#sorry if i got the citation wrong i have only read the book once years ago in my first language

[thegreatkarma]

fast forward to five to six years later:

“all im saying is the strongest demigod in our generation is right here, and it’s not me. you should’ve asked annabeth to train you”

[katytheinspiredworkaholic]

✏, hotchreid, first kiss 🥺

You don’t just get a blurb honey, you get the whole damn night. I’ll eventually start writing blurbs and not full-length oneshots for these asks, but Cee (my love my family my favorite always) is who got me back into CM in the first place so yours was always going to be the long, fleshed out version. I love you so my dear. 

((P.S. Yes I’m still working on the 200follower asks xD I’m so sorry life got in the way and I discovered hcs but I’m being responsible and finishing all of these now I promise!!!))

Personal plot bunny: Hotch invites Reid over to help with a research paper/with Jack and Reid gets to see his boss all domestic and soft, and in turn Spencer just kind of fits in his home seamlessly and Hotch kisses him as he leaves.

Word Count: 3107

--

It’s a perfectly ordinary day in late November when Hotch opens his apartment door to Reid standing there in the clothes he’d worn to work earlier that day. Satchel over his shoulder, wrapped in jacket and scarf, and giving him a small quirk of a smile in greeting -- still very obviously thrown off kilter that Hotch had invited him over in the first place. 

When Reid said he’d lend him a hand on his most recent research paper, the younger agent had probably expected them to do it at the office. Interviews and research were all a big part of having a Behavioral Science subunit at the FBI, and published papers were a requirement from all BAU members to aid in this endeavor. Every team had to keep a steady output of resources and research studies going just to keep funding for the department afloat. He may be Unit Chief, but Hotch was no exception to these requirements, even with as much work as he has to put in on the regular. 

Usually, he can do his research and piece together papers in between his daily paperwork. But this week Jess is sick with a stomach flu, and Jack hadn’t gotten to spend time with Hotch in what feels like a month. So the easiest solution was obviously to invite Reid to have dinner with them at his home, entertain him while he read over the drafted paper and helped Hotch out. 

Obviously. 

The only reasonable option, really. 

“Thanks for coming, Reid,” Hotch greets back with a softened expression as he looks him up and down. “Did you even go home first?” The very first thing Hotch always does is change out of his suit when he gets home, shedding that armour as best he can to switch mindsets between Agent Hotchner of the FBI, and Aaron Hotchner the ever-stressed-out single dad. That evening donning worn jeans and a heather grey Henley to better accommodate himself within the space. 

“Oh -- no, I didn’t see much point,” Reid shrugs, then motioning to his satchel which is now filled with books that weren’t there when he’d left the bull pen a couple hours before. “I stopped by the law library in Georgetown and found a few more references, just in case you were using the Favero citations instead of Weston and I don’t have all of those read yet -- or I didn’t. I do now. But I still brought them--”

Hotch smiles, a real smile -- small as it is, but no less fond of Reid going out of his way to help him. But before he can thank him again Jack’s socked feet come thundering down the hall behind him. 

“Dr. Spencer! Dr. Spencer! Dr. Spencer!” And he’s slipping past Hotch, smooth and fluid as water, attaching himself to Reid’s legs and waist in a hug with a big smile that looks so much like Aaron’s own. When he’d been younger, only about three or four years old, Jack had been deathly scared of Doctor’s visits. It had been Reid’s idea to have Jack start calling him ‘Dr. Spencer’ to help alleviate some of that fear, associating the moniker with his non-threatening and familiar face. Reid had been much younger then, too, and that had helped the tactic work like a charm. Haley had been over the moon when his reverse psychology worked out so well. 

“Jack! Woah, you got taller!” Reid’s whole demeanor changes. A little more animated, more comfortable, even -- and Hotch could remember a time when Reid hadn’t even wanted to hold a child for fear of the interaction. Now, he was always the first to talk to one if JJ didn’t beat him to it. “How’ve you been?” “Good!” Jack says excitedly, barreling over the small talk in ways only children can. “Dad says you’re going to help him with his homework, can you help me with mine too?!”

Reid smiles even wider and chances a glance at Hotch that he feels in his chest. “You bet, I love helping with homework.”

Jack just scrunches his nose up at him. “Why?”

“Because it’s fun.”

“Homework isn’t fun.”

“Well, maybe you’ve been doing it wrong.” 

“Let’s let Dr. Reid in from the hallway,” Hotch interrupts with a laugh, herding his son and the younger agent inside. “Jack, go get your homework and you can do it at the table,” Hotch says as he takes Reid’s coat and watches him kick off his shoes by the door. Mismatched socks prominent against the hardwood floors. Making himself at home, shedding some of the layers and getting comfortable in the space much like Aaron does every day after work. “Hope you like spaghetti. It won’t be as good as Rossi’s.”

“Who doesn’t love spaghetti,” Spencer grins with a soft laugh. “Rossi’s is almost too fancy for me, anyway.”

“A man of simple tastes,” Hotch teases him.

“I’m easily impressed.”

“Lucky me.” 

It slips out, the low, comfortable banter, and Reid’s eyes are alight and Aaron feels himself smiling enough his dimples show, and he leads the way to the kitchen where dinner is already in the works on the stove. Filling the small condo with the smell of tomato sauce and garlic. 

-

Jack and Reid set up at the kitchen bartop where they can watch Hotch finish cooking and stay within reach of conversation. It doesn’t take long for Hotch to finish making dinner, or for Jack to finish his homework spurred on by Reid’s strange enthusiasm for math problems. With how much time they spend talking about psychology and sociology (and sometimes even philosophy) Hotch always forgets one of Reid’s Ph.D.’s is in mathematics. 

“Numbers just make sense,” he explains, when Hotch brings it up while drizzling olive oil on the drained pasta on the stove. “There’s always a right answer and the rest are wrong. It’s comforting, to an extent, but predictable -- that’s why I shifted focus from sciences to humanities. There’s no right or wrong answers in philosophy, it’s all argumentative. Always evolving. I prefer that, it’s no fun having all the answers.” 

And coming from someone who does always have all the right answers, that must mean something profound to the younger man. One conversation outside the walls of the BAU and Hotch already feels like he understands Reid more than he has in a long time.

--

Dinner runs so smoothly it’s as if Reid is always there for it. Jack even finishes all of his food and helps with the dishes before Hotch has to ask him to. Making the two men exchange a glance and Hotch ask, “You charge by the hour?” and Reid laughs into his water glass in reply. They end up talking a bit about the paper Hotch has been working on, along with about a dozen other things Reid launches into in side tangents -- from the books he’d read during his brief visit to Georgetown that afternoon, to his most recent philosophical debate he had with his doctoral advisor about his thesis paper he’ll have to submit at the end of next month. 

“Do you need time to piece it together? I didn’t know you were that close to your next Ph.D.”

“Oh, no, it’s fine,” Reid waves him off. “I just need a weekend where we are actually in town and not on a case, and I’ll get it finished.” 

“I’ve been working on this paper for the past six months,” Hotch all but balks in disbelief. “How can you write a Ph.D. dissertation in a weekend?”

“Well, I’m not the Unit Chief or a single parent,” Reid points out with a gentle grin, and Hotch feels one pulling at his own lips as well. “But it’s mostly written anyway, just all up here.” He points to his head, and Hotch bets he could recite the paper verbatim with what he writes up when he has the time.

“You could always write it on the jet,” Hotch says. 

“I do,” Reid smirks, and Hotch can’t help but roll his eyes. “In my head, someone is usually taking up the table with a headstart on paperwork.”

“I think they can be talked into relinquishing some table top space,” Hotch says, until Reid gives him a look. “Oh, you mean me?”

“You spread out everything to keep it organized in piles.” 

“I’d share with you.”

“You told Rossi to use the couch last week when he wanted to answer emails,” Reid says with a barely contained laugh.

“Yeah, well, he’s not you,” Hotch admits before he can take it back, and Reid almost answers -- mouth open and everything -- when Jack comes back and is all but begging ‘Dr. Spencer’ to help him with his science fair project he hadn’t even decided on. 

--

The rest of the evening ends up with the three holed up in Hotch’s office, Reid surrounded by Law books and reading material he hasn’t gotten to sift through before, Hotch with his drafted paper printed out for Reid’s ease of access, and Jack with his science textbook and a notebook already talking Reid’s ear off about a science project for the spring. 

But once the time starts to tip into the later hours of the night, Hotch tells Jack to get ready for bed and say goodnight to Dr. Reid. 

“Goodnight, Dr. Spencer. Thanks for your help,” Jack says politely, ingrained in him by his father and Reid smiles a little too bright and soft at the same time at how sweet it is he tries to be good for company.

“You know, Jack, you can just call me Spencer if you’d like,” he says, knowing that the older boy has already outgrown his fear of the doctor and the reverse psychology is no longer needed.

Jack looks a little confused for a moment. “Dad doesn’t.” 

“Well, your dad can, too -- if he wants,” Reid says, looking to Hotch and they share a look he once again can feel in his chest. Watching the whole interaction with a carefully guarded expression, but it melts under Reid’s glance and he isn’t quite sure what is there anymore. But whatever it is, it makes Reid smile softly at him.

“Okay, goodnight Spencer,” Jack interrupts their moment, and hugs Reid around the neck from where he’s sitting cross-legged on the floor. It jostles the younger man, and Hotch smiles wide and ducks his head down to hide it. But Reid hugs Hotch’s son back, and tells him goodnight, as well. “You’ll come back, right?”

“Of course, I’d love to,” Reid tells him, and -- satisfied -- Jack goes off to brush his teeth, leaving the two in a lull of heavy silence. “Sorry, I think I just invited myself over, some time.”

“You’re welcome anytime.” And he means that, knows Reid knows that as he looks at him a little more soundly than before. “Not just for work.” If that needed to be said. 

And if Reid’s face flushes a little darker in the low lighting, Hotch doesn’t mention. No matter how much he can’t seem to look away.

Reid looks over his entire paper while Hotch tucks Jack into bed, and is already making notes on it at his desk when the man returns. The next hour rolls into two, and Hotch drags another chair in from the kitchen so they can share his desk and work through bullet points on the paper but… it was pretty much done, from the start. Even Reid’s edits didn’t take them long. After a while they dissolve into just talking, discussions and anecdotes and sitting maybe a little too close and laughing so much and so loud sometimes they have to quiet themselves so they don’t wake Jack down the hall. 

It’s almost 10:30 by the time they resurface from each other, before Hotch realizes Reid probably needs to go home because they both have to be at work bright and early. But this was… this was the best night he’s had in a long, long time, and he wants to do it again. Soon. More than soon. More than once. He thinks about all of this as he follows Reid to the front door and helps him gather the rest of his things. 

“We should do this again, sometime,” Hotch mentions, hands in his pockets and trying to be more cool about this than he feels.

“I’d like that, I had a lot of fun tonight,” Reid answers, standing up from tying his shoes and giving him that bright, wide smile he doesn’t always feel comfortable enough to allow. It never fails to stall Hotch in his tracks, staring a little too long at his mouth than he should be. 

“What if, next time, it’s just us? And no Jack?” he continues, elaboration just in case Reid doesn’t grasp what he’s asking. Reid is watching him with this look as if he’s unsure he heard correctly, and Hotch is nothing if not patient.

“I’d… I’d be okay with that,” Reid answers, slowly as he weighs some unseen options and gauges Hotch’s facial expressions to the most minute detail.

“Good. How about Saturday?”

He can see the moment it all clicks into place.

“...Are you asking me on a date?” Reid asks, a little winded. 

“If that’s alright with you,” Hotch says with a half smile. Once again sounding more confident than he should in the face of how Reid’s eyes start to dart around and he licks his lips nervously.

“I don’t know how -- how good I am with dates.” There’s a story behind that, and Hotch wants to know it, but he does his best to press Reid gently. Because… he’s been holding off asking the younger man for a long time, now, but after tonight he gets the feeling that he might not have needed to be so hesitant, after all. 

“Oh?”

“Just -- the ritual of it all always throws me off. Dressing up and going out, and making conversation over dinner while trying to eat and maintain the other’s attention, and then keeping it all going if you manage to do that I just don’t always do so well one-on-one and --”

“Reid.” He pauses, then -- “Spencer.” And that stalls his stream of thought to words, catching Spencer’s attention and snagging it in the best way. “...we just did all of that. And it was great.” Hotch knows his own expression has softened around the edges over the course of the night, smiles easier to hold, eyes more expressive, and Spencer takes in every change and nuance with a well-practice eye and is… very obviously stunned by what he finds. “So -- I’d like to do it again. Saturday?” 

Shocked, eyes a little wide, breath lost to the wind, Spencer waits a beat too long to answer. Enough to make Hotch nervous, before he answers in a sound that could have been a whisper if it had been quieter. A slight crack to it that betrays his emotion.

“Okay.” 

Hotch gets a turn to be stunned, because he thought this had been about to take a very different turn. “Okay?”

“Yeah.”

“--Okay.”

Intelligent men that they were, that was the extent of the conversation, and then Reid is smiling that bright, sunshine laced smile and Hotch is trying to contain his own and -- Reid still needs to go home. So, biting his lip, Reid turns as if to leave -- is just about out the door when he stops and turns back so quick he almost runs into Hotch on the threshold. 

“So… technically, that means this was our first date, then. Right?” he looks so goddamn hopeful, and like he has something further to add, that Hotch smiles outright and this time doesn’t bother hiding it.

“Technically, yes.” He supposes it was. And it really had been… a great night. Not a bad first date, at all.

Reid takes far too long trying to string together words after that. Keeps looking to Hotch then away to gather his thoughts, then back again as if in search of something; and it’s after about the third time that Hotch realizes what he’s getting at. What he’s trying to find a way to ask. 

It hits him so silent and hard it about knocks the wind out of him.

Oh.

He can do that.

Hotch steps closer, about the same time Spencer opens his mouth like he’s finally figured out the right combination of words within the range of the English language to form a coherent sentence, and they all die on his tongue the moment Hotch guides him back with a hand on his hip. He’s done it before, gentle leading when Reid strays the wrong way or needs to be shifted in a crowded room on cases, and this time is just as easy and no different.

Except this time, Hotch isn’t maneuvering them to get past him. This time, he presses Spencer’s spine to the doorframe and leans in to capture his lips with his own. Right there, in the open doorway.

Hotch kisses him, and it’s perfect.

The gentle slide of lips is over before either know it, lasts longer than his racing heart can measure, and before Hotch can decide his next move Spencer tilts in closer and kisses him back, slow and methodical and Hotch feels that. Feels it the way he’s felt every moment they had and shared the whole night. His free hand finds that sharp jaw framed in messy curls getting longer all over again, and Spencer doesn’t seem to know what to do with his hands beyond grasp at Hotch’s shirt at his sides and then -- 

Then Hotch pulls back enough that he can nudge his nose against Spencer’s carefully, a punctuation that ends the kiss soft and apologetic. Silently says that’s all they can do tonight. That there’s more, awaiting them, but that… 

That had been one hell of a good first kiss.

“See you in the morning, Spencer.” 

For once, Dr. Spencer Reid is speechless in an entirely new way, and he merely nods with lips still parted and a little darker from the kiss. From kissing him, and Hotch knows he stares more than he should, but that’s been a frequent occurrence lately. It’s just getting harder and harder to turn away, watch Reid -- Spencer -- smile at him in that quiet way only ever directed at him, and then walk away. But he lets it happen, feels every step even as he shuts the door behind him.

