#I refuse to shut up about My Interests and this is the perfect outlet | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

butchlilith · 4 years ago

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try again (and again and again); a niles/daphne fic

summary: niles has chance after chance to tell daphne how he feels, and he doesn’t keep his mouth shut. at least, not in every sense. three confessions that didn’t happen and probably shouldn’t have.

words: 7.5k

rating + warnings: pg-13. one of these is the obligatory “daphne hates sherry” alternate ending, so some discussion of sex is present.

notes: old draft of some experimentation with voice, c.a. early-mid 2019, cleaned up a little bit for publishing. possibly my first and only str*ight frasier fic? by which i mean "i don't actually know how straight people do anything, but niles is ostensibly a man in this one." also available (with better page breaks) on ao3.

part one. how it ends.

scenario 117. She leaves the next morning more shamefully than any fling’s apartment, leaves after breakfast and a real apology. Dr. Crane’s brother is a bit too eager to act as reference, and Daphne never does find out what he says that gets her placed as fast as she is. It’s not a live-in position, but the pay’s a bit better, and the patient’s wife gives Daphne a discount when she visits her shop, so she doesn’t mind. She finds an apartment on the Hill with a lenient policy on pets and swears off men for just over three years.

scenario 406. Niles doesn’t ask again, even after the divorce. He spends more time with Daphne than he’d ever hoped—he even joins her on a trip to some kind of outlet mall one day—and gets further from telling her with each hour. When he notices what they are now, Dad will give him too much sympathy, and Niles will insist that he prefers it this way, and Frasier will analyze all of it to death. There’s never a proper ending, not one that either of them can point to, but they know that something is over. They only half know what it is.

scenario 421. They’re horrible secret-keepers, and the secrecy was much of the appeal of their arrangement, whatever that arrangement was. Without it, they are Frasier’s pet project and the butt of their friends’—that is, Niles’s friends (few) and Daphne’s friends (many), separate entities, for they have no real friends in common—jokes. They last longer than the heat does, but they break just as suddenly. Eventually, they will confess to feeling the same relief, too.

part two. the “it” in question.

scenario 117. For the longest time, everything is comfortably quiet. Just the drum of the rain, the occasional crack of the fire. Dr. Crane running his fingertips along her arm. Dr. Crane kissing her. Dr. Crane kissing her more gently than she’s ever been kissed. And it’s strange, if not entirely unexpected, but it’s nice, too, in its way. Nice in the way he’s always been nice, sometimes maybe a bit too eager, and other times maybe a bit too reserved, but so impossibly aware that she can’t help but think there’s a kindness to it. But it’s really that—the awareness—before anything else. Daphne’s sure of it: She knows because he’s mirroring her. And he’s able to mirror her because she’s kissing him. And she’s kissing him because she likes it and probably because she’s a bit on the rebound at the moment but mostly that first one because Eric certainly didn’t ever do what he’s doing now, and it’s hard to call something a rebound when it’s that much better than the real thing. Hard to call something a rebound when you can hardly picture yourself wanting to stop getting closer to him. When your hands are doing everything they can to keep that from happening.

And that’s how she realizes: “This isn’t right.”

“Oh,” he says, and Daphne comes close to forgetting her morals because he’s moving his hand back to hers, as if she hadn’t appreciated (more than appreciated) what he’d chosen to do with his just before. “I can— I suppose I’m so used to—” He stops himself. He’s realized it, too. “Oh, that’s what you mean, isn’t it?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Of course,” he says.“It was foolish of me to think…”

Daphne assumes, at least at first, that he plans on finishing this thought, but he stays quiet, well after the time it could take anyone to supply the right word. So, he’s staying quiet, and Daphne has just learned what becomes of the quiet between them. She knows that it can’t happen again. “Me too,” she says.

“You?” he asks. They’re not touching at all anymore. His choice this time, not Daphne’s. She wishes she weren’t keeping track.

“Yes,” she says, and her voice is certain even as he goes on over it, because if she doesn’t admit it, there’s really no way she can go on respecting herself.

“How were you—?”

“Well, thought you might’ve noticed in the moment, but I wasn’t exactly stopping you, was I?”

“Of course not,” he says, and it’s like she’s made it worse. “How could you have? You were in my home, in my— In her— And distraught and shocked and I—”

“You were, too,” she says because he was. Those last two, that is. More than she was, even. “Didn’t stop either of us.”

“But I—”

Daphne isn’t listening. She says, “Look at me.”

He doesn’t, but he tells her, “I have been.” And then, like it’s not the fault Daphne’s third-worst decision about an outfit to date, he adds, “If I hadn’t, we would never have had this problem.”

