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maniculum · 7 months

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Medieval Scorpions Effortpost

So yesterday I reblogged this post featuring an 11th-century depiction of the Apocalypse Locusts from Revelations, noting the following incongruity as another medieval scorpion issue:

The artist, as you can see, has interpreted "tails like scorpions" as meaning "glue cheerful-looking snakes to their butts".

Anyway, it occurred to me that the medieval scorpion thing might not be as widely known as I think it is, and that Tumblr would probably enjoy knowing about it if it isn't known already. So, finding myself unable to focus on the research I'm supposed to be doing, I decided to write about this instead. I'll just go ahead and put a cut here.

As we can see in the image above, at least one artist out there thought a "scorpion" was a type of snake. Which makes it difficult to draw "tails like scorpions", because a snake's tail is not that distinctive or menacing (maybe rattlesnakes, but they don't have those outside the Americas). So they interpreted "tails like scorpions" as "the tail looks like a whole snake complete with head".

Let me tell you. This is not a problem unique to this illustration.

See, people throughout medieval Europe were aware of scorpions. As just alluded to, they are mentioned in the Bible, and if the people producing manuscripts in medieval Europe knew one thing, it was Stuff In Bible. They're also in the Zodiac, which medieval Europe had inherited through classical sources. However, let's take a look at this map:

That's Wikipedia's map of the native range of the Scorpiones order, i.e., all scorpion species. You may notice something -- the range just stops at a certain northern latitude. Pretty much all of northern Europe is scorpion-free. If you lived in the north half of Europe, odds were good you had never seen a scorpion in your life. But if you were literate or educated at all, or you knew they were a thing, because you'd almost certainly run across them being mentioned in texts from farther south. And those texts wouldn't bother to explain what a scorpion was, of course -- everyone knows scorpions, right? When was the last time you stopped to explain What Is Spiders?

So medieval writers and artists in northern Europe were kind of stuck. There was all this scorpion imagery and metaphor in the texts they liked to work from, but they didn't really know what a scorpion was. Writers could kind of work around it (there's a lot of "oh, it's a venomous creature, moving on"), but sometimes they felt the need to break it down better. For this, of course, they'd have to refer to a bestiary -- but due to Bestiary Telephone and the persistent need of bestiary authors to turn animals into allegories, one of the only visual details you got on scorpions was that they... had a beautiful face, which they used to distract people in order to sting them.

And look. I'm not here to yuck anyone's yum, but I would say that a scorpion's face has significant aesthetic appeal only for a fairly small segment of the population. I'm sure you could get an entomologist to rhapsodize about it a bit, but your average person on the street will not be entranced by the face of a scorpion. So this did not help the medieval Europeans in figuring out how to depict scorpions. There was also some semantic confusion -- see, in some languages (such as Old and Middle English), "worm" could be a general term for very small animals of any kind. But it also could mean "serpent".* So there were some, like our artist at the top of the post, who were pretty sure a scorpion was a snake. This was probably helped along by the fact that "venomous" was one of the only things everyone knew about them, and hey, snakes are venomous. Also, Pliny the Elder had floated the idea that there were scorpions in Africa that could fly, and at least one author (13th-century monk Bartholomaeus Anglicus) therefore suggested that they had feathers. I don't see that last one coming up much, I just share it because it's funny to me.

*English eventually resolved this by borrowing the Latin vermin for very small animals, using the specialized spelling wyrm for big impressive mythical-type serpents, and sticking with the more specific snake for normal serpents.

Some authors, like the anonymous author of the Ancrene Wisse, therefore suggested that a scorpion was a snake with a woman's face and a stinging tail. (Everyone seemed to be on the same page with regards to the fact that the sting was in the tail, which is in fact probably the most recognizable aspect of scorpions, so good job there.) However, while authors could avoid this problem, visual artists could not. And if you were illustrating a bestiary or a calendar, including a scorpion was not optional. So they had to take a shot at what this thing looked like.

And so, after this way-too-long explanation, the thing you're probably here for: inaccurate medieval drawings of scorpions. (There are of course accurate medieval drawings of scorpions, from artists who lived in the southern part of Europe and/or visited places where scorpions lived; I'm just not showing you those.) And if you find yourself wondering, "how sure are you that that's meant to be a scorpion?" -- all of these are either from bestiaries or from calendars that include zodiac illustrations.

11th-century England, MS Arundel 60. (Be honest, without the rest of this post, if I had asked you to guess what animal this was supposed to be, would you have ever guessed “scorpion”?)

12th-century Germany, "Psalter of Henry the Lion". (Looks a bit undercooked. Kind of fetal.)

12th-century France, Peter Lombard's Sententiae. (Very colorful, itsy bitsy claws, what is happening with that tail?)

12th-century England, "The Shaftesbury Psalter". (So a scorpion is some sort of wyvern with a face like a duck, correct?)

13th-century France, Thomas de Cantimpré's Liber de natura rerum. (I’d give them credit for the silhouette not being that far off, but there’s a certain bestiary style where all the animals kind of look like that. Also note how few of these have claws.)

13th-century England, "The Bodley Bestiary". (Mischievous flying squirrel impales local man’s hand, local man fails to notice.)

13th-century England, Harley MS 3244. (A scorpion is definitely either a mouse or a fish. Either way it has six legs.)

13th-century England, Harley MS 3244. (Wait, no, it’s a baby theropod, and it has two legs. (Yes, this is the same manuscript, that’s not an error, this artist did four scorpions and no two are the same.))

13th-century England, Harley MS 3244. (Actually it’s a lizard with tiny ears and it has four legs.)

13th-century England, Harley MS 3244. (Now that we’re at the big fancy illustration, I think I’ve got it — it’s like that last one, but two legs, longer ears, and a less goofy face. Also I’ve decided it’s not pink anymore, I think that was the main problem.)

13th-century England, MS Kk.4.25. (A scorpion is a flat crocodile with a bear’s head.)

13th-century England, "The Huth Psalter". (Wyvern but baby! Does not seem to be enjoying biting its own tail.)

13th-century England, MS Royal 1 D X. (This triangular-headed gentlecreature gets the award for “closest guess at correct limb configuration”. If two of those were claws, I might actually believe this artist had seen a scorpion before, or at least a picture of one.)

13th-century England, "The Westminster Psalter". (A scorpion is the offspring of a wyvern and a fawn.)

13th-century England, "The Rutland Psalter". (Too many legs! Pull back! Pull back!)

13th or 14th-century France, Bestiaire d'amour rimé. (This is very similar to the fawn-wyvern, but putting it in an actual Scene makes it even more obvious that you’re just guessing.)

14th-century Netherlands, Jacob van Maerlant's Der Naturen Bloeme. (More top-down six-legged guys that look too furry to be arthropods.)

14th-century Germany, MS Additional 22413. (That is clearly a turtle.)

14th-century France, Matfres Eymengau de Beziers's Breviari d'amor. (Who came up with that head shape and what was their deal?)

15th-century England, "Bestiary of Ann Walsh". (Screw it, a scorpion is a big lizard that glares at you for trying to make me draw things I don’t know about.)

I've spent way too much time on this now. End of post, thank you to anyone who got all the way down here.

