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sopiao · 9 months

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hii! hopefully you’re not swamped with requests or studies 😓

but can i request a hyper fem reader (uses she/her) that also wears a mask just as much as ghost? always wearing pink, gets her nails super long and glittery, pink gun, pink knives with stickers. like she is only ever seen in a mask. only way she can express herself is through make up and the 141 always notices little details or changes. even after killing and enemy and there’s blood across their face and mask but still mange to look so cute and bubbly.

could you use the callsign you use? i feel like shark would totally fit this!

have a good day!! ^^

-🧸

OMG???? LIKE?? YESS???????

I FUCKING LOVE RHIS IDEA SM!!

(dw bbg- studies r getting better :))

141 with a hyperfem masked female reader

When your first recruited and joined the task force everyone just stops and stares when you walk into the room.

They’re confused when your face is covered, only eyes being visible, makes them even more intrigued with you.

They’d 100% unconsciously move to the side to make a path for you when you walk by.

I feel Soap would be very interested and excited whenever you get new nails, always super sparkly, pink, pastel, and covered in charms and pearls.

Soap is always the first one to see and the one to pick out your next colors. His favorite combo being pink and green.

Shark would call everyone baby girl when they’re all grown men with balls (hopefully y’all saw that tweet).

“Is you LGB? cuz your gun pink” -Gaz

Constantly leaves glitter everywhere you walk.

Definitely gave everyone ‘1 whore 1” pins with a hello kitty with a pink AK behind her for Christmas. Which they all wore on their vest.

You would give out stickers as a form of praise and reward like teachers would to kindergartners.

Price would keep all the stickers you give or just leave behind in your path.

—

“Soap!” You walk into the rec room, not even bothering to look for him, just calling out his name (not the obnoxious loud kind of yell). He immediately would drop whatever he’s doing, a conversation, a game, a task. Knowing by your tone and excitement in your voice that you already have a new set.

“Oohh! Even better than the last” He says, smiling when you lay your hands out for him, he smiles even more when he sees that you picked charms that he recommended.

“I liked last weeks better, had more glitter” Ghost sudden appearance made you both jump. Almost bumping into him since he was leaning over your shoulder behind you.

Sometimes during briefing, you’d rest your head on one hand and the other would be around Soap’s shoulders, ever so often scratching his head and ruffling his hair like a dog. Some recruits would mistake you two as a couple, they’d comment how they can tell you’re the more dominant one.

—

Ghost would always be next to you, sometimes by coincidence, but mostly by preference. Whenever you two walk into the room together you always call him your twin or your mini-me.

“Can’t tell the difference, huh?” You asks the latest recruits, elbow resting against Ghost, pointing between the two of you. Even though there’s a very obvious height difference, your dramatic lashes and pink eyeshadow boomed through your balaclava, you had pink guns and knives in your holster, pink and yellow glow sticks on your belt, and Ghost was a 6’4 built like a Greek God british man.

But the rookies are too intimidated by both of you that they’re too scared to even disagree. Just nodding vigorously as you skip away with Ghost following behind.

—

“Take cover!” You yell, tossing a grenade across the barrier, signaling you’re teammates about the blow. Within seconds the ground shakes and you can hear bodies being thrown due to the impact. Unexpectedly to them a cloud of pink and glitter exploded along with the grenade.

“What the fuck?” Gaz looks up after a light layer of glitter dusts on top of him. The rest of them looking up and seeing the pink in the sky.

“Rest in pink” You bow your head to pay your respect.

—

“Shark..” Price speaks up beside you, the rumbling of the truck going on rocky terrain constantly rocks your body against his. You immediately snap to look at him, almost making jump from your crazed but happy eyes.

“Why don’t you wipe all that off, sweetheart?” He asks, holding out his handkerchief for you, motioning to the blood that’s splattered across your mask and whatever it could touch on your uncovered part of your face.

“No”

“Why not?” Gaz asks, from your other side.

“I don’t wanna smudge my makeup :(“

—

“Shark, did you do something different with your makeup?” Gaz asks once you walk into the meeting room to meet the rest of them. Yes, you did do something, there are little white and magenta accents in your eye lashes. Gives your eyes and lashes a highlight of color.

“Why yes I did. Thank you for noticing, sweetie” You pinch his cheek and sit on the empty seat next to him.

“You changed your highlighter too” Ghost speaks up from next to you, he can tell with your eye shadow and slight nose contour that you switched to a more finer and brighter highlighter.

“Did you change how you do your eyeliner? Looks bolder” Soap asks, inspecting your eyes closer.

“I think you look nice overall, hun” Price chuckles at how they inspect and comment on every little change of your appearance. Your just proud that you’ve taught your boys well, being able to know the names of every makeup technique and step.

—

“You got a little bit of Shark on you” Price interrupts Ghost mid sentence to point out the small patch of glitter on his shoulder.

A couple days later Ghost stops him for the same thing.

“Cap, you got a lil Shark on you” He taps him on the back and shows a small strawberry sticker that was stuck on his vest.

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leviathism · 1 year

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levi x gn reader

There was never a lonely day in the House of Lamentation.

Constantly, you were swarmed by grown demon men who wanted your attention so desperately they were willing to fight each other for it.

At night, it grew to an unbearable level of clinginess. Too many men were in your bed, waiting for your arrival.

One, wearing glittering pink lingerie.

Another, spreading money across the bed to ‘claim his territory.’

Another, dead asleep on the bed with drool pooling on the sheets.

And another, eating chips and getting crumbs all over your bed.

You were sick of it. It was always too hot and sweaty, too many bodies trying to crawl into your skins It was too much.

So, you avoided your bedroom tonight, heading along the dark hallways to a familiar blue bedroom. The door was cracked just slightly open.

“Levi,” you called out after you moved the door a little more. There was no response. You opened the door wider and crept inside.

You left the lights off and used the light of his aquariums and monitors to guide you to the bathtub in the center of the room.

Levi was sleeping on his stomach, his head laying on his crossed arms. You smiled at him, seeing the small goldfish pillow beside his head.

You lifted a leg into the tub, slowly and carefully lowering yourself into it. With less grace than you usually had, you dropped down onto Levi’s back.

Levi grunted and opened his eyes. He looked up at you and sighed.

“Don’t act like you don’t love me,” you whispered into the back of his neck. He shivered underneath you.

“Shut up,” he whispered back, a furious blush spreading across his face. “You don’t even watch Anime, why would I love you?”

“Because I’m ‘awesome.’ I heard you talking about me earlier yesterday,” you admitted to him and grinned gleefully when he hid his face into the pillow below him.

You slid down his body a few inches and rested your head onto his back.

The good thing about Levi was that he never ran hot and he also usually didn’t cuddle. You never had to worry about getting overheated or being suffocated to death.

You happily rubbed your cheek against his back.

“Levi, can I sleep with you for the rest of the year?”

“The rest of the year?!” He sputtered, turning his face to try and look at you. “Why?”

“My bed is infested with some ugly bugs,” you told him. “You’re a cute bug, though, so I’d rather sleep with you.” He wrinkled his nose.

“Whatever. Just don’t touch my Ruri-Chan pillows.”

“You got it, captain Levi.” He groaned and closed his eyes.

“Don’t touch my games, either. Or my collections. Or my magazines, my manga, my PC, or my Henry.”

“I can touch you, though?” You grabbed his waist. He jumped. You laughed. “I’m just teasing.” You let him go.

He whined into his pillow, embarrassed.

“I’m sorry,” you drawled out playfully, “I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

“Whatever.” He rolled over onto his side so you slipped off of him. You were now behind him, suspiciously unable to see his face. You grinned, tugging an arm around his torso and slipping a leg between his.

You cuddled into his back, ignoring the fact that you were a hypocrite. You went here to avoid men cuddling into you and using you as a pillow, but here you were, doing the same to poor Levi. You knew he didn’t mind though.

Not with how he always left the door unlocked and slightly cracked open.

#obey me x gender neutral reader #obey me x reader #leviathan x reader #leviathan x gn reader #obey me x gn reader #leviathan x gender neutral reader #obey me #obey me fluff #obey me x you

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poemsfor-her · 9 months

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A GUIDE TO FINDING YOUR OWN STYLE: PART. I Y2K ୨୧ ׅ ۫ 𖹭

The Y2K Era became well-defined by 1997, replacing the Core '90s Era which had been known for its grittier aesthetics such as Grunge. The Spice Girls' single "Wannabe" was released in the U.S. and gained international popularity, leading to a new era in teen pop. Y2K fashion calls back to the biggest trends of the late 90s and early 2000s. It blends the pop culture of the millennium with bright colors and kitschy aesthetics to create an unapologetically maximalist look. One of the key fashion points of the y2k wave are: low raised jeans, crop tops, small handbags and mini skirts. POC POPULARIZED THE STYLE. The fashion icons of the y2k era were Destiny's child, Britney Spears, Paris Hilton and Christina Aguillera.

I. TYPES OF THE Y2K STYLE ୨୧ ׅ ۫ 𖹭

1. CYBERCORE

Y2K (also known as Kaybug or Cybercore) is an aesthetic that was prevalent in popular culture from roughly 1997 to 2004, succeeding the Memphis Design and Grunge eras and overlapping with the McBling, UrBling, Surf Crush, and 2K1 aesthetics. Named after the Year 2000 problem, it is characterized by a distinct aesthetic period, encapsulating fashion, hardware design, music, and furnishings shining with tech optimism—sometimes literally. Some of its aspects include tight leather pants, shiny clothing, silver eye shadow, spiky up-dos, Oakleys, gradients, translucence, and Blobitecture. Most Y2K aesthetics rely on the use of technology and slick futuristic looks, signaling the optimism for the 3rd Millennium or 21st Century. The Y2K Era ended around 2004 and was succeeded by the Frutiger Aero era. This style is full of mostly gray, blue, green and black colors. One artist that i think perfectly describes the cybercore concept are XG in their newest concept photos alongside with AESPA that can sometime miss the concept they mainly do.