Because Hotch will see Spencer tomorrow.

And, one day, maybe he won’t have to watch him walk away at all. 

[stevetonyweekly]

SteveTony Weekly - August 8th

Happy Sunday!! Here’s what I’ve been reading this week. As always, leave your fic authors some love if you read and enjoy their stories! 

**Indicates my recent favs 

~*~ 

Turn around three times by ladyshadowdrake (Capwolf/20k) 

Tony and Steve take a tumble through a portal of inky darkness. When they wake up, they're not exactly feeling like themselves.

***Senseless by Scavenge4Dreams (Hurt Comfort/16k) 

Blinded, deafened, exhausted, injured and afraid, Tony raised himself up into a defensive position, the knife coming up just like Nat had taught him.

“That had better fucking be you, Steve Rogers- it had better be you. Fucking disarm me. If you let me kill you, I swear I will be very, very pissed.” Tony snarled, sure it was Steve approaching. Had to be. Had. To. Be.

What if it wasn’t?

Right up the road by gottalovev (Capwolf/17k) 

The day at the senate committee in Washington DC wasn't supposed to end with Tony and Steve transformed into animals by a baby witch. That said, the 350 miles trek back to the compound to get help promises to be quite an adventure too!

(or the adventures of Cat!Tony and Wolf!Steve - and how to readjust when you're back to human!)

***The love spell by Annie D (scaramouche) (Love Spell/17k) 

Tony wakes up in love with Steve. This is an alarming turn of events, because he wasn’t in love with Steve when he fell asleep the night before. That said, it’s sort of nice? To be in love? He’s enjoying it, anyway.

***Citation Needed by elwenyere, FestiveFerret (Professor AU/30K)

Historian Tony Stark has one year to get his book about WWII weapons technology under contract before he goes up for Full Professor at Stanley College. There's only one chapter left to finish, which is supposed to explain Peggy Carter's involvement with something called "Project Rebirth," but there are two problems: his trail of evidence goes cold every time he encounters references to an enigmatic soldier named Steven Rogers, and his stress levels shoot through the roof every time he runs into the endlessly frustrating new hire in Fine Arts, Dr. Grant.

***All Time Low by Sineala (616/12k) 

Tony's lost his company to Obadiah Stane. He's lost it all: his money, his friends, his Avengers team... and his sobriety. Drunk, homeless, Tony is living on the streets, and when he runs out of liquor money, he sells the only thing he has left: his body. And one day, he has the exact wrong customer.

***Not the Only Living Boy in New York by Essie (Getting Together/25k) 

Everyone has a number of names written on their bodies from birth. Steve has three: Margaret Carter, James Barnes and Anthony Stark. After Steve loses two of his soulmates he's not ready to meet his third. If wishes were horses huh?

Includes texting, movie watching a solid amount of pining and a little kicking HYDRA's butt.

Computer Love by ceealaina (PWP/6K) 

A spam email and a misunderstanding from Steve lead to him accidentally revealing something very surprising.

*

“Well, I don’t know, Tony,” Steve snapped back, once again opening his mouth without thinking. “You’ve got a robot butler, alright? Someone secretly taping me jerking off to Iron Man porn could definitely happen.”

For a moment, Steve didn’t even realize what he’d said, glaring mutinously down at the email. But Tony’s lack of a snappy response grew suspicious, and Steve looked up to find Tony staring at him with wide, unblinking eyes, mouth hanging open.

“I’m sorry. You jerk off to what now?”

I cannot walk on water by izazov (PWP/26k) 

Steve doesn't think about having sex with Tony Stark. He certainly doesn't plan for it. It happens anyway.

***If we never got this second chance by  Pookaseraph (Time Travel Kidfic/50k) 

When Tony and Steve’s son from the future, Jake Jensen, arrives at Avenger’s Tower, the two of them are forced to confront some hard truths: Tony that he might not actually become a horrible father, and Steve that he might not be able to set aside his discomfort with sharing a child with another man. When they both get a second chance at a first try at fatherhood, it’s up to the two of them to learn from their own future's past.

When I think about you by sirona (5+1 fic/11k) 

Five times someone saw Steve sass the hell out of Tony and one time Tony finally bought a clue. Also known as the story of Captain Sasspants more than handling his own with Tony Stark at his most devious.

***Thunderbolt City by  sirona (Getting Together/6k) 

It's competely unfair that the one time the whole thunder-from-the-sky thing happens to Tony, it has to be for someone completely out of his league, who takes one look at him and decides he wants none of it, thanks.

Three Little Words; or, Five Times Steve and Tony Didn’t Actually Apologize + One Time They Did by elwenyere(Getting Together/11k) 

“First of all,” Tony said, “and I need everyone to hear this on multiple levels: how dare you?”

In the branching timeline, Thor has to restart Tony's heart, and Steve hears that Bucky is alive. Some things go differently, and some things stay the same. For starters, Steve and Tony are still terrible at saying those three little words.

Some Fires Worth keeping by starklystar (Doctor AU/14K) 

“Teamwork,” Steve hands the clipboard back, trying not to jerk his hand away when Stark’s rough fingers brush with his. “You’re thinking of teamwork.”

“Well, it takes two to tango, doesn’t it?”

“If you say so.”

“If I say so?”

“You’re, uh, you’re the doctor,” and Steve feels his own cheeks warm. A beat of silence, and he cautiously adds, “you know more about… bodies.”

-----------

Or, Tony is SHIELD Memorial's newest head of ER, and Steve is New York's best firefighter. Naturally, that means some pining happens, some injuries get healed, and some hearts get kept.

***Never Have I Ever by Cluegirl (Mission fic/136k) 

Tony Stark doesn't have a lot of 'first times' left, after the life he's lived, but it turns out that Steve Rogers is directly responsible for a surprising number of them.

[be-ready-when-i-say-go]

Here’s a half formed thought about Calum going back to school at the same time as you during the crazy ass pandemic. Enjoy. 

Reader insert. No race or gender. 

********************

You were always going back to school. When you ran into Calum last year--though it really wasn’t you running into Calum; he was doing his grocery shopping and you checked him out--you knew being a clerk at the grocery store wasn’t the end all be all for you. 

What you had noticed over the couple of months is that whenever Calum seemed to be doing his grocery shopping, he always came through your line. It didn’t matter if you were the only line opened or on the weekends one of the several lines open, Calum was there. He started with small talk, asking you how your day was going. And you asked about his. He shocked you the first time he used your name. But you forgot that it was on your name tag. “Well if you know my name it’s only fair I know yours,” you teased. 

“Calum,” he returned easily, taking the brown paper bags after you carefully packed them. 

Sometimes you noticed his dog in the cart and asked about them. You learned his name is Duke and that he’s been affectionately dubbed Baby Grandpa by Calum. And eventually, though you hadn’t really meant to, you noticed things he bought frequently and whenever you happened across his path while walking to or from back break, you’d let him know if there was a sale going on. 

And thought it was only just friendly chat while you were on the clock, you were out pumping gas on your way to lunch with your friends when you heard your name. As you turned, there was Calum, walking out of the gas station, waving as he pushed his sunglasses back to cover his eyes. 

“Fancy meeting you here,” you laughed, waving in return. What you hadn’t expected as Calum walked across the lot to the pumps is that he would chat until the question of a date fell off from his lips. And sure Calum was attractive, and sure the conversation over the weeks while you checked out his items had turned a little flirty but you hadn’t expected that Calum felt anything remotely serious about you to ask you on a date. 

But you accepted. And there you were able to talk over a nice picnic that excluded Duke, but at your explicit disappointment at not seeing the old dog, Calum promised that next time, he would make sure to include Duke. That picnic lead to a movie, which lead to dinner, which lead to a date shopping for Duke because of the upcoming holidays, which lead to dinner at his place, and then hanging out with his friends for a quick drink one night, which lead to movie nights at each others place. 

And somewhere in all of it, you were dating Calum. He called when you had the closing shift at work to make sure you got home safely. Or if you spent the night, he’d make you breakfast, and he soothed your back as you hunched in front of your laptop to paid for applications for grad school. And he listened to the way you talked about knowing you couldn’t stay in this spot forever and he encouraged you go back to school. You could feel out that school was something that Calum was considering but he hadn’t been too serious about it. Not the band, the tours, the in the studio’s late--just never felt like he had the time.

Occasionally, you talked about some of the online courses you saw the schools had. But Calum hadn’t fully budged. By the time you got news about you going back to school, with funding, and sorting that news out with your job, Calum asked you if you thought he should give a crack at school. You told him the truth, that if he wanted to go for it, he should. And soon, things crumbled globally with the pandemic. And locked in the house most of the time, you dropped subtle and not so subtle hints that making those online classes might be closer and closer to coming true. 

Now you’re here, sitting at the dining room table, your printed out readings and books scattered in front of you. Calum’s on the couch. His notes on the coffee table. You’re in class, listening to the lecture headphones in and you look over to Calum, his class ended just as yours started. His fingers are working over the keys. 

He’s only in a couple of classes. And though you’re in one more class than him, there’s the added struggle of the work you do too. It’s administrative, but there’s meetings once a week and you still find yourself being offloaded onto with lots of small annoying data tracking tasks. It’s paying for school, so you do it with minimal complaints, but a few nonetheless. 

You’re so lost watching Calum working that you don’t even realize that the class you’re in is preparing for small breakout rooms until someone calls your name. You blink and turn back to the screen. “Sorry, zoned out. We’re discussing the reading, yeah?”

Your group nods and you manage to get back on track until the end of your class. Just as you’re closing down the Zoom app, at least for the half hour before your meeting for work, Calum calls out. “Class done?”

You nod, popping out the earbuds. “Yeah. Got that meeting for work soon though.”

He hums, glancing up from the screen. He seems tired. Most of your nights both of you are up kinda late. Though, you make sure to turn it in early and practically drag Calum to bed a couple hours later. He’ll get caught up, work way too late into the night and then have to be up early for band meetings too. “Want me to fix dinner tonight then?”

“It’s my night. I can still do it.” 

“You sure. I know you’ve got to fix that spreadsheet too and do your readings for the week.”

You shake your head. “I can still cook. Might even start during our meeting.”

Calum laughs, remembering the other times you turned off your camera and shuffled around the kitchen to cook in meetings or in classes too. “Nonsense. Almost done with this paper, so I’ll cook. But as an exchange, if you don’t mind, could you read over this? It’s only a response to a reading and it’s not super long or anything. But this instructor’s a fucking hardass.”

You nod. You’ve read over his papers before. Most of the times it’s just making sure he has correct citations and you might make a note about needing a thesis statement or needing more of his analysis between his evidence. But it’s not much that you ever feel like you need to mention on his papers. You’ve found, most often, what Calum needs is just someone to listen to his ideas so he can sort them out loud and then all you do is take down the notes of what he said. Listening to him talk about this philosophy class and Literature class is awe inspiring. He always has more questions than answers, but it’s those questions that always lead him to some pretty amazing places in his writing. 

“Is this the professor that got on you about the spacing on that first paper?”

Calum nods, pushing the laptop to the coffee table on top of his notes. “Yes! Even you couldn’t see what was wrong, so I still don’t understand what they got on me about. And I formatted the second outline in the exact same way and didn’t get any points taken off, so I really don’t understand.”

“Well, it could’ve been Google Docs. When you downloaded it into Pages, the formatting might’ve gotten wonky? But even the Pages document looked fine, so I really don’t know what happened there. But you’re doing it all in Pages now and then exporting to a PDF when you submit correct?”

“Yeah, I am. Thanks for that tip though. I didn’t realize Pages wouldn’t work in the submission center.” His shuffle into the kitchen is paired by the click of Duke’s paws on the floor. Calum presses a quick kiss to the top of your head. “Spaghetti?”

Holding onto his forearm draped around your chest, you nod. “Spaghetti sounds lovely.”

“I saw you staring at me while you were in class,” he whispers close to your ear. 

“What? You’re hot. Sue me.”

His chuckle is soft, a rumble in his chest that you feel through your back. “Most definitely can’t sue you over that. But don’t make me go in the office. I need you to pass these classes.”

“I appreciate the concern, dear. But I think I’m doing pretty good. Besides, I’m signed up for a random art history class. I can say you’re a piece of art I needed to analyze.”

The laughter’s not soft now, he full on giggles--a bit of it getting cut off as he inhales into the sound. “You’re ridiculous.” His lips are soft against your temple as he stands back up. “So spaghetti. Garlic bread is a must. Salad?”

“Ugh, I guess I do need veggies.”

“Yes, yes you do.” He continues into the kitchen, the clinking of pots hitting the isle’s of the stove and bowls, boxes, and jars setting onto the counter. 

“How’s the other class going? You guys starting your novels yet?”

“19th Century Lit is well, 19th Century Lit.” Calum seemed intrigued by the Evil Children’s class you told him you saw. But it had filled by the time Calum got his work schedule sorted out. He turned to 19th Century Lit as his backup, and so far, it appeared to be going well. “We’re spending the first part on poetry. And that’s the most interesting. The rest of the books sound a little boring.”

You hum, nodding even though he can’t see you. “Hopefully the class picks up. I took a look at the spring classes. If you want to focus more on poetry there’s a Modern Poetry post 1930′s class.”

The glance is quick, but his brows are pulled upwards, in a slight intrigue. “I’d consider it for sure.”

The alarm on your phone goes off, letting you know you have ten minutes until the meeting. You turn back to your computer and start logging into the meeting. “You haven’t had an assignment for that class yet have you?”

“No. The midterm’s coming up soon though and I don’t even know how to begin to study for it.”

You pop one earbud in making sure your mic is muted. “You know I got you, babe.”

“Yeah, but you’ve got your classes too. I-I might stop by the professors office hours and ask for help.”

“That’s always a good idea. Do you know when they are?”

“Tuesday’s and Wednesday’s.” You know he doubled checked them because he probably wouldn’t have that readily available from the first day of classes. “Gonna go tomorrow.”

Popping up from the chair, you press a kiss to his cheek, as the pan sizzles just a little and the pot of water not showing signs of bubbles just yet. “Love you.”

“Love you too,” Calum returns, pulling you fully into his chest for a swift kiss. “Now, go! You’ve got a meeting.”

“Meeting schmeeting. Would rather kiss you.” You kiss him one last time before ducking back into the chair and turning the camera on. You notice just faintly in the background Calum’s visible as he shuffles between pans and pots. Duke walks up to you, standing up to get attention. 

“Oh, you know I can’t say no,” you mutter, setting him in your lap.

“Is that Duke?” your supervisor asks. He’s crashed a couple meetings before. 

You unmute and hold him better for everyone to see. “Yeah. His pops is cooking us dinner and that lack of attention just won’t do.” 

“Hey, you say that like I don’t love him,” Calum retorts, threatening the back of your head with a spatula. You giggle before muting yourself and place Duke back into your lap, digging up the word document you’ve started for all the meeting notes. 

Your supervisor laughs. “Well I think he’s getting plenty of attention in the chat.” There are some more dings as people join the meeting. “Looks like we have everyone, so let’s begin.”

tagging @calumscalm because you might still be taking that exam, love. 

and @5-secondsofcolor bc sunday reads bubs. 

