#ship: grand larceny

[sxbaist]

Character Sheet

basics.

full name. Lovisa Göta Sjögren

nicknames / aliases. Vega, Commander

age. Verse dependent, appears late twenties to early thirties

zodiac. Libra

spoken languages. Swedish, English, Icelandic, Chinese, Klingon, Vulcan

physical characteristics.

hair colour. Soft black

eye colour. Green, a jade hue

skin tone. Pale complexion, smooth, scarred and inked, but taken care of

body type. Toned, wiry, willowy, muscular

dominant hand. Left

posture. Decent, though she does slouch at times

scars. None due to an enhanced healing factor. (In modern verses: under her jaw and on her rib cage)

tattoos. Vegvisir on her right thigh, a personal rendition of hurðstoðva below the navel, and a small møðiríkr on the left wrist.

birthmarks. A few moles scattered across her body, starburst shaped birthmark below the clavicle on her left side

most noticeable features. Cheekbones of the gods, striking eyes

childhood.

place of birth. Vaxholm, Sweden, Earth

siblings. Levi Ludvig Sjögren, fraternal twin brother

parents. Albina Signe Sjögren and an unknown male donor

adult life.

occupation. Verse dependent but either: Commander (main) / Painter / Hitwoman / Unemployed

residence(s). Verse dependent but either: The SS Botany Bay or on a ship she probably stole (main) / The Enterprise (temporarily/undercover most likely) / Trondheim, Norway / Manhattan, New York

close friends. Verse dependent-- she's usually a loner and there are very few she considers friends. Her brother might count, though he is a fair-weather friend. (Fox / @vuulpecula has seen her at her worst and still stays by her side, Rick / @rickgrimesdoingrickthings somehow puts up with her nonsense, Khan / @respondedinkind has been through hell and back with her, and we're only just beginning. :') )

relationship status. Single by default, though in some verses she is committed (@respondedinkind cause whoops she's falling just as hard as the first time we wrote / @vuulpecula always of course / @rickgrimesdoingrickthings they are so cute together i'm gonna die)

Notable mentions: Nebula who ties into her GotG Verse, and Makaria.

financial status. N/A

driver’s license. No

criminal record. Murder, arson, grand larceny, just being an asshole

vices. Addiction (modern verses), probably too much chocolate sometimes does that count

sex & romance.

sexual orientation. Pansexual (leaning heavily toward women)

preferred sexual role. Dominant-- then having her dominance wrestled away

libido. Fairly high

turn-ons. Confidence, neck biting, scratching, hair pulling, silk, lingerie, stockings.

turn-offs. Selfishness, not being direct enough, possessiveness (sometimes), jealousy (sometimes and she is a hypocrite).

love language. Quality time and physical touch are the two biggest ones. The first happens much quicker-- she'll begin to stay in the same areas as her beloved, usually quietly, sometimes offering to go with on errands, unconsciously finding a way to stay near them. The latter is much slower, typically, considering that she flinches from most physical contact. Though when she does cross that threshold, she's not opposed to holding hands, resting her head on their shoulders, and even cuddling.

relationship tendencies. Surprisingly affectionate, easy-going, slightly flirtatious, and a lot more open to conversation. More willing to show her paintings, too.

miscellaneous.

hobbies to pass time. Painting, playing the drums, sudoku, stargazing/astronomy, working out, embroidery

mental illnesses. CPTSD, Schizophrenia (misdiagnosed/verse dependent)

self-confidence level. Depends. Usually it's fairly high, unless it's a dreaded social situation.

Tagged by: @respondedinkind thank yooouuu<3

Tagging: @vuulpecula @rickgrimesdoingrickthings @lastsurvivor @dreamsofalife @fasciinating @juramentum (mu qing pls) / @vacantwar and YOU!

[bolters-and-rivets]

OK, so, something I've been doing recently is working out what legal charges the antagonists of TTTE would face if we suspend our disbelief and imagine locomotives having to stand trial in a court of law.

Diesel (various episodes and specials throughout the show's run)

3 counts of destruction of property: damaging disused trucks. Pushing trucks into the harbour resulting in the loss of a consignment of china clay. Wasting an entire flat truck’s worth of paint.

3 counts of defamation: Spreading negative rumours about Gordon, James, and Henry.

1 count of frameup: Pinning the blame of the rumours on Duck.

1 count of attempted murder: Trying to get Fergus scrapped.

3 counts of assault: Bumping Thomas under a stone hopper. Bumping paint cans onto Thomas. Bumping Toby into a coal hopper.

Sailor John (Legend of the Lost Treasure)

4 counts of assault: stamping his foot on Skiff, elbowing Skiff to silence him, stamping on skiff AGAIN, battering thomas with an oar

4 counts of trespassing: riding Skiff on the construction site of the new branchline (3 counts). Entering the station out of regular hours

1 count of coercion: manipulating Thomas into his scheme to steal the treasure.

4 counts of theft: stealing the map, the stealing the treasure, stealing explosives, stealing a warship.

2 counts of intimidation: accusing thomas of taking the treasure for himself, threatening skiff with physical harm for “mutiny��.

1 count of unlawful possession of explosives.

1 count of breaking & entering: breaking into Sir Topham Hatt’s office.

1 count of destruction of property: using DYNAMITE to break into Sir Topham Hat’s safe.

1 count of vehicle hijacking: running amok with the ship on a flat wagon (lets ignore the physical improbability of this for the moment).

1 count of public endangerment: same reason as vehicle hijacking.

2 counts of attempted murder: trying to dynamite Thomas, leaving Thomas to drown.

And possibly also 1 count of prison break: he's seen in a later special (Big World: Big Adventures) in a cafe in brazil. Assuming this isn't just the studio reusing him as an asset as a background character this implies he escaped from prison and fled to brazil.

Diesel Ten (Thomas And The Magic Railroad & Day Of The Diesels)

7 counts of attempted murder: Lady twice, James, Junior, Mr Conductor, and Thomas (TATMR), Thomas (DOTD).

3 counts of property damage: Carving his likeness on the rock which would be the property of the landowner, tearing down the scaffolding of the sheds, bringing down the diesel shelter (TATMR). 

3 counts of Intimidation: The sheds, Mr Conductor on the Viaduct, and carrying Junior on his roof (TATMR).

1 count of conspiracy to commit genocide (wanting ALL steam locomotives scrapped): "I'm going to destroy her and dominate you, then you'll be nothing but hunks of useless scrap" (TATMR).

1 count of reckless driving: driving at excessive speed with Junior on his roof (TATMR).

1 count of unlawful imprisonment: Trapping Thomas in the shed (DOTD).

1 count of arson: setting fire to the shed (DOTD).

1 count of coercion: manipulating Percy into unwillingly assisting him in goals (DOTD).

1 count of trespassing: entering the dieselworks without the knowledge or permission of Victor (DOTD).

1 count of conspiracy to commit grand larceny: attempting to take control of the dieselworks (DOTD).

1 count of theft: stealing a christmas tree.

Verdict: Diesel is toxic, Sailor John is a pirate, and Diesel Ten is standing trial in the Hague for crimes against trainkind and small children

[wuxiaphoenix]

Worldbuilding: Grow Your Own

A neat detail to add to fantastic worlds, either fantasy or science fiction, could be grow your own exotic plant kits.

It takes time and effort, but it might be worth it if you need something grown under very specific conditions. A potion ingredient, or testing out a new species in different planetary conditions before you unleash space kudzu on a brand-new colonized ecosystem. Or worse, space tumbleweed.

Of course, you’d have to trust whoever you got the seeds from. But if you need mandrake for your potion or Italian oregano on Mars, you’re already trusting somebody to harvest, pack, and ship it. Reputable businessmen ought to exist.

Sure, there would always be fly-by-night outfits that cause plenty of trouble with seeds that aren’t what they’re supposed to be, before irate customers (or their survivors) shut them down permanently. But it can be even more fun to imagine the consequences if the plant kit is Exactly What It Says On The Tin. (Or the pot, so to speak.) Do vampire overlords hunt down garlic-growers? What about hawthorn kits, or wild rose hips? Does the local restaurant owners’ association on a new colony have a stranglehold on spice production, and a vested interest in making sure no one has homegrown paprika? Heck, completely legitimate businessmen can get nervous about seed kits; rubber plantations and vanilla growers are both vulnerable to imported molds and bacteria, to the point it can crash an entire industry. If the local government isn’t inspecting plant grow kits for potential problems, businesses like that would - or possibly try to ban them altogether.

