#so the passport office was supposed to send me something last night. no idea what it is.

[scare-ard--sleigh]

what makes This mercury retrograde different from every other mercury retrograde : |

[prorevenge]

Cheat on me? You'll get deported, arrested, and never see your child again

I’ve read a lot of these and listened to some amazing narrators on YouTube, so decided to post the story of my ex boyfriend.

Throw away account for obvious reasons. Apologies for the long story, I edited out as much as I could, so the story isn’t too long. Also, apologies if this is the wrong subreddit. I'm a little new to all of this.

My ex boyfriend and I are both native-born citizens of the same country in North America. We got together when I was still in post secondary working towards my degree, and he was taking some time before he started post secondary to work and save up money.

Our relationship was basically perfect from my perspective; we had similar goals and expectations, we both seemed mature and able to work through any problems we had, and we both were happy to be together and enjoyed each other’s personalities. We were together for three years prior to this incident.

Our relationship hit a bit of a rough patch though when he told me he wanted to study for his degree at a University in Europe. I, of course, was a little bit upset because it meant that we would be apart for four years (my job field (medical) would require me to retake schooling if I was to go with him), but he was super excited about it and we determined that we loved each other and no amount of distance could change that.

With time I graduated and got my dream job, and I could now afford to rent our shared apartment with just my income, so I didn’t have to move when he was no longer there to pay his half. He was having some problems with his student visa for the country, but it was determined that he could get a temporary visa for the first semester while we waited for the other one to be approved. So with that, he left. I remember balling my eyes out at the airport when I hugged and kissed him goodbye, and parked outside of the airport to watch his plane take off. We talked on the phone almost every night.

As unlucky as it was, about five weeks after he left, I found out I was pregnant. Horrible timing, I know. When I told him I was pregnant he immediately accused me of cheating on him while he was gone. I thought it was a bit odd, since he had never even mentioned such a thing, and it seemed really out of the blue. That obviously lead to a big fight, and I felt offended and disgusted that he would even consider it a possibility.

When he came home for Christmas, he was super happy and love-dove with me, saying he was excited. He even proposed to me on the car ride home from his parents’ house on Christmas eve. I was so happy and overjoyed that it felt like everything would work out okay.

When he went back to school, it was again stressful to go through the pregnancy without him, but both his parents and mine were incredibly supportive. They helped me get everything I needed for the baby, and even threw me a surprise baby shower.

When I gave birth, my ex watched it over skype from his mom. When he finished his exams, he came home to be with us. He immediately started talking negatively about our daughter, saying things like “why is her hair that color? My hair is brown” and “doesn’t she have (your friend’s) eyes?” and he again accused me of cheating. So I reluctantly agreed to perform a paternity test to calm his suspicions. Wow, could you believe it, she was his. He agreed to pay informal child support (sending me money to pay for the baby without a lawful order to do so) while he was overseas. Now for the fun part.

His student visa had still not been approved, so he had to reapply for another temporary semester visa for the next semester. Since he did not have a permanent residence in the country, as he was staying in student accommodations, and he didn’t trust the university to not go through official looking mail,6 he redirected all of his mail to me, which I would forward to the university in his care packages. When he came to visit us, he had applied for a new passport, as his was going to expire in six months. I was tasked with picking it up at the office and sending it forward. However, around midterm exam season, I decided our daughter and I would travel to deliver the care package in person and visit. I had to get her an infant passport and book the tickets, but a couple months later we were getting on a plane. Side note – travelling with a baby sucks and I’m sorry to everyone else on the plane.

When we got to the country, I settled into our hotel, but was too eager to see him. I taxied to his university (only about 45 minutes from the airport), and went to his dorm room on campus. I knocked on the door, holding our daughter. A woman answered the door. At first, I assumed it was his roommate or something, but I don’t remember him mentioning he had one. Denial is a powerful thing, I guess. I asked her where he was, and she said he was inside and called out to him. I heard a “who is it, babe?” as he came to the door, and when he saw me, he froze. He went pale and his eyes widened. The woman asked him “honey, who is this?” and I just turned and walked away.

He called out after me and eventually caught up with me. He basically told me that he’s been so lonely without me and he couldn’t help it and that he loved me and not her, to which she started yelling at him calling him a pig and stuff. My baby started crying because I was crying and so I just left without saying anything. I stayed in the hotel for another day, while he continuously called me on my cell phone. I booked last minute tickets home and left early and ignored every time he called me.

I gave myself a week to grieve and then I put my big girl pants on. I immediately hired a lawyer, and asked him what I could do to legally separate my life from him (in my country we were considered common law married). My lawyer advised me to begin the legal separation process, and apply for a hearing about custody and child support. I sent him a thick manila envelope with separation papers and a notice for a hearing about custody in his next package. We talked on the phone on speaker with my lawyer, and he eventually agreed to sign. He sent me a copy. The hearing was scheduled while school was in session, so no surprise he didn’t show up. I won full custody and he was given an order to pay child support appropriate for his income (he was paying for his college with a grant mostly, so he had to pay based on the grant).

Now this is some revenge, but it went a little further.

Remember when I went to see him, I was bringing a care package? That package contained his new passport. His passport expired, and he was still in Europe, so he couldn’t travel back to our home country legally. He yelled at me on the phone to send him the passport, but I got an idea. He hadn’t been paying the child support, probably because he couldn’t afford it with tuition and wasn’t working, so he had a warrant for his arrest in my home country because of it (contempt of court, or something). And he had never been approved for a student visa, only the temporary one. And since his final exam concluded and it was summer, he technically wasn’t supposed to be in Europe. BUT he couldn’t travel home because he didn’t have a passport. It would be a shame if someone anonymously reported him to the embassy for overstaying his visa, now wouldn’t it?

He got deported back to our home country, where he was arrested at the border. I don’t know exactly what happened, but he spent a couple months on probation and with a criminal record, can no longer apply for a visa of any kind to study abroad. Sorry about that future of yours, but I guess you shouldn’t cheat on someone who loves you to the ends of the earth, the mother of your child. Have a nice life, because we sure will. Oh, and don’t forget to put that cheque in the mail, it’s paying for a little girl’s future education.

(source) story by (/u/beaubandit)

[survivingthejungle]

hopeless wanderer ii

   You awoke to the sensation of being nudged.

   “(Y/N). Wake up. It is daybreak.”

   “Five more minutes,” you grumbled, burying your face deeper into your pillow. The voice refused to grant you this wish.

   “No. You must get up! After you go to the Seer, Ragnar will send you home.” This made you open your eyes and begin to sit up and stretch.

   “Ah, home. My mother is gonna grill me when I get back.” It happened to be that the person speaking to you was Ivar, characteristically seated on the ground next to your makeshift bed.

   “What, you think she is going to be angry with you?”

   “Oh, absolutely,” you responded. “I went for a walk yesterday and never came back; I never texted or called her to tell her where I was, and when I come back completely fine with no explanation she’ll actually kill me. It was nice knowing you.”

   “You could always stay,” Ivar offered, looking at you with his ocean blue eyes. “Become a Viking.”

   “Hm… Thanks for the offer, but I have to pass. I have a pretty good life back home, I don’t feel like relinquishing it just yet,” you explained.

   “Good morning, time-traveler!” Ragnar greeted as he entered the Great Hall.

   “Good morning,” you responded, trying to sound as chipper as possible, but failing miserably.

   “I suppose you are ready to visit the Seer this morning? And when that is done, you are free to go home,” he told you.

   “Gladly. Lead the way!”

—

   You arrived at what appeared like a terribly dilapidated shack, but upon entering it it was evident that someone lived there. There were various bottles filled with various substances all over the walls, and handfuls of altars dedicated to different gods. In the center of the hut-like edifice was a shallow—very shallow— pit, and in it laid a body completely adorned in black. Upon further inspection, you noticed that the man’s face was very disfigured, and he didn’t have any eyes. Huh, I guess that’s why they call him the Seer, then. Irony.

