#i want to pick up enough russian to make learning on my own easy because starting from literally nothing is hell by yrself

[lago-morpha]

what happened to all the shit you can buy in the duolingo store

this is all I can buy now... I have over 4k gems but sure I'll double 50. why not.

[hughiecampbelle]

this ship request thing is so fun idea, I never saw this!! i'm fine with any character, btw

well I'm bi woman, I'm east Asian with dyed red hair and brown eyes, I have a lot of tattoos and a nose piercing. i have a degree in clinical psychology, and in my free time, I'm an artist, I enjoy when I draw people I love 🤍 I also write poems, usually about meaningful events/people in my life. my first language is Russian, and when I was in school, I learned Korean.

I'm an introvert. I don't like being around people like 90% of the time. My s/o and my best friend are only exceptions.

sometimes, I think I can feel empathy for every person in the world. i am more of a listener, I don't talk much, but I love listening to people.

can you please also mention who would be best friends with me?

I hope this is enough info!! thank you so much.

Hi my love! I ship you with: Queen Maeve!!! She loves your tattoos. She thinks they make you look so cool and stylish and effortlessly chic. She loves tracing them and touching them and asking you about them. When you get new ones she helps you take care of them. Maggie loves the look of them and wants so many of her own, but she can't make up her mind about what she wants and she's too afraid of the permanence of it. Plus she's not even sure the needle would work on her skin, so she just enjoys yours. She also loves your poems. Secretly she's always loved reading and literature and poetry, but because it never fit her Queen Maeve image, she couldn't really show it off or really show any interest. She enjoys reading them and listening to you talk about them and just being a witness to your writing process. You love her strength. Maggie's gone through a lot both being part of and leaving The Seven. Dealing with those idiots (The Deep) and creeps (The Deep) and maniacs (Homelander) definitely changes a person. She had to give up a lot of herself to be with them and live her dream. She had to give up her relationships, but also her humanity, her morals, everything. Eventually she found her way back to herself, she found her way back to you. It wasn't easy, but she worked hard to get better, to be herself, and you admire that so much. Your relationship is hidden. Maggie would rather die than let anything happen to you. When Homelander admits that he knows who you are and what you mean to her, she immediately insists you go into hiding. Going somewhere safe and secure and far away from her. She hates the fact that she has to hide you, your relationship, but it's safer this way, it's better this way. That doesn't mean she's not affectionate and loving and cares deeply about you. You're the most important person in her life and that is why she has to be so careful. If anything ever happened to you she'd never forgive herself. Your first date you go to an art museum. She knows you love doing art in your free time and it's quiet place for you to go not only where you can talk and get to know one another more, but it's also somewhere she won't be recognized, at least not that easily. You walk and talk, showing off your favorite pieces. You listen to her as she reads the little cards by the pieces about the artists and time periods. It feels very intimate and truthfully it's perfect for you both. She giggles at the naked statues like a middle schooler which makes you smile. Here was Queen Maeve, strong and powerful and part of The Seven, giggling at a nude statue. Relationship Headcanon: Maggie attempts to lean Russian for you. She knows it's your first language and it's another way to show you how much she cares about you. She's not very good at first, getting the tenses and genders mixed up, but she gets a little better day by day and is incredibly proud of herself for her pronunciations. She picks up on the alphabet much quicker and can read it better than she can speak it, but she's getting there!

Hope you like it my love!!! Xoxoxo💜💜💜

SHIPS ARE CLOSED

[hislittleraincloud]

Flirting aside, your love for language is admirable. Makes me want to actually apply myself and learn more than English. Until then, google translate (though not nearly as reliable as understanding myself) is my friend.

Might try and take a few classes though, see if being able to speak or write in multiple languages gives me some of that charm you've got. But then again, maybe the charm is entirely your own? I mean, I gotta say, you're oddly... is there even a word for it? I guess the closest would be intriguing. Something to be proud of for someone I've never seen before.

I guess I can't just crush on you in your inbox and not sign off, huh? Especially if I plan to hopefully make you smile with these occasional asks in the future.

-�� anon, if you haven't got one yet. (😇 because this is the most well behaved I've been in a minute, my self restraint really is umatched)

Am I supposed to be crushing on someone that only exists to me on Tumblr? I dunno.

Will I continue to do it anyway? Yes!

I have loved languages for as long as I could remember. My parents were hideously selfish and self-absorbed, so they didn't care to teach me Spanish (my grandmother's language) or Thai (my mother's language). Ask them why they didn't and they'll make up some excuse or blame it on me, misgendering me in the process ("[Tor] didn't want to learn" is more than likely something my father would say, and I can tell you that that was 1000000000% bullshit, because I loved learning Spanish from my grandmother, aunt, and Sesame Street). Learned plenty of dirty and swear words in Thai from my mother, though. 🙄

Yet I was forced and expected to learn French, Italian, and German on my fucking own at 11 years old bc we were moving to France (and would be visiting Italy, Germany, the Netherlands, Austria, Switzerland, and Spain...ETA: He didn have us learn any Dutch bc we didn't stay too long). Father handed me a pile of travel phrase books and told me to learn them (though in addition to the French, Italian, German, Spanish (for my mother again...always for her) phrase books I made him buy me a Romanian one, because I wanted to learn "Dracula's tongue" 💀 I was a weird ass child).

I took to French easily enough since it was the main one father had us focus on (and I even tagged along to my mother's classes...I did better than her, she got mad and stopped bringing me to them). Ma amavo la lingua italiana e oggi la amo ancora di più, anche se sono più brava in francese. I would much rather have lived in Italy than fricking France. It was about this time that I was also interested in Russian, since I had a huge crush on Maxmillian Schell from Peter the Great:

(You can tell what my tastes were even at 11 and 12 years old... 🫠)

But, Father said it would be too much/too difficult and we weren't going to Russia, so he didn't buy me any of those phrase books. 😓

I've collected several of my favorites in French, but I do have other non-English books as well (particularly the Potter books... I've got the whole series in French but am still collecting the Italian versions, as they were hard to find; I won't put $ in her pocket anymore, so anything I do pick up is second hand, and I have them because it's an easy way to refresh). I also have copies of Lolita in Russian and Hebrew. (Definitely not the same. The gorgeous English that Nabokov used does not necessarily translate well at all.)

Reading is how I learned. Reading the phrase books, then être jeté aux loups en France...et en Italie, en Allemagne, en Suisse, etc. Je devais survivre seule, comme je l'avais fait pendant 12 ans.

You could take a class, or you can start small on your own. Duolingo gets a bad rap, but if you're curious about a language other than English, Duo is a pretty cool toy to start out with. Bored out of my mind, I tried it out a little over ten years ago, starting with dansk. Jeg begyndte at lære dansk, men det var for nemt. At the same time (after zipping through the first few Danish lessons), I tried Irish and took to that somehow (and annoyed the Hell out of my ex, who still lived with me at the time, by speaking nothing but Irish to her...I wanted her gone since she was just using me for the cheap rent and never, ever cleaned up after herself or the dogs/cats that were hers). The speed of my lessons went by real quick bc I seemed to have a natural ability to figure out how a language works (shifting from SVO to VSO wasn't that hard for me...though I had/still have some confusion with SOV languages like Turkish, I still got by okay whilst in Istanbul).

But Duo is really just a starting point. There's also Memrise (which is okay...they recently cut off our access to 'community created courses' on the app...that means I can't refresh my Georgian Alphabet (გამარჯობაjo! LOL That's all I remember of that one, I'm trying to stick with the Latin Alphabet ones, though Russian and Ukrainian Cyrillic is 🔥 and I can read it) or any of the smaller languages that I found on there, I have to go to the website for that). Clozemaster is a really neat little tool too, and as far as I can see, they make up for the Memrise deficits with their rarer languages:

(Finished the easy reviews, but I have a lot to keep going on some of these, and I need to combine some Duo with this for the alphabets; I'm just a starter in Greek. I love Catalan** since it's the language of my ancestors, but I also love the other regional languages like Occitan and Piemontèis, and they're fairly easy if you already know French and Spanish. Yes, my streak is only a day on this bc I'm BUSY WRITING 😭 but normally I'll go in and play around if I'm bored. Euskara (Basque) can suck my ass, though. (ETA again: The Russian course does have sound, I must've had my sound down LOL) Oo! And the Clozemaster Italian course has dirty phrases. 👹 Lastly, one thing I rlly like about Cloze is its interface and sounds. It's all 8 bit and has 8 bit gaming sounds when you finish your section/review. VERY retro, A+++)

The great thing is that all of these are free, though Duo's free can be annoying if you lose a lot of hearts/make a lot of mistakes. All three are great aids, but if you're just picking up one language, a class is cool too. You can find language classes on YouTube, or on the Open Culture page that lists almost 50 free places where you can learn a language. I also suggest immersion in the language that you want to learn. Watch your favorite shows dubbed in it, so you can learn how to pronounce/inflect things correctly (and so you can have a good laugh at the bad voice actor casting that sometimes happens). Listen to the radio and read newspapers in your target lang. It's all FREE, young Jedi. Free knowledge for the taking. You just gotta pick it up.

I think if I weren't writing, I'd still be immersed in language sharpening/learning (and drawing, probably). I suppose that's part of what incensed me about Teacher Boy's shitty reblog, since the OP's post mentioned languages. One never stops learning about the world and its people/cultures. I may hate people (like Wednesday does), but I do like to know how they think/why. I'm also imperfect, so if/when I have mistakes in the written language part, it's probably me mixing up rules or forgetting accents/where they go.

Christ this is long. 🫠

The charm thing, well...

I'm just a writer. A weird one, who tends to be the first and only for many people and things. I sure wish I could share my other accomplishments here, but one of my bigger ones has my real name attached to it and through that I can get stalked (not afraid of you per se, but it would be really annoying if those who hate me harassed me...I have senior/elderly dogs that need their peace). I will say that the accomplishment I'm thinking of would change each and every 🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍⚧️ person on this Hellsite's perception of me, regardless of my writing.

Now it's my turn to be mysterious. 🌚

Hi. Hello. Bonjour. Bounjou. Cerea. Ciao. Hola. Bom dia. Hallo. Salut. Hej. HEI! прибет. Halò. Mora duit. გამარჯობაjo. Non lo so. Mi stai già impressionando con la tua eloquenza, ed è piacevole vedere questa positività nella mia Inbox. 🫴🏽🎀💕🫠✨

**ETA 2: Speaking of Catalan, something interesting popped up on my Google feed re: prenatal exposure to multiple languages: Babies in the womb exposed to two languages hear speech differently when born. Maybe I had an advantage, since my mother spoke English and Thai when I was in there.

[darlingbudsofrae]

Neil Josten Appreciation Post

Foxes Appreciation Series : 1 || 2 || 3 || 4 || 5 || 6 || 7 || 8 || 9 || 10 ||

Alright, let’s just start this by addressing the big elephant in the room: everyone loves Neil Josten. EVERYONE.

If you don’t, you’re lying. 

Okay, first up- I’m glad this is getting addressed more on AFTG tumblr but Neil is literally so much smarter than the fandom gives him credit for.

Like yes, he’s a little dumdum on the social aspect of things (you could argue he kind of has a low EQ but also not really, I would argue that later)

but that doesn’t dismiss that he is smart af and that he can kill you and make it look natural if he wants.

For example, he literally outrun and hid from the mafia for years. Like, that in itself is an obvious point but we often forget that he did this at a very young age.

Like, he was presumably what? 16?? (when Mary kicked the bucket?) And kid was already playing hide and seek pretty well with a freaking mafia.

He does not get enough credit for this.

The survival skills it takes- the mental strength to survive as a runaway and technically he’s also homeless- at freaking 16, that’s just insane.

Also, let’s not mention the fact that it takes skills to forge official papers and all that.

We also do not talk enough about Neil and how he freaking have to relearn an entirely new position just to play exy.

I don’t think most remember that he’s actually a backliner, but have to play as a striker because it was the only available position in that local high school he attended in Millport, and that was how Kevin saw him so he was recruited as a striker.

We also additionally do not talk enough about how Kevin “literal and figurative Son of Exy” Day found potential for court in Neil “I’m a backliner but I’m playing striker because it’s the only thing available and I’m an exy junkie” Josten who only played it for like a year or less. 

Like yeah, Kevin said he needs more training but it’s not even Neil’s official position. 

The talent on this man- I cannot, he is such an icon. 

Aside from his great survival skills and being literally great at picking things up- he’s also like freaking academically smart.

Like that also doesn’t get enough credit- I mean, he does math for fun.

Frankly, I think if you did Kumon or if you had an awesome teacher you could also do math for fun (I know I did) but this should be noted with the fact that he didn’t have proper schooling.

He went on a run at a really young age so there is no way he received formal education.

Which means he is naturally like really smart.

He’s also a polyglot. And the languages he has under his belt are all freaking difficult to learn- like, no kidding: French, German, and he can assumingly speak intermediate Spanish, and we don’t even have an idea if this is all the languages he can speak.

Also, he and Andrew learns how to speak Russian, right? Like, that’s crazy.

The brain on this man and the power that he has- my son, I am so proud.

I mean, for all we know- there’s more than that and the fact that he’s like 18 at TFC screams supremacy.

This is where I argue about his EQ but Neil is crazy perceptive.

It took him like freaking 3 seconds to figure out the team dynamics the foxes have, and how to work against it.

He later figured out how to make it all mesh together.

Like the way he do things isn’t conventional but reading him analyze his team despite his lack of empathy really makes me shudder.

Like, this kid is so freaking smart. I remember reading his thought process for the very first time and being like, okay- I definitely did not think about that.

The main problem with his EQ though is that he doesn’t know how to process positive stuff when he’s involved, but when he’s the outsider- his perspective is so amazing.

Like again, he kind of lacks empathy but the way he understands things and is just so sharp is just noteworthy.

I’d argue he doesn’t understand social cues and “modern teen things” but he isn’t so completely clueless on the social aspect in general as to not manipulate an entire team of misfits with issues to work together.

He’s literally the key to unity in AFTG. Even Dan says so.

Also, the way he puts things into play- like he’s a master manipulator, and I love that for him.

We do not talk enough about manipulative Neil, like I just really love manipulative characters in general so much- especially if they’re just owning it. 

I mean, he freaking manipulated Andrew and Aaron into therapy. Kind of evil but also wow. (just a sidenote, please don’t force people into therapy lol)

Going completely dark for a second, Neil also has a freaking high pain tolerance.

The amount of horrible things he went through in the books were just so sad and the fact that he just kind of moves on from it? That’s just completely oh my gods.

My poor summer child, even if you can kill me at any given time, let me just hug you for a second with consent.

Everyone also gives shit about Neil’s fashion choices and granted it is said he kind of bags the homeless looks but the fact that he values utility above all else-

Yes, we stan a resourceful king. 

Lowkey though, am I the only one who appreciate Neil’s average style?

Speaking of style- I love the way Neil narrates. Like, the way he doesn’t give much attention to how the character looks- it’s just so realistic?

Because if I’m talking to a person in real life, there is no way I am noting how his blue polo makes him kind of casual but clean-cut and how his brown eyes is as warm as my morning coffee. Like, who even does that?

The thing with Neil’s narration is that it’s just so authentic- like it easily engages the readers and the way he gives importance to every thing the same way, it really makes it easier for the reader to discern things objectively, y’know what I mean?

He just has that quality in a main character and narrator- he’s laidback and sarcastic but not trying too hard, and he’s just really easy to love.

Like, I normally don’t like narrators/main characters in books because I favor a side character more or just because they’re annoying, but Neil Josten is legit lovable. 

At the same time, he’s also a really well-written character. Like, for all the technicalities I point out in AFTG, Neil is an asshole. He’s not perfect and I don’t 100% love everything that he does and I love that.

He’s a flawed character but he gives you something to root for- and I just really want to appreciate his characterization for a second. Most books make their characters’ flaws not even their fault to put a check to the flawed character but at the same time still have that perfect character. Eeww, no- give me real flaws to work with.

He’s one of the realest protagonists I ever read.

Like people give him shit for wanting to hide but also choosing to play a nationwide-discerned sport on an infamous collegiate team but for me it’s kind of realistic.

Because I think we, as human beings, also do things we love too much regardless of logic. I don’t know, like it’s kind of funny the way Neil is written but I honestly didn’t see him joining Palmetto as a loophole.

Like, just think of all those successful people who hid their identities via pseudonym or other necessary means to do things they weren’t expected to do or weren’t allowed to do.

For me, his character was really just looking for excuses to play his favorite sport a second longer and if anything, that’s just kind of sad.

But also, his dedication and love to exy is really admirable- like I never understood it but the way he literally does everything to stay on the court for a second longer just makes me want to root for him.

On a random note, Neil may not have an eidetic memory like Andrew’s but the way he memorize most phone numbers by heart? 

Bruh, I don’t even have my phone number memorized and I freaking have it for two years now. 

He also memorizes every twists and turns at every trip, every exits at a room he enters, and most people’s tics upon the first meeting, and other things and that’s just crazy perceptive but also really crazy on another level.

Also, we don’t get much ace/demi representation and out of the few I’ve consumed, demi Neil Josten validates me. He’s legit my favorite character that belongs in the ace spec in books.

I just really love Neil’s character so much- he’s just so amazing.

One thing I always appreciate about Neil Josten is that while he’s not a total angel (sadly), the way he loves the foxes- like he legit tried to mend the team and make sure everyone is going to be okay before walking straight to his death- like I’m with Andrew on this one, what a fucking martyr. Why are you like this and why am I crying?

Neil Josten is by all means not soft, that much is established, but the way he’s just still as precious and must be protected at all costs-

"You know, I get it," Neil said. "Being raised as a superstar must be really, really difficult for you. Always a commodity, never a human being, not a single person in your family thinking you're worth a damn off the court—yeah, sounds rough. Kevin and I talk about your intricate and endless daddy issues all the time."

I love him, your honor- where can I file this adoption papers and do I have anything else to sign?

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

We Were Something, Don’t You Think So? [Chapter 2: The Middle Of Nowhere]

You are a Russian Grand Duchess in a time of revolution. Ben Hardy is a British government official tasked with smuggling you across Europe. You hate each other.

This is a work of fiction loosely inspired by the events of the Russian Revolution (1917-1923) and the downfall of the Romanov family. Many creative liberties were taken. No offense is meant to any actual people. Thank you for reading! :)

Song inspiration: “the 1” by Taylor Swift.