Picture the conversation in a new colony’s cell block. “So what are you in for?”

“Grand larceny, diamonds.”

“Murder.”

“...Avocado seeds?”

(Bonus if the seed-smuggler looks mousy, yet is the most feared inmate in lockup.)

Seed kits would also give a nifty explanation for how your Evil Alchemist/Biotechnologist would have all those rare plants: They grew them themselves. (Or at least had a minion do it.)

Meaning if the heroes bust into the secret lair and trip over the greenhouse, the bad guy is going to be really ticked. Years of work, destroyed or contaminated! Argh!

(It might be worse if it’s a minion who runs the greenhouse. Those plants are their life. They’ll come at the heroes with murder in their eyes and a really sharp pruning saw. You know, the kind that reaches up to get tree branches, so they can slice up your heroes without ever getting into brawling range.)

And then there’s the possibility that someone does Something Horrible to a plant’s home range, and the seed kits are all that’s left. Think of gingkoes, a tree left from the time of the dinosaurs, surviving only in some temple grounds. Maybe your heroes need to track down an ancient sect to find one rare species....

[ioannemos]

wow, fun asks. here: 2, 4, 10, 20, 29, 35, 42, 44, 47, 49, 58, 62, 64, 65

wow, lots of questions haha 😁

talk about a notable time a narrative or character has looked you dead in the eyes and said “fuck your plan, here’s what we’re actually doing.”

the only thing that comes to mind atm is actually the reverse of this. a character told me "i'm not doing that," i said "yes you are," and the character said "no i'm not and your story is DEAD now." it's been about a million years since i worked on it so i don't even remember what it was. the fandom was star wars, i remember that much...

what is the plot bunny you’ve been carrying for the longest? optional bonus question: do you ever wonder why you haven’t written it yet and experience deep existential dread?

i'm not sure, tbh. my foodless bubble city concept has finally been put to use in a fanfic, so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ maybe my reverse aladdin plot bunny? had that one for a while. no existential dread bc, like, it's neat, but i'm having fun with other stuff

at what point in the process do you come up with titles, and how easy or hard is that for you?

there must be a title or the story is not written down. period. even if the title is boring or lame or doesn't quite make sense, it Must have a title or it stays in my head

my standards are not high, tho. i'll name it a word in the story's epigraph, a suitable verb/adjective/noun, a phrase from the song that inspired it, etc.

what is your favorite trope to write?

is hurt/comfort a trope?

give us a spoiler for one of your stories.

rodney never recovers

[bc i will wonder later: silence like darkness]

tell us about a character who’s very different than you who you love a whole lot.

jason. thinks books are boring. watches anime. could probably bench press a pick-up truck. works out for fun. enjoys cheap beer and spicy food. could kill you several different ways without even bringing in weaponry other than his body and training but would rather challenge you to dumb stunts like 'who can balance on a chair's two back legs the longest' or. well basically anything in my 'boys will be boys' tag

he is. such a jock. short king. borderline himbo. i love him

describe the aesthetic of a story in 5 words.

exposed, wind, reaching, cowboys, post-apocalypse

[bc i will wonder later: manifest]

any writing advice you want to share?

write what you want, fam. don't worry about being unique or cliche or whether people will like it, or even whether you'll finish it. write for yourself first

what story are you most proud of?

hmm. madonna in orange

do you want to be published some day?

hoo boy. uh. maybe??? idk. it sounds like a lot of work and a lot of time and you have to finish the story... not a realistic dream

what is the last thing that a fic made you google when you were writing it?

don't remember but it was probably how to spell a word, does this word mean what i think it means, or looking up psychosis (again)

what’s the weirdest reason you’ve ever shipped something?

the weirdest one off the top of my head is also probably my weirdest ship, obi-wan/shmi. i started shipping them when i realized they were relatively close in age, had to raise anakin, and never met in canon. it started as, idk, kind of a joke? but now i'm kinda into it

what is your favourite title for a fic you’ve read?

went looking through my bookmarks and ah yes, Nothing Says "Feel Better Soon" Like Grand Theft Larceny (white collar fic)

what is your favourite title for a fic you’ve written?

i am weirdly attached to no such thing as an innocent bystander but i also like manifest, wandering stars, how to be forgiven, the house at the end of the world, laqueus, madonna in orange...

[windstarosprey]

Sonic OCs: The Windstar Pirates

Left to Right: Zephyr, Stomp, and Iggy.

Part of the reason I'm setting up this blog is to find a new place to put my deviantART commissions. And what better way to start things off than my eponymous OC and his friends! Sonic community, say hello to...

THE WINDSTAR PIRATES An infamous trio of treasure hunters and professional ne’er-do-wells. From the rooftop heights of Spagonia to the ocean waves of Soleanna, to Mercia, Empire City, and beyond, the Windstar Pirates sail the seas in search of adventure and riches, bringing destruction and mayhem wherever they go.

But despite being wanted criminals, the Windstars are actually fairly decent people with a (mostly) strong moral compass and a desire to help those less fortunate than them. Unfortunately, their penchant for theatrics, inability to gauge their own strength, and lack of foresight have given them a reputation for dropping the ball...a lot. The result: large amounts of collateral damage. Furthermore, they're still pirates, and aren't above taking advantage of a situation if it means making some Mobiums.

But despite their...issues, at the end of the day, the Windstars make for powerful allies and loyal comrades...just keep your checkbook handy and hope that your enemies are left in worse shape than you are.

ZEPHYR THE OSPREY Sex: Male Age: 16~17 Crew Role: Captain; Marksman Likes: Women, Colore (the world's finest fruit juice), Solean* cuisine, collecting fine art and other valuables, his crew, romance, sailing, swashbuckling adventure stories. Dislikes: Uncouth ruffians, bad table manners, his coat being damaged, people who abuse their power, people who abuse women, greasy food. Wanted For: Piracy. Vandalism. Reckless endangerment. Fraud. Theft. Armed robbery. Grand larceny. Petty larceny. Owning a blaster without a permit. Sailing a ship without a permit. Operating a stand without a permit. Smuggling. Bootlegging. Moonshining. Public indecency. Public intoxication. Public indecency while intoxicated. Impersonating a doctor. Impersonating an officer. Impersonating a reigning monarch. Slander against a reigning monarch. Assaulting a reigning monarch. First degree flirtering.

The Captain of the Windstar Pirates and youngest of the trio. Flashy, flamboyant, and fearless to a fault, Zephyr is the epitome of a swashbuckling pirate. Armed with his trusty "Rosa Venti" windblasters and backed by his stalwart crew, he sails the seas in search of adventure, treasure, and romance.

Zephyr fancies himself as a "roguish, gentleman hero", plundering criminals worse than him and going out of his way to help those in need. Unfortunately, he’s also a shameless philanderer and a snob, flirting with every woman he fancies and being dismissive and critical of those he deems “unrefined savages”. He also loves to show off and be the center of attention and hates being upstaged, especially by said "unrefined savages". Zephyr adores the country of Soleanna (Mobian Italy) and often injects Solean words and phrases into his speech (with varying degrees of quality).

STOMP THE BISON Sex: Male Age: 20~22 Crew Roles: Cook; Helmsman Likes: Cooking, flowers, his friends. Dislikes: Speaking (I get...nervous.), wasting food, violence and hurting people. Wanted For: Piracy. Vandalism. Aiding and abetting a wanted fugitive. Trespassing. Theft. Destruction of property.

The eldest Windstar pirate, cook, and the biggest, strongest member of the crew. Due to his imposing height and physique, most people think Stomp is just a dumb muscle-head; an assumption reinforced by how rarely he speaks. In truth, Stomp is a gentle, warm-hearted man who gets nervous around other people and doesn't like to draw attention to himself. He's also a staunch pacifist, and would rather spend his time preparing delicious meals than fighting, and only does so as an absolute last resort. In the rare moments Stomp does fight, he's capable of lifting objects several times his own weight and can effortlessly dent iron with his bare hands.