2. MCBLING

The McBling aesthetic went into full swing around late 2004 with the release of the movie Mean Girls, the popularization of Myspace, the popularization of emo via Green Day's American Idiot, the phasing-out of 2K1, the iPod becoming a huge status symbol via Apple's silhouette ad campaign, the premieres of Laguna Beach and Lost, and Gwen Stefani starting her solo career, further hastening the end of the Y2K era. McBling was concurrent or overlapped with a number of other 2000s aesthetics, such as UrBling, Surf Crush, 2K7, and Frutiger Aero.This led into the ElectroPop 08/Hipster/Jersey Shore Era, which lasted from about 2008 to 2013. On social media in recent years, the McBling aesthetic has grown in popularity, albeit it is often lumped with or mistaken for the Y2K aesthetic. The colors of this style are: pink, white, silver and gold.

3. DARK Y2K

Instead of lighter and brighter colors, like pinks and pastels, the Dark Y2K aesthetic heavily revolves around colors like black, grey, deep blue, dark purple, and dark green. However, hot pinks are also seen in Dark Y2K fashion. The Dark Y2K visual focuses on freedom and youth, and rebelling. Visuals that are typically seen in the aesthetic are low-rise jeans and belts, with lipgloss and sometimes even glitter eyeshadow. Some of the styles worn could even be viewed as provocative.The 2003 film Thirteen can be seen as an influence to Dark Y2K fashion and visuals, with its main characters wearing cropped tops, low-rise jeans with a noticeable thong, and studded belts. The main characters are also seen rebelling and sneaking out, and getting tongue and bellybutton piercings.

II. MOVIES AND TV SHOWS TO WATCH

1. Y2K

— bratz: the movie

— fast and furious

— clueless

— any bratz content

2. CYBERCORE

— men in black

— the matrix

— charlie's angels

— x-men

— any superhero movie

3. MCBLING

— mean girls

— white chicks

— wild child

— the house bunny

— legally blonde

4. DARK Y2K

— twilight

— jennifers body

— skims

— thirteen

— girl, interrupted

III. SONGS TO LISTEN TO

1. Y2K

— devil - slayyyter

— gimme more - britney spears

— summertime - flo

— sugarcoat - natty

— attention - newjeans

— tokyo drift - teriyaki boyz

2. CYBERCORE

— stereo love - edward maya

— lovefool - the cardigans

— hello kitty - slayyyter

— any hyperpop song

3. MCBLING

— rumors - lindsay lohan

— faboulous - sharpay evans

— he said she said - ashley tisdale

— queencard - gidle

4. DARK Y2K

— all the things she said - t.A.T.u

— bang, bang, bang - soho dolls

— take me away - avril lavinge

— brutal - olivia rodrigo

— no celestial - le sserafim

— teen idle - marina and the diamonds

information provided by aesthethics.wiki

with love, 𝒯

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thattiredanimator1t0mblr · 1 year

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Spoiled cotten! ||dark deception x child!gn!human!reader|| malak,Agatha & gold watchers || OOC!

A/n : let's get one thing straight, gold watchers are your rich adoptive uncles and malaks your awkward dad. Agatha laughs at you for a bit.

Dividers: https://www.tumblr.com/firefly-graphics/643930238064181248/gold-glitter-dividers?source=share

@firefly-graphics for the dividers.

Warning?: out of character acting,child reader,murder, implications of murder, demons?, blindfolded reader, etc

2nd/3rd person pov!

Your dad, malak. Randomly and very nervously decided to make you go over to your...uncles? You didn't know know what to call them but they were more like sleezy con men that your dad hanged out with. Either way it just made you feel a bit...weirded out? Maybe sad or mad. Whatever you were feeling, it definitely wasn't eased by your dad. "Listen, something...came up and needs to be taken care of. You'll be staying here with the gold watchers. Okay?"

'He definitely was mad. Maybe nervous??.' You thought to yourself. This usually happened when an....uninvited guest came. But you would be with your sister agatha usually when this happens. Why the gold watchers?. Oh well. Nothing you could've done to persuade him otherwise. He left a few moments later. Leaving you with the gold watchers. Blindfold in hand, you put it on. It was see-through enough that you could easily see everything and not bump into anything but thick enough so that the gold watchers could move, some talked to you others just gave you things. Suddenly you felt a hand on your shoulder and turned around. "Hey. Come on dinners ready." They didn't to eat but made it for you. Considering malak would melt their greedy Golden as- faces, if you even felt hungry once he came back. It was normal for him to be....worried. your human, this world wasn't made for you. But rather to kill people. If anything happened to you. It would be on the gold watchers heads. One of the gold watchers quickly gave you a plate, it was filled with (favourite food/dish) , you kinda of ate in silence. He kept near you while eating. It was normal for atleast one of them to be near or watching you. After all your a HUMAN CHILD. And more specifically, MALAKS CHILD. They had to watch you. Besides they had grown quite fonde of you. Thinking of themselves as your cool uncles when in reality they were more like the weird rich uncles who you only liked for money.

Either way, they were nice. Most the other realms monsters were. They all were like aunts and uncles or siblings and cousins. It was like a weird family for you. Kinda of like a joint custody. "Hey...here we have some things for you. They aren't as...perfect as they should be and we didn't want them so maybe you'd like them?" The same gold watcher asked. You noded, as he carefully held your hand considering how dark it was and you were wearing a blindfold. Slowly guiding you towards a...some what large gift box, it had (favourite color) ribbons and (2nd favourite color) wraping. "We thought it was would nicer to give you box filled with the stuff rather then just hand it all to you.." He chuckles awkwardly, it was nice of them to do this but at the same time, these things were probably broken or not good if the gold watchers thought it wasn't good enough or perfect enough for them, they were creatures of greed but could be nice sometimes. You lightly shake the box and hear things move inside, you slowly open the box, and see multiple things inside, small gold coins,toys,stuffed animals,broken jewellery,some very semi expensive clothes, and more, you quickly picked up the broken jewellery and gave a quick look of "wtf" to the gold watcher that brought you here, he shrugs and smiles. You put the jewellery back in the box as you pick up the clothes, it was (favourite clothing/dress) , it looked nice and the gold watchers face immediately lights up at an idea. He immediately runs over and picks you. A small yelp from you, not expecting it, considering you were looking at the things in the box and had your back turned. You immediately ask what hell he's doing, and he responds with "a makeover! The clothes your wearing are peasants clothes, you deserve better than that as our nephew/niece!" ...oh well nothing you can really do, and besides. It might mean that you'll get free new clothes...

------

*2 hour time skip later*

".....why is my childs clothes dyed gold....and why do you have a bag filled with money???" Malak seemed very confused. You quickly tried to explain before just sighing and saying "makeover, and it's my early birthday money." Or a variation of it. Atleast that's what the gold watchers told you what the money was for. "....your birthday isn't for another 3 months." Malak at this point just seemed even more confused, you shrugged. He just sighed and grabbed your hand. Basically holding it before opening a portal to get you to Agatha. It would be nice for the two of you to get a break and hang out with her. You both go in and see her, in her realm.

"(Name)! .....why are your clothes covered in yellow dye?" Agatha giggled at how silly you looked, "well...dont worry. it looks good on you. Just a bit silly that's all!" She reassured, still gigling as you you started to giggle with her. It was a bit of a silly situation. malak just smiled and stared at his two children.

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themurderofcrowscollective · 9 months

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More 141 nighttime shenanigans

So you remember Ghost walking around in a white sheet with sunglasses on right? I now present to you... More of that bullshit. Ghost, at 12 AM, somehow gaining a skateboard while wearing that ghost costume again: *Whistling some Green Day music through the halls.* Gaz, sleep-deprived as all hell: Do a kickflip! Ghost, also sleep-deprived: *Proceeds to do a kickflip and sticks the landing before skating into a wall and falling over like a pile of bricks.* Price: Quick gang, let's unmask this ghostly ghoul! Soap: *Yanks off the sheet before dramatically gasping.* He's... He's... HE'S... adorable! *Begins wheezing as he joins Ghost on the floor who is also giggling.* Price, doing the sign of the cross: I now pronounce you husband and dumbass, you may kiss the idiot. Gaz: *Wheezing with nothing left in his lungs, throwing glitter into the air like confetti over the two idiots on the floor.* Congratulations! Nik, who's on sleep-deprived-idiot-duty, sipping a cup of coffee: Wow. Horangi, also standing next to Nik: You should see them with pillows, it's like the funniest thing I've ever seen. Nik: Now I gotta see that. - - - Speaking of the idiots with pillows... It's again, 12 AM and the main four haven't had any sleep again (really rough mission that took more than a week to finish) and everyone is on edge, grumpy, planning murder or all three. This time Nik followed Horangi's advice and got a bunch of pillows in the lounge room, calling the four into the lounge. Ghost, glaring intensely as he walks in before seeing the mountain of pillows, only proceeded to flop into them and dig his way into the mountain, only letting his feet be seen. Soap walked in after and gasped before yelling 'DON'T WORRY SIMON I'LL GET YOU OUT!' and diving into the pillows before getting dragged into them by Ghost, followed by a muffled 'Nooo the pillow monster has taken meeeee' with giggles. Gaz and Price were last and had the bright idea to make a pillow fort so they ran off to get blankets and other items that would make a great pillow fort. Nik watched on as he chuckled, Horangi joining him after he put Konig to sleep. They both watched as four grown-ass men dismantled the pile of pillows and construct a really awesome looking pillow fort, before laying down inside and saying dumb jokes that had them giggling like teenagers. Ghost is great at fart jokes if he's sleep deprived. Horangi then proceeds to look at Nik: I have something they'll all like, hang on. *Proceeds to head back to his room and comes back a few moments later with squishmallows, about 10 of them in different sizes.* Nik: Wow... *He gets handed one and he instantly clings to it because goddamn it's soft.* Horangi, chuckling: Hey boys, I got something. *He crouches down and lifts up a flap of a blanket, shoving the squishmallows inside and ushering Nik to look inside.* As soon as Nik does, he sees Ghost cuddling with Soap as he uses a squishmallow for a pillow, Soap getting comfy and clinging to Ghost. Gaz and Price ended up passing out as soon as they hugged their own squishmallows, Gaz sleeping on top of Price who had an arm over his shoulders. Pictures were taken and eventually Nik joined in with them, sleeping next to Price. - - - The next morning, the lounge was off limits for the day to the recruits and only Horangi and Konig could enter, never being seen again until the next day when the pillow fort was dismantled and no one said a word about it... however they did get to keep the squishmallows and Horangi wasn't judging them as he had a few of his own still. - - - Again, more will be posted later