   “I’ve been expecting you.”

   “Oh. Um… What for? What did you want to say to me?”

   “You must know something,” he told you, “You have a gift. One that many desire, but do not believe exists. The ability to travel through the ages has always been fantasized about, but never achieved; not until you came along. We hope that you will use this gift for the betterment of our great kingdom, and not to wage war against us with our enemies.”

   “I don’t wanna go to war with anyone,” you assured, “I’m a pretty avid pacifist. No worries there. But, what do you mean I have the ‘ability’? Like I can just come and go whenever I want?”

   “More or less,” he verified. “The bracelet that I gave to Ragnar will act as a link of sorts, to your present and to ours. You can come and go as you please, you need only envision where you want to be.”

   Oh, dope, you thought. Your voice was slow to catch up with your brain, however. “So, I can just… go?”

   “Yes,” he clarified. “But please, try not to stay gone so long. The Gods only know how much the Lothbroks need guidance, especially the Ragnarsons.” You guessed that Lothbrok was Ragnar’s family name, and that meant that all the brothers you’d met were his kids— hence their last name.

   “Oh, sure,” you told him, “I’ll be around. Thank you so much for your help. Can I… Can I get back home, now?”

   “Go. Ragnar has what you need.”

—

   “This is the bracelet I was instructed to give you,” Ragnar said, fastening it around your wrist. You were glad that it seemed to be relatively simple; it wouldn’t draw attention to you for being ancient. He and all of his sons sat at the long table in the Great Hall, while you were standing.

   “Huh. It’s cool, I like it,” you noted. “So I guess I just… go, then?” you asked out loud. You were met with a cluster of unsure nods and ‘uh-huh’s. “Alright. Cool. Well… I’ll be seeing you all around.”

   The king and the princes all wished you farewell as you closed your eyes and clasped one hand around the charm on the bracelet.

   You felt a rush of wind wrack your body and almost stumble for a moment, as if you were on a subway that had abruptly stopped. Opening your eyes, you found yourself back in the forest you’d come from. It was still early in the morning, so you began making your way back home. Now that you were on familiar terrain, you had no problem navigating. Better start getting my story ready, you told yourself.

—

You finally made it back to your neighborhood and made a beeline toward your house. There were two cop cars parked outside, and you felt your heart drop down to your stomach. Oh shit. Oh, shit. You picked up your pace, jogging all the way up to your front porch, and you locked eyes with your worry-stricken mother. She immediately rushed outside, embracing you in her arms, before she began to scold you. “Where the hell have you been? Do you have any idea how worried I was? And your father? We were trying to file a missing persons report! We thought you’d been kidnapped or murdered! Explain yourself!”

   “Mom, I’m so so sorry,” you began, meaning in genuinely. You hated seeing your mom upset with you, and about you. “I was on a walk, and I didn’t have my phone—”

   “Of course,” she scoffs, “The one time you don’t have that damn thing on you.”

   “I know, I’m sorry. But I took a wrong turn in the woods and I couldn’t figure out how to get back, and I couldn’t find my way home… There was little cliff with an opening in it, and I fit, so when it got really dark I just slept there for the night. And as soon as I woke up and it was light outside I just started walking again until I got out of the woods, and then I just headed home.”

   “Oh, my God. Oh my God, my ditzy daughter,” she responded, exasperated, but hugging you once more all the while. “Don’t ever do that again. No more walking in the woods, and you better keep that phone on you at all times.”

   “I will. I’m sorry. I love you.”

   “I love you.”

   The police officers as well as your father finally made their way onto the porch. “Is this her, ma’am?” one of the officers asked.

   “Yes,” she told them, “She’s fine. She got lost in the woods last night without her phone, that’s why she didn’t come home or call.”

   “What the hell, (Y/N)?” It was your father’s turn to scold you. “I mean, what are you thinking, walking out into the woods without your phone and getting yourself lost? You’re damn lucky you aren’t dead in a ditch right now, sister! Do you know how many creeps live in the woods and could’ve taken you and killed you?”

   “I know, Dad, I’m sorry—”

   “Yeah, you better be sorry,” he told you. “Don’t ever let this happen again, or you won’t be so lucky next time.”

   “I know, I know, I’m never going to do this again,” you promised.

   “Sir, ma’am,” the cops interrupted, “If there’s no issue anymore, we can get out of your hair. Your daughter’s clearly unharmed and not missing; there’s no need to file a report since it hasn’t been a full 24 hours.”

   “We’re so sorry, officers. Thank you for being so accommodating,” your mother told them.

   “Thank you so much, I’m sorry for causing so much trouble,” you apologized.

   “It’s no problem,” the other officer responded, the both of them returning to their squad cars. “Glad you’re home safe.”

—

   Later that afternoon, after you’d showered, eaten lunch with your family—a rare occurrence—, and gone back up to your room, you were itching to go back to visit your new friends. Hardly thinking it through, you grabbed an overnight bag and stuffed it with a pair of pajamas, a toothbrush and toothpaste, water bottles, your glasses and case, and two cameras. One was an old polaroid that you’d found in your basement one year; miraculously, it still worked, and you liked to use it every once in a while. You also packed your more modern camera, so that you could take pictures while you were in the past—God, that sounds so weird— and get them developed at home. You also threw in the bag two different things of chapstick, as well as a scrunchie, a hair clip, and a handful of barrettes. Looking around your room to check that you had everything you’d want to spend the night, your eyes locked on the top drawer of your dresser. I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to bring my pocket knife. In the same little drawer, right underneath the knife, was your passport. You grabbed that as well, to show your new acquaintances as many things as you could from the modern age. In the back of the drawer was a box of bandaids— you figured it wouldn’t be a bad idea to bring them; God only knows how much they’ll probably need them.

   In your school backpack you had all of your necessary notebooks, textbooks, and folders, as well as your calculator and a sketchbook you would work on whenever you were deathly bored. “(Y/N)!” your mother called from the kitchen. “Do you want to help me make cookies?”

   “Yes, please!” you yelled back. They can wait a few more minutes, you told yourself, leaving your bags on your bed and rushing down to the kitchen. Besides, I can always bring them some once they’re done. People go ham for cookies.

   —

   Half an hour later, the cookies were all baked and cooled— you and your mother had gone a little wild and cooked forty, which probably wouldn’t last through the next two days— and you were back up in your room, bag of goodies in hand. You told your mom you were going to get your homework done and go to bed early and please do not disturb tonight. The pillows and blankets were fluffed up just enough to give off the impression that you were sleeping in your bed; that way, if your parents peeked in, they wouldn’t see that you weren’t there. You slipped some shoes on, threw the cookies in your overnight bag, and slipped both the bag and the backpack on each one of your shoulders. You grabbed the charm of the bracelet with your free hand, closed your eyes, and thought of the Great Hall where you had slept last night. You felt jolted again, and a light breeze swept over you; you opened your eyes and you were back where you had been that morning. It was empty, something you thought was probably unusual, so you decided to leave and walk around, hoping someone would know where your people were.

   Almost immediately after walking outside, you spotted a familiar face—it was Floki! “Floki!” you called, waving your arm up high to catch his attention. He glanced around for whoever called his name until he saw you. Immediately his face lit up, and he walked over to greet you.

   “Well, if it isn’t (Y/N)! What are you doing back here? I thought you left this morning.”

   “I did,” you told him, “But I’m back now. Just to hang out with everyone. Do you know where they all are?”

   “The others have just returned home,” he explained, “everyone is down at the docks to greet them. Ragnar’s oldest, Bjørn, has come back with them. You two would like each other, I think,” he noted. “I am going down to see them now, you are welcome to join me!”

   “Sure thing!” you responded; the two of you headed in the direction of the docks and, by extension, just about the entire population of the village.

