andy serkis gives *all* the rohirrim soldiers karl urban's new zealand accent. which makes sense, in terms of defining them as a cohesive culture! i think we get dialogue in the book from more different rohirrim than unique members of any other culture except shire-hobbits, which is not a question i had ever pondered before. *maybe* rivendell elves?

it's just also, you know, one hell of an experience to have tolkien's narration going on about how awesome old english the rohirric language is, while you're hearing something so very different from old english

Ikevamp pregnancy and family headcanon pt.3

I am back ! This time with Isaac and jean ! I hope you enjoy ! Please encourage me and let me know what you think !

@ginshoujo​ @bierunderdbeeren​ @fun-ghoul-neela​ @loverofmanyrandomthings​

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 4 

-Isaac: A daughter

-He spent most of his life alone so the idea of one day being a father was foreign and impossible for him. -When you came into his room one day being all nervous and refusing to look him in the eyes he thought you were there to dump him. -The last thing he expected you to say was that you were pregnant. -Isaac was so shocked he kept silent as you started rambling in nervousness. -After few minutes of Isaac staying silent and you rambling on how you want to keep the baby because it is the product of your love, Isaac  finally spoke: -"P-Pregnant....as in....B-Baby? Mine ? Wait....no that's no what i should be saying in this situation...ah wait a minute.....So there is a baby made of my sperm and your ovule in your uterus ??" -"Yes Isaac that's exactly what pregnant mean....are you not happy ?" -"NO ! I am very happy ! It's just that i never had a father, and I'm so awkward and clumsy I don't know if i can be a good father to our child" -The word "Our child" felt so foreign to him yet the second he said his heart felt so full. -After that you spent long hours reassuring him before you both fell asleep dreaming of your future together with your baby. -Few days later both of you guys decided to announce it to the whole mansion during dinner and as soon as the word "I am pregnant" left your mouth the whole dinner room fell silent. -The silence was broken by Arthur who said "Congratulation Newt you old chap, I can already suggest a pretty good name for your child! What about Apple if its a girl ! And if its a boy Applo !" -Isaac started arguing with Arthur and Dazai who also suggested naming your child Ringo. The rest of the resident all congratulated you and Sebastian banned you from doing house chores. -Your pregnancy was very peaceful. You would visit Isaac at the university almost every day and all his students treated you as if you were made of glass. The dean would always ask you about how you were doing and when you were in your 8th month, all the students and the dean gave you presents for the baby. -You were in university attending one of Isaac's class when your water broke. You started groaning and screaming in pain and the whole classroom started panicking. -Isaac was at your side by the second and quickly carrying you out of the class and toward the hospital (the students followed you) -And so you were in the delivery room while Isaac, 80 university students and the mansion's resident were waiting outside. -Napoleon was by Isaac's side trying to calm him down while Arthur Theo Dazai leo and le compte were making bets about the baby's gender. -After what felt like hours, the doctor came out of the delivery room and looked at the huge crowd in amazement before saying "Who is the father ?" -Isaac raised his hand and the doctor invited him in the delivery room. -You gave birth to a beautiful baby girl with light brown hair and pink eyes. -After much consideration you named her Cherry (As in cherry blossom) -Cherry was a very innocent and shy child. -She was also a huge crybaby. -One time when she was around 5 Arthur teased her and the second her eyes filled with tears and she started sniffing the whole mansion looked at arthur like he had just committed murder. From that day on she started avoiding him (it broke his hearth) -From when she was very young Isaac often took her to his classes where his student would gush over her and one day when she was 8 she corrected the student who was sitting next to her as he made a mistake in his formula. -That's how you knew she was a genius, her IQ was extremely high. But you guys never forced anything on her as she was more interested in cultures and languages than math's and physics. -By the age of 12 she was fluent in all the languages that were spoke in the mansion, English, French, Japanese and Dutch and of course Latin (her father taught her). -She would spend long hours having a debate about history with Sebastian. -You guys would go on stroll in the city and Isaac would smile as you and cherry would start nerding about some monument and the history behind it. He would thank all the stars and it would not be enough because he knew that he would never feel lonely ever again.

-Jean : A daughter and a son

-Jean didn't want children at all. -He was a monster. He was dirty. what kind of child would come from his genes. -But then he met you and slowly but surely he started loving himself a bit more. -You were his everything. For him you were the most beautiful and pure person. -Nevertheless you two never spoke of having a family. But you dreamed of having a big family. -So one day as you were resting in jean's embrace you decide to try and see what he thinks about it. -"Jean have you ever thought of having a family ?" -Jean thought for few minutes before saying "I never thought i deserved to have a family....but if its with you...." -You started crying and squeezed him in your arms. -And so from that point on the two of you started trying. -Few months later after a visit to your doctor you came in the mansion looking for jean only to find him sparing with napoleon in the training room. -Both of them stopped sparing to look at you as you screamed "I'm pregnant". Jean dropped his rapier and picked you up in a hug. -Both you and napoleon heard a laugh that sounded like it came straight out of an angel's mouth. Jean was laughing. -After that jean became your personal bodyguard. When he was busy he made napoleon keep an eye on you of all time. -Not that you needed any more protection as the whole mansion babied you. -"Guys i am not ill. I'm pregnant" -"But then why did you vomit this morning?" Mozart said -"It's just morning sickness !" you answered back -"Sickness....that mean you're ill. I'm taking you to the doctor right now" jean said as he carried you in his arms. -Anyways days passed and when you were in your 9th month jean had to take a job as a bodyguard with napoleon. Mozart had a concert to prepare for, Isaac was busy with his job as a professor, Sebastian was too busy, Leo Vincent and Theo were away on business, and no way he would leave you to Dazai or Arthur. -Which led him to ask the one and only person who was not busy that day.....Le compte. Truthfully he didn't want to owe him anything but he would throw away his pride for your safety any day. -That day you spend time with le compte drinking Tea and eating cake when your water broke. -Le compte took care of everything and took you to the hospital. He also sent a messenger for jean. -When jean got the message he was few hours away from the city. Napoleon assured him he would take care of the rest and jean took off as fast as he could. -When he arrived you had already given birth and you were sleeping. As he came into the room he saw you with your eyes closed and panicked. He checked your breathing and pulse and relaxed when he saw you were just sleeping. Then he heard the tiniest sound. -He looked toward the direction the sound came from and he saw a crib. He peaked inside the crib and saw the most beautiful dark blue eyes. His baby girl looked at him in curiosity before giving him a smile that reminded him so much of yours. -Now he had one more person who loved him, one more person to protect. -His daughter Louise was shy and timid. She didn't speak much. -She loved her uncle Napoleon the most and admired her uncle Mozart. -She would always listen to Mozart as he played the piano. At first he was awkward with her because he didn't know how to behave with kids but one day when she was 3 he found her sitting on the floor outside his piano room and asked "what are you doing?" -She looked at him with her big eyes and said "music" -From that day on she always came to listen to him playing. She would sit on the sofa in the piano room (it wasn't there before, he bought it just for her) and listen for hours. -When Louise was 6 you got pregnant again. This time Jean refused to leave you for even a second. He wanted to be with you when you gave birth. -"Jean its only the 5th month...I'm not going to give birth any time soon." "I don't care I'm not leaving you". -You would be chilling in Jean's room (that was redecorated to look more homey and less like a prison cell) and both Louise and Jean would have their ears on your tummy trying to hear what was happening inside. -After few hours of listening Louis said "It's a boy". "How can you be so sure darling ?" "I just know. He told me just now." -And she was right. Few months later you gave birth (with jean by your side this time) to a boy who looked like a mini jean. -His name was Orlean. -From his cold deadpan expression, to his androgynous features, to his dark sense of humor  he was a copy of jean. -He was so mature for his age and often took care of his bigger sister. -Orlean and Jean looked liked they were awkward when they were together because none of them would say much, but in fact the silence between them was always comfortable. They would understand each other with a single look. -Jean taught Orlean how to use a sword but Orlean preferred reading. He always spent time in the Library with his uncle Leo who would teach him all kind of subjects. -You, Louise and Orlean would come watch jean spare with napoleon and would cheer for him like crazy. -Jean never thought he would have anyone who loved him let alone a family. He would always be thankful to you who showed him love and gave him happiness. You, Louise and Orlean were his treasures.

Part 2 of the Marinette x Peter soulmate oneshot

Part 1 

—*—*—*—*—*

“And here,” the grouchy man in front of her held out a ring, making his daughter raise an eyebrow. His grey-blue eyes rolled almost to the back of his skull at the silent communication. “Using Kaalki for all your traveling is extremely inefficient. He’s eating all my sugar cubes.”

“You can just conjure up more,” Marinette countered, smirking in amusement as she took the sling ring from him. She was seventeen now, and had been visiting her father about once a month for the past few months, almost a year, since she first met him after he made a deal with Dormammu and essentially saved their entire reality.

“Relying on another living being for your teleportation is stupid,” her father argued, crossing his arms. “It delays you. You might not be the best at using a sling ring, but I made sure you can operate it reliably. This way, you always have an option for a near instantaneous escape.”

Marinette just snorted and slipped on the ring, right next to the silver one that sat on her right thumb. Her father didn’t approve of her wielding both Creation and Destruction at once, especially considering the fact that he knew firsthand how much energy it took to wield something with the power of an Infinity Stone, but she still did it regardless.

Adrien needed a break from the Miraculous after his father was arrested, and Marinette was only making sure that the two most sought after Miraculous were as safe as possible until she could find someone to trust as a new Cat. She wasn’t about to give up being Ladybug anytime soon just so she could retire the ring.

“Whatever you say, Dad,” she said cheerfully, ignoring his huff of annoyance at her dismissive response. Quickly leaning in, she pecked him on the cheek and jogged backwards. “See you next month!” She waved happily. Seeing the slight blush on her father’s cheeks and the way he stubbornly tried to pretend like he didn’t like the familial affection at all and was not at all a doting father figure who spoiled his daughter rotten (he was), made Marinette burst into laughter even as she waved goodbye to Wong and left out of the front door of the New York Sanctum.

She would get some shopping in the fashion district done first, and then use the sling ring to get back to Paris. Kaalki could use the rest, not that she would ever admit it to her dad.

She was browsing a high-end tailor, looking at the suits they had on display, when the door opened. She didn’t bother looking back to see who had entered, hoping that whatever rich client just came in would not question the little Asian teenager critically analyzing the merchandise. She had to be up to date on both male and female fashion, after all, and her suit construction could always use improvement. She was inspecting the way that a certain collar was stitched when the voices of the two people who had entered finally caught her attention.

“But I don’t need it,” a younger voice argued, sounding as if the owner of said voice was pouting. “And you shouldn’t spend that kind of money on me.”

“You should know by now that money doesn’t matter to me, kid. Besides, this is more efficient. Instead of wasting energy punching a guy in the face and possibly getting hurt, you just press this button and run. Help will be on the way, and if your aim is good then the guy’ll be tazed. Everyone wins.”

“Mister Staaaarrrrkkkk,” the younger voice, a boy Marinette realized once she looked up, whined. “You’re already getting me a probably super expensive suit because you won’t let me wear my old one to your party—“

“Your old one is a mess, no offense, and the pants are too short.”

“—That’s not the point, Mister Stark.”

“And anyone coming with me to my own party is gonna look fantastic.”

“You went to a party last year in an Iron Man t-shirt under a suit jacket and sneakers, Mister Stark.”

“Okay, but I look fantastic in anything. Have you seen me? I’m gorgeous.”

“Are you saying he doesn’t look good in anything?” Marinette chose to finally speak up, her mouth already curled up into a wide smile. They reminded her of how she acted with her father. Not even the fact that she was talking to Tony goddamned Stark could make her back down now that she had seen him acting so paternal and soft.

The famous engineer gaped at her for a second, and the boy next to him crossed his arms and smiled wickedly.

“Yeah, Mister Stark. Are you saying I’m not gorgeous?”

“What—I—this is betrayal. Ganging up on a guy is not fair play,” the billionaire protested childishly, pointing to each of them as if he expected that to be intimidating. It just came off fatherly. “You know what? Fine. Go to my gala in one of your science pun t-shirts, it’s not like I care anyway since I’ll be doing the same thing. We can even wear the exact same shirt if you want. But when Pepper kills us both, it’s your fault.”

Both teenagers laughed at the poor guy’s dramatics. The teenaged designer decided to introduce herself, walking over and holding out her hand to the boy. “I’m Marinette. I didn’t know Tony Stark had a son.”

The boy instantly went beet red, and started stammering. Marinette winced, feeling bad since she knew exactly how that felt. She was usually on the opposite end of an interaction like this, after all.

“Dad’s not my Stark. I mean Mister Dad isn’t— I mean—“

“He’s my intern,” Tony saved him, clapping a firm hand on the boy’s upper arm to try and ground him. Marinette furrowed her brows, noticing how Stark had carefully avoided touching his “intern’s” (she wasn’t buying that story for a second) shoulder. But the boy had instantly relaxed, so Marinette tried not to think too hard about it.

Finally, he took Marinette’s hand and shook it. “I’m Peter. Peter Parker. The intern.”

Marinette was about to reply, but she felt her shoulders start to tingle. Then a flash of bright light erupted, and almost blinded them. Peter and Marinette just stared at each other for a moment before movement caught their eyes, and made both of them stumble back in shock.

“You have two mini-me’s on your shoulders!” Peter cried, pointing to Marinette.

“No, you have two mini-ME’s on YOUR shoulders!” She shot back, pointing to him. Sure enough, he had a disturbingly Kwami-looking mini-Marinette hovering over one of his shoulders dressed in all blue. Over his other shoulder was an equally chibi, Kwami-looking version of Ladybug. Domino mask and all.

Marinette stumbled back a few extra steps when her own floating… things… flew in front of her face. One was clearly a mini Peter, also dressed in all blue just like the miniature version of herself that Peter had. But the other one was a mini—

“Oh my god,” she whispered, looking straight at Peter—no, at her soulmate— as her floating versions of him returned back to float over her shoulders. “You’re—“

“Shh!” He held a finger over his lips. Marinette shut her mouth, realizing a little too late that she had just been about to expose his secret identity. Big no-no, and she knew it.

“I’m sorry, but what the fuck?” Tony suddenly spoke up, looking at the both of them like they had grown second heads. “You guys just started freaking out after Peter introduced himself, and I’m confused.”

“Wait, you didn’t see that?” Peter demanded, staring at his mentor in disbelief. “The bright flash of light, the floating anime-fairy versions of ourselves floating over each other’s shoulders, you didn’t see ANY of that?”

Confusion melted away into realization, which transformed into mischief on Tony’s face. “Ohh, I see what’s going on. You’re soulmates.”

“Oh my god we’re soulmates,” Peter breathed, looking over to a still-shell shocked and frozen Marinette. “I just met my soulmate. Oh my god.”