#soapghost #cod mwii #cod mw2 #john price #kyle gaz garrick #konig mw2 #kim horangi hong jin #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #nikolai mw2

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transholmes · 1 year

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Title: At the Core.

Prompt: Kaer Morhen.

Relationships: Geralt/Dandelion, Dandelion & Ciri, Geralt & Ciri.

Rating: Teen.

Warnings: Discussion of gender and gender identity outside the binary in canon-appropriate terms, so terms that aren't always acceptable in a contemporary vocabulary.

Can also be read on AO3. @whataboutthebard

The Kaer Morhen Valley was a beautiful sight in the middle of autumn. The coniferous trees held their majestic dark greens, while the deciduous ones had changed their colors to a merry riot of red and gold, interspersed with brown. The river ran like a bright ribbon through it all, glittering in the bright sunlight, the lake forming a shining pendant. While the peaks of the surrounding mountains were already covered in sparkling white snow the air in the valley itself was still mild.

Vesemir, Geralt, Eskel, Lambert, and Coën were up on the wall-walk of the eastern wall to mend a gap that wear and tear had formed in one of the keep’s walls. Soon the air would be too cold for the mortar to dry properly so they were taking advantage of the fact that they had all returned early this year to get it done.

With Nilfgaard’s invasion and narrow defeat at Sodden, the Continent had grown too dangerous even for witchers to roam about, but so far Kaer Morhen was safe.

The sound of laughter coming from the courtyard below drew the attention of all five men.

Dandelion and Ciri were crossing the cracked flagstones, arms filled with hay for the horses, talking and giggling. Both princess and poet had been stripped of their finery, their usual clothes wholly unsuitable for the decrepit keep and its rough everyday life. Instead, they wore warm and practical, if ill-fitting, clothes that the witchers had dug out and scraped together for their guests.

Ciri looked like a paler version of the bard with her fair complexion and ash-blonde hair, next to Dandelion’s golden curls and rosy cheeks. They both had their hair tied back, an unusual look for Dandelion who always preferred to let his curls hang loose.

It warmed Geralt’s heart to see them like this, smiling and laughing. Safe.

When he had rescued Dandelion from Nilfgaard’s advancing army at the banks of the Yaruga he had intended for them to part ways and for Dandelion to flee far away north, beyond Nilfgaard’s reach, while he went searching for his Child Surprise, hoping she still lived. But Dandelion had refused to part from him, first insisting that Geralt would need help finding Ciri and then, when Geralt refused to relent, pointing out that nowhere would be truly safe to go. The parts of the North that was still untouched by Nilfgaard’s advances would be teeming with Northern troops – who were no more trustworthy with one bard’s safety than the invaders – or there would be bandits prowling, and that the safest place for him would be at Geralt’s side no matter what dangers the witcher rode into.

Unable to argue that bit of logic Geralt had given in, for which he was now thankful. He wanted as many of the people he loved as safe as he could make them.

Ciri and Dandelion disappeared into the stables with their burden, and the five witchers stirred themselves and return to their work.

“I must admit, I misjudged your bard,” Coën said as he handed Geralt a boulder which Geralt immediately passed on to Eskel beside him.

“How so?”

“I thought he would fold within days of arriving, demanding to be taken back to civilization. But he has steel in him.”

He did. Geralt knew few people saw it at first glance and most people never noticed it, hidden as it was beneath frills and frippery.

“No,” Vesemir said softly, placing the boulder he had accepted from Eskel in the gap in the wall and began covering the sides and top with mortar.

“No?” Coën asked, puzzled.

“It’s not steel that’s in that pup’s core.”

“What then?” Lambert asked from the other end of the line. “Or are you going to let us poor plebes languish in ignorance?”

“Yew wood,” Vesemir answered.

“I don't follow,” Geralt said.

“Steel is strong yes and with a certain amount of flexibility, but it’s pliable,” Vesemir said as they kept working. “You can mold it into whatever shape you want and it’ll keep that shape forever. But yew wood is hard to cut, resisting attempts at changing how it is. If you bend it, it won’t break but it will snap back to its original shape the moment you release the tension. It thrives in adverse conditions and no human can share the Path for a good twenty years without seeing more hardship than most would in a dozen lifetimes.”

“It's poisonous,” he concludes with a feral smile. “And I think anyone who tries to chew up that bard will find themselves far worse off for the attempt.”

“Is that why you agreed to let him stay?” Coëen asked.

While guests weren’t unwelcome in Kaer Morhen as long as they were trusted by one of the witchers, few were allowed for a prolonged stay, much less welcomed for a winter or more. The witchers enjoyed their solitude as much as their privacy these days. And while Vesemir might not have the official authority to ban any guest any of the others might wish to bring, his opinion carried weight, and no guest he disapproved of stayed long.

“No, he’s stayed here before when there was a need for it. It was before you started wintering with us and for the past few years, he’s been otherwise occupied in winter. But yes I knew back then he’d fit, mismatched for this place as he might seem. Besides, it’s better that they’re both here, the Continent isn’t safe right now.”

“Is it ever?” Lambert quips.

“You know what I mean.”

There was another peel of laughter from below, loud enough to be heard through the stable’s walls.

“I wonder what they’re up to,” Eskel said.

“I’m sure we’ll find out sooner or later,” Vesemir commented.

“Knowing those two, it will be sooner,” Eskel muttered, though there was a smile on his lips.

“Very well, Princess, you win this one,” Dandelion said laughing, lying in the pile of straw that had been meant for the horses’ booths before it became an impromptu battleground for a very serious tickle match between him and Ciri.

Now she had him pinned down, straddling his waist, and was threatening to tickle him again.

Ciri crowed and leaped to her feet, held out her hand, and helped Dandelion to his feet when he took it.

“How can you be so bad at fighting when you’ve traveled with Geralt for so many years?”

“Exactly because I traveled with our dear witcher. He’s a good protector.”

“But what if you needed to defend yourself and he wasn’t around?”

“That thankfully never truly became relevant.”

“But-”

“Ciri, my dear, as you grow older you will find one thing to be true above all else. That everyone is given certain talents in life, things that come to them naturally though becoming an expert still requires practice. Others we may learn through hard work and discipline. And finally that there will be skills we are absolutely unsuited for and will never master. For me, fighting very much fall in the last category. It is a blessing that it has never truly been needed for me to learn.”

He picked several straws that had gotten stuck in his hair during the tickle fight out as he spoke.

“Now, let us finish our task. Do you want to fetch the water for the horses or spread the straw?” he said.

“Water. Straw makes me sneeze.”

“Not that I noticed that right now.”

Ciri grinned at him.

“Any more exposure is sure to do it,” she said primly.

“Off with you then,” Dandelion replied, waving her off and Ciri hurried out the door.

Dandelion grabbed the pitchfork and began to disperse the straw, working slowly, his muscles aching despite having completed this chore many times already in the time he had been here. He was unaccustomed to and ill-suited for manual labor, he knew that. But all contributed to the maintenance the keep and tending the horses, mending clothes and cooking were among the only things he had any skills in that was useful here.

The witchers had always been welcoming to him and he did not want to be an undue burden to Geralt’s family, nor was aching muscles and a few blisters a big price to pay for a place of safety in the current political climate.

He had finished the first two booths when Ciri returned with the first two buckets, carried in a yoke across her shoulders. It impressed Dandelion how easily she had taken to everything at Kaer Morhen, so far removed from the leisure and luxury that had been her life until Cintra had been sacked. Where Dandelion would try his best to complete his tasks with a minimum of grumble, Ciri was thriving on feeding horses, scrubbing floors, and weapons practice.

When Ciri returned with the second set of buckets Dandelion was done with all six booths.

“Shall I help you with the last set?” he asked her.

“I can manage,” she replied stubbornly.

“I’m sure you can, that wasn’t the question. Ciri, never be too proud to accept help that is freely and honestly offered. It will make your life much harder than it needs to be and gods’ know the Continent is a hard enough place as it is.”

Ciri pondered that for a moment, then handed him one of the empty buckets with a mute shrug.