[ineloqueent]

hi tina 💞 not sure how easy this is, since my astrophysics knowledge is nearing -273 *C, but you could do mutuals as astronomical sights? comets, planets, galaxies etc... sorry if not!! 💖✨

anna! and anon! you’ve given me a wonderful chance to ramble about space. you may come to regret it, however...

if i’ve forgotten you, please do not take it personally! i didn’t mean to. my mind is just but a glorified puddle :)

@archaicmusings — vega

vega is the brightest star in the constellation lyra, and happens to be my favourite star. don’t ask me why vega is my favourite star, or why lyra is my favourite constellation, because i haven’t got a coherent answer for you. i’ve just always been drawn to them. a bit like cal, really. i feel like we’ve known each other for far longer than just four months, and she’s so lovely that i’m fairly sure i could say anything to her and she’d just accept me for whatever rubbish i’m rambling about this time. and, in the depressing year that’s been 2020, cal has been a bright star.

@drivenbybri — halley’s comet

honestly, is there anything more iconic than halley’s comet? there can’t be much. probably the best known comet of all time, halley’s comet is a short-period comet (and if you’ve read starstruck, you know how much i prefer short-period comets to those long-period comets with their damned 200-year perihelions, even if certain people suggest that this makes them quite special), meaning that it is visible from earth every 75-ish years. halley’s comet last made an appearance in the lovely year of 1986, and will thus appear next in 2061 (i’m so excited for my 59-year-old self!!!). halley’s comet, though well-known, is still a rare breed, so to speak. it is rare, and extraordinarily beautiful that a comet appears to a human twice within their lifetime. sofie is rare, just like halley’s comet, and equally beautiful, both in heart and with that lovely curly hair of hers. i’m honoured to know her, just as i shall be honoured to see halley’s comet one day.

@brianmays-hair — cassiopeia a

cassiopeia a (or rather, the remnant of cassiopeia a) was a supernova within the constellation of cassiopeia. for those of you who do not obsess over interstellar matter the way that i do, supernovae are explosions of massive stars, or white dwarfs drawn to nuclear fusion, within their final stages of life. not much is known about how these explosions necessarily take place, and nasa has only caught on video one such explosion, back in 2016. the most commonly presented image of the remnant of cassiopeia a is a false-colour image, composed with three different wavebands of light. it is, as you can see, very beautiful. supernovae radiate energy and light throughout the cosmos during their existence, and thus having a great effect on the space surrounding them. i therefore liken jess to cassiopeia a because she has a brilliant personality, vibrant and inspiring, which comes across especially in her writing. but of course, the beauty of cassiopeia a has nothing on her.

@deacyblues — sirius

as far as we humans and the scientists among us know, sirius is the brightest star in the observable universe. housed within the constellation of canis major, sirius has always been monumentally important in terms of navigation, since ancient times. i tell pearl this all the time, but truly, i mean it; her outlook on life is inspiring, how she never fails to be positive even in times of great trouble. like sirius, pearl is a light, ever-present within the mindset of living for today, ever-determined, and unfailingly kind.

@joemazzmatazz — black hole

please let me explain before this gets taken the wrong way: I LOVE BLACK HOLES. i specifically want to study black holes, whenever i get the chance to specialise within astrophysics. they fascinate me to no end, with a kind of allure that only the mysterious can hold. furthermore, black holes may be the key to understanding the universe; if we understand black holes, we will be able to make headway on other matter, such as dark matter, and dark energy, the latter of which makes up the majority of the observable universe, and will lead us to astronomical (if you’ll pardon the ill-worded expression, and the unintentional pun) conclusions concerning both the beginning of our universe, and the eventual end. regan, just like a black hole, is a wealth of information, especially concerning the knowledge she harbours about disney, and the business management sector of it. it’s quite truly inspirational.

@im-an-adult-ish — the milky way

ah yes, the milky way. home to all of us. and that is the essence of my explanation here. meredith has such a friendly way about her, and she’s the kind of person you can easily turn to and feel welcomed. a bit like our little corner of the universe <3

@almightygwil — the sun

i think this is probably self-explanatory, if a bit repetitive, but ellie is a ray of sunshine. but perhaps that sells her a little short, because ellie is just so genuinely lovely that she must herself be the sun. her writing talent astounds me (you could say it blinds me, ha ha), and she never fails to be somehow both sweet and very chaotic at the same time. it’s very admirable (and certainly relatable, on the chaotic front). the sun itself, if we think about the surface and the fusion that takes place there, is both the sweetest sight ever seen, and quite chaotic, so i think it fitting that ellie is the sun.

@hijackmy-heart — callisto

callisto is one of jupiter’s moons, and my favourite, because it looks like a piece of the night sky decided to curl up into a ball. i don’t know nat too well, but i know that she’s gorgeous, like callisto, and loves roger taylor. let me explain. jupiter, in roman mythology, is the god of the sky and of thunder. in norse mythology, thor is the equivalent of jupiter, and to me, roger has always had a bit of that typical scandinavian look going, with the blonde hair and blue eyes (not to say that all scandis look like this, but he fits the stereotype :)). nat loves roger, and callisto orbits jupiter, so there you have it.

@six-bloodyminutes — the moon

the moon has a serenity about it, and mo has a knack for telling quite wild things with a most casual air. for instance, according to my sources, when a certain dorm room caught fire (?). mo thus bears this serenity, akin to the serenity i associate with the moon, with equal grace and chaos.

@dancingdiscofloof — pluto

pluto! the not-planet-oh-wait-maybe-it’s-a-planet-jk-jk-unless..? i still think that pluto should be considered a planet, despite the many arguments against the poor sod. pluto was once a planet, and should therefore have remained a planet, for the plain and simple fact that taking away its planethood was like giving a person a present, and then taking it back immediately afterward. anyway. i’m rambling. i also do not know rove very well, but i know that she’s kind, and, judging by the memes she shares, both of ryan gosling and tom hanks, that she is quirky— a bit like our beloved pluto.

@imcompletelylost — aurora borealis/aurora australis

also known as the northern lights/the southern lights, the polar lights, the merry dancers, the fox fires, or swarms of luminous herring (you can thank my ancestors, followers of norse mythology, for that one), the aurora is an astronomical phenomenon precipitated by the complete ring of light surrounding the poles, “which at its brightest has a distinctively green tint” (may, brian, et al. the cosmic tourist. carlton books, 2016.). yes i just made a citation from one of brian’s books. don’t worry about it. anyway, particles emitted from our sun are caught by the magnetic fields of earth’s poles, and thus produce this ethereal effect. but you know what the aurora has always reminded me of? disco lights. and libby is noting if not the queen of disco. oh, and, libby’s makeup talents? the aurora could never.

@aprilaady — butterfly nebula

the butterfly nebula is incredibly beautiful. but also, depending on from which angle it is beheld, it looks quite different. dor will surprise you, in the loveliest way possible (and sometimes the funniest) with a kind word or a joke, or even just a relatable comment. she has so many talents, being rivetingly smart within so many fields, especially the sciences, and in this, conveys multitudes, like the butterfly nebula. one might say her soul is painted like the wings of butterflies...

@doing-albri — solar eclipse

the alignment of the sun, moon, and earth. difficult to see, especially in totality, if you continually live in the same place. but there’s something magical in that alignment, i think. something quite poetic. it’s partially in the name ‘eclipse’ and partially in the nickname— a “ring of fire.” i saw the solar eclipse in august of 2018, and looking up at it, i was quite awestruck. you’re not supposed to stare directly at solar eclipses, because despite the moon overshadowing the sun, you can still damage your eyes significantly by looking at them. vi is so bright, both in her attitude and in her intelligence, and thus i’ve chosen the solar eclipse for her. also, when a solar eclipse occurs, using a piece of cardboard with a hole (or generally any thick-radius circular object with an opening), you can recreate the phenomenon on another surface, resulting in beautiful patterns and light-art, which i think speaks to vi’s eye for aesthetics.

@imalososos — meteor shower

meteor showers are perhaps some of the most beautiful phenomena i have ever seen. back in the summer of 2016, i stayed up all night to watch the perseids rush across the sky, and i was not disappointed, by any means. within the early hours of the 12th of august, an estimated 80 meteors darted across the heavens each hour. meteors, in essence, are clusters of mineral, usually debris from comets, which enter the atmosphere of a planet, and thus seem to shoot across the sky. now, you may be wondering, what’s the bloody blooming difference between meteoroids, meteors, and meteorites, and why are we talking about meteors in particular? well, meteoroids are cosmic debris that have not yet entered an atmosphere; as soon as a piece of cosmic debris enters a planet’s atmosphere, it is classified as a meteor. as for meteorites, nothing is a meteorite unless it strikes the ground. anyway. you didn’t come here for my science ramblings. meteors are also called ‘shooting stars,’ and let’s be honest, they’re space’s idea of art. streaks of light across the sky? sounds like a painting to me, and darya, among many other things, is an artist— and a brilliant one, at that. so i think it very fitting to describe her as the art of the universe <3

@mazzell-ro — saturn

i! love! saturn!!! being the only planet in our solar system with highly visible rings, it just stands out to me. it’s absolutely gorgeous, and an object of much inspiration to me, when i was little and decided that space was absolutely something i wanted to see. i could write an eight-verse song about saturn, i love it so much, and honestly, i think ro could write one too; she’s an excellent musician. but aside from its lovely rings, saturn is unique because its composition, in the ratio of its gases, would allow the planet to float in water. ro is uniquely wonderful, and her writing!!!!!!!! makes me so soft and happy and makes me want to give her the word. quite how i feel when i look up at saturn.

@mistiermistshazierdays — zodiacal light

you may recognise this term as brian’s speciality from when he was studying astrophysics. but what is it? zodiacal light is that strange triangle of light that appears glowing in the sky after twilight and before dawn, and is the subject of much earth-based astrophotography. extraordinarily beautiful, scientists are still not entirely sure what the phenomenon is, but most research and practical experiments are in favour of zodiacal light being sunlight reflected off of cosmic dust (also known as stardust!). now, if my knowledge of ancient greece and its mythology serves me, the name phoebe comes from phoebus, and (thank you google) means ‘bright.’ zodical light… bright… phoebe… you might say it’s a match made in the heavens. quite literally if we’re talking space. phoebe, you kind soul, you are stardust.

@speciallyred — andromeda galaxy

and last, but certainly not least, dear anna. i name thee the andromeda galaxy, partially for your own name, and partially for its poetic beauty. andromeda, the neighbour galaxy of our deal ol’ milky way, is actually about 2.5 million lightyears (15 trillion miles, 22.5 trillion km) away from us, here on earth. call me vain for the number of times i’ve described the beauty of space throughout this rather extended exposition, but andromeda is startlingly beautiful. one reason for this objective beauty is that andromeda is estimated to be home to roughly double the number of stars within our own galaxy. anna is one of the most talented poets i have ever come across, hands down, and what be the food of poetry, if not the stars?

[gay-salt-amber]

Can we get a full story on Georgi and Jeans relationship? I think its really cute from the information you gave us and I wanna know more! - :D anon

Yes I sure can! Hope you like it :D

Love On The Ice

The ice rink. A figure skaters home away from home. Some go to the ice for training, some go there for fun, some go there to cry, some go there to rage, and some go there for love. This is no different for a 25 year old French skater named Jean Douce.

Jean pov-

Walking to the rink was something I always enjoy. Sure, my bag was kinda heavy at times and the walk may be long but it gave my legs some practice moving before I step foot onto the ice tonight. Todays competition was being held at my home rink in France, which is quite nerve racking, but I can't let that show. My coach said that this may be my chance to make it to a grand prix final, but I'm not so sure. We'll see when I get there I guess. As long as I try my best, then we'll be just fine.

When I finally made it to the rink, I looked up the sign 'Lilac Ice Rink' gave me a sign of comfort. I felt at home, I felt comfortable, I felt relaxed again. I opened the door gently before walking in, waving to the blonde behind the front desk, Ms. Joy, the woman who owned the place and someone I've known since I was little.

"Good luck out there!" She said with a smile

I gave a simple nod and went to the locker room to change, I didn't here anything before I entered, making me think not many people were there, 'Weird, I guess I am kind of early though.' I opened the door and sat my stuff down on the bench I looked over to see a face I hadn't seen before. The person had a pointy hair style, all of his hair was pointed infront of him, strange hair style but not bad. He was wearing a jacket over what I assumed was the outfit he was skating in tonight. I tried to read his jacket but the back of the chair covered it and I couldn't recognize the logo, curious, I walked up to say hi to him.

"Hi!" I greeted,

He put down what I recognized was blush and looked at me, "Hello, who are you?" I grabbed a chair, pulling it over and sitting down next to him, "I'm Jean."

"Are you skating tonight?" The black haired man asked

"Yes, I'm on the French team! What about you?"

"I'm on the Russian team."

"Ooo! Cool! What's your name?"

"Georgi."

I got up and held out my hand, "Well Georgi, I hope we get along."

He scoffed and shook my hand, "Good luck."

I smiled and walked back over to my bag and got out my outfit for the night, when I was putting it on, everything was fine until I remembered that it tied in the back. Unlike some people I know, I can't reach that far back. I turned my head and saw that Georgi was still here, I'll just ask him for help.

"Hey! Georgi!"

He turned around, "Hm?"

"Can you," I pointed to the ties, "Tie this for me?"

He rose to his feet and walked over, "Sure, but don't blame me if it looks awful."

I laughed, "Heh, I think it'll look fine, I mean, if you can make your face look so pretty, you can probably tie a knot pretty well too."

Georgi paused for a moment before going back to tying the knot, "Don't say stuff like that."

"Awh cmon! Its just a compliment!"

The cloth on my back tightened and the feeling of hands on his back left, "There its tied."

"Thanks!"

He grabbed his bag, waved and exited the locker room, the door slamming behind him.

'I think we'll get along well.'

A while later, Georgi pov-

I stood, leaning on the wall of the rink, deep in thought. Who was that Jean boy? All I know is that hes a skater from France. I want to know more about him, hes quite a nice boy and I think we'd get along well. I glanced over to where he was getting some last minute practice. His olive eyes sparkled as bright as a star, his skating wasn't the best I have ever seen by far but the passion he had was as obvious as the blue sky.

The only thing I could keep my eyes on was the cute brown haired boy, I spaced out from all of reality and I wouldn't have it any other way...

"Oi! Georgi! I'm talking to you!"

I turned to the voice to see coach Yakov behind me, "Oh sorry."

I cleared my throat before speaking, "Do you know anything about Jean? The boy over there?" I said, pointing to him.

"Ah, that's Jean Douce, hes a French skater."

"Well I know that much, anything else?"

"Well hes quite the amateur, I heard from his coach that hes only been to the second part of a figure skating contest once."

"Ah, I wonder why.."

"I heard he is married and has a kid so that's probably why, its hard to balance a family life and skating, anyone can tell you that."

Those words felt like a jab to the heart, "Oh.."

"Your going on last by the way, I wouldn't have it that way normally but, cant argue with the organizers."

I nodded and walked over to the bench to sit, grabbing my water-bottle from my side and taking a sip. While I was drinking I stole a glimpse at Jean who was now panting, head hanging down as he sat about 2 benches away from me. Why the world doesn't he have water? I sighed, 'Do I have to do everything for this boy now?' Wait that doesn't sound too bad.. I glanced at my water bottle which was still practically full and headed over to him.

I sat down by him, which caused him to instantly look over, "O-oh hi."

With a nod, I held my water-bottle out infront of him, "Here, I saw you didn't have one but your panting like a fucking dog so I figured you'd want some."