“Mon Dieu,” Marinette couldn’t help slipping back into French. She began to ramble in her native language; “I can’t believe this. What are the floating things supposed to be anyway? I thought the marks on our shoulders were our Marks, that we could just feel extreme pain from one another. This doesn’t make sense. What does this mean? Did our Bond evolve once we met? What can we do now? Why can’t soul bonds respect secret identities? Oh Kwami I have to tell my parents and that is going to be a nightmare and—“

“Oh my god, she’s just as bad as you,” Tony remarked, impressed as he watched the little Asian girl ramble on in rapid French. Luckily, his title was Genius billionaire playboy philanthropist, emphasis on Genius, and he was fluent enough to keep up with what she said.

“Relax,” he interrupted gently in the same language, shocking her into paying attention and stopping her rambling. “We can always get Peter’s suit another day, this is more important. So how about we go back to the Tower—“

Wrong thing to say.

“Avenger’s Tower? The home to all of the primary active Avengers, the headquarters for the New York branch of Stark Industries? The single most intimidating building in the whole city, THAT tower?” Marinette rambled, still in French, with absolute horror written all over her face. “I would pass out before we got inside.”

Tony glanced over at a very confused but worried Peter, who didn’t understand a word of what was being said but could clearly read the distress on his soulmate’s face. “She’s your other half, alright,” he told him in English before looking back to the girl. “Where do you want to go, then?”

Marinette opened her mouth, but the mini-Peter flew in front of her face and gave her cheek a hug. She blinked, feeling bracing coolness coming from where the pixie-creature touched her skin. It brought her back to the present, and allowed her to take a deep breath and calm down. “Thanks,” she said to the little thing, cupping her hand around it gently to try and simulate a hug of her own before looking back at the boys in front of her (because let’s be real, Stark was only a “man” half the time and a “man-child” the rest).

Finally lucid enough to switch back to English, Marinette answered Tony. “I actually came here to visit my dad. My biological father, technically. We can go to his place.”

Sure, he’d be annoyed at her at first, but once Marinette explained he would calm down. Probably.

Tony agreed, and led her out to the sports car they had taken to get over here.

“Good thing Peter talked me out of bringing a two-seater, huh?”

—*—*—*—*—*

“Don’t touch that,” Marinette warmed, leaping forward to keep Peter’s hands off of a potentially dangerous magical artifact. She would be more annoyed if Peter didn’t look suitably guilty, or have a near permanent sparkle of wonder and awe on his face from seeing everything in the Sanctum.

“This is like being in Harry Potter! I’m Hufflepuff by the way, what about you?” The hyper boy asked her, his excitement at all the magic surrounding him overruling his natural shyness. “But for real, the special effects you guys have is ridiculous. And actually putting up a three-dimensional projector outside to hide the true appearance of the building? How much money do you have?”

“For the last time, Peter,” Marinette said slowly, crossing her arms with barely disguised amusement. “No projectors. No technology. This is all legitimate magic.”

“Legitimate magic doesn’t exist,” he shot back with an eye roll. Marinette just raised her eyebrows.

“You regularly visit a tower and mentor with a guy who works with a Norse god, a literal witch, a large green buff guy, and an Android brought to life by magic.”

“...Okay, But…”

Marinette would also be a lot more annoyed at how hard Peter was to convince, if she didn’t know full well that she got the better end of the deal. Her father was the one in charge of Stark, which was undoubtedly the shorter end of the stick. Already the billionaire had activated five ancient artifacts, gotten bodily pulled away by Strange from another four, and her father had finally decided to just teleport the mechanic away when Peter wasn’t looking. Marinette didn’t want to know what her dad decided was necessary to convince Stark that magic was real and he should shut up and stop acting superior.

Her dad was a hypocrite, she knew it. She also knew he was probably having the time of his life doing to Stark what was probably done to him when he was first introduced to Sorcery.

By the time Strange had returned with a shaken up and very annoyed Tony Stark (looking like a very smug cat as even the Cloak preened on his shoulders), Marinette had already introduced Peter to the Kwami and teleported him to all of the seven wonders of the world.

For some reason, it was her ladybug transformation, of all things, that finally proved to Peter that magic was real. Something about magical girls and anime..? Marinette couldn’t completely follow his rapid rambling. She was good at English, and had mastered more vocabulary than most native speakers because of her constant reading of medical and scientific journals, but she still wasn’t great at deciphering when people spoke too quickly.

“All done, Dad?” She asked cheerfully, earning a half-hearted glare from the billionaire next to him. Her father just smirked.

“Indeed. Now, what was the reason you came back to the Sanctum without warning with two outsiders, one of which is most definitely going to give me recurring migraines?” He asked, eyes trailing over as the mechanic huffed and joined his mentee (son). Then, the sorcerer’s eyes landed on the four floating miniatures of the two teens in the room. “Oh. You have awakened your Bond.”

“Yeah,” Marinette agreed, looking over at Peter. Seeing a mini-her and mini-Ladybug just swinging their legs happily as they sat on his shoulders was surreal. Then again, his mini-selves were attracting his own, much more exasperated, attention. His mini-him was just sleeping on his stomach on Marinette’s right shoulder, while his mini-Spider-Man was doing a two-finger handstand and trying to impress the Cloak.

The Cloak clapped two of its corners in support, to which Strange pretended not to notice.

“We were, well I was anyway, hoping you could explain,” Marinette told her father. “My magic doesn’t really help with analyzing non-Miraculous things, and soulbonds are completely out of my expertise. With how I’m supposed to be back in Paris already, I figured getting a crash course from you as to what to expect would be better. Peter and I probably won’t be able to hang out in person very much until school let’s out,” she explained.

“Wait, you have magic too?” Tony asked, nose scrunched up. Meanwhile, Peter’s eyes were wide.

“You’re from Paris? What are you doing her—oh my god did you teleport? Like how you took me to see the Sphinx?!” He asked, bouncing up and down on his feet. Marinette smiled at his enthusiasm, liking how he wasn’t as opposed to magic as his father figure certainly was.

“Yes, I teleported. I visit my father every month, not that my parents know.”

“Her mother and step father only know that she calls me, and they believe that I occasionally fly over to visit her,” Stephen filled in casually as he flattened parts of his uniform and just generally moved his hands around to disguise the trembling in them as subtly as possible. They had gotten better over time, with him performing simple physical therapy exercises every day and his magic helping, but he no longer desired to get rid of the damage entirely. He knew he no longer needed to. “But they know nothing about magic, or the fact that she occasionally parades across Paris as a spotted heroine.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Tony asked, turning to his son— mentee’s— Bonded with his eyebrows raised high on his head. “Why did I never hear about a hero in Paris? Trust me, I look.”

“And I am very good at hiding,” Marinette retorted, her eye roll showing very clearly who she was related to. “The magic of the Miraculous helped. The super villain that used to plague Paris, Gabriel Agreste, used to wield the Miraculous of Transmission. The butterfly,” she told the boys easily. “His powers allowed him to control the transmission of information outside of Paris, though it was more of a… how do you say…” Marinette paused, allowing her father to chime in;

“Passive ability,” The older magic user offered up. “He didn’t want the Avengers or anyone else to interfere, so his abilities passively controlled transmission of Paris news so that it didn’t reach anyone that might bright that to pass. It helps that Marinette’s own powers include completely reversing the damage caused by a Miraculous. Every time the Eiffel Tower was knocked over or turned to ash, she brought it back as if nothing had happened,” he explained. His daughter nodded.

“So any rumors of Paris having a villain would probably have been seen as jokes,” Marinette told him gently, her smile lopsided. “Even the Ladyblog, a now defunct website that used to cover all the attacks, has received a lot of comments from international viewers about how good the special effects were or how intrigued they were by the ‘show’s premise,’” she admitted, using finger quotations for emphasis.

“But you got him, right? The bad guy?” Peter asked, looking straight into Marinette’s eyes. She giggled and nodded.

“Oh yeah. Turns out he was the father of the guy I had a crush on, so,” she made a face. “Not the best situation ever. But his son was also secretly my superhero partner the whole time, which made the situation both better and worse in several ways.”

“Oh hey, me too!” Peter said excitedly, his face also squishing into something uncomfortable. “Minus the superhero partner part. But a while back, I took down this guy, the Vulture, who turned out to be the father of this girl I liked.”

“It’s the worst, isn’t it?”

“Oh yeah.” He agreed.

“Okay, back to the topic at hand,” Strange interrupted, earning a sigh of relief from the only other adult in the room.

“Thank Science, I did not want to hear another word about teenage romance,” Tony clapped his hands together. “So, what’s up with their Connection, Doc?”

After briefly closing his eyes for patience, Doctor Strange raised one slightly shaking hand and summoned up a few glowing symbols. Muttering under his breath, he walked a loose circle around the two teenagers and bathed them in the shining orange light. After about a minute of this he stepped back with a hum of thought and a single raised eyebrow. His lips quirking into a disturbingly amused smirk did not help Marinette or Peter’s nerves.

Both naturally nervous teens squirmed impatiently.

“What few people know is that the Universe actually has a name for each type of essence link, or what most people know colloquially as a soul bond,” he explained, purposefully sounding pompous to annoy Tony, who scoffed. “The name for your bond is ‘Shoulder Angels’ and I believe it is supposed to mimic the classic devil and angel on the shoulder trope,” he crossed his arms with far too much joy in his eyes. “The blue one is your civilian self, which embodies everything normal and relatively healthy. It keeps you grounded in reality and helps you through healthy pain and emotions. The red one is your hero alter ego, which represents whimsy, encourages creativity, and will help you through toxic situations. You can call it your personal hero, really. Whenever you are experiencing toxic emotions, a dangerous situation, or anything similar, it will contact your Linked partner and allow them to comfort you by astral projecting them to you or, in an extreme situation, actually teleporting them to you. Other than that and their base characteristics, they have simplified versions of your own personalities.”

“So, the drawings on our shoulders,” Marinette said slowly. “Are they still there, or did they turn into these…” she looked at the little things again. “Fairy things?”

Stephen smiled proudly. “Always asking the right questions. Yes, the symbols were just a placeholder and altogether weaker version since you had not met in person. They are gone now, and only the two of you or experienced magic users can see your essence sprites. Although, once you practice with them you will be able to show them to people you trust. But that will take time.”

“I see…” Marinette looked over at Peter. “So, uh. Hi. I’m Marinette Dupain-Cheng, and sometimes Paris’s superhero Ladybug. Want my phone number?”

—*—*—*—*—*

“Oh come on, a Churro is totally a real pastry,” Peter, currently Spider-Man, argued with the Marinette-sprite on his shoulder. The little chibi puffed out it’s cheeks and tapped it’s toe on the open air before pointing to a bakery that had good looking cookies and cupcakes in its store window. “Oh no, those are expensive and I’m broke. This might be cheap street-churro, but it’s good and I’m eating it. See?” He crunched a giant bite of his fried snack. “Mmmm.”

Mini-Bug on his other shoulder just sighed heavily in defeat.

“Wow, I didn’t know you spoke to yourself Spidey. Did ya go crazy over the weekend?” A familiar voice asked from behind him, making Spider-Man groan and shove the rest of his churro into his mouth. After he swallowed, he stood and turned to the new figure on the roof behind him.

“No, Wade. I met my soulmate, and now we have little mini-us-es on our shoulders. I have mini-hers and she has mini-me’s. Mini-her number one is trying to convince me that churros are not real pastries,” he jabbed his thumb at the one he was talking about. “Mini-her number two is just trying to get me to eat more healthy, which is not working either.”

“Oh wow, I have mini-me’s too! But they are just me, not my soulmate.”

“Do you have two bonds?” Spidey asked, tilting his head. Wade Wilson, also known as Deadpool, shook his head.

“Nah. My soulmate and I had a wound sharing bond.”

Peter opened and closed his mouth, deciding to just pull his mask back down over his mouth and ignore that statement to the best of his ability. He had seen Wade literally torn in half and shot in the head way more times than he could count, and he doubted Wade’s soulmate could heal like he could.

“So what you’re telling me,” Spidey said slowly, defaulting to his usual way of handling heavy topics. “Is that you’re just crazy.”

Wade pulled out a gun, and Spider-Man just laughed as he jumped off the side of the building to swing away. Mini-Marinette glared at him, but Mini-Ladybug was laughing right alongside him. He grinned at both of them behind his mask. Yeah, they couldn’t talk and weren’t replacements for the real thing, but it was nice having their company.

—*—*—*—*—*

That’s all I got for now. I might add a couple scenes here and there if I get inspiration, but for now this is it. Hope it’s okay.

WAYV’s reaction to their S/O having a strong British accent

this is perfect for me bc i have a very strong derbyshire accent (if you don’t know what it sounds like, its such a good accent, i suggest you look it up). also, feel free to request anything at all - lilly

KUN

When you spoke any language other than English, it was pretty hard to tell that you had a strong accent; people often found it difficult to understand you when you spoke with an accent. Kun often walked over to your apartment when he was done with practice, but on this particular day, you were on the phone to your mum back in the UK.

“Nah, I promise, mum, I’m alright. Kun’s taking proper good care of me. I’m perfectly safe here.” Kun had never heard you speak your native language before, but he found it extremely endearing. “Mum, chill for a minute. I’m fine.” He couldn’t help but smile as he tried to work out what you were saying. Your accent was much harder to understand than he thought it would be.

As soon as you hung up and put your phone down, Kun coughed, letting you know of his presence in the room. 

“I couldn’t help but hear your accent. I like it, but I had no clue what you said.”

TEN

When you first met, you both tried to communicate in Korean, but when neither of you were getting very far, he did a bit of digging and realised you were English. That was perfect for him, as it meant you could both talk a lot easier. It was late at night, and you fancied a walk so you called him up and asked him to go with you. Of course he obliged; he was more than happy to go a walk with his baby. When he arrived, he saw you wrapped up in his jumper and thought you were the cutest thing on the planet.

“Hey baby. How are you?” You couldn’t help but notice the language he was speaking in wasn’t Korean, but English instead. You laughed, shocked, but happy at the fact that you didn’t have to butcher Korean anymore.

“Hello, Ten dearest. I see you’re speaking my language.” As soon as your spoke and Ten heard your thick accent, he was shocked, but he was so in love. The way you spoke, and they way your accent was so thick did something to him. He was so glad he made this discovery, and he would never let you speak any language other than English from now on.

“You know what, baby? I think we should go back to the dorms.”

WINWIN

Winwin was so happy you could speak Chinese; after all, he wasn’t fluent in any other language. He did, however, enjoy laying his head on your lap when he was tired and listening to you speaking to him in your native language. The way your voice lulled his to sleep, and your thick accent melted him made his fall deeper for you.

He often lay there staring into your eyes as you spoke to him about what happened in your day in English. He didn’t always understand everything that you were saying, but he always tried his hardest and asked you to repeat anything in Chinese if he didn't understand it.