#medieval #medieval creatures #medieval art #scorpions #medieval scorpions #manuscript #medieval manuscripts #illuminated manuscript

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prokopetz · 3 months

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"Turn-based roguelikes going graphical is bad because old school ASCII user interfaces are so much more transparent and accessible" yeah, I love guessing which of three or four completely different things a given ASCII character represents this time. Having the screen transform unrecognisably between one turn and the next and trying to figure out what the fuck just happened by combing through a log file which somehow manages to be both cryptically terse and exhaustingly verbose at the exact same time is fun and enriching. Being forced to choose between navigating a menu system that puts hyper-specific commands you will literally never use at the top level while nesting commands you'll be using constantly four layers deep, and resorting to non-rebindable hotkeys whose semantic mappings were evidently designed by someone whose native language is Klingon? Genuinely the highlight of my day.

#gaming #video games #roguelikes #user interface #user experience #ux #ui #grumping #swearing

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tbposting · 29 days

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One thing about labels is, they are merely a means to, vaguely and in shorthand, describe a set of experiences. "Gay" is a tool used to very broadly describe the experience of "being a man who is attracted to other men" for example. What exactly that "gay" experience entails (or indeed, what being a "man" is) is almost COMPLETELY fluid and context dependent and can change radically from place and time and community to place and time and community.

Being a gay man in the 1920s at the same time is and very much isn't reasonably comparable to being a gay man in the 2020s. There's an overlap in the internal emotional experience of it, but the material conditions are so radically different as to be almost entirely alien.

So a label isn't useful for prescribing or defining what an experience is, a label is just shorthand for a big, wibbly-wobbly mess of incredibly complex connections and conditions that can be understood intuitively and emotionally, even if it can't necessarily be parsed out rationally.

In the 1946 short story "On Rigor in Science," Jorge Luis Borges imagines an empire where the science of cartography becomes so exact and rigorous that the only way to make a map detailed enough to live up to the imperial standard of accuracy is to make a map which is literally the size of the entire empire.

In the same way, if you want to write a definition for terms like "bi" or "pan" that is so accurate as to encompass and account for every possible nuance and peculiar difference, what you'll end up with is a book the size of an entire library, which nobody could ever possibly read, much less use to describe themselves.

So it's much more useful to treat labels like ~vibes~, like a convenient shorthand that sort of mostly gets a general vague idea of something across, and if it needs to be defined more closely you can handle that in conversation.

Sometimes there will be a he/him nonbinary aroace lesbian in the world who is happily married to a man that he enjoys sex with regularly. It's unusual, but it's not useful to respond to it by pointing at a series of definitions and starting semantic arguments about them. If you want to understand how it makes sense, you have to ask questions and listen to him about it, and the way it makes sense is almost certainly going to be intuitive, irrational and emotional, that's just how human beings roll.

All of this to say, arguments and gatekeeping over label definitions is generally very silly. We are, as Terry Pratchett wrote, "A LUCKY SPECIES OF APE THAT IS TRYING TO UNDERSTAND THE COMPLEXITIES OF CREATION VIA A LANGUAGE THAT EVOLVED IN ORDER TO TELL ONE ANOTHER WHERE THE RIPE FRUIT WAS."

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d0wnb4df0rf1cm3n · 1 year

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Still be here in the morning?

Nikolai Lantsov x F!Reader

Summary: You drive Nikolai wild. You want him to see you, to see you, but you're scared. If you give in to your desires and you let yourself fall, will he still be there in the morning?

Word Count: 2.9K

Warnings: SMUTTY SMUT, LOTS OF SMUT, lots of teasing, a lil bit of angst, and some fluff. Also the reader's nickname is Mouse - but it's not a size thing, it's an occupation thing *thumbs up emoji*

Author's Note: This started off as a smut thing but became a whole story thing so enjoy ;D

It was safe to say you drove Nikolai wild. You hardly listened to his rules, questioning your Captain in his every decision and driving him crazy with your constant bickering. You knew that you could, you were Nikolai's star crewmate and he would never risk firing you. No one was a better diplomat, marksman, or sailor - except perhaps Nikolai himself. You were a good detective too - you were the only one of his crew to have figured out his true identity.

You had teased him about it on a brief visit to West Ravka - an old family painting had given it all away.

"You'll never guess what I found, Cap." You said, waltzing into his quarters and jumping up onto his desk. He tilted his face up to you - indicating that he was listening - but kept his eyes focused on the maps laid in front of him, studying new routes out west. You were only docked in Os Kervo to collect a round of new supplies - enough to keep you afloat to Novyi Zem or even further.

"Tell me, Mouse. What have you found that is so worth sharing that you break into my quarters?" He used the affectionate nickname you had picked up since joining the crew - you were quiet, almost undetectable when need by. Of course, Nikolai knew how annoying and boisterous you could get when you were comfortable. Still, the nickname had stuck. In fact, you were almost certain that aside from Nikolai, and the twins, no one could remember your true name. It didn't matter. You had moved on from that life.

"Well, Tolya and I spent most of our afternoon in the galleries in Os Kervo-"

"-leaving Tamar to collect the supplies? Yes, I heard about that. Just because you keep us out of trouble with the law does not mean that you get to delegate all your duties to someone else. We work together, Mouse, you'd do well to remember it."

"Yes, yes, she said she was fine with it. Something about getting Tolya's poetic arse off her back for a few hours," Nikolai chuckled at that, "And anyway, the interesting thing is what I found in the galleries. You see, despite the Fold, West Ravka is still a united nation-"

"I'm aware."

"Stop interrupting me!" You swatted him with a loose piece of paper on his desk, "It's rude. You'd have thought that you had some manners - what with your pretentious nature."

"Is there a point to this, Mouse? Because I suggest you get there soon."

"Well, what I was saying was, I came across a portrait. A new one - well, sort of. It had the King - Pyotr, that is - and his wife, and their sons. Did you know that they had 2? I had simply forgotten." A cheeky grin had snuck onto your face and Nikolai was now looking directly at you. You leaned in close to his ear, "I'd say they did the younger son a disservice, wouldn't you? Your Highness?"

Nikolai moved swiftly, clamping his hand down over your mouth. "Does Tolya know?"

You move his hand off your mouth, "Of course not. I'm not one to be going around spreading rumours that are not mine to spread."

"Good. And you're going to keep it that way. Especially if you want to stay on this ship."

"Oh, Nikolai. You're not going to fire me. You won't risk having the biggest threat to your secret not on your side. I'm a diplomat - I know how intimidation works," Nikolai fixes you with a stare, "Ok, I was a diplomat, whatever. Semantics. Point is, you're not going to fire me. Your secrecy depends on it."

After that day, your teasing had increased ten-fold and Nikolai's patience with you had decreased just as much. He hardly spoke to you if he didn't have orders to give you. And it pissed you off.

To be perfectly honest, you made his blood boil. Nikolai didn't know what it was about you, but you knowing who he was had tipped him over the edge. He thought that he was untraceable - a new persona, a new look. He'd made a point to never dock in Ravka - but needs must and there was no way they'd survive a trip to Kerch. They'd been running on fumes. To be honest, the trip had gone better than expected. But of all the people to find out, it just had to be you. He stewed alone in his chambers. They were currently in Novyi Zem, planning to head further west. Ravka had no power further west than Novyi Zem, a notion which many - including you - were grateful for.

He'd never taken the time to understand what you were running from - almost everyone in his crew was running from some demon, but you had never once let slip who you were before you joined Sturmhond's crew. He knew that you were a diplomat of some kind and that you were half-Ravkan, but beyond that, you were a mystery to him. Perhaps that's what pissed him off. That you knew exactly who he was and who he had been and he knew nothing about you.