Because of his non-verbal tendencies, Stomp primarily communicates through gestures, body language, and the occasional grunt. When he does speak it's only a few words at a time and with frequent pauses.

IGNIS "IGGY" THE SALAMANDER Sex: Female Age: 18~20 Crew Roles: Mechanic; Doctor Likes: Tinkering with machines, science, candy (especially lollipops) Dislikes: People who use science and technology for evil, illogical things and behavior, people calling her fat. Wanted For: Piracy. Vandalism. Assault. Battery. Disturbing the peace. Trespassing. Theft. Unauthorized and unethical experimentation. Setting off explosives in a public place. Detaining one against their will. Leaking state secrets. Cyberterrorism. Copyright infringement. The middle Windstar of the crew and their mechanic and surgeon. Iggy is the serious and responsible member of the trio, the one who makes sure everyone focuses on the task at hand and doesn't do anything stupid - usually by slapping them upside the head or yanking them by their hair, horns, or feathers. She's also the most intelligent, having a genius-level IQ and an almost paranormal aptitude for all things scientific and mechanical - including the human/Mobian body (it's basically an organic machine to her) -, which she loves to the point of manic obsession. She's the one who developed most of the tech the crew uses, including their ship's engines, Zephyr's blasters, and her magnum opus: the Armachine, her transforming, custom-built prosthetic arm.

The only thing greater than her love of science is her temper and her penchant for swearing, forcing her to wear a special choker that plays random sound effects to drown out her profanity.

Sonic the Hedgehog is the property of SEGA, Archie, IDW, and Paramount. Please support the official release and all official materials.

The Windstar Pirates are owned by me.

Artwork by RisziArts.

[the-skooma-den]

Alisher!

Thank you!

Full Name: Alisher Latona

Gender and Sexuality: Cis male and gay

Pronouns: He/him

Ethnicity/Species: Suthay Raht Khajiit

Birthplace: Sentinel, Hammerfell

Guilty Pleasures: erotic romance novels, buying WAY to many plants

Phobias: Almost everything lol, He has crippling anxiety and at the start of the story can barely speak

What They Would Be Famous For: Assisting the hero of daggerfell, dragonslaying

What They Would Get Arrested For: Grand Larceny, murder

You Ship Them With: No one yet!

Favorite Movie/Book Genre: Romance!

Talents and/or Powers: A very talented archer, very good at sneaking and stealing

Why Someone Might Love Them: When you get him out of his shell hes an enthusiastic and energetic young man who is happy to get as excited about something you love as you are

Why Someone Might Hate Them: Hes very very self conscious in a way that tends to raise the anxiety of the whole room

How They Change: He learns to calm down and gains a good amount more confidence as time goes on

Why You Love Them: So its really exaggerated but his anxiety is at least somewhat inspired by my own when i was younger and it does make him very fun to write. Plus honestly i think he has some of the most fun character dynamics out of all me ocs

[once-i-read]

Title: something just like this

Author(s): destiny919

Fandom(s): Batman

Ship(s): N/A

Description: "I'll cut to the chase," Selina says, which Tim thinks is funny, because usually 'the chase' is across rooftops and about flirting and grand larceny. "This is our son, Timothy."

Dead silence follows these words. Mr. Pennyworth waits patiently near the door while Bruce's eyes flicker frantically between Tim and Selina and his mouth parts with no sound. Then he sits down hard on the other sofa.

[the-firebird69]

There's a lot of people dying and it's because of what's happening here in the neighborhood and it's because of what's happening in a big scale but a lot of it now is because of the government of Port Charlotte and punta Gorda being laid off and fired or expelled they have all sorts of words and they're not on unemployment that's for sure they're giving dismissal papers and on it it says why a lot of them it says things like this grand theft and larceny and petty theft harassment and abusive power and we should arrest you so shut up about it and stay out of here and we're putting it on this paper because it's true and we have evidence if you come back we will formally placed charges if you challenge the statement and your employment will formally place charges and so most of them hang their head down low and don't come back no all of them come back each and every one of them. And they try and contest it to people who are there and then say we don't know anything about this we're worried about getting fired today too so please leave the building and they end up calling the cops and it goes on like this all day long and they're fired from the fire department and the police department most of them will lock her out from those two places permanently. And Stan is fighting his nails and in trouble but he did the job last night yes and Trump and some others who had empire ships and have empire ships were beating the s*** out of their own people and following orders they just have them go to the enemy's area Stan was over Trump he had a concentration Trump was overstands area that's how it works they tried to fight each other and they weren't allowed to and they took out probably half I was at targets the other half will go tonight and we're going to publish this now

Thor Freya

The result is that the Midwest is emptying into the upper Midwest and rapidly and we brought tons of beer there that's also sucking people up there they think that plant is pumping out more beer than anyone's ever seen we have all these bottles and then the brown big ones and the brown small ones and for a whole bunch of different types of beers Molson and a whole bunch of Canadian beers use that bottle that in that color and we are selling it and we're selling huge lots of it and we did feel that warehouse and we're waiting for them to go look at it because they'll feel guilty because they hurt their friend and we hate them for it and they're threatened in living s*** out of her son. And they get free beer for it. It's a good message it's very potent and the beer is very powerful and they're going to try and make their own and take over the company they say it's a huge beer company already and we've started making the beer at other companies and we got rid of all the brown bottles and the small brown bottles the same size and we moved into their breweries that they had and other breweries that are defunct and we're taking over a lot more and we're making tons of this beer I mean this is a huge seller and the way we did it was good because we got rid of those bottles and in the way they should it's a huge deal huge we know what to use them for and we monitor it but wow what a lot of beer they drink and holy cow with losers because the retards go out and get drunk and they fight people and they're fighting the max and they suck and it is a massive number that died fighting them. We're going to have beer tents set up all over the place for different beers and so I understand something we're going to lure them up there and we're going to we're going to cut the price to 50 cents a beer for the small ones they're more potent but there's not much beer in there and 75 cents to the big ones and in big huge beer halls and they're really not beer Halls they're going to be like their style beer place and we're doing it now

Thor Freya

It's a huge effort is putting in because he doesn't want to be under such duress and threaten 24 hours a day. I'm going to watch these beer places and see what these guys are saying

Mac

I'm going to watch them too they say all sorts of stuff they're going to be so loaded on beer they're going to be talking about everything

Daniel

He was so drunk all the time when he was drinking and he never said a word about who or what he is he doesn't really say it now like he is and stuff to anybody

Jason

[kilopinbox]

Anna delvey article

Anna delvey article series#

Immediately after she was released, Sorokin settled her debts. The reason for her early release? Good behavior. Sorokin was released from there on parole in February 2021, after serving three years in her four-to-12-year sentence. At least, not the same prison she was in when she was first sentenced back in 2019. Let’s cut right to the chase: No, Anna Sorokin is not still in prison. When was Anna Sorokin released from prison?

Anna delvey article series#

The Best Netflix Original Series of 2022 (So Far).Read on for the latest on her real life whereabouts. She was sentenced to four to 12 years in prison, rebranded as inmate #19G0366, and shipped up to Albion Correctional Facilities in upstate New York. In May 2019, a jury convicted Sorokin on a handful of grand larceny and theft services charges. She survived off of bounced checks and fake wire transfers until 2017 when she was arrested in a sting operation outside the entrance of an upscale rehab facility in Malibu, California. The Netflix original series depicts the rapid rise and even steeper descent of Sorokin who spent years galavanting across Manhattan, living in boutique hotels, dining at expensive restaurants, and leaving a trail of suspicious, six-figure IOUs in her wake. She’s been a Russian immigrant, a fashion student, a New York socialite, an arts and culture entrepreneur, a Rikers Island inmate, a well-heeled, celebrity defendant, a convicted felon, and the inspiration behind Netflix juggernaut Inventing Anna. The fake German heiress Anna Delvey, whose real name is Anna Sorokin, has lived many lives in her 30 years.

[domesticatedantelope]

proximity

a self-indulgent next door neighbors au for rodaw: best boy’s day

Pairing: Logan x MC

Rating: T

Word Count: 3k

i. 