He grabbed it, his hand brushing against mine causing my heart rate to go up higher then what I am fairly certain is healthy. He smiled brightly, it was adorable and when I saw that on his face, I knew this was what they call love at first sight.

"So, I heard your married?" "Yes. I have a wife named Salem."

I was curious, I want to know more about her, "What's she like?"

"Heh, not great lately.."

"Mind telling me why?"

"She just doesn't approve of the fact that I do figure skating full time she thinks it wont make good money which is-"

"Bullshit" "Bullshit" We said in unison, we both let out a chuckle and Jean continued,

"Because of that I cant get as much practice in because I cant get the time away from her nagging to get out to the rink."

I looked at him, thinking, "I think I have an idea."

"What is it?"

"I'll help you with your routine."

His eyes widened at my words, "Don't you need to practice too?"

"I memorize my routines quite well, I think i'll be fine with coaching you."

"I have a coach already y'know?"

I scoffed, "Yeah and from what I saw she has no fucking idea what she's doing."

"I mean.. You're not wrong."

I stood and held out my hand, "So get up and lets head to the ice."

Jean grinned, putting my water-bottle down and grabbing my hand, "Alright!"

After the competition Jean pov-

Well.. I didn't make the cut, I guess I was right, heh. My score was 221, I was about 4 points behind the 3rd place winner who was a boy from America named Leo de la Iglesia. While I was getting changed in the locker room, Georgi was sitting down removing his makeup

"You're not very chatty.." He stated

"Heh, I guess I'm just upset about losing.. Good job on getting 2nd though!"

"For what its worth, I think you should have gotten third, Leo failed that one double axal so he shouldn't have had 225 points, you should have scored higher too, you landed everything."

I let out a dry chuckle, "Still my jumps weren't nearly as good."

"Still."

"Thanks, Georgi."

I stuffed my stuff into my bag and was about to leave when I felt a tap on my shoulder, "Hm? Did you need something?"

"Can I have your number?"

"Sure!"

He handed me his phone, I typed in my number and put in a contact name. "See you later, fée endormie" (Sleeping fairy)

Georgi's face looked as red as a cherry, his words were stammered too, "Y-yeah you too.."

I waved, closing the door to the locker room behind me. The walk back to the hotel was long, I wanted to be outside longer so I could think. Think about the cute Russian boy I met just a few minutes prior. Then I started to ask myself, 'This is so.. Wrong, what's wrong with me.. I am a married man, I shouldn't think things like this.' I sighed, letting those thoughts die. Those thoughts were replaced with more happy ones about Georgi and how the day went, 'Yeah.. we can think about the future later, day-dreaming never hurt anyone, right?'

About a month later-

I was relaxed on my bed. my wife was out at work and finishing up some school work. I am still going through collage since I had dropped out for a few years to help raise Akaashi. But now hes 17 and a third year at Fukurōdani Academy, a school here in Japan which my wife is the superintendent of. The work was nothing bad, I was about to type my last sentence before heading to the ice rink for practice when my phone buzzed with a message from Georgi

---------

Georgi: Hey, this may be sudden, but can you open your door?

Jean: Uhhh why?

Georgi: Cuz I'm outside and its cold!

Jean: Ok! I'm on my way!

---------

I ran faster then I ever had down the stairs, I thought I was going to fall and land on my face but luckily I didn't. I unlocked the door and opened it, revealing Georgi in a black jacket with matching pants. His hair was down, I have seen him with his hair down a lot but it was so cute that I couldn't help but blush at the sight.

"So what are you doing here?"

"I was in Japan and wanted to see you, simple as that."

A smile grew onto my face and we walked to my room where we sat on my bed, he read a book while I finished that last sentence of my paper, once I was done I turned to him and asked,

"Hey can you look over my essay for me?"

"Sure, give me the laptop."

I nodded and passed my laptop to him. It was a short paper but he seemed to take his time, I watched him add punctuation and such. He glanced at the citations at the bottom,

"Hey I think you forgot a citation." He said,

"Oh? I did? For what?"

"The County Tribune one, you used it in paragraph 4 right?"

"Oooh! I had an issue with that one! I tried to get the information but when I clicked the link I used, the domain was down, I just put down the article title and access date since my professor said that was fine."

"Oh, gotcha. But other then that I would say just fix some words, you used 'according to' with your textual evidence a lot so I would say change that."

"Alright, thanks! You sure know your stuff!"

"Yeah, I did really well in Language arts and Writing classes back when I was in school."

"Cool! I guess I'll have to ask for your help more~" I cooed

"Pfft, have fun with that." He snickered as he went back to his book

I kept looking for more words but I kept catching myself getting distracted, "Hey, what do you-"

Before I could say anything else I felt something on my neck, I moved my eyes down to the feeling and saw Georgi, biting my neck.

"G-Georgi?"

He pulled back instantly and scooted about a foot back, "Oh my god! I am so, so, so sorry!"

I smirked, "Do it again, Georgi."

"Isn't your wife going to be home soon?"

"She texted me earlier, she's going to a meeting in Paris, she'll be away for the next few days."

"And what about Ak-"

"Are you going to keep asking questions or are you going to do it again?"

The Russian boy let out a 'heh' and scooted forward, continuing what he was doing before. I smirked and didn't react, finishing up the paper. It was only about 2 minutes later when I heard a sad 'humph'

The mouth released my neck for a moment, "Hey.. Pay attention to me."

I let out a chuckle, turned off my laptop and put it on a side table. I turned around to face Georgi and put my arms around his waist, "There, I'm all yours now."

He placed a kiss on my lips, "Good."

Georgi's lips locked back on mine hungrily. This was the thing I wanted for months, no, this is the type of thing I've wanted my whole life and I never knew it before. God, please let this last forever.

He crawled closer to close the distance and put his knee between my legs, the feeling of having something to rub felt amazing and it caused me to whimper. The moment those whimpers became loud enough for Georgi to hear, I was pinned down with my hands above my head. He dipped his head down to whisper into my ear, "May I, my sweet baby prince?" Those words sent a shiver up my spine, "Yes, please.."

---Timeskip cuz its late and I am not awake enough to write smut--

"That was so good.." I said, panting while laying on Georgi's chest

The Russian skater let out a snort and ran his hands through my hair, "Was it now? Or do you just moan for more whenever you feel like it?"

"Heh."

"I love you." I whispered, kissing him on the cheek.

"I love you too baby."

I cuddled into his chest with a big grin, "Good." "Hey, question.."

"Hm?" I looked up at him, my chin still resting on his chest,

"How are we dealing with your wife? Y'know since you're my lover now."

"Meh, I'll think about that later. Now, let me sleep, you're really comfy."

"Heh sure."

"Also, leave your hair down more, its adorable."

"Sure, whatever you want dear."

"Okay, sleep soon, k?"

"K."

---Aaand its over! Thx for the ask!---

[fruit-teeth]

Gifted

(All right so...this is new. I wrote a story about Sniper’s biological mother from the comics. You’re probably like “hey Mara, why did you write this?” And honestly? I don’t know!! Your guess is as good as mine, it was a story that had been living rent free in my brain for a while and the only way I can deal when that happens is to write it out. I’m posting this even though it might not get many notes, but that’s all right. I wrote something, that’s what matters. Anyway, enjoy, even if it’s sad.)

A ‘gifted child’. That was what everyone told her she was from the moment she learned to read.

She grew up raised by her genius uncle, a man of unparalleled skill when it came to writing. She did not remember her parents, but she had seen pictures of her mother: a beautiful, warm woman with a big smile and dark hair as long and thick as the grass that grew around the lake nearby.

Lar-Nah knew she would never be her mother.

But why did that matter? Everyone told her she was smart, and she knew it, too. She began reading at the age of three, and at five years old, the math she had begun learning at school quickly became too basic for her. She excelled past many people in her grade, and by ten years old, she’d been placed in several advanced classes already. Her uncle paraded her around his peers, telling them how intelligent she was and how proud he was of her. On the surface, she seemed to enjoy the attention. Internally, however, Lar-Nah was incredibly anxious.

The few times she did get poor grades, her uncle would shame her, instilling a fear of failure into his niece at an early age. She soon became obsessed with pleasing him and with pleasing her teachers, rather than reaching achievement for her own enjoyment. But that was all right, she decided. Once she got to a good college (and she was certain she would), she could live independently and never worry about pleasing anyone again.

She did not account for what would happen in her last year of high school.

Lar-Nah looked to the chalkboard one morning and saw something written there that she had not seen before.

“There’s a writing assignment due in two days?” She looked to her teacher for clarification, feeling a flash of panic. “That wasn’t in the calendar,”

The teacher just nodded from where he sat behind his desk, his eyes fixated on the lesson plan for the day. “I know, it’s a mandated writing assignment. The school just required it for all the writing classes,” he looked back up at Lar-Nah. “I’m sure it’s nothing you can’t handle,”

As he passed out the instruction papers for the assignment, Lar-Nah’s heart sank when she realized just how long this was going to take. Not only that, but she’d meticulously planned out her schedule for the rest of the week — her other classes had a great deal of work due on the same day as this assignment, she realized. Her hands shook as she made the adjustments to her schedule, and she realized with horror that she did not have time to complete everything like she thought she would.

Upon returning home, Lar-Nah headed straight to her uncle’s study and exclaimed, “I have so much work to do! I won’t have time to do all of it! I’m so sorry, something is going to have a zero!”

Her uncle, hunched over his latest piece of writing, grunted back at her, “You are being dramatic.”

“I’m not!” Lar-Nah knelt beside his chair, grabbing his hand. “I need help...can I show you my schedule? There’s so much to do, I don’t know—“

Her uncle stood up, looming over her, his eyes burning straight into her soul. “You’re wasting time!” He barked at her. “Use every moment to work if you have so much, then!”

Lar-Nah’s voice faltered a bit. “E-Every moment?”

“Yes,” he sighed, deep and low. “You will not disappoint me, will you? You will not only complete every bit of work, but you will get the best possible grades on each assignment, won’t you?”

Lar-Nah moved back, standing up slowly. She nodded after a moment. “Yes, Uncle Locke,”

“Good,” he went back to his typewriter, not looking at her. “You are smart, and you are gifted. Gifted people like you can overcome this,”

“...yes,” she murmured, pulling back and heading upstairs to get to work.

The rest of her day was just work. She managed to eat and take a shower, but all the moments in between those activities were spent doing her schoolwork. Lar-Nah did not have many friends anyway, but if any of them came to the door to try and get her attention, she would push them away. She had to focus.

She finished 5 assignments by the time the sun had set. She had six more to go before the dreaded writing assignment, which was now less than 48 hours away from needing to be done. But she decided to go to sleep, despite all the work, as she knew sleeping would give her the energy she needed to keep working.

When she woke up the next morning and went to school, however, her science teacher had an announcement to make.

“My apologies for springing this on you,” he began. “But tomorrow, we have a test,”

Lar-Nah felt like she was going to die on the spot.

“Don’t worry,” the teacher clarified. “It’s a very low-stakes test, but I would advise you study,”

The test was on the same day as the writing assignment, now, and Lar-Nah already had other subjects to do work for. She had never been in this situation before, teachers usually did not assign so much on the same day.

Lar-Nah decided to ask her science teacher about it once class ended. “Um, I hate to ask, but...can the test be moved to a different day?”

Her teacher quirked an eyebrow. “Why?”

“It’s just...I have a lot of work to do,” she explained, scratching the back of her head. “The writing classes have an assignment due tomorrow, too,”

The teacher huffed. “Now, Miss Lar-Nah, I know there’s a writing assignment due. But can you imagine if I arranged every schedule of mine based on how busy the students are? Why, that would be pure chaos!” He laughed, although Lar-Nah could not understand why this was funny. He went on. “Besides, you’re a very gifted student. This is nothing you can’t handle,”

“...yes, sir,” she nodded, feeling her heart pound from anxiety. Still, she gathered her books and headed to her next class, just like she always did.

The afternoon that followed was pure chaos. Lar-Nah barely ate, and she poured all of her energy into finishing the assignments as quickly and as efficiently as possible. By evening, she had only the writing assignment and the studying for the test left, though her hands were shaking and her body was screaming for rest.

“Uncle Locke?” She stood at the top of the stairs, looking down to where he was seated in the living room. “Uncle Locke, when is dinner?”

He looked up at her, watching her expression. “Are you done with your work yet?”

Lar-Nah shifted from foot to foot. “Well...no...”

He sighed. “Have some water and some bread, and then get back to work. That will put much pressure on you, but it will make you want to work harder,”

Lar-Nah felt tears welling in her eyes. “I’m so tired...” she murmured, her fists clenching. “Please, I need...i need to eat or something, I—“

“Bread and water is food!” Her uncle barked again. “And stop being so dramatic! Wipe your eyes and eat some bread, then get back to work.”

Lar-Nah swallowed the lump in her throat, forcing the tears back the best she could. “Yes,”

Once she’d eaten a slice of bread and downed a glass of water, she went straight back to work. Within the next few hours, she hunched over her typewriter and wrote the rest of the writing assignment, following the instructions the best she could.

By the time she was finished with that, it was well into the night and far past her bedtime. She did not know if her uncle was still awake, but she knew that he would want her to keep going, to finish everything. She opened up her science book to study for her exam, and that was the last thing she remembered.

The next thing Lar-Nah knew, her alarm’s shrill cry jolted her awake. She sat up quickly, and then groaned in pain, feeling the stiffness in her neck, back and shoulders, not to mention there was an uncomfortable stickiness on her cheek and chin...

She looked down, realizing that she’d fallen asleep on her science book, still in her daytime clothes. It then dawned on her that she hadn’t studied for the test— she’d fallen asleep instead.

As Lar-Nah tried to clean up the best she could for school, she internally warred with herself over her failure to study. The teacher had said it was a low stakes test, so it didn’t matter what grade she got, right? But at the same time, she had never failed a test before...what if this was the first one she failed? The thought made her feel sick.

Still, she felt a bit of relief as she handed in the writing assignment at school that morning, thankful to have that out of the way. As she turned her back to return to her seat, though, her writing teacher got her attention again.

“Lar-Nah?” He gestured for her to come closer. “Where are your citations?”

Lar-Nah paused, feeling herself go pale. “...citations?” When he nodded, she took a shaky breath in. “The instructions didn’t say we had to cite anything,”

Her teacher held up the instruction sheet again. “It’s right there, see?” He pointed to the very small paragraph towards the bottom that listed the instructions for citing sources. “Did you not read those?”

When Lar-Nah stood like a deer in headlights, staring at the sheet of paper, her teacher let out a long sigh. “I see...go take a seat, Lar-Nah,”

Lar-Nah slowly headed down to her desk, sitting down. She’d gotten something wrong— she’d gotten something wrong and now her teacher was mad. Surely, she was going to fail, and her uncle would find out. All hell would soon break loose, she knew that much.

The science test was a blur. Lar-Nah wrote in whatever answers made sense to her, but her heart pounded the whole time. Once it was over, she was certain she had failed, and to avoid any disappointment from her science teacher, she sprinted out into the hallways, desperate to just get through the day and then go home.

But home would never be the same. Once Lar-Nah got to her uncle’s study, she burst into tears and fell to the floor.

Startled, her uncle stood up and pulled her to her feet. ‘Good lord, child! What’s become of you!? Pull yourself together!”

Lar-Nah sobbed, covering her face. “I missed the citations on the writing assignment and I failed my science test!”

He pulled away from her a bit. “What?”