   As per usual, you got a few strange glances from passersby; but since you were accompanied by the best friend of the king, they left you alone. Down at the docks, you caught sight of the princes, Ragnar, and a woman standing beside him that you’d had yet to meet. The queen, I guess? Floki guided the both of you to meet up with them, and they lit up upon seeing that you were back.

   “Well, if it isn’t our little friend, the traveler!” Ragnar greeted you, his mood obviously in a positive place. “I see you are dressed for the weather, now.”

   “Well, now that I know where exactly I’m going,” you agreed. “A girl can never go wrong with a good fleece jacket and a turtleneck.”

   Hvitserk, sitting on a post like Ivar, grinned at you before speaking. “Hello, (Y/N). Bring anything for us from the future?” he teased.

   “Funny you should ask,” you responded, smiling, “I actually did bring some snacks that you all might like.” You reached into your overnight bag and pulled out the little plastic baggie, opening it up and handing one to your new friends. Rather than reacting like everyone you knew—devouring it— they each inspected it carefully. “They won’t hurt,” you assured them, before grabbing one of the extras and taking a bite as they all followed suit. Floki spoke up first, a mouthful of cookie muffling his words.

   “These are good! What are they?”

   “Chocolate chip cookies! My mom and I make them all the time, we’re addicted.”

   “Mmh, I can see why,” Ubbe responded, taking another bite. “These are amazing. But so sweet—how much honey is in this?”

   “Uh… to my knowledge, none? I dunno, we usually just use sugar. Do you guys have sugar?”

   Sigurd joined in. “Some, but it’s very expensive and very sought after.”

   “Oh,” you nodded, “That makes sense. Where I’m from, it’s a pretty typical kitchen commodity. There’s a big industry for it. Anyways, who is it that we’re all waiting around for?”

   “There are a fleet of ships returning soon,” Ivar pointed out to the sea, and your eyes followed the direction in which he was pointing. “Bjørn Ironside is coming home; he is father’s oldest.”

   “Aw, like your big brother?” you clarified.

   “You could say that,” Hvitserk verified.

   “He is my son,” Ragnar informed you, “But he is not Aslaug’s. This is my wife,” he introduced you to her.

   “Hello,” you said to the woman, the both of you smiling. You turned to Ragnar, quietly asking, “How am I supposed to greet people? I don’t know your customs.”

   “Do not fret,” he assured you. “We all know you are new to all of this, and unfamiliar; just as we are unfamiliar with your world.”

   —

   A tall, very handsome blond man with a long braid stepped onto the dock as Ragnar proclaimed, “My son, Bjørn, has returned home!” Everyone in the crowd was cheering and celebrating, and you couldn’t help but join in and clap as well.

   The two of them made their way down the docks and back to land when the blond’s eyes landed on you. “Who’s this?” he asked, open for anyone to answer.

   “This is (Y/N),” Hvitserk responded, putting a hand on your shoulder and smiling at his half-brother. “She’s… New to Kattegat,” he explained.

   “What are you, a Saxon?” Bjørn asked you.

   “No… Not really,” you told him. “I’m from… a lot farther away than that.”

   “How far?” he questioned you, looking skeptical.

   “We will explain it all later,” Ragnar told his son, coming up behind him, “But for now, we celebrate your journey!”

—

   Vikings knew how to fucking party. Three hours after you’d showed up, and people were drunk beyond reason and could barely stand upright without needing some support. Most people at the feast had stumbled home already, and the last of them were struggling to leave through the two main doors currently. You’d placed your two bags—one for school and one for overnight— next to the fireplace and were keeping a close eye on them, not sure how a bunch of drunkards from a thousand years ago would react to them and not wanting to risk anything getting stolen. Once everyone had gone home, and your hosts were happily buzzed, you took a seat and the long table and pulled out your homework.

   “What is this?” Ubbe asked, picking up your math notebook.

   “Homework. For school,” you responded.

   “You are educated, then?”

   “I mean, I hope so!”

“Your parents must be wealthy, then, to be educating their daughter.”

“Where I’m from, it’s legally required that everyone—male or female— gets some form of formal education until they’re eighteen. Then it’s optional to continue, but most people I know choose to do so.”

   “What do they teach you?” he wondered, taking a seat across from you. The rest of the family, who were all wandering around the hall bored, began to listen in.

   “Oh, a bunch of stuff. You’ve got your math, English, history, and science, and what they teach specifically depends on how old you are. So the older you get, the more complicated and detailed the lessons are. Plus, you also get more choices on the classes that you do take as you grow. So if I know I’m really good at English, I can choose to take an advanced-level class as opposed to a general level class.” He nodded along, vaguely understanding all of the information you were throwing at him. “Then you’ve also got your arts classes, like visual ar, and then there are foreign language classes; then you have theatre and music classes. Recently they’ve offered a lot more STEM classes— that stands for science, technology, engineering, and math— and a lot of people where I’m from are really interested in that stuff, so that’s what they tend to focus in on.”

   “That seems… very busy.”

   “It does, doesn’t it?” you agreed. “But I’m used to it; it’s how I grew up. And where I’m from, it’s also different because it’s mandatory. In a lot of other places around the world, education isn’t emphasized as very important. And it’s required for boys and girls to go to school, too— and we all learn the same things.”

   “Your home sounds strange,” Sigurd noted.

   “It sure is,” you agreed, “But it’s not that bad. Besides, I like going to school— Well, I like learning, at least.” You grabbed your notebook back from Ubbe, who was flipping through it confusedly. “Anyways, I need to focus. This is all due soon.”

   “What do you mean?” Sigurd asked you.

   “It’s homework. Teachers assign it, and then you do it, and then they grade it. And everyone has a score in their classes that are anywhere from a hundred to zero… Sometimes more than a hundred, if you do extra credit or take higher level classes. Really there’s a whole lot of other things that I can’t explain right now because you all are distracting me.” Opening your textbook and notebook to get started on your calculus homework, you grabbed a pencil and a calculator and got to work, scribbling down numbers and answers and typing in formulas.

   Bjørn soon entered the room, giving you a confused look which you didn’t see because your back was turned to him. “Alright, I’m waiting— Someone explain to me who she is.”

   You raised your arm up and waved your hand at him half-heartedly. “Hi, I’m (Y/N), I’m from the future. They can explain it,” you called out, still focused on finishing your work. Ubbe stood up and moved toward his brother.

   “She appeared out of the woods yesterday. The people thought she was a witch, and a spy—but the Seer told Ragnar that she was from the future, and she is. Look,” he pointed at your calculator, sitting on the table. “Have you ever seen one of those things?”

   “No? What is it?”

   “It’s— Uh, what is it called?” he asked you.

   “A calculator. Technology from the future.” Bjørn still looked slightly apprehensive about the validity and truthfulness of your origin, but nevertheless, he conceded.

   “Alright. So she is from the future. So now what?”

   “Great question, friend. At this point? I’m just visiting because it’s fun. How many people do you know that can just jump through time whenever they want?” He paused a moment and shrugged. “You all can bet your bottom dollar that I’m gonna be visiting as often as possible.”

—

   Not long after you finished your homework—calculus and English, nothing too difficult— your new friends decided that it was time to go “train”. This, of course, just meant going to a clearing in the woods and throwing weapons around a fighting each other to prepare for real battle. It sometimes shocked you how deeply important preparing for battle was for them. You were fully aware that as a civilization of Vikings from a thousand years in the past, it was all they really had to do to exert their energy; Still, it came as a culture shock to you, a girl who had grown up with all of her nation’s wars fought overseas and prepared for miles and miles away from her home, that the entire community were all warriors who dedicated copious amounts of time to training.

   It was shocking to the Ragnarsons, as well, that you were so unconditioned to this particular lifestyle. They were as mesmerised by your society as you were with theirs. “So, you’re telling me,” Hvitserk commented in disbelief, “That instead of swords and bows, your people fight with pebbles?”