“I thought you were a romantic,” she said as they made their way to the well.

Dandelion shrugged.

“An often made mistake. I sing pretty songs, your highness because no one wants to hear the truth. We all know it, but it isn’t a popular topic. I sing to please, to entertain. Those who want the truth don't go seeking a bard.”

Once they had filled their buckets are were heading back to the stable Ciri said, oddly quietly, “Dandelion, can I ask you something?”

“Of course, your highness.”

She pulled a face.

“Why do you keep calling me that? And, Princess?”

“Because I think it’s important to always remember where you came from. Ciri, no matter where you go, who you become, and who you choose to be, your past will always be with you. No matter how hard you try, you can’t outrun it.”

“You sound like you have some experience with that?”

“You could say that.”

“How?”

“That Ciri is not something I will not tell you. Maybe someday, when you’re older and we know each other much better than we do now. But for the present, I will keep that private.”

Ciri emptied her bucket into the trough in one of the horse’s booths, pouting. Dandelion serenely ignored her mien.

“Does that answer your question?” he asked. “Of which I might add, you had more than one I might add.”

“Ugh, you’re being pedantic. And none of them was my question anyway.”

Dandelion put his own empty bucket by the door.

“Well I’m feeling magnanimous today, you may have another,” he said with mock haughtiness.

“You are too gracious, my lord,” Ciri replied, curtsying deeply.

Dandelion smiled and shook his head.

“Go on, Ciri.”

Ciri tensed, suddenly intent on a bit of straw that lay on the floor and the lighthearted, boisterous mood evaporated.

Dandelion frowned.

“What is wrong, Ciri?”

“I was wondering...”

“Yes?”

“How do you know you were a boy?” she blurted out so fast that Dandelion almost couldn’t make out what she said. “When did you know?”

That were not questions he had expected to be asked by her and certainly not just after having mucked out a stable, but it was clear that it was important questions to Ciri.

“Why don’t we go outside and sit in the sun? It will be more pleasant and this will take some time to answer.”

“Do we have to?”

“You don’t want to?”

Ciri squirmed.

“The others are working up on the wall,” she whispered.

So it was something she didn’t want Geralt and the others to possibly overhear then.

“Will the stable’s hayloft do? Though you may sneeze from the straw?”

She didn’t smile at his weak attempt at humor but nodded and headed for the ladder.

Once they had settled down comfortably Dandelion said, “To give a short answer to your question I can’t say I ever truly felt like or thought of myself as a boy or a man.”

Now it was Ciri who frowned.

“But you look like- like that.”

“Yes my physical appearance is that of what most of the Continent expect a man to look like, so it is natural for most to assume that that is what I am.”

“But if you’re not a man, then what are you?”

Dandelion shrugged.

“When I was younger, much younger, I spent a great deal of time agonizing over just that. Spent hours poring over tomes hoping books might hold an answer, but came up empty-handed. Talked to many an elf, dwarf, halfling, and gnome to hear what they had to say about men and women and more, but though they had a different understanding of gender than men I found no answer there either. In the end, I decided it didn’t really matter what I am. I appear the way I wish to appear, I do what I wish to do, and if others make assumptions about me? That is what humans do and there is nothing I can do to stop them. And very few people matter to me anyway, what is it to me what a stranger thinks?”

“What about people who aren’t strangers?”

Dandelion sighed.

“Thankfully most understand me for who I am, odd though I may be. As for the rest? I try to distance myself from them as much as I am able.”

They sat in silence for a time after that, Dandelion staring off into the distance while Ciri slowly broke apart a piece of straw between her fingers.

“But how did you know that- that well you weren’t a girl? And when?” Ciri pressed once the straw had been utterly demolished.

“I’m afraid there is no more a straightforward answer to this either, my dear.”

“If you don't want to answer-"

“I do, my dear. And I will. I am simply telling you that this is not going to be a clear and simple answer.”

“Go on.”

“How did I know? I simply knew. In the same way, I know that my eyes are blue. I may not have felt like a boy or know exactly what it was that I was, but I knew I wasn't, isn't, a girl no matter how much other people insisted otherwise. Sometimes that knowledge was nothing but a whisper in the back of my mind, possible to ignore when I was occupied by other things. At others, it screamed at me so loudly I thought it might make my heart stop beating.”

“Oh.”

“I don't know if this is the answer you seek, Ciri, but it is the one I have. Can I enquire why you asked?”

Ciri said nothing. Instead, she began demolishing another straw.

Dandelion laid back in the straw, waiting. Unlike what most people thought he could be patient when he saw a reason for it, he just rarely saw one.

“I- I didn't know it was possible,” Ciri said after a long time of silence. “To be anything but a girl if that was what you were born as. My parents, my grandmother, Eist, they all always told me I was a girl, but sometimes-"

“Sometimes what?” Dandelion prompted.

Ciri shrugged.

“I don't know,” she muttered. “Sometimes I'm not sure I am, that I want to be.”

Dandelion sat up on his knees, taking her hands in his.

“Ciri, you can be whoever you want to be, whatever you feel you are. Never let anyone tell you that you can't. I won't say you will never meet resistance from people if you are something they are not familiar with, many do not like that which they don't know and will act with aggression to that which they’re not accustomed, but no matter what you will also find people who love and accept you.”

“Do you think Geralt-” she began, then broke off.

“Darling, while Geralt wasn’t the first person to accept me as I am, I think he might be the one who has accepted me the most completely.”

“He’s so distant, cold when we train,” she whispered, not looking up from their joined hands.

Hmmm, he was going to have to have a chat with Geralt about that. Ciri was still only a child after all. In the meantime, maybe he could mend this a little.

“He’s worried about you,” Dandelion said, wrapping his arm around her shoulder and pulling her close. “And when Geralt worries he has an unfortunate tendency to become a bit too stern with people he cares about. Gods’ know I’ve argued with him often enough on that account.”

“I’m not sure me arguing with him would help.”

“Then maybe teach him a lesson?”

“How?”

Dandelion shrugged.

“Not sure, it needs to be tailored depending on what you want him to learn. You’re smart, you’ll think of something,” he said and ruffled Ciri’s hair.

Ciri giggled and hugged him.

“There. Better?” Dandelion said.

“Yes. Thank you.”

“And darling, if there’s anything you wish to talk about know that I’m always here to listen.”

The inner courtyard was dark apart from the faint light of the crescent moon hanging high in the sky when Geralt shut the door to the great hall behind him.

He pulled his cloak closer around him against the cold. The night’s sky was clear apart from a few tattered clouds chasing across its blackness.

Ciri had gone to bed and Dandelion had vanished soon after. Geralt had thought he too had headed to bed leaving the witchers to their card game but when Geralt had returned to their bedroom he had not been there and the bed had not yet been slept in.

Puzzled he had decided to go look for him. A quick search of the keep's interior had turned up nothing so he had gone outside.

Dandelion’s silhouette was clearly visible against the sky up on the easter wall and Geralt made his way up the stairs, taking an effort to have his footsteps make a sound as he neared where the bard stood. He didn’t wish to startle Dandelion and possibly make him fall, the wall was not entirely safe to walk on even in daylight much less at night.

“What are you doing out here?” he asked.

“Oh, I just wanted to watch the moon and the valley. It is beautiful, don’t you think? The way the river cuts a silver ribbon through the valley at night.”

Dandelion was hugging himself, shoulders hunched against the cold, his hands tugged into his armpits to keep them warm.

“You shouldn’t have come out here without your cloak,” Geralt said stepping around behind Dandelion and wrapping his arms around him.

Dandelion tugged Geralt's cloak around his shoulders, snuggling back against the witcher.

“But then would I have a warm witcher wrapped around me?” he asked.

“Perhaps not.”

“Then I will say I made the right decision.”

Geralt chuckled softly.

They stood for a while in silence, gazing out across the valley.

“Geralt, there’s something I want to tell you, please don’t take this the wrong way,” Dandelion said abruptly, breaking the calm.

“What?”

“Maybe you shouldn’t be so hard on Ciri when you train her?”

“She’s tough.”

“Yes, she is tough. She has been through more in the last months than many faces in a lifetime but Geralt, she’s still a child.”

“She needs to learn how to defend herself. I can’t always be there to protect her and she isn’t you, she has an aptitude for swordplay.”

“I know, but there are many ways of teaching. No, please hear me out before you say anything. She isn’t just your pupil, she’s your Child Surprise. She’s tied to you. What’s more, you are now all she has left in this world. Her home? Her family? Possibly every friend and confidant she had? Gone. All gone. All but you. And yet you keep her at arm’s length. Like you always do when you worry I might add.”

“Is this what you talked about when you stayed in the stables today?” Geralt said defensively.

“What Ciri and I talk about in confidence will remain between us and don’t change the subject. It doesn't work on me you know that."

“Hmmm,” Geralt rumbled. “What would you have me do?”

“Don’t be so stern with her. Let her know you love her. Oh don’t give me that look, we both know you do. Just as you love me. You did well on our journey here, I’m not sure what has changed. Maybe it’s this place, bringing back old memories of how you were trained and you’re emulating that?”

Geralt flinched though he tried not to show it. He recalled how much he had hated those of his own instructors who were overly critical, always unsatisfied no matter how well he did. Which in honesty had been most of them.

Maybe Dandelion was on to something.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered.

“I’m not the one you should be apologizing to,” Dandelion said, not unkindly.

“I know. I’ll tell Ciri tomorrow.”

Dandelion turned his head and kissed his cheek.

“Thank you. And don’t tell her I talked to you about this if you would.”

