These fucking refs!”

“That’s what you get when you support cheaters,” boasts Clint with a smirk. Bucky whistles lowly as you slowly turn a murderous glare to your brother.

“Careful, brother,” you warn, leaning across Sharon, who leans back as if you have an infectious disease, to point threateningly at Clint. “Don’t start a war you can’t finish.”

Clint cups his hands around his mouth and taunts, “My sister supports the Cheatriots.”

“Listen,” you say, rising from your seat again to tower over the group. Sam has his arms crossed and a look that says you’re gonna get it, Bucky watches on with wide, curious eyes, Sharon looks as if she’d rather be anywhere else, and Clint merely waits with a teasing smirk and his arms crossed. “Spygate? Witch hunt. Honest mistake, whatever. It was bullshit. And goddamn, motherfucking Snowplowgate was a pathetic excuse at cheating. And Deflategate was the biggest crock of shit to ever grace the NFL. Clearly nobody at that piece of shit organization has any idea what a goddamn fucking gas law is or how it even works! “May have been aware”—bullshit! Brady missed four games and they still won the goddamn Super Bowl.  The Patriots haven’t done anything any more sacrilegious than any other team in the NFL. They just get the most shit because they have integrity and they win. Six rings, asshole, count em and eat shit.”

Sam mimes a mic drop and a glance at Bucky shows he’s impressed, eyebrows raised high and icy blue eyes sparkling. Sharon looks between the two of you and you feel your face heat. Clearing your throat, you scoop up your beer, drain it, and step around the couch to head towards the kitchen.

“Excuse me.”

Unsurprisingly, Clint has followed you in; you can hear Sam and Bucky talking and laughing through the entryway. He leans against the counter next to the fridge as you dig around, shove a few chips from the bowl in your mouth.

“So I think Bucky just fell in love.”

You nearly choke on your chip as you sharply inhale. Coughing harshly, you wash it down with your newly opened beer and wait for your eyes to stop watering.

“Excuse me?”

Clint smirks and shrugs. “You heard me. Home boy looked about ready to propose.”

He’s speaking low enough that you won’t be heard, but still you crane your neck to look over his shoulder into the living room. Bucky and Sam are now sitting side by side on the couch, Sharon on the end scrolling through her phone. None of them seem to have heard anything.

You grunt. “You’re full of shit.”

He grins and shakes his head once. “With the way he was looking at you? No way.”

“I think you need your eyes checked, brother.” 

“Oh are we discussing the way Bucky practically undressed Y/N with his eyes after her tirade?” chimes Sam as he enters the kitchen. You hurry to shush him, slapping a hand over his mouth as you cast another look into the living room. Bucky and Sharon sit stiffly on the couch, exchanging hushed but frenzied words if Sharon’s expression is anything to go by. Bucky’s shoulders are tense as he leans his elbows on his knees, the taut muscles straining against his navy long-sleeve. 

What you don’t notice is the look that passes between Sam and Clint, matching smirks curving their mouths as you watch Bucky and Sharon in the midst of an obvious argument. You chew the inside of your cheek as Bucky leans back into the couch, shoulders relaxing, but only slightly. Sighing through your nose, you turn back to your brother and friend.

“Yeah, that’s exactly what we were discussing,” Clint finally answers with a cheeky little smile to which you roll your eyes.

“Whatever, guys. You both need your eyes checked. Pronto. Maybe your heads while you’re at it.” Behind you, they scoff, and you lead the way out of the kitchen.

Even without having witnessed an argument between the couple, you can feel the tension. Fortunately, halftime is over and the game resumes, just barely cutting through the negative atmosphere. Soon, you, Sam, Clint, and Bucky are all yelling at the television again.

Halfway through the fourth quarter, it’s a tie game and Sharon’s phone goes off. She checks it and begins to rise from the couch.

“I have some work to do,” she announces, shoving her phone back in her jacket pocket. She turns to Bucky, “We should go.”

He looks imploringly up at her and gestures to the TV with his beer. “There’s only eight minutes left. Can we stay? Or I’ll catch up to you? I just want to stay to the end.”

It unsettles you, the way he asks her, the trepidation in his voice. As if she were a bomb about to go off and not a person. You keep your gaze averted but your ears are open, as are Sam’s and Clint’s.

“I really think it’d be easier if you and I left together, James. I’m sure Y/N will tell you the outcome later.”

Though you can’t pinpoint why, the tone in which she says this has your grip tightening on your bottle. Just a fraction so that it’s unnoticed. Out of the corner of your eye, you watch Bucky stare her down for a few beats too long before he sighs, sets down his beer a little harder than intended on the coffee table, and stands up.

Disappointment floods you, and you hope it doesn’t show on your face when Bucky announces they have to leave. Sharon’s watching him like a hawk when he says goodbye to Clint, Sam, and finally, you, leaning over you to hug you—if you can call it that. He barely touches you, and you know it must be because Sharon’s narrowing her eyes at the two of you. He straightens, shoulders and smile stiff, and then the two of them are gone.

“Aight,” Sam says a few moments later in the quiet of the living room, “I’m just gonna say it, she’s such a bitch.”

“Wow, she sounds like a bitch,” Wanda observes the next day at work. You’re on lunch in the cafe on the bottom floor, and you’d told her all about your interesting weekend. Like your brother and Clint, she’s convinced Bucky has a thing for you despite his...wonderful girlfriend. 

“You’re telling me. Obviously she’s got some insecurity issues going on. She would not let me near him at all. I thought she was going to burn holes in my head when he hugged me goodbye.”

Wanda grimaces and sticks a French fry in her mouth. “Yikes. You said you hear him arguing a lot? You think it’s with her?”

Snorting, you nod with an incredulous expression. “I’m almost positive it’s her. I can never hear exactly what he’s saying, but if yesterday was anything to go by, they fight a lot. Poor Bucky. He’s always so nice. How could he be with someone so...not?”

“Maybe they weren’t always like that, you know? Maybe this is all a recent development.”

You hum thoughtfully, eyes losing focus as you zone out for a few minutes. Your Stark watch beeps, signalling the end of your lunch. Sighing, you stand up from your seat and Wanda follows. After dumping your trash, you head back to the elevator.

Truth is, you feel bad for Bucky. And for Sharon...kind of. But only in the way that something has happened to her to make her see anyone and everyone as a threat to their relationship. It isn’t healthy, and you know Bucky’s smart enough to know it, too. But what could you do? You aren’t close enough with him to advise him to end it, and sitting idly by while she controls him feels wrong.

You think so much and so hard about it you get a headache. Fortunately, you have enough work on your plate to keep yourself occupied.

Later that evening, back in your apartment, you’re about to settle in for the new Dateline episode with a glass of wine when an all-too-recognizable moan is heard through the shared wall of yours and Bucky’s apartments. You grimace at the same time your heart drops, and you pull heavily from the wine glass and turn up the TV.

If at all possible, Sharon seems to get louder, more high-pitched the higher your volume goes. 

Guess they made up, you type bitterly to Sam. Sharon’s wailing like a banshee.

You know it’s another territorial move on her part, and you can’t help but wonder if Bucky knows that as well. He’s far quieter, so much so you can’t even hear him over the whines of Sharon.

Your phone pings.

Awkward, Sam types back, need to escape?

Tempting. But I have an early start tomorrow.

Your date with Dateline gets cut short when they go for round two.

The next morning is...awkward, to say the least. Bucky’s dressed casually, no doubt for work, while Sharon hangs off him in the doorway. She’s giggling, and even Bucky has a grin on his face. When he notices you walking towards them, eyes pointed straight ahead because it’s awkward enough having heard them last night, his face goes bright red. You wait for the elevator, foot tapping and mind silently telling it to hurry the hell up because you really don’t want to be stuck in an elevator with Bucky.

But luck is not on your side and you hear his door close just as the elevator doors slide open. Bucky’s feet thud on the hallway carpet as he jogs to catch the elevator, and you’re almost ashamed to admit you very nearly press the ‘Door Close’ button on him. But he shoves an inked arm through and slides inside, leans against the wall adjacent to you.

He’s still as red as a tomato as he shoves his hands in his pockets and looks down at his boots. The air in the elevator tense and thick and it nearly makes you choke. Your heart thuds in your chest as you shift from foot to foot, even pull out your phone and scroll through social media in order to escape the awkwardness.

“I, uh, want to apologize if you heard us last night,” he stammers, that blush of his creeping down his neck and up to his ears. He’s rubbing the back of his neck when you glance over at him, give a small shrug to play it off like you’re indifferent. “Sharon can be...passionate.”

Internally, you wince. Didn’t really need to know that. But instead you respond with, “Glad you two seemed to work out whatever was up with you on Sunday.”

Bucky flinches and frowns deeply, taking to scratching at the light stubble on his jaw now. “You noticed that huh?”

He sighs when you nod. “Sharon’s…away for work a lot. It kind of puts a strain on things.”

For reasons unknown to you, you feel a small rise of irritation as the elevator touches down on the ground floor, and you sneer, “Well, I’m glad you both have the passion to sort out your issues.”

You can tell Bucky’s watching you wide-eyed and confused as you saunter out of the elevator, and even you can’t quite tell where the urge to snap at him had come from. His ignorance to acknowledge his girlfriend has security issues? The fact that he’d kept his neighbor up until almost midnight sorting out their issues? Or perhaps it’s just your unreasonable, growing jealousy that Sharon gets to know what he sounds like under those particular circumstances. Gets to see every expression that passes over his face or the way his body reacts to minute little teasing.

God, you’re so fucked.

Chapter Five

[capsironunderoos]

Sweetheart

Agent Holden Ford X Reader

Summary: New to Atlanta, Agent Ford meets his hotel room neighbor. She’s a college professor in town to host a seminar.

Warnings: None

Word Count: 1.3k

Author’s Note: I wrote this awhile back when I finished Mindhunter. There's not enough out there for these characters so I decided I’d add a little something to the mix. Hope you enjoy! The italics represent past events :)

capsironunderoos masterlist

Holden groans softly as he rolls over in the stiff hotel bed. 

Even with the air conditioning on full blast and the covers tossed to the side, the stagnant Georgia heat still manages to seep into the room. Holden knows he won’t be going back to sleep, so he reaches over and clicks the alarm off on the bedside clock. 

Another groan slips past his lips as he falls back onto the mattress. 

His eyes connect with a spot on the ceiling as sweat begins to build on his forehead. 

But, the Georgia heat isn’t the only thing keeping him awake. 

Soft snores escaping into the air beside him cue him to roll over and face you. 

The soft curls your hair held last night are mushed in-between the pillow and your face, your mouth open just wide enough to fan stray pieces of your hair each time you breathe in and out. 

Holden smiles and brushes a strand of hair from your face. The soft touch causes you to stir, and he freezes as you move closer to him, hands flush against his chest and head completely on his pillow now. 

Once he’s sure you’ve gone back to sleep, he chuckles quietly. 

This was the quietest he’d seen you since you’d met a few days ago. 

You’d checked into the hotel at the same time he did, and he couldn’t help but notice you. 

Your burnt orange trench coat wrapped loosely around your frame, hanging open to reveal tight bell-bottom jeans and a white button up shirt. Round glasses perched themselves on your nose and your hair sat against your shoulders in soft waves. It was long enough to brush the receptionists desk as you leaned up to talk to one of the men that worked there. 

Holden thought he heard you discussing a class you had taught some years ago, in another state. 

When your room arrangements were settled, you quietly brushed past him, the scent of outside and something sweet following in your wake. 

He hurried to grab his things and follow you onto the elevator, sliding past the doors right before they clicked shut. He noticed you let out a sweet giggle under your breath, and he turned to smile at you, cheeks flushed. 

Your hand came to rest against your mouth, trying to block the evident smile of amusement on your lips. 

“You somebody important?” You asked him, that sweet Georgia tang he was growing to love seeping out of your lips. 

You shuffled against the wall of the elevator, crossing your arms against your chest and raising an eyebrow at him as you waited for him to answer your question. 

“Not really. I’m Special Agent Ford of the FBI.” 

You hummed in amusement. 

“Sounds important to me sweetheart.” 

At the nickname, Holden could feel his heart squeeze. 

“So, if you tell me why you’re all the way down here you’ll have to kill me, right?” 

It was his turn to laugh now, a smile easily finding its way onto his face. 

“That’s the CIA.” You nodded and fell silent for a beat. 

“Oh. How rude of me. I’m (Y/N), of the art history professors.” 

Your hand extended itself in his direction and Holden didn’t hesitate to grab it, your soft hands enveloped by his. He smiled at your mocking of his introduction of himself. 

The ding of the elevator cued your hands to drop in order to grab your bags. 

“Same floor?” You asked and he nodded, gesturing for you to exit before him. 

Your suitcase rolled behind you and he grabbed his things off the floor as he followed you off. 

“Maybe we’ll have connecting rooms. I always did love slumber parties.” You joked and he scoffed in amusement, shaking his head. 

Ironically, you both stopped at doors right next to each other. 

“Well, Agent Ford,” you started, leaning up against your door to look at him, “I think we’ll be seeing quite a lot of each other.” 

And you’d been right. 

In Holden’s favor, your schedules were quite similar. When you left to lecture, he was leaving for work, and when you arrived back at your room he was drowsily shoving his hotel key into the lock. 

Many nights had been spent at the diner beside the hotel, you always ordering a cheeseburger, fries, and a strawberry milkshake, while Holden always ordered a coffee and French toast. 

You were almost regulars now. 

But something about last night had been different. 

He’d had a good day working the missing children case, finally feeling like he was getting somewhere. Your seminar session had gone surprisingly well, the faint giddiness of discussing something you loved so much still evident in your smile. 

He noted how dressed up you were, faint makeup behind your glasses and your hair in perfect waves, resting against a loose yellow shirt. 

You’d had to repeat yourself so many times that it was almost comical at this point. Holden couldn’t focus on anything besides how close he was to you, and how he wanted to be even closer. 