   “No, no no no, not at all,” you laughed, preparing to clarify. “We have guns, which shoot bullets—at a very high velocity, enough to pierce the skin and bone— and they’re typically the same size as small pebbles. And we don’t fight on battlefields, anymore—at least, not to my knowledge—we fight from opposite sides of ‘no man’s land’ and shoot at each other ‘til one side gives up or dies off. And we have naval and aerial warfare. Boats and planes—planes fly in the sky like birds, but they’re a lot bigger— shoot bombs and bullets at the enemy and blow up and kill people. It’s…” you paused, “It’s very aggressive.”

   “I would like to see one of these guns,” Ivar noted.

   “No. Absolutely not. I never plan on touching a gun in my life.”

   “Why not?”

   “Guns are for killing. And I have no intentions to ever kill a person, ever. I’m not that kind of person.”

   “Huh,” Ivar laughed, “Maybe you are not fit to be a Viking, after all.”

   “You got that right!” You suddenly remembered that in your purse, hanging off of your shoulder, you’d brought a camera with you. It was an old Polaroid, one from your parent’s younger years, but it still worked, and it even had film ready to go. “Hey,” you said, “Do you guys wanna see something cool?”

   “What are you talking about?” Sigurd asked. You pulled your camera out and they all stared in confusion. You’d finally all arrived at the clearing with the weapons ready to go; Ivar seated on his tree stump and the rest of them standing.

   “Everyone, stand close together,” you ordered, miming the action with your hands. They obeyed begrudgingly. “Smile!”

   “What?” asked Hvitserk.

   “I’m serious! Smile! You’ll see what I’m talking about in a second.” They glanced at each other before smiling nervously. You clicked the button down and the light flashed, taking them all by surprise.

   “Woah! What was that?” Ubbe asked. The picture rose up from the top of the camera and you grabbed it, beginning to shake it back and forth.

   “You’ll see in a minute,” you promised cryptically.

   “Did you curse us? Maybe you are a witch,” wondered Hvitserk.

   “No, I didn’t curse you. I just took a picture. Like a painting, but it’s instant. Here, look!” you exclaimed, holding the now-developed Polaroid out for them to stare at. Sigurd grabbed it from your hands to inspect it further.

   “That’s us? Just now?” You nodded. “How is this possible?”

   “I’m from a thousand years in the future, Sigurd; almost anything is possible. This is pretty common, actually. Pictures, I mean.”

   “I would like to see your home one day,” Ivar mused. “You have seen ours; Why don’t we visit yours?”

   “Can we do that?”

   “We could try. Later,” Ubbe responded.

   “Alright,” you shrugged. “But first, I kinda want someone to teach me how to fight.” They all shared a knowing look with one another before looking back to you. “What?” you questioned.

   “Are you sure you can handle it?” Ubbe asked you.

   “Uh… Well now I’m not so sure,” you admitted. “But I’ll never be able to handle it if I don’t start somewhere!” you reasoned cheerfully.

   “Ah, you’ll be fine, (Y/N),” Hvitserk smiled at you, “We’ll go easy on you. Grab a sword.” So you did; almost dropping it because it was heavier than you anticipated.

   “Holy moly this is heavy!” you exclaimed. “I’m gonna be jacked!”

   They all shared a laugh with you in your enthusiasm and fervor, and Hvitserk and Sigurd both began to instruct you on how to properly wield and swing a sword as well as how to use it to block yourself from oncoming attacks. These miniature lessons lasted until the sun was beginning to get very low on the horizon, when you all assented that it was time to go back. You soon arrived back at the Great Hall where Ragnar and family were all preparing to eat dinner. They offered you a seat at the table, as you were a guest in their home while visiting Kattegat. “How fared you all today, my boys?” Ragnar asked.

   “Good. We taught (Y/N) how to fight,” he mentioned, some meat dish being shoveled into his mouth. The boy was always hungry, you mused.

   “Well, tried to,” Sigurd laughed, “She could barely hold the sword!”

   “Hey!” you exclaimed, laughing along with everyone else. “It’s not my fault! I’ve never had to hold a sword before!”

   “Yes, because all your people fight with little pebbles,” Ubbe smirked into his cup.

   “They’re not pebbles!” You and the boys erupted into laughter while Ragnar and Aslaug looked on, smiling. He was still not sure how exactly you were meant to help Kattegat prosper, but he could tell that your friendship with his sons was growing stronger. Perhaps by uniting them all would the kingdom flourish? he wondered.

   Later after dinner was finished, and everyone was up and about going about their normal routines, you were provided a small barrier to change into your pajamas. They consisted of a simple pair of plaid pajama pants and a Jimi Hendrix shirt that once belonged to your father, as well as a dark green sweatshirt in case you got too cold during the night. “Hey,” you mentioned offhandedly, while stepping out from behind the barrier and slipping on your fuzzy socks, “Tomorrow do you guys wanna go see where I live? I bet I can figure out how to get us there.”

   Ivar was the first to respond, shrugging at his brothers. “I would like to see it.”

   “Oh, yeah? How do you plan on getting around, cripple?” Sigurd antagonized. Ivar’s fist tightened and he gave his brother a cold, hard death glare.

   “Hey. Knock it off. Don’t be an asshole,” you chided the blond. “We have a spare wheelchair in my basement from when my mom had surgery a few years ago. I can get it for you,” you assured Ivar. “And I can get you all clothes to blend in. My dad doesn’t have the best style, but it’s enough to not make people think twice.” In the morning, you all decided, you would get up, flash back to your home, get everyone situated, and then you would introduce a group of thousand year-old Viking boys to the future.

ugh im sorry for adding these i know u probably dont care about them but i just need to keep them all organized somewhere with their proper works attached! thanks bye lemme know what u want next loves

[artificialqueens]

London Is Burning (1/N/A) - Trixya - petrichor

AN; so, i decided to give my hand at writing fanfiction about two sweethearts that are very dear to my heart at the moment. this is just a story that i sporadically came up with from a random prompt and i have yet to properly plan it through. this is an prologue of sorts, setting the storyline and yes the title is a play on the documentary, but also a play on a old nursery rhyme.the main storyline is going to be trixya but there’s going to be a few little overlaps with other pairings.

i also write too much, so this introduction is long-winded and i also know that aaron and sharon are the same people, but i thought a lil overload of shalaska would be good to set the heartbreaking mood, because it’s going to be there the whole time, i promise you. any way, much love! an please tell me if you’d love for this to continue!

i’m a new writer and very happy to be here, so thank you so much for reading!

- petrichor

Summary: A Lesbian AU in which a determined FBI agent goes undercover in an drug ring in a unfamiliar country, coming face to face with the one woman she needs to burn to the ground: a quirky but dangerous Russian hooker turned drug cartel connoisseur.

She’d done a lot of things in her life, but mostly certainly being pulled into Scotland Yard at the dead of night, while still in her lingerie was one of her favourites.

 She’d gone willingly as they tightened handcuffs around her wrists and yanked her into the back of the police car, she’d smiled briskly as her bare flesh was scolded by the icy winter air and even shot a wink at the driver through the thick black mesh of the divider. With nothing but a set of her favourite underwear, an unbuttoned shirt and a pair of flip-flops, she’d been ripped from her bed and coaxed to the door where two burly and authoritive-looking policemen stood with their hands on their belts.

 Then fast forward to the uncomfortable shoving, the wind that flapped her shirt vigorously as it tumbled down the sleeping street and the bright lights of the police cars as they burned the insides of her eyelids. She’d quietly rested her head against the window as London flashed just beyond the glass, the dazed streets flashing by as she watched the streetlamps blur into a stream of warm flashes, like liquid streaming across the downcast buildings. There was something vivacious about the thought of it all, streets merging into one shadowed city as bursts of blue exploded from the glares of the police cars as they raced throughout the night. She could see it all, but in fast-motioned, the journey as short as the scolding of the crisp air as she was transferred out from the back of the car to the thick tiles of a busy police station.