Chapter warnings: Lots of shouting, if you never learned about the Russian Revolution then here's your mini crash course, references to historical stuff like violence and disease, Kroshka the mule emerges as the only emotionally stable character.

Word count: 4.1k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Please let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist! 💜

Taglist: @imtheinvisiblequeen @okilover02 @adrenaline-roulette @youngpastafanmug @m-1234 @tensecondvacation @deacyblues @haileymorelikestupid @rogerfuckintaylor @yourlocalmusicalprostitute @im-an-adult-ish @someforeigntragedy @mo-whore

I wake up feeling harder, as if sleeping on the ground with all its stones and cool indifference has taught my spine to straighten, to endure. This is a welcome revelation. I will need to be resilient, for my family and for myself. I also wake determined to set things right with my rescuer. I am a perfectly charming person, Mother and Papa have always said so; I’m not painfully shy like Olga, or aloof like Tati, or rather dull like Maria, and I certainly don’t run around putting frogs in people’s shoes like Anastasia. I make for excellent company. Surely Ben will realize this and we will become inseparable travel companions.

Outside in the overcast brisk morning air, Ben is already busy tacking the mule. He glances over and tosses me an apple. It bounces out of my floundering hands and rolls off into the woods. This is not an auspicious start to the day.

“You’ll still have to eat that,” Ben says. “There’s no extra food. I was only able to ask for as much as I could justify needing myself.”

“Right.” I go fetch the apple—rummaging around in leaves and sticks and shrubs—and take a bite, even though it’s bruised and definitely tastes like dirt. I beam at Ben triumphantly. I am tough! I am daring! I am enchanting! I can pull my own weight on this journey!

Ben doesn’t seem to notice. He pats the mule’s thick brown neck and smiles fondly at her. “How are we feeling this morning, Kroshka? Hmm? Who’s a lovely mule? Who’s going to take us all the way to the Trans-Siberian Railroad without even one measly word of complaint? That’s right, you are! Yes you are!” He lands a smacking kiss on the velvety grey fur of her muzzle.

I attempt polite conversation; more than that, I endeavor to learn about my dashing yet evasive rescuer. “So, tell me Ben, have you worked for Sir Buchanan long?”

“Four years,” Ben replies curtly.

“And you are…” I think of his notebook. “A…writer of some sort for him…?”

“I’m his press attaché.”

“Ah.” I recognize the French word for ‘attach,’ but not its meaning in the context of employment with an ambassador. “I can’t say I know what that entails.”

“I handle Sir Buchanan’s relations with the Russian newspapers. Drafting statements and briefing him on local opinions and the like. And since his health has declined, I find myself delivering some of his particularly confidential correspondence.”

“Oh, I see. And he could spare you for this mission? It seems like a burden that would be better carried by a man with military or exploratory experience.”

“My Russian is passable. And I can tolerate rougher conditions than most.” He points to a pile of clothes he’s laid out on a tree stump. “Those are for you. There’s a stream out that way.” He flicks a thumb towards the east. “Get ready however you need to, but be prepared to leave in fifteen minutes.”

I examine the clothing: plain and practical undergarments, a heavy wool sweater, stockings, boots, and something unexpected. I hold them up with clammy hands. “These are…” I swallow noisily. “Trousers.”

“Yes. They’re travel attire. Comfortable and easy to maneuver in if we need to move quickly.”

“I’ve never worn trousers before.”

“I thought you were amenable to a…a…what did you call it? An adventure. A grand adventure.” He says this melodramatically, like there’s some humor in it. Like he’s mocking me.

“I suppose I am,” I mutter, still scrutinizing the trousers.

“Fifteen minutes,” Ben reminds me sternly. Then he begins to disassemble the tent.

I trudge off through the woods until I find the stream. I clean myself with ice-cold water, drink it down until my teeth ache, change out of my nightgown and into these strange new clothes—Trousers! Mother would lock me in church for a month!—and gaze up into the cloudy, pastel blue sky that peeks between the fingers of the trees. It is very still here, and cold, and deathly quiet. I try to remember the last time I was truly alone, without Mother or Papa or my siblings or servants or guards within shouting distance. There is none that I can remember; perhaps there is none at all. Out here in the Siberian wilderness I feel unmoored from civilization, diminutive, vulnerable, peculiarly inconsequential. I decide I don’t like being alone. By the time I return to our campsite, Ben is ready and waiting beside the loaded cart. His right hand is resting on a clunky metal monster with ‘Olivetti’ written on it.

“I’m a press attaché,” he says with a mischievous grin. “And you’re a typist.”

“A what?”

“You work for Sir Buchanan’s office as a typist. That’s our story, anyway. You came along to assist me during my audience with the former tsar, and now we’re traveling back to Sir Buchanan’s headquarters in Saint Petersburg. So if anyone happens to ask, that’s what you are to tell them. Oh, and you’re British. Your English sounds clean enough.”

“Alright,” I reply, still gaping at the metal monster like a black box with gnashing fangs. “But what is that?”

Ben’s jaw falls open. “You don’t…?” Then he rubs his forehead, sighing deeply. “Jesus Christ. You’ve never used a typewriter. Of course you haven’t. Great. Fantastic.”

“We always write by hand. My penmanship is flawless, Mother saw to that.” She’s still battling with Anastasia, but that’s a war that may go on as long as the one between the sun and the moon.

“Okay. Okay. This works out, actually. Because I’m not going to entertain you all day. So here is your assignment.” Ben slaps the back of what he tells me is a typewriter, and then waves for me to come closer. He reaches into the pocket of his coat and produces a British passport. Every line is filled out except for the name. He slides the paper into the machine and makes some bewildering adjustments. “So, you insert the paper, set the carriage—that’s this roller-type piece here—and type.” He taps forcefully on the keys until two words appear in the blank reserved for the passport holder’s name: Lana Brinkley.

“That’s me?” I ask doubtfully.

Ben smirks, amused. “That’s you.”

“So you could have given me a better name if you wanted to!”

“But then how would you learn humility?” He removes the fraudulent passport, shakes the paper until it dries, folds it into a neat little square, and slips it back into his coat pocket. “If you’re typing a longer message, the typewriter will ding when you’ve reached the end of each line. Then you use the lever to move the paper down, reset the carriage, and resume typing.”

I nod, but without much confidence. This seems complicated.

“You said you wanted a carriage,” Ben teases.

“Yes, one with magnificent draft horses and velvet seats and preferably no less than two servants. Not…whatever that is.”

“Well, if you’re going to pass for a typist, I’m afraid you must learn to type.” He finds me a stack of blank paper in his collection of bags and trunks, and then climbs into the front of the cart as I get into the back. The trousers, I hate to admit to myself, do make it easier to move around, although I’m not sure I approve of how much they accentuate the shape of my body. The thought of Ben looking at me in them gives me a plunging sort of feeling that is half-mortification and half-thrill…not that he has exhibited any interest at all. “Before we go any farther, do you have anything with you that I don’t know about?”

He means things like the heirlooms I have squirreled away in the large steamer trunk: the jewels sewn into my dress, the photograph. I can sense that he wouldn’t want me to have them, although I’m not sure why. In any case, I have no intention of giving them up. The jewels are the only thing of value that I have to trade if we find ourselves in a desperate situation. The photograph is the only string left that connects me back to my family, my home. “No,” I reply primly.

“Good.” He whistles at the mule and she tugs us through the trees and out onto the dirt road that leads, eventually, to the train station. As we ride joltingly along, the creaky cart wheels bumping over every rock and mound and muddy trough, I practice my typing: very slowly at first, and with only my index fingers. I read aloud as I go, gradually picking up speed.

“There once was a German princess born in the Duchy of Hesse. She was very beautiful but very shy. She had a wonderful talent for playing piano, but would run and hide if anyone asked her to perform in public. One day, when she was attending the wedding of her sister, the princess met a prince from a distant kingdom. They were only children, but they instantly knew they had found true love. They snuck off together and carved their names into a window pane. Over the years, each conspired to marry the other. They refused many suitors and wrote each other hundreds of letters. His family did not approve of the princess’s religion and lack of charisma; her family did not approve of the prince’s distant and troubled nation. But at last it became apparent to all that no earthly forces could keep the couple apart. Ten years after their first meeting, the prince and princess were finally married. And they lived joyously and peacefully in each other’s service for the rest of their days.”

Ben lights one of his hand-rolled cigarettes. The smoke doesn’t bother me; on the contrary, it reminds me of Papa smoking his pipe in his study, in the garden, as he read to us by the fireplace, as he danced with Mother in ballrooms back when she could still dance. It reminds me of home. “I’m not sure if you’ll ever give Shakespeare a run for his money, but I’ll admit I’m marginally entertained.”

I smile to myself, sentimental warmth rising in my face. “It’s Papa and Mother’s story.”

“Huh. I didn’t know your people were allowed to marry for love.”

By ‘your people,’ he seems to mean royalty, and there is some derision in his deep voice. “Well, surely duty must come first. But when love can accompany it, that’s a happy coincidence.”

“And what if duty compels you to marry a man who is, say, cruel? Or dreadfully boring? Or in love with another woman? Or who closely resembles a mole-rat?”

I resume my typing with a new exercise. For each letter of the alphabet, I type a French word that begins with it. “I don’t think that sort of thing happens very often.”

“But if it did.”

I shrug, not especially enjoying this topic of discussion. “Then duty comes first, as I said. But I believe most royal couples are perfectly content. At least nine out of every ten.”

“That many!” Ben marvels sarcastically. “Have you ever considered that your own personal experience, as pleasant as it may be, could be coloring your perception of how the world works?”

I ignore him and continue my typing. Attaché for A, bisou for B, croissant for C, doux for D…

After a moment, Ben says: “You aren’t going to regale me with another fairytale? I’m devastated.”

“I’m busy practicing my French now. Please don’t intrude.”

“You speak French as well as Russian and English?” He sounds impressed; for a split second anyway, just long enough for me to catch it like a firefly in my fist.

“And Italian, and Latin. And I’ve just started on Japanese.”

“But no German? That seems like it would be an easier beast to slay.”

“I’ve always purposefully avoided learning it, even though Mother’s family is German. I never envisioned myself marrying a German. I figured Maria could take that bullet. She doesn’t care, she’d marry anyone who could give her a castle and ten babies and a bulldog or two. I would say she was a milkmaid in a past life, but Mother’s heart would stop dead if she thought I subscribed to reincarnation.”

“Not fond of Germans?” Ben asks. “Well, who can blame you. Half the world isn’t fond of them at the moment.”

“I suppose they weren’t so awful before the Great War. But they’re rather boorish, aren’t they? They always sound like they’re angry. Like someone just stole their horse and they’re screaming at them from the front porch to come back or else.” I smile dreamily as I type. “I’ve always fancied the thought of marrying a prince from a glamorous, romantic kingdom. Maybe Italy or Greece. There has even been talk of me marrying Uncle George’s eldest son David. He’s rather beguiling. Tall and slim. Clear blue eyes like a lake. And he’s going to be the king of the British Empire one day, you know. We could holiday together in beautiful, sunny colonies like the Bahamas.”

“You’re still as important as all that? Important enough to make a marriage of that political significance, I mean.” Ben glances back at me and lifts one thick, dark, inquisitive eyebrow. “Seeing as your family doesn’t have a kingdom anymore.”

This is an insensitive thing for him to say. I frown down at the typewriter. “A wife almost always assumes the kingdom of her husband, so why should she require her own? She needs only sound breeding and a suitable temperament. And besides, we might yet return one day.”

Ben twists all the way around to stare at me, the reigns falling out of his hands. Fortunately, the mule seems to know her own way around. “I’m sorry, what?”

“It has been a brutal few years. The Great War, the supply shortages, the bad harvests…the people are frustrated, and understandably so. They lashed out blindly, at those who didn’t deserve it, at us. But the dust will clear. And when it does, I think the Russian people will come to their senses and realize that they want us back. That they need us.”

“Are you insane?” Ben snaps. “Are you utterly brainless? What’s floating around in that skull besides fiction and languages you’ll never use once you’re married off to some prince who only sees you as a broodmare?”

“How dare you! You can’t speak to me like this—!”

“For years, for a bloody decade, Sir Buchanan warned your father about what was coming. He tried to get him to moderate his views, to give the people more voice in government, to stop murdering them when they protested. And when none of that worked and the end was apparent, Sir Buchanan tried to convince your father to abdicate long before he did. Don’t you understand?! None of this needed to happen! Your family could have fled to Britain years ago, before the animosity against your father spread like wildfire across the globe, and Russia could have established their own parliament like Britain’s and negotiated a peace treaty to stay out of the war and none of us would be here now if not for your father’s selfish, pointless obstinacy—!”

“My father is a good man,” I choke out as hot, furious tears burn in my eyes.

“And he was a terrible ruler!” Ben shoots back like artillery. “He ordered protesters to be butchered, he sent untrained boys to die in some other country’s war, he clung to the throne for no one’s benefit but his own—”

“And what about my benefit?” I demand, still weeping, feeling monstrously like a child. “What about my mother’s and my sisters’ and Alexei’s? He must have feared for our futures if we were dethroned and left without any resources, any security, anyplace to call home—”

“He did you no favors,” Ben says harshly. “Half the country—the country that you obviously have not even a rudimentary understanding of—are moderates scrambling to secure the Provisional Government and disentangle themselves from the war while still somehow preserving their dignity and that of the millions of dead soldiers Russia has already laid on the altar. The other half are trying to instigate a wholesale communist revolution. There is no one, no one, who wants the tsar back. And you better pray to God that the communists don’t manage to seize power before King George gets your family out, or your father just might be guillotined on the steps of Saint Basil’s Cathedral.”

I bolt to my feet unsteadily, grip the side of the lurching cart, and leap out onto the dirt road.

“What the hell are you doing?!” Ben shouts after me.

I take off sprinting down the road, the wind whipping my face, sobbing as I run beneath the shadows of trees until my lungs are columns of flames and my legs feel wobbly and boneless. I can hear the pounding of the mule’s hooves approaching, the hurtling of wooden wheels, the slapping of leather reins. I am forced to slow to a vigorous march as my body betrays me, wheezing and aching and as ineffectual as a woman is so often assumed to be. The salacious trousers have come in handy once again. Who would have guessed.

Ben pulls up alongside me, reining in the mule to match my pace. “Hey! Get back in the cart!”

“I’ll walk the rest of the way to the railroad station.”

“It’s 200 more kilometers!”

“See you there.”

Now Ben jumps out of the cart. The mule, perplexed but not rattled, comes to a halt and waits in the middle of the road with her long ears angled in opposite directions. Ben rushes in front of me and leans down until we’re at eye-level, breathing heavily. I can smell smoke on him, and something else too: maybe cologne, maybe soap, maybe aftershave, maybe just the scent of a man in his prime. His lips are pink and full and soft-looking, I notice, as if for the first time. His cheeks are irritated and red from the wind; the ruthlessness of the climate here doesn’t agree with him. It is the only way in which I am stronger than he is. His green eyes are wide and blazing. “Get. In. The. Cart.”

“No,” I whisper, tears all over my face.

“You can’t just run off like that,” he pleads, less angry now. “Where are you going to go? There’s nothing out here except trees and…I don’t know…probably bears and wolves and maybe even Siberian tigers. You can’t get ripped apart by wild animals. Don’t you want to make it to London? To argue for your family’s liberation? They could find no fiercer advocate than you, of that I am convinced.”

“How would you possibly protect me from a bear?”

Ben unbuttons his coat and pulls up his white wool sweater to show me a pistol tucked into the holster clipped to his belt. “Just in case,” he says, smirking crookedly, lowering his sweater again. “Now I am keeping no secrets from you, and you are harboring none from me. We’re even.”

I nod, sniffling, thinking of my jewels and photograph hidden in the steamer trunk. My words are so strained I can barely hear them myself, my hands are trembling; hell, I’m trembling all over. The possibility is unimaginable. “Do you really think they’re going to kill Papa?”

Ben sighs, shaking his head. “No, I don’t,” he replies gently. “I think the Provisional Government will be able to keep the communists in check for now. I think they will leap at the opportunity to ship the former tsar off to Britain without the potential controversy of a trial and execution. And I also think we should get back in the cart and keep moving now.”

“I’m sorry your boss gave you this assignment and now you have to risk your life for a family that you evidently hate,” I lash out like a cornered animal, hissing and brandishing its glinting claws. “For a grand duchess that you hate. This must be an awful inconvenience for you.”

“It’s rather more complicated than that,” Ben says. “There’s some opportunity in it as well.”

Of course: his leather-bound notebook full of observations, his scrawled recollections to one day build into a famed article about our journey. An article full of what he truly thinks about me. I feel suddenly, violently nauseous. I feel horrified.

What happened to the grand adventure that I imagined? Where did it go?

And all at once, I can’t even remember how I pictured this journey unfolding; I can’t conjure up some rose-colored vision of me and Ben falling into an effortless friendship, flirting lightly and innocently, discovering new corners of the earth together, parting ways in London as lifelong confidants. Now I can only see Papa as he murmurs folktales older than Christianity with candlelight dancing on his smiling face, as he chases me and my sisters around the gardens with outstretched arms and sparkling eyes, as he carries Alexei from one room to the next when my brother’s joints are inflamed and excruciating and useless, as he never unburdens his mind to his wife or children but spends long afternoons chopping wood as the sun sinks into the west and the lines in his pale face grow deeper.

He couldn’t be responsible for bloodshed, for mercilessness. He’s not that kind of man. He’s never been that kind of man.

“We really should keep moving,” Ben prompts.

“Fine,” I fling back as I shove by him. I mop my tears away with the sleeve of my wool sweater, climb into the back of the wooden cart, and sit as far as I can from Ben with my bent knees hugged to my chest. I stare silently off into the forest as the mule drags us towards the Trans-Siberian Railroad, towards Moscow and Saint Petersburg and the Baltic Sea and London, towards the conclusion of this tenuous partnership and the redemption of my family. I am looking forward to soon never having to see Benjamin Hardy again, and yet I’m also not; and this is a difficult paradox to put into words of any language.

We don’t stop until it’s almost dusk. Ben hops down from the cart, leads the mule off the road by her bridle (and gives her an encouraging scratch on the forelock when she hesitates), and begins to set up camp in a small clearing encircled by heaps of frost grass. Dinner is loaves of bread again—even more tough and dry than yesterday—and metallic-tasting water from canteens. Dessert is a hand-rolled cigarette for Ben and a handful of honeyberries I found in the bushes for me. And when Ben grapples with the tent, I come over to help him with it just to prove I can.