“I did it all wrong!” Lar-Nah wept, tears rolling down her face like rain. “My teachers are furious with me! But its not my fault, I had so much work!”

“So much work!?” Her uncle repeated, gritting his teeth. “You don’t know the meaning of true work, you silly girl!” He sighed, pacing around, his hands clenched into fists. “I knew it— I knew this would all come crumbling!”

Lar-Nah sniffled, taking a step back. “But...w-what was I supposed to do? Stay up all night and never sleep!?”

“Your problem is you don’t work efficiently!” Her uncle insisted. “You don’t...” he sighed again, turning back on his heel. “Pah! What am I saying? You are a woman! Women are far too dramatic to get on a level with men such as myself!”

When he said that, something broke in Lar-Nah. Something snapped— little sleep, limited food, and constant stress all bubbled to the surface, and she couldn’t stand it anymore. As her uncle had his back turned, she grabbed the heavy, stone ash tray off the shelf and slammed him on the back of the head with it.

He collapsed, falling face first into the type writer and then sliding to the floor with a ‘thump’. Lar-Nah hovered over his lifeless body, before dropping the ash tray and heading upstairs to take a shower.

It wasn’t until she returned from her shower and heard the police outside the door that she realized her uncle had died. A neighbor had seen the interaction from outside the window, and had subsequently called the police when she saw Lar-Nah strike her uncle with the ash tray. Lar-Nah was then arrested and placed on trial, though after a psychiatric examination, she was determined to be unfit for a trial and was instead placed into a mental institution. She was seventeen years old at the time.

Lar-Nah remained at the institution for roughly four years, the same amount of time she would have spent at a college. By the end of the four years, she hardly cared about anything anymore: her emotions had completely numbed. She could not remember the last time she had truly smiled or laughed, and once she left the institution, she met the man who would end up becoming her husband. She married him, although she wasn’t quite sure why. He had money...that was about it.

Lar-Nah became a passenger of her own life. She stopped trying, she stopped searching for true happiness and instead focused on whatever made her feel good in the moment. That was all that mattered to her. Her uncle, the writing assignment, school, grades...it all felt like some distant nightmare. Sometimes she wondered if she had never truly been born, but rather materialized to just to get married.

There came a moment, though, when she was six months pregnant and laying in bed alone, listening to the leaky roof above her, that her mind took her somewhere else. Behind her eyes, she could see herself standing on the shore of the lake, amongst the tall grass, and beside her stood a figure. It was her mother— with her beautiful face and long flowing hair, the pinnacle of perfection...Lar-Nah reached for her, but just like that, she was gone, and Lar-Nah was alone again, alone in the vast void of her own soul, a place she would ultimately end up in when all was said and done.

[agirlunderarock]

How I accidentally wrote 20 page paper on Boromir for one of my Final Ever University Papers PART 2

So this took me 5ever because I had to go through my actual paper again to find the sources and the citations I had, and then throw out the academic fluffer I had to speak with. But anyway just be prepared for a long ass read because we gotta touch on nearly every source I argued with in this post before getting to the good stuff. If you haven’t read Part 1 well here it is

Okay Okay where was I?

I said that academics were wrong with how they were judging Boromir right? Is that where I left off? Well thats where I’m starting

So before I go further I need to explain that the main premise for my paper is an argument to characterize Boromir with loyalty and fear, instead of power hungry and whatever the hell used, and then throw out this good vs. evil binary that’s often used to describe the lord of the rings- because lets be real, it looks like that on the surface but everyone has their ups and downs at least once or twice, and if not within the Lord of the Rings, it comes from books that are set in previous ages. 

ANYWAY

Keep the fear and loyalty things in mind alright?

Fear sounds like an odd choice for a character I’m supposed to be defending right? I know.

We’ll get to that just bear with me. 

So in order to say that academics were wrong, I first had to look at where they were coming from and try to see what textual evidence they had. Because if you’ve done academic research, you know how important textual evidence is. 

So while finding literally nothing that focused specifically on Boromir, I found  J.R.R. Tolkien Encyclopedia : Scholarship and Critical Assessment by Michael D. C. Drout, which I still have questions about but hey it was a good starting point. You would think that a whole Encyclopedia dedicated to Tolkien would have more than a handful of entries dedicated to Boromir. I mean mentioning him in Gondorian politics or relations with Rohan or even Boromir I instead of just Boromir II but heres the thing, IN THE WHOLE IN ENCYCLOPEDIA HE WAS ONLY MENTIONED 8 TIMES.

THE NAME BOROMIR (which in this document only refers to Boromir II) ONLY APPEARS IN EIGHT ENTRIES.

You know what those entries are? 

‘double of,’ - okay what the fuck does that mean?

 I honestly don’t remember what it means I think it had to do with character foils, you know like how Neville is a foil for Harry in Harry Potter? If I remember correctly, it identified the common foils, Gandalf v. Saruman, Frodo v. Gollum and Aragorn v. Boromir. I could be totally wrong about this, its been exactly a year and I didn’t focus on this entry.

 ‘Faramir and,’- yes we know Boromir is Faramir’s older brother. What else ya got?

 ‘herosim of,’- Ah yes sounds promising

And you think it would shed some positive light on our boy right? RIGHT? Heres what the entry said per the quote in paper “It is in fact Boromir’s desire for the victory of Minas Tirith and his own glory there in that motivates his own grasp for the ring: the heroic motivations of fame, reward, and revenge (in this case on Sauron)” ( Drout 270 ).  

LIKE EXCUSE ME WHAT THE FUCK- sorry wait, let me show you how I rephrased that for academic purposes:  This description does not actually describe Boromir as being heroic, but later explains why these descriptions of heroism are actually evil compared to characters like Aragorn, Frodo, Gimli and the rest of the Fellowship.

 ‘penance of,’- Yet another character who achieves redemption through death. Great. I hate it. Shut up. Kill this trope.

 and finally,  ‘tyranny of.’- yes because Boromir was obviously a tyrant, but I say again SHOW ME TEXTUAL EVIDENCE

AND I’M TALKING ONLY ABOUT THE BOOKS HERE REMEMBER ALL OF THIS IS INFORMATION ON THE BOOKS. like there were entries on things from the movies, and even fanfiction, but THESE ENTRIES WERE BUILT ON RESOURCES THAT BUILT ARGUMENTS ABOUT THE BOOKS

I’m getting off track here

SO 

ANYWAYS

At the end of each of those entries were list of sources that the author used to create those entries. So guess what that meant- Ya girl was hand delivered sources to search for and hopefully they had some specific pages references for me to look up within the actual book series. At least you would think thats what I found, but NOOOOOOOOO, what I actually found is that EVERY SINGLE REFERENCED SOURCE CHARACTERIZED BOROMIR ONLY BY HIS ATTEMPT TO TAKE THE RING FROM FRODO.

Thats like living your whole life and having people who say they know you intimately (not in the romantic sense in the knows you to your core sense) BUT the only thing they really know about you is that one time in pre-school you tried to draw a rocket on the wall but actually it looked like a penis thats the only thing anyone will remember you for. I didn’t do this by the way, nor know anyone who did this but some kid somewhere probably did

But you know me at this point I had to check the sources and see what they were saying. So I took up Patrick Grant’s  “Tolkien: Archetype and Word,” where he talks mostly about Frodo. I know its a stretch BUT he talks about loyalty specifically Sam’s loyalty to Frodo, and remember we want to establish that Boromir is incredibly loyal, so we have to see what he’s actually up against according to the critics

“…Sam Gamgee, whose part is least publicly acclaimed of all, but who in the sense in which we are now using the word, is especially heroic. His unfailing devotion to Frodo is exemplary, and here again Sam is a key link in bring the meaning of the book to the reader, the everyman who admires great deeds but wonders what his own part might be in important events which seem well enough wrought without him” ( 180 ).  

Okay that seems fair from how Tolkien himself has talked about Sam right. And you’re probably like okay, but what the fuck does that have to do with Boromir? Literally just further down the page  he says:

“…. The fellowship breaks only when the bond of obedience is broken, as it is by Boromir, whose pride and lust for personal power are evidence of false heroism” (180).

LUST FOR PERSONAL POWER???? PRIDE?????

SHOW ME THE PAGES SIR

GIVE THEM TO ME

I know you’re probably thinking, ‘but wait he’s actually kinda right-”

WRONG

Its anxiety, I’m telling you

I counted 

its fear and anxiety

but again I’m getting a head of myself. Basically Grant just took a shat on Boromir to make Sam look good.

EXCUSE ME SIR SAM IS A GODDAMN MASTERPIECE ON HIS OWN THANKS. DON’T TRASH BOROMIR TO COMPLIMENT SAM. Also be wary of people who do this in general, if they put someone else down instead of just out right complimenting you take it as a warning

Oh and did I mention that because Grant says Boromir is technically being selfish, another critics analysis makes Boromir Evil, because acts done out of selfish pursuits are seen as evil and a “perversion of human will.” But you know, thats just how it be sometimes when you’re putting literature in conversation with one another.

Just know I pick on Grant a lot, mostly because he says shit like this:  “…the most blinding love derives directly from such obedience,” (180). when it comes to Sam, and then takes a shit on Boromir. Like we’re going to come back to the obedience thing in a little bit, but just know that Merry, Pippin, Faramir, Eowyn, Even Sam at one point, and I mean I guess by some extension movie!Arwen take a big ‘ol shit on the idea that the only way to be heroic is to be OBEDIENT.

I get it, its another Catholic thing. I’m Catholic, I know what its getting at. But consider- no

Basically I boil this shit down to one thing

Sam Only Owes Loyalty To Frodo.

Literally his main concern throughout the book is Frodo and then the Shire and what that encompasses. So yeah its easy to be loyal and obedient to someone who shares all the same ideas and values as you and has a pretty similar lived experience right??? ABSOFUCKINGLUTELY And before anyone says Sam was loyal to the fellowship, Sam would literally cut a bitch for Frodo. He woulda fought Aragorn in the Prancing Pony if he thought he had to. He gave a second thought to Merry and Pippin when they left the Fellowship, but it wasn’t a “we should go back for them all or wait for them” It was “i’m gonna support mr. Frodo, even if Idon’t much like the gollum creature he decided to drag around but fair i guess cuz none of us know the fucking way into Mordor.” 

So I made a chart to demonstrate why comparing Boromir and Sam is a big no no, and what kinda things Boromir was working with the whole time he was part of the fellowship.

Did I forget to mention that this was supposed to be a visual research paper?

So Sam and Frodo had a lot of the same Fears and values.

Our Boy Boromir over here has to deal with being a political/military figure, meet the demands of his father, he’s gotta try to be a good brother, he’s gotta learn to get along with the fellowship, and then each of those new or old loyalties has different responsibility and expectations he’s supposed to meet. And because I had to include Aristotelian ideas as part of the class, to quote myself: Despite the Aristotelian concept that it is impossible to be a virtuous friend to many, Boromir’s actions throughout The Fellowship of the Ring show him attempting to do this ( Aristotle 9 ). Like thats literally why he ends up a member of the Fellowship, he’s a little unsure of this plan, but hey its the best one he’s heard and if everyone thinks its going to work then by golly he’ll see it done. But again Aristotle (just in your head pronounce it like chipotle for me please) wants to try to establish a structure that I think is stoopid, he’s got a thing that says  “it is a more terrible thing to defraud a comrade than a fellow-citizen, more terrible not to help a brother than a stranger, and more terrible to wound a father than any one else” (15). 

So remember those loyalties in the little blue squiggles up in the picture, we already know that Denethor, and Faramir bump heads a little, and then the soldiers serving with Boromir probably have their own ideas about how Gondor should be defended, and then he goes to the Council of Elrong and they’re saying something completely different from what he’s heard- theres a lot of threads pulling the Captain in different directions. He’s got a lot hats to wear and demands to fulfill and living under the shadow of Mordor with all of those responsibilities is bound to give anyone anxiety. 

But don’t just take my word for it

The movie actually reinforces this. I know the book says Boromir was “...pierced with many black feathered arrows” But the movie specifically makes it 3

Now I’m sure Mr. Peter Jackson didn’t intend for what I’m about to say, but I think its a pretty cool notion to think about. Because you can summarize Boromir’s conflicting loyalties into “family’ ‘country’ and “Fellowship’. Like his father would have him bring the ring to Gondor, his role as a military/political figure for Gondor means he should be doing whatever he has to in order to protect his country, and the Fellowship is like nah man we destroy this thing and everything else will fall into place, and Boromir is left having to decide whih of these things to act upon. Family, Country, and the Fellowship are the competing signs that make up is character arc, and his grapple with these three things is ultimately what leads to his death.

Now if your thinking family and country should be lumped together- theres a reason for it, just trust me, bare with me please

But basically what I’m trying to get at is given all these factors, you can’t compare a character like Boromir with all these responsibilities hanging off him to be comparable to Sam whose only responsibility is Frodo. 

But you know who does share all these same demands

Faramir

Like take a look at their character arcs- if you can the text on this next pic is super teeny

If thats too small for you don’t worry about it because we’re gonna get into why Faramir is a better foil for Boromir, and how this should affect the way we as the reader come to understand his character. So fun stuff in the next part! Sorry for dragging this out, but just like my original paper, this turned out to be WAY longer than I expected. 

[battlestar-royco]

Let’s settle this once and for all: are the Illyrians MOC?

So, in writing the answer to this ask, I FINALLY put two and two together on something: another reason why SJ/M’s constant use of “golden-brown” to describe the I/llyrians doesn’t sit right is because that’s literally the only indication that they are MOC. Looking at fan art, it’s clear that some artists are going for a non-white skin tone. If so, then why don’t they look like MOC? Why is there so much contention and confusion around whether or not these men are white? I have been subconsciously baffled by this phenomenon for years, since AC0MAF came out in 2016. I don’t know why this took me so long to conclude, because people have been essentially saying the same thing about POC in SJ/M’s books since AC0MAF dropped, but here is the reason: in both the books and the art, their complexion is the only thing that indicates they are MOC. There’s a lot, as they say, to unpack here. This is gonna get long (seriously, RIP to your thumbs. I promise it’s half photos). Snip.

The Golden-Brown Suitcase

So. We have descriptions such as these (all emphasis mine; special thanks to @longsightmyth​ for pulling many quotes and citations!)...

1. about C/assian and A/zriel: “Like their High Lord, the males---warriors---were dark-haired, tan-skinned. But unlike Rhys, their eyes were hazel...”  (AC0MAF, pg. 140 B&N ebook).

2. “Cassian surveyed Rhys from head to foot, his shoulder-length black hair shifting with the movement” (140).

3. about A/zriel: “But the second male, the more classically beautiful of the two... Even the light shied from the elegant planes of his face” (140).

4. “I could have sworn Rhys’s golden-brown skin paled” (AC0WAR, pg. 223 Kindle edition).

5. “Color bloomed high on Azriel’s golden-brown cheeks” (254).

6. “I tried to catch Cassian’s gaze, but he was monitoring them closely, his golden-brown skin unnaturally pale” (280).

7. “But Nesta’s pale fingers gently probed his golden-brown skin” (514).