“So you were discussing this?”

“No we were discussing something else altogether and your emotional distance came up in that conversation. Which is your concern, the rest of our discussion isn’t,” Dandelion said firmly.

“Point taken. And thank you.”

“For?”

“For pointing this out. And for being Ciri’s friend. And mine.”

“That’s hardly something I need thanking for. Besides, she’s a good kid. Wholly unsuited to being a princess if you ask me. Us noble disappointments have to stick together.”

“You’re not a disappointment, Dandelion.”

“Except to my parents.”

“Well, they don’t get an opinion on this.”

“Sometimes witcher, you’re far too sweet,” Dandelion said and kissed Geralt’s cheek again.

“No, I’m not, now come on inside before you catch a cold. And I want to head to bed.”

“Yes, bed sounds good,” Dandelion yawned.

Arms around each other, Geralt’s cloak still wrapped partially around Dandelion, they headed back inside and straight to bed.

#jaskier #geralt of rivia #witcher ciri #cirilla fiona elen riannon #gerlion #geraskier #geralt #dandelion #witcher dandelion #willow writing

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lesboscarymarlowe · 10 months

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pretty boy

part one (2016)

I wanna be a pretty boy with long, soft hair that I can put up in a bun and when people see me they'll say "look at that asshole with the manbun" and I'll laugh because yeah I am that asshole pretty boy with the manbun and it’ll be so wonderful that someone saw me and thought of me as enough of a man to add "man" to a previously gender neutral word, so that it’d be obviously acceptable for a man to have his hair up in a bun.

And I wanna be a pretty boy with a flat chest, a real cock and not this fake one made up of socks that no one would wanna suck on except maybe a fetishist but that's not what I want. Ibwanna be a real pretty boy with real pretty boy parts and not these parts that my mother and doctors and society insist are only for girls even though some boys can have these parts and some girls never have these parts and that's okay.

And I wanna be a pretty boy so all the other pretty boys see me and think "wow I wanna kiss that boy" and it won't just be straight boys who look at me when I walk past in fact straight boys will wanna avoid me because I'll be so pretty they won't be able to stand it they'll have to look away from me and my long, soft hair that's up in a manbun and my soft smile and the glitter that's on my cheeks and my ripped jeans and high heels and red lipstick because I'll be so pretty they'll realize that they aren't straight and that's terrifying for them.

And I wanna be a pretty boy who can take his shirt off at the pool without getting arrested and I wanna feel the water on my bare chest and feel how flat it is while I’m sitting on a reclining chair and covering my chest with sunscreen so I won’t burn and I'll ask my pretty gay boyfriend to put sunscreen on my pretty gay back because I don't want that to get burnt either and he'll laugh and mock me for being so pasty that i need 100 SPF sunscreen and I'll laugh at him and slap his leg and he'll grin and kiss me and the summer sun will shine down on both of our pretty gay bodies as we both can finally have our chests free to the world.

And I wanna be a pretty boy so when I look in the mirror I don't see a silly little girl in instead see a pretty, queer boy with pretty, queer eyes and pretty, queer lips and pretty, queer hair and a pretty, queer body and I want the world to see me as a queer boy and not a slutty girl or a boyish girl or a lesbian or a freakish girl or a quiet girl or whatever it is people see me as I don’t want that all I want is to be the slutty, freakish, quiet, queer, fabulous, nerdy, cute, lovely, ugly, annoying, hot, sparkly, handsome, obsessive, stupid, innocent, scary, pretty boy that I really truly am.

part two (2023)

I love to be a pretty boy, with curly pink hair and a deep voice. I love putting my hairy, DDD tits on display. I love what testosterone has done for my self esteem. I love my slutty outfits, I love my bimbo personality. I love the confusion when people hear my voice. They want oh so desperately to ask if I have a cock— Of course, polite society won’t say it in those words. I won’t tell them that I’ve grown a fat tdick in the past years, of course.

“Are you a transvestite or a real woman?” asked to me on the street. Fear in my heart as I don’t know what the “correct” answer is. I’m afraid of the violence being a pretty boy might bring upon me. Even so, I refuse to let the fear stop me from being who I’ve always meant to be. I might wear mini skirts, but I also wear steel-toed boots. Men will only learn that the hard way if they wanna push their luck.

“I want to be a pretty boy with long, soft hair…” You will, my love, you will be that boy. You will also be a girl, a woman, a man, a tranny, a faggot, a dyke. You will embrace all these parts of yourself and you will love each and every one, no matter what the world thinks of it. You will stop starving yourself and you’ll stop drinking and smoking and, okay, maybe you’ll become a bit of a stoner but that’s okay. You will be okay. You are okay.

And your pretty gay boyfriend is now your pretty gay fiancé and soon he will be your pretty gay husband. You’ll be his pretty boy wife and you’ll love every moment of it. He’ll still make fun of you for how easy you burn, but he’ll also find it hot how much you sweat in the sun (he’s a freak like that).

I am a pretty boy, a pretty girl, a slutty woman, an incorrect man. I am a queer, a tranny, a dyke, a faggot, a lesbian a transexual a homosexual a domme a bimbo a feral a butch a femme a cripple a retard a queer a queer a queer. I am a Jew and I am an atheist (agnostic?) and I love g-d and I hate her. I am everything and I am nothing.

I want to be an elderly dyke, living a long life with my gay little husband. I want to be a cantor, an art historian, a writer and a poet. I want to pursue knowledge until my dying breath. I want to be the queer who helps guide those younger than I, like all the elders who came before me. Who helped guide me, helped me embrace my true self.

I am so much more than I ever thought I could be. I am so, so young but I am excited to grow old. I finally want to die of old age.

When I look in the mirror, I no longer see that same broken reflection that haunted me in my childhood. I see the pretty queer boy with pretty queer eyes and pretty queer lips and pretty queer hair and a pretty queer body that I always knew I could be. I am the slutty, freakish, quiet, queer, nerdy, cute, lovely, ugly, annoying, hot, sparkly, handsome, obsessive, stupid, scary, pretty boygirl that I was always meant to be.

P.S. straight boys still like you, unfortunately:/

#poetry #queer poetry #trans poetry #queer poets on tumblr #trans poets on tumblr #writers on tumblr #alternate title: i have been a flamboyant lil f*g since i was a queer fetus

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thessalian · 1 year

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Thess vs Transphobia

I just ... I don’t get it. I don’t. Why the fuck does other people’s gender matter so much to people in all the wrong ways? What is this obsession with other people’s genitals, and why does this not translate into when people are forcing said genitals upon the unwilling in any form? They talk-talk-talk about how they’re protecting women and children from the unwanted penises of trans women, who they don’t acknowledge as women, but they’re apparently just fine with actual sexual assault by people with penises who identify as men.

I swear, I feel like half the reason I identify as non-binary now is because I am just so sick of it. There’s all these rules that society sets up about what you’re supposed to do and say and think and wear and all that other bullshit when it comes to gender identity, and society just seems to crack down on it harder and harder every year. And I grew up in the fucking 80s, when half the shows pointed at my age group were glorified toy commercials and the age-old standard of marketing people of “gender-focused toys and advertising for same” made it a half-and-half of pink glitter and BIG STRONG MEN. And there was me, with my Barbies and my Matchbox cars and my Strawberry Shortcake dolls and my GI Joes and having Luke Skywalker riding the Cotton Candy My Little Pony into battle and honestly FUCK ALL OF IT.

Gender roles are bullshit and I’ve known that since I was a kid, because there was my mother climbing the corporate ladder in a way that we just can’t do anymore, and there was my dad, way over there after the divorce, sticking with a blue-collar job. I may have grown up learning two languages that give a gender to basically every fucking noun in the world, but maybe that’s another reason I got fed up with it because why the fuck does cheese have a gender? It felt arbitrary. To me, gender is fucking arbitrary. But everyone wants to link it to what’s between people’s legs and it’s just stupid. Cheese has no genitals, but it has gender in French and Spanish and probably other similar languages, so how do genitals have any bearing on your gender? In short, why the fuck am I even bothering?

So here’s me, with an 80s childhood where I looked at the various gender assigned stuff and went, “Hang on - this is bullshit”. I don’t actually fit in anyplace with any of the assigned gender bullshit, so again, why the fuck am I bothering? Well, because half the fucking planet insists that I define myself by my genitalia, that’s why. It’s fucking gross, is what it is. I want people to get their minds out of other people’s pants for, like, ever, unless they’ve had a clear invitation to partake of what’s in there. But no. No, apparently this bunch of gross yahoos feel like they should be the Gender Police, making sure that no one identifies with anything but “penis = man / vulva = woman”. I AM NOT DEFINED BY THE CONTENTS OF MY KNICKERS SO STOP THINKING ABOUT SAID CONTENTS, YOU PERVERTS.

And then they use that to punish people who go against the kinds of stupid-ass rules they apparently learned when their parents gave them the birds-and-bees talk as children. It’s apparently so fucking important that people live according to this bullshit gender identity structure that the ones who don’t have to have their lives made a fucking misery, or just ended. It’s fucking ridiculous. Even if for some dumb-ass reason you believe that trans and nonbinary people are in some way mentally disturbed ... they’re not hurting you. That’s the worst part of this - IT IS NOT HURTING ANYONE. The only people who get hurt when they come out as trans are the trans people, because people hurt them for it. So someone assigned female at birth wants to get some top surgery and go by James and he/him pronouns; so what? How does that actually hurt anyone?