 All eyes were on her as the men wrapped their hands around her upper arms, dragging her like a corpse through the reception. Her steady gaze could register the recognition on the people’s faces, the momentary distaste of the officer at the desk, and then the irritation that followed as she slammed her fist onto the button, letting the officers and societies latest casualty pass through into the heart of London’s force. Accusing eyes followed her every movement, every flash of flesh as she was manhandled roughly, the police holding no respect for her as she was a familiar name and face to the walls of Scotland Yard.

 She could almost retrace the steps, she’d memorised the route, the short journey that it took from the secretary- Broody Brunette, was the nickname that was essentially assigned to her because of her twisted expression and furrowed brow- to the ending game. Her eyelids drew downwards, her dark eyelashes falling across her pallid, gaunt cheeks. Her eyes rolled as she counted it. Two lefts, one stairs, fifth door up.

And before she knew it, her eyes were open and she’d been placed into the room that was almost as familiar to her as her own apartment.

 It was a rectangular room with no significance except from the momentary dread that hung around it. With monotonous grey walls, padded floors and the ever so discreet mirrored display, there was no furniture but the classic metal table and folding chair, alongside a lamp integrated into the high ceilings. As she was placed on the chair with nothing but a final look, she couldn’t help but bow her head, marvelling at how dramatic the lighting was. Everything about Interrogation Room Three was so moody, but, after all- so was the detective assigned to it. A smile was on her lips and there, right as she shook away the tousles of her blonde hair from her vision and bit back a yawn, came forth his grand entrance.

                “Oh, I’m sorry, did we wake you?”

The light highlighted the shadows under her eye-sockets and didn’t exactly skip the stress induced lines that framed her prominent brow bone. It was intense, almost as intense as his gaze. But she didn’t shiver; instead, she parted her cracked lips and gave him a smile that was slightly stained from nicotine. Then she spoke, her slow, drawl of a voice hitting the air like a slap on stone.

                “We have to stop meeting like this.”

 She’d spent enough time in this country to recognise sarcasm from a mile away, they loved it here. He’d burst into the room and  The stiff-upper-lip barely curled as he stared through her, the skinny little woman sat in front of him. She tilted her head to the side, giving him a strewed smile as his eye twitched.

 Like the room, she knew the man in front of her like the back of her hand: Detective Coady, a dominant and rather determined individual who she never hesitated to chastise whenever he took the liberty of chasing her down. It would happen ever so often; he’d send out a little warrant, maybe a little unless count of shop-lifting that would fall through the moment he sent out an enquiry for witnesses, and then he’d be bursting through her door like some sort of prince of shining fuckery.

She found it cute, really.  He must have been a real hit in his personal life.

 As he stared her down, as if trying to pull her skin apart and sear into her inner coil, she wondered what it was this time that she’d done. Last time, a few months ago, it’d been vehicular homocide—until she pointed out that she doesn’t even own a car and doesn’t even have a licence at that. There’d been a little bit of radio silence, which had both puzzled and excited her. She’d begun to enjoy their little night traipses and she figured that he had a little bit of a thing for her. After all, out of all of the other members of her drug cartel, she was always the only one he flocked towards.

                “Maybe you should stop breaking the law.” Was his reply. A man like Aaron Coady wasn’t known to beat around the bush. He was rather loud-mouthed and she knew that. She liked to take a bet every time she found herself in this room, in this chair, under this light. She liked to see how quickly she could get under his skin. Spoiler: she always surprised herself.

                “What did I do this time, detective?” She simpered softly, leaning forwards in her chair, her handcuffs lightly dusting the table-top. Her eyes glittered and he watched her stoically but closely. “Do you have some sort of, fantasy that I’m selling myself in Soho, huh?  Are you going to call me a prostitute? Ask me to spill all of my clientele and plead for my innocence?” She paused as he leaned away from her. “Because I’d be more than to give you some prime evidence—“

 The detective cleared his throat, and she cackled, falling back into her chair. She wasn’t a prostitute, almost had been at a few bumpy spots in her life, but there was something about the topic of sex and Coady’s favourite weapon—her wrists throbbed a little as she watched him barely contain the agitation in his eyes—that got her in the saucy mood.

                “Actually, I’m arresting you on a count of shop-lifting.”

The sound that left her lips was of mere dissatisfaction. She oh so looked forwards to his creative little stories: of how she’d viciously killed some old ladies cat, or how she was responsible for some crazy heist that was pulled straight out of spy film. This, on the other hand, had been used before.

                “Really?” The seductive growl that gravelled her tone was dropped. Instead, she sat pin-straight in the metal chair, brow furrowed and lips parted in an incredulous grin. “Are you kidding me, again? What the hell, are you beginning to just—run out of ideas now?”

                “We have evidence.” The detective stated simply, as if it was the one thing that would guarantee she would be deported from this country and shipped back to wherever it was that she came from. He was pretty sure she was American, but then again, even that could be a lie. After all, they didn’t even know her real name.

                “I’m terrified.” Was her reply.

 Sarcasm. She was getting the hang of it.

                “Have you given thought to our last talk?” Her attention withered from his intense features and she glanced down at her nails. Her stick-on acrylics were slightly broken from her rude awakening but she supposed that was what she got for getting them from PRIMARK. “Are you prepared to tell us your real name?”

                “I keep telling you, it’s Alaska.” She stated, rolling her eyes. “You checked my passport the first time. You ask me this a million hours of interviewing ago.” The detective pursed his lips; he didn’t believe her. People usually didn’t believe her that she was actually called Alaska, mostly because she did just lie about most of her life—girls that were into stuff like she did just did that sort of stuff because they had to. “Are you forgetful or are you just dumb? Your pretty face won’t get you far once you open your mouth and shit falls out.”

                Coady cleared his throat and drew a piece of paper from almost thin air. “I should ask you the same thing.”

Alaska quirked an eyebrow.

                “We have evidence that you were caught shoplifting an estimated sixty boxes of fake nails from PRIMARK in the city centre on the twenty-ninth of September.”

Fuck. Instantly, Alaska felt her skin crawl. In a glance that was inconceivable to the naked human eye, she glared at her cracked manicure. She didn’t need to barely even look at the snapshot from the security cameras. Her eyes slowly closed, as if she couldn’t even bare to see the smug look that unfolded over the detective’s face; she bit down on her lip.

 She knew that she shouldn’t have taken her friends advice; Willam was a decent enough girl but she was only capable of recommending two things. In any situation, she insisted on one of the two: blow him or steal it. The pronouns were interchangeable, which they’d all discovered when Willam had unceremoniously taken her ex-boyfriend hostage after a feud with his new girl. And Alaska hadn’t even been too hard done by to pass up on two pound nails.

                “I’m in conversation with the Immigration office and alongside your criminal record…” Alaska’s eyes rose to meet his as he seemed to pause a little too long and smile a little too wide. He took a second sheet and scanned his eyes down it, his lips twitching as he did so. “Assault, indecent exposure in public, a prior acquitted charge of theft and a rather nasty record of being banned from thirty exclusive clubs across the city….”

 If Alaska hadn’t been dead sober, she would have said the smug bastard was glowing.

                “They’re leaning towards deporting you back to the USA.”

 Her heart seized in her chest.

 Alaska had always joked about a worst-case scenario. She’d talked about it with her friends or colleagues or whatever it was that she was surrounded with; Adore had said that her worst case scenario was having to ditch her aesthetic, Ginger’s had been her cigarettes, Bob’s had been losing her comedy and Shea’s had been losing her strut. Alaska had always joked that the worst thing in the world was for her to be seen without a set of false nails—but really, it was being shipped back to the place she’d clawed her way out of.

 Oh, the irony.

                “Now, the pleading would be nice.” Detective Coady seemed to bask in this all. Alaska could feel the venom on her tongue and opened her eyes slowly, her dark eyelashes dragging on her porcelain cheekbones. She adjusted herself in her chair and scowled violently. Gone was her relaxation and games. Now there was a dark carnal defence prowling through her eyes.