Logan moves in on the first hot day of summer.

It takes him three long hours in the sun and several trips back up and down the chipped paint staircase at the end of the hall. By the time he maneuvers his beaten old futon mattress through the front door, his arms ache and his t-shirt sticks with sweat between his shoulder blades. 

There’s never much to move: whatever clothes fit in the back of the Devore, and just enough junk furniture to rest his feet on. At the end of the day, his footsteps echo a little too loudly against all the empty wall space, but the place is safe and quiet. And it’s something to call his own. 

He’s hunting through the boxes strewn in landmine fashion across the floor for a clean shirt when a few timid knocks break the silence. He pauses with his arms half-pushed through the sleeves, listening intently, and he thinks he hears a sigh from beyond the door as he approaches.

A quick look through the peephole offers him a fisheye glimpse of freckles and dark curls. The girl outside his door bites down on her bottom lip and fidgets where she stands, finally daring a glance up into the tiny glass lens, where her wide eyes unknowingly meet his own.

The notion sinks in slowly, unfamiliar. 

Logan has relocated more times than he cares to remember — lifted his life by the roots and left the rest behind — but this, he realizes, is a first. 

Because he’s fairly certain people just don’t do this anymore. 

Or at least he was, until his neighbor showed up with a plate of cookies in her hands. 

She startles when he opens the door, the hint of a blush coloring the freckles on her cheeks as she blinks up at him and offers a shy smile. “Hi. Sorry to bother you,” she starts, and the sound of her voice brings the beach to mind, the soft way the waves sigh against the sand. “I know you just got done moving in, but I, um… thought I should introduce myself. I’m Mercy. I live in 104.” She shifts the plate to one hand and holds the other out for him to shake. 

Logan finds himself smiling as he takes it, especially when it makes the blush deepen on her face. “Logan.” He leans against the doorframe with a grin, nodding toward the plate in her hands. “Those for me?”

Her smile widens to match his, more certain. “Only if you like snickerdoodles. Otherwise I will have to insist you let me bake you something else.”

The plate is still warm when she passes it over, a heap of golden cookies piled neatly beneath a shiny slip of plastic wrap. It might be the most wholesome thing he’s ever seen. “Thank you. Really. You didn’t have to do that.”

She averts her gaze then, toying with the tail end of a curl. “Well, my mother would be disappointed if I didn’t do the neighborly thing and welcome you with fresh-baked cookies.” She breathes a nervous laugh, and when she speaks again her words all tumble together in a rush. “Also, I teach piano lessons every other day, and the walls here can be really thin, and I just wanted to say sorry ahead of time, and I promise it’ll only be during business hours, and if we’re ever too loud, you can totally come over and let me know, and—!”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Logan cuts in gently, holding a hand out as if he might stem the tide of her apologies. “Seriously, don’t worry about it. I’m hardly ever home anyways. I can promise it won’t bother me.”

She tugs her lip between her teeth again. “You say that now, but wait until you’re hearing off-key Für Elise for the fifth time in a row. You’ll be begging the landlord to evict me.”

He laughs. “Trust me, Mercy. I wouldn’t do that to you.” He feels a smirk tilt at the corner of his mouth, and drops his voice conspiratorially low. “Besides, I’ve already taken the bribe. No walking back on it now.”

The last of the anxious energy seems to ease from her shoulders when she giggles, and the smile she beams up at him is sweeter even than the smell of cinnamon and sugar. He wonders absently if kissing her would taste like cookies, too. “In that case… I guess we have a deal. The snickerdoodles in exchange for your silence.”

“I’ve had worse deals.”

Her gaze lingers a moment longer on the shape of his smirk before she blinks and glances down the hall toward her own door. “I, um… have some studying I need to get back to, but... it was really nice meeting you, Logan.”

“Not as nice as meeting you,” he assures her smoothly, rewarded by the delicate pink flush that warms her cheeks again. It’s far too easy, summoning that blush; he thinks he could get dangerously used to it. “Thanks again. I’ll bring the plate back as soon as I’m done with it.”

“No rush. You know where to find me.” She arcs a small, cheery wave at him, and he watches the waves of her hair bounce as she walks the short distance back to her apartment. There’s an eager sort of warmth that sits in his chest when he kicks the front door shut behind him. His steps still echo when he walks, but if he’s quiet he can just make out the sound of Mercy moving in the next apartment over, and the noise of nearby life softens the empty feeling in the room. He takes a bite of cookie that melts perfectly on his tongue, and smiles as he settles in to unpack.

ii. 

Logan wasn’t kidding about never being home.

Mercy doesn’t see him for another couple weeks, aside from the short interlude when he drops by to bring her plate back — when the firm broad of his shoulders fill her doorway, and he shoots her that same tempting smile, and it feels like tilting her face up into the sun. The image of it floats across her thoughts, firmly imprinted in the fleeting daydreams between essays and lessons and exams. 

The summer starts to sink its teeth in, bleeding hazy heat waves well into the dark of night. Her shoddy AC unit struggles helplessly against the swelter, and she finds her only solace curled up in a chair below her open window, begging any semblance of a breeze to whisper through. She’s on her third night in a row of letting ice cubes slowly melt against her neck when she hears the unmistakable sound of a window scraping open. The crash of boots on metal quickly follows, and she cranes her neck to peer over the sill and see the familiar shape of dark hair and wide shoulders on the fire escape. 

“Logan?”

He turns at the sound of his name, a grin stretching across his face when he spots her through the window. “Hey, Mercy. You trying to escape the heat, too?”

“Trying,” she confirms, and reaches for the tray of ice at her side, holding it out toward him in lethargic invitation. “Ice cube?”

With a pleasant, rumbly laugh, he plucks a slightly melted ice cube loose and folds his fingers in around it. “Thanks. You know, it’s a lot better out here. Feel like joining me?”

His smile leaves a flutter in her stomach; her daydreams haven’t done it justice. It’s been a while since she clambered through her window, but she manages to climb over the sill with little difficulty. Logan offers her a hand to help her through, his fingers still cold from the ice, only letting her go once her feet are firmly planted on the fire escape. 

And oh, he was so right.

She can’t help a blissful sigh as a breeze lifts at the curled ends of her hair, cooling the flush of heat from her skin. “Oh, my god.”

Logan chuckles knowingly beside her. “Better?”

“The best.” Mercy joins him at the railing, where he rests his elbows and peers out over the darkness of the alley below. An easy quiet settles in the space between them while she revels in the first glimpse of relief she’s felt all night, soothed by the busy melodies of city life around them, voices and laughter and traffic on the distant highway. He’s rolled the short sleeves of his t-shirt up his shoulders, leaving the bronze skin of his arms uninterrupted, and she finds herself almost grateful for the heat when a blush starts to rise in her cheeks. 

He seems to notice her staring, because he arches a brow and tilts his head to smirk down at her. “Come here often?”

Despite her mortification, Mercy laughs. His expression softens at the sound, something tender in the angle of his smile. “Sometimes,” she admits, her finger tracing idle patterns at the metal of the railing. “On clear nights mostly, when I want to see the stars.”

His gaze flickers from her face up to the sliver of night sky barely visible between apartment buildings. “Kinda hard to see the stars from here, isn’t it?”

“It’s not the best view,” she agrees with a quiet laugh. “Just enough to remind me that they’re up there, I guess.”

Abruptly, Logan steps away from the railing, a look of determination forming in the dark of his eyes as he turns to face her. “I want to show you something.”

She blinks, thoughts scattered by the eager way he grins at her. “What is it?”

“A surprise,” he insists teasingly, and holds his hand out to her once more. “Do you trust me?”

Mercy touches his palm, and her heart skips when he folds their hands together. “I do.”

The stairs tremble beneath their feet as they climb steadily higher. Logan glances back at every landing, his grip comfortingly certain around her own. It’s another five flights to the roof, and he slows to a stop at the last ladder to let her ascend first.

The breeze is stronger here, whipping at the loose strands of her hair as she steps out onto the open rooftop. Dark blue sky stretches unobstructed above her, and she tips her head back to drink in the faint sparkle of stars that manage to break out over the city lights. She feels Logan step up beside her, and when she finally tears her eyes away from the stars to meet his gaze, the wonder in his features steals her breath.