“And then she just told me that I was the one being rude, after she purposefully spilled coffee on the documents I’d literally just signed. How dare she.” Winwin mumbled something in reply, but you didn’t hear it properly. “Huh? What did you say baby?” You spoke in Chinese so you knew he’d understand.

“I understood about three words that you said. Can you repeat it in Chinese?”

LUCAS

You spoke to him in English 24/7 because he wasn’t the best at Korean, and you weren’t the best at Chinese. Part of you wondered whether he purposefully made his Korean worse when he was around you, just to hear you speak in English. He made no effort to hide the fact that he loved you accent; he screamed every time he heard you speak with your thick accent.

Once, you were at the dorms, talking to Kun in Korean, which obviously made Lucas even more clingy than usual because he wasn’t sure what some of the words meant. He whined every so often, just to get your attention for a split second, but you weren’t going to give in that easy. That was until he wrapped his leg around you, stopping you from moving all together.

“Lucas! Let me talk to Kun for a bit please. I’ll come cuddle in a second, yeah?”He groaned, releasing his leg but refusing to remove his arms from your waist.

“We can cuddle on the bed, but I’m staying where I am.”

XIAOJUN

One of Xiajun’s favourite things about you was your interest in languages, it allowed you to communicate after all. The only thing is you found it incredibly hard to mask your accent when you spoke. It was interesting the say the least, Xiaojun sometimes found it difficult to understand what you were saying, but he appreciated your effort so much.

“Xiaojun, can you come and lie down with me for a while. I’m tired.” Your words were mumbled because you were sleepy, and your accent was strong, but you were still trying. Xiaojun looked down at you from where he stood, his eyes were full of love, but he had to admit, he didn’t understand a word that came out of your mouth.

“Can you repeat that, (Y/N)? I have no idea what you just said” You frowned, jokingly making Xiaojun let out a laugh. He loved you so, so much.

HENDERY

He spoke English with you at every opportunity, even though you were fluent in Mandarin. He loved your accent with a passion, but he tried to keep it secret. Whenever you spoke, he would laugh or coo, teasing you. His favourite would be when you complimented you in English.

You often visited him at the dorms to see him, and whenever you did, he would be so happy. He loved seeing you at every opportunity he could, and joking about your accent. One night, you were sat in the dorms, him listening to you complain about being hungry.

“I swear to god, if the food doesn’t arrive in the next 10 minutes, I will cry.” Hendery let out a loud laugh, causing YangYang and Kun to look at him and shake their heads.

“Baby, I love your accent. Please say something else.”

YangYang

You’d always wanted to learn German, and lucky for you, your boyfriend spoke German. Every time you went to visit him, he would give you a short lesson. He couldn’t lie, you were bad, mainly because of your accent. Normally, he loved to hear it, but when he was speaking to you in German, it frustrated him to hear your accent coming through. 

He never got angry at you though; he was always so gentle when correcting your accent, making you so happy he was your teacher. Your old teacher was very harsh, but not YangYang.

“Hallo, ich bin (Y/N) und...” You stopped speaking, not knowing what comes next. YangYang just smiled at you and took one of your hands in his, giving it a light squeeze. Whenever he did that, you knew you’d got the accent wrong somewhere.

“That was good, baby, you just need to work on the accent a little in a few places. Yours is still coming through.”

Stray Kids reaction to finding out that their S/O is American and a ‘02 liner

Chan:

You two were on a café date, sipping warm drinks, sharing loving kisses, and just chatting in general when you drop the facts 

Without any content It just slipped out, right out of the blue 

Not like you wanted to keep it a secret or anything 

It just somehow happened to be that you guys had never been talking about your age, or the country you'd been born 

 So now that you told him, you felt a little silly 

Because oh God, you guys literally knew which floor wax the other one used, or how much the other one usually sneezed in one row 

But you'd never told him how old you exactly were, and which country you were from  

So needless to say, you were quite embarrassed

 Speaking of Chan, he was surprised, yes but it was far from the main feelings he felt 

 He wasn't really shaken up by the fact that you were literally five years younger than him 

 I mean we all know how serious Chis can be, and that he needs times when he can be mature and all 

But at the same time, he's a big dork, playing and goofing around 80% of the day 

And because of this he'd never really thought about your age 

Of course, he'd known that you'd been younger than him since the beginning 

 But the age difference had never been conspicuous for him 

 Because when you acted like a child, and were playful, he played with you with just as much joy, and enjoyment 

 And when you were mature, and serious he did just the same 

 Age didn't really matter him, when it came to love, when it came to you 

 And he didn't hesitate to assure you of it, right than, and there, in that little cafeteria 

The country you'd been born in...it was a whole other case 

Because damn! This boy was so freaking hyped about it 

 Especially if you'd spoken to him in Korean before 

Than he would've been astonished like 

 "Whaaaaaaaat?! You've been fluent in english this whole time, and you've never told me!?" 

He would've maybe laughed a little in relief and said something like 

"Thank God. This means I won't forget it." 

 If you'd spoken to him in your mother language before, he wouldn't have been that surprised but he would've been still excited and asked a bunch of questions like 

"What are you eating for breaki?" 

"Are guns really legal and Kinder Surprise banned?"

 "Have you ever met Brad Pitt?" 

"So how is this Thanksgiving thing going there?" 

 Because he loves visiting new places, and learning about new cultures 

 So be prepared for a LOT of questions 

Woojin:

 Okay, so let's just pretend we are in 2020-21 or so 

Because honestly, I don't think he'd want more than friendship from an under-aged person, even if he liked them or something 

Your age were something he knew from the start 

For the example, because you two had been close friends before you actually got together 

Or because he asked you on the first date, or when you guys first met 

It's just something he really needed to know

 And when you told him he was relieved 

 "Oh thank God, you're not ten years younger than me. I don't know what I would do, if you were." 

 But also tensed up a little bit 

Because your five years minus meant that he was responsible for your health, your well being, your studies, your money, your pets and your whole being altogether 

 At least this is how he saw the things 

 Because you were still a baby in his eyes

 Not like a child, he didn't treat you like one 

 But like a baby, who can break in two, or get hurt easily 

 And if something had happened to you, he would've never forgive himself, believe me

( So please take a good care of yourself, for his sake at least)

Sometimes you needed to remind him that you were not his little sister 

And he would've learnt, and let you look after yourself time to time

 However, he would've still felt extremely guilty and upset if something had happened to you 

 In times, like this, he needed your comfort more than anything 

He needed to know that you didn't blame him at all 

 He would make the bestest mental support team, fight me 

 You'd always known that you could lean on him 

Also, being American meant that you had a lot of knowledge of another country, which made him curious 

 He understands English better than how he speaks it 

So I think besides that it would be a good chance to improve his skills 

He would listen to you, and then answer in Korean, or gesticulate it to you, if you didn't understand the language well 

Which usually caused you two burst into laughter 

Minho:

You were walking out of the bathroom, feeling clean and fresh, your hair tied up in a bun and the sleeves of your pajamas slightly wet

“Just a typical, Tuesday night”; you thought, making your way into your bedroom that you that you shared with a boy, and three cats

But as soon as you entered the place, you immediately realized that this evening was not about to be a typical one

Because Minho, your entierly perfect boyfriend, looked more familiar with a ghost, than a human right now

He sat on the edge of the bed, with one leg hanging in the air, the other one crossed underneath it

He leaned forward, his back making a bow, and he stared at the thing in his hands, which happened to be your phone

He didn’t blink

He didn’t move at all

And this was the thing that scared you the most

“Minho sweety...? Are you okay...?” you asked hesitatingly, still standing in the door-frame, not sure whether you should take a step forward, or not

The boy in front of you lift his head up SLOWLY, still not blinking though, and it seemed like his mind was not really there with you

“Why is your cousin wishing you a happy 17th birthday?”  - he asked, his voice blunt

“Maybe, because he forgot that it’s going to be next week...?”

“No. Why is he wishing you a happy SEVENTEENTH birthday?” -  you became more confused with every second that passed

“Because this is going to be my 17th birthday?” - you asked carefully. - “Are you sure you’re fine?”

“17th...17th...17th...” - was all he was able to say, and it took him at least an hour to process the new informations

But when he did, he became all soft in a second

Like I can feel him, protecting you, and treating you the way he’s protecting, and treating his cats

With all of his strength and love

He hadn’t had any problem, or difficulty with the age difference between you before

And he wasn’t going to have one now

He was a 4D boy, but he could get serious when it was needed, so it really didn’t take any effort for him, to get on you well

And when you informed him that you were American, he almost fainted in excitement (because he forgot to breath lol)

He was all around you, telling you about his thoughts and experiences of America

And asking you questions

He also phoned your parents, asking them if it was okay for you to visit

Let’s just say, you had to start packing in an instant

Changbin:

Another one who’d known your age from the start

And oh boy, did he take advantage of it

He loved to be the one in the role

And he loved playing around, and teasing you about your age

Sometimes running up to you, and taking something, for the example a hair tie from you, saying

“Oh noooo baby, that’s too heavy for you! Let me carry it.”

Or changing channels during a kiss scene explaining his act with the line:

“My baby can’t watch mature content.” - and he looked at you with puppy eyes, as he said it in a high pitched voice

Oh how much could it drive you crazy...

But you couldn’t hate him for it, because he teased you in such an adorable, loving way

To tell the truth he wanted to show you how much he cared, he wanted to spoil you with all of his love and affection

But his pride was too big sometimes, so he kept hiding his feelings behind teasing you

Don’t worry though, he’d never babied you for real

He let you make decisions, because he knew that you could take the responsibilities, and deal with the consequences whether they were good or bad

But any time you did something maturely, or tried to lead things on your own, he went like

“Omo! Am I not supposed to be the older one?” -  and poked your side jokingly

But as much as he loved to be in control, you being the dominant one was a HUGE turn on for him

(Not in a nasty way, I’m a soft stan khmmm... )

It was more like...him being filled with pride towards you, and feeling the urge to boast about you to everyone in near

Like you did something, for the example won a competition, or spoke up for someone, and he immediately went like

“Hey, hey! Can you see her? Her, right there with the beautiful eyes! Yes! Did you see what she did? Amazing right? And she’s mine! My girl!” 

The fact that you were American could amaze him within a second

Like, you could get him off his feet with it

Melting his heart with your English speaking

I can see him being all soft, and drift away in the way you speak, at the point where he couldn’t even tell what you’d been talking about before

“Binnie? Did you even hear a word I said?”

“Sorry baby, what?”

And you just rolled your eyes, but couldn’t manage to hide your smile

Because he was like a little child, he literally drank up your words

Hyunjin:

You guys were in a water park, and you were beyond excited

Because one, it was your first date out of the city with Hyunjin

Because two, he promised you that he was going to teach you how to swim which you’d been eager to learn for a while now

And of course you got the chance to see Hwang Hyunjin without his shirt on…I

meeeaaaaaann…you get me, right?

So there you were, standing in the queue with a familiar tightness in your stomach as the sign of excitement and a little bit of nervousness

And that’s when Hyunjin saw it

You needed to show your ID card for paying, which got your birth date on it

Hyunjin didn’t say anything, he just let his angelic smile spread across his face, ear to ear

He’d always treated you like a princess, a princess of his, but this fact made you even cuter, and more adorable in his eyes

He hadn’t been able to tell that you’d been younger he had to admit that

He’d always got on with you so well, there had never been akwardness or any kind of uncomfortable feeling in your relationship with each other

You didn’t realize that he noticed at first though

But the tiniest things…that was what you noticed, slowly, day by day

Hyunjin’d always been a boyfriend material, taking care of you, comforting you, protecting you when you needed it

But also gave you space to deal with things on your own

But after getting this knowledge he somehow became even more thoughtful towards you, and even sweeter

Which you didn’t really know how was possible

But he somehow managed to do it

His affection manifested sometimes in the tiniest ways but it made you feel so loved and warm

You started to get little notes with sweet messages and cute drawings whenever you had an exam, or had something in your life which made you extremely stressed

This boy made sure you didn’t overwork yourself and that you had an at least 8 hour sleeping session every day

And he packed an extra bottle of water and some junk food for you every day

And if you hadn’t finish them by the end of the day, he would’ve made the saddest, and the most upset face possible

Which would’ve instantly caused you eating, or drinking up the leftovers

When he learned that you were American, he got sooooooo excited

He’d lived in Las Vegas for a while, so he had some experiences, and a bunch of topics to talk about

Like food, society, culture, transport

Places he’d used to go

His English had never been bad, but it got to improve a lot by you

And he was so thankful for it

Because not only could he communicate with you better

But he also got the chance to talk with international fans easier

But as much as he loved to speak with you in English

He also helped you with Korean, being happier than ever to be able to do something for you

Jisung:

When you told Jisung that you were a ‘02 liner, you didn’t really think that much of it

Like it was just a number, a fact about you

Oh but Jisung did

First of all because he’d somehow thought that you were older than him

Not with ages, but definitely older

You’d always been so mature

Not that you couldn’t have fun, because you definitely could

With Jisung it was a common thing

But you had so “complicated” thoughts about serious things

You used your words so wisely

Let’s just say, you were intelligent and well educated

Jisung just couldn’t think about you as someone younger

He even called you Noona sometimes

“What do you mean you’re younger than me, Noona?” - he asked wide eyed when you told him

You couldn’t help, but laugh

You didn’t changed in his eyes though

He loved you, and appriciated you just as much as before

The only thing that changed, that he got worried more, and easier about you

And he started to look after you more careful

Not in an annoying way

He didn’t coo whenever you breathed, and he didn’t follow you everywhere

But he made sure that you were okay, that you had everything you wanted

It didn’t matter what it was

If you wanted a hug, you got it

If you wanted kisses, you got it

If you wanted him to rap you to sleep...well...you got it

He talked with you about America A LOT

And he also liked to challenge himself in English

This caused a lot of funny situations

Especially when he was struggling with words, and didn’t know how to express himself

But he got better as days went by

And when he first helped a tourist to find the square they were looking for, you couldn’t be prouder of him

It didn’t take more than five minutes and the whole Entertainment knew about what he just did

Felix:

You were in the kitchen, pacing from one counter to the other, your hands full with cooking stuffs, your phone stucked between your ear and your shoulder

You’d wanted to cook something for days now, and since you were both pretty sweet toothed with your boyfriend, you’d thought that you’d could make something together

And this was totally fine, but knowing you two, the chances of a fire, a food fight, and a disaster were equally high, so you tried to get the most important things in the kitchen escaped with all your strength

And you were doing fine so far, but holding your phone with your shoulder started to get kind of uncomfortable, so you got into action

“Sorry y/f/n, can I put you on the speaker? My hands are kind of full right now.” - you said in your mother language, since your friend who you were talking to, was also from America

“Of course.” - she said laughing as well, and you let out a relieved sigh, as you somehow managed to push the right button, and put your mobile on the desktop, as you kept searching for the things you needed.