Ben builds a fire, and we sit wordlessly on opposite sides of it with the reflections of flames in our eyes. Ben jots down today’s thoughts in his notebook, every so often glancing off into nowhere and tapping his chin thoughtfully with the end of his pen, biting his full lower lip absentmindedly as he sifts through the ocean of word in his head to fish out the right one. Meanwhile, I read my copy of Tarzan of the Apes. I stumble across a few English terms I don’t know—quixotic, cartography, constellations, ruminate—but I don’t ask Ben about them.

After a long time, when the moon and stars have emerged bright and ancient in the night sky, Ben closes his notebook and watches me. At first I ignore him. And then, eventually, I can’t anymore.

“What?” I ask irritably, keeping my place in Tarzan of the Apes with my pinky finger, which is nearly numb from the cold.

Ben’s words are calm, restrained, painstakingly chosen. Firelight is fierce and bloody on his face. “I had two infant brothers die of pneumonia, a perfectly preventable illness had they had access to good doctors and proper nutrition and a warm dry home, which they did not. I had a sister die in childbirth because there was no midwife available to attend to her. I have had friends come home from the war with limbs or half their faces missing, a fate which I myself am spared only because of my employment with Sir Buchanan. You have no idea what the world has been through while you were off playing board games and reading novels in greenhouses and lounging on lakeshores with your idyllic little family. You have no idea what life is like for the rest of us. And perhaps that’s not your fault, and it is unjust of me to resent you for it, and I must learn to temper this wrath I’ve been carrying around in my chest since childhood. But it’s still true.”

He stands, clutching his notebook with hands that are red from the savage Siberian wind, and vanishes into the tent.

[comingfromastatechampionasshole]

Buttercream:  A mostly complete but not at all exhaustive guide to the six main types of buttercream you will encounter in your travels.

There is no one “buttercream!” When you see a cake has “buttercream” you should be asking, “okay but what kind?” as they vary wildly in taste, texture, and ease. 

I floated the idea, to great happiness, of me doing a post on the six main types of buttercream, what they are, how they’re made, and what they’re best used for. Are there different kinds of buttercream from these? Sure, I suppose, and it depends on how we’re defining them and who you ask. For example: There’s a style called “Russian Buttercream” that’s just American Buttercream, but made with sweetened condensed milk. I don’t PERSONALLY find it different enough nor does it it enjoy enough widespread use for me to include here. There’s also what I call “Corporate Buttercream” which is American Buttercream but made with shortening. It’s disgusting, for starters, and for seconds, few people make it outside of grocery stores. So that’s a small bit of how I decided which ones I was going to use in this. 

I have organized them from easiest to most difficult to make, in my opinion. Some of these are flexible, based on your own personal opinion of cooking and things. So your mileage may vary. The “real” buttercreams (Italian, Swiss, French) are all more difficult than the “faux” buttercreams (American, Flour, German). But all have their uses! 

American Buttercream

When people say they hate buttercream, I just assume this is what they’ve had in the past. It doesn’t appeal to me much either, especially if the butter isn’t whipped enough (It needs a SOLID 5-10 minutes of whipping) American Buttercream is a very simple frosting, one of the most simple, in that it’s butter, powdered sugar, vanilla (or other extract) and a little bit of cream. The great thing about American Buttercream is that it is extremely easy to make, and one of the first frostings I ever learned to make. It’s also easy to spread, and does will with broad piping, as it stays relatively soft, and holds color and flavor well. It’s a great pick for frosting sugar cookies with kids. The bad news is: It melts pretty easily. Do not try using this in the summer if you are even thinking of heat being a problem. Also, quite a few people do not care for it! 

Flour Buttercream (or ermine frosting) 

This is my PERSONAL least favorite buttercream. You would think that it being less sweet than American Buttercream would be a selling point, but I find the texture of it very offputting. This is used about as much as American buttercream, because it’s more resistant to melting. It’s made by heating a milk and sugar base with flour, and allowing it to cool and basically become a kid of sweet glue before adding it to beaten butter. It’s great for cakes that need to be in the heat because it’s more stable, which makes it well suited for decoration, and also, like American Buttercream, has little flavor of its own and holds flavors well. The downside is you have to cool it carefully and cover to avoid getting a skin on it, and it takes longer because of the need for very thorough cooling. 

German Buttercream

Whether or not you think German Buttercream is difficult all depends on if you think making custard is difficult. German buttercream basically takes things a step further than Flour Buttercream, and makes the whole base with a custard. This is the best tasting of the ‘faux’ buttercreams by far, because of the flavor the custard allows in development. So why doesn’t it enjoy more wide appeal? A lot of people find the careful eye needed to make custard very difficult, and because of the development of flavor, this buttercream is really only well suited to strongly flavored cakes that can stand up to it. Also, if you thought American Buttercream melted? This one goes to pieces if you look at it wrong, don’t attempt piping or other decoration like that with it. It also is not great for coloring, being as it has a yellow coloring naturally. 

Italian Buttercream

From here on in, you need a candy thermometer. PREPARE YE. 

I went back and forth on whether or not I thought this or Swiss Meringue was more difficult, so you could flip them in your head and I wouldn’t complain. Italian buttercream is made in the ‘true’ buttercream fashion, by whipping eggs, specifically the whites of the eggs, into a stiff-peaked frenzy, and then mix it with a hot sugar sugar syrup, before whipping it with cubed butter. This is the sturdiest of the ‘true’ buttercreams, and if you wanted to do decorations with one, this would be the one I would choose. It even holds up pretty well in the heat! Downsides are: The difficulty inherent to any “true” buttercream, and also it uses raw eggs, and if you use pasteurized eggs, your whip flat out will not be as good. I just use the raw eggs. It also does not hold well at all--serve it the day you make it. 

Swiss Meringue Buttercream

This is my second favorite kind of buttercream, and if you’re nervy about raw eggs but want a ‘true’ buttercream, this is for you. This is the kind of buttercream I make the most. In this buttercream, you cook the egg whites with the sugar, giving you a little bit of an opportunity to ruin the whole thing on the stove. This holds up about as well as Italian buttercream, heat wise, (though not decor wise--it’s very soft and pillowy) and I personally find it holds better overnight. The downside is of course, the cooking risk, and also it requires really constant whisking during to cooking stage. It’s a lighter buttercream and so well suited for lighter cakes and flavors. 

French Buttercream

This is actually my favorite buttercream of all time. It is VERY rich, but when it’s done well it retains a quality of lightness and depth of flavor that really carries. What makes me put it at the most difficult? It’s made in the same way as Italian buttercream, with a hot sugar syrup, but you whip the egg YOLKS by themselves. I don’t know what you know about whipping an egg yolk, but there’s a reason you aren’t called upon to do it often--it takes a long ass time to do, and is frustrating. Which is why I rarely make it. But! In addition to tasting great, this buttercream holds decorations REALLY well, as long as it’s not exposed to too much heat--the high fat content means it’s not very heat-resistant. Also, if you’re looking for a white frosting, this is in no way your guy. But it tastes like fucking pastry cream when it’s done well, but solid like frosting. It’s amazing. 

Have a burning question about food? Go ahead and ask me! Tip jar is here!

[anigerrrr]

Girl’s Talk

Natasha Romanoff x Carol Danvers

Word count: 1.5k

Summary: Kamala is introduced to Yelena, and she’s also the biggest fan of her sister’s ship- CarolNat.

Warning: Fluff, Protective Yelena, Kamala ships CarolNat, Slight Thor/Loki(mentioned)

a/n: Just random pieces written after having my covid vaccine yesterday lol I’m not sure how will Marvel deal with Kamala’s superpower in the upcoming series so I only mention a bit of it. Enjoy!

/

“Ok, can anyone tell me why we always have a new kid in the compound?”

Yelena puffed as she entered the compound a bit later than usual, and she saw her sister, Carol and an unfamiliar teenager already standing there.

She came over to join them, gazing at the new girl with distrust.

“Yelena, did you just call yourself in the third person?” Carol teased, and she shrugged suggestively to the redhead who actually couldn’t hold her laugh back for this moment.

“Ha, is it some kind of 90’s joke?” Yelena retaliated. Apparently the younger blonde didn’t get enough sleep hours last night, it always resulted in her grumpy reactions to anybody. “If so, Captain, you really need to update your comedy list on Netflix.”

“Hey,” Natasha chuckled amusedly between the two blonde women as Carol protested, “just because I aged slowly, it didn’t mean I’m out of date.”

“In case you wanna know,” Natasha raised one brow and showed her support to the blonde Captain- “She actually likes to watch The Tonight Show during our dinner time.”

-by telling their sort-of secret aloud. It’s not gonna harm the redhead spy herself, though.

“What?” Kamala finally had a chance to let out her voice, “you can’t tell me the mighty Captain Marvel, my idol, watches late-night talk shows when having some spaghetti. It’s simply out of character.”

Carol frowned, “excuse me?”

“Ugh, ok.” Yelena opened her mouth with hesitation. “No, not ok, I don’t get it. Did you just call her- ” her head was pointing to the other blonde woman, “- your idol ?”

“Am I supposed to feel offended?” Carol mumbled nearby Natasha’s ear, lowering her voice to avoid any foreseeable conflict for now.

“Um, yeah.” Kamala rolled her eyes to the much taller woman standing right in front of her, and her voice sounded genuinely fearless. “Can’t you see that? She’s Carol Danvers!”

Natasha grinned back at the blonde woman, and only teased quietly, “see, someone really has a crush on you.”

Carol blushed in the tiniest way, opening her mouth slightly but had no idea what to argue. Our Captain couldn’t even tell if the redhead was seriously jealous. Fantastic.

“So you like the name or the glowing part?” Yelena hummed, and tried to hide the little noises from her stomach out of hunger.

“All of them, I guess?”

“Oh, I got it now.” The younger widow turned to her sister, and was not surprised that Natasha had been checking on her already. “We’re having a superhero fan tour here.”

Yelena wanted to get her breakfast as soon as possible, so she tried to be nice and not to get involved in this duty. “Enjoy your day then, just don’t touch any fluffy things around here. The cat can literally swallow people, and the raccoon will shoot you in the head.”

“What? No!” The brown haired girl shouted, “I’m not here for a tour.”

“Yelena, she’s a new member in the team- ” Agent Romanoff finally introduced, and took a quick glance at Carol with a playful smile. “- another one with super power, yes.”

“…wait, what?”

“Not that kind of power to control thunder like Thor or to trick like Loki- by the way, aren’t they a lovely couple?” Kamala explained a little bit, and suddenly changed the subject triggered by her interest.

“Ugh, it’s not officially announced.” Natasha was surprised to hear the little girl’s words, a status that not many people had learned about- even in the avengers’ team.

Impressed. Yelena stared at the kid and thought, still needed her breakfast, though.

“New kids.” Carol shrugged, “we’re actually talking about tomorrow’s mission.”

The redhead immediately started glaring at the blonde Captain.

“You’re leaving for days? Tomorrow?” And Yelena tiled her head to her older sister. She’d better not be the last person to know this.

Clearly someone had forgotten their domestic plan for tomorrow.

“Well, not ‘for days’,  I’ll be back before you know it. At least that was the plan.” Natasha looked a bit…nervous, but not speechless. By her side, the Captain who’s in charge of the mission seemed to be awkward for a minute, and they shared a look of silent communication.

“Yelena, you’re welcomed to- ”

“Uh- uh, no. I’m not interested in being the third wheel in your mission date. Besides, I’ve got my own thing to deal with as well. Just remember to pick me up at 8, and feed Fanny before you leave the house, it’s your turn.” Yelena shook her head quickly like nothing’s gonna convince her, and the other young superhero goggled upon hearing some keywords.

“Wait, you two are dating? ” Kamala asked in excitement, “oh my god, CarolNat is real.”

“Well, it’s- we’re…” the blonde Captain suddenly stuttered, “we’re close, yes. That’s true.”

Natasha rolled her eyes back to show her feedback towards Carol’s explanation, and refused to make any eye contact with her sister who just accidentally sold their privacy to the newest avenger.

“Oh, I thought that was your superpower.” Yelena shrugged to the two older women, kind of feeling sorry for the coming out declaration she made for them. “Like, telling the lovebirds in a group of people.”

Kamala gave her a ‘seriously?’ look, “nobody owns a superpower like that.”

“You never can tell.”

“Ok, things got a little tense here.” Carol tried to calm them both down before they made a wrong impression on each other. “It’s time for breakfast, how about I make you guys some really nice omelette?”

“Oh God.” Natasha sighed exaggeratedly, but she didn’t deny the purpose. When Carol turned, she just pushed her sister’s shoulder and forced the younger blonde to follow. “C’mon Yelena, you love eggs.”

“I never said that.”

“Wow, Captain Marvel is making me an omelette…am I dreaming?”

“Never had a nightmare before?”

“Yelena!”

*

“So…”

A half hour later, Yelena was staring at her plate and trying to figure out why it’s not like a normal ‘omelette’ she had seen on television. “In what universe an omelette looks like this?”

“Well, it’s not that bad.” Natasha took a bite of hers, perfectly ignoring the fact that it resembled more scrambled eggs rather than an omelette.

“Stop being rude- ”As they both saw Carol and Kamala on their way to the table, Natasha squeezed her sister’s hand and ordered softly, “and tomorrow I promise to buy you the expensive tweed coat you always stare at in the display window.”

“Huh, it’s exactly why I really can’t stand to undergo a mission with you two. Deal.” Yelena sounded mockingly but she didn’t mean to embarrass her anyway. “You turned weak, Natasha. You knew it, right?”

Natasha only hummed in russian as a response (something like ‘you’d know that when we spar’ ), and grinned when Carol sat next to her as usual. The blonde Captain was finally done with cooking everyone’s breakfast and Kamala had surprisingly finished hers, only sipping a glass of apple juice.

“So, how did you meet?” Said Kamala, aka the newest avenger with extraordinary attention to the secret pairs around the base, “how long have you been dating- I wanna know the whole story.”

“Here we go.” This was the best reaction for Yelena to ‘stop being rude’.

“Well, first of all, I won’t deny or admit any statement of it…” Natasha cleaned her throat and started, her sweet butter sandwich was left on the plate.

“We’re apparently colleagues.” Carol promptly interrupted with a shrug, which made the redhead widen her green eyes in disbelief.

“I met her after the snap, and during the five years, the feelings just kinda grew on us.” The blonde smiled gently as she took Natasha’s hand, “after the end of the war, we started hanging out once a month like normal people, later on it began to be once a week as my main works in space were separated to the new-trained protectors and the Guardians. That’s it.”

Kamala was literally speechless, looking like she just got the best Christmas gift for this year.

“If you kiss her like those cliched soap operas now, I’m gonna kill you both.” Yelena did like the eggs, but obviously she wouldn’t say it. Instead, she ate it up and mumbled her statement after hearing the shorter version of their romance.

“Yelena.” Natasha raised one of her brows, reminding her who’s in charge on this table. And their deals .

“Alright, just kidding.”

“Can I take a picture when you do that?” Kamala immediately stood up and asked Carol, it seemed no one actually cared about the debriefing of tomorrow’s mission anymore. “-when you kiss Black Widow.”

Her Captain was flushed, “w-what?”

To save her partner from the short circus situation, Natasha rolled her eyes and pulled Carol’s arm all in a sudden. All Kamala could do was open her mouth widely in amazement, and tried hard not to scream like a fan who was completely out of control.

Natasha left a rough kiss on the corner of Carol’s lips, her blood red lipstick stained slightly on it.

“Satisfied?” She said with an impeccable grin, leaving the flummoxed blonde behind her.

“This place is harmful for my heart.” - the newest superhero from Jersey City claimed.

“You’re gonna get used to it, kid.” - and the former widow from the red room finally agreed with her.

“I should have stopped leaking the key information.” - the blonde Captain knew it deeply that Natasha’s not gonna take it easy on her tonight.

[rigelmejo]

some comprehensible input links

language learning forums can be so toxic sometimes...

so many people love to push that “one method” is phenomenal and works when others just WON’T, meanwhile another will say the opposite. And then its like... where is the room to acknowledge maybe parts of each method have merit for different individuals, since they might help or click in different ways.

just today i saw someone arguing about stephen krashen’s language theories and how they’re all disproven bullshit that are completely unusable. I don’t know a huge amount about his theories. But I do know the emphasis he brought up on “providing students comprehensible input and lessons to learn from” is a concept that also is in stuff like the modern Teach Languages Through Storytelling lessons and Comprehensible Input Lessons. Which if you’ve ever used them? They’re Amazing. They are lessons where teachers purposefully use the target language as much as possible, and use visuals to help make what they say as comprehensible as possible to students so they can learn. This is how when I volunteered, we were supposed to tutor ESL speakers - because we could not reliably teach with english translation since their english levels varied, and we did not have speakers of every learners native language present to help teach them. Our program coordinator showed an example of how to do it by teaching us some Thai, his native language, in this method. And it was extremely easy to follow and understand. Textbooks/grammar guides/flashcards certainly will help speed up the process - aka allow students to use Graded Reader books, learner podcasts, then target language native materials like shows and novels to learn quicker. But lessons in the target language as soon as possible, emphazising getting students to comprehend, is valuable. Just as its valuable later on when students can handle more complex lessons in the target language.

Examples of teachers teaching through comprehensible input (I am thrilled to notice there’s a lot more than last time I looked these sorts of channels up):

Hit Chinese: https://youtu.be/xG3w2i1OBfc

Unconventional Chinese with Keren: https://youtu.be/9N-nNvnAYTs

French Comprehensible Input: https://youtu.be/c2SUQVjklVA

Alice Ayel (french): https://youtu.be/DcuVNAnsWZM

Dreaming Spanish (a fantastic example): https://youtu.be/ObO1CGY_NHI

Comprehensible Russian: https://youtu.be/gHCvEKxeXvk

Comprehensible Japanese: https://youtu.be/gHCvEKxeXvk

Japanese Immersion with Asami: https://youtu.be/pr_yRUVQQt0

Learn Korean in Korean*: https://youtu.be/zUulbCruiMs

I just found the Learn Korean in Korean channel a few weeks ago, notable in that he also teaches hangul before the other lessons. I think he maybe uses too few pictures to make it as easy on students. But having said that, I know zero korean whatsoever and am watching his Lesson 1 and finding it completely easy to follow. So I’d say yes his teaching style probably falls under “engage student in the target language and make it comprehensible so they can learn it.” I’m really impressed with his channel tbh because it teaches totally in Korean so any language learner from any native language could use it.