The walk back to the hotel was accompanied by the sound of Atlanta traffic and your hand wrapped around the crook of his arm, his opposite hand resting on top of yours. 

He wanted to suggest that you both continue walking, not to anywhere in particular, just to stretch the limited time he had with you. 

You were talking animatedly with your free hand, discussing the poor sap who had tried to argue with you over the meaning of a painting. 

He hummed and agreed and took your side when it was necessary, but his heart was deafening, pounding against his ribcage at an alarming rate. 

What had gotten into him tonight? 

The elevator ride up to the rooms was silent, your hand no longer in contact with him. 

As you exited and found your doors, Holden noticed both of you pausing. You turned to look at him, noticing that he was already looking at you. 

“Do you-“ he started, glancing at his door. 

You blushed and let out that sweet giggle he adored. 

“Didn’t know the FBI hired mind readers.” 

He found himself smiling at the memory as your breath fanned against the base of his neck, your hands pressed against his chest and your legs tangled between his. 

He scooted himself even closer to you, wrapping his left arm under your pillow and using his right hand to card his fingers through your hair. You slowly stirred awake, a yawn escaping your lips as you looked up at him. 

He chuckled at the immediate pout your lips formed. 

“I could get used to this.” He whispered, pressing a chaste kiss to your lips, laughing again as the pout remained in its spot. 

“I think I’ll skip my lecture today,” you finally responded. 

“Oh ho okay we’ve got a rebel on our hands,” he chided, and you hummed in agreement. 

“I think my students would enjoy a break from the Italian Renaissance. Besides, I’d much rather spend my day with you sweetheart.” 

There it was again, that nickname and the achingly familiar pang it erupted into his heart. 

He pulled you closer, pressing his lips to your forehead and allowing them to rest there for a moment. 

“Tomorrow is my last day, after all,” you whispered, not wanting to speak it out because of the truth it held. 

Tomorrow, this dream Holden had concocted for itself would be over. You’d return to your home state to continue teaching there. 

He had known this seminar was on a limited time schedule, but he hadn’t realized how limited until now. 

“Then let’s do it. Let me spend the day with you.” He whispered and you let out a quick giggle. 

“Before we do that, I think we should stay here a moment longer,” you said through a smile and Holden returned the gesture. 

“There’s nothing I’d want more.”

[blainesebastian]

Hii! I'm obsessed with your fics! Seriously, j could spent a day talking about them. Can you do one where Sebastian keeps talking about/to Blaine in French and being all sweet but Blaine actually speaks French fluently for some reason and knows what he is saying?? I love embarrassed Sebastian lol

here you go sweetie! enjoy :3 (1,708 words) 

notes: I definitely claim no ownership of knowing the French language; everything is from google translate and me doing my best. I apologize if anything is incorrect if you know french! i had a lot of trouble translating 'he' and 'his' instead of translate kicking out 'her' and 'she'. Sigh. Someone teach me this beautiful language. Italics are there as a rough estimate of what was intended. 

--

Blaine stretches his arms up over his head, a yawn slipping out of his mouth and adjusts his body in one of the chairs at the Dalton café. It’s definitely not the most comfortable seat in the school but it’ll keep him from falling asleep—even though he craves one of the soft, maroon leather lounge chairs in the senior commons.

He just has to put in another hour of studying and he’ll call it a day—he wants to maintain his 4.2 GPA and he’s worried this calculus exam is really going to take his knees out from under him. He picks up his mug of coffee and takes a long sip, letting out a soft sigh as he leans forward and begins concentrating again, giving himself some sample math problems to do.

Read more here

[dearoldtuxedo]

Wet Dream

OOC: So, this inspiration came to me by a little grayface. Mostly because I was in a huge mood for furry smut anyways. NSFW under the cut. Italic font for (Dream) Drooper’s dialogue.

Here we are, in the privacy of my own bedroom, smooching up a slobbery storm with my lovely kitten, on the heart shaped bed. That's right. Who else than yours truly, Tux The Tuxedo, and Drooper of The Banana Splits? As I was sayin', we were smooching up a slobbery storm. My arms wrapped around his torso, with his legs around my waist. The kissed we shared was a little more messier than our usual make out sessions. Saliva was flying and dripping down. Our tongues were wrestling, and sometimes they'd tie into knots. 

While we still continued to French each other, one of my hands reached down to lift up Drooper's tail, and the other gave that lion tush a good hard spank! Drooper stopped kissing to let out a yelp, followed by a light moan.

"Uhh- baby."  "You like that, don't you?"

I continued to spank him around, but not hard enough. No, I gotta save my real strength for the best part to come. I spanked him, and spanked him, and spanked him. I spoke vulgarly, in a raspy tone, over his moans.

"You may be king of the beasts, but I'm king of the sheets. When I'm through with you, babe, you won't be able to walk for a month. You're gonna have to ask me to carry you places instead. Every time you try to sit down, you'll be thinking of me." "Tux, enough of the teasin' already! Mah body can't take anymore of this! Just please, sock it to me! Now!" "Oh, such an impatient kitten you are. But whatever you say."

I untied kitten's legs from around my waist, then set him down in front of me on his knees. With my razor sharp claws, I teared off my entire tuxedo in only a second. Despite Drooper's squinty eyes, I could tell he was bedazzled, either by my performance or my muscular built. Whichever it was, it sure made his erection grow. Speaking of which, he looked at mine; That big, thick, furless member with the two bells at the end. Kitten got close, and took it into his hands, also observing its beauty while gently stroking it. Then he said,

"My, my. Darlin', you as hard as steel. But, don't worry. Let ol' Drooper tenderize that meat for ya."

Without hesitation, he took my member into his mouth, and sucked away. Uhhhhhhhh, it felt so good. He was slurping that thing like he hasn't had a bite in a week. He- Ahhhhh, man, I could feel him deepthroat it. He moved in closer to get more of that delicious Tux-junior into his mouth, and the only way to do that was by swallowing it. I gripped his mane tightly as I moaned.

"Ohhhhhh, baby. Yeah, you got it. Right there. That's a good kitten. Uhhh-"

Fffffffffffuuuuuudge! That feels good! He's like a vampire! ...or a vacuum. It will only be a matter of time before he sucks me dry. Darn, I could feel myself starting to leak! I'm- Wait a minute. I don't plan on emptying myself in his stomach! At least not through that end. I separated him out of my mouth, and placed him upon my lap.

"Why'd you stop me?"  "Because, kitten, the real fun is about to begin. In three..."

I parted his right leg.

"two..."

I licked at my fingers to lube them up. 

"one."

There, I inserted my middle finger into his tight hole.

"OH! Tux, baby...!"

He seemed to like that. I added another finger in him. Would've inserted more, but two was my limit. And with my claws, it probably doubled the pleasure. I moved them in and out of his rectum, as he moaned in amusement. 

"Mmmmm, honey, yeah, that feels niiiiiiiiice. Uhhhhhh, uhh, yes!"

He wrapped his arms around my neck as my digits penetrated him. Hehehe, I could feel my fingers get soaked in his juices. They were moist enough to move in further. 

"Darlin', MMMMMmmmmm, please give me more!" 

More?

"More, darlin'! I didn't come over here just for yer fingers! Let me feel you! All of you!"

All of me, huh? I withdrew my fingers, then put him onto the bed, laying him on his back. He smiled a wide grin, watching me spread his legs far apart. Then, I slammed myself inside of him.

"OHHHHHHH-"

I thrusted my member into that tight little hole of his, moving at a steady pace, but grinding at a force so hard. The impact of my strength caused the bed to rock back and forth. The feel of my member squeezed between his rectum, such a sensation to behold. He's so warm. I never wanna leave from him. With each erotic moan, I pushed myself in deeper. I grasped firmly onto his hips, and let my claws sink into his flesh. My face lowered down to his so that we'd touch noses.

"OHHHHHHohohhhhhh, GOODNESS! YES! UHHHHHH, UH... Oh Tux, yes!" “So, that feels good, kitten?" "Yessss! yessssss! Aww gosh, darlin'!" "Is that 'balls-deep' or what?" "UH-" "Take it all in, babe. Let me loosen that tight little cave of yours." "OHHHHH, DARRRRLIN'!"

The room was accompanied by three sounds: The rocking of the bed, the squishy padding noises, and Drooper's moans of rapture.

"Mmmmmmmm, harder darlin'!" "Harder? You want harder, kitten?" “UHHHHHHHH, YES! Harder, darlin'! HAR-DER!" "Beg the snow leopard! Beg him to tear that tunnel of love!" "AHHHH, PLEASE SCREW ME IN HARDER, DARLIN'! Oh yeah, LET ME HAVE IT!" "Harder?" "HARDER!!!"

I released my full strength, and pounded hard enough to send kitten screaming to the heavens, and his tail began to curl up. The bed eventually broke down, but that didn't stop me. I wasn't gonna stop until I reached that climax. Speaking of which...

"OH, TUX! Darlin'! That feels nice! Feels so good!" "I'm almost there, kitten!" "Yes, yes, yes, YESSSSS, UHHHHHHHHH!" "Gonna fill you up with that sweet, magical love juice!" "TUX, YES-" "FILL YOU UP WITH SO MUCH OF IT!"

But, just as I finally reached that orgy, an explosion occurred.

I shot up awake, heavily breathing. My body was hot all over, I was drenched in my own sweat, and I felt something sticky down in my pants. Boy, that was some dream. This was all that potty mouthed stranger's fault. They officially made this cat feel like a horn dog.

That dream was very intense. Too intense for me to handle. Also, very real, although I wasn't myself in that dream. No, this Tux was more crude and dominant, who treated dear Drooper like an object. Those type of men are what we like to call 'jerks.' I would never wanna generalize poor kitten like that, and to the extent of hurting him for my own entertainment, although he seemed to enjoy it. Well, at least Jerk Tux didn't swear once. I'll give him credit for that.

Drooper wasn't himself either. I know my kitten too well to be sure that he isn't THAT confident. He has always been bashful towards my romantic passings, even when we're alone together.

Back to the dream, I don't think I'm ready to face Drooper again tomorrow. I mean, I want to make love, but I'm also very nervous too. I've been a virgin for many, many decades, and I promised to give myself to the guy I can call "the one." Drooper is definitely "the one" for me, and my heart knows it. He's my Lovin' End. But still, it's been so long. What if I screw (no pun intended) the whole experience up, and end up hurting him badly? What if he's not into that type of intimacy? I would be fine, but my hormones will riot! What if he does want it, but I end up regretting it.

Phooey. I don't think I'll be going back to sleep any time soon. I buried myself under the sheets, and started to lightly gnaw on my own tail. It's the perfect substitution for sucking your thumb.

[smallblueandloud]

on that bumpy road to love

summary: “And- you are?”

“I’m Eleanor,” she says, and holds her hand out. “I’m the Architect here.” The capital letter is obvious. “Welcome to the Good Place, Chidi.” 

(or, five times someone in chidi's afterlife was a really big weirdo and he didn't know what to do about it)

relationships: chidi/eleanor, chidi & everyone in team cockroach (although he doesn’t know what that is, lol)

notes: the song to listen to is 'they can't take that away from me' (the sarah vaughan version), which i like to think was comforting to eleanor during the course of this fic. behind the scenes, obviously. 

oh, man, this one took me a long time. i've had the idea for this fic since the season ended, and google drive says i created the doc in FEBRUARY, so uh, take from that what you will lol. i just really love the idea of outsider pov, and outsider pov + amnesia = the best tropes in existence.

check out the notes for the ao3 link! (which will include the italics as i wrote them instead of how i had to redo them for this post. i promise you, i’ll have missed some.) and feel free to like/reblog/leave the vaguest impression of happiness, like the faint notes of a flower’s fragrance on a summer’s breeze, on this post - i’m not picky. thanks for reading <3

1. Janet

Chidi opens his eyes.

He’s sitting on a couch, in a small, beige room. There are three notable things about where he is: a lot of potted plants, a door to his right, and big, friendly, green letters on the wall in front of him that read Everything is fine.

Yeah, right, he thinks, bracing himself for the usual anxiety spiral. The last thing he remembers, he was going to his friend’s wedding, and the fact that he’s here and not there means-

Nothing. It means nothing. It doesn’t matter that he’s at his friend’s wedding, because he’s here, and everything is fine.

Scratch that. There’s a fourth notable thing: the anxiety that has plagued Chidi his entire life is gone. There’s nothing - no butterflies in his stomach, no sweaty palms, not even an anxious rant directed at the plants. He doesn’t even have anxiety about his lack of anxiety.

He doesn’t know where he is. And he’s not panicking. He has to take advantage of this, immediately.

He’s sitting there, trying to memorize how it feels to just be without freaking out, when the door to his right opens. A blonde woman pokes her head out and looks straight at him.

(He doesn’t even feel the need to apologize for his presence. What’s wrong with him?)

“Chidi?” she asks, smiling. Chidi nods. She jerks her thumb behind her. “Come on in.”

As he follows her, he notices several things: a portrait of a white man who looks like a stoner on the wall, a bowl of paper clips in the corner, and the sheer normalcy of the blonde woman now sitting at the other side of the desk, which seems very out of place in this strange, anxiety-less set of rooms. What is going on?

He sits down in the only other chair (thank god for small mercies - no choices needed). Then he adjusts his position. Then he does it again.

“You okay there, buddy?” asks the woman, looking like she’s trying not to smile. Chidi laughs, sort of nervously, and realizes that the anxiety is back. Oh, great.

“When I opened my eyes, I felt really- uh- calm,” he says, hearing his voice get higher without knowing how to stop it. “And there was only one chair, so I didn’t think about- I didn’t have to- well, now the anxiety’s back? I don’t know how to-”

He can feel himself spiraling, so he takes a deep breath, drying his hands on his pants, and starts at the beginning.

“Uh. Where am I?”

The woman smiles, settling her hands onto the table in front of her, very carefully. “You, Chidi, have died.”