“What are you doing, though?”

“I’m trying to find the sugar. We’re gonna make something really sweet and unhealthy with my boyfriend.” -  you explained and you opened the fridge, and also closing it, remembering that the sugar was usually not there.

“Or something really burned.” - your friend’s laugh filled the room, and you giggled along with her.

“You’re probably right.” -  you agreed.

“Back to your boyfriend.” -  you rolled your eyes, smiling. Your friends kept asking you about him, but you couldn’t say too much, since the relationship of you two, had been not known by the public yet.

“You’re always so secretive. I don’t even know his name.” - you turned around, looking for a bowl now. And that was when you saw him, standing in the kitchen door, like he’d been glued there.

“Or how he looks like.”

“How he looks like?” -  you grinned widely, looking straight into Felix’s wide eyes.

“He has big, beautiful, deep brown eyes.”  - you got raptures over your boyfriend’s visuals.

“Long, blonde hair. Not extremely long though.”-  you explained.

“Rather the ‘I can run my fingers through it’ kind of long.” - you heard as your friend inhaled sharply on the other side of the line.

“His skin is flawless, he has freckles, his nose is literally the cutest, he has full lips, and the sweetest smile in the entire universe.”

“Okay, stop!” - your friend laughed.

“Stop, or else I have to go there, and steal him.”

“I’m sorry but I think I’m gonna keep him” - you giggled softly.

“Actually he’s standing right here, and it looks like I managed to shook him, soo...”

“Okay, I’ll call you back later.” - your friend got your hint in a second, and after a sweet bye, she hung up the phone.

And that was when you looked at Felix more carefully, and what you saw had stolen your breath away for a second.

The boy was slightly but sternly trembling from head to toe, tears welled up in his eyes - probably thanks to your little rambling about him- his mouth hung open, and he got this lost puppy face which instantly caused you to go in awe. You really had shooked him.  

“You...you...” - he tried to say, but his own throat failed him, when his voice cracked. And that was more than enough for you to run up to him, close him in your arms tightly, and cover his face in kisses.

“Oh baby, I’m sorry!” - you said feeling a little guilty, but not really knowing why.

“I didn’t mean to make you cry.” - you whispered in his neck, and you pressed a light kiss, on the soft skin. He shivered. You were still speaking in English but you didn’t even notice at this point

“No...I...” - his low voice gave you goosebumps. “YOU CAN SPEAK ENGLISH!?” - he yelled as the realization hit him. His voice was not angry at all, rather extremely surprised. But the sudden outburst still caused you to flinch back a little. And when he saw this, his tone of voice immediately softened.

“Oh my Gosh, sorry.” - he said, also in English, and you melted back into his arms.

“I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m just...” - he frowned, still struggling with words. “How can you speak English do well...?” - you chukled a little, smiling up at him.

“I’m American.”

“YOU’RE A WHAT?!” - you flinched again. “Oh...sorry...I don’t...I’m...I just...I...” - he mumbled out, trying to make an understandable sentence, but failing continuously.You’d watched him for a few seconds before started laughing. He joined you too, not finding any other way to express his feelings. You laughed along with each other, as you grabbed his hand and dragged towards the couch. You were about to get into a really interesting conversation. 

Oh my God, he loved it soooo much that you were younger than him

Not just because he found it extremely cute, but a significant other, who was close to him in age could make him so so soooo happy

You were his best friend, his cuddle buddy, the love of his life, the one he sent memes to at 3am

Every second you spent with him was filled with laughter and joy

You guys were always playing around, teasing each other, sometimes pranking the older ones

And now that he figured out that you coukd speak English too, the storehouse of pranks and jokes opened up to him, to both of you.

Seungmin:

He is a mature one, more than most of them in his age

And if you were the same, he would have no problems with your age at all

He wasn’t really surprised when you told him, since the difference wasn’t that big between you two

And you didn’t really look older, nor younger than your age

So it was kind of expected

The bestest in mental support #2

Probably thanks to his mature self

But he would’ve always listened to you carefully, and always understood you

And if not, he would’ve tried everything in his power, to understand what you’d been going through

You could lean on him whenever you wanted, or needed to

His humor was sometimes interesting, you had to admit that

But it was utterly cute, and it always made you laugh

Actually it was one of his main goals in life

To make you laugh

He gave you wonderful, and useful advices

Sometimes when you didn’t want to get one

But at the end of the day you were always happy that he’d told you what’d been in his mind

Because it’d made you prevent bunch of difficulties, stress, and hard times

When you told you which your home country was he got really excited, but a little bit nervous too

He was really good in English so he was excited to speak with you in your mother language

But he a was a little bit afraid at the same time, of what you was going to think about his English

But you were amazed

And assured him, that his English was totally fine

Jeongin:

You were in the middle of a tickle fight when it slipped out

You were lying on the couch, your back making contact with the soft material

You laughed so hard, you could barely breath, your neck arched, your hair was a literal mess, and you automatically brought your knees up to your chest, trying to defend as much of your body as possible

But it was useless

Jeongin, who was on his knees, leaning above you, held both of your hands tightly with one of his, while the other one found a way to your sides, poking and tickling it continuously

“Noooo...nohoohhoo...” - you laughed-screamed out desperately, but the only answer you got was a cheeky grin spreading across his face.

Your head fell back as you tried to think of a way to make him stop your torture, and this was the moment when the thought came into your mind.

“Stop hurting the younger one!” - you shouted between your giggles, and he immediately stopped.

Like...immediately.

He sat back on his heels, arms moving away, his eyes widening, his face fell.

You breathed out as you sat up too, gasping for air

“You’re younger than me...?” - he asked, not wanting to believe his ears.

You nodded.

“With...?”

“With a year.”

Poor boy was shocked. He was so used to being younger than almost everyone, he froze in place for a few seconds, not being sure what to do

But when it clicked, and the realization finally hit him, he leaned forward and carefully pulled you close to his chest, a firm blush forming on his cheeks

It was a strange feeling, but a good one, as an unfamiliar warmth, protectiveness, and pride washed over him

You hugged him back, even though you weren’t quite sure what’d just happened

“I’m older than you.” - he whispered in your ears, and you frowned.

“I’m older than you!” - he pushed you back a little, so he could look into your eyes, as he said it again, a little bit louder this time.

And he got up.

And he ran away.

And then he came back with random stuffs.

“I bought you food.”

“But we just had lunch...”

“I bought you medicine.”

“But I’m not even sick...”

“I bought you a puppy! Here!” - and you looked at the tiny, fluffy pup, who was squirming in your lap now.

“But I...”

“Shut up, I’m older than you.”

He showered you with love and affection

In his shy way of course

But he did

He felt responsible of you, even when you told him that he didn’t have to

He wanted to take care of you, protect you and make you happy 

(Please love him with all of your heart, he deserves it so damn much)

If you’d could speak Korean he would’ve been relieved

But to him English was also a challenge

And he would definitely ask you to bring him to your hometown, and show him around

This took me a little while but I hope you like it! :3 Have a wonderful day with a lot of smiles! :D

Did I Ever Tell You About The Time I Got Stranded in An Airport In China?

It’s true. I was utterly alone. I mean in retrospect I wasn’t, there were hundreds of people in that airport. The difference, they spoke native Chinese and I didn’t. My family members have always been avid travelers, to the point where my mom let me, 20 at the time, travel to China alone. Of course, I was meeting up with people when I got there, but the travel part was alllllllll me. So naturally, things had to go wrong. 

So here’s the sitch. Before my brother was born, during the dark ages of minimal internet, my mom joined this online group of moms that were expecting around the same time so they could ask questions and go through the experience of being pregnant for the first time together. My mom really clicked with a woman named Sandie in the group who happened to be from Australia. As we grew up, our families became really close. We would meet up with them in Florida all the time. 

Eventually, we decided we would ship ourselves over to Australia for Christmas/ New Years, but that’s a different story. 

More background information: My dad helped start a robotics team 21 years ago, and has become really well known in that community so he’s friends with everyone. We were contacted while we were in Australia to come meet up with another family who is really involved in robotics internationally so we went to have dinner with their family. They are an INCREDIBLE family. You know the type where they always have a ridiculous story for everything you just can’t believe it’s real? That’s what they were like. Anyway, the mom started talking about how they were opening a robotics lab in China and they take students over to teach the kids about programming and lego league and just to be pen pals; and, if you know my family at all, I immediately invited myself to go. I really was like “oh I should go with you,” out loud, and my mom looked at me and instead of saying no, she looked at this lady and she said “yeah, Julia is learning Chinese, she could go with you.” and the lady just said “yeah! ok” and I was going to China...alone haha. 

Flash forward and I have to take two flights to go to China. The International flight goes sickeningly smooth. I have absolutely 0 issues, and my whole family is extremely relieved, BuT WaIT, there’s more. When I go to take the domestic flight to Fuzhou, the province that we were going to be “touring” I see that the flight is canceled. There’s an announcement over the loud speaker but I’m already panicked and it’s in rapid fire Chinese so I go to the desk instead. The lady at the desk is trying to be patient with me, but I’m clearly already freaking out and her English is broken. She manages to tell me that there was a bad wind storm so they had to postpone a lot of the flights. 

Okay, postpone..that isn’t so bad, right? ALSO WRONG, it’s at this exact moment that my phone’s wifi cuts out entirely, so it’s survival mode now. I’m crying on the floor of the Shanghai airport when I hear actual English for the first time in forever (I’m apparently really good at accidental Frozen references) but I FLY towards whoever is speaking English. The culprit turns out to be these 2 guys from Canada. One of them speaks fluent Chinese and they’re helpful for about 5 minutes before they have to abandon me because their flight was rescheduled. So, we’re back to square one. 

At this point, they announce that the flight is cancelled and I want to die, but the good news is my wifi comes back on. I immediately text my mom and my uncle, who my aunt met when she was in the Peace Corps in China so he starts a call with his entire family that lives in China apparently because I don’t recognize any of these people at all. The only thing they can tell me to do is to talk to a flight attendant so that’s what I do. 

Imagine a group of really cute and young sorority girls hanging out when they’re approached by someone that..is just completely a mess. Yeah that’s what it was like when I went over to them. I got one of the girls to help me and again, her English was about the level of my Chinese at the time, so together we were only slightly above idiot. She tells me that the Chinese airport doesn’t let foreigners stay at the onsite hotel, so I would be able to go with her and her friend once she got off of her shift to go to a hotel. 

SOUNDS SUS doesn’t it, but when you’re desperate, you’re desperate. When the flight attendant gets off of her shift I go with her to the parking garage because she booked a hotel for me. When we finally get there, this 25 year old Chinese Troy Bolton looking man whips his car around and we get in with him (completely safe, how could you not trust Chinese Troy Bolton). We drive about 30 minutes through Shanghai and honestly, it’s beautiful. It was one of those circumstances in life we’re you’re looking at the city lit up at night and you really can’t believe you’re there. It was probably one of the scariest, yet most memorable experiences of my life. 

We pull into the hotel and since I finally had native speakers with me, things were going a lot smoother. The flight attendant was talking with my uncle on the phone about scheduling me a flight for the next day and she talked to the lady in the lobby about my room. At this point, I knew her pretty well because, surprise, she was actually 30 years old and had a daughter and I thought that was SO CUTE. I gave the flight attendant a hug and thanked her friend, and it was just me again. 

Here’s the best part of this entire story. The only hotel they could book me in was, wait for it, a honeymoon suite. A HONEYMOON SUITE. The hallways of the hotel were covered in mirrors and the carpets were covered in flowers. Everything smelled like drugs and smoke and clearly everyone was having the time of their lives. The bathroom in the room, completely see through, the bed had a HUGE mural of Barbie’s face above it and the curtains had minnie mouse on them and I don’t know how that’s romantic at all, but you can’t make this shit up haha. If you think I’m lying, here’s a lil (horrible) photo I took of the curtains. If you want to see video, ask me in person. 

At this point, I am way past delirious. I took a shower and time ceased to exist. I was so jet lagged and confused. I called my mom and after I hung up with her I immediately fell asleep. A solid 2 hours later I woke up and SCREAMED because my body clock was so off, I thought it was the next day and I had missed my next flight. I called my mom crying again, and she told me it had only been two hours so I went back to bed. When I finally woke up at the right time my uncle, god bless this man, got on the phone with me and helped me talk to the people at the desk. They got a cab for me and I trudged back to the airport. 

2nd times the charm, except, I need to get my boarding pass printed out at the help desk, which has a line of about the entirety of the Chinese population. Fun fact about China too, they don’t know what a straight line is. This is just fact, they just cut straight to the front and shove each other out of the way. This took me way too long to realize, and after I stood in this line for about 2 hours, I realized that I was going to have to assimilate. So there I was, a puny stick of a human, elbowing grown Chinese men out of my way to get this pass while my uncle and 300 relatives are on the call with me. 

I get to the the desk and surprise, the person is not helpful at all so I do what any actually insane person would do and I just continued walking my way through security to the gates. I get filtered into bag check of which, I don’t even have a bag so I just walk up to the desk anyway to see if anyone else can help me. 

After the longest 5 minutes of my life my SAVIOR of a 22 year old tiny little man decides to give me his attention. I don’t know HOW. I don’t. Know. How. But he manages to print a boarding pass for me and my soul left my body because at this point I had 30 minutes to get to my flight so I thank him and SPRINT and I mean really book it through security to the plane. I finally made it. 

Granted, the trip was entirely worth that stress. The kids I met in China were incredibly kind. They called me a Disney Princess and wrote me love letters and gave me hugs even though it was clear I didn’t know shit about coding. It was just amazing to be there as a friend and role model for them. I stood in front of them and spoke Chinese and encouraged them to keep learning English and it was the most grounding experience of my life, because it was clear that they didn’t have much. 

We went to five cities while we were there to tell the kids about lego league and cooperation and teamwork. I sat in on meetings with school board professionals and on interviews with students that wished to continue their education abroad in America. I learned so much about the systematic education there and there is nothing I want more than to go back there. The kids have already invited me back to their homes, and I have never met anyone more welcoming and kind. So think twice before you make jokes about the Corona Virus. 

At the end of the day, this trip defines what I want to do. There is nothing like stepping entirely out of your comfort zone to explore. There is nothing like shocking a bunch of Chinese men with your ability to use chopsticks. There is nothing like putting aside biases and language barriers and simply treating people like people. Everywhere I go, I think of that place as a new home to me, and I can’t wait to be home there again.

Also..the next semester when I got back, we learned the airport and travel unit at school in Chinese class, such is life I guess. 

Here are some pictures from China. 

-Julia 

A Newsies history lesson: Joseph Pulitzer

I haven’t done a Newsies history lesson in a while, so I thought I’d do another one about arguably one of the most interesting people in the story: Joseph Pulitzer, The World publisher and antagonist of the musical.