... spawning fan art en masse like this:

art courtesy: x x x

What’s wrong with this (these) picture(s)? They are white men with the complexions of MOC. The fandom (and thus artists) have nothing but “golden-brown” (a term that is notably introduced in AC0WAR, one installment after the I/llyrians first appear) to go on, so they default to imagining the I/llyrians as tanned Henry Cavill, Nikolaj Coster-Waldau, Viggo Mortensen types. You could simply lighten the value of the above artworks (but please DO NOT do this) and have white men. THIS is why, despite the golden-brown descriptor and the Darker-Than-Fayre skin tones in the fandom art, there is so much debate and confusion around whether or not the I/llyrians are MOC. Golden-brown skin with straight black hair, straight noses, and round light eyes do not a man of color make. Why not? Because “golden-brown” is a very nebulous term that can apply to countless skin tones and ethnicities. Some examples (... your THUMBS I’m so sorry slafajklsk):

^ Indian,

^ Mexican,

^ Guatemalan,

^ Hawaiian,

^ Afro-Caribbean,

^ and Filipino. For starters.

Now, why is it that upon first glance, you can tell that all the men in these photos are not white? Because race is constructed such that we can immediately identify it, whether subconsciously or consciously. We’re socially conditioned to recognize this in other people and immediately ascribe our own perception of their race and ethnicity onto them. Not only can you tell they are not white, but you also have a ballpark idea of where in the world they are from. Note the wide variance in thickness and texture of hair (head, facial, and body); the cool and warm undertones that change by the person; the wide, ridged, and/or downturned noses; eye shape, body type etc. So why can’t we put a finger on what the I/llyrians are supposed to look like as MOC? Why do so many people perceive them as white? Because SJ/M has no target ethnicity for the I/llyrians, meaning that they have no clarifying features to imply one specific ethnic background in the text or fan art. All we know for sure about the I/llyrians is that they are dark-haired, darker complected than the A/rcheron sisters, and they pale and blush. Vagueness regarding race always causes fandom to default to white, thus the general “tan white dudes” interpretation of the I/llyrians.

The Illyrian Suitcase

We’ve now come across another suitcase within this entire I/llyrian Ethnicity Moving Truck of stuff we need to unpack: the smidge of evidence that the I/llyrians are inspired by somewhere in the MENA region. Given the harem pants and henna-reminiscent tattoos that appear in the Nite Court, plus the mosques and clothing that appear in fandom edits and art, general “MENA” may be the closest approximation to I/llyrian ethnicity. However, the problems snowball from here.

1. The MENA label is far too general to treat as one single race/ethnicity. General fandom perception/depiction of I/llyrians does not nearly encompass the multitude of appearances someone could have if they are from the MENA region. Harem pants and henna are used in multiple countries, so it is impossible to pin down a non-monolithic appearance with just the Nite Court attire and “golden-brown” description.

2. The Nite Court and the I/llyrians are two separate entities. Not all V/elaris residents are I/llyrian, not all Nite courtiers are I/llyrian, and not even all Inner Circle members are I/llyrian. Therefore, we cannot conflate the Nite clothing and tattoos with I/llyrian culture.

3. This leads me to my next point: we still have white and non-I/llyrian characters wearing harem pants and tattoos. Fayre, M0r, and A/mren’s attire is not culturally meaningful to the Nite Court. It also clashes with sweaters and leggings, dresses made of chiffon, bell sleeves, and Elie Saab-reminiscent designs (ie Starfall, Court of Nightmares). Thus, the attire loses all internal consistency and meaning beyond the mood SJ/M wishes to set for a given scene, making the implication that their outerwear is meant to be sexy or aesthetic rather than culturally significant.

4. The I/llyrians as a race of POC meaninglessly perpetuate stereotypes. Granted, sexism exists in high fae society (ie Fayre being paraded as “Rice’s whore” in the CoN, M/or being treated as a commodity and broodmare, the lack of High Ladies), so the misogyny and violence against women are not unique to I/llyrians. We also get more than one I/llyrian main character, so they are not a complete monolith. But there are still issues. One, the I/llyrians are oppressed by the high fae. It is well documented that the high fae are the dominant race and look down upon lesser fae. This dichotomy has yet to be unpacked by SJ/M. Two, I/llyrian women are oppressed by I/llyrian men (wing-cutting, commodification, gender roles, etc). There are absolutely zero fleshed out I/llyrian women, so the only information we have about their experience and existence is through Fayre’s eyes and Rice’s word. This framing is white feminist at best, white savior-y at worst. Three, we only know I/llyrians who have assimilated into high fae culture. Rice, the High Lord, is half high fae and half I/llyrian. Only he and his friends, I/llyrians who have been “elevated” from bastard/oppressed I/llyrian status, know better than the other more “savage” I/llyrians. Coincidence? I think not.

The Lucien Suitcase

All this gets even more confusing when you consider the fact that SJ/M uses “golden-brown” as a blanket non-white coding tool. In the T0G series, at LEAST the following characters are described as golden-brown: S/artaq (T0D, pg. 345 Kindle edition), Nesrin (K0A, 180), and Irene (403). In AC0WAR, at LEAST the following are described as golden-brown: the I/llyrians, Vassa (685), and L/ucien (183, 302, 456). Our best approximation is that S/artaq and Nesrin are South Asian given their southern continent origin, Irene is part-black given her E/yllwe father, Vassa is... golden brown, and L/ucien is part black and part white. The term is used so frequently that it is meaningless as an indicator for race. We’ve again found the golden-brown suitcase, which in SJ/M’s novels encases allll the aforementioned ethnicities and more. Again, this causes very anglicized and/or inconsistent looks to pop up in fan art:

x

x

x

Conclusion

it seems that the I/llyrians are MOC, based on the fact that they and other POC are frequently described as “golden-brown.” That said, the golden-brown descriptor is not enough. The I/llyrians do not serve their purpose as representative characters because they are not easily identifiable to their target demographic, nor are they a positive representation. In a social context where we are so trained to recognize these things, explicit media representation is much preferred, if not necessary. It is the reader’s prerogative---namely, non-white readers’ prerogative---to interpret these characters how they wish. We’d be unpacking a whole other house if we were to go into the meaning behind L/ucien as a black man, Irene as a black woman, Nesrin as South Asian, etc, and that is for another day. Thanks so much for reading all this way if you got this far. I know I’m extra, sorry. The creative writing/women’s and gender studies major jumped out lmao. My inbox is always open if you want to parse that out or if you have any further questions!

[hamlets-ghost-zaddy]

queen of peace

Part 8/10 Shifty Powers x Reader

You regret the words before the syllables form, before they’re from your mouth, but then they’re spiraling through the air and you can’t cram them back in.

Ricocheting around your brain, dunking your anger into a frigid swell of shame, the echoes of your callousness send thoughts spinning until you’re motion-sick; until they don’t sound like words at all—more like liberal strokes of cruel unfeelingness—and you will later marvel at your mechanical ability to escape: leaving a penny on the table, leaving Shifty sitting there, shame-faced and red. It was cowardice, how you fled from your own vitriol: ‘I don’t have much left, Shifty, but at least leave me my dignity.’

The next morning, you rest your head against the worktable surface, piled with Aigle fabric bolts, the words repeating again. You went to bed hearing them, woke hearing them, and no matter how you plugged your ears or shut your eyes, you couldn’t hide. They haunt you, plummeting through and dragging you low. But its deserved, you know; Shifty was trying to help, trying to be a good friend. You snapped at him, and though the words cripple you with guilt, it’s preferable, you assure yourself, to the alternative: to seeing flashes of Shifty’s expression, seared forever in your memory, when your words hit.

His nighttime eyes shone with injured earnestness, with undiagnosable hurt, his cheeks hollowing and graying and—stop, you think, resolutely taking up your needle. Dwelling wouldn’t do you any good, not when you needed to finish the meager order stack as quickly as possible. And anyway, you think, he probably thinks I’m a horrid, wretched little girl now.

And rightfully so, too.

Pass the needle in-and-out, in-and-out of the fabric. Pull the thread, tighten the stitch, finish the commission, receive the payment, and pray the bankers deign to bestow a small mercy on you (it’s unlikely, considering this would be the second year in a row you’ve requested an extension on the loan payment, but you can’t afford to be realistic. Threadbare optimism is all you have to cling to).

You’re fulfilling your last order—letting out a favorite nightgown for a very pregnant Mrs. Morrison—when Mother peers into the workshop. She knocks softly on the doorjamb, wavering and unsure if she’s welcome to enter, and you’re careful not to look at her: the rush of guilt would only increase, rendering you paralyzed. She’s crept around the house since you laid out the truth of financial ruin—and how it directly resulted from her carelessness—and its precisely what you had carefully avoided. She’s sinking once more into the shadowy depths she had been lost to after your father’s death, succumbing further every day to her grief. Time had been the cure but, with how life currently slams every opportunity closed on you and your Mother, you wonder—if Mother does manage to pull herself out of her grief this time around—if there’d be anything to live for when she resurfaced.

You tried so hard to protect her from this, too: to protect her from herself, terrified of seeing her look at you but not really see you. She would perch in the sitting room, staring out at the front garden, and blink at you blankly when you asked if she wanted tea, or if she wanted to take a stroll around the neighborhood, or how she was doing. Now, just as it had then, life has emptied from her eyes, guilt opening up a drain she’s unable to plug, but your acknowledging it would mean acknowledging losing another person: your mother, Shifty. Both repelled and isolated because of your hardheartedness.

Biting your lip, you wait for Mother to speak.

“Darling,” she begins, softly. “There’s some Americans here to see you. Margaret is with them.”

“Americans?” you repeat, perking up despite yourself.

Startled to find you looking at her, Mother shifts under your stare. You lower your eyes back to your needle, shame heaving your shoulders. “Well, yes,” she offers, “They say they’re here to place orders.”

“Oh,” you breath, gathering yourself from the stool and following Mother through the sitting room and into the entryway. The front door hangs open, Margaret leaning against the doorjamb with Allen Vest at her side and a herd of olive-uniformed boys at her back. You recognize Skip Muck’s cackling laugh, spy the bright grin of Don Malarkey, catch the flash of Alex Penkala rolling his eyes among other faces you recognize from Margaret’s Christmas Eve party.

Margaret straightens at your appearance, hand fluttering up to fluff her curls as a roguish grin curls her lips. “Hey there, pretty lady. Just who we were wanting: we need a miracle-worker.”

“A miracle-worker?” you repeat, arching an eyebrow, not helping yourself from sweeping all them into a quick glance. “What do you need? Water to wine? Curing the blind?”

“Yeah, pretty much,” pipes George Luz, his head popping in between the much-taller shoulders of Muck and Penkala. “Heya, sweet thing, how’s it rolling?” he adds with a wink.

Don Malarkey nudges George. “He’s not serious; we’ve been given orders that we’re shipping out soon and we’re all in desperate need of uniform repairs.”

“Our new CO isn’t as much of a—” Skip hesitates, obviously trying to settle on an appropriate vocabulary choice for the present, mixed company, “Stickler for uniform regulations, but we also don’t want to look shabby when we’re going to meet up with a lot of other Airborne companies.”

“We’re the Screaming Eagles not the Scruffy Eagles,” offers George, earning him another nudge to the ribcage.

“Ah,” you reply. There were nearly ten men haunting your doorstep—a day’s worth of hard work, from the state of the fraying thread on their citation patches, the snagged fabric puckering at the sleeve-cuffs—but your fingers itch for the challenge, for the distraction of a series of goals to strive toward, pushing through a feverish night of work and into the small hours of the morning. “If you boys are wanting mends, I can get everyone done by this tomorrow.”

“Don’t make any promises,” Margaret interjects with a wink. “This is the first wave of orders; there’s more to come.”

Interpreting your raised eyebrows, Malarkey supplies, “Word is you’re the gal to go to, ma’am, and that word has spread like a wildfire through Easy, Fox, and Dog.”

“Company names,” Penkala interjects, helpfully.

You nod vaguely, mind caught and stuck on wondering how the ‘word’ got out, and why it spread with such ferocity—wondering who ignited the spark. Your brain conjures Shifty’s face—smiling and bright, a twinkle in those nighttime eyes, and so different from when you last saw him—but you hastily push it aside, asking, “Um, how many orders am I facing down then?”

Margaret, impossibly, smiles wider. “Oh, well over four-hundred.”

And maybe you are a miracle-worker: after all, it is a miracle you don’t faint.

…

George Luz lingers, waiting to be the last client to put in his order of the ‘first wave,’ and once you’re done calling notes for his uniform jacket to Margaret, acting as your assistant and secretary—organizing the order receipts—he hops down from the tailor’s block, immediately nosing through the parcels of brown-papered, orders completed and needing to be delivered. “What are you up to?” you ask, eyeing him over your shoulder as you hang his jacket up alongside the others. You’re relieved all of the men’s clothes already have their last names patched on them; it saved paper, twine, and safety pins.

“Oh, just looking,” George replies, far too innocently. “Are these the things you’re done with?”

“Yeah, I need to drop them by this afternoon and collect the commission money,” you reply, sticking a needle between your lips and sniping a length of olive thread—one of the only spools left in the workshop that’s well-stocked—as you take down Penkala’s jacket. Around the needle, you call to Margaret: “What’s needed for Penkala?”

Hunching over her notes, Margaret replies, “‘Refasten buttons, all are loose; redo Eagle patch, and patch holes on left bicep.’”

Nodding, you mumble ‘thanks,’ taking it to the worktable and poking a gentle pinky-finger through the bicep holes. Your question to Shifty, asked only four months before but feeling a memory from a different lifetime—maybe someone else’s life—drift back to you: did the boys really take cheese-graters to their uniforms? Why and how could they acquire so much wear and tear so quickly?

George follows you to the worktable, the stack of parcels migrating with him. You raise an eyebrow at it, and then at wide grin worming across his mouth—as if he tried mightily to repress it, but then, when has George ever known how to hide his every emotion? The kid’s face reads like an open book. “What are you up to, Georgie?”

“Well, hear me out,” he begins, talking in a great gush of words as if he’s sure you’d shoot down his idea before it’s even from his mouth—not that he’s wrong, you think, tying off the olive-green thread and beginning to mend Penkala’s sleeve-holes. “Why don’t I make all the deliveries for you? That’ll save you some time and you can completely focus on finishing up the orders. I mean, how much time do you waste making deliveries when you could be here, putting in elbow grease and making money?”

You frown down at the jacket. “I don’t know; it’s just…I’m really sorry, but I can’t afford to pay you.”

You can almost feel George shaking his head, his persistent rebuff palpable when he replies, “No, no, I wouldn’t dream of asking you to pay me. I’ll do all the deliveries for free.”

Now, you frown up at him, a protest forming on your tongue: you don’t want hand-outs. You want to be respectable, earn your keep and be independent on your own merit, but if you denied George’s offer, should you—from the same logic—return all of the men’s jackets? Your eyes slither from George’s open and hopeful expression, as if he thinks making deliveries will be the most fun he’ll have this side of the Atlantic, and to the neat row of American Airborne uniforms. You glance at Margaret, madly scribbled up totals and making notes that none of the men have prepaid.

George offered a kindness; Margaret offered a kindness; and every single man who left his jacket in your care—entrusted you to do a service—did, too. It’s too coincidental after yesterday, and you know Shifty plays some part in the plot. The fury, the heated and sharp anger, you felt in the teashop perks up in your stomach, wanting to rise and push hot words from your mouth all over again, but then Shifty’s expression flashes behind your eyelids. With these jackets, a favor had given, you realize, but not a favor to me. Shifty, perhaps in league with Margaret, had convinced the men to bring their orders to you as a favor to them, but you would earn the money through hard-work and timely delivery: no prepaying, no hand-outs.