Just found Japanese Immersion with Asami today while looking up “japanese comprehensible input” and its an amazing example of how these kinds of lessons work. In a classroom setting (or with a tutor), generally the idea is to provide learners with lots of comprehensible input of the language they’re learning and perhaps some help to keep things comprehensible (in a classroom that would be word definitions on the board maybe for reference, or in these examples subtitles to aid learners for reference - although first priority a teacher is aiming to use pictures/gestures/visuals to make as much as possible comprehensible).

Examples of textbooks that teach through comprehensible input (these were made before Krashen, so i merely bring up Krashen because Today’s Language Forum Arguement was ‘all krashen’s ideas are bullshit ALL of them even comprehensible input ideas so you shouldn’t even bother using even a little of something related to his ideas):

French: https://archive.org/details/jensen-arthur-le-francais-par-la-methode-nature

Italian: https://archive.org/details/LitalianoSecondoIlMetodoNatura

Latin: lingva latina per se illustrata 

English: https://archive.org/details/english-by-the-nature-method

(I’ve personally used that textbook for french and absolutely loved its teaching style, it works Really Well for me). 

Graded readers, if they teach new vocabulary in context, may also fall into this section (depending on learner’s starting level compared to a graded reader).

my only point here is just. i hate seeing valuable learning methods completely thrown away, just because someone’s decided to equate one person’s specific method as bad - to decide every single thing related to it must be useless. In this particular case - before Krashen was old enough to have any theories, Arthur Jensen was making some of those books listed above! (Back then it was called ‘the nature method’ - although plenty of books using the term ‘the nature method’ do not teach as comprehensibly as what I’ve listed above, there’s definitely a range from ‘these are just vocab lists’ to ‘these are actually slowly teaching me new words in context’ lol). and all those youtube channels for comprehensible input? There are learners who do find them useful! I’ve found them useful!

oh man just today... sometimes people will be like “you MUST use flashcards to learn a language” and hello no you absolutely don’t have to i never did with French. Some people say “you MUST use textbooks” and yet there’s examples of people who did fine without them, vice versa people say “you must NOT use textbooks if you want to sound natural’ or whatever which? Me using grammar guides has always been immensely useful for me personally - though again some people found success with Much more textbook use, and with none. So can we please accept different methods work for different people?! And beyond that - maybe some Pieces of methods are useful to someone EVEN if the ‘whole thing’ isn’t. 

Mass Immersion Method/Refold - its not ‘all’ for me. I’m never ever going to sentence mine. I rarely use flashcards and I never plant to MAKE any myself lol. Have I still found some useful pieces of Refold that have benefited me? YES I have. (Notably the parts about ‘comprehensible input’ since we’re on the topic). What I took from what little i have heard from Krashen - in particular a lecture he gave on improving reading ability in students - is reading for pleasure, exposing yourself to a lot of material even if its not perfectly at your level, will help you improve. Students who learned word lists, and students encouraged to extensively read, both made vocabulary and reading level improvements. Which - we’ve been in elementary school and had ‘free reading time’ to help us learn to read better! By reading something we liked for a period of time! Besides just the books assigned in class the teacher had us do vocab lists for! Well, in my french studies I very much saw that apply to my own second language learning too - sometimes I looked up words as I read, and learned words that way. Sometimes I simply read french for pleasure and just guessed at unknown words I Could guess at and moved past others - and also improved my reading ability and picked up some new words. Both ways helped my french improve, my reading improve, my vocab improve. And so that is what I took from it - that there is some merit in engaging with something you can understand Somewhat at least. That if you have some comprehension of a material, you may be able to learn Some More from it whether you just learn from context OR conciously look up everything unfamiliar. (And I do think looking things up speeds up the process sometimes). My point though is like... we’re really gonna throw out some good pieces because we don’t like one person who’s managed to touch on them? When so many before and after, their own levels of correct and useless parts, have found some usefulness in some parts?

I just do not get language forum drama lol... the issue is. These people were arguing because they find krashen ‘useless’ then all comprehensible input study is ‘useless’. Ok then. But pushing to all learners to use only a textbook, and avoid engaging with actual language (even when it may be comprehensible and therefore useful to them like the links above, for some learners), then they may slow their progress if it doesn’t suit them well. And it always depends on the individual, everyone’s a bit different. 

[wolfstarlibrarian]

Since we’re getting into some cooler weather, what do you have as far as fics with clothes sharing? Especially anything with Remus swimming in something of Sirius’s 😍 jumpers, quidditch jerseys, sweatshirts, leather jacket. You get the point. I think. I hope. 💖

Friend, this is one of the Librarian’s all time favorite tropes. It’s featured in many fics, though it’s not always easy to find later without it being tagged. Here are some all-time favorites for now, that hopefully you’ll enjoy. 

Clothes Sharing Wolfstar

breakfast in bed by @remus-john-lupin “You’re wearing my clothes,” Sirius says stupidly. Remus looks down at himself, tugging at the hem of the shirt before looking back at Sirius. “Sorry. I should’ve asked. Should I take them off?”

Unknown Pleasures by @kattlupin With the war intensifying around him Sirius starts to question what the point of all of this is. It just takes an Order mandated shelter-in-place with Remus and his kind words, magical plants, and good home cooked meals for Sirius to finally realize where his heart lies and that there are reasons to continue to fight.

Solntse by @lumosinlove Sirius, a young Russian billionaire hires Remus, who is working part time as a call boy to make ends meet. Things happen, feelings occur.

Impossible Things by @accioromulus Sirius’s thoughts are a slow-moving, impending disaster. How he wants to pin Remus up against the cupboards, to crowd him into a corner; how he wants to intertwine their fingers, to brush his lips against Remus’s forehead, his jaw. Instead, he settles for ducking his head and sliding a finger through the belt loop in Remus’s denim jeans—a ridiculous gesture so utterly intimate, even for the pair of them, that he only allows it because he’s just drunk enough. “Stop stealing my bloody clothes, Lupin.” He says, very quietly. Remus looks up at him, eyes dark, and murmurs pleasantly: “Better learn to do your own laundry then, Black. Consider it my fee.”

Everything Would Be Okay by @accioaroace After the full moon, Sirius finds comfort in Remus' jumper

Not Very Punk by @sqvalors  Sharing clothes with James is not the same as sharing clothes with Remus; he knows it and James knows it, and now he’d quite like to get them both blindingly drunk so they can conveniently forget it. (implied R/S, First War)

a jacket's tale by nightswatch A series of things that happened when Sirius let Remus borrow his beloved leather jacket.

Project Bundle Moony by @starstruck4moony Sirius is tired of Moony suffering in his old worn clothes and decides to take matters into his own hands. All goes according to plan until Remus comes down to breakfast wearing Sirius's clothes....

When Remus Learned About Quidditch (and Became a Successful Player) by @remus-john-lupin Remus comes across Sirius’s old Quidditch jersey, and takes an impromptu lesson while wearing it.

Je veux être aimé (I want to be adored) by @kattlupin From the moment Sirius Black arrives at the Lupins French Countryside Villa, Remus Lupin’s life is forever changed as he navigates what it means to fall in love for the first time. Je veux être aimé (I want to be adored) is heavily inspired and adapted from André Aciman’s Call Me By Your Name

Marine!Sirius away for the holidays by @lumosinlove

Remus is still not sure why he bought a tree. It just makes him sad, looking at it, decorating it. He’s doing it alone and putting Christmas music on doesn’t help, that only reminds him that he’s also listening to Christmas music alone. But he did it out of tradition, really, and because Sirius loves Christmas. He’d want to see pictures. Remus jumped at the thought and picked up his phone.

If you need a fic recommendation, ask the Wolfstar Librarian!

[extremelyblackandwhite]

heiress - 2

pairing: bucky barnes x oc!reader

a/n: this is part two of a four part series based on a song lyrics sent to me by an amazing anon with a reader based on my favourite oc. hope you enjoy xx

“letters strewn across your bedroom floor. such beautiful words but you can’t remember who they’re for“

previous chapter

His memories had always been foggy. Even after slipping from HYDRA’s control, his memories were still foggy. He could remember almost everything through a sepia-like filter yet his memory as even more distorted the moment he looked at her. He had this gut wrenching feeling he had known her yet his foggy red tinted memories gave him no answer as to who this woman was and whenever he tried digging deeper into his subconscious. he would just get tired. Almost as if his own mind did not allow him to know her but he knew he must’ve seen her face or her figure somewhere and if he hadn’t then he must’ve known her in another life because whenever he looked at her, he felt comfortable. It was an odd sensation to explain, a deja-vu like feeling, a feeling which made him want to run up to her and held her into his arms but she was a stranger. Everything was strange here even Wanda who despite him having shared a few words with, looked so distant.

      - When did Wanda have time to have two ten year olds? -  Sam threw himself to one of the beds in the room the two of them had been assigned to. Sharon had gotten a different room yet Sam and Bucky were bunking together like 13 year old campers. - Also can she resuscitate people now? I mean, he’s an android but nevertheless. Oh my god, how did an android and a human had kids?

     - Do you trust them? Sharon isn’t too convinced.

     - Well, Wanda fought by our side so did Vision and Fury and Hill are with them. Unless they all turned evil, I think we can somewhat trust them. 

     - I don’t know, Sam. I ... I don’t trust the girl.

     - They’re almost all girls, cyborg brain. Be specific. Did specificity did not exist in the 40s?

     - The one who dropped her gun first.

     - Maybe, she’s Pierce’s kid or so says Sharon. Maybe you used to babysit her. 

     - No, I ...

     - Sergeant Barnes ... - Monica knocked on the door before allowing herself into the bedroom. - There were some letters in the file written by you. We believe it is not our right to intrude onto your privacy so we wanted to give them to you. 

     - God, every time I discover something about you, it makes you sound even older than you are. - Sam leaned against the bed frame as Bucky warringly took the letters from the Monica who left the room once her job was done.

The paper had grown old with time, yellowing around the borders of the Red Room envelopes they used to give the girls who behaved well enough so they could send their parents some news. He remembered stealing a few to try and write any memories which came through so he wouldn’t forget them when the officers erased him. Somehow they always found the letters yet there it was in his hands, a big stack of letters which seemingly hadn’t been destroyed. It was his handwriting that much he knew, however he did not know who Daisy was, he did not know who had the name to which the letters were addressed to. 

     - Who did you write letters to? Steve?

     - Daisy. - he didn’t mean to reply but those words just seemed to flow naturally from him and he was entranced by the name in his handwriting alone. 

The snow felt step onto the ground, it was cold, cold enough everyone was wearing jackets inside despite the heater being on and he seemed to have been transported back into his memories. Everyone was cold and covered but not her and no matter how hard he tried to make up her face, it was fogged up in his memory but he could see her, he could see her in her strap black ballet top and worn out pink ballerina shoes which she had particularly asked Madam B not to be replaced. He could see her, but he couldn’t make her out, he didn’t know who she was. 

    - Daisy, you’re going to get sick. - Bucky could hear himself speak but he wasn’t speaking, he wasn’t there, he was just reliving a memory. 

   - Don’t call me Daisy. I hate it when you call me Daisy.

   - Hey, cyborg brain? Are you ok? - Sam’s voice was echoey until he touched his shoulder and then he was harshly brought back to reality. - Don’t bug out on me, I don’t know how to reset you. 

    - Yeah, just thinking.

The night was long, too long and he spent every minute of it reading every single letter he had written this woman until they were all spread out across the floor of the room; but we loved with a love that was more than love me and my Daisy, I’m sorry Daisy, I miss you Daisy. Daisy, Daisy, Daisy, Daisy. He had read that name more than a hundred times and he still couldn’t remember who she was yet he knew he loved her or that he had loved her. The more he tried to remember it, the more his head hurt, the more the blurry memories turned red. He didn’t known who this woman who had meant so much to him was. He shoved those letters under the bed and left the room while Sam was sleeping. He need to clear his head, clearly this woman hadn’t meant that much to him if he couldn’t remember her, but he knew it was a lie. He knew she mattered.

The sounds of his shoes against the floor made him forget about her, her the ghost of a woman he loved. He continued to walk, watching the walls surrounding him until a glass wall broke the continuous light blue of the walls. He peeked through it and there it was, the woman he felt he knew in a black suit on pointe. He was hypnotised by the constant plié to on pointe as if it was nothing. Bucky went around, opening the door to watch her more closely.

   - How do you do it? - he asked, taking her by surprise. Turning around, she had fear in her eyes as she took a step back, something Bucky was used to. It no longer hurt as it used to. - The feet thing. I ... my sister used to watch ballet and they always did that. 

   - Oh, uhm ... it’s all about supporting your body weight onto your toes and wearing the right pair of shoes.

   - I’m Bucky, by the way ... Uhm, thank you for not killing us. 

   - I’m Y/N. - she extended her hand to shake his. - Is the room alright? Do you need anything?

   - Do you know who Daisy is? Sharon said your father is Pierce so I thou ...

   - I don’t. - she interrupted him. - I don’t really know a lot about my father’s private life. I’m sorry.

   - You’re too early for ... - Yelena entered the room in tactical gear, stopping once she saw someone other than Y/N. Her eyes searched for Y/N’s who were begging for help. - Fight training. Closed off fight training.

   - Right, I ... I was just looking for the kitchen. - he said but was still gazing her eyes

   - I’ll take you. - the blonde Russian gave him a tight smile, pointing towards the door and exiting with him.

The air that seemed to have been previously held on her chest came out almost in a wave and she felt herself slide against the mirrored wall until she was sat on the floor, head looking at the tall ceiling as if she were in catatonic state, and maybe she was, she didn’t know. How could she know if whenever he spoke to her all she could hear was that piano, that damned low piano and the mirage of him, the mirage of the life she wanted with him in Westview. She looked at her shoes, worn out, the pink satin which one was shiny new had black worn out spots over where there used to be an embroidered daisy. She was glad it was gone, she was glad it wouldn’t return. Nevertheless, she could still feel her ... Agatha, poking at whatever protected her mind. She could almost hear her calling out to her with promises of all she wanted. They had always gone after her ... the weak link, the one whose will was easy to break. It was no mistake the red room had given her the nickname Daisy out of all flowers they could’ve picked. She was easily broken, manipulated to be a strong fighter but easily broken by those who knew. She wondered if the Red Room was still out looking for her, looking for Yelena ... she wondered what control they still held over her, what control her father had over her. Both knew she was alive, both had tortured her with tapes of ... him. They knew she was alive, it was only a cat and mouse game until they took her away. Their experiment. Their unsuccessful successful experiment. 

    - God, he’s awfully chattier than I remember. - Yelena walked into the room, eyes lowering to where she was. - Who told you to take a break? Get up and fight me. 

    - He knows.

    - Chill, Y/N. He didn’t even know what a waffle maker was until now. He’s not gonna break through whatever you made Wanda do to him which, by the way, I’m against. - the blonde sat next to her. - You let Monica hand him the letters, of course he’s gonna wonder who Daisy is. Terrible name.

   - I’m sorry, Yelena, not everyone had the pleasure of having the code name Hyacinth. -  Y/N teased.

   - It was a great code name. The best code name.

   - No, it wasn’t.

   - Want the morning off? I could spar with Monica or Alexei. - Yelena gave her a kind look and an offer she couldn’t refuse. Last thing she wanted to do was to spar with anyone in her mindset. Yelena understood it, her too having dealt with her own trauma inflicted by the Red Room. In times like these, both girls had learned to leave each other alone to cope with whatever demons they had.

Y/N dragged her knees up to her chest like a kid, hair falling in front of her eyes as she fished for the dog tags under her shirt. She ripped them from her neck, letting the old metal tags slide through her fingers. She clenched the memorabilia of past emotions against her chest. 

  - Yelena said you were gloom. - Wanda walked into the room still in her pyjamas. - Besides your shield is down and your thoughts are loud. You ought to learn to control it someday.

  - Well, you seem to love getting in people’s minds.

  - Not yours. Whenever I get the particular pleasure of doing it  ... - she sat next to her, still in her dressing gown. - You’re either feeling guilty or in such pain. I think it’s time you speak about it.

  - She’s still in my mind ... Agatha. She lingers. 

   - What does she know? She couldn’t even give you an actually accurate mirage of Bucky. Two arms? Please. 

   - She’s gonna be after us non-stop, Wanda. She will pair forces with Ross to get what she wants and then all of this will be as worthless as it was. With Zemo if she needs too ... 

   - She can’t get to you, okay? - Wanda gave her a kind smile, the type of smile she gave the twins whenever one of them was sad but this time it didn’t help. She could hear her voice calling out for her, she could see the purple tint in her nightmares and while Monica and Wanda had learned to deal with it, mostly ignoring it, she could fell the witch’s influence in her stronger than ever. 

She remained laid against the wall of the training room even after Wanda was gone. She looked at the ceiling, fingers toying around with the humidity in the air making it fall onto the ground like rain. Fitting, she thought. Yet again, whatever she could do always seemed to mirror whatever she thought or felt like. It was past midday when she made her way from the gym to her bedroom to get dressed. She knew better than to leave the hex unaccompanied but what surrounded it was wilderness and she always felt at peace in wilderness, the soft sounds of birds chirping and the water falls always made her forget the screams from the red room, the purple aura from Agatha ... it just didn’t make her forget Bucky. She had always wanted to see him again, to apologise ... to ... she didn’t know what to do, she just knew she got tongue tied whenever she saw him, the guilt eating her alive.

    - Well, hello dear. - Y/N turned around, eyes shining white behind her iris as Agatha stood there in her purple peplum dress. - There’s no need for a fight, dear. I just want to talk.

    - Well, I don’t ... - she took a fighting stance but the woman merely shrugged.

    - I just came to give you a shoulder to cry. Word on the street is that your Bucky is around. Isn’t that wonderful, dear?

    - Based on your illusion of him, I’d think you wouldn’t even recognise him. 

    - You know, you’ll always be my favourite out of the three girls. You and I are very similar, my dear. Besides, I can help you, I know how your powers work and it’s not for cheap tricks. I can help you with him, I know what it is like to have someone take the person who you love the most be taken for you but I can help you, dear. You and me, we can get what we want, what it’s rightfully yours.

     - He’s not mine. - she meant her words to come strong, swiftly like the thunderstorm winds yet they faltered, as if they were only now registering in her mind. 