Buckle up, y’all, because this is a long one (but his life is worth the read, I’d say).

---

Early Life

Joseph Pulitzer was born on April 10, 1847, in Mako, Hungary to a wealthy Magyar-Jewish family. His father was a grain merchant who retired in Budapest, where Pulitzer grew up and attended school.

In 1864, when he was seventeen-years-old, Pulitzer tried enlist in the Austrian Army, Napoleon’s Foreign Legion, and the British Army, but he was rejected because of his poor eyesight and bad health.

Pulitzer still wanted to become a soldier, however, so he enlisted as a substitute for a draftee after meeting a bounty recruiter for the U.S. Union Army. Pulitzer enlisted for a year in the Lincoln Calvary, which worked for him because there were many German soldiers in the unit. Pulitzer was fluent in German and French; however, he spoke very little English.

After a year in the Lincoln Calvary, Pulitzer left for St. Louis, where he worked odd jobs as a muleteer, baggage handler, and waiter, among others. 

While in St. Louis, Pulitzer studied English and the law at Mercantile Library, and it was here, actually, that his journalism career began.

The Start of Pulitzer’s Journalism Career

Pulitzer met two editors of the leading German language daily, Westliche Post, while observing and critiquing their chess game, and they offered him a job after engaging him in conversation and finding him rather impressive.

In 1872, four years after beginning work for the Westliche Post, Pulitzer had already built a reputation as a journalist. He became a publisher for the paper at age 25, and by 1878, he had bought and become owner of the St. Louis Post-Dispatch, another St. Louis-based newspaper. Pulitzer was already making his mark on the world of journalism.

Pulitzer worked tirelessly to improve and change the St. Louis Post-Dispatch into a spectacular newspaper. His specialties were investigative articles and editorials exposing corruption, tax-dodgers, and gamblers, and he did it incredibly well. This type of dramatic news was popular with the public, and the St. Louis Dispatch became very popular. 

The World

In 1883, Pulitzer met with Jay Gould, the financier, and bought The New York World, a newspaper close to bankruptcy. He immersed himself in The World, changing everything from its editorial policy to its format, and used some of the techniques that had helped the St. Louis Post-Dispatch prosper to build back up The World’s circulation.

“He crusaded against public and private corruption, filled the news columns with a spate of sensationalized features, made the first extensive use of illustrations, and staged news stunts,” a biographical article by Seymour Topping on the Pulitzer Prize website reads. “In one of the most successful promotions, The World raised public subscriptions for the building of a pedestal at the entrance to the New York harbor so that the Statue of Liberty, which was stranded in France awaiting shipment, could be emplaced.”

These techniques proved very successful, and over the next ten years, The World’s circulation increased to more than 600,000, and it became the largest circulating newspaper in the United States.

However, all this success came with a price that had only been building since the beginning of Pulitzer’s journalism career: both his health and his eyesight were rapidly failing, and there were many factors that only exacerbated the problems. One was Pulitzer’s unrelenting dedication to his work, and the other was a slanderous campaign against him by Charles Anderson Dana, publisher of The Sun, a competing newspaper.

Dana was frustrated by The World’s success, so he took matters into his own hands by attacking Pulitzer and his Jewish ancestry, writing him as “the Jew who had denied his race and religion”, and seeking to “alienate New York’s Jewish community from The World” (Topping).

This attack caused further stress on Pulitzer and caused his health to deteriorate to the point that he was virtually blind by 1890, when he then withdrew from the editorship of The World and was unable to return to its newsroom. Pulitzer also had severe depression, which was the partial cause of an illness that left him extremely sensitive to noise. Because of this, Pulitzer spent a great deal of the next portion of his life in soundproofed “vaults”, as he called them, “ aboard his yacht, Liberty, in the "Tower of Silence" at his vacation retreat in Bar Harbor, Maine, and at his New York mansion” (Topping).

Despite the fact that he was constantly travelling, trying in vain to find a cure for his illnesses, Pulitzer still kept a close eye on his newspapers and was very much involved in their editorial and business direction. He was so intent on keeping his communications with the newspapers secret that he actually kept a code book of approximately 20,000 names and terms.

The War, The Journal, and Yellow Journalism

1896 to 1898, Pulitzer found himself engaging in what has been described as a “bitter circulation battle” against William Randolph Hearst, who ran The New York Journal, during the years of Cuba’s rebellion against Spanish rule. The headlines and stories in both newspapers became increasingly sensationalized and inaccurate, coming to a head when the U.S. battleship Maine blew up and sank in Havana in February of 1898, and both The World and The Journal called for war against Spain.

After the Spanish-American War, Pulitzer withdrew from the battle with Hearst and what had become known as “yellow journalism” - the act of using sensationalized news, headlines, and cartoons to attract readers and increase circulation.

The Newsboys Strike of 1899

During the war, 200 publishers raised the price of a one-hundred paper bundle from 50 cents to 60 cents, which worked well for a time because so many newspapers were being sold due to the exciting headlines. Once the war ended, most papers brought their prices back down, but some--most notably The World and The Journal--did down, much to the anger of the newsboys who distributed those papers. The newsboys and girls (both groups referred to as newsies for the sake of consistency) declared a strike against the newspaper companies.

There were rallies in the name of the strike that drew more than 5,000 newsies from all over the city. Below is an excerpt from strike leader Kid Blink’s speech, quoted in an article by The New York Tribune:

“Friens and feller workers. Dis is a time which tries de hearts of men. Dis is de time when we’se got to stick together like glue…. We know wot we wants and we’ll git it even if we is blind.”

After two weeks, the newspapers and the newsies came to a compromise: the price of the papers would not decrease, but the newspaper companies would buy back any papers the newsies did not sell.

Columbia University

In 1903, Pulitzer donated $2,000,000 to Columbia University to help create the Columbia University School of Journalism. According to the State Historical Society of Missouri, “the school oversees the Pulitzer Prize, an award given to those who excel in journalism, literature, and music. The prize began with a donation from Pulitzer and was first awarded in 1917.”

“In May 1904, writing in The North American Review in support of his proposal for the founding of a school of journalism, Pulitzer summarized his credo: ‘Our Republic and its press will rise or fall together. An able, disinterested, public-spirited press, with trained intelligence to know the right and courage to do it, can preserve that public virtue without which popular government is a sham and a mockery. A cynical, mercenary, demagogic press will produce in time a people as base as itself. The power to mould the future of the Republic will be in the hands of the journalists of future generations’“ (Topping).

Political Views

Pulitzer was active in politics in his twenties, and was elected to the Missouri state legislature in 1869. From 1871 to 1872, he helped to organize the Liberal Republican Party in Missouri, which nominated Horace Greeley to run for President in 1872. Greeley lost the election, the party collapsed, and Pulitzer became and remained a Democrat for the rest of his life. 

According to the United States History website, “Pulitzer supported organized labor, attacked trusts and monopolies, and exposed political corruption. He was committed to raising the standards of the journalism profession.”

Joseph Pulitzer and Theodore Roosevelt

There isn’t much on what Pulitzer wrote about Roosevelt before the latter was elected governor (at least not where I have easy access to it), but there is still controversy an event in 1909, when The World exposed a fraudulent payment of $40 million by the US to the French Panama Canal Company. Roosevelt then accused Pulitzer of spreading false information, and the federal government indicted Pulitzer for criminally libeling Roosevelt and the banker J.P. Morgan, as quoted in an article in The Herald and News (quotes by Roosevelt):

“The real offender is Mr. Joseph Pulitzer, editor and proprietor of the World. While the criminal offence of which Mr. Pulitzer has been guilty is in the form of a libel upon individuals, the great injury done is in blackening the good name of the American people. It should not be left to a private citizen to sue Mr. Pulitzer for libel. He should be prosecuted for libel by the government authorities.

“In point of encouragement of iniquity, in point of infamy, of wrongdoing, there is nothing to choose between a public servant who betrays his trust, a public servant who is guilty of blackmail or theft or financial dishonesty or any kind, and a man guilty as Mr. Jos[sic] Pulitzer has been guilty in this instance. It is, therefore, a high national duty to bring to justice this villifier of the American people, this man who wantonly and wickedly and without one shadow of justification seeks to blackmail the character of reputable private citizens and to convict the government of his own country in the eyes of the civilized world of wrong doing of the basest and foulest kind, when he has not one shadow of justification of any sort or description for the charge he has made. The attorney general has under consideration the form in which the proceedings against Mr. Pulitzer shall be brought.”

However, the courts ultimately dismissed the indictments against Pulitzer, and he won an important journalistic victory concerning freedom of the press.

Death

Joseph Pulitzer died on October 29, 1911, aboard his yacht. The following is an excerpt from his obituary in the New York Times:

“CHARLESTON, S.C., Oct. 29.--Joseph Pulitzer, proprietor of The New York World and St. Louis Post-Dispatch, died aboard his yacht, the Liberty, in Charleston Harbor at 1:40 o'clock this afternoon. The immediate cause of Mr. Pulitzer's death was heart disease. Although he had been in poor health for some time, there was no suspicion on the part of those accompanying him that his condition was serious.

The change for the worse came at about 2 o'clock this morning, when he suffered an attack of severe pain. By daylight he appeared to be better and fell asleep soon after 10:30. He awoke at 1 o'clock and complained of pain in his heart. Soon he fell into a faint and expired at 1:40 o'clock.

Mrs. Pulitzer, who had been sent for, arrived from New York today, and reached the yacht shortly before her husband died. At his bedside also when the end came was his youngest son, Herbert, who has been cruising with his father.

Mr. Pulitzer's body will be taken north at 4:30 tomorrow afternoon on a special Pullman car. The funeral will be held at Woodlawn Cemetery in New York probably toward the end of this week.

Mr. Pulitzer's son, Joseph, Jr., is now on his way from St. Louis with his wife, and one of his daughters will come from Florida. Ralph Pulitzer, the eldest son, is on the way to Charleston, and will meet the train en route.

Up to an hour and a half before his death Mr. Pulitzer's mind remained perfectly clear. His German secretary had been reading to him an account of the reign of Louis the Eleventh of France, in whose career Mr. Pulitzer had always taken the liveliest interest. As the secretary neared the end of his chapter and came to the death of the French King, Mr. Pulitzer said to him:

‘Leise, ganz leise, ganz leise.’ (softly, quite softly.)

These were the last words he spoke.”

Joseph Pulitzer may have been the antagonist in Newsies, but he also definitely led a very interesting life, and it is safe to say that he and his newspaper had a great impact on journalism, and will continue to for years to come.

---

Sources:

photo from the New World Encyclopedia

Biography of Joseph Pulitzer - The Pulitzer Prizes

Yellow journalism

Extra! Extra! Newsies Strike of 1899

Joseph Pulitzer - The State Historical Society of Missouri

Joseph Pulitzer - Jewish Virtual Library

Joseph Pulitzer - American newspaper publisher

Joseph Pulitzer - United States History

Obituary: New York Times

GENETIC NEMESIS [SHUICHI HISHIKURA] ~ CHAPTER 5

It was the following day when Baba asked to meet with me.

“That was fast,” I said, taking the file he held out to me.

“Most of this stuff is public knowledge, though.” Baba gave me a friendly smile.

I opened the file; the first page held information about his birth and family background. Shuichi Hishikura. Shuichi… Shu. No siblings, either. My face tensed considerably.

“Emillia?” Eisuke called my name, and I looked up at him.

“The man I met… He called himself Shu. He looked practically identical to Hishikura. Hishikura’s first name is Shuichi… and he doesn’t have siblings.”

“So you’re saying…”

“Shu is Hishikura. He disguised himself and approached me as someone else. And he said he wants to get to know me better.”

“He probably wants to use you for something,” Soryu said.

“I’m sure it has something to do with you.” I looked directly at Eisuke.

“Why do you say that?” he asked.

“Hishikura is suspiciously interested in you and what you do.”

“Wait a minute. If the guy you met is actually Hishikura, then that means…” Baba started.

“Gross! You had sex with Hishikura!” Ota exclaimed.

My face, which had finally returned to normal, twitched

“Yes, I’m well aware of that tiny fact, thank you, Ota.” I closed my eyes and smiled sarcastically.

“He must have been terrible at it. I can’t imagine that stick in the mud can be good in bed,” Ota retorted. I suddenly remembered that night and felt my face grow hotter than I’d ever felt before. “No way… Emillia! Was he actually good?!”

“You actually really want me to hit you, don’t you?”  

“Enough. Keep him close to you and found out what his goal is. Just don’t let him find out that you know anything,” Eisuke said.

“Why should I have to do it? I don’t owe you anything. Handle it yourself.” I stood up, flipped my hair over my shoulder, and left the penthouse

 A week had passed since meeting Shu. It was Saturday. I didn’t have that much to do, so I decided to go sightseeing. I remember that Hishikura told me to turn in a report if I was planning on going out. I thought back to that conversation…

“You’re not actually going to check up on me on a Saturday, are you?”

“Of course not. Do I look like I have that much time on my hands?”

“Do you really want me to answer that?” I gave him an incredulous look, earning myself a glare in return.

“I’m not the one that needs information. The government of Dubai does.”

“Sure they do.” I scoffed.

That idiot knows damn well I’m not a terrorist. He’s going out of his way to keep me under his surveillance, and the government of Dubai has little to do with that. He’s plotting something. The thought pissed me off so much, I started stomping instead of walking.

“Emillia!”

“Huh?” I turned around at hearing my name called.

“I knew it was you, Emillia!” It was ‘Shu’. It was the first time I’d seen him since I figured out his identity. To be honest it made me feel a little uncomfortable.

“Oh. H-Hello. What are you doing here?” I pretended to be none the wiser, despite my awkwardness.

He smiled tenderly. “On my way home from work. What about you?”

“Sightseeing, I guess.”

“I can’t believe we ran into each other here. Want to grab some lunch?”

“Um, sure.”

 Shu brought me to a fancy restaurant he said was one of his favourites. Honestly, I had no idea what this guy was thinking, or what he wanted from me. I played along because I had no idea what else to do, but part of me was also curious. What would make someone go to such extreme lengths?

“Is there anything in particular you’d like to eat?” he asked.

“Not in particular,” I said as I looked over the menu.

“Really? Okay, let’s see here…” Shu spoke in fluent English to the waiter who came to take our order. I remember him speaking Arabic before, too. I guess he’s good with language. “Oh, I’m sure you’d like a dessert, right?”

“Sounds good.”

“Do you like sweets?”

“Sure, I do. Who doesn’t?”

“Actually, I’m not too fond of sweets.”

“Oh, okay.” Shu smiled at me vaguely in response. “Thanks for the other day. Taking care of my phone, I mean.”

“Don’t worry about it. Oh, but…” A mischievous smiled played on his lips. “When I had your cell phone, I got a call from an extremely arrogant man. Is he your brother?”