This time when her blush returns, she doesn’t look away. “Thank you, Logan. It’s perfect.”

He doesn’t look away either. “Anytime.”

iii. 

His eye still fucking hurts. Every time he blinks, the sting reminds him of wet streets beneath his cheek and the brutal pain of impact, Salazar’s face a snarl of gritted teeth and bleeding mouth and the crunch of his nose breaking under Logan’s fist. He clenches his hand at the memory, feeling the prickle of split skin across his knuckles. 

He doesn’t notice Mercy in the hallway until he’s nearly walking into her, the startled shock of her voice shaking him from his anger. 

“Logan! I’m sorry, I didn’t see — oh, my god, are you okay?” 

Wincing, he angles his injured eye away from her. “It’s nothing. Took an elbow in a pick-up game. It looks worse than it is.”

Something about the concern in her expression eats away at him, like battery acid in the chasm of his chest. Her gaze passes shrewdly from his black eye to his split lip to the busted knuckles in his hands before a frown settles on her mouth. She bites her lip, unconvinced. “Well… at least let me get you something to help with the swelling.” She reaches out to squeeze his fingers before disappearing into her apartment, and he stands frozen in the momentary silence, staring down at his palm, where his hand still feels warm from her touch.

Mercy returns shortly with a bag of frozen peas in her grasp. “Here. This should help with the pain a little, too.”

“You patch up many black eyes?” he teases, bending to let her press the bag gently over his eye. His body tenses at the pressure, teeth biting back a groan, and she murmurs soothingly under her breath, easing her touch until he feels only the cold. Her focus is fixed on his injury, and it leaves him free to admire the soft angles of her face, the beauty mark at the corner of her mouth, the freckles set like stars against her cheeks. A few curls threaten to spring loose from her braid, and his fingers itch to discover how soft they might feel in his hands. 

“Can’t say I do,” she answers finally, when the weight of his gaze makes her blush and look away. “But I was clumsy enough to get all sorts of injuries when I was little, and the frozen peas trick always works.” She checks her phone and mutters an adorably soft curse. “I have a final in half an hour, or I’d stay and—”

“I got it from here,” he reassures her, with a smile half-hidden by the hand keeping her makeshift compress in place. “But thanks for looking after me, Mercy. Honestly. With your help, it feels better already.”

She hesitates a moment longer, clearly torn, before she reaches up and strokes the smooth pad of her thumb over his cheek. “Take care of yourself, okay?” Her features are tight with concern, but she turns and hurries down the hall, the sound of her footsteps fading into a silence that weighs heavy on his shoulders.

iv. 

Mercy lets her fingers move mindlessly across the keys, coasting on a comfortable familiarity, the soft notes of a nocturne soothing out the stresses of her day. Her left hand sidles over broken chords, rising into an arpeggio that’s just about to reach its zenith when the power cuts in her apartment, plunging her into sudden darkness.

She blinks as her eyes struggle to adjust, groping blindly for her phone. The narrow beam of its flashlight guides her careful steps into the kitchen, where she rummages beneath the sink and emerges with a tin of tealight candles. 

It takes the whole container just to light her living room, but at least she can see her own feet. The faint flicker of candlelight is just enough to keep the darkness at bay, and it’s with a calmer heart that Mercy picks her way across the apartment to answer a hurried knock at her door.

Logan stands in the darkened hallway outside, the glow of his cell phone gripped between his fingers. “Hey, sorry, I know it’s late. I heard you playing, so I thought…”

“I was up,” she confirms, blushing as she pictures him in the apartment next door, listening to her practice. “Your power’s out too, I assume?”

“Pitch dark.” He spots the soft halos of light over her shoulder and heaves a sigh of recognition. “Candles. You’re a genius.”

She laughs. “It’s an old building, and definitely not the first time this has happened. I can spare a few, if you need some.”

Logan chuckles, and even through the darkness she can feel the warmth of his gaze on her. “Lucky me. Don’t worry about it, I’m sure it’ll pass soon enough. I feel better knowing you’re okay over here. Let me know if you need anything, okay?”

She’s not sure where she finds the courage. Maybe the darkness makes her bold, the sight of Logan turning back to leave clawing a sudden ache into her heart. “Wait!” 

He rocks back on his heels, and she can just make out the arch of surprise in his expression. 

“Maybe you could… stay? Until the power’s back? I hate the thought of you just sitting in the dark over there when you don’t have to.”

Logan takes a slow step closer, close enough to feel a trace of his body heat as he searches her face through the darkness. “Would you like that?” he asks softly. “If I stayed?”

She swallows, nodding even as her face burns with the force of her blush. “Very much.”

He smiles then, and with a gentle motion, lifts his hand to tuck an errant curl behind her ear. “Me too.”

It’s stranger than she thought it would be, having Logan in her apartment, even if she’s spent more and more of her time here thinking of him. They settle in the dim circle of candlelight that rings her living room, stretched out side by side across the floor. His leg shifts, bumping her foot with his own, and she breathes a laugh that shivers in the air between them. When she turns, she finds him watching her, his smile inches away as the light washes soft over his features. 

His dark eyes slowly roam her face, landing on the shape of her mouth with a look of immense purpose. He reaches out to trail rough fingertips along the frame of her jaw, his touch sending a shudder of warmth down her spine. He traces a thumb over her blushing cheekbone, her name a whisper on his breath before he leans in and softly kisses her.

Logan is almost unbearably tender, his lips gentle against her own as his fingers wind into the thick curls of her hair, drawing her into the circle of his arms. Past the rushing of her heartbeat, Mercy hears a faint groan at the back of his throat when she grips him by the shirt to tug him closer, parting her lips for the brief slide of his tongue. 

When they break reluctantly apart, he tilts his forehead against hers with a breathless laugh. “You don’t know how long I’ve been thinking about doing that.” 

She laughs with him, carefree, like her worries have all floated off and vanished somewhere in the dark. “Probably about as long as I have.”

His eyes flash with amusement, and a flicker of something else, an ardor close to hunger. “Then we’ve got some time to make up for.”

Mercy falls eagerly into his arms, where she feels his heartbeat racing in his chest, and he kisses her until the lights hum back to life around them — and then, even, a while longer. 

[c-is-for-circinate]

For a long, large part of my life, being queer in a media landscape--finding queerness in a media landscape--has meant theft.

I'm a Fandom Old, somehow, these days, older than most and younger than some, in that way that's grown associated with grumpy crotchetyness and shotguns on porches and back in my day, we had to wade through our Yahoo Groups mailing lists uphill both ways, boring and irrelevant anecdotes from Back In Those Days when homophobia clearly worked differently than it does now, probably because we weren't trying hard enough. I've seen a lot of stories through the years. I've read a lot of fanfic. (More days than not, for the past twenty years. I've read a lot of fanfic.)

When people my age start groaning and sighing at conversations about representation and queerbaiting, when we roll our eyes and drag all the old war stories out again in the face of AO3 is terrible and Not Good Enough, so often what we say is: you Young Folks Today have no idea how hard, how scary, how limiting it was to be queer anywhere Back In Those Days. Including online, maybe especially online, including in a media landscape that hated us so much more than any one you've ever known. And that is true. Always and everywhere, again and again, it's true, we remember, it's true.

We don't talk so much about the joy of it.

Online fan spaces were my very first queer communities, ever. I was thirteen, I was fourteen, I was fifteen--I was a lonely, over-precocious "gifted kid" two years too young for my grade level in an all-girls' Catholic school in the suburbs--I lived in a world where gay people were a rumor and an insult and a news story about murder. I was straight, of course, obviously, because real people were straight and anyway I was weird enough already--I couldn't be two things strange, couldn't be gay too, but--well, I could read the stories. I could feel things about that. I would have those stories to help me, a few years later, when I knew I couldn't call myself straight any more.

And those stories were theft. There was never any doubt about that. We wrote disclaimers at the top of every fic, with the specter of Anne Rice's lawyers around every corner. We hid in back-corners of the internet, places you could only find through a link from a link from a link on somebody else's recs page, being grateful for the tiny single-fandom archives when you found them, grateful for the webrings where they existed. It was theft, all of it, the stories about characters we did not own, the videotaped episodes on your best friend's VHS player, one single episode pulled off of Limewire over the course of three days.