     - You know, dearest ... the good thing about the soul stone is that it made you who you are. The bad thing is, you’re not gonna be able to control what it gave you if your soul is in disarray. The more your mind battles, the more your ability will take hold of you.

     - What do you mean?

     - Why do you think Wanda got more powerful when things were falling apart in Westview?

     - Y/N! - Monica’s voice made Agatha disappear in a cloud of purple mist. Y/N turned her head to the side to see Monica make her way through the trees, decked out in her fighting outfit. - What are you doing here? You missed the early morning brief and you’re in ... whatever you’re wearing.

     - I just needed some time off. - she smiled. - Why are you in battle gear?

     - Darcy’s sure one of the books must be in the Red Room ... the one where you were trained. - Monica sighed, less than happy to have to bring Y/N back to that place but if there was someone who could navigate it, it was her. - Yelena was not trained by ... him, so she does not know. Y/N, I don’t think ... I think you and him should talk. 

    - There’s nothing to talk about. - she forced a smile, following Monica back into the hex. - We are different people, besides ... I don’t think he would forgive me at all.

    - Can you at least tell me what happened? What happened with him, what happened in Westview? Wanda says you’re in pain and I don’t want you to be in pain. You helped me when I was in pain, I wanna help you too. We’ve known each other for what? Five years discounting the Thanos thing? Six?

    - I will talk about it someday. Just not today.

    - Are you in the headspace to go with us? We can always try and see what Sergeant Barnes remembers if you’re not up to it.  

    - I am a professional agent. - she smiled. - I’m always prepared.

The sooner we get this book situation sorted, the sooner she wouldn’t have to look at him anymore. At least that’s what she thought and as such she had no problem returning to the place which she had escaped from years and years ago. Nevertheless, she was first and foremost an agent, someone who fought for others and for once she had to do just that. Be professional. 

She got dressed in her traditional black tactic gear and jacket before heading down to the room where they kept most of their ammunition. It had been Jimmy’s idea to arm everyone involved in a mission just in case despite Y/N, Wanda and Monica being capable to hold their own without it. Even so, having a knife or a gun on them had made wonders before. Normally the people they go against aren’t exactly fair and she had learned that the hard way. As she opened the door to the ammunition room, she came face to face with him lacing up his boots. It was the most common action yet it felt so foreign to see him do it, to see him be in control of lacing up his own shoe laces. Part of her was happy for him, happy he was happy, happy he was his own person but the other part of her screamed for her to let it go of her insecurities, he was not the same man she had known and she was definitely not the same woman. She was guilty for more than half his pain and that, that remained the same. 

Y/N ignored him, sliding past him to grab her own utility belt which was really nothing special except for the fact she had gotten everyone important in her life to carve their initials in them. Her point was if she was dying on the field, she had least had something which reminded her of the love which regardless of every bad thing she had done, still remained. She wrapped her belt around her waist and thigh, yet nevertheless it was still too loose. Damned belt.

   - You’re putting it wrong. -  Buck mumbled.

   - Pardon?

   - The belt. - he got up and walked up to her. - The second strap ... it’s too low on your thigh, should be higher.

   - Oh ... -  she moved her gaze away from him.

   - Here. May I? - he asked her, hoping to meet her gaze but she merely nodded still looking the other way. Bucky unclasped the strap from her thigh, bringing it up further up, his knuckles brushing against the fabric of her trousers. She slowly moved her gaze to look at him and he fixed her belt before he moved up, eyes staring into hers. They seemed to look at each other for a lifetime, before he cleared his throat. - It should be better now.

    - Uhm ... thank you, Sergeant Barnes.

    - Cyborg brain, how long does it take to lace up some boots? - Sam’s voice reverberated through the room making the two take each a step back going back to the distance between them. 

    - I have to go. - Y/N grabbed her jacket, exiting the room as fast as she could.

The plane ride was equally unbearable with her sat in front of him, catching his eyes every once in a while. God, she used to love his eyes. She still remembered being tangled in grey worn out sheets, laying across his chest just looking at him, looking at those eyes which always looked the same even when he forgot her. Those blue eyes, they were always the same despite the two of them being different people from who they were in the Red Room. Speaking of the devil, it no longer looked like one. It was falling down, the once crown jewel of HYDRA had worn out with time. The red walls were fading to brown, the spotless rooms were now filled with dust and ghosts of memories. It was gone, so how come it still haunted her?

   - Wanda and Sharon will take east, me and Sam west, Alexei and Yelena south and Y/N you can take north with Sergeant Barnes. - Monica suggested. Y/N shot her a way too familiar look, almost as if she were about to argue with her yet she understood the basis of her decision. After all, not everyone had ... a something controlling power. 

She took charge into the very familiar north wing of the building. They kept most off the girls who were yet to pass to the red room there and it had been her home for years. Bucky however, was remembering things which he couldn’t fully understand. He knew this place yet he didn’t remember walking these halls, he remembered the pain. He could still feel the pain, the much too familiar pain of having all he knew be gone.

    - You’ll take the right and I the left? Sergeant Barnes? - she put her hand on his hand, almost magically taking him away from ghosts of his pain. - Do you want to stop?

    - Yeah, I’ll take the left. - he rebuffed her, turning left.

The room seemed to take him in, memories of his own strained voice as he yelled out for some mercy returned to his consciousness, memories of things he had said, things he hadn’t said. He swiftly turned around, turning his gun to the door before turning back again to see a woman standing in front of him.

    - Woah lower the gun down, dear. - she had an eerily smile on her lips. Buck took a step back slowly but she moved her hand, a purple glow followed by the sound of the door closing. - I’m only here to help.

   - Y/N ... - he tapped his intercom but no sound came from it.

   - Yes, that’s exactly who we are talking about. You see I know who Daisy is, she knows who Daisy is. - she took a file from under her shirt. - Everyone knows who Daisy is but you. Now, I think it’s really unfair you don’t know so I decided to even out the game.

She threw the file onto the ground before disappearing. God, at least back in the 40s people only removed their faces. Bucky looked around, wearingly of his surroundings much more than he was before.  This room. was playing with his mind yet the file laying on the ground proved the woman wasn’t a mere mirage of his mind. He kneeled down too grab the file, opening it to reveal a passport photo of Y/N accompanied by an information sheet. He read through the first lines quickly until one particular fact stopped him. Known aliases: Daisy.

taglist: @lookiamtrying​

[scullysexual]

pirate au fic; i’ll tell you a tale of a pirate queen (5/ )

pirate au | multi-chapter | au | multiple parts | historical au | 18th century | msr | mature | chapter 4 | ao3 | wc: 2,423 |

A tale of a Pirate Queen.

@today-in-fic

- - -

Chapter Five: Here A Man Be Free

The last few men filter through the entrance to the cave, spreading themselves out in the small area. Fifty, Dana counted, of the 300 that mull about the island, only fifty want to continue piracy. Spender keeps watch for any snitches who could’ve followed them here.

“You all know why we’re here,” Mulder asks. He stands near the back of the cave holding the pardon in his hands. “This pardon says we’ll be able to live free if we turn ourselves in but we know that’s not true. We turn ourselves in, when will we ever be allowed, trusted enough, to sail again?” She watches his eyes scan the faces of the men sat listening to him. “When will the likes of Frog, Elias, and Jacko be considered equal in the eyes of white men and gods again?” A murmur begins to rise, mutterings to the person sat next to them. Mulder looks down at the pardon and hops down from the bench he stands upon. “This pardon says all men will be free but what they don’t understand is that here, a man be free. Free from the hierarchy of a naval service, where a man is whipped if he so much as mutters a word, dares to disagree. Free to take as much or little as we want.” A stir begins to form, the mutters and murmurs etch higher and higher as men begin to shout their agreement towards Mulder.

“How many of you have risked your lives on the sea and received nothing but a pitiful handful of coppers?”

The men shout back, banging their hands on the rocks.

“Because that is what you’re asking for when you sign this.” He holds the paper up and points at it. “You’re asking for the whips, for the chains, for the poverty if this is what you agree with.”

All fifty men rise, shouting and yelling in encouragement. Adrenaline courses through Dana as she finds herself swept up in it. She looks towards Mulder who stands there looking pleased with himself. He catches her eye and she smiles.

The cries die down and a slow clap makes its way through the cave. Dana turns towards the noise as the men part and a man she has yet to meet makes his way through the crowd.

“Impressive speech Mulder,” the man says. “How long did it take you to come up with that?”

Mulder sighs. “What do you want, Krycek?”

“Just having a look,” Krycek says. His eyes scan the crew. “An interesting bunch you’ve got here, Mulder. A black man, a psycho,” his eyes finally land on Dana, the look of disgust clouding them. “And a woman.” Dana clenches her fist, staring him down. Krycek smiles and looks back towards Mulder. “Fitting for the disgraced son of a plantation owner.”

“You come to join us?” asks Mulder.

“I don’t think I fit in much,” Krycek answers. “Besides, I haven’t decided if I’m gonna accept the pardon or not yet.”

“Skinner just made you a captain,” says Spender. “Like hell you’re going to accept it.”

“Well, when I decide, I won’t let you know.” Krycek turns away, walking out of the cave.

“Will he tell anyone?” Dana asks. She didn’t trust this Krycek and Spender not stopping his entering worried her.

“No,” says Mulder. “He’s got no love for the British anymore than we do.” He shakes his head. “He won’t say anything.” He shuffles forwards, rising his voice to address the crew. “This is the plan. Tomorrow, Scully will go back to the tavern, be part of the welcoming committee and will sign the pardon on our behalf. It will give us more time to figure a way out of here.” He turns to Dana. “If anyone asks, the rest of us have gone out to sea, you’re not sure when we’ll be back.” Dana nods, it was easy enough. “I want you to report back anything you hear, okay. Anything.”

“Okay,” she agrees.

“The rest of us will camp out here until we know it’s safe to leave,” he addresses back to the men.

“Do you think this will work?” she asks him. It’s not to undermine him, her hope depends on it.

“It won’t be easy but once we’re away from here, we should be okay.”

Dana smiles, hoping that was the case.

.:.:.:.:.:.:.

Colton is an idiot. Ambitious, smug, carrying an air of arrogance and “I’m better than you” around him. The lower end of the ranking, Dana imagines he volunteered for this job, thinking he was doing somebody a favour. All he’s doing is shovelling the shit in the Navy’s eyes.

She signed the pardon, scribbled her signature on behalf of herself and Mulder’s crew. In three days time, they were to board The Angel and go back to England or, alternatively, they could live on here.

She does as Mulder told her. Sits in the tavern and listens to the conversations around her- one she learns are rumours that Krycek plans to take a ship called The Outlaw as the ships in their harbour would become property of the British. She keeps note of what is important and what isn’t, keeping her ears trained on Colton and Skinner, mostly, who sit on the furthest table in the room.

“There are still people yet to have signed the pardon,” she hears Colton say.

“Look,” says Skinner. “Those who want to sign it, sign it. I can’t make them.”

Colton hums. “One of these people who have yet to sign it is Aleksandr Krycek. He was your Right-Hand-Man, was he not?”

“He was,” answers Skinner.

“And you can’t account for his whereabouts?”

“I made him a Captain,” Skinner explains. “He commands his own ships now, his own crew. If he hasn’t signed the pardon, that’s his reasons.”

Dana tucks that one away; Krycek made his decision.

“Well, I doubt you’ll mind looking for him then.”

“Excuse me?”

“Those who don’t sign the pardon are to be caught and hanged, Mr Skinner.”

“You expect me to become your bounty hunter?”

“The Navy would appreciate it greatly.”

Colton’s footsteps retreat from the table, Dana watches him walk past. He takes no notice of her.

This was interesting.

She downs her drink in one gulp and scurries out of the tavern towards Mulder in his cave.

.:.:.:.:.:.:.

“Krycek has gone. I overheard someone say he was planning on stealing a ship called The Outlaw, that all our ships would become property of the British.”

“Makes sense,” says Elias. “Take our ships, we can’t sail anywhere.”

Mulder nods.

“There’s more, too. Colton’s turned Skinner into some pirate bounty hunter. He’s instructed him to go after Krycek and his crew.”

“Traitor!” yells Spender, he kicks the rocks on the ground.

“And once they realise we’re not here, he’ll be instructed to go after us, too,” Mulder states.

Dana nods. Her father told her tales about Walter Skinner, how he was one of the best navigators. There was no out-sailing him.

“We’ll have to leave sooner,” says Mulder.

“How?” Elias asks. “There’s no ships left.”

An idea hits Dana. It might be suicide but it was worth ago.

“What if we took The Outlaw?”

“Steal from Krycek?” Elias laughs, shocked. “That’s the last thing you want to do.”

“It wouldn’t be stealing if we claimed it first,” Dana explains, her eyes on Mulder. “We’ll fight him for it.”

“Krycek isn’t some little amateur sailor, you stupid bitch,” shouts Spender. He stands close to her, peering down at her. “In first sailed with the Imperial Russian Navy. There’s a reason Skinner chose him as his Right-Hand.”

“Alright, back off,” commands Elias, standing between Spender and Dana, creating a wedge.

Spender steps back. “She wants to get us killed,” cries Spender, pointing his finger at Dana.

Dana goes to say something but she’s cut off by Mulder.

“I don’t see you suggesting anything, Spender.” Spender backs down. “It’s worth a shot.” He says, nodding.

Dana smiles gleefully at Spender.

.:.:.:.:.:.:.

The ship sits at the bottom of the harbour. Not a soul in sight, it was easy pickings. Something about it didn’t feel right to Dana.

“If Krycek is really gone, why hasn’t he already taken it?” she asks Elias.

“Nobody knows why Krycek does anything,” says Elias. “Get untying.”

Dana nervously looks around. Her stomach twists and turns. Something was wrong about this. She might not know Krycek every well but something told her he wouldn’t just abandon his ship like this, not while knowing they were still on the island. The others, however, seem not to care. She shakes her head, puts it down to worrying about getting caught by the British and sets on untying the rope.

The moment her hands touch the rope, however, there’s a cry from Elias. She turns as he slips and his dragged into the sea by something.

She goes to shout, to alert the others, but they’re under attack, too. Some pulled beneath the pier, others with shadows holding a knife to their necks.

“You really thought it would be that easy, Mulder,” comes Krycek’s voice. He moves from the shadows, a smile across his face.

“You already have a ship Krycek,” Mulder tells him. “Why do you need this one?”

“It’s bigger, better.” He smacks the side of it. “But I am willing to fight you for it.”

The smile doesn’t leave Krycek’s face. Already, he thinks he’s won.

Mulder nods his head, not letting any fear show. “Deal.”

Krycek just smiles some more. “You win, you get the ship. I win, I get the ship and…” his eyes fall to Dana. “her.”

Dana’s stomach drops as she looks at Mulder. She catches the worry in his eye, a reminder that he isn’t a fighter.

.:.:.:.:.:.

She tries not to let her worry show. Soon as she notices her fingers tangling together, she rips them apart, even going as far to sit on her hands.

Mulder wasn’t a fighter. He avoided it as much as he could but now her life depended on him winning. Dana hoped that wasn’t too much to bear.

“I can fight him for you,” she suggests but Mulder shakes his head.

“That would be cowardly. Especially if I was to get a girl to fight for me.” He smiles. “I’ll be okay, Dana. I’ll try my best.”

She nods, knowing he will. “Will he kill you?”

“No. It’s just who gives up first.” They see Krycek ready. “The others will fight. Your going will be the last thing that happens, okay.”

Dana nods again, believing him, believing in his crew.

His lips press against hers. “I love you,” he confesses.

Dana smiles, pushes at him slightly. “Go on.”

She watches him walk away, her arms crossing over her body.

“He’s been in fights before Scully,” says Elias, soaked through yet recovered from his dip in the sea. “He’ll be okay.”

She uncrosses her arms, allowing her fingers to tangle together as she watches. A clanging of swords, near misses from both of them. Mulder tries to keep up but Krycek is too quick, the edge of his sword scrapes Mulder’s side and Krycek knocks him to the ground.

Dana holds her breath, praying for Mulder to get up, her hand subconsciously falling to her stomach.

Beside her, Elias is whispering his own mantra yet Mulder does not get up. He lays on the ground, his hand covered with blood.

“You’re just not good enough Mulder,” Dana hears Krycek say. He turns around, the victor. He’s won the ship and Dana.

“He’s gotta get past us,” says Elias, determined.

Dana smiles, trying to find comfort in that. She doesn’t tell him that the others don’t care for her.

“Or maybe not.” Elias nudges her. “Look.”

Dana looks to see a dagger pierce Krycek’s calf. The other man falls to the ground as Mulder stands up. The tables have turned and it’s them who have won the shop.

She runs to him, gathering him up in her arms. He falls against her, hissing at the pain in his side.

“Let’s get you inside,” she tells him, helping him towards the ship.

.:.:.:.:.:.:.

Once on board, she helps him with his clothes. The cut is long and nasty. He hisses and winces when she moves the skin.

“Is it bad?” he asks not wanting to look at it.

Dana smiles at him. “You’ll live,” she says. “It’ll scar, though.”

Mulder shrugs. “What’s another scar?”

Dana smiles slightly. She busies herself getting pieces of cloth and bunching them together to press against his side.

“You seem distracted,” he says.

One look into his eyes and Dana knows she can’t keep her thoughts to herself anymore. She drops the cloth and sighs, turning around to sit beside him on the bed.

“You won’t be mad when I tell you?” she asks, looking at her hands, pressing her thumb into her palm.

She waits for him to comment, to offer in this quip or joke. When one doesn’t come, she exhales, her eyes trained above her on the ceiling.

“Mulder…” A shaky breath falls from her lips. The internal struggle of whether to tell him or not. But he’s looking at her expectantly, it’s clear she has something to say.

“You can tell me, Dana.”

And she can. She knows she can.

“Okay,” she says, nodding, believing him. “I…I think I’m pregnant.”

Shock floods his face, then confusion, then awe.

“You’re…” he starts then shakes his head. “How can you be sure?”

She shrugs, unsure herself. “I just…know?” she offers as answers.

He jumps up, the pain in his side forgotten, smiling. Then the smile fades.

“Shit Dana,” he says. “We’re about to go…the men….”

Dana stands, ready to protest.

“They don’t have to know. Not yet.” She grabs his arms. “I’m not even showing yet. Please, don’t leave me behind.”

“Dana, it’s dangerous. This life is dangerous. If something was to happen to you, or…”

“It won’t,” she tells him. “We’re just looking for more crew, right?”

“Right.”