“Yeah.”

“It must suck to have him call you all the time. He seemed like he does that.”

“He’s always asking me for favours. I usually just blow him off. Having him owe me favours hardly benefits me. And yet he just keeps asking.” I sighed, annoyed. It was only afterwards that I realised what I had blurted out. The character Hishikura had created was so easy going, it made me divulge information I didn’t mean to.

 A while later, the waiter brought out a bunch of colourful dishes.

“It’s good,” I said with a bit more emotion in my voice than before.

“I’m glad you like it. I love seeing you smile.”

“Smile?”

“I’ve noticed… You don’t smile often.” Shu had a sad expression on his face. Man this guy was a good actor. “So, how’s it going with that nosy idiot you told me about?”

“Oh, you know… Same old, same old, I guess,” I replied evasively.

“Aww… That really sucks.”

“Mm… But never mind that. What about you?”

“Me?”

“Why did you come to Dubai?”

“Work. I work in real estate. Lots of new construction in Dubai. I even helped out a little with the new Tres Spades.”

“Oh, I see. Doesn’t your family get worried about you, living in another country?”

“My family? Oh…” For the first time since I met him, he seemed like he didn’t know what to say. “My father is a Japanese politician. He doesn’t have time to be concerned about me.”

“A politician, huh…”

Shu smiled wryly at me. “He hardly ever contacts me, so we’re basically estranged.”

“You’re not following in his footsteps?” I tested him.

“I have an older twin brother. I’m sure he’ll take over the seat.” There was an awkward expression on his face.

 “Thanks for lunch.”

“It’s my pleasure.” Shu put his shiny leather wallet back in his pocket. I checked the time on my watch. To think I even have to write down the exact time on that bloody report.

“Stop standin’ in the way of the damn door.” I’d recognize that voice anywhere. Kishi.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

“Can’t a man take a walk around town if he wants to?” he asked rhetorically, cigarette in mouth. “So this is your main squeeze, eh?” He motioned towards Shu, who only smiled mysteriously in response.

“My what?” His speech, I swear. What’s with that slang? Seriously.

“Didn’t know you had it in ya, kid.” Kishi shot one last bored look at us and then ambled away. Now that I think about it, I don’t think he was in the penthouse that time we discussed Hishikura.

“You know him?” Shu asked me.

“Acquaintance of Eisuke.”

“Hm. Well, should we go? I’ll take you home.” Shu had his usual smile on his face. He didn’t seem bothered at all.

 “Is here okay?”

“Yeah. It’s just over there.”

“I see. Well, call me anytime.”

“I will.”

Shu waved at me and then crossed the street. After I made sure he was out of sight, I headed to the embassy.

 An older, unfamiliar man appeared in the doorway.

“Emillia Momomiya?” he asked.

“Who are you?” I questioned suspiciously.

“I’m Mr. Hishikura’s secretary. My name is Yuji Maezono.” He smiled gently at me.

“Hmm…” I eyed him carefully up and down.

“Mr. Hishikura is busy right now. I’ll take the report from you,” he said.

“Right…” I handed him the report. Busy, huh? I had to stop myself from smirking sarcastically. He must think I’m real stupid. It pissed me off. With one last look at the man, I left.

 That Monday morning. As usual, Hishikura was waiting for me in the hotel. I saw him going over some documents, which included my report from Saturday.

“You had an awfully ordinary Saturday. So normal it almost makes me suspicious…”

“Then how, may I ask, did you spend your Saturday?” I watched him carefully.

Hishikura covered it up pretty well, but I could tell he was uncomfortable.

“That’s none of your business,” he snapped at me.

“Hmph.”

“Did you have lunch alone yesterday?”

“No. I ran into a… friend… and we ate together.”

“I see. Is there anything else you need to report to me about Saturday?”

“If I did, it’d be in the report.” I sighed, mentally tired. After a moment’s silence, I spoke again. “You weren’t there yesterday when I stopped by…”

“Do I look like I have time to sit around and wait for you? I’m a busy man.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” I muttered under my breath, earning a sharp glare from him. I sighed again and gave him a serious look. “You know, I don’t know what you’re after, but I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t involve me.”

 That afternoon I went up to the penthouse to discuss details about the auction with the guys; the Wings of Freedom was helping to guard the items for the next one.

“And the special item will be the legendary tiara. I bet all the millionaires will love it,” Baba smiled excitedly.

“Can I draw the tiara before it goes up for auction? I heard it used to belong to a real princess a long time ago,” Ota said.

I was barely listening to them as I rested my cheek in the palm of my hand and stared out the window at nothing in particular.

“Emillia, are you okay?” Baba asked worriedly.

“Yeah,” I replied indifferently.

“Oh, yeah. I saw this kid yesterday with her boyfriend.” Kishi started telling everybody about yesterday. “I saw her comin’ outta this real ritzy joint, too.” He smirked. My eyes flit to him and then back to the window.

“And by boyfriend, he means…” I felt Eisuke glaring at me. I knew what he wanted to say. Why was I with him?

“I don’t owe you an explanation,” I said without looking at him.

“You said you weren’t going to involve yourself,” Eisuke said.

“Like I said, I don’t owe you an explanation.”  

  To be continued…

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Kindness Matters

Olyota! Ibara iyange ninyowe Sarah. Ninduga New York. Ninsomo ebisoro ha Cornell University. Ninkora ne kitongole kya Kibale Chimpanzee Project. Msemerirwe kukurora.

In case you can’t read Rutoora, the local language of Kanyawara, which I couldn’t do until earlier this week, I’ll translate:

Hello! My name is Sarah. I am from New York. I study animals at Cornell University. I work with an organization called Kibale Chimpanzee Project. It is nice meeting you.

After learning that I would be spending my summer in Uganda, I immediately looked up what language is spoken here. Google gave me two options: English and Swahili. I love learning new languages, so I decided without thinking twice that I would begin to learn Swahili. I would be fluent by the end of the spring semester and completely able to understand everything everyone said. …or I would at least be able to introduce myself when I met people. However, when I met with Allison and Rachel, two girls who were in Uganda last summer, they informed me that nobody in Uganda really speaks Swahili and that the local villagers wouldn’t understand me any better than if I spoke English. Heartbroken, I removed the “Learn Swahili” playlists from the ones I had saved on Spotify, realizing that English was going to be the only language I could bring with me. I would never be able to communicate with the local villagers unless I had a translator with me, which would completely strip me of my high-valued independence.

That all changed my first week in Kibale.

I traveled with the Mobile Clinic on June 7 and 8 to remote villages too far from a doctor’s office to receive treatment for most diseases. The first day we went to Kahondo. After a long ride in the back seat of a truck, smushed in with three other people (there were a total of 11 people in the truck: three in the front seat, four in the back seat, and four in the bed) and bruised from crashing into the door with every bump (which there are a lot of, making me feel extremely grateful for the roads in Ithaca), we finally arrived in a dust-covered town built of whatever scrap materials were available.

Stepping out, I saw a gaggle of schoolchildren swarming the doors of the small schoolhouse, eagerly peering out to catch a glimpse of the Mobile Clinic. Their excitement became fascination and curiosity after seeing me, a white girl, step out of the truck. They ran across the road, babbling in whatever language they spoke (I didn’t know at the time), stopped dead in their tracks when they were next to me, and stared at me, wide-eyed and unsure of what to think. I waved hello, and they all began giggling before racing back to the schoolhouse to observe me from a farther distance. I proceeded to help set up the clinic in some empty school buildings – one teensy room was going to be the “doctor’s office”, another was the lab, and a third was the reception area. After we were all set, they began playing music out of some speakers we had brought along to encourage people that the Mobile Clinic was friendly and that they should come and seek the help they needed. After a significant crowd had gathered, everyone began to introduce themselves. Eventually, it was time for me to introduce myself. As I raised the microphone to my mouth, I was instantly embarrassed. Whatever I said wouldn’t be understood by anyone. I took a deep breath and gave them the basics anyways. When I finished, I offered them a smile, hoping they would think of me as a nice person they could trust. Much to my relief, Patrick, the doctor, then introduced me to them in their language. They smiled, appreciating that he took the time to translate.

Throughout the afternoon, patients came pouring into the reception area, a steady stream of sick people needing help and unable to get it until the Mobile Clinic came to their village about once every 3-4 months. Somehow, we made it through 130 patients in 5 hours. Patrick is a true miracle worker. My job was to write down everyone’s names, ages, and villages into the logbook. As I wrote, I observed the people who stopped by. There were a countless number of 18-year-old girls with 2-3 children peeking around them from behind, and most of them were pregnant with another child. In the books they brought with them for the doctor to write in, many of them said that their education stopped at second grade. All the children came toddling in without shoes and with giant, rotund bellies full of worms. My heart sank as I continued to write name after name after name. In what way would I ever be able to connect with these people? My life is perfect in comparison – I’m receiving a college degree from one of the most prestigious universities in the world; I have multiple pairs of shoes; there is an abundance of food for me; I can get medical help the instant I need it. I couldn’t talk to them either; they didn’t speak English and I didn’t speak their language.

During the times that there wasn’t anyone to register, I looked out at the people waiting in the grass. They were all happy. The children were running and laughing with each other. People danced to the music. Even though they were sick, these villagers were enjoying themselves. The fact that the kids weren’t wearing shoes didn’t bother them – they wanted to wrestle in the dirt with their friends anyways. The young mothers weren’t upset that they had children – they loved them with the same passion my mother has for me. Watching the people outside, I realized, not for the first time, that Ugandan people don’t cultivate stress. Patrick loved treating the people who came, and he was smiling at the end, even though the work must have been exhausting. The patients weren’t upset about waiting for five hours to see the doctor; instead, they took the time to visit with each other. They seemed to embrace the lesson I learned my first week here: it’ll happen when it happens.

While I was relieved that the villagers didn’t seem to be upset with their lives, I still felt so distant from them. We’re both happy, but in totally different circumstances. Is that really enough to connect to someone? Some people would probably say yes. I wasn’t going to settle for that though. I came to Uganda to learn, and what better way to connect to people than to learn their language? Excited and eager to once again rekindle my love of foreign languages, I asked one of the girls from the Mobile Clinic to teach me a few simple phrases in Rutoora so I could introduce myself the next week. I’ve been reciting the phrases every day to prevent myself from forgetting what they sound like. I look forward to traveling with the Mobile Clinic tomorrow and introducing myself to the local villagers in their own language.

From this experience, I learned not only a few phrases in Rutoora, but I also clarified my definition of what it means to be happy and to have a good life. I realized that what the villagers need is not pity but medical care. They don’t have much, but they are more than willing to offer me maize roasted over a fire. They patiently wait for me to write their names, not at all annoyed that I sometimes mistake the spellings. The people in Uganda are, if nothing else, kind. To always be so kind and loving in everything you do takes a uniquely strong sort of person. While I at first thought they would envy me, the reality is that I envy them. From this day forward, I will always strive to be as good willed as they are, to practice unconditional love, and to be happy in whatever circumstances arise. Thank you, Uganda, for helping me become a better person. I hope I can someday repay you.

s.wright

I’ve been meaning to write this article for a while, but there’s so much to say that I didn’t know where to start. Last week, Marine Le Pen (extreme-right presidential candidate in France) said that she would ban dual-citizenship in France for non-European countries. After reading that, I was angry, sad, confused, etc. There were so many things I wanted to tell her, and the entire world. Yesterday, my sister and I had a conversation about the fact that we are bilingual, that we have a dual-citizenship, that we have two cultures. After that, I decided to go back to writing this article. So let’s go back to the start.

I was born in France from a French mother and an American father. That means that I was born with two citizenships: French and American. My mom speaks to me in French, and I naturally answer in French. My dad has always spoken to me in English, but weirdly, I mostly answer in French, but that’s starting to change as I’m spending more and more time speaking English. And another weird thing is that when I write an email to my dad, or text him, it’s always in English, even though when I speak to him it’s mostly in French. Confusing, I know. My parents speak to each other in French, and my dad is completely fluent in French with a very little accent. My mom speaks perfectly English too, but she has less chances of speaking it as we’ve always lived in France. I only speak in French with my sister, except when we talk via Facebook where we alternate both languages. The same goes with my brother, but we also sometimes speak in English to each other.

                                                                      Paris 2015 / New York 2015

I didn’t only grew up with two languages, but with two cultures. Indeed, I listened to all the French children’s songs, my mom read to me every classic French children books. And my dad read to me the American children’s books, and would sing American children songs. We grew up watching French and American movies. We would spend the school year in France, and then a month of summer at my grandparents’ place in Connecticut, USA. I remember how excited we were every year around March/April when my dad would buy the plane tickets – it meant that we were for sure going to the United States to see my grandparents. It wasn’t the fact that we were going to the United States that excited us the most, it was that were going to see our other family, our “American family” as we say to our “French friends”. We were going to our second home. And every time we left the United States we were crying. We were happy, of course, to go back to France/home and see our “French grandmother” (Agnès as we called her), but we were sad to leave our American grandparents, and they were growing old and we didn’t know when would be the next time we would see them as plane tickets are expensive and it was never sure we would go back the next summer. And it was also that we were leaving one of our homes to go to our other, and that was always hard.

Grandma (left) and Agnès (right), my two grandmothers

                                        American grandparents’s house / French grandmother’s house

Until 6th grade, I didn’t realize how lucky I was to already know how to speak English. Before that, I thought that every Dad in France spoke English to their kids (even though my friends’ dads spoke French). 6th grade is when you truly start to learn English in France, and I realized that I was ahead of everyone else. But I never bragged about it, actually I would try to hide it for the longest time I could. That never lasted long because as soon as I talked in class, the teacher and all the other students knew I spoke English fluently. But I hated it because then the teachers always called on me when no else knew a word, and most of the times I knew how to translate but sometimes I couldn’t. It was either because I didn’t know the French or English word (because really, do you know every word??), or sometimes I could picture it in my head but couldn’t find the word in one language. When that happened, some kids would just laugh and say: “oh you don’t know that word ahaha”. I was a shy kid, so that hurt, and I was angry at all those kids who couldn’t understand what I was going through. Eventually, as I grew up I started answering those laughs by asking them if they knew every French word, if they always had 100% on French tests, etc.