“Oh,” says Chidi, feeling unsurprised. That’s weird. Everything here is weird. Why is everything here weird?

“You’re now in the afterlife,” she says, and then frowns. “In the Good Place, that is.” She smiles again, and shoots him a thumbs up. “You made it! Good job!”

Chidi doesn’t know what to say to that, so his brain turns to the nearest thing to comment on in order to avoid processing. “They speak French in the afterlife?”

She laughs quickly, and for the first time he notices that she seems sort of nervous. “No, no, this place automatically translates whatever someone says into a language you’re comfortable in. I’m speaking English now.”

“Oh,” he says, nodding. And then: “And- you are?”

“I’m Eleanor,” she says, and holds her hand out. “I’m the Architect here.” The capital letter is obvious. “Welcome to the Good Place, Chidi.”

“...Thank you,” he says, shaking her hand, sort of awkwardly, because it’s just a little too close for him to stretch out his arm but far enough that he can’t really keep his elbow close, either. “I have- uh- a lot of questions? First, uh-”

Eleanor holds up a finger. “I’m gonna have to stop you there, buddy. I have a few more residents to get ready for, so I’m going to introduce you to Janet, and you can ask her all of those questions. She can also give you a tour of the neighborhood.”

Chidi nods, slowly. The Architect seems very competent, and he always does well around people who are good at their jobs.  “Okay.” He stretches out the first syllable of the word and pats his thighs, the way he does when he’s starting to calm down, and that helps even more.

Eleanor smiles at him, seeming to understand that. “Great. Janet?”

A woman pops into existence right next to her. “Yes, Eleanor?”

“She- she just appeared,” says Chidi, tearing his eyes away from the woman in the purple dress. He’s not feeling relaxed anymore. In fact, he’s feeling dangerously close to having a full-out panic attack, and he doesn’t like that. “She just- appeared, out of nowhere? In plain sight? Is that even-”

“Remember, you’re in the afterlife, buddy?” asks Eleanor. For the first time, her calm demeanor is starting to really crack - her voice sounds panicked, and she reaches out a hand as if to touch his arm before pulling it back, quickly. “Chidi? Can you hear me?”

Chidi takes a deep breath, and then another one, and then chances a look at the strange, physics-defying woman. She smiles at him, calmly, and that helps. “Y- Yeah, I can hear you.”

“Good,” says Eleanor. “This is Janet. She’s not a resident, and she was never alive - she’s just here to answer any and all questions you have, about- Janet, what is your formal job description?”

“I am the source of all information and knowledge for humans within the Good Place,” says Janet, in a calm voice. Chidi’s shoulders relax. “I can also provide you with any object as requested.”

“Wow, your voice is really soothing,” says Chidi. Janet nods. “I am designed to be as helpful as possible to both the residents of this neighborhood and the Architect. To do that, I have a soothing voice and no real emotions, so I won’t judge you for whatever questions or requests you may have.”

“That’s- thank you,” says Chidi, and then he realizes he’s still leaning away from her, as if in self defense. He consciously moves back to the middle of his chair and smiles at her, apologetically. “Sorry, I’m still not- uh- over the whole appearing-disappearing thing. You just- show up? Out of nowhere?”

“Yep!” says Janet, smiling, but it’s smaller now. “Just say my name, and I’ll be there.” She glances at Eleanor, looking almost nervous - she must have simulated emotions, he realizes - and the Architect smiles at her, reassuring.

“Oh. Well. Thank you,” says Chidi.

“It’s my job,” says Janet, and takes a deep breath like she’s bracing herself for something. Which is weird, because he’d assume she doesn’t have to breathe. “Now, just for safety reasons, I have to do a little checkup on you.”

Before Chidi has time to consider what that might mean, she’s right next to him, and she’s asking questions faster than he can keep up.

“How are you feeling? Have you ever met anyone from Jacksonville? What’s the last thing you remember? Do you feel in any danger of spontaneously bursting into flames? Do you have a strong urge to drink almond milk? Does the name Shawn mean anything to you? What is the Time Knife? What-”

“Janet!” interrupts Eleanor. She mimes a cut it out gesture, looking worried. He doesn’t know why she’s bothering. He’s confused, but he’s not going to panic again over just some weird questions. “Tone it down, dude.”

“Sorry,” says Janet, and backs away, her face starting to crumple into tears. “I’m just so nervous about this experiment-”

“Janet!” says Eleanor, her voice getting more urgent. “Stop talking.” She turns back to Chidi, noticeably forcing a smile onto her face. “Why don’t you go explore the neighborhood, bud?”

He hesitates. It feels like something’s going wrong. Janet seems to be too emotionally volatile for someone with fake emotions. “Is everything okay?” asks Chidi, frowning. “Didn’t she say she doesn’t have emotions?”

“She doesn’t!” says Eleanor, louder than necessary. “I don’t know where you’re pulling this stuff out of, dude! Just- go explore the neighborhood - here’s a map, okay, bye!”

Chidi finds himself unceremoniously dumped back into the room that he woke up in. He spends a few seconds standing there, baffled, before noticing another door, opposite the one into Eleanor’s office.

Time to go exploring, I guess, he thinks, and tries not to think about his diagnosis of directional insanity. He glances back at the door, where he’s pretty sure he can hear raised voices belonging to both Eleanor and Janet. They sound upset, although he can’t imagine what about.

He can’t stop thinking about how weird Janet was just acting. If she’s only supposed to be pretending to have emotions, why was she pretending to have such weird ones?

And why is she yelling at Eleanor now? he thinks, and then shrugs. He’s in actual, literal heaven now. Maybe it’s time he started to accept that some things are out of his control.

Time to explore, he tells himself, and pushes open the door.

-

2. Tahani

Chidi has a tiny apartment in the middle of the neighborhood, and it’s kind of perfect. Which is weird, because determining a dream home involves a lot of choices that he knows he would never be able to make in a normal situation and-

He’s just grateful it seems to have showed up out of nowhere, with no conscious input from him. Eleanor really knows what she’s doing, and it’s comforting to have something nice for once without having to go through the anxiety beforehand.

Speaking of which: the usual anxiety seems to have calmed down. Significantly. It’s not absolutely gone, not the way it was when he woke up, but he’s able to make small choices with almost no freaking out. His theory is that since Janet created the whole neighborhood and everything in it, he doesn’t have to worry about repercussions like supporting the exploitation of workers in China or giving money to homophobic business owners.

He’s not sure, though - so he’d asked Janet what she thought the cause was, since she knows everything there is to know in the universe. But she apparently doesn’t know everything, because she’d stammered for a few seconds before saying that residents tend to keep their emotional state from their last few seconds and that he probably died perfectly at peace.

Which can’t be true. Chidi wasn’t at peace for a day in his life. Plus, he doesn’t even remember his death because traumatic memories hinder adjustment to the neighborhood. Eleanor had refused to go into any sort of detail, which only made him more sure that Janet’s theory was wrong.

He didn’t have to tell that to her, though. She’d winced as soon as she said it and changed the subject to meeting the other residents.

“I have a few that I think you’ll hit it off with,” she’d said, her voice sounding conspiratorial, before getting his permission to invite two people to his apartment: Jianyu, a Buddist monk who’s sticking with his vow of silence, and Tahani, a former British socialite who’s planning a welcome party in a few days. 

“I’d host it tonight, but we still have two residents who haven’t arrived yet,” says Tahani, her gracious smile never wavering. She had ducked under his doorway with the same ever-present grace, but Chidi had gotten the distinct feeling that she was holding back several comments about how small his apartment was. “Isn’t that right, Eleanor?”

For some reason, Eleanor had tagged along. Chidi’s chalking it up to making sure no one starts off on the wrong foot.

“Huh- oh, yeah,” says Eleanor, studying the pictures on Chidi’s walls. “Where were these taken?”

“In my home city, in Senegal,” says Chidi. It’s weird that she doesn’t know about his decorations, given that she designed the whole neighborhood, including this ideal apartment. “That’s me and my parents. Why?”

“Oh- just curious,” she says, glancing at him, and goes straight back to staring at the wall. Tahani swats Eleanor’s arm, quickly, as if in reproach, and then looks back at him, her smile intact. Jianyu keeps grinning at her side. The monk had spent the first five minutes poking Tahani until she’d whispered something very fast and angry-sounding about pizza and he’d calmed down. “Please disregard her rudeness. I’d love for you to come to the party. It will just be a small get together, but formal dress, please-”

“Yes,” says Chidi, feeling slightly awkward. “Of course.”

“I’m so glad to see you arrived safely,” she says. How does she talk through a smile that big? “We were really quite concerned - strange circumstances surrounding your death, you know.”

“I... don’t, actually,” he says, slowly. “No one will tell me how I died.” He stops. “Do you... know... how I died, Tahani?”

She looks at him for a second, somehow looking like a very wealthy deer caught in headlights, before she laughs awkwardly and waves her hand dismissively. “No, of course not! How silly of you to think so. No, I only assumed- since, after all, Eleanor was so- well, anyways, it doesn’t matter much. You will come to the party?”

“Yeah,” says Chidi. He hesitates, but he has a bad feeling about the way that she just dodged his question, and anyway, it’s heaven, the anxiety is still at a low boil, and if Chidi can’t be a little rude here, where can he?

He takes the leap before he overthinks it. “Any other reason why you’re all in my apartment?”

“No!” says Tahani, brightly. She doesn’t seem terribly offended, just artificial. “We’re leaving now. Come along, Jianyu,” she says, grabbing him by the elbow. As Chidi watches, Jianyu gives him a wide smile and then bows slowly, before Tahani drags him out.

Eleanor doesn’t move.

“Uh- Eleanor?” he says. She doesn’t react. “Eleanor?” He reaches forward to tap her on the shoulder, and she jumps about a foot into the air. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” she says, without turning around. Her voice sounds watery.

“Um. Eleanor. Do you... need anything?”

“What?”

“Tahani said there are still two residents who haven’t arrived yet,” he says. “Shouldn’t you be- I don’t know, preparing or something?”

“Right,” she says, turning around quickly. Her eyes are dry, which is slightly surprising for reasons he doesn’t understand. “Fork! You’re right. Oh, I gotta go,” she says, hurrying to the door. Right before she gets to it, though, she flips around to look at him. “Thanks for hosting us. I know Tahani can be a handful sometimes.”

“No- problem?” he says, curious despite himself, because it sounds like their Architect has known those two for much longer than a couple of hours. “How long have they been here?”

“Not long,” she says, and spins around just as quickly as she’d dodged his question. “Bye!”

Then she pulls the door open and disappears through before he can register what’s happening. It strikes him as odd, sure, but next to what just happened with Tahani - maybe not so strange.

I can’t believe I’m stuck with these weird people for the rest of time, Chidi thinks, and then, since there’s not much he can do about it, goes to see a man about some frozen yogurt.

-

3. Michael

“Ah, Chidi,” says Tahani, gliding over to him in a blue dress that could be described as a wedding cake, if a wedding cake could have an excellent sense of fashion and a British accent. “I’m so glad you could make it!”

“This place is huge,” he says in response. He’s kind of incapable of saying anything else. “I’m sorry, I’m just- your house is enormous.” It’s not that he’s jealous, it’s just that - he’s taught in lecture halls smaller than this foyer.

“Isn’t it just?” says Tahani, beaming. “Well, make yourself at home!” she says, patting his chest. And then she moves away, presumably to welcome someone else.

Easier said than done, he thinks, looking around. Tahani invited every resident to her welcome party, and it seems like all 322 of them have shown up. The decorations are exactly tasteful, all of the attire is appropriate, and the music is perfect. It reminds Chidi of one of the fundraising galas his university used to host, only actually appealing; he’d always hated them back then, but tonight, he wants to get to know the people he’s going to be spending eternity with. So he puts his best foot forward and walks in.

Except, pretty quickly, he gets stuck in a conversation with a woman named Helena, who seems perfectly nice but has been saying absolutely nothing for five minutes. Coincidentally, Chidi has been silently discarding his ideas of being social for four and a half minutes.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spots Eleanor and quickly makes his excuses, sending a silent thank you to- well, probably Janet, if anyone.

She jumps when he says hello from her left, and he sees that there’s an older white man on her right arm as she puts a hand on her chest and smiles at him.

“Sorry,” he says, smiling slightly. Don’t make me leave. “Didn’t realize you had a date.”

“Oh, no, it’s not like that,” says Eleanor, glancing at the man next to her, who looks like he’s just been handed a pin and a grenade, separately. “No, this is Michael. He’s- he’s my partner Architect. I’m the newbie and he’s the experienced one,” she says, laughing slightly. She nudges him. “Say hello to Chidi.” Her voice is gentle.

“Hello, Chidi,” says Michael, getting over himself enough to wave both of his (very large) hands awkwardly. “It’s very nice to meet you.” His smile seems strained.

He’s very tall, has glasses, and is wearing a grey suit with a black bow tie. The clear symptoms of anxiety he’s showing make him look very harmless. Chidi likes him instantly.

“I like your bowtie,” he says, trying to make conversation. Please don’t make me go back to Helena, he thinks, and immediately feels guilty.

“Thank you, Chidi. Although it is rather plain,” says Michael, and something in his voice eases the guilt. “But then again, we are mourning. Your deaths, that is!” His laugh is loud, but when neither Chidi nor Eleanor join him, it peters out quickly, before something else hits him and he raises his left hand like he’s a fictional lawyer about to present episode-changing evidence. “And it matches Eleanor’s dress, which itself perfectly illustrates the human concept of irony.”

Chidi glances at Eleanor’s completely black dress, which is sleeveless and has some sort of tie in front. He doesn’t recognize it at all. He also doesn’t get the joke, although Eleanor evidently does, because she hits Michael’s arm with the back of her hand, softly. “That’s not funny.”