I think the dumbest part of all of it is that the transphobes of the world do feel like they’re being hurt by this. Their simple worldview gets so unbearably shaken by the existence of people who don’t want to fit in the gender-specific moulds of the society they grew up in, and suddenly they feel under attack, because they can’t understand the world anymore somehow. So instead of putting on their big person undergarments and learning to cope with a changing world, they beat the people who don’t conform back into a corner ... or just to death, whichever seems easier to them at the time. And they call us “delicate snowflakes” when all we’re asking for is to not be belittled, insulted, hated just for existing, or outright killed. Apparently just not wanting to die is being ‘delicate’ when they’re clutching their metaphorical pearls over what we want to call ourselves.

It’s the same with sexuality. I personally do not see how gay people just existing is a problem. What they do with their genitals is their own business unless they’re forcing said genitals on someone else without consent. Few to none of them are doing that (there are always outliers). What people do with their genitals in the privacy of their homes is their own business, and anything public? Look, kissing someone or holding someone’s hand is not that sexual, okay? How some people get more up in arms about a man kissing another man on the cheek and holding his hand than they do about a man French-kissing a woman with his hand halfway up her skirt in terms of “public display of affection” is beyond me. Yet it happens, all the time. As to that whole ‘sexualising children’ bullshit - I’m sorry, it’s mostly the straight people doing that. You get a little boy running around the playground with a little girl and immediately get, “Oh, is that your little girlfriend?” and all that sort of bullshit. Most LGBTQ+ people just want to give kids something that they themselves never had - the freedom to choose what they want and who they are without societal expectations. But that’s wrong while shoving little boys and little girls together with not-really-jokes about them getting married someday is apparently fine.

I know it’s all about control. I know it’s all about shaping the world into what these people want and need it to be. I know that they’re the ones who are the delicate snowflakes who wither and die at the idea that the world is changing and they might have to change with it if they don’t fight it by stamping down the ‘deviants’. Intellectually I know all of this. But in my heart, I rage at all of it. In the end, it’s all down to policing people’s genitals and it’s ridiculous and I need it to stop. Everyone needs it to stop. Even the people who’re making others’ lives miserable over it need it to stop, though they won’t admit it. It must be exhausting, hating on people because of what is or isn’t in their knickers and whether that correlates to the gender by which they identify. Everybody needs it to stop, and it feels like it’s never going to, and I am tired and angry and fed up with all of it.

Dear everyone who’s bigoted in the gender and sexuality spectrums: STOP OBSESSING ABOUT OTHER PEOPLE’S GENITALS AND WHAT THEY DO WITH THEM. It’s gross, and you are the perverts you accuse others of being. You want to beat on someone for what they’re doing with their genitals? Go beat on a rapist instead of excusing their behaviour with “men have urges” and all that other bullshit that’s been used to excuse sexual assault since the dawn of fucking time. But if someone isn’t hurting people? Leave the contents of their pants alone.

#Thess gets aerated

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motownfiction · 1 year

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smell of snow

On Christmas Day, Sam wakes up with the smell of snow stuck in his nose.

The forecast said there might be snow last night, but he wasn’t taking it very seriously. There was no snow last night, and all hope for a white Christmas seemed lost. As it turns out, while he and everyone else slept, the ghost of Bing Crosby was working his magic somewhere. There’s the perfect amount of Christmas snow outside … enough to look at through the window, illuminated by the gold lights on the Doyles’ Christmas tree, and know that everything will be OK from now on. Because it’s Christmas, and there is snow.

Sam’s not sure why he’s always been so fond of a white Christmas. He’s twenty-two years old, and he’s driven through too many bad Michigan winters to be impressed by the stuff anymore. It’s not like when he was a kid, and he used to believe that snow was made of glitter.

Or is it? Is it still just like that, and he feels like he can’t admit it? Now that he’s moved out of his parents’ house, he’s obsessed with what it means to be an adult. Do adults drink hot chocolate after a long, cold day in the winter, or do they find something else to keep warm? Do adults carve out special time in the evening to lie on the couch, stare at the ceiling, and dream about falling in love with the perfect person again? Do adults like Bomb Pops, or is that just him? When he was still a child, his mother always said he had the spirit of one … almost like it was a bad thing, almost like she forgot to remember that she still eats smiley face potatoes. Sam always admired his mother’s youthful energy … always wanted to figure out a way to preserve it for himself. But when she didn’t seem to appreciate it, he didn’t know what to do. He still doesn’t know what to do. Every second of his life is consumed with maturity, with propriety. He thinks about brown shoes, black coffee, and white gloves. At least, he thinks he should be thinking about white gloves. Do mature people wear white gloves? Or is that just butlers and Disney’s Cinderella?

Sadie tells him that he doesn’t need to worry so much about looking the part. That as his twin, she knew he was plenty grown up.

You have your own apartment, and you make rent on time, she said last night at Christmas Eve dinner, when Mom made another crack about Sam’s love for Christmas cartoons. You look out for other people when they need you. You’re a grown-up, Sam. Trust me.

Her words ring in his head as he opens the door of his childhood bedroom and walks into the living room. The snow is there, through the window, lit up by the Christmas tree. The stockings are slung on the back of the couch, which always makes Sam laugh. Get a load of the family without a fireplace. He notices his stocking, with a canister of Pringles and a glass bottle of Coca-Cola sticking out from the top, which makes him smile. And that’s when he realizes why he loves Christmas snow. It’s not about the snow.

It’s about Christmas.

It’s about the one day a year where no one expects him to feel sorry for having joy, for smiling, for singing and dancing past the age of six. It’s the one day a year when he can take his own advice: Don’t be embarrassed about whoever you are. Everybody’s obsessed with maturity until it’s Christmas. It’s like Halloween for grown men who like Cocoa Puffs.

Sam opens the door and takes in one more smell of snow. He grins.

Fresh.

This is his favorite day of the year, he thinks. This is the one day that will never do him wrong.

(part of @nosebleedclub january challenge -- day x! it’s barely still tuesday here, so i’m barely on time again)

#drabble #writeblr #ch: sam doyle #ch: sadie doyle #dynamic: i'll be your mirror #year: 1989

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beloyaltowhatmatters · 1 year

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Dutch's Bio

" I Had A Goddamned Plan ! "

Dutch seems to carry a philosophy similar to other characters in the Red Dead Redemption saga. Dutch has an anarchistic worldview and seems to want a world that goes somewhere along the lines of a Hunter-Gatherer Society, a world that opposes technology and governmental control where one must fight to survive but may also live the lifestyle they choose, free from any rules and regulations; a world where men live very much like they did in the old (idealized) Wild West. Dutch shows a common disgust and contempt for "cultured" towns like Blackwater or industrialized urban centers like Saint Denis as these locations serve as monuments to technological and industrial progression and government-enforced order, conformity, and peace, all of which Dutch violently opposes. Van der Linde considers technological and industrial progress as methods by which the federal government can exert authority and control over the general population, especially disenfranchised groups of people such as the Native Americans and those who live in poverty.

Dutch's philosophy is reactionary, desiring a return to the older ways. While the New West of the 20th century promotes clothing, technology, culture, and civilization, Dutch seems to want to move back to the Old West of the 19th century which promotes survival, discipline, resourcefulness, and fitness by using skill and courage to overcome hardship. As the culture in the west progresses towards a modernist view that praises and rewards forced conformity, incorporation, order, and employment on a large societal scale, Van der Linde would prefer people to remain civilized where they are and allow the Old West to survive in the way to which it has grown accustomed, and if the Federal Government will not allow him or his people to live their lives the way they wish, he will fight for his perceived right to live as he wishes.

It should be noted that Dutch's heavy emphasis on personal values such as liberty, equality, cultural tolerance, and natural law aligns with Enlightenment ideas that encompassed the Age of Enlightenment movement during the 18th century. Many of the models and theories proposed during this time are currents of thought that Dutch frequently uses to share his beliefs. Van der Linde is particularly a frequent user of the Social Contract, which is an enlightenment examination model used to highlight how individuals in a society surrender their freedoms to a higher power or authority. Dutch's worldview states that law and political order are neither natural nor dependent on government and that human rights are universal and inalienable. Dutch often laments that in the increasingly-modernized America, individual rights and freedoms must be sacrificed to an authority he views as greedy, dishonest, exploitative, and prejudiced. The Old West is the perfect environment for a society based on natural rights, which is why Dutch violently opposes anything that threatens to end this way of life.

In 1899, Dutch is an average-built man of approximately 6 feet in height he has tanned skin, a large roman nose, brown eyes, and a cleft chin. Along with a thick, black mustache, soul patch surrounded by light stubble, and black, slick-backed hair that curls at the end, reaching his nape. He is always seen in elegant suits or fancy clothing, most often wearing a white and grey striped shirt, charcoal grey striped trousers with pointed black leather boots, an ornate black paisley waistcoat with blood-red silk back, and a matching red pocket square, it has glittering gold buttons and is decorated with a gold pocket-watch with twin chains and ruby pendant. Along with a smart black moleskin jacket with a red pocket square, leather notch lapels, and a black felt homburg hat with a silk band. He also wears a chunky black gun belt with a square gold buckle, twin holsters, and two ornate gold rings, one on his pinkie and another with a large rectangular face on his forefinger. He also owns a red and cream plaid scarf which he wears both for warmth and as a bandana. During the Saint Denis bank robbery, he wears a gleaming white shirt, red velvet vest, and black slacks with a long, black tailcoat complete with red silk lining. While stranded in Guarma, his appearance becomes unkempt: his mustache becomes scruffy and long, he develops thick stubble around his face, and his tailcoat is lost, while his white shirt and red waistcoat that he wore for the robbery become loose, dirty, and tattered. After returning to the United States, Dutch's appearance returns to what it was before.