                                                           Vacation in Darien, CT // Vacation in Paris

With Dad in New York

With Mom in Paris

I graduated French high school with high honors in Humanities. After that I decided to do an English major and Theater minor. Many of my friends went to Law school, or med school, or preparatory school for bigger schools (if I start to explain the French college system we’ll be here forever). When I go home for breaks, some people ask me what I study. When I answer English and Theater the most common response I have (in France only) is “Oh that’s easy for you” and then they go on to talk about how hard it is for them to study law, medicine or whatever they’re doing (or their kids are doing). And I just smile. But really, I want to yell. No, it’s not easy. Do you know what the English major is? We have British AND American history, English and American literatures, English grammar (where we have to analyze why the English grammar works like that), phonetics (you have to learn a whole new alphabet). So yes, I have some advantage: reading English books is easier because I’ve been use to reading for a very long time, my English grammar is almost perfect, and I already have an American accent. Actually, that last point doesn’t help me in France. Indeed, in French schools they teach you the British accent so phonology is very confusing for me as the British and American accents are very different. The point is that yes, I do have an advantage, but I have to analyze works of literature the same way someone who studies French in France (“Lettres”) has to and yet, you don’t tell that person that their studies are easy for them because they speak French, do you? I have to learn British and American history just as much as the other kids. And please tell me why studying Theater is easy? Okay, enough with that paragraph, I’m getting mad at my keyboard.

                                                                         Good old American sports

                             Going to college in Paris // Going to college at Middlebury College, VT

When the news articles about Le Pen wanting to ban dual-citizenship were shared on Facebook I read the comments. Most of the people were reacting the same I was; there are so many people with dual-citizenships in France, and in the entire world. But some infuriated me. They were saying that they should choose only one citizenship because otherwise it meant that they weren’t really French, or that if they chose to become French they should forget the other one. Those people are clearly not thinking of kids form mixed-marriage who were born like that. And even people who chose to become French (my dad for example) shouldn’t be asked to choose. Actually, my dad may love France more than some French people do. You know why? It is because he chose that country as his adoptive country. But I’m not going to talk for him. I can only talk about what I know. And I feel just as French as I do American. I remember over a year ago someone asking me why I cared about French politics because I lived both in France and in the US. For that person, I shouldn’t have cared about French politics because I also had another home. Well, I care about both French and American politics and always will because they both have an impact on my future, and the future of my kids. I love France as much as I love the United States and that’s why I voted in the American elections because I have the right and the duty to make my voice heard as an American citizen. I’ve always cared about French politics, and I’ve always understood the French political system because I went to school in France, and because my family has always be interested in politics. In late April we have the French presidential elections and I will vote because I have a right and duty to fulfill but also because it’s my future we’re talking about, so it’s concerns me. And it’s tiring, it’s so tiring to follow both French and American politics, especially now because it’s such a mess in both countries and every day when I look at my newsfeed I get depressed at the state of the world right now. But I never stop informing myself on those two countries because they both concern my future, and me and, because I have a love/hate relationship with both countries.

        Summers in Connecticut // Reuniting with Mom in France after a trip to the US without her.

To continue on Marine Le Pen’s point on banning dual-citizenship, I’ll never be able to choose one country over the other. It’s just impossible. I was born French and American. I was born with two cultures. I was born with two languages. I was born with two parents. Asking me to choose one citizenship over the other means taking away one of my parent’s heritage, language, and culture. It also means taking away part of my identity. I’m not French. I’m not American. I’m French AND American. One doesn’t go without the other. When I’m in France, I feel home because there’s my family, my friends, and that’s where I grew up. When I’m in the States I feel just as much at home because I’ve spent my summers there, because I’ve lived there for a while, because there’s my family, and my friends. I have as important memories in both countries. I’ve made long-lasting friendships in both countries. I vote in both countries. But the fact that I’m home in both countries also means sometimes I don’t feel home. When I’m in France, I’m the “American girl”. When I talk to my “French friends” about my friends on the other side of the ocean I have to say my “American friends”. And there are some things that I don’t like about France and that I prefer in the United States: the school system, the teacher-student relationship, the importance of the art in school, the friendliness, etc. When I’m in France I get super excited when I meet Americans because I can speak English, and I feel suddenly home because they have a bit of the same culture as me and they understand some things that French people can’t. When I’m in France I miss the United States. When I’m in the United States on the other hand, I’m always the “French girl, the Frenchie”. I can’t wear whatever clothes I want and because I’m French, it’ll always look good apparently (I’m not going to complain about that). And there too there are some things that I don’t like: health care is a mess, traveling within the United States is super complicated, college is freaking expensive, etc. When I’m there I get excited when I meet French people because they understand me too. And when I’m in the United States I miss France. It’s not everyday of course, and thank Dumbledore for that. But I have my American friends and my French friends, so of course I miss one group or the other depending of where I am. And I have an American family and a French family, and I love them both equally and I wish I could have them be at the same place at the same time. I’ve actually had recurring dreams where my two worlds collide.

MINOLTA DIGITAL CAMERA

                                                                                  French Family

                                                                                 American Family

Since I’ve been a little girl, my sibilings and I have always talked about where we were going to live later. And for a long time my answer was the United States because I’ve lived most of my life in France so I wanted to switch it up. But as I grow up and I’ve lived in both countries, I get more and more confused about where I want to live later. And I’ll never have an answer, because wherever I live I’ll always have some part missing. And it’s hard sometimes to realize that. I’ll never have my friends all reunited, I’ll never have my two family completely together. And I wish teleportation was a thing so that I could just travel freely between the two countries, but I can’t. I’m accepting that, I think I’ve always known it, but I’m now truly realizing it.

                                                                      Some of my “French friends”

                                                         Some of my “American friends”

But I also know that as hard as it can be sometimes to have those two worlds, I can’t imagine my life any other way. I realize how lucky I am to have grown up with those two languages and cultures. And I want to thank my parents for having spoken to me in the two languages, and my mom who has made sure that I did get to know my American grandparents and my other heritage. I know that I want my own kids to have those two languages and cultures as well because it has opened up a much bigger world as soon as I was born. And I’m proud of who I am, and of that dual-citizenship that I will never give up. I will never be just French, or just American. I’ll always be French and American. And it’s okay if you don’t understand, I’ve tried to explain it here, to you and to me a little bit too because don’t get me wrong, it’s confusing. So if you keep on calling me the French girl or the American girl, that’s fine, I’m used to it, and I know who I am, and what my heritage is and that’s what’s the most important thing at the end of the day.

                                                                 New York 2015 // Paris 2016

Only love, Valentine Marie Pearl

What it means to be bilingual I’ve been meaning to write this article for a while, but there’s so much to say that I didn’t know where to start.

Green Scarf to a Bull

So, I've been wanting to write something for the amazing Basic Chickens ship for quite some time now, having fallen head over heels in love with it. And given that @granpappy-winchester has been kind enough to set up Basic Chickens Week, I thought this was as good a time as any. Thanks, yet again, to @desperatelyseekingcannibals, @tcbook, @hotsauce418 and @slashyrogue for their advice and support. Hope you all enjoy.

Also on AO3.

Adam Towers was having a lousy fucking night. Quite literally, in fact. He’d passed through three different clubs and not one person seemed interested in the legendary Towers charm. It was completely inexplicable – who would turn down a prize like Adam Towers? Ok, maybe the language barrier had tripped him up a bit – his Danish was, well, rudimentary would be stretching things – but most of the people in this country supposedly spoke good English, and, anyway, who needed words to communicate the need to shag? There was a universal language of sex, and Adam was fluent in it.

Or he used to be, anyway.

Not that he was losing his touch. That was simply unimaginable. Adam Towers was hot shit and Denmark didn’t know what had hit it. They just hadn't realised it yet.

So now he was in a pub, some old-fashioned, cosy place that had been the first one he’d come to that looked vaguely welcoming and was within spitting distance of his flat. It was after 2am, the window for getting a shag was closing fast, so the one on finding somewhere upscale had been slammed shut. No time to waste on niceties: the first person he found in here who was remotely fuckable, was getting fucked.

Then again… Adam surveyed the diminishing crowd and realised that he might have to turn that “remotely fuckable” into “breathing and able to form thoughts” if he wanted any chance of getting laid tonight. And possibly he’d have to be flexible on that second part. He was definitely dealing with the dregs of Copenhagen society here, for the most part unfashionable, unattractive and un-fucking-likely to give Adam a night to remember. Maybe there really wasn’t anybody left in this godforsaken city who was more appealing than his own right hand.

Adam took a deep breath, a deeper pull of his whisky sour, and took stock. There was a woman in the corner who’d been leering at him since he’d breezed into the pub but he was pretty sure the gleam in her eye was less exciting than utterly psychotic – and he’d had quite enough of that kind of encounter back in London, thank you. And the guy with the ginger hair had a sweet smile but looked exactly the sort to fall in love with the first person who blew him and… no. Love was not on the agenda tonight.

Just as Adam was getting truly desperate, a couple of definite rejects left their seats at the bar, revealing a man seated at the far end, huddled in on himself and nursing a beer. He wasn’t exactly a breath-taking prospect. His hair sat in an unstyled mess of sandy, greying curls, possibly last fashionable when Adam was about ten years old. Beneath that, his eyes were obscured, cast down towards his pint, but Adam could see an oddly misshapen nose, as if the guy had been slammed against a wall several times and never had the damage fixed. And, oh god, the trapped-in-the-eighties look was completed by an ungroomed, unflattering moustache.

Actually Adam had a bit of a thing for facial hair but a little basic grooming was necessary for it to have that effect.

And as for the clothes. There was only one word for the pullover the man was wearing and it was “brown.” Wasting other adjectives on it would be a crime. The rest of the outfit, well, it wasn’t even worthy of prepositions.

But still… even hunched in, Adam could tell he was big, and nicely built. Broad shoulders and, leaning back, Adam could see long legs wrapped around his bar stool. Promisingly large, strong hands clutching that glass, too. If he looked past the unfortunate surface, there were encouraging signs with this one.

And, most importantly, he’d just flicked a glance towards Adam and had swiftly turned a very appealing shade of pink, his eyes widening comically before he snapped them back to his pint.

Target acquired. This should very much not be Mission Impossible. More like Mission “yes, I am just desperate enough to blow you in the bathroom, don’t trip over anything in your rush to get there.”

Adam slipped neatly from his own stool, flicking his hair off his face and slinking his way towards his intended. He could see the man watching his movements from out the corner of his eye, and let a flirty smile play on his lips… which quickly turned to a smirk as he noticed the guy shifting awkwardly in his seat. Such an effect in just a few steps, this really shouldn’t take long at all. Adam hopped up next to the man, making sure to brush close against him as he settled in, glanced at his nearly-empty drink and, levelling a coy look at him from beneath his lashes (the one that had been known to reduce men and women to drooling wrecks), asked, “Can I fill you up, big guy?”

Ok, fine, his flirting technique might have been a little rusty. But still, this was clearly the best offer this guy was going to get in his lifetime, there really wasn’t much need for finesse.

The response wasn’t exactly… enthusiastic, though. The man raised his head and looked at Adam with narrowed eyes that flicked nervily along the length of his body before settling just shy of real contact. “Is it me you are talking to?” he asked, and the voice, while a little strident, was deep and accented and altogether pleasing. And spoke perfect English, what a fucking relief.

“Yeah, gorgeous,” Adam shot back, “I’d like to buy you a drink. What do you think?”

The man snapped his head towards Adam with such a look of surprise that Adam felt his heart swell a little with sympathy, not an emotion with which he was overfamiliar. Obviously this guy had rarely been called something like gorgeous in his life, and Adam was suddenly struck by the strange desire to remedy that. He let his smile, currently turned firmly to sex-kitten, soften into something more genuine and felt a surge of satisfaction to see the other man’s expression relax a little.

And, oh, was that a cleft lip? That was… interesting. How would that feel to kiss, Adam wondered, letting his gaze linger on it for a moment.

“You are staring. It is very rude to stare, you will it stop at once.”

Oh shit. Big mistake. Adam couldn’t give two hoots about his lip (the size of his dick was far more of a concern), but he could see how it might be a sensitive subject.

“Sorry, darling, I just lost myself for a minute thinking about how that moustache is gonna feel when I kiss you. Or when we do some other fun things,” Adam said easily, ready to congratulate himself on an excellent save.

Until he saw the look on the other guy’s face.

“I do not understand what you mean by this,” he began, in a loud, stiff voice, tinged with something almost like panic. “Why would you think I would want to kiss you?”

Oh boy, he’d picked a live one.

Ok, one last shot, and then he was packing it in, fuck or no fuck.

“Look, sweetheart,” Adam said, keeping his tone level but still inviting, “it’s getting fucking late, I’d like to get off before the night’s over, and it doesn’t look like either of us has any better prospects for a shag. Now, you don’t have to take me to your bed, I’m sure the bathrooms in this fine establishment are very comfortable. So how about it?”

For a second, as the man’s pupils blew so huge they obscured the (actually, rather pretty) honey-brown shade of his irises, Adam thought he was in.

But then.

“How dare you speak to me in this way? I have many prospects, I am extremely handsome and virile, women are always wanting to sleep with me. Men too, many of them. You are very rude and not at all attractive. You must be crazy to think such things. Why would I want a crazy person?” The man was outright shouting now, and Adam looked around, cringing at the stares and giggles they were attracting. He held up a hand, meaning to soothe the man’s temper, only to get it slapped away. “No, you are not to touch me, crazy man. I am going to leave now and you are not to follow me, even though you are so desperate to have me.”

And with that, the man awkwardly clambered off his seat, pulled his coat around him and stomped out of the pub, leaving Adam (and everybody else) gawking after him in disbelief.

“What,” Adam breathed out after a minute, “the almighty fuck was that?”

“That,” said a voice from behind Adam, who turned to see the bartender looking at him in amusement, “was Elias. Comes in here twice a week, nurses a beer all night, is incredibly weird with anyone who talks to him and never ever gets hit on. You actually won me a bet tonight – Fryderyk over there is furious that you decided to flirt with the big bull before the six-month deadline was up.”

Adam looked over to see a man with a prissily-trimmed beard glaring at him. If he ever came back to this pub, he definitely wasn’t ordering anything from that guy – he wasn’t paying for spit and tonics all night.

“So, wait,” he said, turning his attention back to the other bartender, “he’s been coming in twice a week for six months and he’s never once got any action?” There it was again, that odd feeling of sympathy, of wanting to brighten this sad sack’s dull life a little bit. Adam quickly stomped it down and added, “And he still turned all this down?” He gestured at himself for emphasis.

“Guess you’re not quite as appealing as you thought,” Fryderyk snarked, smirking nastily over the counter. The other bartender grinned at him and Adam was almost more pissed off at the pity in his expression than the petty spite in his mate’s.

Fuck that, he thought, paying for his drinks and utterly failing to leave a tip, nobody humiliates and rejects Adam Towers and gets away with it. A thought struck him, and he turned back to the bar, a charming smile on his face.

“Terrible manners, fellas, I forgot a tip. Here’s something for all your help tonight, hope it makes up for your loss,” he said, winking at Fryderyk and sliding a high-value note across the bar. After all, he was going to want the bartenders on side when he came back next week.

Look out, Elias, I’m going to make you want me so bad you won’t be able to see straight, then we’ll see how you like a little public humiliation.