A knock came at his door. Who the fuck could that be? To his knowledge, everyone was out partying in the taverns. Who could resist a peaceful night out when you spent every other night on a ship sailing in the middle of an ocean? Nikolai could. And so could this mystery person apparently. Nikolai opened his door before the guest knock again, groaning when he caught sight of who it was. You were standing at his door - coat and boots discarded and your shirt haphazardly untied. You pushed past him and made yourself comfortable in his chair, smiling as he ran a hand over his face.

"Awhh, don't look too happy to see me, Sturmhond. Or should I say, Nikolai?" You'd taken to teasing him in the privacy of his room, where you were sure no one could hear you.

"What do you want, Mouse?"

"I just wanted to see how my dear Majesty was holding up. It has been a rough week for us all."

"Cut the bullshit. I know you're here to piss me off. Not tonight, Mouse. Please."

"Ooh. I like it when you beg. Do it again." You grinned at him. You knew you were getting under his skin.

"I said not tonight. Get out, Mouse. Go piss off some drunkard in a tavern." Nikolai said, nearly pushing you out of the door. "Maybe he can fuck the attitude out of you," he whispered under his breath.

"Make me."

"I'm sorry, what?" Nikolai said, turning around to face you again.

"I said, make me, Lantsov."

"I told you to stop fucking using that name," Nikolai growled, pushing you up against the wall, his arm pushing under your boob. You flushed pink, heat pooling in your stomach.

Nikolai grinned, "Oh, I see." He looked you up and down, scanning your figure. You could feel your underwear soak with every second of his gaze.

"What do you see, Captain? Need me to get you a spyglass. Could help you-" You were cut off by Nikolai's lips on yours. They were soft, gentle, and yet demanding at the same time. It was nice. This was nice.

"Is that what you wanted, Mouse? Attention from your Captain?" The honourific felt dirty coming from his mouth. You felt the desire to push him further - to piss him off until he gave you what you wanted. What you needed.

"Are you sure it's not what you wanted Captain? You seem to be a lot more excited by this than I am."

Nikolai nearly growled at that, attaching his lips to yours again, before slipping your belt off. He slipped his hands down to your core, feeling the wetness and smirking.

"Not as excited as me, huh?" He rubbed a circle around your clit and watched your defenses crumble. You grabbed a fistful of his jacket in your hand as your hips bucked away from him.

Nikolai lifted you up easily, depositing you on his desk, "I wanted to fuck you that day. When you hopped up on this desk and threatened me the first time. Should've done it. Should've shown you exactly who the boss is around here."

He grabbed the small knife he kept in his breast pocket off the desk and flicked it open. You gasped. Nikolai grazed the knife against the outside of your hip, slicing cleanly through your underwear. You were glad you'd taken off your stays earlier - you weren't sure if you could survive him ruining your most comfortable stays.

He placed a gentle kiss on your throat before pulling your shirt off. He gazed at you, momentarily starstruck, before latching his mouth onto your nipple. A hand came up to toy with the other, and you dissolved into a moaning mess.

He pulled away from your nipple to grin at your state. You looked at him breathlessly, grinning, "Is that all you've got, Lantsov."

His stare turned dark. He dove down and buried himself in your pussy. He licked and nipped, flicking your clit with his tongue. He played you like a well-tuned instrument. He fucked your hole with his tongue - alternating between stroking your walls with his tongue and sucking on your clit.

Your orgasm washed over you unexpectedly, sending waves of pleasure through your veins. You clamped your thighs around Nikolai's head, throwing your head back as you cried out.

Nikolai lifted his head up, eyes glinting dangerously, wetness smeared all around his lips. He looked devious. In that moment, he was not Nikolai Lantsov, spare to the Lantsov name, but Sturmhond, masterful privateer, Captain of Volkvolny. You loved him for it.

"You've caused me a lot of trouble, Mouse."

"What are you going to do about it?" You bit your lip, hiding a smirk.

He threw his coat off, carrying you towards his bed. You were lucky that no one else was on board - if they heard what was going on you'd never live it down.

Nikolai laid you on the bed, stripping his clothes off at extraordinary speed. He was quickly inside you, eliciting whimpers from you at every movement. He gave you a moment to adjust before he started to thrust. His hips snapped into you at an ungodly pace and it was all that you could do to not fall apart on his cock.

Nikolai grinned at your silence, his eyes scanning over you. Your face was blissed out, eyes rolling to the back of your head every so often. Sweat glistened on your skin, as you rocked forwards at the force of his every thrust. He couldn't help the small praises that fell from his lips as you moaned lowly.

"Look at you, so fucking beautiful under me, spread out for me like a whore. That's what you are, my beautiful little whore." You moaned at the filth dripping out of his mouth, "What's wrong, sweetheart? Have I fucked the little mouse stupid? No words left to taunt me now, huh?" You moaned softly, your mouth almost stuck in the shape of an 'O'. "Maybe I should do this more often, keep you quiet for longer." You nodded your head, head too foggy to come up with another smart-ass response.

Your second and third orgasms crashed over you in quick succession - Nikolai clamped his hand over your mouth as you screamed 'Nikolai' over and over again. He promised that next time he'd fuck that name out of your brain, before pulling out and cumming all over your chest.

You lay on his bed - dazed from the intense fucking you just received. You were surprised to find yourself alone in Nikolai's bed - he'd disappeared moments after cumming. He'd said something but you were still coming down from your last high when he moved away. You began to spiral. Of course, he was only fucking you to teach you a lesson - why else would he be interested in you? You idiot! He's the prince of fucking Ravka and the Captain of this ship. What do you have that would interest him, apart from your bratty mouth and attitude? He said it himself - the attitude pissed him off.

You were startled when something cold made contact with your chest. You looked up to find Nikolai with something in his hand - a wet washcloth, maybe? - and a sheepish grin on his face. He was still naked, his hair still tousled and his face still flushed. An involuntary beam broke out across your face. He didn't leave you after all.

Nikolai was taken by surprise at the tears that gathered on your lash line. He pulled you up into his chest when you were clean, sitting on the edge of his bed with you held tightly in his arms.

"Hey, hey, hey." He said, drawing mindless shapes on your back as tears streamed down your face, "What's wrong? Did I hurt you?" He was confused - surely, if he hurt you, you wouldn't be seeking comfort in him.

His heart slowed slightly when you shook your head, but the confusion remained.

"Talk to me, Mouse. What's going on in that pretty little head of yours?"

"It's stupid."

"It's not. If it matters to you, then it matters to me. Tell me, whatever it is, I'll fix it." Another wave of emotion washed over you. You climbed into his lap and he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into his chest.

"I thought you were mad." You whispered quietly, almost hoping he wouldn't hear you and that he would let it go.

"Why would I be mad?"

"You left." You shrugged, "You left and I thought you were gone for good." He pressed a kiss to your temple and pulled your head into his chest.

"Oh, Mouse. For all your genius, you are oblivious." You looked up at him, confused. "I love you, Mouse. I always have." You shook your head, "What?"

"You're just saying that." You said, tears filling your lash line again as you tried to pull away, "You're just saying that 'cause you fucked me and you don't want me to leave." You tried to move out of his arms but he held you firmly. You hit his chest, trying to force yourself off him, but he stood his ground. Eventually, you just melted into his arms - he held you as you cried, hands stroking your hair soothingly.

You calmed down slowly, chest heaving as you tried to replenish your lungs. You stayed relaxed in his arms. He laid his head on top of yours. "Wanna tell me what that was about?"

You shook your head.

"Do you trust me?"

You nodded your head.

"Do you trust me enough to believe me when I say I love you?"

You hesitated.

"Well, we've found our problem."

"You don't love me."