“Then you need me until then. Once I start showing, then you can drop me off somewhere. But until then, I stay here.”

His eyes trained on her stomach, she can see him thinking it over. Finally he nods then laughs.

“A baby…” he says in awe.

Dana finds herself laughing, too. At the absurdity of it all.

Mulder kisses her. Once then twice then once again and Dana laughs some more. She was home. And she was free.

[fancytrinkets]

writing tag game

Thank you for tagging me @johaeryslavellan!

How many works do you have on Ao3?

31

What's your total Ao3 wordcount?

246,241

What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

The top 4 are Good Omens fic followed by one Dragon Age 2 fic from years ago: 

The Angel Line (humor) (Aziraphale/Crowley) 

The Naked Truth (humor) (Aziraphale/Crowley) 

Obliviate (romance, bittersweet, happy ending) (Aziraphale/Crowley) 

The Last Battle (humor) (Aziraphale/Crowley) 

In Good Hands (humor) (FHawke/Varric)

Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

I didn’t used to respond to every comment back when I started posting, but now I reply to everything. I just love the whole commenting process. I like talking about the world I’m writing in with other people who love it, too. I am always SO EXCITED to see the (1) notification for my ao3 inbox. And it is unbearably wonderful to see a (2), (3), or more at a time. I’ve noticed I’m usually equally excited if it’s a comment on my fic or a reply to a comment I’ve left on someone else’s fic. (Sometimes I experience a mix of appreciation and disappointment when it’s a new comment for me if I’m expecting a reply back from another writer about their fic. That’s such a strange feeling and I wonder sometimes if other people get that, too.)

What's the fic you've written with the angstiest ending?

Oh, I don’t really do angst. And probably that’s not what people want from me anyway, judging by how many of my top fics are humorous.

What's the fic you've written with the happiest ending?

I mean they all have some degree of happy ending, so I’m not sure how to measure them against each other. For some of them, the happy ending is also a ‘happy ending’ if you know what I mean..

Do you write crossovers? If so, what is the craziest one you've written?

I don’t. Unless you count the silly stories my friends and I wrote for each other in high school? We definitely had some X-Files, Lord of the Rings, vampire universes intersecting with each other, but I can’t really remember a lot of that because I was 15 then and now I am 40.

Have you ever received hate on a fic?

I haven’t. I’m very glad about that. 

Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

Oh, yes I do. It’s the loving, vanilla kind mostly. I am willing to read more adventurously than I’m interested in writing.

Have you ever had a fic stolen?

No. I mean I hope! If I have, I haven’t realized it!

Have you ever had a fic translated?

Yes! A bunch of my Good Omens fic has been translated into German and Russian, which is so cool. I love that people translate fics. I can’t read either of those languages, so I can’t personally vouch for how the translations turned out in terms of mood and tone and pacing with the word choices used, but that’s part of the beauty of being in fandom spaces where everyone is coming in with their own talents to share and develop. Translation is an art that needs to be practiced and no two translators will approach a work the same way. 

Have you ever co-written a fic before?

I have not, though it was something I was interested in — and seriously considering — with a wonderful, talented Good Omens writing friend before I kind of lost all my steam for Good Omens writing.

What's your all time favourite ship?

Whatever ship I’m into at any give time. So that means right now it’s Dorian/MTrevelyan from Dragon Age, but who knows what it’s going to be in 5 or 10 years...

What's a WIP you want to finish but don't think you ever will?

Oh, I have a Good Omens fic set in 1885 that stalled out because I was doing too much research and not enough writing. I’m not sure if I want to finish it, though. I just put a lot of outlining and drafting time into it. And then I just lost momentum. I doubt I’ll ever come back to that and I’m okay with it. 

What are your writing strengths?

I’m good at dialogue. I also think I’m good at keeping an eye on the pacing at the scene level — speeding things up when I need to, slowing things down when it’s called for. And I am REALLY good at editing. I don’t hang onto stuff that doesn’t fit just because I like it. I have removed thousands and thousands of words of writing I really love just because it’s not quite where things need to go. I find that fun. I always save what I cut and sometimes reuse it later.

What are your writing weaknesses?

Sometimes I really struggle with character voice. While dialogue is a strength in general, that same thing can be really tough when I’m not hearing the voice of certain characters the way I’d like to. I also think a potential weakness is how I don’t like putting characters through deeply traumatic experiences. I like caretaking and treating the characters I write with gentleness. It’s deeply enjoyable for me, though perhaps it’s not always what makes a story satisfying. 

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

I don’t do it. My native language is English and my two learned languages —Spanish and French — are so long abandoned that it would be difficult to get any of it back. So I tend not to include other languages because I don’t have that expertise. When I’m reading a fic in English — because that’s all I can read well — I always appreciate footnotes with translations for the parts in a different language. I don’t tend to have the sustained focus to go back, copy-paste, and Google translate everything. So anything that isn’t translated in a footnote is just content I miss. That’s totally fine if the writer isn’t writing it for me — if they want to add extra layers of meaning for multilingual people. But if the writer wants everyone to know, then please, yes, put the footnote in!

What was the first fandom you wrote for?

The X-Files with my friends in high school, but while there was an internet back then, none of us had connected computers, so these were just stories we wrote for each other.

What's your favourite fic you've written?

I don’t know if I can pick one! I like most of what I write even years later, but I don’t know how to stack them against each other. Some are serious while others are funny, and even cracky — some stick close to canon, while some are deeply transformative and weird. They all feel so different to me. 

Right now I am really enjoying my Dragon Age Inquisition work-in-progress, Bold Indeed, a Trevelyan/Dorian romance that deals with: love, friendship, loss, gentleness, justice, what we owe each other (yes, I thinking of you, Chidi from The Good Place), what it means to become a ‘good’ murderer as part of your job, how easy it can be to fit within authoritarian structures, how difficult it can be to push against and overturn an established order, the inadequacy of kindness — but also the potentially transformative power of kindness. And all of that is tucked into the story of a mature and gentle romance between two people who are each going through a process of personal growth and change. Anyway, it’s a weird writing project, but I love it despite my occasional anxieties about whether I am a deeply bad person (hah, yes, I know how that sounds, but I also feel it seriously sometimes). 

[cto10121]

Thoughts On Aimer (Multilanguage)

Back into another Aimer hyperfixation, so here’s some meta on the translations of various versions! Note that this comes from the perspective of a non-native speaker of most of these languages (except for Spanish) relying on English translations. I’m mostly basing my analysis on the lyrics, not so much the arrangement or singers. And so, in no particular order:

French: The simplest but purest expression, almost to the fault of triteness. That said...weirdly enough...it’s still the best version. I really can’t say the other versions do it better (except perhaps the Hungarian). I think it’s the juxtaposition between Romeo’s light/heaven/flying imagery vs. Juliette’s the time/life/fire/burning imagery that works so well—it even forms part of the imagery in the Shakespeare as well, even in the equivalent scene in the play. I’m so amazed Presgurvic had picked it up even in translation. The other versions do not quite understand this (even the Hungarian mixes it up) and when they do, it’s not as powerful. Otherwise, I’m stumped. Maybe it’s the power of the infinitive? French being a Romance language? The privilege of being first? The D&C dream team? That splendid Chorus backed with the power and might of the Budapest Symphony Orchestra? All of the above?

Hungarian: The best apart from the French, no question. Faithful in both translation and intensity, while resolving some of the repetition of the French. That new Chorus verse before the Juliette one is super nice, and R&J not singing it really works. That “Nincs szebb, égni e tűzben!” line especially hits so. damn. hard. The only thing that maybe makes it not surpass the French is that it’s a little too smooth and lacks a bit of emphatic punch that the French gives. YYMV. Also, show-wise, after the showstopper of La Haine in-show, it does feel more of an anti-climax. Still my most revisited version, and even the covers are a bop.

Spanish: The most faithful of all the translations—that Hector King had it so easy, I’m crying in envy. Probably too easy, though: A lot of it is grossly simplified and awkwardly kiddish. First of all, I would have translated it as “Amar” instead of “Te Amo,” frankly, since the latter is much more awkward to sing; we don’t do that nifty Italian trick of using contractions so “T’Amo” is out. Also “Amar” is much more impressive in the infinitive. “Y soy como un ave en vuelo” (And I am like a bird in flight) is probably nicer than the French equivalent, (And touching the wings and birds) but Juliet’s “Et brûler au cœur d’un volcan” (And burning in the heart of a volcano) is turned into “Y quema en mí este fuego” (And this fire in me burns), which is just lamer. Their shared verse is inferior to the French. I would have been much more adventurous; at least the Italian had “E brucia nel desiderio”—“y quemar en su/mi deseo” would have worked. King obviously wanted more of an intimate address, but the infinitive works just as well in Spanish as in French, right??? It’s only in English that the direct “you” has more power. And “Aimer,” despite being a love song, is just not an intimate one. It’s emphatic, triumph, occasionally sweet and longing…but not intimate. But at least it’s coherent and they kept the “paying the price” part!!!! They’re the only version that manages this and I am so grateful. I always do like my foreshadowing.

German: The Austrians are always professional, though Michaela Ronzoni’s translation is uneven in the Austrian (her Les Rois is especially lame). I do like her Liebe, though. They use the united/binded motifs to especially good effect at the end especially, which is always strong in Germanic languages. It’s only too bad they had that slowed-down concert-hand-wavy arrangement—no doubt they were inspired by that Production That Must Not Be Named.

Dutch: Always awkward with the zijns, which the German managed to avoid, but there is at least some good lines, namely “Liefde—haar kraft zu leven.” I’ve always liked the sound of Dutch, those nasals are attractive, but overall it’s definitely one of the weakest of the official versions.

Russian: It’s hard to judge this because they went in a way different direction, pretty much writing original lyrics more in the lines of a wedding vow song. In general I prefer this direction over others the Italian one, but it could have been much better done. There is intensity in the “Give us, in the name of all lovers” and “Time, prolong this moment!” lines, (hardcore) but the beauty, passion, fire of their love...it’s all gone. :/ Can’t say I prefer it. Exchange vows as you like, but where is the love??? One amateur Russian production had lyrics closer to the French; no idea if they were better, but the Russians seemed to approve if the comments are anything to go by. It at least sounded less strange.

Japanese: Again, this is part of the Russian-Japanese-Romanian trio that make it more of a wedding vow song. The first half is very weak, a too-simple paraphrase of religious wedding vows, but it does get better and the last two choruses do deliver the intensity needed and they fit with the soaring melody. So it does redeem itself somewhat, but it’s still the weakest sung. But I do have a soft spot for the Toho, and Japanese does have a kind of pure sound that is apropos for the song and lyrics.

Romanian: Pleasant surprise with this one, introducing a pinch of Hungarian into the mix (with the hearts and the flying) but otherwise going its own way. More eternity motifs, and a nice imagery about two dewdrops always united (dos pequeños rocíos...your Latin is showing, Romanian). It’s not as developed as the Hungarian, though; Romanian’s Latin may have impeded it from following the Hungarian too closely, or perhaps they wanted a purer imagery on the song. They may have done better just by going with the French.

Italian: Not the worst, but by far the biggest disappointment. “Love and change the world” is especially lame; it sounds like a self-help slogan. Love and change and the world! Light up the darkness! Shout out your presence! Learn how to be your best you for only $29.99! I feel like ReG are trying to sell me something. They could have been much more faithful to the French imagery, frankly, which is much more impressive. At least “Ama” is a good starting note. “T’Amo” could have been another option. I remember there was an amateur Italian version on YT that began with “Cosa ti fa sognare?” Still remember it after these years, so maybe they were on to something. (Ed: Found it! YMMV, but it doesn’t sound too bad. Much smoother than the Incenzo and less dry, but it does lacks punch). Overall, it feels much more shallow than most versions, which have at least some gravitas.

Korean: Never mind, this may be the most faithful translation yet, as far as I can tell. Incredible for an Asian language. I like how the Chorus obscures the subject until the last line—gives it more punch that way. Def one of the nicer versions.

English: Hi, we interrupt Romeo and Juliet to bring you National Geographic: The Musical! The worst, hands down. Nature metaphors /= love. Don Black actually has a good track record with translating otherwise tricky French songs (re: Legrand’s Les parapluies de Cherbourg as “I Will Wait For You”), but he was obviously too out of it or just too old to do a decent job with Aimer. This is a song that really does not tolerate much deviation from the original meaning or even the original arrangement. I would have assumed he would have at least glanced at the Shakespeare or did an indirect translation with the same theme. Not...whatever the hell this is. The best that can be said for this is the meme-level quotability; once you hear British Romeo shout-sing THESE ARE MY MOUNTAINS!! you can never go back again.

[akvtsuki-ari]

Sweetheart (Ch.1)

Warnings: Mentions of BDSM and bunch of other kinks but nothing sexual in this chapter lol. Sub!Spencer and Femdom!Reader 

Length: 5.3k 

Authors Note: this is hands down the most self-indulgent shit ive ever wrote but do i care? the answer is no dsjk  but this that series i had planned where the reader introduces spencer to proper BDSM and all that. hoping to make this fic kinda informative also lol. also im uploading this fic on ao3 as well. also no tags for this fic bc its really specific and ill probably be writing for it for a while! sorry about that

Plot Summary: Spencer Reid just wanted to be.., well, you know. He doesn’t expect to find much when he signs up for a BDSM dating website but somehow he manages you and he couldn’t be more delighted

Spencer Reid was certainly a lot of things. He was a lover of the arts, someone who had a particular affinity for 15th-century literature, a magician at best, a theater nerd at worst, and a teacher when life called for it. He loves the world even when it's really dark and he loves sleeping in even more. He loves his friends and they love him too - even when they pretend that his random facts annoy them. Spencer Reid was a friend, an FBI agent, a genius with an IQ of 187, and a son to a mother he loves wholly. He was a lot of things and for the most part - he knew a lot about what he really loved to do. He supposed that it's been like that his whole life.

It's not everyday that he discovers something new about himself. About everything else? Always. He loves to learn, but about himself? There's never all that much on the frontier.

It's hard to say, because of that, when Spencer discovered he was a sub. It's difficult to pinpoint a specific time and place, or even how the pieces got put together. He just remembers how it felt when it hit him, like a freight train going 100 miles an hour into a concrete wall. Or a plane crashing onto an island. Or like a fly hitting the glass panes of a delivery truck. He remembers the feeling when he was deftly reminded of this fact. Spencer Reid was a sub - through and through and he wasn't really sure what to make of it.

Surprisingly to most of his direct peers, Spencer wasn't a virgin. He'd had sex with 2 people who he'd been kinda friends with at some point, but it always got a little weird after that. The second time though, the girl ended up choking him a little bit when she got off and Spencer thought he had died. Not in a bad way, more in a "I'm so turned on by this I feel like I've genuinely gone to heaven," sort of way. He didn't think it was possible for a sexual encounter to make him feel like that but it did. It didn't stop after that either, which was the most agitating part. 

Spencer doesn't consider himself a sexual person. Sex is about intimacy and companionship, and hopefully love when he finds that someday. Sex isn't necessarily about pleasure but that wasn't an easy lesson to learn.

Spencer just wanted to understand - so like any great genius he participated in thought experiments. It's normally a female superhero/supervillain that crosses his mind (he has an affinity for Poison Ivy), and he just kinda imagines what it would be like if they did what she did. The choking turned him on, but it wasn't enough. Through that, he figures out that he had more than a choking kink and that he was more than a little interested in a partner having complete access to him. He thought about it for weeks and the getting off was working for him but he couldn't get the fantasy out of his head. He wanted more - he wanted someone to fulfill his wishes.

It was too much for him to ignore. Those months of being able to hold off through masturbating are over and he's just sorta itching. Aching to act on those impulses with another person who can give him what he needs, and he doesn't want it to be transactional. Maybe it's too ideal to want a partner out of such an endeavor but was it so wrong? To want real affection and romance from someone who could also overpower him wasn't a crime and he'd be damned if he pretended to want any less. Spencer was just searching, even if it was rather desperately. 

So, when Spencer finds himself on a BDSM dating site and he feels like his life is in shambles, he can only blame himself. It's not something he'd normally do but he's getting a little more than relentless about it but he also just wants to see what's out there. He's so out of it was it happens, it felt like he was being possessed as he made a fake email and wrote out his account information. Definitely blaming it on possession, he thinks. 

It's too late to go back, as he scrolls through tons of profiles of rather intense looking people. He's not surprised, this is where people go to express themselves. They're entitled to that, it just sucks since he's just not ready for such levels of intensity. He wonders if he's in too deep yet, but he figures he'd hit that mark a long time ago and keeps scrolling through profiles. There wasn't much to go off of, many people not choosing to use photos for the sake of anonymity, which was good for Spencer. He clicks onto his own profile, reading his own bio carefully.

USERNAME: DOC187 

SUB/ SWITCH / DOM 

M / F / O

FETISHES: N/A

BIO: Interest in a dominant female companion. Completely inexperienced.

Spencer feels ridiculous, but he doubts anyone would even message him. He doesn't have much on his profile and he keeps things short for that purpose. He wanted to stay as low to the ground as possible - more curious to explore what was going in the world than to find anything legitimate. He scrolls through hundreds of profiles, mostly of people who were BDSM vets looking for new connections or fun. Some people catch his eye but they don't match his interests so he doesn't bother.

Except, one profile. The bio was beyond interesting to Spencer.

USERNAME: MISS—LILAC

SUB / SWITCH / DOM 

M / F / O 

FETISHES: Sadomasochist, Degradation, Humiliation, Pegging, Overstimulation, Edging, Crossdressing, Exhibitionism, Mutual Masturbation, Dacryphilia, Shibari/Gags/Bondage, Wax Play, Impact Play, Breath Play, General Sensation Play, Discipline, Collaring, Begging. Willing to try most things. 

BIO: Interested in submissive males of any experience level. Helps if you're interesting and like to read and watch indie films. Looking for genuine connection and plenty of good banter. Curly hair is nice too. lol.

Before Spencer can think about it for too long his mouse clicks over that stupid little message button next to your profile. Spencer shakes his head at his own existence as he types you a message. Says you're online right now, but Spencer's sure he won't get a response for a while.

DOC187: Seems I fit who you're interested in. I even have the curly hair.

Spencer chews on his nails anxiously before he sighs at himself. He has no clue what's gotten into him belle before he can think he sees your 3-dotted bubble pop up. He feels his body wracked with nerves.

MISS—LILAC: I'm guessing you like to read and watch indie films too?