It was theft, we knew, to even try and find ourselves in these stories to begin with. How many fics did I read in those days about two men who'd always been straight, except for each other, in this one case, when love was stronger than sexual orientation? We stole our characters away from the heterosexual lives they were destined to have. We stole them away from writers and producers and TV networks who work overtime to shower them in Babes of the Week, to pretend that queerness was never even an option. This wasn't given to us. This wasn't meant for us. This wasn't ours to have, ever, ever in the first place. But we took it anyway.

And oh, my friends, it was glorious.

We took it. We stole. And again and again, for years and years and years, we turned that theft into an art. We looked for every opening, every crack in every sidewalk where a little sprout of queerness might grow, and we claimed it for our own and we grew whole gardens. We grew so sly and so skilled with it, learning to spot the hints of oh, this could be slashy in every new show and movie to come our way. Do you see how they left these character dynamics here, unattended on the table? How ripe they are for the pocketing. Here, I'll help you carry them. We'll make off with these so-called straight boys, and we only have to look back if somebody sets out another scene we want for our own.

We were thieves, all of us, and that was fine and that was fair, because to exist as queer in the world was theft to begin with. Stolen time, stolen moments--grand larceny of the institution of marriage, breaking and entering to rob my mother's hopes for grandchildren. Every shoplifted glance at the wrong person in the locker room (and it didn't matter if we never peeked, never dared, they called us out on it anyway). Every character in every fic whose queerness became a crime against this ex-wife, that new love interest. Every time we dared steal ourselves away from the good straight partners we didn't want to date.

And: we built ourselves a den, we thieves, wallpapered in stolen images and filled to the brim with all the words we'd written ourselves. We built ourselves a home, and we filled it with joy. Every vid and art and fic, every ship, every squee. Over and over, every straight boy protagonist who abandoned all womankind for just this one exception with his straight boy protagonist partner found gay orgasms and true love at the end.

Over and over, we said: this isn't ours, this isn't meant to be ours, you did not give this to us--but we are taking it anyway. We will burglarize you for building blocks and build ourselves a palace. These stories and this place in the world is not for us, but we exist, and you can't stop us. It's ours now, full of color and noise, a thousand peoples' ideas mosaic'ed together in celebration. We made this, and it will never be just yours again. You won't ever truly get it back, no matter how many lawyers you send, not completely. We keep what we steal.

.

Things shifted over time, of course. That's good. That's to be celebrated. Nobody should have to steal to survive. It should not be a crime, should not feel like a crime, to find yourself and your space in the world.

There were always content creators who could slip a little wink in when they laid out their wares, oh what's this over here, silly me leaving this unattended where anybody could grab it, of course there might be more over by the side door if you come around the alleyway (but if anybody asks, you didn't get this from ME). We all watched Xena marry Gabrielle, in body language and between the lines. We sat around and traded theories and rumors about whether the people writing Due South knew what they were doing when they sent their buddy cops off into the frozen north alone together at the end of the show, if they'd done it on purpose, if they knew. But over the years, slowly, thankfully, the winks became less sly.

A teenage boy put his hand on another teenage boy's hand and said, you move me, and they kissed on network TV, in a prime-time show, on FOX, and the world didn't burn down. Here and there, where they wanted to, where they could without getting caught by their bosses and managers, content creators stopped subtly nudging people around the back door and started saying, "Here. This is on offer here too, on purpose. You get to have this, too."

And of course, of course that came with a whole host of problems too. Slide around to the back door but you didn't get this from me turned into it's an item on our special menu, totally legit, you've just got to ask because the boss throws a fit if we put it out front. Shopkeepers and content creators started advertising on the sly, come buy your fix here!, hiding the fine print that says you still have to take what you've purchased home and rebuild it with your semi-legal IKEA hacks. Maybe they'll consider listing that Destiel or Sterek as a full-service menu item next year. Is that Crowley/Aziraphale the real thing or is it lite?

And those problems are real and the conversations are worth having, and it's absolutely fair to be frustrated that you can't find the ship you want on sale in anything like your color and size in a vast media landscape packed full of discount hetships and fast-fashion m/f. It's fair to be angry. It's fair to be frustrated. Queerbait is a word that exists for a reason.

There's a part of me that hurts, though, every time the topic comes up. It's a confusing, bad-mannered part of me, but it's still very real. And it's not because I'm fawning for crumbs, trying to be the Good, Non-Threatening Gay. It's not that I'm scared and traumatized by the thought of what might happen if we dare raise our voices and ask for attention. (Well. Not mostly. I'll always remember being quiet and scared and fifteen, but it's been a long two decades since then. I know how to ask for a hell of a lot more now.)

It's because I remember that cozy, plush-wallpapered den of joyful thieves. I remember you keep what you steal.

Every single time--every time--when a story I love sets a couple of characters out on a low, unguarded table, perfectly placed to be pilfered on the sly and taken home and smushed together like a couple of dolls, my very first thought is always, always joy. Always, that instinct says, yay! Says, this is ours now. As soon as I go home and crawl into that pillow-fort den, my instincts say, I will surely find people already at work combing through spoils and finding new ways to combine them, new ways to make them our own. I know there's fic for that. I've already seen fic for that, and I wasn't really interested last time, but the new store display's got my brain churning, and I can't wait to see what the crew back at the hideout does with this.

Every time, that's where my brain goes. And oh, when I realize the display's put out on purpose, that somebody snuck in a legitimate special menu item, when the proprietor gives me the nod and wink and says, you don't have to come around the side, I know it's not much but here--there is so much joy and relief and hope in me from that! Oh, what we can make with these beautiful building blocks. Oh what a story we can craft from the pieces. Oh, the things we can cobble together. Look at that, this one's a little skimpy on parts but we can supplement it, this one's got a whole outline we can fill in however we want. This one technically comes semi-preassembled, and that's boring as shit and a pain to take back apart, but that's fine, we'll manage. We're artists and thieves. I bet someone's pulling out the AU saw to cut it to pieces already.

And then I get back to our den, which has moved addresses a dozen times over the years and mostly hangs out on Tumblr now (and the roof leaks and the landlord's sketchy as fuck but at least they don't charge rent, and we've made worse places our own). And I show up, ready for joy--ready for a dozen other people who saw that low-hanging fruit on that unguarded table, who got the nod and wink about the special menu item, who're ready to get so excited about this newest haul. Did you see what we picked up? The theft was so easy, practically begging to be stolen. The last owner was an idiot with no idea what to do with it. The last owner knew exactly what it could become, bless their heart, under a craftsman with more time on their hands, so they looked away on purpose at just the right time to let me take it home. I show up every time ready for our space, the place that fed me on joy and self-confidence when I was fifteen and starving. The place that taught me, yes, we are thieves, because it is RIGHT to take what we need, and the beautiful things we create are their own justification. We are thieves, and that's wonderful, because nothing is handed to us and that means we get to build our own palaces. We get to keep everything we steal.

I go home, and even knowing the world is different, my instincts and heart are waiting for that. And I walk in the door, and I look at my dash, and I glance over at twitter, and--

And people are angry, again. Angry at the slim pickings from the hidden special menu. So, so tired and angry, at once again having to steal.

And they're right to be! Sometimes (often, maybe) I think they're angry at the wrong people--more angry with the shopkeeper who offers the bite-sized sampler platter of side characters or sneaks their queer content in on the special menu than the ones who don't include it at all. But it's not wrong to be mad that Disney's once again advertising their First Gay Character only to find out it's a tiny sprinkle of a one-line extra on an otherwise straight sundae. It's not wrong to be furious at the world because you've spent your whole life needing to be a thief to survive. It's far from wrong. I'm angry about it too.

But this was my den of thieves, my chop shop, my makerspace. Growing up in fandom, I learned to pick the locks on stories and crack the safes of subtext at the very same time I learned to create. They were the same thing, the same art. We are thieves, my heart says, we are thieves, and that's what makes us better than the people we steal from. We deconstruct every time we create. We build better things out of the pieces.