“I guess not,” he says, his gaze settling on Chidi. They stand in silence for a minute, awkwardly, until Chidi manages to think of something to ask him. “How did you and Eleanor-”

Michael looks away from him, his gaze falling on something over Chidi’s shoulder. “Oh look, Janet needs our help!”

With that, he clamps his hand over Eleanor’s shoulder and rushes her away. Chidi turns, but can’t see any hint of their resident Google.

Consciously, he shrugs it off and looks away. His feelings aren’t especially hurt - if Michael needs to take a breather, Chidi understands more than most. 

Anyway, even though he doesn’t know who the last two residents are, he feels like he should welcome them, and hopefully save them from any extended encounters with the very odd people who live here.

Maybe they’ll even be slightly interesting, he thinks, and that’s what finally gets him to square his shoulders and start to search.

-

4. Jianyu

A few hours later, Chidi’s taking a break from wandering around the party. Everyone here is really nice, but rather boring, or as in the case of the two new residents, sort of annoying, and he has a bad feeling that the majority of intellectuals didn’t actually manage to make the cut into the Good Place.

He leans against the wall, thinking about asking Janet about where Kant ended up, and hears voices - Eleanor and Tahani’s, to be specific. They’re standing outside, he supposes, and this wall just happens to be thin enough that he can hear what they’re talking about.

“Eleanor!” says Tahani. She sounds exasperated. Chidi’s never heard her show so much genuine emotion, and it’s surprising enough that he leans closer. Against his better judgement.

“What, Tahani? What do you have to say to me?” hisses Eleanor. “How can you possibly understand-”

“You can’t keep doing this to yourself!” Tahani interrupts, sounding imperfect and unsmiling and worried. “You can’t, darling. You can’t keep watching that godforsaken video from Michael every day-”

“I do what I want-”

“You’re torturing yourself-”

“Well then, I fit in just right, don’t I?” says Eleanor, her voice low, and even Chidi knows that sentence was meant to wound. “Look, you need to get the fork out of my life and let me take care of myself, ashhole. Capiche?”

There’s a moment or two of silence that certainly sounds very stunned.

“I’m your friend, Eleanor,” Tahani says eventually, her voice quiet. “I’m your friend, and even if I may not understand, I’m here for you. That’s how this works, right? How we become better?”

Eleanor doesn’t say anything.

“It’s what we owe to each other, even if we’re all hurting,” says Tahani. The words sound vaguely familiar and he’s not sure why. “You know that.”

Chidi hears nothing, and then sniffling, and then something that sounds like Eleanor swatting Tahani’s shoulder. “You’re such a bench.”

“You know I’m right,” Tahani says. Her British accent makes it sound arrogant, even though he figures she meant it teasingly.

How long has she been here, anyways? Because it sounds like they’re really close.

“Yeah,” says Eleanor, and her voice gets quieter. “I guess I do.”

There’s a long period of silence. Chidi’s leaning closer, trying to determine if they’re just whispering, when someone taps him on the shoulder.

“I’m not eave-” starts Chidi, whipping around, but it’s just Jianyu the monk, smiling at him very wide. He’d thought he’d heard something about a vow of silence, but apparently that wasn’t true, because Jianyu waves and says, “Hey, dude!”

“Hi,” says Chidi, hesitantly. Something about this guy strikes him as weird. “Look, this isn’t-”

“How do you like the pizza?” asks Jianyu. “I asked for Tahani to get it so you could have some.”

“It’s... good,” says Chidi, feeling very lost. “Uh- why?”

“I wasn’t sure you’d remember pizza,” says Jianyu, as if it’s obvious. “Because you don’t remember anything else. Like how you think my name’s Jianyu-”

“Jianyu! Hey, buddy,” says Eleanor, from behind him. Chidi jumps - he hadn’t even heard her coming. “Remember what we’ve talked about? About Chidi and the other residents? We don’t-”

“We don’t talk about the Judge, or Mindy, or Derek,” says Jianyu, making a face. Then he brightens. “Or about me and my girl J-”

“That’s good enough,” interrupts Eleanor. “Thank you, Jianyu, you can go mingle now.”

Jianyu doesn’t move. “This reminds me of that time when we were planning this surprise party for my friend Pillb-”

“Pilibuster,” interrupts Eleanor, reaching out and grabbing Jianyu’s upper arm, glancing back at Chidi. “It’s Irish. He was the foreign asphyxiate at Jianyu’s monastery.” She turns her eyes up towards the ceiling. “Janet, please help me out here.”

“Did you mean novitiate?” asks Chidi, but Eleanor ignores him in favor of Janet, who’s just appeared.

“What do you need, Eleanor?” she asks. Eleanor sighs, her shoulders barely relaxing. “Can you take Jianyu home, please? I think he’s had enough excitement for tonight.”

There’s a pause. Chidi almost says something, like Are you okay, Janet?, but she starts to speak.

“Sure thing,” says Janet, nodding more than seems necessary. “No problem. I can take Jianyu to his house. The house that I know the location of. Which I only know the location of because I am omnipotent, and know everything. No other reason.”

“Janet.”

“We’re leaving now,” says Janet, turning around quickly. “Goodnight, Chidi.”

Jianyu waves over his shoulder as he’s marched away, with much more enthusiasm than Chidi thinks the action really deserves. He watches them go, feeling totally baffled. “What just happened?”

Eleanor sighs. “Trust me, bud, you don’t want to know.”

-

5. Eleanor

“This is your house?” asks Chidi, walking inside. It’s his third month in the neighborhood, and this is the first time he’s ever visited Eleanor’s house. “This is your house?”

Eleanor makes her way to the kitchen, starting to put dishes away. “Yeah, I know.”

“You- but- you hate clowns!”

“Yeah,” says Eleanor, absent-mindedly. “It’s sort of an- an inside joke.”

“You live in an inside joke?”

“It’s- it’s really not a big deal, bud- Chidi.”

Chidi looks up from his examination of the corner of clown portraits, because Eleanor doesn’t stutter often. Sure enough, she’s stopped what she’s doing, the way that she always does when she stutters or hesitates or looks at him like he’s not who she’s expecting to be there.

“It’s- it’s a nice house,” he says, lamely, because he never knows what to do in these situations. He’s not even sure why he’s here - she’d asked him over yesterday, with zero explanation. He’s hoping it’s not because he’s teaching ethics to someone who definitely doesn’t belong in her perfect heavenly neighborhood.

“Thanks,” she says eventually, emerging from wherever she was. “If you don’t know what to say, I get the feeling. Michael designed it, and I don’t know what the fork he was thinking-”

“I’ve been meaning to ask you,” he interrupts. “Why do you keep saying fork?”

“Oh,” she says, looking down and blushing. Her smile is very pretty, although Chidi tend to try not to notice it, most of the time. “In the Good Place, not everyone appreciates cursing, so there’s sort of an automatic filter. I can’t say anything worse than hell. Fork. Bench. Ash. Shirt. And so on.”

“Makes sense,” he says, before realizing something that doesn’t. “You curse a lot for someone from a place that doesn’t approve of cursing.” If she’s an angel or whatever, shouldn’t she be as pure as the rest of them?

“What?” she asks, confused, looking up again. “Plenty of people- Oh, right. Yeah. I’m-” she  stops, hesitating. “I’m not supposed to tell you this, but I’m not actually from here. I was human.”

“What?” he asks, frowning. He wasn’t expecting that. “How does- how does that work?”

“Well, I died, and through a really forking long series of events I became an architect,” she says, not really explaining anything. She does that a lot. “Michael sort of took me in. He’s not the main architect because- well- technically, they have to interact with the residents, and he’s not really- uh- good with people. So I got the short straw. And I’m trying my best! But I wasn’t really meant for this job.”

“Ah,” says Chidi. The anxiety in his chest is starting to get worse, and he has a bad feeling that a stomach ache’s on the way. He’s not up for this kind of constant lying. Eleanor’s done such a great job on this neighborhood (besides the obvious mistake), and he knows that things are harder than she likes to show. He doesn’t like lying to her about her life’s (actually, apparently, her death’s) work.

“You good, buddy?” asks Eleanor, probably noticing his expression. She’s finished with her dishes and is wiping her hands on a dishtowel. “What’s wrong?” She rounds the island and puts her hands on his shoulders, trying to help him sit.

“It’s just a stomach ache,” he says, silently apologizing to Kant as she gets him settled. Lying is immoral, he thinks, and then, Getting them caught would be worse. “I get those sometimes. It’s not a big deal.”

Eleanor stops and pulls back to look him in the eye. “You sure? You can’t lie to me, buster.”

“Yes!” says Chidi, louder than he was expecting, and then tries to backtrack. “I mean. Yeah. I’m fine. There’s nothing causing it, I don’t know why it’s suddenly coming on.” He looks up to smile at Eleanor and finds her looking up as her eyes unfocus, her brain a million miles away again.

“Uh- Eleanor?” he says, waving his hand slightly in front of her face. “You in there? It’s me, Chidi.”

She doesn’t react for a couple seconds, before suddenly starting to move again. “Yeah, I know,” she says suddenly, blinking rapidly as she backs away. “I know it’s you.”

He doesn’t say anything, because she’s looking at him like she doesn’t quite recognize him and he doesn’t want to make it worse. This odd behavior is getting more and more common, as time goes by, and he has no clue how he’s supposed to react. After a short while of silence, though, she seems to back down, sighing as her shoulders relax. “I’m sorry,” she says.

“It’s okay,” Chidi says, and is surprised to find that he means it. “Uh- so- what am I doing here, exactly?”

Eleanor stops, looking at him.

“I mean-” he says. “It’s not that I don’t want to spend time with you.” He curses himself, inwardly - she’s The Architect and you’re a dead moral philosophy professor and you’re lying to her about who’s not supposed to be here and-

“I know what you mean,” says Eleanor, giving him a small smile. “It’s not a big issue, really. I just wanted to apologize for all of the weird stuff that’s been happening.”

“You mean-?”

“The sinkhole, the giraffe stampede, that time that trash started falling out of the sky...” she says, counting them on her fingers. “I could go on. But I know you don’t deal well with uncertainty, and I know it’s been kind of- weird, here. So I’m sorry about that.”

“It’s okay,” says Chidi. “I know you’re doing your best, and this is your first neighborhood.”

“Yeah,” says Eleanor, looking at him like they’re friends. “No kidding. And- I know-” 

And now she looks nervous.

“I know some people here have been acting weird around you, too.”

“That- that is a thing that’s been happening, yes,” says Chidi. “But that’s not your fault-”

“I know,” she interrupts, studying his face. “But I’m still sorry. I’ve been talking with them about it, and trust me, it’s not about you. Tahani’s been having some trouble with John- I don’t know if you’ve noticed-”

“I hadn’t, actually, but that’s reassuring,” says Chidi, smiling at her. She smiles back. “Anyway, I’ve spoken with everyone - including Janet - and things should be a little more normal, now. At least, as normal as things can be, in the afterlife.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Thank you.”

“No problem,” she says. “And- Chidi?”

“Yeah?”

She looks away from him. “I really am sorry.”

He’s lost. He hates feeling lost, but it seems to keep happening here. “About what?”

Eleanor sighs. “About everything.”

He stares at her, and she looks away, throwing her hands up. “Don’t look at me like that, dude! I’m doing my best here.”

“I don’t know what any of this means, Eleanor.”

“I know,” she says. “It’s okay. Things’ll make sense soon. Just a few more months.”

“...Eleanor, what does that mean?” She doesn’t say anything. “Eleanor, I don’t know what that means.”

She takes a deep breath. “I know.”

“Eleanor,” he says, hesitating - except that the answer to this question seems like it’ll solve every mysterious thing that’s happened to him, in the months that he’s been here. “Why is everyone being so weird?”

“It doesn’t matter,” she says, quietly, and then she smiles gently, like someone who’s about to beat you in a poker game and is waiting for you to spot the final clue. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

He glances at the clock and jumps. It’s five minutes until the ethics lesson Chidi holds in his apartment, and it takes him six to walk there.

“Yes! Sorry, Eleanor, I have to go-”

And he stops.

Does she know about the ethics lessons?

What else could she be talking about?

Chidi studies her face, quickly. She’s looking at him calmly, but there’s no way she can know about the lessons. Even if she is the Architect, and she knows everything that happens in the neighborhood.

Or, well. Hopefully not.

(And it’s not like he can do anything, if she does know. Best to try not to worry about it.)

“I have a- frozen yogurt date,” he says, slowly. “That’s where I have to go now.”

“Right,” says Eleanor, nodding and shaking her head at the same time. “Yes. Absolutely.”

“So I’ll be- going now,” he says. “To the frozen yogurt place.”

“Yep,” says Eleanor, and then she shoots him a thumbs up, smiling like they’re keeping a secret. “Go get ‘em, tiger.”

“Thanks,” he says, walking out and closing the door behind him. He stops, taking a deep breath. If she knows, she knows, and at least the conversation they just had makes some measure of sense. And if she doesn’t?

It’s just more proof that everyone here is completely insane.

[helshades]

Howdy! Are all Europeans speaking really crappy Latin today? Might English speakers today be speaking really crappy German? 🙂

Depends on how you’d define ‘crappy’, of course. English today contains a solid third of (Middle) French, from when a certain bastard Duke of Normandy got a tad antsy and decided to cross the Channel. It also derives from Latin directly, as a matter of fact, albeit in a much smaller capacity. The rest, of course, is of Germanic origin, via Old English, which derived from Anglo-Saxon dialects...

French itself is the most Germanic of all Romance (Latin-based) languages; first, its very name hails from the name of the Frankish tribes that crossed the Rhine river after the fall of the Western Roman Empire (476 A.D.) and invaded and colonised Western Europe. French’s Germanic substrate is around 17%, which is a ginormous lot. Basically, modern French is Latin plus a sizeable amount of ‘Germanic’ after being spoken by people whose first languages were continental Celtic dialects.

But let me rewind that a bit.