Spencer smiles. You seem interesting and the fact that the two of you were just talking normal was making Spencer happy.

DOC187: Indeed. I'm a sucker for 15-century literature and anything in Russian and foreign language. You?

MISS—LILAC: 15th century huh? I'll assume Chaucer. And Russian? You're interesting, doc. I'm more modern and English, hope you're not deterred.

Spencer smiles, surprised that you recognize an author as niche as Chaucer. He shakes his head at your commentary. He almost forgets that both of you are on a BDSM dating site and the irony doesn't escape him.

DOC187: Deterred? Never. I think you're rather interesting too, Miss Lilac.

MISS—LILAC: Ever the gentleman doc. I'm hoping you won't run away if I ask you more personal questions.

Spencer swallows. He types back quickly.

DOC187: What kinds of questions?

MISS—LILAC: If it's okay, you're real name and what you do. My names Y/N, and I'm a florist. I live in DC and I love romance novels.

Spencer smiles. He appreciates you laying down the path for him, knowing the stakes.

DOC187: My names Spencer and I work for the FBI. I also live in DC, and I love magic.

MISS—LILAC: Magic? I'd love for you to show me sometime.

Spencer swallows. Part of him feels like it's a stupid idea to ask you out so early but if you asked, he'd likely say yes. He decides to wait it out.

DOC187: I'd be more than happy to show you.

MISS—LILAC: I suppose you could send me a video but that's not the same as seeing the magic in real life, now is it?

Spencer is smiling like an idiot at this point. He shakes his head a little, jittery.

DOC187: Infinitely better live, I would say.

MISS—LILAC: Seems like I've found an excuse to ask you on a date then. Saturday's work for me but I'm sure it depends on you, FBI man. Before that, I'm gonna drop my number and I'll be expecting your call. (XXX-XXX-XXXX)

Spencer giggles. It's a little out of range for things he's used to doing, giggling aloud for someone else is certainly new. Spencer picks up his phone and dials away, anxious to call you but excited nonetheless. He heard you pick up the phone and his heart catches in his throat.

"Hello?," Your voice is smooth, and a little bit lower than he was expecting. It sounds pretty.

"Hello, Y/N," Spencer says back. He heard you laugh on the other side and can't help the way his heart flutters.

"Lovely to talk to you doc,"

"Still Doc? Not Spencer?" Spencer questions. You smile on the other side of the line.

"Doc seems to fit you. But, for the sake of formality, hello Spencer,"

"I like Doc too, but it feels like I should have a nickname for you as well. Only seems fair," Spencer says laughing quietly.

"If it's your prerogative you can call me Miss Lilac, or just Miss but..." you trail off for a minute. Spencer squints.

"Miss is a title, you know? Doesn't seem fair for you to call me that when I haven't earned it from you yet. I'm sure we'll get there but for now you can just call me Y/N," you say softly. Spencer blushes bright red, his voice betraying him as he speaks.

"O-Oh, well um - where does the name Lilac come from? Normally people go with their names when it comes to stuff like that," Spencer says shyly. He heard you laugh on the other side of the phone and blushes again, grateful you can't see him.

"I love the language of flowers and flowers themselves. It's a way to speak that not many people know - but I like the meaning and look of lilacs. White lilacs represent purity, so that was a bit of irony, but light purple lilacs mean first love," you say carefully.

"First love?," Spencer asks. You bite your lip for a moment.

"I joke that BDSM is my first love since it's such a big part of my life. Not as big as some but not small for certain. It gave me much needed confidence so I joke that it was my first," You say lightly. You hear Spencer giggle on the other side and you smile.

"What about your username? Any significance to DOC187 that I should know of?," you readjust your seat on your couch as you talk. Spencer grows a bit embarrassed.

"I normally introduce myself as Doctor Spencer Reid for work, not a medical doctor but I have three PhD's," Spencer admits. You raise your brows but hear the hesitation in his voice.

"Very, very impressive doc. What about the 187? It could be a plain ol' number but my guess would be otherwise,"

"That's my IQ, actually. I don't think intelligence can be boiled down and quantified like that but I couldn't think of anything else," Spencer explains.

"So you're a certified genius with 3 PhD's? To say I'm impressed is an understatement. Anything else impressive you'd like to tell me before I totally pick your brains," you say a little shocked.

"You wanna pick my brains?," Spencer asks. You wanna laugh at the irony of such a silly question from such an intelligent man but you refrain.

"Who wouldn't?," you say incredulously. Spencer smiles shyly.

"The only other thing is that I can read 20,000 words per minute," Spencer says trying to deflect. Your jaw dropped before but it manages to unhinge a little further.

"There's a lot to get to know about you Doctor Reid,"

"I'm sure it's the same for you," Spencer replies.

"Guess we'll have to find out won't we?," you say smiling.

Damn, Spencer got lucky. Hopefully he'd get to find out soon

_____

"Reid, are you listening?," Derek's voice snaps Spencer out of his entranced state. His smiling expression snaps up to look at Derek who looks a little exasperated.

"Sorry, what was that?," Spencer asks back. Derek puts down the case file they were working on. They had just finished a case and needed to complete some paperwork before submitting it for review and to be used in court. The job was given to him and Morgan and Spencer was evidently distracted.

"Alright, kid - what is up with you? All case you've been checking your phone non-stop and spacing out, all smiles and giggles. C'mon now kid, seriously. You got a little lady at home waiting for you or is there something else I don't know about?," Derek interrogates. Spencer doesn't really know what to make of it, though it's not really in his interest to hide you, it hasn't really come up with anyone on the team yet so it was proving difficult to decide what to do. The smile on his face manages to appear again as he starts to think about you, the tips of his ears red.

"Reid," Morgan says again, with a small look of irritation.

"Her names Y/N," Spencer blurts out faster than he can't think. Derek gives him a huge grin, holding his hand out to dap Spencer up. Spencer just looks at it confused for a second before getting the memo.

"'My man," Derek says chuckling. Before Spencer can continue Prentiss, JJ, and Garcia walk in. Hotch is the only one missing, and Spencer's a little grateful.

"What are we celebrating in here you guys?," Prentiss asks first. Spencer goes to say something to move away from his sudden confession but Derek is quick to cut him off.

"Our boy genius over here got him a little lady," Derek announces. The whole team erupts in questions and Spencer wants to bury himself.

"Congratulations, Spencer!! How long have you two been dating?," Prentiss asks.

"You guys are so dramatic. It's only been two months but no first date because well..." Spencer trails off. JJ just nods her head.

"Duty calls, I'm guessing" JJ finishes. Spencer nods deflated hearing Emily draw a breath between her teeth.

"That's tough, Spence,"

Just as Spencer goes to give a response back he gets a text from you that makes his day a little better. It's a selfie of you at work, a picture your employee must've taken of you in a room full of new flower deliveries. You're giving Spencer a toothy grin as you hold a bunch of gardenias in your hand.

Y/N 🌸: *image attachment* 

Gardenias// You're lovely + Secret Love <33

Spencer cannot control the way his whole face bunches up in a smile, as if there's no one else in the room with him. Everyone just looks at him surprised, Garcia giving him a side-eye.

"How can you guys trust this stranger? We don't even know who she is! I haven't even run any background checks on her," Garcia complains. Prentiss nudges her side.

"I don't know if it matters - look at how hard he's smiling over there," Prentiss says. Garcia reluctantly looks and can't help but sigh.

"Okay well he seems really happy but still! We don't even know her," she pouts.

"I'm sure we'll meet her soon," JJ snickers at Spencer's lovestruck expression. Derek leans over Spencer's shoulder and raises his brows.

"Is that her, kid?," Derek asks. Spencer nods, simply staring at the picture you sent. Derek whistles when he sees you - you're genuinely stunning and he's surprised to say the least.

"Hot mama, pretty boy - how'd you manage that?," Derek asks, dumbfounded. Emily rolls her eyes.

"C'mon Derek, I'm sure - oh wow," Emily leans over Spencer's shoulder to see you and is met with the same reaction. JJ and Garcia are quick to follow thereafter, both looking equally as surprised.

"She's..." JJ trails off. The rest of the team just nods as Spencer grins ear to ear.

Spencer 🐻: Beautiful, as always.

Spencer ignores the rest of the team as they look at each other in disbelief.

Y/N🌸: Me or the flowers, Doc?

Spencer🐻: Both, but mostly you.

"Wow, Spencer you're really -" Prentiss starts

"You're whipped, kid. I mean seriously whipped," Derek finishes, nodding in agreement. JJ can't help but smile, giving Spencer a small pat on the back.

"She seems lovely, Spencer. How'd you two meet?," JJ says. Garcia stands around looking rather suspicious. A blush creeps onto Spencer's neck as he's reminded of how you two met.

"Online," Spencer says shortly. No one decides to question it, and Spencer thanks every god he can think of.

"Have you two FaceTimed yet? How can we know she's not, I don't know - catfishing you? Or scamming you in some other cyber criminal way?," Garcia sounds distressed. Spencer gives a small smile.

"We fall asleep over FaceTime every night," Spencer admits. Penelope's expression falls, and Prentiss gives a smile.

"That is disgustingly cute," JJ says laughing.

"Okay, well - I'm still running a background check on her," Garcia says stubbornly "But, I'm happy for you,"

"Thanks Garcia," Spencer mumbles out as he texts you again.

Y/N🌸: I wanna see you, love

Spencer blushes red as he reads your message. The word love makes his whole face hot.

Spencer🐻: I can't take a selfie for my life

Y/N🌸: You're with your team aren't you? Get them to take a picture of you.

Spencer wants to fold away, not ever really being the picture type, but how could he ever deny you.

Spencer🐻: How could I ever say no to you?

"Hey guys, can one of you take a picture of me for Y/N?" Spencer asks embarrassingly red. The whole team sends him a look of surprise.

"I'll take it Spence, try not to look as uncomfortable as you do right now," JJ says. The whole team refrains from laughing as Spencer gives an awkward smile. He thanks JJ who hands him back his phone before texting you again.

Spencer🐻: *image attachment* You owe me one

Y/N🌸: you're stunning as always. hadn't seen you in so long I almost forgot what you looked like.

Spencer🐻: stunnings an interesting choice of words.

Y/N🌸: I said what I said, doc. 

Spencer can't help but do a little giggle, that causes the whole team to give him a look. Morgan just shakes his head, shrugging. Emily, JJ, and Garcia just look at each other before the room draws into a subtle but comfortable silence as Spencer just smiles, totally unaware of how whipped he happened to look. He didn’t seem to mind either way. 

___

"How was work?," Spencer asks over the phone, kicking his shoes off as he looks into his fridge for something to eat. He hears you sigh on the other side of the line.

"Busy today - wedding season is coming up so tons of calls for centerpiece designs and costs. It's going well though, business couldn't be better," you say, clearly tired yet content. Spencer gives a small smile and feels relieved that things are going okay for you.

"That's really good. I'm glad you're feeling alright," Spencer replies. You ease into the couch as you talk to Spencer, relaxing by the second. 

"What about you, FBI man? You have an okay day?," Your voice is full of a gentle concern that Spencer appreciates.

"Yeah, just paperwork and JJ said that we shouldn't have any upcoming cases this week to be worried about so I have the weekend off," Spencer says without thought.

"Have any special plans for the weekend?," you say cheekily. Spencer, still not having caught on, shakes his head for a second.

"No, why?,"

"Hm... well - would you like to go on a date with me then Doctor Reid?," You ask, giggling. Spencer's eyes widen in realization as he facepalms for a moment.

"Wow, I didn't even think... yes - yes I would love to go on a date with you Y/N," Spencer says laughing at his own misfortune. You shake your head instinctively, but the growing smile and even further growing adoration makes it hard to sit still.

"Hey, Spencer," you say, butterflies filling your stomach.

"Yeah?"

"I really like you,"

____

Saturday comes quicker than Spencer can really understand. You told him not to worry about what the days plans would be but he can't help it. Anxiously awaiting you in front of the cafe that the two of you were supposed to meet at, in a part of town Spencer hasn't really seen before. You said that you'd lead the way and the irony isn't lost on him.

"Spencer?," Your voice is small, as you call out to what you think is Spencer Reid. Of course, you'd seen him before but to see him in person like this was still so unfamiliar. His head shoots up, eyes searching for you. He's delighted to have found you, certainly that was true as he walks towards you. Your arms envelop him in a friendly hug and he can't help but find himself sinking into. You smelled sweet, like fruit and flowers (which makes sense, the more he thinks about it)

"Lovely to finally meet you, Y/N,"

"Same goes for you, doc. Would you like to be informed of our plans for the day, or do you prefer the element of surprise?,"  You ask smiling. Spencer laughs at your question.

"Details would be appreciated, but I get the feeling you're not gonna give me those."

"You're right! It's a trick question, since it's a surprise. But, promise it'll be good,"

"I'll take your word for it then," Spencer says with a small smile. You hold your hand out for Spencer which he accepts, locking his hands with yours. The affection makes him feel full of warmth, as you lead him away for the day you had planned for the both of you.

___

Spencer underestimated how well you knew him. He really, really did. It's hard to explain since Spencers been on a date before but this was so profoundly different. He's a little touched, but beyond that he's just.. surprised? Every date he'd been on before this, he'd have to play the gentleman but it never seemed like the other person was interested in just him. It was always casual small-talk over dinner, or a mid-day coffee date or something else that just felt mundane but this was beyond Spencer's imagination.

The first place you took him was a bookstore - which was in Spencers mind already a winner for best date he'd ever been on. You walked inside with him and told him he had to pick up a book for you and you had to pick up a book for him and to say his heart absolutely fluttered would be an understatement. He picked up up a copy of "The Screwtape Tales," by C.S. Lewis for you, and you gave him a copy of Shel Silverstein's "Where The Sidewalk Ends." For you, you got a glimpse to see what Spencer's sense of humor was and you gave Spencer a piece of your childhood. Both equal but opposite forms of intimacy. The only thing was Spencer had to wait to read his book because it's relatively shorter than yours and he reads 20,000 words per minute.

The next place you took Spencer was an indoor butterfly garden. Does he have to explain why that's a good date? He heard you talk about all the scientific names for the different flowers and why they attract butterflies and he wasn't sure he could crush any harder on you if he tried. A particular moment sticks out to him on which a butterfly landed on your shoulders and just stayed there like it didn't want to leave. Spencer's eyes were fixated on it the whole time - and he had never wanted to be a butterfly in his life before but he figures there's a first time for everything.

The last place, where the both of you were at now was just a small coffee shop, locally owned and supported by the community here. You told Spencer that when you started up your shop, you'd come in here to work on big orders before you'd expanded enough to have employees. Spencer admires your work ethic, much more than he could ever anticipate as he sits down at a small booth, totally covering the both of you as you return to the table with a little plate of banana bread and two iced coffees. Spencer pouts as he looks up at you, watching you flash him a grin.

"I could've helped you carry this over," Spencer complains gently. You roll your eyes.

"Maybe next time doc," you say softly. You hold back your commentary often on the date, and Spencer pretends not to notice for your sake but he'd be lying if he said he didn't wanna know. You always had something sly to say but you'd kept it from him so many times now he figures it's better if he didn't ask.

Spencer looks at you as you push a plate of banana bread towards him. He looks at you with curious eyes before reading your clearly excited face and laughs. He picks up a piece and examines it, before taking a bite. If it tasted as good as it smelled then he would be more than obliged.

The involuntary moan that escapes Spencer's throat makes you choke with laughter. Shit, you weren't kidding when you said this was the best banana bread in the city. Spencer just looks up at you like he's about to cry with joy as you double over in giggles.

"I know," You say softly, taking a bite yourself eyes filling with joy "I ordered some more for us to take home - you're welcome," you say with confidence. Spencer smiles because that is genuinely thoughtful, but it was more endearing to see you pretend it wasn't. He just shakes his head, a blush arising to his face as he looks at you. You're staring at him with intent. He quirks his brow at you in question.

"I had a good time today, Spencer" You say warmly. You only called him Spencer when you were saying something affectionate and a bit serious. He gives you a toothy smile.

"I haven't been on very many dates, but this was easily the best one I'd ever been on," Spencer says honestly. You grin ear to ear, hands carefully holding Spencer across the table, running your thumb over his knuckles for a few seconds. You couldn't say for sure whether it was too soon to ask him to be your boyfriend, but you'd be damned if you said it didn't cross your mind.

Spencer was mind-numbingly unaware of what good boyfriend material he was, but beyond that - what good submissive boyfriend material he was. It was driving you nuts, but you knew this was all new for him and you didn't wanna freak him out. Even when guys say they're interested in being submissive, they're still often times uncomfortable with you being fully dominant. Dominant in public and in bed, if you will. You wanted to pay for dates, and buy him flowers, and make him feel special too - at least on the occasion. That role came naturally to you, that let me make you feel owned type affection that only a dominant person can give. It scared men off - out of relationships, and you totally got why - but you liked Spencer too much as a person to risk iit.

Spencer holds your hands together, gathering your attention. You looked at him spaced out and he gives you a look of concern.

"You okay?," Spencer asks. You nod, chewing your lip in debate of whether or not you should express your concerns. Spencer just tugs on your hand and looks at you intently.

You sigh, looking at Spencer softly.

"I'm okay I just really like you," you say a little exasperated. Spencer laughs but is filled with relief.

"I'm glad to hear that. What else is on your mind?,"

"I really like you - like in an, I want you to officially by my boyfriend way and I hope it's not too soon but I'm just, worried I guess," you say nervously. Spencer can't help the way his heart beats in his chest when he hears you say boyfriend. God did he want to be your boyfriend.

"What're you worried about?,"

"I'm worried about freaking you out. I can be a lot since I'm... you know?," You say nervously. Spencer looks at you  to continue.

"I'm more than just dominant in bed, and for a lot of guys it's not their thing and that's their right but I like you so much. I really don't want that to happen if I ask you out now and you realize that it's not for you," you say in clear upset.

Spencer looks at you in disbelief. You were worried that he was gonna freak out over that? That you were too dominant for him? It feels like such a silly concern but the expression on your face tells him you're speaking from experience.

"I mean, it's all kinda new to me but, well - I do like how you treat me? It's a nice change, I can't imagine myself getting tired of it, or of you. I really like you too," Spencer tried his best to reassure you without totally embarrassing you. You smiles at Spencer but your face is still full of doubt.