An undercover blogger lived a double life for 2 years in ISIS-occupied Iraq to document the group's atrocities — here's his story A historian spent years living under Islamic State rule in Mosul, Iraq, documenting the group's crimes and blogging about them to thousands of followers online. Now that the Islamic State hopes for a caliphate in Iraq and Syria are virtually dead, the historian feels compelled to reveal his identity. The historian carried secrets too heavy for one man to bear. He packed his bag with his most treasured possessions before going to bed: the 1 terabyte hard drive with his evidence against the Islamic State group, an orange notebook half-filled with notes on Ottoman history, and, a keepsake, the first book from Amazon delivered to Mosul. He passed the night in despair, imagining all the ways he could die, and the moment he would leave his mother and his city. He had spent nearly his entire life in this home, with his five brothers and five sisters. He woke his mother in her bedroom on the ground floor. “I am leaving,” he said. “Where?” she asked. “I am leaving,” was all he could say. He couldn’t endanger her by telling her anything more. In truth, since the IS had invaded his city, he’d lived a life about which she was totally unaware. He felt her eyes on the back of his neck, and headed to the waiting Chevrolet. He didn’t look back. For nearly two years, he’d wandered the streets of occupied Mosul, chatting with shopkeepers and Islamic State fighters, visiting friends who worked at the hospital, swapping scraps of information. He grew out his hair and his beard and wore the shortened trousers required by IS. He forced himself to witness the beheadings and deaths by stoning, so he could hear the killers call out the names of the condemned and their supposed crimes. He wasn’t a spy. He was an undercover historian and blogger . As IS turned the Iraqi city he loved into a fundamentalist bastion, he decided he would show the world how the extremists had distorted its true nature, how they were trying to rewrite the past and forge a brutal Sunni-only future for a city that had once welcomed many faiths. He knew that if he was caught he too would be killed. “I am writing this for the history , because I know this will end. People will return, life will go back to normal,” is how he explained the blog that was his conduit to the citizens of Mosul and the world beyond. “After many years, there will be people who will study what happened. The city deserves to have something written to defend the city and tell the truth, because they say that when the war begins, the first victim is the truth.” He called himself Mosul Eye . He made a promise to himself in those first few days: Trust no one, document everything. Neither family, friends nor the Islamic State group could identify him. His readership grew by the thousands every month. And now, he was running for his life. But it would mean passing through one Islamic State checkpoint after another, on the odds that the extremists wouldn’t stop him, wouldn’t find the hard drive that contained evidence of IS atrocities, the names of its collaborators and fighters, and all the evidence that its bearer was the man they’d been trying to silence since they first swept in. The weight of months and years of anonymity were crushing him. He missed his name. AP From the beginning, Mosul Eye wrote simultaneously as a witness and a historian. Born in the midst of the Iran-Iraq war in 1986, he had come of age during a second war, when Saddam Hussein fell and the Americans took over. At 17, he remembers going to a meeting of extremists at the mosque and hearing them talk about fighting the crusaders. “I should be honest, I didn’t understand.” As for the Americans, whose language he already spoke haltingly, he couldn’t fathom why they would come all the way from the United States to Mosul. He thought studying history would give him the answers. The men in black came from the north, cutting across his neighborhood in brand new trucks, the best all-terrain Toyotas money could buy. He had seen jihadis before in Mosul and at first figured these men would fade away like the rest. But in the midst of pitched fighting, the extremists found the time to run down about 70 assassination targets and kill them all, hanging enormous banners announcing their arrival in June 2014. By then a newly minted teacher, the historian attended a staff meeting at Mosul University, where the conquerors explained the Islamic State education system, how all classes would be based upon the strictest interpretation of the Quran. To a man who had been accused of secularism during his master’s thesis defense just the year before, it felt like the end of his career. In those first few days, he wrote observations about IS, also known by the acronym ISIS, on his personal Facebook page — until a friend warned that he risked being killed. With the smell of battle still in the air, he wandered the streets, puzzling over its transformation into a city at war. He returned to find his family weeping. The smell of smoke and gunfire permeated the home. On June 18, 2014, a week after the city fell, Mosul Eye was born . “My job as a historian requires an unbiased approach which I am going to adhere to and keep my personal opinion to myself,” he wrote. “I will only communicate the facts I see.” By day, he chatted with Islamic State fighters and vendors, and observed. Always observed. By night, he wrote in his native Arabic and fluent English on a WordPress blog and later on Facebook and Twitter. The city turned dark, and Mosul Eye became one of the outside world’s main sources of news about the Islamic State fighters, their atrocities and their transformation of the city into a grotesque shadow of itself. The things IS wanted kept secret went to the heart of its brutal rule. “They were organized as a killing machine. They are thirsty (for) blood and money and women.” He attended Friday sermons with feigned enthusiasm. He collected and posted propaganda leaflets, including one on July 27, 2014, that claimed the Islamic State leader was a descendant of the Prophet Mohammed’s daughter. Back home, writing on his blog in his other, secret identity, he decried the leaflet as a blatant attempt “to distort history” to justify the fanatics’ actions. He drank glass after glass of tea at the hospital, talking to people who worked there. Much of the information he collected went up online. Other details he kept in his computer, for fear they would give away his identity. Someday, he told himself, he would write Mosul’s history using these documents. The most sensitive information initially came from two old friends: one a doctor and the other a high school dropout who embraced the Islamic State’s extreme interpretation of religion. He was a taxi driver who like many others in Mosul had been detained by a Shiite militia in 2008 and still burned with resentment. He swiftly joined an intelligence unit in Mosul, becoming “one of the monsters of ISIS” — and couldn’t resist bragging about his insider knowledge. Once he corroborated the details and masked the sources, Mosul Eye put it out for the world to see. He sometimes included photos of the fighters and commanders, complete with biographies pieced together over days of surreptitious gathering of bits and pieces of information during the course of his normal life — that of an out-of-work scholar living at home with his family. “I used the two characters, the two personalities to serve each other,” he said. He would chat up market vendors and bored checkpoint guards for new leads. Stringer/Reuters He took on other identities as well on Facebook. Although the names were clearly fake, the characters started to take on a life of their own. One was named Mouris Milton whom he came to believe was an even better version of himself — funny, knowledgeable. Another was Ibn al-Athir al-Mawsilli, a coldly logical historian. International media picked up on Mosul Eye from the first days, starting with an online question-and-answer with a German newspaper. The anonymous writer gave periodic written interviews in English over the years. Sometimes, journalists quoted his blog and called it an interview. In October 2016, he spoke by phone with the New Yorker for a profile but still kept his identity masked. Intelligence agencies made contact as well and he rebuffed them each time. “I am not a spy or a journalist,” he would say. “I tell them this: If you want the information, it’s published and it’s public for free. Take it.” First the Islamic State group compiled lists of women accused of prostitution, he said, stoning or shooting around 500 in the initial months. Then it went after men accused of being gay, flinging them off tall buildings. Shiites, Christians and Yazidis fled from a city once proud of its multiple religions. When the only Mosul residents left were fellow Sunnis, they too were not spared, according to the catalog of horrors that is Mosul Eye’s daily report. He detailed the deaths and whippings, for spying and apostasy, for failing to attend prayers, for overdue taxes. The blog attracted the attention of the fanatics, who posted death threats in the comments section. Less than a year into their rule, in March 2015, he nearly cracked. IS beheaded a 14-year-old in front of a crowd; 12 people were arrested for selling and smoking cigarettes, and some of them flogged publicly. Seeing few alternatives, young men from Mosul were joining up by the dozens. The sight of a fanatic severing the hand of a child accused of stealing unmoored him. The man told the boy that his hand was a gift of repentance to God before serenely slicing it away. It was too much. Mosul Eye was done. He defied the dress requirements, cut his hair short, shaved his beard and pulled on a bright red crewneck sweater. He persuaded his closest friend to join him. “I decided to die.” The sun shining, they drove to the banks of the Tigris blasting forbidden music from the car. They spread a scrap of rug over a stone outcropping and shared a carafe of tea. Mosul Eye lit a cigarette, heedless of a handful of other people picnicking nearby. “I was so tired of worrying about myself, my family, my brothers. I am not alive to worry, but I am alive to live this life. I thought: I am done.” He planned it as a sort of last supper, a final joyful day to end all days. He assumed he would be spotted, arrested, tortured. The tea was the best he had ever tasted. Somehow, incredibly, his crimes went unnoticed. He went home. “At that moment I felt like I was given a new life.” He grew out his hair and beard again, put the shortened trousers back on. And, for the remainder of his time in Mosul, smoked and listened to music in his room with the curtains drawn and the lights off. His computer screen and the tip of his cigarette glowed as he wrote in the dark. The next month, he slipped up. His friend the ex-taxi driver told him about an airstrike that had just killed multiple high-level Islamic State commanders, destroying a giant weapons cache. Elated, Mosul Eye dashed home to post it online. He hit “publish” and then, minutes later, realized his mistake. The information could have come from only one person. He trashed the post and spent a sleepless night. “It’s like a death game and one mistake could finish your life.” For a week, he went dark. Then he invited his friend to meet at a restaurant. They ate spicy chicken, an unemployed teacher and the gun-toting ex-taxi driver talking again about their city and their lives. His cover was not blown. The historian went back online. Alongside the blog, he kept meticulous records — information too dangerous to share. His computer hard drive filled with death, filed according to date, cause of death, perpetrator, neighborhood and ethnicity. Accompanying each spreadsheet entry was a separate file with observations from each day. “IS is forcing abortions and tubal ligation surgeries on Yazidi women,” he wrote in unpublished notes from January 2015. A doctor told him there had been between 50 and 60 forced abortions and a dozen Yazidi girls younger than 15 died of injuries from repeated rapes. April 19, 2015: “The forensics department received the bodies of 23 IS militants killed in Baiji. They had no shrapnel, no bullets, no explosives and the cause of death does not seem to be explosion. It is like nothing happened to the bodies. A medical source believes they were exposed to poison gas.” July 7, 2015: “43 citizens were executed in different places, this time by gunfire, which is unusual because they were previously beheadings. A source inside IS said that 13 of those who were executed are fighters and they tried to flee.” He noted a flurry of security on days when the Islamic State leader, Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi, seemed to be in town. AP Many in Iraq, especially those who supported the Shiite-dominated leadership in Baghdad, blamed Mosul for its own fate. Mosul Eye freely acknowledged that some residents at first believed the new conquerors could only be an improvement over the heavy-handed government and the soldiers who fled with hardly a backward glance at the city they were supposed to defend. But he also wrote publicly and privately of the suffering among citizens who refused to join the group. He was fighting on two fronts: “One against ISIS, and the other against the rumors. Trying to protect the face of Mosul, the soul of Mosul.” He tested out different voices, implying one day that he was Christian, another that he was Muslim. Sometimes he indicated he was gone, other times that he was still in the city. “I couldn’t trust anyone,” he said. In his mind, he left Mosul a thousand times, but always found reasons to stay: his mother, his nieces and nephews, his mission. But finally, he had to go. “I had to run away with the proof that will protect Mosul for years to come, and to at least be loyal to the people who were killed in the city.” And he did not want to become another casualty of the monsters. “I think I deserve life, deserve to be alive.” A smuggler, persuaded by $1,000 and the assurances of a mutual acquaintance, agreed to get him out. He was leaving the next day. Mosul Eye had no time to reflect, no time to change his mind. He returned home and began transferring the contents of his computer to the hard drive. He pulled out the orange notebook with the hand-drawn map of Mosul on the cover and the outlines of what he hoped would one day be his doctoral dissertation. Into the bag went “Father Bombo’s Pilgrimage to Mecca,” an obscure American satirical novel from 1770 that he had ordered from Amazon via a new shop that was the only place in town to order from abroad online. It was time to leave. He wanted to make sure his mother would never have to watch the capture and killing of Mosul Eye. On Dec. 15, 2015 he left Mosul, driving with the smuggler to the outskirts of Raqqa, a pickup point that alarmed him. From there he and other Iraqis and Syrians were picked up by a second set of smugglers and driven by convoy to Turkey. They had no trouble crossing the border. In Turkey, Mosul Eye kept at it: via WhatsApp and Viber, from Facebook messages and long conversations with friends and relatives who had contacts within IS. From hundreds of kilometers away, his life remained consumed by events in Mosul. By mid-2016, deaths were piling up faster than he could document. The IS and airstrikes were taking a bloody toll on residents. His records grew haphazard, and he turned to Twitter to document the atrocities. In February 2017, he received asylum in Europe with the aid of an organization that learned his backstory. He continued to track the airstrikes and Islamic State killings He mapped the airstrikes as they closed in on his family, pleading with his older brother to leave his home in West Mosul. Ahmed, 36, died days later when shrapnel from a mortar strike pierced his heart, leaving behind four young children. It was only then that Mosul Eye revealed his secret to a younger brother — who was proud to learn the anonymous historian he had been reading for so long was his brother. “People in Mosul had lost hope and confidence in politicians, in everything,” his brother said. Mosul Eye “managed to show that it’s possible to change the situation in the city and bring it back to life.” As the Old City crumbled, Mosul Eye sent coordinates and phone numbers for homes filled with civilians to a BBC journalist who was covering the battle, trying to get the attention of someone in the coalition command. He believes he saved lives. Then, with his beloved Old City destroyed, Mosul Eye launched a fundraiser to rebuild the city’s libraries because the extremists had burned all the books. None of his volunteers knew his identity. An activist who helped co-found a “Women of Mosul” Facebook group with Mosul Eye describes him as a “spiritual leader” for the city’s secular-minded. “He was telling us about the day-to-day events under ISIS and we were following closely with excitement as if we were watching a movie. Sometimes he went through hard times and we used to encourage him. He won the people’s trust and we became very curious to know his real personality,” said the activist, who spoke on condition of anonymity because she believed she was still in danger. From a distance, finally writing his dissertation on 19th century Mosul history in the safety of a European city, he continued to write as Mosul Eye and organize cultural events and fundraisers from afar — even after Mosul was liberated. The double life consumed him, sapped energy he’d rather use for the doctoral dissertation and for helping Mosul rebuild. And it hurt when someone asked the young Iraqi why he didn’t do more to help his people. He desperately wanted his mother to know all that he had done. He felt barely real, with so many people knowing him by false identities: 293,000 followers on Facebook , 37,000 on WordPress and 23,400 on Twitter . In hours of face-to-face conversations with The Associated Press over the course of two months, he agonized over when and how to end the anonymity that plagued him. He did not want to be a virtual character anymore. On Nov. 15, 2017, Mosul Eye made his decision. “I can’t be anonymous anymore. This is to say that I defeated ISIS. You can see me now, and you can know me now.” He is 31 years old. His name is Omar Mohammed. “I am a scholar.” NOW WATCH: What happens to your brain and body if you use Adderall recreationally December 11, 2017 at 10:44AM