"How do you know? You been inside my head? Pretty sure even Grisha can't do that." You chuckled.

"You hate me. You can't even look at me - let alone talk to me for long enough to fall in love with me."

"I can't look at you because if I start looking I'll never look away. I can't talk to you because I look like a fool every time I try and string two words together in front of you. Ask Tolya - he'll tell you how hopelessly in love with you I am. And for someone who's not interested in romance, he's a fucking hopeless romantic." His words involuntarily brought a smile onto your face.

You looked into his eyes, "You're sure you love me?"

"Honey, you drive me wild."

You nestled into his arms, and he leaned you both back onto the bed. Your head hit his pillow and suddenly you're surrounded by him. His arms wrap around you tightly, his pillow smells like him, his face is right next to yours. It's nice. Comforting.

You looked up into his face, studying his features while he slept. He was pretty - objectively. His face was long - pointy. Someone had done a terrible job of fixing his broken nose - but it seemed off at a second glance. He seemed so different than the paintings in the gallery - more difference than age alone could bring. His eyes were the giveaway - they were muddy green at first glance but under the right light and if you stared long enough, they were the same hazel green as the ones in the painting. You reached up to stroke his face. How long would this all last? How long until he wouldn't be able to play pretend anymore? How long until he had to go back to being Prince Nikolai Lantsov of Ravka? How long did you have with him in this beautiful bubble that you had created? You could already hear the rest of the crew filtering in from their nights out.

A hand came up to wrap around yours, "Sleep, Mouse. I'll still be here in the morning."

You smiled. He'd still be here in the morning.

fin.

#grishaverse #nikolai lantsov #netflix shadow and bone #nikolai lantsov fluff #nikolai lantsov x reader #nikolai lantsov being kind #nikolai lantsov fanfic #nikolai lantsov imagines #nikolai lantsov my beloved #nikolai lantsov x you #no y/n #shadow and bone #shadow and bone fanfic #nikolai x reader #siege and storm #nikolai lantsov imagine #shadow and bone x reader

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squidthoughts · 8 months

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why doesn't shin leave?

that's the question, right? there are secondary ones, of course – why didn't she kill sabine/was she sandbagging their duel/did she intentionally perform a nonfatal stabbing/was she sent there to interact with sabine at all, or just for the map.... but really, my question at the end of ep1 was:

why is she waiting here at all?

"we've been looking for this," shin says, and that's what, an accusation? conversation-starter? she's here to talk? maybe, okay – except she's actively thieving, so what can she be expecting by sticking around but a fight? so she secures the map and she waits for sabine. to fight her. but the question is still why and in my unqualified opinion i think the answer is found back here:

"ahsoka tano's former apprentice is on lothal."

what do we know about baylan? he was a jedi, once. he witnessed the purge of his order and adapted to a life of survival – he maintains certain jedi traditions, he passes these traditions to his padawan: the braid, the traditional construction of the lightsaber, if not the crystal inside (standing mystery, though). he is nostalgic but not melancholy, connected perhaps to the more elegant and noble history of the jedi but evidently strongly opposed to assuming that title at present.

what do we know about shin? well...almost nothing. except that when baylan speaks, shin listens. she obeys unquestioningly. when morgan speaks, shin watches baylan. they are close; there is mutual trust, though clearly more dependency on shin's side. and she is likely – though not certainly – born after order 66.

i'm confident answers will be forthcoming about shin's past, but in the meantime, working with the (very!!) little we have, assuming the subtle intricacies of the shot direction and ivanna's acting are all intentional, and with the full disclaimer that im brainrotty for wolfwren......i want to answer my original question.

shin has never seen another apprentice before. beyond baylan and inquisitors (apparently), she has probably never seen another lightsaber-wielder before. and yet – her master, while scorning the label of jedi, is steeped in jedi history. he seems to be training her according to some traditional jedi principles (though...what with the mass-murder and the mercenary work, of course we don't yet know the extent of those principles), and it would follow that he would have imparted the history of the jedi as well.

baylan skoll is not a jedi. but ahsoka tano is. or, was. but the antagonist squad refers to her as a jedi, so from shin's perspective it's not just "ahsoka tano's apprentice" on lothal. she is being told there is a real, live jedi apprentice on lothal.

and the jedi are extinct.

we're into the rampant speculation part of the meta now, because what is shin thinking in this moment?

there's a green lightsaber before her – a jedi apprentice before her – or at least the former-apprentice-of-a-jedi, but shin is the apprentice-of-a-former-jedi, and at some point the semantics get in the way of the exhilaration. this is probably (again, this whole thing could get disproven in the next episode or something) the first lightsaber battle shin has ever had with someone who might actually kill her. (i assume baylan wouldn't engage in prolicide while sparring.)

this is, i think, shin at her most excited. on the one hand – it's another apprentice! it's another member of an order (her order??) that was supposed to be wiped out! this is proof of concept maybe, that shin isn't so alone! and on the other hand – this is a test, no? like, the first real test of shin's full abilities, assuming she's never dueled before? again, i wish we knew more about her motivations, but it stands to reason a padawan that powerful and devoted would constantly be looking for ways to both prove and improve herself, right?

and then. sabine. sucks.

she's sloppy and weak and doesn't use the force. she's untrained and undisciplined and slow and gets tired too quickly.

shin starts blocking with one hand. she starts sidestepping sabine's wild swings. there's no way she's is trying to kill her at this point; shin is playing with her food.

i just...think she's disappointed?? like, she was probably expecting so much more from a proper jedi's apprentice, and i think we'd need more information about her to extrapolate what exactly she wants in this scene, but i'd be willing to bet it wasn't this sub-par, former-apprentice bitch-ass fight. (love to sabine but like. she did get her clock cleaned. obviously.)

regardless, i am excited to see how this experience influences the forestfight™ we know is on the way...and also if sabine, like, feels...anything....about being skewered like a county fair corn dog?? i mean trauma or anger or fear or drive or?? bc we know shin wasn't actually trying to kill her, (this is my official stance and im sticking to it) but sabine sure doesn't!!

#shin hati #meta #sabine wren #ahsoka show spoilers #ahsoka spoilers #wolfwren #ahsoka show

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absolutebl · 1 month

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Hello! I saw you mention this in your post about kink in BL and I'm curious... What do you mean by "linguistically" D/s? The use of titles? Or something beyond that?

Ah yes. So the use of something like phi or hia in Thai BL can be "daddy" coded. Not exactly but similar. If the characters are making a fuss about it in the BL as part of the plot, there's probubly something significantly intimate, sexual, or kinky going on (or all 3) with the language.

Also, if an older uke character swaps down registers (so suddenly uses own name or pom for the I pronoun) that's a sign of sexual submission. See LeonPob in Don't Say No.

You'll see friends tease each other in a flirtatious way with nong as well. Bad Buddy does this. (That a demotion of the person being called nong if they aren't a nong, and sometimes even if they are.)

Similarly hyung in Korean BLs has great power when sunbae is primarily in use prior. I call this "hyung slinging" when the use of the "older brother" honorific is pretty much weaponized for intimacy.

You want to see some serious hyung slinging? Watch Semantic Error.

The way JaeYoung melts whenever SangWoo uses hyung is KEY to their romantic arc. Then during yaja time when JaeYoung gets to use the word hyung on SangWoo, it is DRIPPING with sex appeal. No accident this is right before they kiss.

It's so linguistically kinky it's practically a master class in using a register shift for seduction.

Additionally, different application in the names, registers, and formalities in KBL or JBL (esp in terms of suffixes) is also in play (or given name vs family name) to drive intimacy and sexual tension.