And people are angry that the pre-fab materials are too hard to find, the pickings too slim, the items on sale too limited? Yes, of course they are, of course they should be--but my heart. Oh, my heart. Every single time, just a little bit, it breaks.

Of course the stories are terrible (they have always been terrible). Of course they are, but we are thieves. We steal the best parts and cobble them back together and what we make is better than it was before. The craftsman's eye that cases a story for weak points, for blank spaces, for anywhere we can fit a crowbar and pry apart this casing--that's skill and art and joy. Of course we shouldn't have to, of course we shouldn't have to, but I still love it. I still want it, crave it. I still thrill every time I see it, a story with hairline cracks that we can work open with clever hands to let the queer in.

That used to be cause for celebration, around here. I ask him to go back to the ruins of Aeor with me, two men together alone on an expedition in the frozen north, it feels like a gift. And I understand why some people take it as an insult. I understand not good enough. I understand how something can feel like a few drops of water to someone dying of thirst, like a slap in the face. If it was so easy to sneak it hidden onto the special menu, to place it on the unguarded side table for someone else to run off to, why not let it sit out front and center in the first place? I know it's frustrating. It should be. We should fight. We should always fight. I know why.

But my heart, oh, my heart. My heart only knows what it's been taught. My heart sees, this thing right here, the proprietor left it there for you with a nod and a wink because they Get It. It's not put together yet, but it's better that way anyway. It's so full of pieces to pull apart and reassemble. I bet they've got a whole mosaic wall going up at home already. We can bring it home and make it OURS, more than it was ever theirs, forget half of what it came from and grow a new garden in what remains.

And I go home to find anger, and my heart breaks instead.

[ash-and-starlight]

Pt. 1: Oh, gosh ... Thank you replying! Your are just so talented. All of your work captures emotions beautifully and is always stunning. I LOVE your lightning scar buddies drawing (finally someone else thought about it!); it's *chef's kiss*. Also, you're right: Zuko the theatre nerd would kill at charades, but I bet you the crew would suck at guessing. They'd shout out illegal activity, like: Arson! Homicide! Grand larceny? And Zuko's all: What is wrong with you people?! I'm a TURTLEDUCK!

Pt. 2: But then, if you're Fire Nation and you have a criminal record with the empire, there's a good 50% chance you did something *right*? That maybe you have a heart? The crew canonically basically broke 3 different laws by singing a non-nationalist love song, dancing, and dancing with (we are assuming) a same-sex dance partner aboard what should be a decommissioned naval destroyer. Could you imagine Iroh's introductions on Zuko's first day?

Pt. 3: Each crew member would be like: "I poured a laxative in Zhao's soup", "I threw old boots into all the cannons once", "I defrauded a Fire Nation bank and sent the money back to the colonies", "I blew up my ship before we could set a civilian port village on fire." And Zuko would be so confused, like, "Uncle is there something you are trying to tell me?" Anyway, thanks for listening to all my brain rot. It's nice to have someone to share it with. Hope you don't mind!

first thing first thank you so so much!! and ALKSJALSJSKFDH THIS IS WHAT IM TALKING ABOUTTT god I love it. holding these headcanons so gently in my hands.

Does the crew really suck at guessing or are they just doing it on purpose to see how long it takes for zuko (exasperatedly flapping around like a turtleduck) to notice and start yelling?

and oh boy I LOVE the crew being made of subversive “criminals” that tried to do good where they could and zuko being Extra Mad about it, not realizing he fits right in UGHDJFGKDJ sobbing screaming crying hitting walls etc. (do you think iroh choose them personally or some ozai lackey picked random soldiers on trial for treason and went ok you have a choice it's either babysitting the royal jerk or being sent to the boiling rock.)

anyway thank you for sharing the brairot!! god I wish zuko had been way less loyal to his father and nation and honor from the start he would have been such a cool baby pirate.

[howlingday]

Jaune: Hey, Neo; I found an old wanted poster of you!

"Neo Politian: Wanted for the murder of Sum Guy,

use of illegal witchcraft in Southern Vale, theft of clothing and medically prescribed hair supplements in Central Vale,

graverobbing,

trespassing,

grand larceny without a permit,

disturbing the peace,

illegal gambling on a sporting event,

use of false identification to purchase alcohol,

exceeding the amount of allowable human fluids in pistachio ice cream,

premature burial of a non-dead individual,

impersonation of a sanitation engineer,

transportation of an animal not in a mental state to give consent to,

vandalizing a historical miniature,

reckless use of a piano,

impersonating a child to avoid prosecution,

seven accounts of unauthorized exiting of a penal institution,"

impersonating a federal mail ship,

reanimation of a dead animal within Vale city limits,

possession of library books not checked out to oneself,

mixing alcoholic drinks without a liquor license,

and releasing a dangerous Grimm in a populated area."

Neo: (Shrugs)

Jaune: What do you mean, "Not my problem!"?

[thesealovesme]

𝙲𝙷𝙰𝚁𝙰𝙲𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝙸𝙽𝚃𝙴𝚁𝚅𝙸𝙴𝚆. ( repost, don’t reblog )

   basics

NAME: Maveric Unelanvhi NICKNAME: Mav, Mavvy, Dumb Mutt, Mavvy-poo, Sea Hobo, Old Man. AGE: Twenty Seven SPECIES: Nouryokusha - Zoan, Human -Tenryuubito.

   personal

MORALITY: lawful / neutral / chaotic / good / grey / evil. RELIGION:  Worships the Sea God of the Grand Line. SINS: greed  /  gluttony  / sloth  / lust /  pride  /  envy  /  wrath. VIRTUES: chastity  /  charity  /  diligence  /  humility  /  kindness  /  patience  /  justice PRIMARY GOALS IN LIFE: To survive and live so as to prove his love to the sea for saving his life many years ago, possessed prior goals of protecting and guarding Zoen, and has many short term plans of providing companionship to various people. KNOWN  LANGUAGES:   Common tongue of the Grand Line, can speak the language of beasts.

   physical

BUILD: scrawny  /  bony  / slender /  fit /  athletic  /  curvy  /  herculean  /  pudgy  /  average. HEIGHT: 6′6′‘, 201cm. WEIGHT: Around 300lbs, about 136kg. SCARS  /  BIRTHMARKS: He’s covered in scars from the various injuries suffered on the prehistoric island he survived at a young age, ranging from lacerations from dinosaurs and dire wolves to burns from acidic toxins from hostile plantlife. His signature lip scar was gained from cutting his mouth open on Yarou’s spines after falling from the ship as a child, and was the first injury he had ever suffered in his life. Other scarring was likely gained just from being a stupid pirate. ABILITIES  /  POWERS: Extreme strength and durability, is in possession of the Okami Okami no Mi; Model: Dire Wolf, which gives the user the ability to transform into varying degrees of a massive warg. Maveric is also a master of Busoshoku Haki, to the point where he can even coat a very close living creature(Yarou) as one would their weapon. This mastery of Armament also allows him to coat his vocal chords in Haki, giving him his signature move ‘Hangman’s Howl’, which is akin to a destructive soundblast.   RESTRICTIONS: Seastone cancels out Devil Fruit capabilities, and Maveric is EXTREMELY susceptible to it, even getting tired merely from the smell. He cannot swim, and will be unconscious the moment he touches the ocean.  

   favorites

FOOD: Anything you can grill over an open fire. DRINK: Alcohol, he prefers the sweeter varieties, like rum, also floral teas. PIZZA  TOPPING: I can imagine he’d probably like something horrible like anchovies or pineapple. COLOR: Red, pink, and the color of wheat. MUSIC  GENRE: Shanties, classical, anything with vocal, and piano. BOOK GENRE: bitch can’t read MOVIE  GENRE: he doesn’t. know what movies are. SEASON: likes winter and autumn islands. CURSE  WORD: Fuck. SCENTS: Sea breezes, florals, sweet scents.

   fun stuff

BOTTOM  OR  TOP:   mostly tops, wouldn’t really care either way. SINGS  IN  THE  SHOWER: he’ll sing anywhere, he doesn’t have to be wet LIKES  PUNS: iF HE FUCKIN UNDERSTANDS THEM

TAGGED BY:  Grand larceny from myself TAGGING: @acherys​ @kanashii-na @maljefe @ryuukenshi @samsmulti (anyone! ) @tctidem (lulu!) @bucketfullofocs (anyone!) @logpcse (anyone!) @glxtzy​ AND ANYONE WHO SEES THIS!! please steal I want to see u _ u

[handeaux]

17 Curious Facts About Cincinnati’s Coney Island

For almost a century, the “Coney island of the West” was the reigning Cincinnati amusement park, despite tough competition from Chester park in Spring Grove Village and the Lagoon in Ludlow, Kentucky. Now operating as a water park and concert venue, memories of the Old Coney abide.