A schematic map of the expansion of Indo-European languages according to the Kurgan model, or steppe theory, which is the (prudently) conventional hypothesis on the way languages evolved in Europe from a mother-language referred to as ‘Proto-Indo-European’, which would have been spoken by people living in the Pontic-Caspian steppe near the end of the Stone Age era (around 6,000 B.C.), who spread across Eurasia, creating peoples who spoke various languages issued from the same origin.

Generally, the Indo-European languages are divided into 8 branches:

Albanian

Armenian

Balto-Slavic

Celtic (Gallic, Breton, Welsh, Irish, etc.)

Germanic (> German, Frankish, Old English)

Hellenic (> Greek)

Indo-Iranian/Aryan

Italic (> Latin > Romanic languages > Italian, French, Spanish...)

In addition to these eight, two have been long extinct: the Anatolian & Tokharian branches; and then you’ve got a few languages linguists aren’t sure how to place (yet?) since they’re only attested in a fragmented capacity, like Phrygian and Illyrian dialects, for instance.

One of the fundamental oppositions between the Western-Central branches and the rest is the way they form the word for ‘hundred’: this permits to distinguish between the satem languages (eastern & south-eastern: Albanian, Anatolian, Armenian, Balto-Slavic & Indo-Iranian languages) and the centum languages (Celtic, Germanic, Hellenic, Italic & Tokharian languages—the latter being the only centum language spoken in Central Asia). Note that Germanic (centum) and Balto-Slavic (satem) languages both hold distinctive syntactic traits setting them apart from all other Indo-European languages. And yes, hundred actually is a form of centum.

I won’t go into more details as it’s best to keep things simple here, and as you can see I only listed the branches alphabetically. Bolded above are the Western branches, not out of chauvinism, I hope you’ll understand, but as I intend to focus on languages issued from Latin.

(Actually readable version here)

Now, this is a map showing the repartition of Latin-based languages across Europe, also known as the ‘Romance languages’ (sometimes even as ‘Neo-Latin languages’). The term ‘romance’ derives from the Late Latin adverb romanice, literally ‘in Roman’, referring to the vernacular (popular, non-written) language, as opposed to the literary language, referred to as Latin, spoken by the elite and the clergy, and which was more conservative because it had a written form and fixed grammar rules. The Romance languages descend from Vulgar/popular Latin, as spoken by the inhabitants of the Western Roman Empire, and which evolved into distinct languages after centuries of foreign invasions as well as relative geographical and political isolation.

Timeline of Latin:

6th–4th centuries B.C., the Archaic period (’Proto-Latin’), from which several inscriptions, fragments of the oldest laws and from sacral anthems were preserved.

3rd–2nd c. B.C., the Pre-Classical period. The literary Latin language (the comedies of Plautus and Terence, the agricultural treatise of Cato the Elder, fragments of works by a number of other authors) was based on the dialect of Rome.

1st c. B.C.–1st c. A.D., Classical Latin. The development of vocabulary, the development of terminology, the elimination of old morphological doublets, the flowering of literature: Cicero, Caesar, Sallust, Virgil, Horace, Ovid) was particularly distinguished. In the late period, the phonetic, morphological and spelling norms were finally formed.

As the Roman Republic (509–27 B.C.) extended its political dominion over the whole of the Italian peninsula, Latin became dominant over the other Italic languages, which ceased to be spoken perhaps sometime in the 1st century A.D.—Latin was originally used (from the 8th century B.C.) by the tribe of the Latins, who inhabited Latium, the region around Rome, in west-central Italy; it belonged to the Western Italic subgroup (the Latino-Faliscan languages), which was rather diminutive, but no other Italic idiom survived Rome’s expansion.The Romanisation of the Italian Peninsula was basically complete by the 1st century B.C.; except for the south of Italy and Sicily, where the dominance of Greek was preserved.

Rome’s massive territorial expansion ensured Latin of a vast diffusion, larger and larger still after the 3rd century A.D., when it was the Roman Empire’s official language, used in all administration (legal, civil, military) spreading in most of Western Euope, North Africa, Middle Asia and the Danubian regions, where it cohabited with local dialects as well as Greek, the former ‘universal’ language. Some even speak of this period as Imperial Latin (1st–5th centuries A.D.)

2nd–6th c., Late Latin. a period mostly characterised by a gap between written and folk-spoken language: the regional differentiation of popular Latin(s) was accelerated, the formation of Romance languages, finally separated by the 9th century, began on its basis; meanwhile, written Latin continued to be used for a long time in the administrative sphere, religion, diplomacy, trade, school, medicine, science and literature.

9th–14th c., Mediaeval Latin. One may argue that Ecclesiastic Latin began in the 4th century with the writings of the ‘Fathers of the Church’, but from a linguistic standpoint I’d rather focus on the great reform of Latin that took place in 800, which aimed to ‘reclassicalise’ Latin—the language of the learnèd elite—to distinguish it from popular dialects. It was also the Church’s only language for a long while, and the one that was spoken in universities (the first of which were created in the 12th century).

The first mention we’ve ever found of Romance languages distinct from Latin dates back to the 813 Council of Tours, during which it was officially decided that decided that priests in Charlemagne’s Holy Roman Empire should preach their sermons to the ordinary folk in a ‘rustic romance language’ (rusticam romanam linguam) or in ‘Tudisc’ (Theodiscam, commonly referring in the Middle Ages to Germanic dialects), which only they could understand.

The first ever complete text written in a Romance dialect dates back to 842, when two of Charlemagne’s grandsons, half-brothers Louis II the German (king of Bavaria) and Charles II the Bald (king of Aquitaine), met in Strasbourg to make a pledge of mutual allegiance against their older half-brother Lothair I (king of Italy), whose supreme authority they refused to recognise (wanting their fair share of their father’s heritage, rather than leaving the whole empire to their eldest). Both allied kings came to the meeting at the head of an army: Louis of Bavaria commanded men who spoke in Germanic (Frankish) dialects, whereas the soldiers of Charles of Aquitaine spoke in a ‘Gallo-Romance’ idiom, still very close to Latin, but unmistakably distinct from it. And each in his turn, the kings and their armies swore their oaths in the others’ language, Charles in a Rhine Franconian dialect, and Louis/Ludwig in this Romance dialect that announced French and the northern langues d’oïl.

200–400 A.D., Vulgar Latin is spoken everywhere around the Roman Empire, with many regional variants;

500–600: the variants are beginning to sound more or less different;

early 800s: ordinary people have become largely unable to understand Latin the way it is written, which is the way it used to be spoken;

842: first sizeable evidence of a distinct Romance language, written down by a clerk who provides a Latin translation of the text.

Romance languages are characterised by the following common traits:

their lexicon, mostly stemming from late Vulgar Latin;

a massive reshaping of Latin’s vowel system;

great changes to the way certain consonants are articulated (palatalisation)

the complete eradication of the neutral grammatical gender (with the exception of Rumanian)

a massive reorganisation of the verbal system, through the suppression of the Latin future tense, replaced by a periphrastic future formed with verb ‘to have’; the development of a conditional mode; the development of auxiliary verbs...

the development of articles, which didn’t exist in Latin.

The first to propose a classification system for the Romance languages was Florentine poet Dante Alighieri (of Divine Comedy fame) in the 13th century. He divided them into three subgroups: the oïl languages; the oc languages; and the sì languages (which he separates from the Germanic jo languages, about which he unfortunately no further details), based on the word the idioms within these three subgroups use to say ‘yes’.

oïl languages: Old French (from Gallo-Roman o-il (‘this one’), from Latin pronouns hoc (‘this’) & ille (‘that’)

oc languages: Occitan & Catalan

sì languages: Italian dialects (from Latin sic, ‘as such’, ‘so’)

Dante’s main idea was to replace Latin as a literary language with one of these three ‘languages’ (to him, each ensemble of dialects was a single idiom, but to modern linguists, they are not). In the Middle Ages, oïl was the language used traditionally to write epics, while what Dante referred to as lingua d’oco was the language of the troubadours, lyrical poets of Occitania. As for sì languages, well, in the end Dante famously opted, for the composition of the illustrious Divine Comedy, for a local Florentine Toscan dialect—and the success of the poem was such that it was the act of foundation of modern Italian.

Parallel evolution of southwestern European languages, 1000–2000 A.D.:

Classification of the Romance languages:

Ibero-Romance: Portuguese, Galician, Mirandese, Asturian, Leonese, Spanish (Castilian), Aragonese, Ladino (Judaeo-Spanish);

Occitano-Romance: Catalan/Valencian, Occitan (langue d'oc), Gascon;

Gallo-Romance: French/Oïl languages, Franco-Provençal (Arpitan);

Rhaeto-Romance: Romansh, Ladin, Friulian;

Gallo-Italic: Piedmontese, Ligurian, Lombard, Emilian-Romagnol;

Italo-Dalmatian: Italian, Tuscan and Corsican, Sassarese, Sicilian, Neapolitan, Dalmatian (extinct in 1898), Venetian, Istriot;

Sardinian;

Eastern Romance: Romanian (standard known as Daco-Romanian), Istro-Romanian, Aromanian, Megleno-Romanian.

Mutual intelligibility in Europe:

Details and a bigger map here.

——————————————————————————

Still alive? Well, allow me to remedy that to pursue.

Roman territories during the 1st century B.C. civil war, after the conquest of the Gauls. Larger map here.

The Roman Empire at its greatest extent. Larger map here.

Following the death of emperor Theodosius I the Great in 395, the Empire was divided into the Western Roman Empire, whose capital was Rome, and the Eastern Roman Empire, or Byzantine Empire, whose capital was Constantinople (once named Byzantium, and which used to be a Greek colony). In those times, Rome had long ceased to be the political capital of the Roman Empire anyway, officially replaced with Constantinople by the action of Constantine I the Great in 330—who also was the first emperor to convert to Christianity, albeit on his deathbed (yet his influence was decisive for the rise of Christian faith across Europe). The Byzantine Empire eventually fell in 1453 when Constantinople was conquered by the powerful Ottoman Empire.

‘Barbarian’ Invasions of the Roman Empire:

As you see, we’re circling back to what I was saying earlier concerning the emergence of the Romance and Germanic languages; and seeing all these maps, you’ll easily understand how, at the same time, very distinct languages came into being, and how mutual influences could happen. You’ll also see why French ended up being so influenced by Germanic languages, especially in its pronunciation, even though the lexicon remained largely Latin-based. I’ll come back in details to the evolution of French itself from Latin, as I’ve got a previous Ask on the topic which I really must answer, but in the meantime, I can make a few other remarks concerning the linguistic influences at play in Western Europe, because so far I’ve conscientiously avoided the subject of Celtic languages, haven’t I.

Rome all but annihilated Celtic cultures, although this wasn’t necessarily regarded by the Celts themselves as a loss; there was no sense of a ‘Celtic nation’ and continental Celts were organised in tribes with pretty distinct systems of government, some of them collaborating freely with Rome long before Caesar’s conquest of the Gauls. Latin was the Empire’s official language, in a sense playing the role that English plays today, but it also was the language of Roman law and administration, meaning that if a person wanted to have a political career within the Empire, he must follow a certain number of steps which led to near-complete acculturation. Gaulish elites assimilated with fair ease, like the rest of the world. They all spoke Latin. On the other hand, ordinary folk, even though they ended up speaking Latin as well, spoke much less ‘pure’ variants, heavily accentuated, mixed with words borrowed from their ancestral idioms. A very similar thing occurred later on after the Frankish conquest of the former Western Roman territories.

Entertainingly enough for the amateur linguist, if the Celtic influences are practically absent from the French language, many French patois and, of course, toponomy, carry transparent traces of the Gaulish peopling. A number of surnames even bear that heritage, usually because they were given to people in the Middle Ages after places where they family dwelt. 

(And speaking of patois, French people over 80 had to be taught French in school like a foreign language. Nowadays many local dialects have gone extinct for lack of practice but mid-20th century, regional languages were still very much alive, overall. Although it should be noted that Occitan has been revived in the recent decades, and seems to be thriving... [Breton and Corsican are outliers, definitely.] In any case, the French situation isn’t necessarily universal. In Italy, for instance, regional dialects are still frequently spoken.)

—————————————————————————

As a temporary conclusion... I reckon we could say that the Latin peoples of Europe are speaking super-crappy Latin with a heavy Gaulish redneck accent, mixed with slurry Rhenan. English speakers are really speaking very crappy French.

[hisgirlwonder]

One Shot - Undeniable

Length: 4.3k words Warning: Smut, smut, smut and a little humiliation so don’t read if you don’t like either :’) Synopsis: With the breakdown of his relationship, Michael realises you and him are endgame. You think you’re the only one who is struggling but you come to learn this isn’t true. He falters under the pressure and gives in, unable to keep himself away from you any longer. Notes: Trying to write this was pretty hard. I think it’s because of the undertones of Y/N and Michael having feelings for each other and I’m struggling a little atm. Sentences in Italics are thoughts that Y/N has. I drew inspiration from a video I saw, wanting to put my own twist on it. (Sorryyyyy if this is awful because like I said I struggled.)

Michael is sat on his toilet, pretending to go to the bathroom but he’s sending you a message. He needs to see you. He doesn’t give an explanation, just to come over now. He knew you wouldn’t be doing anything and he also knew you’d jump no questions asked.

“What am I doing?” You say to yourself.

Nostalgia hits hard as your eyes peruse over your surroundings which is quickly switched to a feeling of foolishness to even entertain the idea of diving headfirst back into the pool of memories that you were once drowning in. Common sense was outweighed by your longing for him, your Michael. The one who pulled you in like you were the moth and he was the flame.

You feel a vibration coming from inside your jacket pocket and dive your hand in to retrieve your phone, digging amongst the tangled headphones and other random bits you’d collected. It was Michael telling you how excited he was for tonight and, like a lovesick puppy, you jump straight into sending a response without taking even a moment to breathe. You’re halfway through replying when your concentration is broken; interrupted by the sound of a door slamming and someone yelling.