#✷Bio✷[Dutch Van der Linde]#✷✷Bios✷✷

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hehehoohoohole · 2 years

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Today was a Bregless day, and while that was usually a good day for his obsession, it left Liva bored and cranky. She understood he was a grown man and of course his mate needed so much of his attention but he didn't need to spend all his time following them around, she'd given them a nice quality taser (through Breg) so that they'd be safe! To combat this sort of empty nester feeling she decided to go shopping, heading by the baby section first to see if there was anything cute for her future grandchildren to wear, nothing that suited her taste... Damn.

But! She could look at toys, it would be good to be up on kids trends for when she had her first daughter, though men hadn't really been coaxed into sitting on the bench near her pond yet. As she walked toward the toy isle her tail flicked idly behind her, maybe a big tree with a swing? A single dad would be even mo- she stopped, why were so many toys poop related? This was the sort of thing you had to teach kids not to play with.

Many, MANY toys were toilet themed with slime added to them, frowning to herself, she made a face and went to clearance, seeing yet more poop themed slime "Unicorn poop" no it certifiably was NOT. Still, something came to mind and a smirk slowly split her face.

She had a VERY good idea of what to do today.

The Clergy, disgusting place truely, and not just because of the... Whatever spell the owner has cast on it. The monsters here were the sort that would try to eat or lure away husb.. humans, all humans, not just husbands, and she hated it, but knew better than to try and stand up to whatever owned this place. The witch had her own power but she was nowhere near a god. Heading in,she paused at the door and, since this was a monsters only establishment, freed herself from her bra and shirt, letting her breasts hang free while shoving her clothes into her shopping bag. Much better! Then she began her search ignoring everyone until she found him.

A grin spread on her face and rushing over to him, she was happy to see he was already in a fishbowl...why? Who cares! The not yet puddle of demon eyeing her warily "I don't like the way you're looking at me toots.." The troll sat down, pulled his bowl first and completely ignored the bar tender who was loading up a tray anyway. Setting her bag on the counter her tail thrashed excitedly and she licked her lips. "Just hold still, and I'll buy you a nice big drink after." This clearly did not assage his fears but free booze make him shut up.

At least until she finished opening everything in her canvas bag, and began force feeding him different discount slimes, he had to open his mouth to protest and that simply gave her more room to play her sadistic little game more. Glitter slime, iridescent, glow in the dark, scented, all of the clearance packets had been bought and if he closed his mouth she simply smashed them into his sides to force him full of more.

Eventually the bar tender looked over at them with his one glowing eye, and decided this was not his problem, getting a rag to wipe down the counter and watch from the corner of his eye. Was this one of Fasmas ex wives? She was assaulting him like she was, he did have the "Divorced three times" air about him. If that was the case it was DEFINITELY not Gallons job to deal with.. that.

The little ghost man triggered agression in the troll, and she wasn't exactly sure why that was, but with her sulking today and the idea now happening she was much happier, her tail a blur of motion behind her. At least until someone drew her attention by trying to grab one of her breasts, the little bat creature got a hard kick to the chest for that but little else, no one here was starving, or if they were they deserved it.

That put a thought in her head though, and once she was out of slimes to shove into the now rainbow and very fruity smelling ball of plasma, she looked to the slime behind the bar. "Hello! Who do I speak with about becoming a supplier for this hell hole?"

@eldritch-spouse

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christas-museum · 1 year

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The Child Manuela: Mädchen in Uniform book (new translation)

CHAPTER 1: II

For more parts (updates are at least once a week), click #The Child Manuela translation

The road is wet. The pavement is bumpy. The lanterns flicker and clink in the wind. The road is empty. Only the iron-shod hooves make noise. The smell of old leather in the carriage. When the lantern light touches the occupants for a moment, a medal buckle glitters. Colourful ribbons strung closely together. Red collar and silver braid. Brightly polished buttons.

"What is it, Käte, why are you sighing?" Comes from the corner of the carriage.

"Oh, you know, these balls are real torment for me."

"Do you think I enjoy them?" asks the Major von Meinhardis offended. "God knows whom I'm taking to the table again. Well, and the food. These mass feedings are terrible. Everything is served cold. A white, soft fish, and then fillet, always fillet."

It's silent over there. In the darkness, a gloomily amused smile steals over Frau Käte's delicate face. But already she is serious again.

It would have been good to stay quietly at home with the children. To knit, to write a letter to Grandma, and go to bed early. Not to have to see all the unfamiliar people. She is frightened a little. Everything there is very noisy. The men-tired from duty-fill themselves with alcohol and soon have red faces over their tight collars. Dancing makes them hot, and they press you to them. You get dizzy when you waltz. However, most of them bored. At home . . .

Lela's mother is still stranger in this garrison town of Dünheim with its small Court. Officers are like chess pieces that are grabbed by an invisible hand and placed somewhere else. Taken away and pushed, without one suspecting why and for which reason. They are paid the moving costs, but no one asks whether they leave friends, whether their wife likes the new climate, whether she is far from home there, whether the children get on in the new school or not. One gets "transferred" and there one is. This is how a woman's heart clings to the old home; because she is never given time to create a new one. It's like demolition everywhere. Once—as sure as Hell— comes the transfer. Until then "one goes along with everything", where one is at the moment. The regiment is the inevitably fixed society. Whether you like them or not, the commander's wife, the major's wife, the lieutenant's wife are your friends. They are invited and invite and no one else. You cannot possibly have relations with the doctor's wife or a banker's—you will not even be tempted; because convention has ensured that you don't get to know them.

Then one goes to the Court ball. Court ball is duty. One can't cancel. If one is terminally ill, the best one can do is to ask beforehand not to be invited. But an invitation-not to obey an order, that's not possible. "Better to stay at home . . ." Frau Käte doesn't dare to say it. What a ridiculous argument-better to knit, better to write a letter, better to stay with the children. And she must write to Pöchlin still. She hasn't yet thanked Grandma for the last sending of sausages. And the sack of potatoes for the winter and the hundred pounds of apples. The ham lasts at least fourteen days. The boys get from it on their bread for school. Both eat a lot now. Actually, like grown men. At the same time, they are only eight and thirteen years old. But they grow. Ali's trousers are too short again. Then Berti can wear it, but Ali must have a new suit. No more this month, if not Grandma . . . Of course, Grandma also has worries. In Pöchlin there is everything, except money.

It has been a Summer without rain. God knows what the harvest was. In her mind's eye, Frau Käte sees her Father standing in front of the rain gauge, counting the millimetres of rain that has fallen. This glass, attached to a sawed-off tree trunk, has been the scariest enemy of her childhood. Everything depended on that glass. Drought—fright of Father and Mother. Drought-fear of the farm workers. Drought—disease of cattle. Drought—bad harvest. Bad harvest—debts. Debts—mortgages. Mortgages—ruin. Then white blankets of dust-blown in from the country road-lay on the roses and the holly bushes. Then the the trees are yellow in summer. Then the ground cracked. Then the horses' hooves are split. Then the unnatural agaves—as if made of tin—thrived in front of the house. Fusty, alien to the land they mocked the thirst of geraniums and marguerites. The ears of corn in the field remained small and opened their pods, scattering their sparse seeds on the hard ground. Gloomily, in the blazing sunshine the house lay, and gloomily and in silence the inhabitants passed each other . . .

The carriage stops with a jerk. A gallant footman flung the carriage door-a row of curious people on right and left stares at Frau Käte's slender foot in the white atlas shoe. But she doesn't step on wet pavement—a thick red carpet is laid on the road, and above her a canopy protects her from the dampness of quiet rain, to which she looks up gratefully. For a moment she hesitates, waiting for her husband. He gets awkwardly out of the carriage—the spurs on his patent leather boots force him to step sideways on the wagon steps. The fur-lined, light grey cloak with the beaver collar lies in rich folds like a train on the steps of the carriage. His brown, bony hand pulls the coat together. Reluctant for a moment and then laughing, his black, lively eyes roam the audience. He lightly puts his right hand to his cap to thank the serving footman, then he goes without any partiality, almost pleasantly touched by the admiring and envious glances of the bystanders, he approaches the waiting woman, offers her his arm and leads her up the steps to the entrance.

This Impartiality belonged to Major von Meinhardis like his right hand. It was his own and innate. He liked himself and liked others. With pleasure, he let it be known that he had "got something" from a Spanish grandmother. His yellow skin colour, his high instep, his dark, soft hair were un-German. His regimental comrades sometimes called him "old exotic"-then he could not suppress a small vain smile. Lovingly protective, he leads his wife up the stairs, quietly moved—as always in similar cases—by her apparent shyness and strangeness. This trait of hers had captured him at the time. Funny, how one in such moments had to remember the past.

It had been manoeuvre time. Quartering. Heat, dust, and fatigue. Strange men on tired horses, with dusty boots and brown faces, rode into Linden avenue of Pöchlin. The large, white, cool house opened, and three shy young girls led the unknown guests to their rooms. Each tore uniform from body, each bathed and fell on the bed to have a dead-like sleep. Flies buzzed on the chandelier and on the windows. Lieutenant von Meinhardis winked in the green-shaded light of ancient chestnuts outside the window. The little one, the youngest, what was her name? Käte-he smiles-Käte. Big eyes—I don't think she said anything—country girl—how come you, dear Meinhardis? You're probably crazy. When the Princess Schuwaloff hears this, well, and the Schermetieff in Baden-Baden—Meinhardis and a Käte. You're laughing at me. It smells of apples here; he continues to think, even of golden pearmains apples and russet apples. Russet apples shrink like old women. Käte—she washes herself with lavender—that's what I smelt, whether the white dress or her hair or her hands, clearly lavender. Bittersweet. Strange . . .