For JBL I go into this grappling in Minato's Laundromat. That's a younger character blatantly courting an older character and the language use goes all over the map in a push and pull of seduction and resistance.

I recently noticed in The 8th Sense (after they become boyfriends) the younger character JiHyun uses JaeWon-ssi (NAUGHTY BOY)- but not to his hyung's face, only when talking about his new lover to himself. It's VERY cute. He does slip in a "ya!"" (in front of his friend), gets reprimanded for it, but not severely. I think this is somewhat allowed in a country bumpkin, but there is definitely an extreme intimacy edge of ownership going on too.

It's a "my boyfriend can use casual language because he may be a brat but he's MY brat and he's the only one who's allowed" kind of thing.

#asked an answered #asian honorifics and the kinkification of register switching #PABL explains honorifics... again #thai bl #korean bl #japanese bl

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linguisticillustrations · 3 months

Text

A semantic map of the knowledge domain - different types of knowing/not knowing. Figure 1.2 on page 9 in:

Sjöberg, Anna. 2023. Knowledge predication: A semantic typology. Department of Linguistics, Stockholm University. https://urn.kb.se/resolve?urn=urn:nbn:se:su:diva-221698.

#semantic map #semantics #Anna Sjöberg #typology #Stockholm University #linguistics #lingblr

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downbadf0rficppl · 3 months

Text

still be here in the morning?

Nikolai Lantsov x F!Reader

Summary: You drive Nikolai wild. You want him to see you, to see you, but you're scared. If you give in to your desires and you let yourself fall, will he still be there in the morning?

Word Count: 2.9K

Warnings: SMUTTY SMUT, LOTS OF SMUT, lots of teasing, a lil bit of angst, and some fluff. Also the reader's nickname is Mouse - but it's not a size thing, it's an occupation thing *thumbs up emoji*

Repost

You had teased him about it on a brief visit to West Ravka - an old family painting had given it all away.

"Well, Tolya and I spent most of our afternoon in the galleries in Os Kervo-"

"I'm aware."

"Stop interrupting me!" You swatted him with a loose piece of paper on his desk, "It's rude. You'd have thought that you had some manners - what with your pretentious nature."

"Is there a point to this, Mouse? Because I suggest you get there soon."

Nikolai moved swiftly, clamping his hand down over your mouth. "Does Tolya know?"

You move his hand off your mouth, "Of course not. I'm not one to be going around spreading rumours that are not mine to spread."

"Good. And you're going to keep it that way. Especially if you want to stay on this ship."

After that day, your teasing had increased ten-fold and Nikolai's patience with you had decreased just as much. He hardly spoke to you if he didn't have orders to give you. And it pissed you off.

"Awhh, don't look too happy to see me, Sturmhond. Or should I say, Nikolai?" You'd taken to teasing him in the privacy of his room, where you were sure no one could hear you.

"What do you want, Mouse?"

"I just wanted to see how my dear Majesty was holding up. It has been a rough week for us all."

"Cut the bullshit. I know you're here to piss me off. Not tonight, Mouse. Please."

"Ooh. I like it when you beg. Do it again." You grinned at him. You knew you were getting under his skin.

"Make me."

"I'm sorry, what?" Nikolai said, turning around to face you again.

"I said, make me, Lantsov."

"I told you to stop fucking using that name," Nikolai growled, pushing you up against the wall, his arm pushing under your boob. You flushed pink, heat pooling in your stomach.

Nikolai grinned, "Oh, I see." He looked you up and down, scanning your figure. You could feel your underwear soak with every second of his gaze.

"Are you sure it's not what you wanted Captain? You seem to be a lot more excited by this than I am."

Nikolai nearly growled at that, attaching his lips to yours again, before slipping your belt off. He slipped his hands down to your core, feeling the wetness and smirking.

"Not as excited as me, huh?" He rubbed a circle around your clit and watched your defenses crumble. You grabbed a fistful of his jacket in your hand as your hips bucked away from him.

He pulled away from your nipple to grin at your state. You looked at him breathlessly, grinning, "Is that all you've got, Lantsov."

Your orgasm washed over you unexpectedly, sending waves of pleasure through your veins. You clamped your thighs around Nikolai's head, throwing your head back as you cried out.

"You've caused me a lot of trouble, Mouse."

"What are you going to do about it?" You bit your lip, hiding a smirk.

He threw his coat off, carrying you towards his bed. You were lucky that no one else was on board - if they heard what was going on you'd never live it down.

Nikolai was taken by surprise at the tears that gathered on your lash line. He pulled you up into his chest when you were clean, sitting on the edge of his bed with you held tightly in his arms.

His heart slowed slightly when you shook your head, but the confusion remained.

"Talk to me, Mouse. What's going on in that pretty little head of yours?"

"It's stupid."

"I thought you were mad." You whispered quietly, almost hoping he wouldn't hear you and that he would let it go.

"Why would I be mad?"

"You left." You shrugged, "You left and I thought you were gone for good." He pressed a kiss to your temple and pulled your head into his chest.

"Oh, Mouse. For all your genius, you are oblivious." You looked up at him, confused. "I love you, Mouse. I always have." You shook your head, "What?"

You calmed down slowly, chest heaving as you tried to replenish your lungs. You stayed relaxed in his arms. He laid his head on top of yours. "Wanna tell me what that was about?"

You shook your head.

"Do you trust me?"

You nodded your head.

"Do you trust me enough to believe me when I say I love you?"

You hesitated.

"Well, we've found our problem."

"You don't love me."

"How do you know? You been inside my head? Pretty sure even Grisha can't do that." You chuckled.

"You hate me. You can't even look at me - let alone talk to me for long enough to fall in love with me."

You looked into his eyes, "You're sure you love me?"

"Honey, you drive me wild."

A hand came up to wrap around yours, "Sleep, Mouse. I'll still be here in the morning."

You smiled. He'd still be here in the morning.

fin.

buy me a coffee

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fruityyamenrunner · 2 months

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could one of you rats please check this out and report why, or if, the computer has phallus et manque as core signifiers ty

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engie-ivy · 1 year

Text

“About bloody time! Merlin, I’m glad it’s finally out in the open! I’ve been telling Sirius to come clean about his feelings for you, and just tell you how madly in love he is, for like a year now.”

James forgets mistletoe is a thing and jumps to conclusions.

Keep Kissing Me Under the Mistletoe

Merry Christmas - Ed Sheeran and Elton John

James checks the clock.

It’s almost twenty past three, which means Remus is almost twenty minutes late. James is supposed to help him with his Transfiguration essay, and it’s nothing like Remus to forget.

James wishes, not for the first time, he brought the Map, so he could check where the hell Remus is. He’s just about to leave when Remus comes rushing into the library.

“Sorry, Prongs! I got... hold up.”

James stares at Remus. “Blimey, Moony! What the hell happened to you?”

Remus looks flustered, his clothes are ruffled and his hair is messy, sticking up in all directions, like someone has been running their hands through it.

Remus grins a tad awkwardly, trying to look nonchalant, but not quite meeting James’ eyes. “Sirius just kissed me.”

James blinks a couple of times, but then a huge grin breaks out on his face. “About bloody time! Merlin, I’m glad it’s finally out in the open! I’ve been telling Sirius to come clean about his feelings for you, and just tell you how madly in love he is, for like a year now. That guy is so smitten, it was starting to get quite frustrating to watch him pine after you.”

Remus looks at him wide-eyed, his mouth opening and closing a couple of times, before he exclaims “James! We got stuck under that enchanted mistletoe from Mary!”