Naturally, it catches you off guard causing you to jump at the sudden outburst of noise. As you look up to inspect where the commotion is coming from, you see a woman leaving Michael’s apartment and headed in your general direction. She storms past and out the front door, without even so much as a break in her eye contact.

Shaking off the interference, you discard the half-written message before putting your phone away and begin to gingerly walk towards your destination. Every limb attached to your body is trembling and your knees feel as if they want to give way.

It’s only Michael. He messaged you, remember? You have the upper hand.

*

You arrive at the door of apartment number five – this always amused you because five was your lucky number and it became a personal joke between the two of you as if Michael was a good luck charm. You bring your knuckles upwards to rest them on the wood, feeling the need to give yourself a pep talk.

You’re Y/N. You’re a strong, independent woman, who doesn’t need a man. Sure, he’s your kryptonite but he’s still that; a man.

-

There it is. Your favourite smile on your favourite face. The only face you subconsciously look for in a crowd. There are his lips, those perfect lips, slightly ajar with the grin at your arrival. You’re trying not to stare at the hand holding the door open but your mind has other plans; a forced visualisation of the past, with that same hand pressed around your throat.

“There you are,” he says, like you’re his child and he’s found you in a game of hide and seek.

“Here I am,” you remark, ducking under his arm and headed into the living room.

*

You undo your jacket nervously before you shrug it off and throw it over the chair closest to you.  “So who was that leaving your apartment? Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, Michael Langdon.”

“Nobody that important. One moment we were dating and now we’re not,” he answers in a nonchalant tone as he’s closing the door. He cuts the conversation to something else, admitting he’s surprised you said yes after all this time but pleased nevertheless.

“Since when have I ever had a choice when it comes to you?” You remind him as you’re simpering.

Your eyes lock onto his and you could swear the temperature rose by ten degrees in that moment.  There’s a brief pause before Michael can’t resist any longer; his hands grab at you and his mouth is all over your neck like a rash. In between heavy breaths over your skin he confesses, “You’re so fucking hot. I swear you’ve gotten hotter since we last saw each other.”

“Michael,” you hit against his chest, “How about you make me a drink and we get reacquainted first?”

Embarrassed, his face falls into his hands and he tries to speak, tone muffled as the sound is trying to break through the cracks between his fingers, “Oh my god, I’m so sorry. Old habits die hard.” He runs them down his face, positioning them on his cheeks and looking up at you. “Vodka and orange?”

You smiled, “You remembered?”

He winks, “Of course I did, I’ll be right back.”

-

You scan the living room and take it all in, soaking up the ambience. If you said you didn’t miss this you’d be lying because not only did you miss Michael but you missed everything he stood for; his love of art, his adoration of music, his appreciation of good food and alcohol. Even the smell of his old books held a place in your heart. Many Sunday mornings were spent sitting on his lap in one of his shirts, sipping French coffee, and the two of you would take turns reading to the other.

Never one to shy away from your own curiousity, you pore through the framed photos on a shelf of the bookcase in the corner of the room. Your eyes and hands both gravitate towards one in particular – it’s a photograph of him and the woman who just left his apartment. You yell out to Michael, “Why the breakup?”

You assumed he was still in the kitchen and didn’t hear what you said but it turns out he’d snuck up behind you as he popped out of nowhere with the drinks in hand, holding one out for you to grab.  “Our aspirations in life were different. She wanted to have children and, well, I..”

A hand of yours takes the glass as you thank him kindly and take the first sip. The taste brings you back to the first time you tried one of these – It was a week or two after you started seeing each other and Michael asked if you wanted a screwdriver but of course you didn’t know what this meant so you stupidly asked what tools had to do with anything. You remember the twinkle in his eye when he stroked your face and told you that you were precious preceding a low laugh erupting and an explanation.

Before he can get the rest of his sentence out you finish it instead, “You wanted other things? To experience life?”

Michael salutes you, admitting you know him too well. You proudly agree with what he’s saying and asking how you could ever forget.

Your eyes flick to the photograph in question and you request to turn it around because you didn’t want to feel the eyes of the person he’d been fucking upon the two of you. He laughs at your bluntness and reminds you that you don’t need to ask and you’re a big girl who allowed to do whatever they want.

Your legs are still a little restless so you sit on his couch and he follows suit, sitting on his favourite chair. Your feet tap against the wooden floor and Michael notices you’re uneasy, asking, “Is something wrong?”

The thoughts, the ones you’ve held down for months, have started to emerge and are fighting their way up from the pit of your belly. You’d kept them at bay but this night was bringing everything, good and bad, up to the surface. You throw back the last of your drink for Dutch courage and blurt it out. “Michael Langdon, why did you call things off?”

Michaels pupils are locked on the glass in his grip – hand moves in circles and the fluid inside is swirling around. He consumes the rest of his drink then places now empty glass beside yours.

“I guess I wanted more than what we had going on. Something more sustainable, something more solid. That’s when I got together with her, fairly soon after we stopped seeing each other. Probably too soon. The whole dynamic between her and I ended up becoming like oil and water.”

Michael pauses the confession and he digs his front teeth into his bottom lip in mild discomfort. This was the first time you two had really spoken in what felt like forever. “I realised that I needed someone who complimented me.”

“And that’s when you tried to shoot your shot with me?”

His sight is stuck on you and he’s smirking, “You always were one for being straight to the point, weren’t you?”

“There’s no need for bullshit when you can just get right to the point.”

“Look, is it wrong of me to say I wanted the company of someone who was the opposite of her? And before you ask, I haven’t told you her name because I don’t want you associating it with a bad memory. This night is about us and not me and my ex-girlfriend, can we please talk about something else?

It dawns on you that he’d never said “we” or “us” with anyone else he’d ever been with besides you. You smile to yourself at the realisation and switch topics. “Sure. How about you? What have you been doing, besides sticking your dick in crazy?”

Michael welcomes the change in topic, his tone becoming more confident and proud as he speaks, “Well, I transitioned from my last job into my own business. It wasn’t easy but I did it. It’s a robotics company and we develop all sorts of things.”

“Sex robots included, Mr Langdon?” You tease, wanting to push him to breaking point. If Michael hadn’t finished his drink before now he’d probably be choking on it at what you just asked.

He half smiles and explains, “Actually, yeah we do. We create all sorts of things but the market has been unreal for sex robots. They’re so lifelike; it almost makes human contact obsolete.”

The teasing continues but this time it’s more obvious, “Oh please, Michael Langdon, you know a robot can’t compare to the warmth of someone else.” The inhibitions you possessed as you first walked through the door are fading away fast from the pairing of alcohol on an empty stomach and the intense cravings flowing through you. Him talking about sex robots (which you only mentioned as a joke) led to your mind being flooded with images of Michael fucking one and it left you feeling weak, fire beginning to burn between your legs, and you’re unable to resist any longer.

You think fuck it and rest your hand on his thigh, stroking slowly as you remind him, “We all need to touch another human being from time to time and anyone who says otherwise is lying.”

Michael is staying quiet but his face says it all. His cheeks become tinged with a pinkish hue and his Adam’s apple quivering as he gulps down a mouthful of the sexual tension in the room.

In that moment it’s like it’s the first time all over again; not just with you but with any girl. His fingers, his hands, his whole body is screaming to feel you again. His usual boldness is replaced with meekness, and he’s holding back and waiting for something, anything, to happen. He’s praying it comes soon because he’s dying inside being in the same room as you as not being able to do anything but burn holes into your flesh from his stares.

And it does.

*

Role play was a big part for the pair of you – you both loved experimenting, getting out of your comfort zone, being really fucking dirty and disgusting. You thought why not and followed with your gut, wanting to see if he still had it in him.

“Anyway, besides sex robots and exes, do you like my dress?” You lift the fabric of your sundress off of your thigh to expose your legs while trying to make it seem like you gave a shit about his opinion on what you were wearing right that second.

Michael moves to sit beside you and it seems he’s gained his confidence back as his fingers are now pushing the hair off your shoulder and he’s running his nose up over your cheek while purring in delight, “It’s a very pretty dress for a very pretty girl.”

Your voice softens, becoming more delicate, and you begin to play with him. “I bought it especially for this occasion, actually. You don’t think it’s too short? Too slutty?”

Between kisses across your jawline, he tells you not at all. You ask if it was even a little bit naughty and he shrugs, telling you he’s not really sure. The only thing he cared about in that moment was the dress off your body and on his bedroom floor. Your voice transforms into that of a defiant child. “Well, I do. I don’t think I should be allowed to go out.”

An invisible lightbulb flicks on and Michael figures out where things are headed like he’s about to take a trip along a path he’s been down many times before. He jumps to his feet to look down upon you like he was a parent and you were misbehaving. An arm flies up and its hand points in the direction of his room, “You need to go to your room and change. Get out of this dress and into something more respectable.”

“Fuck you. I’m not a child anymore!”

“This is my house and you don’t answer back. You’ll obey my rules as long as you’re under it.”

You push up from your seat to leave and he grabs onto your hips, pulling you back in like you’re his prey and holding tight so you’re unable to move. You know that fighting this is futile, not that you’d want to, and that becomes even more apparent when his forearm hooks around your torso, locking you in place. A knee pushes your legs apart from behind and the hand attached to the arm around your waist is now in your underwear.

He’d forgotten how it felt – to have someone completely under his thumb, leaving their body for him to take and use how he saw fit. The switch was flicked, sending him into a frenzy and he begins groping your chest like a feral animal. Fingertips of his starved hands latch onto one of your very hard nipples. You’re biting back the want to moan and instead you swear fuck you like it wasn’t what you’d been doing to yourself, night after night, to try and recreate him in your bed. Michael taught you how to orgasm from nipple play alone but unfortunately, you never were able to quite get yourself there.

He’s scoffing at the profanity that rolls off your tongue then follows it by asserting his dominance. The shy, unsure boy who was in this room was gone and the cocky, power-hungry man you knew and adored had reappeared. He’s pinching tighter and tormenting you, “Fuck me? You’re saying fuck me, little girl?”

Small mewls build in your body and escape your lungs from both physical pain and anguish of your need for him; to be pounded into submission and tainted with his seed.

His fingers without effort are turning you into a delirious mess as they traverse the length of your slit repeatedly and only stop for a break when arriving at your clit - rubbing lightly enough to awaken your precious bud and cause a jump in the arousal you’re experiencing.

You’re trying to hold it under the surface but your guard isn’t completely up and a moan slips out, letting Michael hearing you’re enjoying yourself too much. He stops what he’s doing and you fuss, urging him to continue, only your noises fall on deaf ears because he wants them – he wants to make you beg and plead like the cock-hungry little girl of his that you are and have always been.

His hand disappears from your underwear and up to your face to rub slick over your lips and make you taste your shame; like a bitch in heat, wanting to fuck its own master.

*

Those blue eyes are fixated on you wallowing in your urges. He exaggerates a sigh, “Naughty girls shouldn’t answer back to their daddies.”

Michael uses the same hand to grab at your cheeks that he rubbed against your mouth, your scent filling your nostrils as he’s pushing his fingers into your cheeks. The smell of your own arousal turned you on and he knew it. “Do you act like this at school? Do you let the boys touch you?”

His grip on your face drops and he waits for a reply. You give him one, but it’s not what a good little girl would. You snidely remark like an unpunished brat, “What’s it to you?”

There’s a very hard slap one of your cheeks and you’re left with the old familiar sting. You cry out like a child, “Just wait until mommy hears what you’ve been doing to me,” before running to his bedroom, pretending to hold the door shut. “Mommy will be mad at you, daddy!”

*

Michael’s on the other side of the door acting as if it’s locked and banging on the barrier between the two of you. “Your mother won’t be doing anything, Y/N. You just wait until I get my hands on you.”

You’re playing as if you’re scared and run to hide by the other side of his bed. As you get comfy he bursts into the room and heads straight for the bedside cabinet to pull out what appears to be purple ties. The door slams shut and Michael searches the room for your body, growling for you to come over to him. You present him with a refusal towards the demand but you’re met with an affirmation that you have no choice while he’s walking over to you. A hand reaches to snatch you up and pull at your long hair, throwing you up onto the bed. You move with him, landing on your stomach over the edge with your feet on the floor.

*

Michael has you sandwiched between his legs and those strong hands force your arms behind your back. You feel him bind your wrists so you wiggle around in a phoney attempt to escape and invoke an even more dominant reaction – those same hands that would usually stroke you like a kitten now push your face into the bed and Michael is mocking your “attempt” at escaping.

He pushes off of the bedroom furniture and finds his feet, steadying himself before lifting up your dress and rip off your underwear in a fury. You’re unable to see anything except the head of the bed but the next thing you hear is a “woosh” and then a “crack” hitting your ears, presumably from Michael removing his belt and trying to taunt you with it.

“I suggest you bite down on something because I’m going to make you cry.”

Multiple times the leather band meets your skin, each harder than the last, and you could swear he’s broken the epidermis with the punishment he was inflicting on your body. You start to plead with him, pretending to cry and struggle.

He stops the assault on your ass much to your dismay and the feeling is replaced with his fingers, lightly strumming against your exposed cunt, this action making you actually plead. He continues to push you further and further into desperation before finally dipping his fingers inside your swollen pussy. Michael, unlike any other man you’ve been with, reaches every spot and make you drunk on pleasure.

He purrs, “Be a good girl and apologise for daddy and he’ll fill you with his cock.”

Your ability to speak fails you while he’s still fucking you with his slender fingers, rendering you useless and unable to string together any kind of coherent message.

“I don’t hear you apologising, does this mean you don’t want to get fucked?”

A gasp leaves your lips as he pulls out, moving to grip strategically around the thick of your thighs and draw you backwards into his face. Kisses are laid all over the valley in your flesh and he’s navigating the way to your sweet spot. Upon arrival, his spit-laden tongue firstly rims at the opening before diving in and feasting on you like he was famished and you were the first hot meal he’d seen in weeks. The way he devoured your plump ass made it known why such an act was a sin.