"The devil take this quartering. I can't stand these reckless hussars at all," saying old Pöchlin, tapping his barometer. But then a day comes when all the white doors in Pöchlin are wreathed with thick garlands of blue cornflowers. Red poppies stood on the table and candles with white cuffs. And the white tulle curtains were starched, and the parquet floor reflected smoothly. The priest in the black gown and the white collar said the first toast at the table, and then the comrades in red coats and the blue dolmans over shoulders with sabres crossed high in front of the door let the bride and groom walk away underneath—out into life—under sabres.

All of this flashes by as Meinhardis slowly strides up the carpeted steps. Frau Käte is shivering. She pulls her cloak tighter around her.

Everybody separates in front of the cloakrooms. The gentlemen are served by footmen, the ladies by waiting maids in white bonnets and dresses of stiff black silk. Tall, gold-framed mirrors on the walls are there to instil confidence in the timid newcomers and for the confident glances of beautiful women with with proud tiaras of flashing diamonds. Only here the anxious hands let go of the long trains that have to be guarded against dirt. Thick sewing cushions with needles and threads are ready for accidents of all kinds. Hasty greetings from acquaintances, unofficial, so to speak; because the real hello's begin upstairs in the hall. There's a nervous silence in the room. Hushed whispers.

Over there, at gentlemen's, it's different. There one groans loudly about tight coat, one stretches one's neck in front of the mirror because of collars that are too high, one swears about a cut that the razor in a hurried hand made across the chin. One complains about cobblers who no longer know how to make high patent leather boots, one asks which guests will come from out of the town and brushes moustaches with a small brush in front of the mirror. Some tail-coated gentlemen feel depressed in their colourlessness that they can hardly brighten with a red ribbon. They don't come against these red collars, green uniforms, blue skirts and white collars, against silver and gold, lacquer and coloured cloth. They are pale with their colour of living room against the weather-red and brown faces of the riders. With a hat under arm, they stealthily pass them by—the ministers and the chamberlains of the cabinet—about whom one has no idea where and how they actually spend their day.

A wide staircase-again with a red rug-leads up. Flowers line the stairs. Above stands a chamberlain of the Grand Duke. Representing the master of the house, he receives the guests. Everyone receives a small, folded cardboard box with a golden crown pressed into it. The dance card. On a silken string, a small pencil is ready to note down the names of the dancers. The programme is fixed-waltz, polka, rhinelander. Festive dinner. Waltz, lancer, polka, waltz, rhinelander, française and cotillon.

All rooms of the of the old castle are opened this evening. In corridors, near doors stand footmen in red liveries, golden cords across their chests, with knee-long breeches and dancing shoes. Chandeliers with hundreds of warm red luminous candles give mild light, enlivening the faces and making the eyes shine.

No one pushes. Despite narrowness, there is a gentle back and forth. Greetings and saying hello's. Frau Käte joins some of the ladies, while Meinhardis is eager to attempt to enter his name on the dance cards of the best dancers. A knock brings the buzzing sound of the voices to silence. Everybody steps back, and the Grand Duke in parade uniform—leading the Grand Duchess—walks past into the great hall.

The reception begins there. New guests are introduced. Meanwhile, waltz begins quietly and the first dance begins. The old ladies group themselves slowly along the walls on the sofas, elderly gentlemen retreat into the smoking rooms. One is still a little cold, one is still standing around, one doesn't feel a little at home. Everybody must say hello to a lot of people; because it is as it should be. Frau Käte seeks out the commander's wife, she greets the waiting maids who ask her graciously—as if they were her superiors—about her children. Frau Käte is not allowed to offend anyone, and as she in turn fulfils her duties, the younger officers who are subordinate to her husband report to her. Of course, they don't look as if this duty is difficult for them. They are literally beaming at her. One takes Käte to the dance, one takes her to the buffet for a glass of champagne. Gradually, it gets warmer in the room. The tips of a train are already torn by the spurs of a dancer. The candles have higher flames and drip treacherously on the uniforms of those standing unsuspectingly beneath them.

Frau Käte flies from arm to arm. Tired, she lets herself be led to a group of older ladies and sits down with them. Gladly, she joins the conversation.

"No, I have the butter from Northern Germany. I find it more economical. It also keeps well. I squeeze it into a large earthenware pot and pour water on it. Five kilograms comes significantly cheaper that way."

"Yes, but you don't use them for cooking?"

"Sometimes I do." She was ashamed of her extravagance, and as if to apologise, "I am from the countryside, Your Excellency. There one is so spoiled with fat . . ."

And the old Excellency nods in understanding.

But Frau Käte is not left alone. An elegant tall officer comes to her, and she rises.

"What are you doing there with the old bags? You don't belong there . . ." Frau Käte lowers her head. She feels the hard, silver embroidery of the uniform cuff on her neck. It hurts. He holds her tighter than necessary.

"Don't you know that you have great charm?"

She is embarrassed by this male voice talking at her from above. She wishes the music comes to an end. She also blushed a little.

"You hide too much; a young woman like you."

"Oh, it's not for me."

"This is something for every woman." And now, the music has ended, the man leads her to a side parlour under a floor lamp. Frau Käte didn't want this. But she didn't succeed in escaping.

Senior Lieutenant von Kaisersmark sits close to her. The old-fashioned sofa is very low, and Kaisersmark sits so that his left knee touches the floor, which gives him an almost kneeling position. He doesn't say a word, but only sighs.

"Are you missing something?" Käte asks anxiously. She sees how slack the wrinkles are that run down Kaisersmark's face from the root of the nose to the mouth. Pity for the beautiful face, she thinks.

"Dear lady, actually, I find it hard to scare you by something about which you'd rather know nothing. But I think I'll be a better person when I've told you. I have debts and no prospect of ever pay them. The commander has warned me, but I can't help it."

"And your father?"

"He sells the estate that is mortgaged."

"Your friends . . ."

"That's the worst. I owe them all."

"There are bankers..."

"I owe them too!"

"And now . . ."

"Yes, so dear beautiful little woman, today you are seeing me for the last time. Tonight I'll take off the uniform." He looks at the embroidered braids. "And tomorrow I'll go with a suitcase to another continent."

"To America? And what do you do there then?"

"I don't know. Washing dishes, probably."

There is silence for a moment. Some young pairs walk through the room and an old footman offers punch, beer and mineral water. Kaisersmark grabs a glass of water and pours it down. Käte starts again,

"I don't understand—forgive me—how did it come to this?"

Kaisersmark shrugs his shoulders.

"God, as it always comes. My father put me in the expensive regiment and thought that I would soon be a rich man-he pumped in the money for the first uniforms. Well, but one has a casino bill, and also one must live in a decent place. And admittedly, after the dull service and and all the silly, boring socialising one needs something different. God, I've fallen in love, and that costs money. The salary? That's enough for cigarettes."

"Yes, but . . ."

"You mean I was reckless? You're probably right. But do that for me! Drinking water when twenty-four comrades are sitting with Moselle. Or riding a bad horse in front of the regiment. Or wear old uniforms and cracked patent leather boots. Nobody can do that. And then mug some rich lass. Nah, I haven't managed this. The comrades put down a loaded revolver . . ."

Käte opens her eyes in horror.

"But I didn't take it. I don't want to shoot myself, I want to live."

"Of course you shall live, and maybe over there, who knows . . ." Kaisersmark takes Käte's hand and bends down,

"Shall we go dancing now?"

She takes his arm, and he leads her towards the waltz melody.

In the smoking room, the air is blue. On the table there are thick bottles of red wine and many cigar boxes. The faces are shining and reddened.

"Nah, he can't do that if he's still so in love with the lass."

"God, Axelstern, they're very decent people, the Löwensteins, and rich."

"Well, all well and good, but Jews! And he with his position at court. No, out of the question. If he does something like that, he'll be thrown out of here, and the day after tomorrow he'll be sitting in a nasty border place, in a line regiment."

"But she is pretty, even beautiful. Actually . . ."

"Yes," Axelstern smiles. "There's something about them, those Jewish lasses, temperament and- Well, cheers."

In another corner, a very young lieutenant leans over to his comrade.

"But you, trench war. That wouldn't be a war at all. Just think about it, you don't get to see the enemy and get shot to death."

"Hmm, admittedly, it's not pleasant."

"Look, my father was in the war of seventieth, they we had attacks on horses, hand-to-hand combat and so on. One must be a man. But trenches? Unchivalrous."

On the wet road outside the carriages started to go up. They were ordered on time; because it was taken into account that the gentlemen had to get up early for duty. But not everybody went home. With sabres hanging low, many strolled to a small pub to discuss the events of the ball in comfort.

Meinhardis unlocked the door for Frau Käte and kissed her, "Good night."

"Don't come so late, please."

"But, Käte, I just want to have a drink. Dancing gives one a terrible thirst."

Frau Käte puts the many flowers-that she got at the ball-in a washbasin. Lovingly, she loosens string and wire and carefully sprinkles them. The mimosa smells strong and the white daffodils strange. Silently, she opens a door and stands in front of Lela's bed. Lela breathes quietly, both small hands are buried into Bear's shaggy fur.

#Mädchen in Uniform #Madchen in Uniform #Das Mädchen Manuela #The Child Manuela #Christa Winsloe #The Child Manuela translation #Christa's museum

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