                “Fuck you.”

                “That’s the spirit.” He smirked back. But then, his demeanour changed. Alaska was a little distracted (by her impending doom) to notice it, but his joy faded into serious deliberation. He cracked his knuckles and tilted his head. Coady seemed to be preparing himself for something. “Now—if you’d remember our last conversation, then you’ll also remember that it doesn’t have to be this way.”

Alaska, once again, froze.

 Of course she remembered their conversation. It’d been all she’d been thinking about late at night when all she had was the sound of heavy rain and the dark caress of the shadows to keep her company. When she blinked, she could see Coady a few months back, asking the impossible from her. As soon as he’d spoken, her skin crawled with dismay and disgust.

 Suddenly, she felt like throwing this table in his face.

                “No.” Alaska shook her head abruptly, her dishevelled hair tumbling around her ashen face. “No way, I’m not- I’m not doing anything for you-“

                “Really?” Coady raised his eyebrows, feigning  surprise at her answer. It wasn’t exactly a shock—in this room, four months ago, he’d proposed something so dastardly that Alaska had full out laughed in his face. She’d laughed so vicariously, throwing her head backwards and pointing a finger across the table at him (“You’re funny, I knew there was a reason that I liked you” Alaska had chuckled, but no one was laughing now). “Not even to avoid the people that want you dead?”

Alaska stared at him, long and hard.

                “You don’t get it, do you?” Coady didn’t quite look frustrated by his lack of knowledge. Alaska chuckled, but it was full of mirth and hatred. “The thing… what you want me to do? If it fell through and it got out that I- I helped you guys—“ Alaska broke off, shaking her head once again and laughing breathlessly, almost crazily. “It doesn’t matter whose waiting to slit my throat back in California, I’ll be good as dead. If Katya found out I-“

                “Zamolodchikova?” Coady inquired and Alaska knew that her loose lips had already partially dug her own grave. Inside, she swore blindly, but outside she stayed cool. Her intense eyes met his and she stayed impassive as Coady looked back down on her sheet. “The Russian, right? The warhead of whatever little gang it is that you’re running around with now?”

Little? Alaska wanted to scoff. At this point, they were singlehandedly running the underground network of criminals in London. But, of course, she didn’t say anything more.

                “We can offer protection.” The detective said through gritted teeth; Alaska’s lips twitched humorlessly. She could tell that it pained him a lot to say that, after all, he’d been after her for a long while now. “Instead of being prosecuted by the law, we can help you. You know what Ghandi said—an eye for an eye.”

                “Except, you want to infiltrate London’s strongest criminal network and in return, I get to sit in a Travelodge for fifteen months with two middle-aged and grouchy government agents.” Alaska didn’t quite see that as fair. “That’s an eye for you, but I’d be getting the glass shit that falls out and isn’t covered by your insurance when it inevitably shatters into a thousand pieces.”

                “You’re rather negative, you know that?”

                “It’s called being realistic.”

 Coady chuckled and Alaska actually took time to glance at the security picture he’d placed on the table. It was a black and white snapshot of a camera in the massive store, directly focused on two bottle blondes as they hunched over a display of small plastic boxes. Alaska’s face was turned towards the camera as she shoved them into various places—she could recount slamming them into her bra and her pockets and practically anywhere else she could fit them. The other blonde, who was dressed like a stripper and had large bangs that were just out of the frame, was easy for her to identify. Willam, the woman of the moment who was probably perfectly comfortable in her beauty sleep.

 After all, they only wanted Alaska because Alaska had more to lose.

In that moment, Alaska wondered whether she should just give in. Coady had been determined to crack her down into this little headspace for nearly a year and a half now. He’d sat her here and tried to push her into this mindset, get the advantage so he could use her for a wire and use her to bring down this tight group she was in the middle of.  It wasn’t like the group itself had done her any favours—Alaska’s had flew upwards to grasp the ring she wore around her neck on a chain. Her grip tightened.

                “We’re offering you an escape.” Coady said softly, noticing a certain vulnerability in the way Alaska halted completely. Her confidence had been stripped back. She was just a girl with messy hair and small, lost eyes. His eyes flickered to the chain around her neck. “We’ve heard what it’s like in that gang, and we know that it’s hard and harsh. No one should put up with that treatment; no one should have to answer to someone like Katya Zamolodchikova. She’s a dictator, she’s absolutely insane.”

 Alaska couldn’t quite argue about that. Katya was delusional and incredibly dangerous; her delusions were part of her charm, however, and it was undeniable that they’d all founded the basis that they’d die for each other and pull through everything for each other. And although Katya was definitely a… dominant figure,  she’d never been unfair.

 Until it came to Sharon, however.

                “We heard about your fiancé.” Alaska stiffened. She visibly drew away from Coady and he couldn’t help but inwardly smile. “No one should have to go through that—“

                “No.” Alaska answered quickly, almost robotically. “No one should.”

 Her hand fell away from her neck and she rubbed tiredly at her face. Suddenly, she just felt so exhausted. It was late at night, she was sure she’d be able to bring that up in court- something about human rights- if she tried. But, the truth was, she couldn’t afford a barrister and the government-hired ones were shit and would flake at the smallest deal. That is, if they even gave her an appeal against her deportation.

                “So, if I help you, you’ll…. you’ll let me stay here?”

                 Coady almost cried with joy at her words. “Sure.”

                “Fine.” Her lips were dry and voice impassive as she signed her death wish. Yet, her head swum with memories and the face of a lover that was so far from her that her whole body ached at the thought of her kisses. “I’ll help you.”

A slow smile unfolded across the detectives face and he let himself bask in it all. A years work, and here was it’s penultimate moment. The girl sat in front of him was so frail and so vulnerable that his guilt and pride worked hand in hand. But he’d seen Alaska Thunderfuck’s file, he’d seen the things she’d done, the things that her boss, Katya had done. Picking apart this girl was going to get him one step closer to achieving the thing he’d set to do the moment he’d been contacted by the FBI: victory.

                “There’s someone you’ll want to meet, then.”

  When Coady stood up and left, he left Alaska in dead silence. She sat, stock-still, rebuilding herself piece by piece. She was suspended in shock at what she’d allowed herself to do; her brain had made up its own mind and thrown away her own loyalties and forced those words out of her lips. Alaska had fallen onto a sort of auto-pilot where things suddenly made sense to everything in her body except her.

 She inhaled sharply, disgusted with herself, yet, she couldn’t quite find herself wanting to retract her statement and be shipped back around the world.

 The door opened, bringing a light scent of perfume. Alaska lifted her head and saw that Coady was in the company of a tall woman, thicker than the drug addicted underground junkies Alaska was used to talk to, and tidier than them too. Her bright blue eyes struck Alaska first, her neat uniform and perfect posture came in second. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a ponytail and her lips parted into a warm, accommodating smile that rubbed Alaska the wrong way instantly. Coady, meanwhile, lingered in the background, pride and victory still echoing in his eyes.

 Alaska looked between them hopelessly, the reality of her actions finally fully hitting her.

                “Hi,” The woman greeted, full of pep, almost causing Alaska to flinch away from her. American, happy and seemingly delighted to meet her. Alaska didn’t come across that much in gang-riddled London. “I’m Agent Trixie Mattel from FBI and I’m the subject you’re going to be spending a lot of time with over the next eighteen months.”

[namjoonchronicles]

Travel - [BTS] Husband!Yoongi Au

[A/N] How do I explain this to Taehyung. No explanation is the best explanation.

The autumn shades are too bright. These needs to be re-shot, the models needs to be re-positioned and the props needs to be larger. The balance on these shots are just too boring. In my honest opinion.