It becomes too much and you’re trying to apologise, crying out, “I’m sorry, please fuck me, I beg you.” Michael won’t take your apology, pushing you further. He taunts you, sneering like you’re a pawn in his own game, “Tell me why I should fuck you and I might consider it.”

A wad of spit drips the crack of your ass and his tongue is lapping the length like he was a dog on a hot day in summer. You arch and try to push back into his mouth, exclaiming, “Because nobody fucks me like you, Michael!”

He finally thinks you’ve had enough and wants to bring you relief, untying you from the restraints. Once free, you waste no time in pulling him in for a very wet and equally passionate kiss.

“You always were a dirty girl, weren’t you?”

“The dirtiest, if I recall.”

You undress quickly, not wanting to fall from the high you were experiencing, and Michael does the same. His eyes are glued to your body trying to make up for lost time.

Michael draws you in and with a mouth lingering near your ear, he starts to unravel and bare it all, “I tried to get you out of my mind, all those months, but I couldn’t.” His grip around your locks grows tighter, pulling at them harder, “All I could see was your face. All I could smell was your perfume and all I could taste was your sweetness.”

It was apparent that he, too, was homesick since the day the two of you last saw each other or spoke.

The two of you lock lips again and you fall back onto the bed. He sinks down to position himself at his favourite spot, his tongue lathering the entirety of your mound with a wetness. Usually, you’d enjoy this greatly but right now you needed him inside you.

“Michael,” you whine, “I need you.”

He moves from between your legs, his eyes watching you as he leaves a trail of kisses up your body until he reaches your neck.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what, silly?”

“For this.”

He positions himself in the chasm of your thighs, pulling you hungrily into him. He’s gentle as he enters, then picks up the pace, thrusting mercilessly. You’re overcome with lust, taking every ounce of his frustration. It was as if he was trying to get twelve months of being away into one lustful night. The heat in that room was sweltering and the two of you were on fire; every pound of flesh between the two of you was alight with the thirst for the other.

Michael is your drug of choice from which you’d spent all those months trying to get clean. Until tonight. Tonight you relapsed but didn’t care. Tonight you willing loaded the needle and injected him into your veins.

With every thrust, you grew closer, and closer, and closer. Flashback to the moments when you were a teen again, wading in the water at the beach waiting for a wave to knock you over. Your eyes staring into the distance and you spot one. It gets bigger and bigger on its way towards you until it finally hits; knocking you over and drenching you entirely.

Twelve long months of unsatisfactory fucks and longing had finally exploded within you. Your hunger was sated, for the time being.

That familiar sound, the one you make when he sends you to heaven only for you to come crashing back to earth, throws him over the edge and he lets it all go. Pouring himself inside you, filling you with more of his seed than you can contain, overflowing from your cunt and spilling out between your legs. He gets between your thighs, lapping up the evidence of his undoing with great enjoyment, moaning with every morsel he’d consume before returning up to be by your side.

You gasp, “Fuck you, Michael Langdon.”

“But you just fucked me? Or rather, I fucked you?”

You perch yourself up on a bent arm, your elbow holding your weight, explaining, “No, fuck you for making me miss that all this time.”

He laughs, pushing the stray hairs behind your ear, “You aren’t the only one who missed it, you know. It wasn’t a lie when I told you those things earlier.”

“Is there something you’re not telling me?” You smirk.

He rolls his eyes but his mouth is locked tight. He wasn’t really ever one for exposing himself unnecessarily.

“Spill.”

“Apparently, in a drunken state, I admitted… some things to her.”

You hit the bed in enjoyment, mentally giddy in his embarrassment, “Oooh, what did you say?”

He’s tousling his hair with a free hand, trying to play it cool, “Something about how I missed you. Well, I didn’t say Y/N, but I did say my little girl, and then it turned into a shit storm when she made me explain. She realised she couldn’t get past it and that was that.”

You jibe, half truthful, “I guess a woman is no match for his little girl when it comes to daddy.”

Michael looks at you, eyes full of that same twinkle the night you met and a smile he couldn’t hide even if he tried, “I guess not.”

Taglist: @avesatanormalpeoplescareme @sensitivethot @sammythankyou @sevenwondr @langdonsdemon

[tidustargaryen]

Pourquoi la Saison 8 de Game of Thrones est Décevante

Why the Game of Thrones season 8 is disappointing

The video is in French but I really like the analysis of the writing, or the bad writing rather, of the showrunners, so I will translate the text as best as I can. Some French expressions do not exist in English, and vice versa, so I hope everything will make sense.

All that is in parenthesis and italics will be my thoughts on what he said in the video, all that is between ** and italics will be interesting passages during the video that accompanies his text.

It's long, sorrynotsorry :p

------------------------------

There was a lot of hope for this season 8, the final season of the biggest series of the moment. And necessarily who  says hope, said disappointment, but this disappointment it does not come out of nowhere. It's not just a spectator affair not happy because they did not have the end they wanted. Yes the season has undeniable qualities, whether in terms of production, photography, music or special effects that are just impressive. But also suffers from a lack of writing, and it is because of these faults that some of the spectators did not so much hang *Benioff who said "Dany kinda forgot the iron fleet ..." *

So these different writing problems can be grouped into four points:

I - Change of the writing process

The last seasons of GoT are not written in the same way as the first seasons that followed the plot of the books, there is a thread on twitter that explains that pretty well, so I'll summarize it and add some examples.

To put it simply, there are two methods for writing stories, one is the “Plotters” and and the other is the “Pantsers". Each of that methods had its advantages but also its disadvantages that the authors tries to regulate during the rewriting.

The “Plotters” (like J.K. Rowling) write a detailed story plan in advance, so they have more ability to write effective storylines, but their characters can sometimes be bland and puppet of the plot, we can say that the plot is the engine of the characters.

The "Pantsers" discover the story as they write it, wondering how such a character would react to such situation. They are therefore easier to write realistic characters. The flaw of this method is that sometimes the characters can sometimes become entangled in sinuous intrigues, and the author may find it difficult to relate all of this to a satisfactory conclusion. We can say that the characters are the engine of the plot.

GRRM is an excellent "pantser", according to him, write a story is like cultivating a garden, he plants seeds of characters and lets them grow, and that's why each plot, each surprise, is so effective, everything that happens to the characters is the consequence of their past choices. The problem is that, his garden gradually escape him, and the author is struggling to get by to write the rest, it is difficult to take some characters where they should be for the rest of the history. He often gives the example of Daenerys who is stuck in Meereen, and G.R.R.M does not want to use abrupt or forced resolution to have her go to Westeros.

But let's go back to the show, for the last two seasons the showrunners did not follow the method of Martin, who did not succeed them anyway, and they acted in plotters, they gave themselves 13 episodes to conclude the series and they thought about the different elements and the strong moments that they wanted to integrate, where they want the characters to finish, what did the audience want to see, how to surprise them, etc. They did a sort of end "specifications" for the show, for example, for season 8:

- Arya kills the Night King

- Daenerys goes crazy

- Jon kills Daenerys

- Bran becomes King

It only remains to connect all this. So they took the characters where they wanted them to be, physically and emotionally, the problem is that this change in writing process is not without consequences and it is felt for the viewer.

In the first seasons, the characters created their own destiny, their actions seemed logical, true to their character, and they suffered the consequences of their actions. But in these last two seasons, instead of being the engines of the plot the characters have become the puppets of the showrunners, and that's why some characters seem to be only the shadow of themselves *Baelish trial extract*, it's pretty visible with Jon Snow who has clearly become a "duck" in the last season. But where it is most striking is with the character of Tyrion, who has lost all his genius and who has become the worst advisor in the world.

List of rotion tips from Tyrion:

- Make peace with slave cities

- Do not attack KL directly

- Attack by surprise Casterly Rock

- Go get a wight beyond the wall

- Etc ..

Consequences :

Loss of soldiers, cities, allies and a dragon.

But really the worst advisor, he only advised bullshits. Just look at the Tyrion of the first seasons for a few minutes to instantly see the difference.

Generally speaking, when "intelligent" characters are in fact more stupid than spectators, it is because there is a concern for writing. * from an interview with Tyrion saying "they are in a crypt, no one has thought of that, he can revive the dead, and they put women and children in a crypt! With all the corpses! So ... Tyrion is intelligent, but not so smart as that I suppose. "

But back to our favorite "plotters" to reach the main point of the plot that was the transformation of Daenerys into "Mad Queen", Daenerys had to be greatly weakened, and at the end of season 6, when she comes to Westeros, she is all-powerful with her three dragons, her armies, and her allies, and so she and all the characters around her are "forced" to make unusually bad decisions, though Daenerys does, she listens her advisors or not, it ends very badly for her. 

There was no winning scenario for Daenerys.

In the level of debility of the characters, the season 7 also offered us a magnificent expedition beyond the wall, with a ridiculous motivation, in order to take a wight to Cersei to prove to her the existence of the threat, the real reason for all this was to offer a dragon to the Night King (and also for the fanservice), because the plot needed the Wight Walkers to cross the wall, and besides, Cersei had nothing to do with it, so it was totally useless (But this bring beautiful pictures).

And what the series shows us is that she was quite right to not care (lol) because they did not need her at all, the union of all men ( Jon speech) all this, useless. Just a little dagger well placed ...

II - Show > Logic

The second annoying point of this season is that logic and consistency are often sacrificed in the name of the show and the surprise. For example, at the military strategy level we have seen a lot of debility, whether it is to put the soldiers in front of the walls, and the catapults in front of the soldiers, or the front charge of the Dothraki against the Army Of The Dead, it’s true that it was pretty plans ... Another choice that, in my opinion, was made to shock and be spectacular, it is the burning of the city of KL by Daenerys. The problem is not the madness of Daenerys, besides I think it's a very good idea in terms of plot and character (not to me ... already done => Cersei), no problem is the degrees of this madness and it is that it is very sudden, the tumble goes very fast and especially very far, it almost seems that it is a switch in mode On / Off *genes targaryen: Off / On *

Let's get back to her character, what we learned from her in all these seasons is that she is totally ruthless to her enemies (like many other characters ...), but she is is also merciful to the innocent (much less other characters are ... lol) her character could be summed up in that. And so in KL, once the city surrenders, she begins to slaughter innocent people, whereas she does not kill them before the bells ring. So, if I understood correctly, it's the fact that they surrender to make her want to kill everyone ... Logic. Even her father, the Mad King, had a much better motive for burning the city, KL was being sacked by Tywin's army and so the Mad King had lost the war, destroying was the desperate gesture of a king who had already lost everything and did not want to leave anything to his enemies (the logical reaction that should have had Cersei ...) and in addition he thought to be reborn as a dragon so there was a gain for him, while for Daenerys, there is no gain for her, there is no reason to slaughter the population, except to make a beautiful demonstration of special effects (and push people to hate her and give a reason to kill her). There was, however, a way to have her massacre innocent while keeping the consistency of the character. Daenerys could have simply refused the surrender and rushed to the Red Keep to kill Cersei, and too bad for the innocents inside, in clear, that she forgets her mercy to punish Cersei *without burning the whole city*  that would have been consistent. You may think I'm quibbling, but for me it's important that the characters are treated well.

III - Realism

The third fault of this writing that I would like to raise is a change in the internal logic of the series. We often hear GoT is a series that wants to surprise the viewer, and shock, as we have seen with the execution of Ned Stark, the main character of season 1. Yet if we dig a little, the desire to the saga has never been to surprise, to jostle the tropes of fantasy yes, but not to surprise in itself. In the first seasons, those that followed the books, the surprise was just a consequence of the internal logic of this universe, realism. In the early seasons there was a cold realism, a political realism, *George: "Art must reflect life"* As I said earlier, when a character made a mistake, he paid the consequences *Robb and the red wedding* have far-reaching consequences, and that's what surprised the viewer because it's something we're not used to seeing. In the fantasy stories, we have been used to the fact that the moral hero is untouchable, invulnerable, and even when everything seems lost, he was always saved at the last moment (as in season 8 for Arya and Jon, plot armor very strong) but in GoT, it did not work like that (Except in season 8 lol except for Dany: '() each action had its consequences, and even for the most moral of all heroes, the scenario never came to their rescue, and that's what works, and what was even better was that the events that surprised us so much at the time, we could have seen them coming, we should have seen them come even, so much they were a logical consequence of what had happened. *Red Wedding extract*

In the first seasons, the surprise was a consequence of the realism whereas in season 8 the surprise is a consequence of ... of ... the surprise ...

*Dany kinda forgot the iron fleet ..*

This is the choice made by the showrunners, they want to surprise the audience, shock them, make the series unpredictable, even if the logic and consistency suffers, but something surprising is not necessarily good (now they know it lol but it's too late for GoT fans ...) all events must be logical and coherent with the characters, and this realism that was part of the identity of the first seasons of GoT what it becomes in season 8? Well it was a little slaughtered ...

We have seen characters in impossible situations, for example during the battle of Winterfell, on many levels it seems that the characters are literally overwhelmed by the army of the dead and yet they get along ... no doubt thanks with their armor +8 in scenarium. It's as if these situations did not really have consequences (some shots, the characters are overwhelmed and get out while Jorah and Dany have a lot fewer deads than the others who attack them and yet Jorah dies ???? ???) *Jon overwhelm by the dead, the plan just after show him attack the dead, but there are far fewer around him than before ....* And it's the same for Daenerys's army, which is slaughtered during the first charge. All the lights of the Arakhs go out, but in the end, that's fine, we're taught in the following episode that only the half of the manpower was destroyed, coherence level ...

