Hiya, for the OC moodboards can I request a Marj please? — @shoshiwrites
It seems like a century since I've seen your face. I hope you've got someone who can remind you to step away from your desk and give your shoulders a squeeze when you've been working too long. If not, here is me telling you now! Is it cold enough where you are for hockey yet? Please remember to go outside and do something you enjoy for an hour. We played a game of ball here today and I can't tell you what it did for my soul.
Marjorie Gordon is goldenrod yellow - unmistakable, optimistic, a color for the warmth of candle flames, a woman who knows her own worth and won't bother hiding it.
[send a 🌈 + an oc and i’ll make a moodboard using the color i associate with them]
Pick one of your fics and share three songs to go with it
and from the character development questions for couples:
Are they okay with public displays of affection? Do they like them?
:))))
-- @shoshiwrites
These are great questions, Sho, thank you so much! 💕
8. Share the last line that you wrote
As she takes a sip of her gin, she glances sideways at Rosie and looks at him for a moment, watching the small shifts in his expression as he listens to the music, watching him drumming on his leg, the long fingers quick and light, the tendons of his hand shifting in complex patterns under the skin.
37. Pick one of your fics and share three songs to go with it
Ooh! For this I’m going to pick the escape line AU and go with:
1. Le Départ by Alexandra Stréliski, which gave me the title for that fic!
2. J’Attendrai sung by Rina Ketty
3. The one and only Moonglow by Benny Goodman 🌙
19. Are they okay with public displays of affection? Do they like them?
Listen. They are absolutely not that couple making everyone else feel uncomfortable at the picnic, but they spent so long putting their feelings aside and waiting for the end of the war, and now they’re married, and they’re going to be physically affectionate simply because they can. I see them sneaking lots of quick kisses, and touching each other nearly all the time, and, yes, a few slightly more 😏 moments. (I get the feeling Rosie in particular absolutely does not care if it’s like, just one step beyond propriety…)
hi jj! for sleepover weekend, can i throw your question back (ish) and ask if you have any music headcanons you want to talk about for any ocs? listening, playing, anything! thank you <3 — @shoshiwrites
thanks for the ask, shoshi! i’ll take this as a chance to talk about pollie :)
she definitely grew up on appalachian folk music, and is still a sucker for it when she’s older. however, i think joining the army made her fall in love with swing, especially anything dark and moody like nightmare by artie shaw.
I want to send some love to @shoshiwrites - she is a great writer, but also a great collaborator, friend, and inveterate idea incubator and cheerleader. She also has great taste in vintage clothes and makes really really good edits.
*just gave them a follow - this game is for me too! :)
Anonymously (or not) send me an ask with the name of an OC creator and what you love about them!
Happy Birthday to the wonderful @shoshiwrites , I hope you are having a lovely weekend off. Thank you for always enabling my AU noodling for wonderful Jo and Joe. I love those idiots.
As tradition dictates, on a friend's birthday I sometimes make terrible manips for an AU. And today is Shoshi's trip around the sun day ....
It is 1970, Joe Toye has been drafted into the Airborne and is in Vietnam, with a photo in his pocket of a girl back home he wishes he had gotten to know better before his birthday was called up.
Lovely Sho, this year I give you Terrible Birthday Manips of Easy Co in the Vietnam War. Stills are from Full Metal Jacket and Platoon. Props to Ron Livingston who has actually done a Vietnam War soldier role (and Screaming Eagles at that!) so his face didn't get plastered onto someone else's in a terrible pic version of face/off.
can i ping you with #11 spring festival for meri? — @shoshiwrites
Thanks for this, Shoshi!
"You're going to turn my daughters into peasants."
The accusation rang through the pavilion with all the presence of a thunderclap, and Meri looked up in the shade of the pavilion to smile slightly at her accuser, politely inviting him to say more on the matter.
"Daella's just come and been to tell me everything she's learned about barley production," Maekar said, setting the stem of still-green grain down in front of Meri with the subtle challenge of a thrown glove.
"That was the topic of today's lesson," Meri confirmed, watching the girls chase each other around the water garden in front of the pavilion, braids flying as they ran. "I'm glad she was anxious to share what she learned."
That was true - she was glad that Daella had gone to her father. That had not been the way of things when she had first arrived. When she'd first come the girls would not have dreamed of disturbing Maekar, their only contact with their father a hurried curtsy before or after dinner, a carefully rehearsed report of their activities since the last time he had seen them. They'd shrunk from him - a man they scarcely knew except as someone who was prone to shouts and scowling.
It had been a long slow road from there to here, but she had watched him change, in the months that she had been living here under the auspices of being Daella and Rhae's tutor - the stern prince and commander's place taken by a man who was first and foremost a father trying to remember how to love his children. He could be different, here, at Summerhall - softer around the edges, though some of that was the exchange of heavy King's Landing wools for softer Dornish silk, necessary even here at the northern edge of Dorne where the midday sun could still be punishingly warm here as spring was edging into summer.
"And what business does a prince's daughter have with barley?" Maekar asked, still waiting for a more substantial answer.
Meri rose from her chair so she might better meet his eye. "The festival of the first fruits is coming soon," she explained. "As the lady of the house she'll be expected to accept your tenants' offerings." She picked up the barley stalk from where he'd laid it on the table, rolling it between her fingers so the head of it might dance, every so lightly, across the front of his tunic.
"She told me about her new dress," Maekar reported, glancing down to follow her hands. "And what she was to say. That still doesn't-"
"Good Queen Alysanne knew that fed subjects were usually happier ones," Meri interrupted with a smile. "The whole year goes by and they keep the calendar by it. Barley means springtime, and the worst of the cold months over, and an end to lean bellies when the storehouses are filled. This -" she drew the grass over Maekar's face, knowing he could not argue with her, "is the business of all good princes - which you knew already, as your father's son." Daeron would hardly have let them leave the schoolroom without it. When one has no grain, one has no peace. "You do not need an excuse to come see them, my lord."
"Minx." His next accusation was softer. "And an excuse to see you?"
But she did not have time to answer that - they had been spotted.
"Papa papa papa!" A little girl of seven was rocketing across the lawn towards the pavilion, coming in at full tilt to wrap herself roundly around her father's legs.
"Hello, my darling," Maekar said, reaching down to brush Rhae's dishwater blonde hair out of her eyes - a product of her Dayne blood that she shared with her elder brother Daeron. That, too, was new - a small and slowly unfurling seed of open affection. They did not fear him now - nor he fear to touch them.
"Is Meri telling you about barley, too?" Rhae asked, looking up at her father with bright eyes and seeing the stalk in Meri's hands. Maekar would say that she was her mother's child, but those eyes of hers were the spitting image of her father's.
"Yes," Maekar said, his daughter caught between his tunic and the folds of Meri's skirts. "She was. She's going to make me quite the farmer - plowing and furrowing." His eyes met hers with a twinkle of his own, and she knew, with a flush of pride, that she would pay for it later in his bed with a different plow and a different kind of furrow.