Suddenly your assistant yanks open the door and peeped his head through the gaps, “I’ve got your husband on the phone, line 1.” Then he leaves as quickly as he came. Pinching the bridge of your nose, you glide your eyes to the pictures of you and Yoongi on your desk, taken by Taehyung. Yoongi was back-hugging you, nuzzling his head to the back of your head, standing sideways while you looked just as thrilled as he is. Credits to Taehyung for getting the lighting, just right. Lifting the office phone up putting him on speaker, you ran your palm down your face. All the staring straight to the computer screen is drying your eyes up and honestly, they feel very uncomfortable.

“Sweetie~” He sang, in that shaky baritone raspy voice of his, and if you pay attention to it, you could hear him fumbling on something. “What’s happening…” You monotonously asked. You wasn’t intending to answer his phone calls to be honest, but since your dense assistant were playing oblivious to the fight you and Yoongi were having, you had to entertain this needless call. “It’s unfair that you drag this fight, this long when you know it’s not much of a big deal.” He sounded apologetic and angelic, and sweet but no. You have your emotions and thoughts firm and collected, even if he used that tone on you.

“Not a big deal? It was a movie night. Our...movie night.” You hissed, crossing your arms. Is he serious?

Yoongi waddled across the hallway, to the living room that is full of wrapped boxes, climbing up to the ceiling. Yoongi and you had just moved here and everything is still new--the town, the neighbors, everything. It was Yoongi’s idea to move back to Daegu, his hometown. You hardly even understand Daegu’s dialect but because you knew he wasn’t going to let you down in his own game, you persevered. Until he became tactless insensitive about your special night together-- the only night you both would watch movies.

Only night, in a week, he spends three hours (besides sleeping), next to you, to watch a movie that either one of you had picked. “If you didn’t want to watch the movie I picked, you should have said so.” You growled to the phone. “You shouldn’t have gone out of your way and act as if your friends had stalled your intentions that night. You think I didn’t know?”

Kicking the shoe box away from his path, Yoongi brought himself to the wall separating the kitchen and the living room, and gently knock his forehead on it, repeatedly. I made a horrible decision and now I’m being punished for it.

“That’s not it. I was just too caught up with the boys, I didn’t know it was going to drag so long.” Yoongi was catching up with his old schoolmates, and didn’t notice how times passed, and when he came home (semi-drunk) to you sleeping on the couch with snacks that have gone cold, he felt terrible. But that didn’t resolve anything from your side, because you hadn’t spoke to him for three days and had dinners before him throughout the cold war. Yoongi was at his limits. Three days was the limit. I have to lower my ego so I can get the good-good. And not just that, Yoongi wanted to make amends with you because he missed your silly texts that you would send him in the middle of the day. He doesn’t get any for awhile, and oddly, it made him angry. He missed you, badly.

He knew you couldn’t say no if he called you through the office phone because then, your good assistant (whom he bribed) will never leave his calls unconnected. He wants to talk you, in any way he can. This cold war ends now.

Yoongi scowled at the pain he brought himself in, why the hell did I do that. He rubs his sore forehead. Yoongi looks around the messy apartment and just pull out a chair in the dining area, overlooking the living room’s balcony. “I don’t know what else you want me to say.” Yoongi sounded tired, holding his phone close to his ear, laying on his own arm, scratching the wooden table with his nail. You stared directly into his eyes, in the picture you have and found yourself, wavering. Your assistant walked in uninvited again, and he whispered, noticing that the phone call is still on, “...The Norway, Bergen trip this evening.” He reminded you.

“Oh shit.” You cursed. And Yoongi was like, the hell did she just say to me, “Bullshit?” Yoongi spring up in his seat, letting out an annoyed sarcastic scoff. You urged your assistant to leave immediately and spoke, spinning in your chair. “No. No. I have something to tell you.” You sounded very flustered and it brought Yoongi a definite uneasiness. What’s this. “We have to go on a trip to Bergen...and the flight is this evening, I’ll pick you up from the apartment and you pack our things.” You said in one breath, gathering your papers in one stack before shoving it in the drawer as quickly as you can. “Wait, hold on. A trip to where? And when?” He sounded confused. Well he should be, because the trip was finalized about two weeks ago, and it has been a hectic two weeks, and you two had just moved and the things from Seoul aren’t fully arriving yet, and then there’s that gallery selection that you had your eye on, and having to judge the next artist you’d like to promote. It was a soul-numbing, energy-depleting sets of two weeks. Emotionally draining too.

Especially when you had to wait for Yoongi to say hello to every citizen there is who was welcoming him home at every second you were at the airport. You hardly spoke the language so all you did was smile, bow and blink, and repeat. It was tiring.

“Bergen. Norway. For three days.” You said, grabbing a file from the rack of your office, labelled Norway Art Exhibition. “But why do I have to go?” He questioned, standing from the dining chair and rested his hand on his hip, scowling at the wall in front of him. “You have ten minutes to pack our things. Get the passport from the first box that came from Seoul.” You said, urgency in your voice. “There’s like a dozen of boxes in the living room alone, babe.” He tipped you on the current situation. “What can I pack in ten minutes?!” He was obviously having a premature mental breakdown and you almost died laughing. “Babe I’m sorry! I was suppose to tell you yesterday but I forgot…” You mewled. “How many days is it again?” You heard him asked and you were out of your office to get to your assistant’s desk outside, obtaining the said airplane tickets.

“Three. Three days, two nights.” You answered and brought your notebook and files. “If that’s so, I’m packing one night wear. You know what, let’s just bring ourselves and buy everything from there.” He said, sounding like he’s given up. “...Okay, Mr. Millionaire, we are going to be homeless and we won’t be able to return to Korea, that way.” You reminded him. “I’m collecting the toiletries now, and I won’t be taking your shavers because we will obviously not have sex in those three days.” He rummages through the cupboard, where you would guess, in the bathroom. “How are you so sure about the no-sex part.” You retracted your chin in, scrambling to get your documents together. “Because babe, if we’re having it, we’re going to need more than three days.” He snorted. “Why.” You asked, in a scolding tone. “We gotta preserve one day for you not being able to walk. Duh.” This idiot.

“I’m going to take my shavers. Do you need pads?” He asked you. “I just had my menses last week, so I think no, but thank you for the thought.” You giggled.

Can I pack in 10 minutes. Oh my gosh where do I even start? Two minutes passed just by thinking?? What the actual fuck. I can’t do this. I’m having a mental breakdown. This is a crisis. I can’t do this without her. What the hell. Let’s just not go?

Yoongi brought down a large luggage from the cupboard and went to get those passports like you told him. “It’s a 10-minute pack time, you have no rights to complaint.” He addressed the warnings to you as he puts in a red lingerie in for you, in the luggage. “I don’t care babe, just don’t make me go bare naked in Norway is all. I’m coming to get you now, pack carefully…” You said and dig the car keys into your keyhole and the engine hurled to life. “Okay…” He sang, sweetly and hung up. In the luggage, you have two outside wear, one provocative nightwear, a bunch of socks, and five panties. He packed himself one winter jacket, three shirts, one pair of comfortable jeans and three boxers. He also threw in some medications, just in case. He took his camera bag, and slung the strap over his shoulder and dragged the bag out just on time.

“Aren’t you looking cute with a beanie.” You complimented him and slide your hand down his chest, and gave him a brush of your lips on his rosy cheek while he smiled like a child. He carries the luggage into the back of the car and you both switched. He drives. “You got everything, right?” You asked him, opening the door on the passenger side and he got into the driver seat. “Clothes, cameras, toiletries, medications, everything is in there. The passport too.” He added and drove when you got in and snapped you seatbelts on. “Did you bring my charger?” You asked, looking straight ahead to the road. “I did.” He nodded and make a left turn, turning on the blinkers. “...Thank you. What about gloves?”

Yoongi froze. It didn’t even cross his mind that he was suppose to bring gloves. You somehow picked up from his silence that he may have forgotten so you giggled, and rubbed his thigh affectionately. “...We can get a pair there.” You said. “You didn’t forget the night wear, right?” You blinked. “That’s the first thing I packed.” He smiled, cheekily this time. “I hope you packed the ones I always use.” You said, checking your phone.