“Oh,” James says eloquently. “Right. Mistletoe. I had forgotten that was a thing. Strange tradition really, don’t you think so? I wonder who invented it. Or, well, a plant isn’t invented, of course. I mean the tradition. Who would-”

“Can we please go back to the part where you were telling me that Sirius is madly in love with me?!” Remus interrupts.

James taps his chin. “Interesting proposal, but may I counter that with a suggestion that we pretend that never happened instead?”

“Oh no.” Remus places his hands on his hips. “You can’t tell me something like that and then expect me to forget about it!”

“Come on, Moony!” James pleads. “I’ll be the worst best friend ever!”

“Oh no, what did you do now?”

Remus and James turn around to see Sirius standing there, carrying Remus’ Transfiguration book, which he must’ve forgotten in the... consternation.

“Nothing, we were just-”

“James told me you’re madly in love with me!”

“Remus!” James glares at Remus.

“James!” Sirius glares at James. “How could you! I trusted you!”

“It wasn’t like that!” James protests, before angrily turning back to Remus. “You’re twisting my words!”

“It’s literally what you said!”

“Well, taking my words out of context then!”

“What context?”

“The context that I didn’t know there was a mistletoe involved!” James exclaims.

“That’s no context!”

“Yes, it is!”

“How then does it change anything about the meaning of what you said?” Remus demands.

“Maybe not the meaning, but the reasoning behind it.”

“That’s not what ‘taking out of context’ even-”

“By all means!” Sirius says loudly. “Continue your little semantic discussion! If anyone needs me, I’ll be crawling into a hole and dying.”

Remus turns to Sirius and studies him. “So that’s why you were so... enthusiastic under the mistletoe.”

Sirius shrugs. “I thought it’d be my one chance to ever kiss you, so I guess I wanted to make it count. And,” His cheeks slightly redden as he continues. “I was hoping, if I made it really, really good, maybe you’d want to do it more often.” He looks down at his feet before quickly adding “And then marry me in an intimate ceremony in your parents’ backyard, buy a cosy cottage on the Welsh countryside together, adopt five dogs and live happily ever after.”

Remus bursts out laughing. “Oh, Padfoot,” he says, wiping at his eyes. “You’re so wonderfully ridiculous. It might be a bit soon for that last bit, but as for the first one part,” he steps close to Sirius and gently places a hand on his cheek, stroking it softly with his thumb. “I’d say you succeeded pretty well.”

“And it’s all thanks to me!” James exclaims.

Sirius scoffs, but soon finds it’s hard to be mad at James when Remus is leaning in to press his lips against his.

#sirius went for it under that mistletoe #he'll succeed in the second part too #my tumblr writing #wolfstar christmas fics #wolfstar christmas #wolfstar holiday fluff #wolfstar #wolfstar fanfiction #wolfstar fic #marauders #marauders fanfiction #marauders fic #sirius black #remus lupin #remus x sirius #james potter

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simlit · 6 months

Text

Chosen of the Sun | | forest // seventy-one

| @amuhav | @catamano | @poisonedsimmer

next / previous / beginning

THERION: Are you crazy?! EIRA: Jury’s out. THERION: You realize that hag is the reason we’re in this situation? And you want to go waltzing back in and starting trouble? You could make this whole thing worse! If I understand correctly, you only just got cured of this curse. A bit ironic you’re willing to put yourself right back in the firing range after His Grace did the most to get you out. TAYUIN: And that’s why I have to do it. THERION: So you are crazy! TAYUIN: Listen, I didn’t come to discuss philosophical moral quandaries. Can you just make the damn map? THERION: Oh yeah! Don’t let me stop you! Just give me a minute and let me draw out your inevitable doom. EIRA: Oh, now he cares if we live or die. THERION: Hey, I’ll appreciate you to stop throwing around accusations. I told you then, it’s a competition. If you’re afraid to get a little rough, then maybe you shouldn’t be here. EIRA: Easy for you to say. Just because you’re not taking it seriously doesn’t mean no one else is. And I seem to recall, in the moment, you weren’t so confident in your partner’s dedication to the no first degree murder clause. THERION: sighs Alright, it wasn’t a great look. But… I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt. TAYUIN: I feel like I’m missing something here. EIRA: Don’t worry about it. TAYUIN: I’m worried. THERION: He’s not in the best position. Everyone’s bound to distrust him because of what he is. EIRA: Ever thought maybe that’s for good reason. THERION: No. I judge people based on their character— EIRA: He tried to kill me. How much more of his character do you need to see? Only when he actually murders someone you’ll think, “hey, let’s not trust the fucking necromancer”? TAYUIN: Uh, about that— THERION: Even you must know that’s a piss poor reason to write somebody off. A witcher of all people. EIRA: Half witcher. THERION: Now we’re arguing semantics? EIRA: Are you going to make the map or not? THERION: Fine! But it’s your funeral. We’re all some kind of crazy here but you know, if you fail then whether you agree with him or not, everything His Grace did was entirely in vain. TAYUIN: I get it! Just give me the map! TAYUIN: That was more work than I thought it would be… EIRA: Having second thoughts? TAYUIN: No, but I do have something to tell you and I don’t think you’re gonna like it. EIRA: Fucking faeries…

#ts4 #ts4 screenshots #ts4 story #ts4 bachelor challenge #chosen of the sun #cc: eira #cc: tayuin eth'salin #cc: therion erandaer

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leslie057 · 2 months

Note

17a and 3b?

hii, thank you for the prompt!

prompt game posted here

17a + 3b = the semantics are totally outdated + but they can’t talk

word count: 3.4k | pairing: jonathan x nancy

but i can't live by those stakes, the semantics are totally outdated -sam fender, last to make it home

Her summer, china shop. Lowe and Holloway…two biggest, most aggressive bulls a matador could wish for.

And even that is such an undeserved accreditation, that semblance of animal majesty and dominance and punch, since her china’s literally in mint condition. She’s doing just fine, the guys don’t scare her. They’re not capable.

Her issue isn’t fear, it’s rage. More rage than Jonathan knows what to do with at times. The flush of red on her face, the urge to choke in her hands, the hair-pulling (his hair, not hers) and the pacing, all too wayward in his pen, burning up each of the four corners at once. Not that he’s much of a firefighter—pretty clear that he likes for a girl to take everything out on him, as long as her methods are nonverbal. He’s not gonna smother a flame when he could just let the flame smother him. He loves a good path of least resistance.

Things are different between them, inside the Hawkins Post. She can see him struggling with that, with meanings lost and rules rewritten, her amendments unfairly implicit as she switches up on him, forcing her sweet mariner into the Atlantic with his map of the Pacific. No, his map of the Wabash River. She doesn’t mean to respond differently to him, it’s just that she has to be careful with the way she carries herself here because no one wants to take her seriously. There aren’t many wins to be had by a teenage girl in this building, and there really aren’t many wins to be had by a teenage girl who lets her boyfriend dote on her in this building. The pep talk thing, the passive pity, the hey come here you’re okay after any negative reaction she has…he’s making it worse without realizing.

She’s making it worse, too, though. In her own way.

Keeps getting them in trouble, for example.