"If that ever changes, I'll tell you but I'd really like to call you my girlfriend," Spencer finishes. You can't help the warmth that spreads in your stomach at the offer. You just nod, looking up at him. You stand and walk to Spencer's side of the booth, sliding in next to him, leaning your head into his shoulder for a few while seconds. You sit back up, and Spencer turns to you.

"Hey, doc," you say softly. Spencer hums in acknowledgement.

"Can I kiss you?," you ask softly. Spencer chews his lip and nods, looking down at your lip. You're wearing lipgloss and it makes them look pretty - you are so pretty to Spencer.

Kisses are their own language, Spencer figures. The way someone kisses you can tell you a lot about who they are - so, when you put your hands on the side of Spencer's face, pulling him closer to you with such care and adoration - Spencer can feel what you were referencing earlier. The word Miss rings out in his mind, the way you pay attention to him with your hands. He feels your lips press against his, slowly gliding your fingers in his hair, thumb brushing agains the side of his cheek. Your other hand rested on his inner thigh and he has to think about anything other than that not to get hard. Spencer didn't get how much he'd been thinking about touching you until you'd do with no hesitation and he lets out a small whine. You pull back and Spencer has to catch his breath.

His lashes blink up at you and you're absolutely beaming.

"You're cute baby,"

Baby? Spencer wants to cover his face when you say it. You kiss him again and he can't help but feel flush.

You were Spencer's girlfriend and then some and he couldn't be more happy.

[lumilasi]

I saw this in my feed and since I was pretty bored and FINALLY free from the said boredom, figured I could do this one. I generally enjoy question based tags, especially if they relate to art/writing/fandom/are some general things about favorite colors, music, foods, things about your home country etc.

(basically, you can tag me in stuff similar to listed above things and I’ll probably do them if I see them/have time lmao)

Fic Writer Questions!

How many works do you have on AO3? 

44 total. I used to have more but I’ve deleted an old Bleach one I knew I’d never continue to write, and two bnha ones for the same reason (those two were also at the very beginning stages so nobody missed a lot anyway)

What's your total AO3 wordcount? 

4 269 068......wow. It’s even MORE than I even imagined. Over 4 million words. 

....Someone take my writing tools away from me lmao

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

 Three. I started with MCU, moved on to Bleach and now I’ve done most ofr BNHA

What are your top 5 fics by kudos? 

Crossroads - 3069 

Family Secrets - 3015 

Reanimate - 1534 

The neighbor - 809 

Espada and Fraccion - 782

.....Admittedly this list surprised me. Not the first three but the last two. The fifth is an one shot for Bleach that I wrote AGES ago. I also for some reason expected this list to match the bookmark list more lmao

Do you respond to comments, why or why not?

I always try to respond to every comment I get, but often times when it’s just one word or a heart emoji I don’t really know what to say, so I might not reply to those. I do appreciate every comment I get, and read every single one, even if I don’t respond

What's the fic you've written with the angstiest ending? 

I don’t do angst endings typically, but Family Secrets is probs the most obvious choice, given what happens at the end. 

- and its not even the real end, because I couldn’t help myself and made two more stories for the AU that was like “hey! this character I made you all love so much actually DIDN’T die, he just had unfinished business back home” lmao

Do you write crossovers? If so what is the craziest one you've ever written? 

Rarely, typically they’re between my own fics (the story that crosses the paths of Crossroads and Family Secrets AU’s, literally titled Crossover, creative name I know OTL I was out of ideas) 

Or between me and other people’s fics. Currently there’s two, both with Crossroads: one with Theteapotofdoom’s fic Something Good, and another with leontheneon’s fic Here with you. Both stories are basically a two part series that is non canon to actual Crossroads. The first story is finished, second one has two chapters left...that...I uh...struggle to write it seems OTL

(not tagging either person into this because Tea is very busy IRL right now so I don’t want to bother her, and Leon hasn’t been around in ages, IDK if they even use tumblr anymore)

Have you ever received hate on a fic? 

Not really no? I can only remember one time with somebody kind of demanding me to completely rewrite one fic in the past. It wasn’t really hate, more just...kinda unreasonable in my eyes? This was years ago by now.

While I did understand their side and the particular struggle they had (once they actually explained it, the first comment at the time came off pretty rude and demanding), I still feel them wanting me to re-write an entire multi-chapter fic just for them is a bit unreasonable, like said.

Like it wasn’t just couple of grammatical errors that was their issue, we’re talking weeks and even months long process of completely reworking multi-chapter story, because the grammar wasn’t tip top perfect. (I’m not a native speaker so there’s bound to be some mistakes; pointing out small occasional things is one thing - asking me to rewrite an entire multi-chapter story is another)

You can imagine that is not exactly high on my priorities list with IRL responsibilities and being more focused on the actual content of what I write, the ongoing stories I’m updating. This fic isn’t even finished yet either, so...yeah. Like after they explained their side of the story I was a bit more understanding, but its still....a bit ridiculous and unreasonable in my eyes to ask somebody to do such a massive overhaul when the story isn’t even finished yet?? Like maybe once its done and I have time I can go and edit it, but not when I haven’t even finished it lmao

Do you write smut? If so what kind?

Nah. I don’t care about smut a whole lot personally. I much more enjoy writing emotional scenes, character interactions and mystery. Plot over porn basically lmao 

Have you ever had a fic stolen? 

I don’t...do people actually do this? It feels like such a weird and pointless thing to do. It’s fanfic. stuff you write for fun and for free, for people to read for free. I’d also imagine its pretty easy to get caught given AO3 shows when you first posted your story. 

Have you ever had a fic translated?

 Yes, a couple of times. In Russian and I think other one was Chinese?

Have you ever co-written a fic before? 

Writing the crossovers was kinda that? Like I asked feedback from Tea and Leon on how to write them. there was also actually third crossover story that was supposed to happen (only I wasn’t going to be the one to write it) but this project has been shelved as the other person had to drop majority of online activity due to some IRL health related things. (I’m just glad they recently contacted me to inform they were doing better)

What’s your all time favorite ship? 

Right now it’s..probably pretty obvious its Shigadabi, but I can never really say any ship is my all time fave, as it always changes depending on the fandom lmao. 

I guess my favorite character x proper sleep/emotional stability/happiness will always be the OTP

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

Oof. I always try to finish every single one, and if I absolutely know I won’t, I tend to just delete them. Thankfully I’ve only done it thrice. Which I guess is still a lot, but compared to how much I write, in context not really? 

What are your writing strengths?

From what I’ve gathered of feedback, its typically emotional moments/character dialogue and interaction/character arcs and so. Mystery plots too. Or maybe that last one is just me lmao

What are your writing weakness?

Personally, while I tend to get positive feedback on both, sometimes I feel like I struggle to choose a good pacing for a fic, and fight scenes are always a pain. Namely, I might struggle with making the pace too long-winded and slow sometimes. Ironically, my IRL update pacing is probs a bit too fast in turn. (To add another layer of irony, I got an update ready for Unravel that I’ll post after making this tag)

Also writing shorter stories. I’ve been trying to write one-shots more (like the Spinaraki series thing) to kinda try and get myself to pack up my stories better and not let them always spiral out of control haha

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

I did try to do that once with a fic I deleted, I had a native speaker help me with the canadian french bits. This person is no longer active on tumblr, and I deleted that fic because I realized I’d never finish it. 

Technically tho, as a non-native English speaker, EVERY word is in other language to me lmao. I could only add Finnish as an extra one easily, and it rarely makes sense to do so anyway.

What was the first fandom you ever wrote for? 

MCU. It’s what I originally made my AO3 for, as I felt brave enough to post things. I also can’t remember writing fandom related stuff before that, it was typically more oc related. Writing fics has helped me learn a lot about world-building, character consistency and all that stuff, without having to make everything from scratch (tho I do enjoy doing that as well of course). I feel like my original work writing has improved too thanks to my fic writing shenanigans in a way lmao. Tho that might just be me, IDK

What’s your favorite fic you’ve written? 

Oooof. This changes a lot depending on the time. I can never really pick just one either: my current favorites are Stringmaster, The neighbor and Family Secrets

Stringmaster because I love building the Steampunk AU, and Tomura’s relationship with Dabi and his Sensei, The neighbor because I personally think the romance build up in that one is probably one of the best I’ve done so far (the character dialogue in that is among my favorites I’ve written as well) and FS, because it taught me a lot about character building through writing a character like Hisashi.

 Plus I just really like Hisashi. 

And baby Izuku and little Tenko are super adorable. 

And Inko is the best mum.

 Also the fact the whole story is so ironic in a sense its still kinda funny to me. 

The only writer I know that might be around rn is @nightlilly0110 soo...I guess I’ll tag them if they want to do this! Anybody who’s a writer can snatch this too of course ;)

[invaderlynx]

Booker and La Campagne de Russie

I just watched The Old Guard and honestly, it was one of the best movies I’ve seen in a VERY long time. Of course, now I’m having all sorts of thoughts about the whole thing and particularly about Booker because his backstory intersects perfectly with my historical interests. I know that all the immortals in The Old Guard have experienced all sorts of terrible trauma, but because I am a history major with an affinity for the Napoleonic period, especially the Russian Campaign (and because Booker is my favorite character), I’d like to give you guys an idea of just what sort of torture he faced even before the pain of losing his family (also for fair warning, I have not read the comics):

Please place yourself in Booker’s shoes. You are one of over 600,000 men mustered to march into Russia. You’re serving in an army you never wanted to join, taking up arms for the glory of an empire that’s never done anything for you. You’ve been separated from your three beloved sons and your wife whom you love more than life itself, and have been sent off to fight in a foreign land that’s nothing like the home you’ve left behind. That much becomes evident immediately. 

The invasion starts in the summer of 1812 and it is hot, unseasonably hot. You feel it, laboring as you are under the thick heavy materials of your sweat-soaked uniform. Each step is its own torture in the heat as you struggle through mud left behind by hard summer rains. More than a few men kill themselves at this point and although this is just the beginning, you can hardly blame them. Some of your comrades get the bright idea to start discarding some of their extra layers of clothing—underthings and the like. Perhaps you join them, anything to lighten the load. You can’t be expected to carry all this over the long miles ahead. You’ll live to regret that decision.

The fighting itself is worse than the conditions. You never quite get used to the violence. No matter how many times you’re thrust into battle, your mouth still goes dry, your heart still thunders as loud as the military drums’ tattoo, you still choke on that thick gunpowder smoke. You nearly threw up the first time you killed with a bayonet. You remember sticking the man in between the ribs, a swift stab and he is bleeding out. It is only then that you see his face and realize just how young he is. He is a boy, maybe a few precious years older than your eldest. He cries as he falls. You didn’t speak Russian at the time but you didn’t need to to recognize the word “Мама”.

The only thing that makes it possible to keep putting one foot in front of the other (besides your family, of course) is your comrades-in-arms. Against all odds, you’ve found friendship here, men with whom you can share stories and jokes and drinks. You find a few men of around your own age with families, wives and children that they lovingly speak of, but many of these soldiers are young, young enough to be your sons, far too young to be out here slaughtering and being slaughtered. Over your meager meals you tell stories of home and it is enough to hold off the impending horror, at least for a moment. When that doesn’t work, you turn to drink. You drink an awful lot.

The conditions of this foreign land are mercurial at best and your woes are only compounded by your lack of proper supplies. The Russians have been scorching nearly everything in the wake of their retreat, making it difficult for you to forage for food. Your search parties turn up very little by way of provisions and your food supply continues to fall in tandem with the temperature.

Borodino is hell. You see the man to the right of you receive a cannonball to the chest and fall in a spray of red, you see the man to the left crumple as a shot rips through his handsome, hard-lined face. One of your friends, one of those boys that you’d come to regard as a surrogate son who was barely old enough to grow hair on his chin, catches a bullet in the leg. He dies in agony four days later, one of the thousands of casualties of that damned battle. In your lowest moments, you wish you would have joined him.

You were never a particularly happy man, even before the war. Prone to fits of melancholia, they would have said back then. Your darling wife and your three sons certainly helped to alleviate that heavy, aching emptiness that resided in your chest, but it never went away, not fully. It resurfaces with a vengeance now. Sitting with your gun in your hands and far too much liquor in your belly, you think about ending it all. How easy it would be to put a bullet in your brain and finally die. In the end, it’s your family that saves you again. You may not want to live for yourself, but for them- for them you can keep fighting. Besides, Moscow is only 70 miles away and once you take the ancient capital, Russia will have no choice but to surrender. That’s what everyone is saying and you force yourself to believe that it’s true.

Moscow was a lie. You took the capital but there was no peace. There was no food either. The Russians took it all when they abandoned the place, leaving almost nothing for your starving army. Nothing but liquor, which you are very grateful for at least. Your superiors probably aren’t, you think wryly as you raise the bottle to your lips and drink, drink, drink.

Moscow passes in a drunken haze for you. You drown yourself in Russian booze, drinking yourself absolutely insensate. There are entire days you spend propped up against the wall of some ramshackle Russian establishment, surrounded by empty bottles, too drunk to even stand. You remember bits and pieces, shattered memories drifting in and out of the fog. The looting and the things you took (a fine scarf, a silver flask, maybe more), a ladies’ fur shawl wrapped about your shoulders to keep out the chill, the burning heat of a terrible fire and the screams in French and Russian, the acrid taste of bile in your mouth as you splutter sick all over yourself only to raise the bottle to your lips again for another drink. In the end, you’re forced to leave Moscow as the position becomes untenable, the abandoned city burned to a shell of its former self. You never do learn who first started the fire, even years after the fact. 

The retreat is hell on Earth, worse than anything else that came before. La Grande Armée is hardly an army any longer, you’ve lost practically all discipline. By now, you’re just a bunch of exhausted, cold, starving men who want nothing more than to just make it home alive. Most of them won’t. The temperatures have dropped to below freezing at this point and you are wishing more than anything that you still had those infernal layers that caused you so much pain in the summer months. The clothing you and your comrades drunkenly plundered in Moscow—silken scarves stolen from abandoned trunks, heavy furs pilfered from store inventories, ladies’ shoes that hurt your feet but do a better job of keeping out the slush than your tattered boots—help, but not enough. Your fingers stiffen to near icicles in the cold as you try your damnedest to massage even a little warmth back into them, your face is wind-chapped and scabbed. You feel as though your very marrow has frozen, and you are one of the lucky ones. Men freeze to death in their sleep in less than an hour. Fifty men will sit down at a fire and only the twenty or so closest will ever get back up again. You all begin to loot the bodies of the dead and—as you grow more desperate—the dying as well. Corpses are stripped naked and left in the snow as the survivors squabble over their threadbare uniform pieces. Sometimes the corpses still twitch and moan but you try to ignore that.

There’s no food either. In addition to freezing, you’re starving too. The lot of you fight and quarrel over moldy crusts of bread, and in some cases even kill each other for them. The more clever turn to other sources to fill their writhing, empty stomachs. Some eat their boots, but there isn’t much leather left in any case. Some carve their meals off the horses as they walk, tearing bits of bleeding flesh off of the warm, moving flanks in a short-sighted attempt to get even a few morsels of meat in their bellies. Others, in mad desperation as the march (if you can even call it that any longer) wears on, turn to each other.

Perhaps you take part in this, perhaps you don’t. Perhaps you sidle a man out of the way to get closer to the fire, perhaps you take a coat off a corpse that you don’t know for sure is dead yet, perhaps you accept a piece of meat that you do not quite know the origin of. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps…

In the end it doesn’t matter. You die anyway. You don’t really remember how it happened the first time. Maybe you were finally picked off by the advancing Russians, maybe it was exposure, exhaustion, starvation, sickness, any of the hundred ways that you could die in this frozen wasteland. All you know is that one moment you were on your feet, shambling mutely forward, the next you were lying on the icy ground, gasping air back into lungs that had fallen completely still. Four faces are burned into your memory and from one you can still hear the gurgling, watery screams.

That’s when the dreams start, after that first death. Though, you wouldn’t classify them as dreams, they’re far more alike to nightmares. You see that screaming, drowning woman often. You feel her fear as she slams her body against her metal coffin. Even awake you can’t get the sound of her choking out of your head. Sometimes there are soft moments interspersed with the horror. You see a woman with short hair (it reminds you of a coiffure à la victime) laughing, you see two men resting in each others’ arms, foreheads pressed together gently, blissfully happy. To be quite honest, these ones hurt worst of all because they make you regret ever waking up.

You die a few more times before you finally decide to desert. You can’t take it anymore. That tyrant Bonaparte has abandoned this army, why can’t you? You take flight under the cold cover of night, trying to get to the Russian border. You don’t make it very far. You are dragged back—aching, tired, and hungry—and are hanged by the road as a deserter. Perhaps there still is a little discipline left in these ranks, at least enough to allow these soldiers to kill their comrades in the name of orders. You have to wait three days for the road to clear before you can finally run. In that time your body is almost entirely picked clean by looters. You continue your desperate trek back home in spite of it all and die many more times in the weeks (or was it months?) that follow. It never gets any easier.

 It’s near the border into Prussia that you finally meet one of the figures from your dreams. Perhaps it is the woman with the short hair who offers you a drink and a coat to put around your shoulders, and tells you bluntly but not unkindly that you’re immortal. Perhaps it is the curly-haired man who helps hold you upright when you stumble and is careful and caring with his words as he gently explains the situation. Perhaps it is his lighter-haired lover who catches you when you fold in on yourself from the weight of his words and offers you affirmations and condolences in a voice reminiscent of a priest. Whoever it is, they ask you to come with them and explain that there are others like them- like you out there.

“What about my family?” you stutter out, almost unconscious of the words as the tumble from your mouth “My wife? What about them?”

They favor you with a sad smile and try to explain, but you will hear none of it. They do not stop you when you tell them that you are going home, and you are glad for it.

With the supplies they give to you, you manage to hobble your way back home. You’ve been taken for a dead man, you realize, everyone you pass seems to think you’re a ghost. You don’t care. You only have one person on your mind.

Your wife answers the door dressed in black. She starts to cry when she sees you and throws her arms around your neck. You nearly crumple, weak as you are. “Bastien, Bastien,” she sobs against your shoulder “What happened?”

That question fills you with icy dread. Your stomach drops as you realize you cannot explain to her what you’ve been through, not in a way that she’ll understand. Even if you explain the immortality and she believes you, she won’t understand the horrors you’ve seen. No one will. A soldier’s burden.

You stay silent and instead cradle her closer as your boys appear in the doorway. You have them and, for now, that is enough. You won’t forget, you will never forget, but for now at least you have this.