And then the burial of realism comes with the scene of Bran's election to the throne, well I will not talk about the fact that it has nothing to do with his character's arc of the Tree Eyed Raven who does not want the power, let us also forget that there are little Lords who have nothing to do in these deliberations *Brienne, Davos, etc*

So why the great Lord of Westeros who must elect a King choose Bran Stark? These great Lords, who logically are supposed to defend their personal interests, and not the people's (not like Dany would have done it! Like Tyrion telling Jon about the usefulness of the Night's Watch now: "It must be a place for the bastards and broken things to go "... Nice your new world ...) These Lords who are mostly ambitious, how they were able to agree to put Brandon Stark on the throne, in addition Tyrion's arguments are completely nul, that's how, logically, it should have happened:

*Editing in the video : Tyrion says: "And who had a better story, than Bran the Broken ..." After a few seconds, all the Lords laugh out loud *

In a realistic situation, the one who has the biggest army and the strongest alliances should have claimed the throne for himself/herself (like Robin the capricious child who controls the Knights of the Vale or Dorne who does not  implied in no war before and has its army intact ((yes Ellaria swear loyalty to Dany and was attacking by Euron, but her army did not leave Dorne)), even Yara could have tried something ... but...ok...) or they all agreed to declare the independence of each kingdom, but no, all these great Lords have become angels who want the good of all (it's not the GoT that was sold to me ... lol It is well known, the nobles always do good for the common people). In addition they accept the independence of the North without saying anything, without even asking the same thing. So we have a Stark Queen of the North, another Stark King of the 6 Kingdoms, everything is fine, in terms of political realism, that’s sucks, and that's where we see that the change of writing has been radical over the seasons. In the end, this internal logic of realism, which was the strength of the series in the early seasons was swept and so it is not surprising that many fans of the first hour are disappointing.

The show conclude on a rather classic happy ending (if you think this has a happy ending, you have not paying attention ... it's hilarious this meme now lol) for the remaining 4 Stark, then is it a bad end? (Yes !!!!) It depends on what you are looking for as a spectator, in the same way that there is different type of author, there is also different type of spectator, there are those who are more in the analysis, which gives great importance to the plot and the internal coherence of the story, and there are those who are more in the emotional, who are attached to the characters and therefore relieve that they have a positive end (I totally agree, for me it's the consistency that is essential, I do not find any logic when I look at the last two seasons compared to the first six seasons , so it's a very bad end for me , besides, my favorite character was massacred ... so ...)

No end could have satisfied everyone (but here they still screw up the entire show lol)

IV - Rushed

Last but not least, there were too few episodes to conclude a story of this magnitude, everything goes too fast (too little dialogue, and too much weakness in those that we had) the war against the Wights Walkers was prepared during 7 seasons, we were told and repeated that it was the real war, that all the others were futile *Jon in front of Cersei and his speech on the only war that matter...* Almost all the plot of the season 7 is about the AOTD, and finally in the season 8 the threat is wiped out from the first battle (it was impossible to fight the battle for few days honestly, they could not have held long against the Night King, and all the Wighs Walkers and the dead, I would have preferred a massacre in Winterfell, and some characters who runs thanks to the remaining dragons or on foot, we were promised a slaughter, in the end, very few deaths during the battle, the slaughter took place at KL, but that on extras ... I will have seen a bittersweet end with almost all Westeros decimate, very few humans left, and a magical way thanks to Bran and his abilities to kill the Night King and his army. But well ...) the threat of Wights Walkers is destroyed in the first battle, and without much loss. The impression that this gives is that, in the end, Wight Walkers were not so dangerous that it was enough of a little dagger well placed. (Also have no answer on all the symbols etc ... it will be necessary to watch the prequel to know ... The answers should have been in the show, with a number of more important episodes!)

It's a shame, this war would have deserved a whole season.

In the last two seasons there are also very brutal ellipses, sometimes incoherent * Dany who will help beyond the wall, she arrives, despite the distance, in time to save the team Jon ... * the showrunners take sometimes big shortcut, by example Varys treason seems instantaneous and premature and barely 5 minutes later he is burned. And the worst is the madness of Daenerys, which is too sudden, not progressive enough (and illogical for the character, from my point of view), and seems a little artificial.

The most frustrating thing is that HBO was up for more episodes, but the showrunners decided to do just 13 we do not know why (Star Wars? XD I sympathize for you the fans ^^)

We would have loved to have more episodes and in addition it would have allowed to develop the intrigues, not to give an impression of sloppy end.

Too bad there were good ideas in this season, Daenerys who goes crazy is a very good idea (still not agree ...), the Stark who unite to defeat the Night King was also a good idea ( you forget Dany there ... without her ... without her they would all be dead and it would be much better!). The problem is not the big choice of plot (except Mad Queen Dany ...), it's how they are developed, too suddenly, everything goes too fast and seems to misuse, and as it's GoT and that we love this show, we would like so much better (especially when the fans invest so much money in the show ...)

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I do not translate the end because even if it's a very good series as he says, the end completely ruin the good seasons for me, if I want to watch the first 6 seasons in the future, I always have in the head the horrible ending and I will have one desire, it is turn off my TV from the first episode. Having Daenerys as a favorite character, seeing her abused, raped, used and then seeing her get up, become stronger, become a queen, and know how it ends for her ... no thanks. But it's not only Dany, the other characters have also suffered a massacre, coherence, logic and realism have been slaughtered in favor of surprise and spectacle. 

I could have summed it up in one word, or two: Hollywood, Money.

[wardoftheedgeloaves]

An Overview of Comparative-Historical Chinese Dialectology (II.i): Old Chinese

Let’s imagine a world in which the modern Romance languages are all extant and written in the Latin alphabet; however, Latin is not attested. If you were collecting cognates of the word for “middle” or “medium”, you’d get [mɐi.u] from Portuguese, [mitʃ] from Catalan, [med.dzo] from Italian and so on and so forth. You don’t have any Latin to compare with, but it’s not that difficult to determine that Proto-Romance had a form *mɛdjʊ or something like that.

Now imagine that you dig up a 2700-year-old tablet in southern Italy, and it has the word mefiú on it. It’s clear that it’s pretty close to your Proto-Romance, but it’s not quite the same. Some tokens of /p/ in the tablet-language correspond to *p in Proto-Romance, and some of them correspond to Proto-Romance *kw. On the other hand, it seems to have some distinctions Proto-Romance doesn’t, such as a diphthong ou which seems to fall together with Proto-Romance *u. You can read it, and it’s clear it’s closely related, but it isn’t Proto-Romance.

Imagine a different world. Here, the Romance languages are written with logograms and have been for three millennia. Thus the character 中 is read [mɐi.u] in Portugal, [mitʃ] in Catalonia, [misu] in Sardinia and [med.dzo] in Italy. You can reconstruct a Middle Romance reading *mɛdjʊ for this character.

One day a 2700-year-old tablet is found in southern Italy. The characters have strange, archaic forms and the syntax is really unusual, but it can be read. It includes an early form of the character 中. Is it Latin? Or Oscan?

Keep this analogy in mind as we dive into Old Chinese.

Old Chinese is attested from about 1250 BC in the form of inscriptions on oracle-bone tablets, followed shortly thereafter by longer texts during the Zhou era. Archaeological excavations are turning up lots of texts on wood and bamboo strips from the early and mid-first millennium BC, so we have much more raw material from the Old Chinese period to work with than we did even two or three decades ago.

Here the trouble begins. Every other script from antiquity, with the possible exception of Mayan (whose basic structure I still find entirely inscrutable), includes considerable phonological information: the cuneiform syllabary, Linear B, even Egyptian hieroglyphs. Many of these scripts can be underspecifying to the point of ambiguity for modern scholars, like Linear B or hieroglyphs, but the basic organizing principle is phonemic. If you see wa-na-ka on a Linear B tablet, you have automatically narrowed the reading of the word down to a handful of possible phonemic interpretations.

With Old Chinese, all this goes out the window. Oh, it’s not that there’s no phonological information available to us about the period; there’s plenty if you know where to look. But Old Chinese, and the script in particular, only reveal their phonological secrets through smoke and mirrors. It’s a difference of kind, not of degree, compared with such relative walks-in-the-park as a cuneiform syllabic with two possible readings or an unvocalized scrap of Semitic.

Thus, reconstructing Old Chinese requires drawing on a vast amount of rather disparate evidence, which includes (but is not necessarily limited to):

 the phonetic clues in the actual script, particularly the rebus principle used to create phono-semantic compound characters; 

rhymes in ancient poetry;

the recoverable historical phonology of the modern varieties of Chinese; 

early borrowings into neighboring languages such as Korean, Japanese, Vietnamese and Hmongic and, to a lesser extent, borrowings into Sinitic from foreign languages such as Tocharian;

comments on “rustic” or “incorrect” forms of speech in early sources;

unusual character usage (before the Han dynasty or so, many words are found written with more than one character, and some characters are used to write multiple words; usually these conflations involved some degree of phonetic similarity)

last and (for the most part) least, evidence from non-Sinitic relatives such as Tibetan and Burmese. This is the most fraught and least reliable source of evidence, because Sinitic doesn’t seem to have any particularly close relatives within Sino-Tibetan and the state of Proto-Sino-Tibetan is still quite hazy.

Now, Baxtar and Sagart conclude that attested Old Chinese is so vanishingly close to the last common ancestor of all attested varieties of Sinitic that “Old Chinese” and “Proto-Sinitic” can be conflated except in the most pedantic and exacting of contexts. It’s tempting, therefore, to assume that we can just throw Min, Mandarin, Cantonese and maybe a few borrowings into Korean into the comparative method and collect Old Chinese as it comes out through the grinder. But this is wrong. Old Chinese was almost identical to, indeed for almost all purposes was, the last common ancestor of attested modern Chinese varieties, but it doesn’t look much like modern varieties of Chinese and the comparative method alone will give you a highly incomplete picture. It should therefore serve as a cautionary tale for overly optimistic comparativists; the comparative method is usually lossy even with a wide range of languages to work with, but in the absence of contemporaneous attestation we simply can’t know what we don’t know.

So what did Old Chinese look like?

First and foremost, no tones. Tones do not begin to develop in Chinese until sometime in the Han period. As far as I know every single modern variety of Chinese is tonal (barring fringe cases like Wutun that have lost tone under the influence of unusual contact situations), and I believe the tonal system of every modern variety can be derived through various twists and turns from the “four-tone” (really three-tone; we’ll get to it later) system of Middle Chinese.

How does this work? Essentially, what’s going on is that the comparative method can reconstruct distinctions and developments that occurred at different times. Tone in Chinese is somewhere around two thousand years old and develops at the very end of the Old Chinese period (you could make a case for its development being the Old Chinese-Middle Chinese boundary). Every single modern variety has it, because it spread across and encompassed the entirety of what must have been the dialect patchwork of Han-dynasty China. But that dialect patchwork was not uniform, and traces of its nature from before the rise of tonal distinctions are still with us. For example, there must have been an allowed Old Chinese coda consonant *-r which merges, in Middle Chinese and in almost all conservative dialect groups such as Min, with *-n. However, a small corner of Shandong has -j for Old Chinese *-r despite the fact that dialects that preserver the *-n/*-r distinction are otherwise completely unexceptional varieties of Mandarin--coda stop loss, tonal and sibilant developments, the whole nine yards. Zhou- and Han-era dialects of Shandong, see footnote at end of post.

Does this mean that we have to revise the phylogeny of Chinese to look like this?

No!

It simply means that “Old Chinese” was not uniform, resembling in important ways the dialect continuum of Iron Age Italy more than the standard Latin of Cicero, and while the Old Chinese patchwork developed as a single unit in important ways (such as tonogenesis) during the transition from Old to Middle Chinese and into modern varieties, there are still glitches in the matrix.

To beat a nearly-dead analogy, we can imagine a variety spoken in a village in Umbria which is mutually intelligible with standard Italian and has undergone identical developments for two thousand years, but which happens to reflect Proto-Italic *f *þ medially as /v/. It would be incorrect to say that this variety is modern Oscan and more separate from its neighbors, to whose speakers it is merely an odd accent, than its neighbors are from Portuguese or French. At the same time, its conservation of a distinction that not even Ciceronian Latin maintains introduces complications into our sense of what “proto-Romance” or “the Romance languages” or “Italian” actually mean. And since, grammatically, this variety has developed along with the Vulgar Latin and Italian dialects that surround it, we would be unable to recover the Latin passive or the case system from it. The “last common ancestor” that maintained all the distinctions of the Romance-languages-plus-Italian-with-Oscan-characteristics was Proto-Italic, but vast swaths of Proto-Italic have still been lost to time, and the comparative method will deliver you a language that was never spoken by anybody (Vulgar Latin, except with a four-way medial distinction *-f-/*-þ-/*-b-/*-d- rather than a two-way *-b-/*-d- distinction).

As a final note on this topic, nobody appears to have noticed that the *-r/*-n distinction was carried on in modern Chinese until Sergei Starostin in 1981, and even he did not identify which dialects had the distinction, only that some did*. This is another reason it’s important to do fieldwork and descriptions of Chinese varieties spoken in rural areas; cities are easier to get to, but they don’t usually have the really unusual varieties that you need access to find distinctions from this. It is possible, for example, that there’s still a corner of Sichuan that speaks Ba-Shu Chinese, an old dialect group that is thought to have been completely replaced by Mandarin during the Ming period and extinct except as a substrate. But we don’t know, because an exhaustive dialect survey of Sichuan has not (to my knowledge) been done.

(This post is long enough to publish at this point and so I’m going to cut it off here and turn Old Chinese into a subseries of posts.)

*It’s not clear on a second reading whether or not Shandong dialects still reflect *-r as -j, because the sources cited are contemporaneous complaints about Shandong speakers. Apparently though the *-ar rhyme is reflected as -i in some Min varieties and “Chǔ-Qú”, which seems to be a group of Wu dialects spoken on the Zhejiang-Fujian border, so the above analogy holds except that it’s Chǔ-Qú Wu that plays the part of Oscan-flavored Italian. I do recall reading somewhere though that there are definitely varieties of “Mandarin” that maintain distinctions not even found in Min, so...