It Started Out As An Apple Orchard Coney Island got its start as Parker’s Grove. In the early 1880s James Parker started to rent out his apple orchard on the banks of the Ohio River as a picnic grove, eventually adding a dining hall, dancing hall, and bowling alley.

For Many Years, ‘Coney Island’ Was Just A Nickname In 1886, James Parker sold his apple orchard to a couple of steamboat captains who recognized the opportunity to collect a lot more fares by shipping customers upriver from Cincinnati. The park got a new name: “Ohio Grove.” The new owners advertised Ohio Grove as “The Coney Island of the West,” after the well-established Coney Island in Brooklyn. It was years later that the resort was officially named “Coney Island.”

Why Didn’t The Brooklyn Coney Island Sue? Didn’t Cincinnati’s amusement park steal its name from a famous New York resort? You betcha! Then why didn’t they sue? The New York Coney Island is not actually an amusement park, it’s a neighborhood. At its height, the New York Coney Island was home to three major amusement parks - Luna Park, Dreamland, and Steeplechase Park – along with a plethora of independent amusements, none of them named Coney Island. Cincinnati’s Coney Island didn’t copy from another amusement park and therefore got away with grand larceny.

The Coney Island Run Was Bad Luck For Steamboats Although most people remember only the Island Queen, over the years nearly 20 steamboats made the Coney Island run. The Mary Houston ran only one season before succumbing to the 1893 ice breakup; the Commonwealth rammed a towboat in 1895; the Princess was crushed when the Ohio froze over in 1917, the Morning Star burned with the original Island Queen in 1922, the Island Maid burned at Madison, Indiana, in 1932, and the second, most-remembered Island Queen exploded in Pittsburgh in 1947.

Coney’s Pleasures Were Not For Everyone It took a concerted effort to open Coney Island’s gates to Cincinnati’s African American residents. The amusement park was totally segregated until 1955 and the Sunlite Pool and Moonlight Gardens did not admit Black people until 1961.

A Narrow Decision On Integration In 1953, Ethel Fletcher and her three children were denied admission to Coney Island because they were Black. With the assistance of the local chapter of the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People, she sued and won. However, the Hamilton County Court of Common Pleas refused to certify the case as a class action. The decision applied to Mrs. Fletcher, alone. Coney Island was required to admit her, the court ruled, but could deny admission to her children, her husband or to anyone else.

A Really, Really Big Pool Sunlite Pool is the world’s largest recirculating swimming pool. It covers more than two acres. For many years, Sunlite Pool was filled entirely from artesian wells drilled on the property. Today that well water is supplemented by city water originating in the Ohio River.

Coney Island Helped Inspire Disneyland Walt Disney and his brother, Roy, visited Coney Island in June 1953 to gather ideas for the California amusement park they planned. They were impressed by owner Ed Schott, and invited him to advise on their project. At a Cincinnati news conference, Disney said Schott’s advice had been “very valuable” in making Disneyland a success.

Rainy Birth, Rainy Death It rained torrentially the first day Ohio Grove opened in 21 June 1886 and it rained torrentially the day Coney Island closed on 6 September 1971.

One Explosive Act Throughout the summer of 1948, one of the attractions on Coney’s Mall was Captain Leo Simon, “The Man Who Blows Himself Up.” Capt. Simon would seal himself in a box with a lit stick of dynamite and emerge unscathed from a cloud of smoke.

Al Hirt Sets A Moonlite Gardens Record The one-night attendance record at Moonlite Gardens was set 18 July 1964 when Al Hirt packed in 6,266 dancers. Hirt, riding on the success of his instrumental hit, “Java,” broke the previous record of 5,564 set by Ralph Marterie’s Orchestra on 25 July 1953.

A Twelve-Acre Wading Pool Lake Como was excavated and filled in 1893, offering rides in gondolas. It took so long to fill that it was nicknamed “Colonel Brooks’ Duck Pond” by local wags. Most people could walk across Lake Como if they wanted. Completely filled the lake is only three to four feet deep, all the way across. Lake Como covers an area of 12 acres.

Ghost of the Roller Coasters If you’ve ever felt a sort of swooping motion while enjoying a performance at Riverbend Music Center there might be a reason. The  concert pavilion sits on land that once belonged to Coney Island and was occupied by the Wildcat and the Shooting Star roller coasters.

The Inevitable Floods Every autumn, as Coney Island closed for the winter, the hand-carved Grand Carousel horses were dismantled and moved to high-ground storage in the attic of Moonlite Gardens to keep them dry when the Ohio River inevitably flooded. The Grand Carousel was made by the Philadelphia Toboggan Company in 1926 and was moved to King’s Island in 1972.

Old Coney Is Haunted There are multiple reports of a man, sometimes accompanied by a woman, gazing from the balcony at Moonlite Gardens. The man wears old-fashioned clothing. Witnesses, when shown photos of George Schott, Coney Island’s one-time owner, agree he is the man they saw. Schott died at the park from a heart attack in 1935.

Davy Crockett Killed Coney Island In 1968, Fess Parker, the actor who portrayed both Davy Crockett and Daniel Boone, announced plans to build a huge “Frontier World” amusement park in Northern Kentucky. The owners of Coney Island, landlocked and unable to expand, realized the competition would be fatal and quickly negotiated a merger with Taft Broadcasting. Plans for the “New Coney Island” at Kings Mills, Ohio, made headlines in 1969. Coney Island closed in 1971 and Kings Island opened in 1972.

A Gigantic RV Park? Before Taft Broadcasting reopened “Old Coney” in a limited capacity in 1976, the company gained approval from the Cincinnati City Planning Commission for a zoning change that would have allowed parking for 300 to 400 recreational vehicles and camper trailers.

[antisocialxconstruct]

this is so stupid but I haven’t stopped thinking about it all day Malin please humor me

--

“You want to steal... what?”

“The W. You know, from the sign?” You hold your hands up in front of you, thumbs and first fingers extended, like you’re framing a classic shot of the old Hollywood Hills. “I only ended up bringing the roof down on the museum instead of setting off the explosives so it’s probably still in... like, mostly one piece, right?”

Argent blinks, stares at you for a solid few seconds. Waiting to see if you’re joking, maybe. Then at length she just says, “why?”

“I mean, it probably wouldn’t be that hard. I wouldn’t even need Anathema, they’re still renovating so- shit if I could get into their internal servers I could probably just have it shipped to a warehouse... some...” you catch the shift in Argent’s expression out of the corner of your eye as she narrows her eyes, studying you even harder with a quizzical tilt of her head. It takes you a second to figure out what that look means. Then you snap your fingers and flash her a smile that might have been described as ‘sheepish’ on anyone else. “You said ‘why.’ Not ‘how.’“

“Yeah,” Argent meets your smile with a slightly bewildered one of her own. “Last I checked stealing historical relics wasn’t really your MO.”

“No... That’s true, yeah,” you admit with an absent shrug. Then you repeat to yourself, “historical relics,” with a quiet laugh you can’t quite silence. The word choice is telling. You would have called it a novelty. “It really is though, isn’t it? A part of history? But Hollywood and all that is your thing.”

You can pinpoint the exact moment Argent finally realizes what you’re getting at. Her eyebrows shoot up toward her hairline and then a second later she laughs, sudden and bright. “You want to steal it for me? As some sort of... what, romantic gesture?”

“Do you not find grand larceny romantic?”

She laughs again, shaking her head. “I’m just wondering what you expect me to do with a forty-foot metal W.”

“Hm.” You pause, adopting a thoughtful frown for a long moment. “You’re going to need to rearrange your living room.”