When your eyes return to George—sheepishly, you wonder how long your silence has dragged, considering the concern darkening his eyes—he asks: “C’mon, why not? Friends help out friends, no strings attached. Putting up with my dumb jokes is payment enough, right?”

And that single innocuous question suckers the air from your lungs, grand-slams every thought from your brain, leaving a dull ache behind your eyes. ‘Friends help out friends, no strings attached,’ you turn over mentally; it’s what Shifty proposed, granted on a much more drastic magnitude. Friends don’t deal in repayments, they deal in affection and trust; they operate above the reaches of dignity because, you think as you observe George’s keenness to help you, my success is their success; my dignity is their dignity.

It takes a great feat of restraint, but you want until after you send George on his way with the deliveries under arm, until you’ve completed repairs on five of the jackets, until Margaret suggests stopping for tea and toast before you allow yourself to slump, forehead pressed to the worktable. Groaning, you wonder how you’ll ever earn Shifty’s forgiveness.

(Yet, the respite doesn’t last long: more groups of Americans soon show up on your doorstep).

. . .

With every day that passes, you expect Shifty to drift in on the heels of one of the ‘waves’ of Airborne men shuffling in and out of your workshop, yet, his abashed grin never winks into existence to warm you. You expect Shifty to accompany George Luz in on one of his many thither-hither jaunts to deliver finished orders or follow Margaret in to help sort through the stacks of orders and receipts, logging the payments, but he remains a specter of your imagination, always lingering on the periphery of your thoughts and imagination.

After keeping at a mad pace for eight days—filling orders as quickly as the American boys, enlisted and officers alike, tottered out of your workshop—George informs you the Airborne is to ship out at the end of the week. You don’t allow yourself to nibble at your lip or worry your fingers together, speculating if you ought to send a note with George for Shifty, begging him for forgiveness. You trust George would see it delivered safely—he’s been nothing but reliable with the other two-hundred-seventy-plus orders, though you suspect he’d snoop and read it before handing it over—but you do hold onto the girlish hope Shifty might want to see you one last time, if only as a final homage to the friendship you once had (the friendship I brutally axed to death, you remind yourself savagely).

You haven’t the time to worry, not with your skin cracking from sewing so much; not with her muscles cramping and the orders piling up. You put on sewing gloves—they slow you, but at least you can keep going—you don’t fuss when Mother throws herself into the work at your side, silent and dogged despite her arthritis, or when Margaret completely bans you from so much as glancing at the account ledger.

“Completing the orders and earning the money ought to be your only concern,” Margaret tuts, slapping your hand away from her spidery lines of arithmetic. You shake her head, tucking your chin to hide an affectionate grin, all the while thinking of the drafted letter begging for a loan extension tucked into your sewing apron. If the payments from the American orders fell short—don’t think about it, don’t even consider it, you internally coach yourself—you’d have to send the letter out on Saturday, the day after the American Airborne left Aldbourne.

(Don’t think about that either, you mentally tack on.)

On Thursday, in the quiet hours of the afternoon, George appears on your front stoop for his usual afternoon deliveries, payment collected that morning jingling cheerily in his pocket. “You know,” he says, accepting your offer of the tea and toast you, Margaret, and Mother had just made. “It’s been a good time doing all these deliveries, getting to chew the fat with the people I drop things off for and stretch my legs while I’m doing it. I think I might like to do that after all this is over.”

You shrug, not helping a grin from George taking an overenthusiastic bite of his toast and a loud slurp of tea. His table manners are hopeless, honestly. “Why not? You can do whatever you’d like. I mean, with your charm and can-do attitude, George Luz, you could dethrone Cary Grant as king of Hollywood, if you wanted.”

“Aw, gee, you think I’m charming?” he crows, perching his teacup and plate of toast on the desk next to Margaret’s ledger to sling an arm around your shoulders. “You’re too sweet to me, I swear! What did I do to deserve you, huh? You’re like an angel!”

“Alright, alright; get off me, please.” Feigning surliness, you shrug him off but your efforts are subverted by a snort bubbling up from your diaphragm and popping from your nose, a round of giggles following closely. George looks as though he’s won the lottery and, some small part of you thinks, it almost feels as if you have, too.

You haven’t laughed in weeks, not since the Aigle fabrics appeared in the post office.

. . .

Thursday inches along, taking George on another delivery run, and dusk descends on your back garden. Every time you think to glance up, sunlight has leeched more from the world. By the time it’s fully dark, the BBC’s news bulletin concluded and allowing for a radio play to alleviate the daily gloom of wartime, you shoo Margaret and Mother: Mother to bed and Margaret to a date with Tommy Beale (she even gushed at a poor private named Hoobler, one of the stranglers who’d yet to collect his order, regaling him with the details of Tommy having positively dragged feet about asking her on a proper date for years. Though you agree Tommy has been an absolute horror, you also can’t help thinking of poor Allen Vest, who’s obviously smitten with her).

And isn’t that a nice change? You wonder, refastening a loose button onto Toye, Joseph’s dress uniform jacket. Being able to giggle over the possibilities of a date, of having multiple suitors? You sigh, longing for the days of mooning over handsome boys—allowing yourself to be a girl—and not mooning over a tin of freshly baked scones in the bakery shop window, hunger grumbling in your stomach.

A faint knock on the front door echoes to you. Checking your watch, a quarter past eleven, you wonder why George is out, cavorting, so late the night before loading out to wherever the Airborne is bound for next. Knowing your mother could (and has) slept through German bombings, you feel no qualms with shouting, “It’s open! Come on through, George!”

The front door whines open, the floorboards complaining under the weight of a person, and you’ve tightened the button with three more stiches, tying it off and nipping the thread, before a gentle voice says, “It’s not George.”

Startled, jumping from your stool and upsetting it in your haste, you twist over your shoulder to find Shifty—cap worrying between his fingers, just like when I first saw him, steals through your thoughts, just like at the teashop—shadows from the weak electric light hollowing out his cheeks, defining his nose. He looks like a man, like someone you don’t know, standing there with something—something you’re too scared to name for fear of being wrong—darkening his eyes.

“Shifty,” escapes on a breath without conscious decision. Silence; you track the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows; you pretend you can see the thoughts and words forming, and quickly tossed aside, darting across his expression. Reaching a hand behind you, clutching the worktable, you attempt to steady your weak legs and hide the tremors turning your fingers jittery.

The movement startles Shifty, prompting him to move in careful steps—as if tiptoing around a skittish forest creature—and he sets a parcel on the worktable before bending to righted your stool. When he straightens again, his face is close to yours. Involuntarily gulping, you step back only to bump into the worktable. You bury your fingers into Toye, Joseph’s jacket, pressing the newly hastened button into your palms. “Um,” you begin. “I, um, owe you an apology, Shifty; I shouldn’t have reacted to your offer the way I did; you were being a good friend—”

“No, stop,” he interrupts, voice soft and it’s just not fair for him to look at you like that, especially after he hadn’t looked at you like that when you kissed him. “Please, stop.” Pain tucks the corners of his mouth, a marginal movement you’re privy to from proximity. “It was a crazy offer and I didn’t consider your feelings when I decided to ask you. I just made up my mind that that was the answer to all your problems after Maggie told me; that I’d sweep in and fix everything, and…and…” He nibbles his lower lip.

You can’t stand him looking like that, can’t stand knowing it’s because of you, so you offer: “No, Shifty, none of it was your fault. It was a solution, granted not one I was willing to consider—”

“And rightfully so,” he interjects, fiercer than you thought him capable of, his hands capturing yours and pressing hard, a physical askance for you to listen to him, to believe him. His eyes catch yours, and you’re trapped (except, ‘trapped’ implies it’s unwilling) under those eyes. A constellation burns there, threatening to swallow you whole. “It wasn’t a solution because I was lying to you; I lied to you from the very beginning because…”

“Because…?” you echo when his hesitation stretches.

Biting his lip again, he sucks in a deep breath. His eyes never leave yours. “Because I said you’re my friend and that I wanted to help. But the truth is, y/n, you’re not my friend; you never have been. I kept up this façade for so long because…because of that day, that very first sewing lesson.” His eyes leave yours, sweeping to encapsulate the sewing workshop, a wry smile quirking his lips. He mumbles, “I guess it’s fitting that I tell you here, huh?” His eyes drift back to yours. “We kissed, but then you looked so horrified afterwards, you apologized so quickly, and I knew you only saw me as a friend. After that, I was…I am so scared of losing you as my friend that I never tried to act on…I decided having you as a friend was better than not having you at all.”

“What?” manages to cobble itself together in your brain, coming out on a choked wheeze. Swallowing once, twice, you rally your thoughts but the one conclusion logic offers you is too ludicrous—too illogical—for it to be real. You try speaking again, “What do you mean?”

A blush creeps into Shifty’s cheeks. “I mean…well, I mean that I’ve…” He hesitates, his hands dropping yours to gently cradle your jaw, tilting your head up, and then your nose are bumping, his lips ghosting over yours in indecision and hesitation. Stretching up on your toes, you catch his lips in your own, fingers skittering up to clutch the lapels of his jacket, and your mouth slots with his. Every inch of you presses into him. Shifty’s height forces your spine to arch, stretching your arms as your hands migrate to his hair, threading and rethreading the silky hair around your fingers, trying to drown every sense with him: Shifty Powers. You try to exist in the same space, try to live in the same breath, and you know it’s foolish—against the laws of physics, nature, and biology—but you keep trying; you want to keep kissing just to try.

When he pulls away, gulping down air, he concludes, “I’ve been in love with you for a long fucking time.”

. . .

Shifty props you onto the worktable after some half-hour’s worth of kissing, gently smoothing your hair as he explains, “As much as I’d like to go on kissing you, I’ve got two things for you. It’s, uh, why I came. That, and to apologize.” He crooks a grin at you, placing a kiss on the corner of your lips that makes you chase his mouth a few inches as he moves back. “Didn’t expect to kiss you, I promise. I didn’t want to take advantage.”

Blushing, you thread your fingers with his, and quip back, emboldened by his kisses, “Well, maybe, Shifty Powers, I was wanting to take advantage of you.”

That crooked grin stretches into a proper grin now. “Well, after you open this for me, I don’t see why you can’t do just that.” He places the forgotten parcel in your lap.

Arching your eyebrows, wanting to ask if his confession wasn’t gift enough for one day, you grab a pair of sewing shears and snip the twine off the package. The paper flops open to reveal a carefully folded length of blue fabric and a little wooden carving nestled at its center. Cradling the carving in your palm, cool against your skin, you realize it’s a doe, legs delicate and thin, but head tilted in curiosity and—you fleetingly allow yourself to think in wild imagination—defiance.

“I carved her for you in December. I wanted to give it to you during the Christmas Eve party, but then…” he hesitates, his fingers tapping out a nonsense rhythm on your knuckles. “I went to that dark mental place, you know. Then, I was going to give it to you after, but I began to wonder if you really are a doe.”

“I’m not?” you ask, glancing up at him through your eyelashes. “What would you say I am, then? Have you figured it out?”

Shifty shrugs. “No, not really; nothing I can say definitively, at least. Though,” he tilts his head, considering, “maybe a lioness?”

You hum, your turn to kiss the corner of his lips. He’s agile, turning to catch your mouth, and he works at your bottom lip, gentle and considerate and eager. He draws back with a long inhale of breath, leaving you blinking and dazed—suddenly wakened from a drunken stupor. Clearing your throat, you say, “Well, I think the doe is lovely; she has a spirit and fire to her, even though she looks fragile. Thank you.” Carefully, you set the doe aside, already planning to transport her to your bedside table, so she might greet you every morning and bid you a restive sleep every night. You return to the blue fabric, shaking it out to find—“My dress!” Your eyes swing to Shifty. “You went and bought it back?”

Shifty shrugs, abashed anew. “I didn’t believe that you had been meaning to sell it. It’s what made me go ask Margaret about if you were having money trouble. In her defense, she wouldn’t tell me anything at first, but after she did, I went and got the dress.”

You shake your head, voice quiet. “She didn’t know. No one did.” Hugging the dress to your chest—a dress you convinced yourself was gone—you offer, “You have to understand, Shifty. I didn’t keep my problems from only you; I didn’t tell Margaret, or even my mother. Some part of me wanted…wants…to be like my Mother used to be; to be like how I remember my father. They took chances, but they made their way on their own merit. I just couldn’t…I know my pride is silly and prickly but…”

Now, Shifty shakes his head. “Please never apologize. I understand; my folks didn’t have much money, and I was always determined to make my own way in the world. I get it, y/n, and it’s one of the reasons I’m a goner for you.”

Your hands slacken, arms and dress falling into your lap, and you’re transfixed by the pooling blue fabric—as sleek and brilliant as a springtime creek swollen with melted mountain snow; as flooded with promise as the waving green shoots along the creek-bed. Returning your face to his, you kiss him chastely, adding a whispered, “Thank you.”

(And, until that evening, you had thought of the War as olive-green khaki. But, as Shifty peeled off his jacket and shirt, leaving him in his white undershirt; as he lays atop the quilt on your bed, refusing to ‘compromise’ you by joining you under the covers and instead contented to press kisses to your temple, your nose, your mouth, holding you close against him; as you listen to his breathes even into sleep, you think of the War as chiffon: easy to tear and irrevocably ruin, but soft and precious and, if handled mindfully enough, capable of heart-rendering beauty.)

(When the morning comes, the War of khaki will follow, hurrying Shifty back to his barracks and toward the inevitable invasion of Europe. He leaves with kisses, your postal address in his pocket, and a promise you dare to hope will remain unbroken: ‘I’ll be back for you.’)

tag list: @gottapenny, @maiden-of-gondor, @wexhappyxfew, @medievalfangirl, @higgles123. @mayhem24-7forever

[fun-with-colors]

2 3 7 10 12 13 14 18 19 20 40 46 50 Quarantine asks? (Sorry if thats too many)

That’s totally fine! Happy to answer questions, haha

I hope you don’t mind if I sometimes take the opportunity to go off on tangents and anecdotes, though. If it comes up. 

Whew, alright. Let’s do this. 

I’m gonna put this under a readmore because it’s probably gonna get long. And because, for once in my life, I am actually on the desktop version of tumblr.

2. Grilled Cheese or PB&J?

Grilled cheese. PB&Js can get soggy more easily, and they can be kind of mushy if you get the ratios wrong. Besides, they’re much more likely to be sticky and messy, and honestly there are very few things I hate more in this world than having my hands or face be sticky. 

3. Background video for when i don’t have anything to watch, but I want Something On?

I really like this youtube series called Citation Needed. Its premise is that it’s kind of like a reverse trivia thing. One guy has a laptop with a wikipedia article up, and he’ll give the other 3 guys only the name of the article, and they have to figure out what the article is about. It’s hilarious, and also informative. Honestly, pretty much anything with Tom Scott is good background stuff, I’ve found. That might just be because he makes videos about computer science and linguistics, though, and those two things are pretty much my favorites.

7. First word as a child (that wasn’t a variation of “mom” or “dad”)?

I’m pretty sure it was “ball.” Boring, I know. 

10. Do you own any signed books/memorabilia in general?

I own a few signed books, but that was mostly just happenstance. The only thing I have that’s special for being signed is a poster for a play I was going to be in. It was cancelled due to the coronavirus, sadly. It’s signed by a lot of the other members of the cast and crew. 