Today they're in trouble because of what she convinced him to do yesterday. Apparently, leaving work ten minutes early is really a no-no. Her bad. (She needed out, Lover’s Lake was calling to her. They don’t go much, but when it’s raining? When it’s raining that lake belongs to them. No other couple in town is weird enough to go in thunder and lightning, it is their thing, they own it. Privacy is a guarantee. Never mind that inducing the feeling of drowning has been a secret placation of her survivor's guilt lately, a quiet way to exhaust herself and surrender to nature's embrace for a while, to let it take her over, knocking her down a peg as it comes down in heavy sheets. It should have been her on that diving board two years ago, it really should have.) She never said their date habits were healthy. Oh, except the splashing, the splishing. That’s a normal couple thing. Very healthy.

They’ve been given different punishments for slipping out; he’s meant to be folding all the newspapers, she’s supposed to be stapling reports. It’s 4:45, and they just started. They usually use this time to clean up, but whatever doesn’t get done before five is unpaid work.

So that’s fun.

In the main room they serve their silent sentence, each stationed at opposite ends, less than consumed by their tasks. There’s an early golden hour effect outside; she can tell with the warm glow that’s seeping in between the window blinds, teasing her, testing her, tempting her to just walk out again. Despite her best efforts to focus on work and keep her distance from Jonathan, she does think about him a lot under this roof. And other roofs. And every roof. Like now, she’s thinking about how he’s staring at her and how strange it is that she knows he’s staring at her even with her eyes cast down.

I can feel that.

She combats the softness of the sentiment with a hard press on the stapler. Loud click is overly loud. Obnoxious. Swiping the heavy thing across the desk, she lets it clunk against the lamp’s square base. If he wants to daydream about her, he’ll have to romanticize her inclination towards inanimate object abuse. (Imagine the emotional release in banging that ashtray on this typewriter. Personally, she’s imagining it.)

She tips her head up to check on him. Okay, he is romanticizing how pissed off she is. Blinks at her like she’s some unusual celestial something at the end of a telescope, pretty and rare. He brightens up over there as he realizes that he got her attention, making a small posture adjustment, leaning her way. Still slouchy, of course. She wants to glare, she does, but the edges of her gaze are being anonymously softened and all that’s left behind is a tender, conflicted expression. What do you want from me, it says. This is intern detention after all. Not social hour.

With a gentle glance he offers her some support, devoid of any pressure or demands. Nothing, Nancy.

She ducks her head and goes back to her report stack. But as quickly as she dives back into the task, she comes out again. He has something to tell her—she can feel it. When she looks up, he's tapping his thumb at the base of his throat, which is kind of weird even for him. His hand hovers near his collar before he motions to her, a silent prompt. She takes the signal and touches the same spot on her neck, brows knit together. Your necklace, he’s trying to say, miming the action of spinning it around, repositioning the clasp and extender so that they’re at the back and hidden away. Your necklace is backwards. She fixes it accordingly, embarrassed by nothing in particular it’s just…yeah, Bruce Lowe definitely doesn’t need to be provided with any joke bait below her neckline.

Bonus points for the ever attentive boyfriend. Just this once, his tendency to space out and stare at her has gotten them somewhere. Good boy.

She busies herself with the stapler, determined to get them out of this place sooner rather than later. Count, separate, slide, straighten. Staple, stack, repeat. Repeat repeat repeat. She wishes she had someone to compete with, to race against. Her brother, maybe, because Jonathan isn’t competitive. Then this would go faster. In the warm office, heat sprawls on top of her, slowing her movements. Sweat has already pooled at the small of her back, gathered behind her ears, formed a light sheen along her jaw. So much for box fans.

Her mind strays away from the chatter around her, a few abrupt fantasies now steering her thoughts. Hormonal thoughts. She’d ignore the love rush if she could, but it’s on her, on her like a sticky lotion in June weather, soaking slowly into her skin. Being seventeen is—yeah. Difficult.

Crazy difficult, once you factor in the need to be a professional mini-adult and not associate with the person you take to bed.

There’s just…it’s her, and Jonathan, and the necklace, and she’s taken off the necklace, held it taut against his neck, not choking him per se, no, but softly sawing at him with the chain until there are faint red lines impressed in sensitive flesh. Who knows where this came from; she’s never done anything like it. Doesn’t typically play so rough with him that there’s physical evidence more severe than your average hickeys or scratch marks. This job is turning her into a hazard.

She indulges for a couple seconds longer in the dumb image that had momentarily eclipsed her reality. He’s not looking at her when she looks up at him, but somehow it feels like their telepathic dialogue is still going, born from shared frustrations.

I want to be done here.

I know, we’ll be done soon. We’re fine, keep stapling.

And maybe she wouldn’t have to take off the necklace. Because he has his tie, his not-so-nice tie. Okay, without sugarcoating, it’s ugly. The one that’s currently loose, gray with diagonal brown stripes, pencil-thin stripes; it would be way more fun to pull across his throat compared to her necklace. Of course, she wouldn’t lead with that, she’d be counteracting with the super soft services of a needy mouth, settling on the kindest way to release her anger and affection in one fell swoop. (Why is it that the uglier the tie design, the bigger her heart? She’s wanting him bad this afternoon.)

In a moment of distracted clumsiness, she knocks over her box of staples, several of the refill strips breaking apart on the ground, their clatter piercing through whatever awful discussion was being had by these overpaid husbands and fathers.

“Wuh-oh,” Bruce interjects before carrying his conversation on. Not as big of a deal as when she fumbles a lunch order, but bad nonetheless; she’s on her knees in a dress, catching everyone’s double takes. A sideshow act to glance at intermittently between unrelated one-offs and cigarette drags.

Jonathan’s soon kneeling by her, ready to lend his assistance. Yeah, absolutely not.

The more he helps her, the more of a girl she is. Her eyes plead with him, begging him to remember that any perceived dependence on him will undermine the tiny shred of social authority she has here.

I love you, but get away from me.

Pouting, he backs off, an achy longing lingering between them. He chooses instead to go tend to the coffee grounds she’d yet to throw out.

Despite the distance enforced by circumstance, and her annoyance, she remains fixated on him, finding some solace in that mental landscape. When they leave this place within the hour, everything will go back to the way it was, and she can go back to speaking in a language they both understand.

She scoops up the staples and tidies the desk. Resumes her work without a second thought, waiting for the embarrassment to bleed out of her.

By five after five, they’ve almost finished up their punishment tasks. The office is more peaceful than before, hushed and dreamy, as their older colleagues file out, letting paper cups and gum wrappers fall into trash cans whose bags she and her boyfriend replaced an hour ago.

Tom switches off a couple lamps, touches his watch (with that bizarre air of supremacy and boredom). On his way out, he claps her chair on the back. “Keep up the good work,” he says. “No more sneaking out early.”

At least she’s getting credit for something. For leading the rebellion.

She watches Fallon, the receptionist, push in her desk chair and begin to pull at the hem of her skirt. As she passes by Jonathan, she carelessly drops a keyring into his lap, instructing him to lock up when they go. She also calls him Jordan. Not a thought in her head.

“Yes ma’am,” he mumbles, “have a good night.”

They’re left all alone when the last footsteps fade away, and she shifts in her spinny chair. For possibly the first time today, she takes a deep breath in, a deep breath out. This is good. This is better.

It’s sort of warm and sweet and spongy—cakelike, she’d say—the growing sense of comfort she has in the privacy that’s been laid upon them. That, or she’s hungry. They should pick up a cupcake from the bakery downtown. Key lime, lemon, one of their seasonal flavors. No, wait, the bakery closed a few minutes ago. Not that they get much business anymore. (If they shut down and the mall ruins her and Jonathan’s cupcake sharing thing, she might choke someone. She might kill.)

Though her gaze is locked on him, he keeps his head slanted down, not acknowledging her or their privacy.