“Oh you’d be surprised.” Yoongi bit his smile.

Later, during the trip.

“Goddamn it Yoongi. This is Norway! I’d be frozen in my sleep with this on!” “I can warm you up…” “Surrender your winter coat. You pack more socks than we actually needed, are we selling these here?” “We can. If you want.”

[theturnips]

Letters Between Two Women, One in the USA, One in Switzerland, Following the US Presidential Election of the Man Who Grabs Pussy & Lost the Popular Vote

By Beth Couture & Renée E. D’Aoust

From: "Renee E. D'Aoust" To: "Beth Couture" Subject: Letter from Renee Date: Saturday, November 12, 2016 12:14 PM Lugano, Switzerland  

Dear Beth:

And so the US Electoral College elects the sexual assaulter in chief—Trump. I’m gutted. Devastated.

How are you feeling, my beloved friend? I think of you on the front lines, serving people, finishing your MSW. How can I support you better?

How does it feel in America?

This morning, Tube of Fur woke at five a.m., as she does, and she grunted. Last night, we walked our chestnut trail; it’s called Sentiero Eden. Waddle up, waddle down. It is small comfort to me that Tootsie does not know how screwed we are. She has stayed close by me all week, as I get out of bed, to teach, to write, to go to physical therapy. Wednesday after the results were clear, my physical therapist (she’s Dutch) said: “this affects everyone!”

This is global climate change. This is the normalization of racism, hate, sexism, climate change denial, the denial of responsibility we have to our brown & black & every color & LGBTQ sisters and brothers, the sham that I'm supposed to get along, the idea that I'm supposed to normalize the sexual assaulter in chief, the idea that I'm supposed to support a system of white supremacy in the country whose passport I carry. This is the normalization of excuses that favor of fascism.

I say, white people, this is on you. Squarely. I'm a white woman. This is on me.

Our black and brown and LGBTQ brothers & sisters have been terrified to live in America. We have killed our First Peoples through genocide and called it assimilation. No more. I'm now terrified, too. I never wanted to leave America to live in Switzerland. Now, I do not want to come back. Why? I don't feel safe. Know: I've been raped, sexually abused, harassed, stalked. A friend told me last summer that I did not understand domestic violence. And I wondered, "Have I done such a great job of normalizing my self? The violence in my past?" You see, 25 years ago when I spoke up, my extended family stopped talking to me. My mother’s two sisters shunned my mother. My aunt told me I was "precocious" and "guilty of everything [HE] would do from now on, to any other girl" if I didn’t report. Another abuser stalked me online for years. Another woman told me “I wanted it.” Have I spoken of how my body is a locus of assault? Have I written about it? In obscure terms. I will now speak up. I am terrified of global climate change. Global climate change affects my body and the earth. But brown and black and LGBTQ bodies have been terrorized for years. So my fear is privileged; I am a white body. I am terrified that the sexual assaulter in chief has normalized ignorance, normalized grabbing pussies, normalized grabbing my pussy.

I have been practicing a potpourri of radical self-care that includes drinking too much coffee, eating too many Italian cookies, breaking up with Facebook so I can freak out on Twitter, and grabbing Tube of Fur to cuddle.

Kindness is my religion, being a doormat is not. My belief in kindness has meant I keep my mouth shut. As a white woman, it has been my privilege to keep my mouth shut. But when my brother killed himself, I swore I would not abide bullshit. I have not kept my pledge. IN IAN'S NAME: I WILL SPEAK UP.

Beth, please be my witness. I am terrified.

I’m so grateful for the readings you sent last time. Please continue to help me see my own blindness, to break down my privilege, to serve.

Give my love to Esteban, too. I send you love during a time of war.

Renée P.S. I'm attaching my new motto.

 From: "Beth Couture" Date: Thu, Nov 17, 2016 at 9:19 PM Subject: Letter to Renee To: "Renee E. D'Aoust"

Philadelphia, PA, USA

 Dear Renée,

The other night I dreamt about dying. In the dream, I was somehow certain that I was going to die, and I was so scared and so angry and sad. I kept saying I wasn't ready, I had so much left to do, I couldn't die. Not yet. It reminded me of when Ed and I talked about death, about the afterlife, and it hit me in such a powerful way that maybe there wasn't anything after this life. Maybe we really do just die and rot, and that's it. I have never been able to accept that idea. I don't believe in heaven or hell, but I've always believed that we don't just stop, that there must be something after this and we will be aware of it. I don't know if I believe this because I actually believe it, or if I'm just too scared to think about the alternative. In that conversation with Ed, and in the dream, I faced it. I allowed myself to think that maybe that's all there is--death and no longer being. And I sobbed like I have never sobbed. I couldn't stop. It felt like someone was tearing out my insides. That's what it feels like now, almost all the time. Like I am looking into the face of something too horrible to comprehend and I can't stop sobbing. Like I am seeing the possibility of death for the first time. And I'm not ready to. I'm not ready to look, but I have no choice. I'm not ready to face the possibility that this is all there is.

Esteban and I decided a few months ago that we wanted to have a baby. This was such a big decision for us. I don't think it was something I had ever allowed myself to imagine, because I am terrified of being a mother, of fucking the kid up, of raising a kid in such a scary world. Getting pregnant always felt like such a selfish thing. There are so many kids in the world who need parents, so few resources to go around, so little certainty that the world would be okay for the kid. But we decided that to have a kid, to make one ourselves, would be an act of hope.

The day after the election, I realized that I could not bring a child into Trump's America, that I no longer believed enough in the good in the world to get pregnant. I think about having a baby now, and it feels so cruel, so absolutely harmful, and I can't do it. I think Esteban could still do it even though he understands my feelings, but I can't. I don't have that much hope. And it breaks my fucking heart every time I think about it. It feels like death, and the grief is so big, so powerful that I don't know what to do with it at all. We are looking into adoption now, and that may be the most ethical decision anyway. Certainly we can love the child the same. But it hurts so much to think that we don't, can't have the same hope we used to, the hope we worked so hard to have.

I guess that's what I'm feeling most of all--hopeless. For the first time. I've always been, in spite of my depression and anger and fear, in spite of the reality I see as a social worker, an optimist. I have always believed that no matter how bad things are, they can and likely will get better. Not without a fight, of course, not without a hell of a lot of work, but they will get better. Things will be okay. I'm not sure I believe that anymore. I know the US is a country built on slavery, on genocide, on greed. It's a country that claims values it so often acts in direct opposition of. Trump really is no surprise. But the loudness of his bigotry, his fear mongering, his stupidity, still surprises me.

My sister got married a little over a year ago and is now afraid that her marriage will be nullified, that the woman she loves will no longer be seen by those in power as her family. My three black nephews now have even more to be afraid of when they walk down the streets, because of the violence Trump endorses and encourages in his supporters. I work with students who are afraid for their lives, the lives of their families, their futures. This isn't how it should be. And I'll fight for how it should be, for how it will one day be. Because there's no other choice. Right now I'm grieving, and I feel there's no other choice but that either. I'm so grateful you're with me in the fighting, in the grieving.

So much love to you, and please give my love to Daniele, to your sweet dad, to the Tube of Fur (who always gives me hope).

Beth

Beth Couture is the author of Women Born with Fur (Jaded Ibis Press). She received her Ph.D. in Creative Writing from the Center for Writers at the University of Southern Mississippi. She currently lives in Philadelphia and is completing a Master’s degree in Social Work at Bryn Mawr College.

Renée E. D’Aoust’s first book Body of a Dancer (Etruscan Press) was a ForeWord Reviews 'Book of the Year' finalist. D'Aoust teaches online at North Idaho College and is the Managing Editor of Assay: A Journal of Nonfiction Studies. She lives in Switzerland. www.reneedaoust.com