12. What do you get on your bagels? What WOULD you get, if you could get anything?

I alternate between regular cream cheese and strawberry cream cheese. Honestly, I’m intrigued by the idea of a thin layer of cheesecake on top of a proper new york bagel. (though the idea of cheesecake on one of those “it’s just circular bread” bagels sounds horrible)

13. Brunch or midnight snacks?

Why not both? A snack after I wake up, and then a lunch(?) somewhere between 10 am and 3 pm, dinner at about 6:30, and then a midnight snack. 

14. Favorite mug you own?

I’ve got a few that are great. There’s one that looks like a red solo cup, which is awesome. I’ve also got one with a cat on it sitting at a desk with a bunch of papers with complicated graphs on them saying “at one point, this made perfect sense”

18. What’s the one TV show that you’re a little bit embarrassed to watch but you like nonetheless?

Uh... hm. I don’t watch many TV shows. Recently I’ve been binging My Hero Academia, but I don’t think that’s the answer to the question. There isn’t one, really? I used to watch TV shows that I now find kind of embarrassing, but at the time I was smack dab in the middle of the demographic, and I didn’t find them embarrassing at the time. There is a TV show that I was watching a few months ago (but ended up dropping) called Interviews with Monster Girls that definitely fit into this category, though. 

19. That book you were forced to read for class but ended up enjoying?

Hmm. There were a few books that I liked when I read them but have since grown less enthusiastic about, including Lord of the Flies and the Great Gatsby. However, I did really like To Kill a Mockingbird. I actually had to read that twice for school, once in middle school and once in high school. 

20. Do you match your socks?

It depends. I’ve got some socks where I definitely match them, because they’ve got words on them or something, but there are some pairs where I don’t worry about it too much. That said, I absolutely make sure that the socks are the same thickness, the same material, and the same height. Otherwise, it’s unbearable. Basically, since all of my socks are colorful and patterned and from a bunch of different sets, I just make sure the two socks are from the same set. 

And now it’s time for:

SOCKS THAT MY MOM HAS GOTTEN ME OVER THE YEARS:

-a pair that say “Kick this day in it’s sunshiney ass”

-a pair that say “I’m a delicate fucking flower”

-a pair that say “Love you... weirdo”

-a pair that say “These are my cuddly period socks”

-a pair that say “Cats don’t care if you’re crazy”

-my grandmother got me a pair that say “fuck off, I’m reading”

-a pair that say “you say crazy cat lady like it’s a bad thing”

And my personal favorite, 

-a pair that say “Adult in training” (They seem like they’ll always bee too big for me)

Alright, back to the questions

40. Where do you sit in the living room?

Either on the left side of the couch or on one of the two chairs opposite the couch. Mostly the couch. There are only really 3 places to sit in the living room, and I don’t really spend enough time there to have a specific place. Really, the only place where I have a “specific place” is at the kitchen table. 

46. What’s the freezer food you stock up on when you go to the grocery store?

I don’t really have a staple for this. I guess... pasta? Mac and cheese or tortellini? Most of the time I just buy box mac  and cheese and non-frozen tortellini, though. 

50. How are you at climbing trees?

Oh man. I miss the days when I feared neither bugs nor moss nor splinters. I had a reputation as a kid. I could (and would) climb anything. I made a point to climb as high as I could any time I saw a climbable tree, and usually I made it pretty far. I remember one time I was at the park with my friends, and there was this huge pine tree. The branches all started too high up to reach, but there was a chain-link fence right beneath it. I climbed up the fence and into the tree, and then I just kept climbing. I got all the way to the very top. The crows that were sitting up there looked kind of confused. My friends were impressed, though. 

I also used to climb to the top of the chain-link thing behind home base at the baseball diamond at that park too. Though, it was pretty common for me to be yelled at for that. The fence was kind of coming apart from the railing at the very top of the cone-shaped part, and so people got nervous when I went up there and laid on the fencing. Never fell, though. 

I also found a way to get on top of one of the buildings at that park. There was a fence that connected up with the back of the building, and there was also a pipe that went up the side of the building. I realized that by climbing on the fence, I could reach the pipe, and I could climb up the brackets holding it to the wall and onto the roof. Eventually, my mom told me that I had to stop doing that, because it was making other parents nervous and she was tired of explaining that “Yes, I know my child is on the roof. Yes, it’s fine. Yes, she can get back down. No, I’m not concerned.” And she also didn’t want other kids who couldn’t get back down safely to copy me. “Hey, stop, you’re making other parents nervous and I’m tired of having to constantly explain that everything’s fine” was a pretty common thing for me to hear. 

There was also that time that I was at a summer camp, and there was a tree. I went up there with a few of my friends, and we were having a grand old time. Eventually, I found a bouncy branch and decided to bounce on it. One of my friends was like “Hey, uh, are you sure that’s safe? It looks like it might break.” And I said “Yeah, it’s fine! Besides, I’ve got this other branch to hold on to if anything happens, not that it wil”--*SNAP* and then I fell. Luckily, I managed to catch myself on another branch on the way down, so it was more like a 7 foot fall than a 15 foot fall, but still. I was fine, if shaken. However, that led to a limit on how high into that tree we were allowed to climb. 

I was also the one who most commonly ignored that limit. 

So, in summary: Pretty good. 

[commercialvansolutions]

How to Deduct Your Vehicle Expenses

Dan, a new client, arrived at my office for his tax appointment. He had dutifully filled out the tax organizer I had mailed to him. His penmanship was like a draftsman's--perfectly aligned, square, and consistent.

I flipped to the first page of data. Dan had copied every figure from every box of his W-2 onto the organizer despite my telling him he needn't do that. Just give me the W-2; no need to do any copy work. And, like most tax pros, I prefer to work from the document itself. The numbers written onto an organizer could possibly be transposed or illegible. Hey, no problem. Lots of folks like to mark up the organizer; I just hate to see them go to all that extra work. I flipped a few more pages and found that Dan has a side business as a computer consultant. He has a home office and travels quite a bit to his clients' places of business. I turned to the home office worksheet, and lo and behold, Dan had actually prorated his mortgage interest, insurance, property taxes, and utilities between personal and business use of the home. Poor guy. Another waste of time since the tax software does that for me automatically. 

When I turned to the section regarding business use of the automobile, my eyes bugged out. You'd think I'd found a black widow squashed onto the page. What I saw was something I had never seen before and have not seen since: A complete six-page mileage log detailing to the tenth of a mile every destination by date for the entire year. Beside it was listed Dan's actual expenses, including gas, vehicle registration, repairs, insurance, and auto loan interest. He listed his grand total mileage, his commuting mileage, his personal mileage, and his business mileage.

Absolutely amazing.

It is rare for a client to list his automobile expenses because most clients don't track their costs during the year. Rare for a client to even know his total mileage. But to show every expense plus attach a mileage log with so much detail wasn't just rare--it was a once-in-a-lifetime event. With any other client, even the most anal retentive of the lot, the page is usually blank. And it's typically accompanied by this conversation:

Me: So, Bob, did you use the van this past year in your mobile repair business?

Bob: Yep.

Me: So how many miles did you drive, Bob?

Bob [His head rears back and his eyes dart skyward as though the answer were inscribed on the ceiling. In fact, I think it would be great fun to take a marker and write "19,497" right up there above the client chairs.]: Uh, I don't know. Probably about the same as I did the year before. How many miles did I drive then? Whatever it was, add another thousand.

As if mileage inflation ran side by side with economic inflation. Dan was the client from heaven by comparison. All I could do was stare at the mileage log. Dan shifted in his seat and cleared his throat.

I finally picked up my jaw from the desktop and closed my mouth. Where did I put that box of gold stars? I wanted to offer Dan a job. What else do you do with someone like that? I mean, there would be no lost files, ever. Every client conversation would be documented in great detail. Every figure on a tax return would be backed up by tapes and logic and citations of tax code and photographs and schematics. He would be the perfect employee. I wouldn't have to spend years carrying on about the importance of documentation. He already got it.

It was either that or ask him what the hell is wrong with him. Find out if he was being treated for obsessive-compulsive disorder and, if so, did he remember to include a deduction for his meds?

I didn't do either. I simply prepared Dan's taxes and have enjoyed a smooth and steady business relationship with him ever since.

Naturally, Dan never got audited. So I never had the pleasure of making an IRS agent's eyes bug out the way mine did.

The funny thing is that what Dan brought me is exactly what the IRS wants. Or so then say. IRS regulations dictate that if you are using a vehicle for business purposes, you must keep a contemporaneous mileage log, which means you're supposed to mark down your mileage as it occurs. That's what Dan did. Dan and Dan alone in the entire country, in the entire universe, if in fact they have taxes on other planets.

The IRS can require us to keep logs all it wants. Just like our parents required us to make our beds and be home by ten and not hit our siblings. But let's get real. Dan is the only guy out there who does this. The rest of us don't have the time or inclination for this busywork. Like we're really going to stare at our odometers and mark down ".8" every time we have to run over to the office supply store. As small-business owners, we're spending our time changing hats and putting out fires. No time for crayons and clipboards. Sorry.

For that reason I will not lecture you about keeping a log. I know you won't do it. Even if you make it a New Year's resolution and you're gung ho, I'd bet you dollars to martinis that by January 15, you'll be off the wagon.

It's damn near impossible to keep up that good habit. Well, guess what? IRS agents are reasonable human beings and most of them agree with me---no one's going to keep a damn log. Every IRS agent I've dealt with over the past 25 years, even the most hard-boiled of the lot, the ones who have the look of disdain down pat, the perfected eye roll, the smug eyebrow raise, even they have agreed to allow reconstructed logs.

Unless you're Dan, here's what you should do: First off, even a reconstructed log needs a starting point. It's very simple. Write your beginning odometer reading in your appointment book on January 1, and in bright red, mark "odometer:" on the December 31 page so you remember to record the ending reading at year-end. Now subtract one number from the other to find out your total mileage. It looks so much more believable and accurate to see 14,823 on the tax return under total mileage than it does to see 15,000, which is a dead giveaway that the student hasn't done her homework.

Try as much as possible to note all business meetings, errands, and other business vehicle travel in your appointment book. In fact, if you can do it, track both business and personal miles for a two-week period every quarter. Keep the info in your tax file for use at year-end to determine the ratio of business versus personal use.

Provide the total mileage figure and business mileage to your tax pro.

Some people think they can get away with writing off 100 percent of their only vehicle for business. All they are doing is tempting fate. Bob is one of those. Remember him from a couple of pages ago? He's such a bad boy; he keeps no records. Here's the rest of our conversation:

Me: OK, Bob. So how much of the mileage would you say is personal?

Bob: Oh, I don't have any personal mileage at all.

Me: But Bob, you don't have another vehicle.

Bob: Oh I know. But all my miles are all business.

Me [Heavy sigh.] We go through this every year.]: But Bob, you certainly must go to the grocery store or have a girlfriend somewhere.

Bob: I do grocery shopping on the way home. And my girlfriend Susie? She does all the estimates and paperwork.

Me [eye roll]: Right. What about weekends? Don't you have 49ers season tickets?

Bob: Yep, but that's a business expense, too.

Me: OK, Bob, whatever. Fine.

Bob thinks I'm going to give him 100 percent. But he's wrong. I know that old van is not 100 percent business use. So I knock off some points when he isn't looking and figure we're pretty square with the IRS.

So what is business mileage? First of all, you cannot deduct commuting. So forget about driving from home to your primary business location or from home to your first client. An exception is if you are self-employed and have a qualified home office. Your commute would be defined as travel down the hall or through the yard to the space that serves as your office. Once you are in the office, then every destination to which you travel to carry on business is considered business mileage.

See the logic? After all, if you have a regular job, you never deduct your commuting mileage against your W-2 wages. Once you get to work, if your boss requires that you use your vehicle for business travel, mileage for which you are not reimbursed is deductible.

You may also deduct travel between jobs. If you have two employers, you can deduct the mileage for travel from job No. 1 to job No. 2. Just don't stop at home first. That will blow the deduction out of the water.

I often walk from my home office to the post office and sometimes to nearby client offices. On one such walk, I wondered how audacious it would be to write off my shoes. Maybe I'd have to keep pedometer readings in my appointment book to substantiate business use. Hey, why not? I bet, however, that my Manolo Blahniks wouldn't be considered an ordinary and necessary business expense. The IRS would likely reduce that write-off to what one would spend for a pair of hiking boots, if they allowed the deduction at all. I can hear the auditor now: "You of all people should know better."

If your vehicle is used 100 percent for business--say it's a utility truck, a dump truck, a delivery vehicle, or a second vehicle devoted to business--and there's no personal use, you must still keep a mileage log.

To determine the business-use percentage for a mixed-use vehicle, divide the business miles by the total miles driven, for example, 7,000 (business miles)/10,000 (total miles) = .70, or 70 percent.

Now that we've established the percentage of business use and the total miles and business miles driven, let's put them to use. You need to determine if you are going to use the IRS standard mileage rate or actual costs.

You cannot use the standard mileage rate if:

your business provides cars for hire (limo service, taxi, etc.);

you have a business that has five or more vehicles being operated at the same time;

you are a rural mail carrier who has a qualified reimbursement plan; or

you are using an employer-provided vehicle.

If you wish to claim actual expenses, you can deduct gasoline, repairs, and maintenance (don't forget car washes), vehicle registration fees, insurance, tires, car loan interest, lease payments, garage rent, parking, tolls, and of course depreciation, including the Section 179 deduction. Don't forget to deduct the cost of those scented Christmas trees you hang from the rearview mirror.

Fill in the proper boxes on Form 2106 or on page 2 of Schedule C to take the deduction. If you are depreciating your vehicle, include Form 4562, Depreciation. Make sure you keep all documentation concerning this deduction in your tax file in case of audit.

And if you are audited and don't have your paperwork together, don't panic. Let me show you how understanding the folks at the IRS can be. A couple of years ago a new client, Spencer, came to see me. The IRS was in the middle of auditing three years of tax returns and was considering throwing Spencer in jail for tax fraud. And believe me it had a case; the tax returns he filed were as phony as Monopoly money. My firm compiled his books and created proper tax returns and a stay-out-of-jail card.

The auditor disallowed the vehicle deduction because Spencer hadn't maintained a mileage log. I got to work and reconstructed a mileage log based on Spencer's job files and a little help from Mapquest. The results proved his vehicle expense actually exceeded the amount he had claimed. He had likely paid cash for many of his gasoline purchases but had no receipts. I was excited!

But the auditor would not acquiesce. She had the right to deny the deduction because he did not keep a contemporaneous record. I argued that most auditors understand and accept reconstructed records, even reasonable estimates. "Oh c'mon," I said, "He's a contractor. He's got a truck. I mean, duh, he's got vehicle expense. You should allow something. It's only fair."

Finally, the reason for her stubbornness was revealed. The auditor uses her own vehicle and is forced to keep a mileage log so the IRS will reimburse her. And by golly, if she has to keep a log, then everybody else has to. Well, I finally wore her down and she accepted the reconstructed log and 100 percent of the deduction.

I know I have just relieved your mind. However, I'm not going to let you rest easy. Even though my clients and I have had good experiences dealing with the IRS when it comes to vehicle expense, bear in mind that the IRS does not have to accept reconstructed logs. And in our current political climate, when more tax revenues are required to pay for ever increasing government spending, economic bailouts, wars, and such, the IRS may decide to become stricter. You may find yourself walking out of an audit with a big tax bill because you didn't keep a mileage log.

So go clean your room, quit hitting your sister, and at least mark your annual beginning and ending odometer readings in your appointment book.

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