She taps the desk, slides her tongue behind her teeth, resentment creeping in amid neglect. This is the part where their tension falls away, right? The part where he apologizes for overdoing the boyfriend thing, and then gives her his undivided attention until one or two in the morning, thus overdoing the boyfriend thing, but in the right place at the right time. Trying to make up for the shittiness of their internship, trying to help her bubble wrap all the china in her china shop before morning comes around again.

He’s slumped down over there, sleeves cuffed, collar half-popped, movements slow as he calmly creases his final papers. The box fan’s soft currents delicately ruffle through his hair, and at first glance, he doesn’t have a care in the world. At second, though, he’s wearing a bit of a frown, moodily refusing to acknowledge anything but himself and his newspapers.

And yet. She can’t deny the magnetic pull drawing her that way. With a defiant flip of her hair, she sets out to close the big gap between them and put an end to the ridiculousness. They shouldn’t be ignoring each other upon being given total privacy, not even for a second. Reaching his space, she stops in front of his chair, leaning back on the edge of the desk. She’s the wall between him and his paper stack.

He sighs, eyes cast up to her. “Hi.”

“Hi,” she parrots.

“You’re done?”

“Pretty much.”

“Me too.”

He’s still in that place of self-minimization, that corrective headspace following the staple incident. He’s stuck on being quiet and invisible and adult and the absolute opposite of lovey and dovey. It’s no longer necessary.

She fidgets with her ring blindly, an anticipatory energy working itself up inside her, right under her ribcage. He opens his mouth to speak. Closes it quickly. Guarded, he averts his gaze.

“You’re allowed to correct her, you know.”

“Huh?”

“Fallon. You don’t have to let your name be whatever she decides.”

The silence stretches between them, a tight wire, trembling faintly, a few touches away from snapping. She’s unsure if he’s playing a game here or if he simply doesn’t feel like talking. You never know with him (but she does).

“We’re allowed to talk now, you know,” she adds.

A beat.

“Your dress is messed up,” he says, to himself more than her.

“What?”

“The hooks on your dress. You accidentally skipped the first one.”

“I—” she starts. Her jaw hangs. Curious, she feels for the mismatched hook and eye clasps below the frilly collar of her dress, and she finds that the bottom one did get skipped over. This is what happens when you don’t get enough sleep, wake up late, and have to dress yourself in sixty seconds. She huffs. “Well come fix it?"

Because he has to want to. He likes this dress a lot, he’s never said anything, but he does. It’s white and yellow, not any yellow, but like a buttercup yellow, semi-sheer with an open ruffly collar and wide sleeves. He would want the excuse to touch it. He would want that sense of purpose, that delegation of mess-fixing. She’s so rarely a mess when there are no monsters to slaughter. He’s usually the one with the inside out shirt, the smudge of lipstick on his face. This is his one chance.

His bottom lip curls, and his shoulders shrug. “Thought you wanted to pretend like we don’t know each other.”

“Jonathan…please come fix it.”

She reaches out, and without a word he holds her hand, standing up. He bites down on his tongue, presses it against the side of his mouth, looking like he knows how cliché this is but is too sad to complain. He moves closer, his hands gentle as he begins unfastening those top four hooks so he can fasten that fifth one, the one she’d skipped before she also skipped breakfast. Her eyelids sink, wispy bangs brushing the tops of her eyes as the fan’s whisper of a breeze plays over her.

He’s still working with the clasps when her hands find his neck, tickling their way to the ends of his hair, curled by humidity.

To her surprise, he doesn’t flinch when she sneak attacks him, stealing a kiss off his mouth. Just makes a huffy sound afterward, all judgy eyes and short breaths and pinked skin. “Does that mean you like me again—”

She guides the slipping of their lips, a soft sensation of stickiness lingering in the inbetween. “Shut up,” she murmurs, “I never stopped.”

“Yes, you did.”

Plush lip tissue gives way between her careful teeth as she nibbles, trying to draw out a whimper or a groan or some other noise of desperate compliance. She thinks she hears an ow, and if she did, that’s good. His ow isn’t code for hey that hurts, his ow is like a regular boy’s don’t stop, I need more.

“I did not,” she argues.

“You did, you said so.”

“When?”

“With your face.”

She tightens her grip on the back of his collar and pulls. Seeking a diversion, she peppers his mouth, the tip of her tongue relaxed, impressively subtle. A muffled squeak leaves him as the collar tightens around his throat, and she lets go, releasing him. Maybe she does feel a little bad. “Don’t be so sensitive,” she says, but her words lack conviction, and her heart’s not in the dig. “I know I’ve been acting weird. It’s not about you.”

He rests his forehead on hers. “It’s only about them?”

“Duh, it’s about them.”

They put the conversation on hold among their shared prioritization of making this into more of a makeout than just a way to argue. Kissing mainly because it feels good to kiss, and bad to not. Their age demands this, pushes them. (They’ll grow out of the phase someday…she assumes. If she ever learns how to control herself. Perhaps.) She noses her way to his jaw while getting wrapped up in a hug, the gleam of sweat under her lips pleasantly salty. “So sweaty,” she teases (though she’s burning up, too). His breath hitches, and he doesn’t start the banter back up, doesn’t say what’s on his mind which is probably: I didn’t ask you to come over here and lick me like a cat.

Eventually they do separate a few inches, significantly more satisfied than before, significantly more pink in the face. Her head tips, and her tired eyes follow the path of daylight pouring in through the window, casting long shadows across the office floor as he distractedly massages her shoulder.

“Not that I’m complaining…” he begins, and her lashes flutter, her ears tune in, “but you are sending me mixed signals here.”

He’s right. Her professionalism has come at the price of his trust and certainty. She’s still adjusting to the job, getting used to the fact that she’s not particularly needed, wanted, or respected here. Jonathan doesn’t get it, and a Jordan wouldn’t get it, or a Josh, or anyone else who has never been on the receiving end of that coffee maker too tricky for you, sweetheart?

His concern is being obedient, being good, getting paid, keeping to himself, not making a fuss. It makes sense that he’d want to pep talk her out of her anguish, but it’s not healthy for her reputation. She thinks he owes it to her to roll with the punches for a little while.

“I know. I’m still figuring all this out. You’re gonna have to buckle up and settle in for now.”

“Do you think I could have a…handbook, or something?”

“A handbook?”

“I want the dos and don’ts. I want to know what you think makes you look bad and what doesn’t.”

She laughs softly. “That could be arranged. I’ve always wanted to write a book.”

After they’ve hesitantly split up and attended to closing tasks, she takes pride in the fact that they’ve only had to do twenty minutes of unpaid work this evening.

The remaining lights get switched off, and they gather their things, ambling to a door whose glass promises the return to a nicer world, a return to wide prospects—night drives and music, dinner and shared showers, lakeside commitments and homemade cupcakes.

“Hey,” she murmurs, hand curling around a few of his fingers, “just so you know, about that handbook: I haven’t forgotten about the darkroom.”

“What about it?”

“Nothing, I just mean that I don’t think any of the rules would have to apply to the darkroom. It’s private, it’s safe, it’s…rule-free, isn’t it?”

“Umm…”

"You can pick up as many staples for me as you want in there."

creds to @musicalchaos07 for helping me come up with this idea, and creds to @wanderleave for picking his tie color for me

#*fic #jancy fic #stranger things #jonathan byers #nancy wheeler #jonathan x nancy #prompt fill #*ask #fanfiction #st fanfic #lyrics #songs #they lost focus and had a consensual workplace relationship #faithfulcat111

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