“That’s exactly what I mean,” she says. “I come into your house, and you’re a perfect gentleman to me, and when your wife’s clothes are too small for me, I find this. What else could you have thought?”

“Well, Maris has a very delicate build,” he says. This is a bit on the generous side to all three of them. Daphne can picture them laughing about it, if all of this were different.

“I could have borrowed something of yours if it were such a problem,” she says, already resenting the fact that she’s making excuses like this. “Nothing sexy about that, swimming in a man’s trousers, but I decided to try this on and—”

“No, no, I should have known—” He nearly touches her again when he says this, and Daphne nearly indulges herself in letting him, but he seems to remember what brought them to this point because he draws his hand away at the last possible moment.

“But you couldn’t have,” Daphne says. It’s too quiet. She’s supposed to be angry. At someone. Preferably Dr. Crane. “I didn’t even know until it happened, and it felt… I thought—” She sighs, and the anger’s here at last. “Well, I didn’t think, did I? I just put my—”

Daphne’s put a few too many things a few too many places, but Dr. Crane isn’t listening, so it hardly matters if she says hands or tongue or dignity because he just says, “I’m a psychiatrist,” before she can even decide which the worst of them is.

“Did you know, then?” Daphne asks.

And then he says, “I should have.”

“No, I mean…” It’s embarrassing now, knowing that he’s convinced that she’s the vulnerable one in all this, but she does need that answer. For some reason. A reason that is definitely rational. “Did you know that we…?”

“Oh, I…” He hums like he’s searching for a diplomatic answer to the question. “Only when you… and I…”

“So it was my fault.”

“Not at all. I was—”

“Didn’t think you were the type of man to… Then, suppose I did think, or I wouldn’t’ve…” She tilts her head back, resting it on the seat of the chair behind her, partly from exhaustion and partly from a fear of what would happen if she looked him in the eye.

“And now?” he asks.

“I’m not sure.”

“Of course.” He’s being too kind, maybe because he’s a gentleman or maybe (most likely, Daphne decides on the basis recent events) because he thinks she’s not as smart as he is, but he’s being kind, and Daphne wishes more than anything that he’d stop.

She says, “We really didn’t do anything.” Vaguely, Daphne recognizes his interruption (“Daphne, I—”), then goes on anyway. “You know, a kiss between friends. Bit more involved than I’m used to, but what else? Hands may’ve gotten a bit off track, but whose haven’t?”

“Mine haven’t.”

“Don’t know if you’d still want to say that, Dr. Crane.”

“Of course,” he says again. “They hadn’t. Past tense. And now they have, and my marriage is in shambles, and I certainly can’t tell Frasier or Dad or— I won’t be able to come to his apartment. How do I explain that? You spend one night in my home and suddenly— They’ll know in an instant.”

Daphne can’t help but look up. “This a pattern for you?” she asks, and she’s almost hoping the answer is yes. No, scratch almost. She’s really hoping the answer is yes. Because she can’t be interested in a man with a wandering eye. Not a wandering eye with a passport filled up faster than Mrs. Crane’s, anyhow. And she doesn’t want to be interested in Dr. Crane, no matter how much she liked kissing him.

“No, no, oh, God, no,” he says, because tonight clearly isn’t Daphne’s night. He seems ready to say more, which Daphne hopes will be something unforgivable. But tonight, again, is not Daphne’s night. He looks outside and takes off his jacket. “Would you wear this?” he asks, bringing up a number of unfortunate realities.

“And didn’t I say—”

“No, no, I didn’t—” Dr. Crane seems to regret this choice of words. “It’s cold here,” he revises, “in the house, um, particularly when it rains, and with you in so little...”

“Seems a bit like you’re implying something.”

“Oh. No, I— That was—”

“Just having some fun,” Daphne says, not entirely sure that she is. “Too fresh?”

“No, ah—Hm.” He pauses, and Daphne is forced to spend the intervening seconds guessing whether he’ll actually keep talking this time. He does: “No, I think we’ve passed the point of forwardness.”

“Soon, I mean.”

“Even better. Ten minutes?” A weak laugh. Hideously weak. “Lifetimes away.”

“All right, then,” she says. He hesitates. Daphne nods. And just like this, they are near each other again. He could lay the jacket over her shoulders. Could even hold it out for her, the way he’s done before, so that she could slip her arms inside. He doesn’t. Not this time. Daphne takes it by the collar and puts it on herself. Dr. Crane folds his hands.

It’s quiet, the way it was before, and Daphne refuses to be surprised again. She says, “I don’t have to keep working for your father.”

“Why wouldn’t you?”

“Well, you may remember where you—”

“I remember. I mean—“ He frowns. “No, that is what I mean. You know, you really should—”

And there’s plenty that Daphne knows she should do, but she doesn’t care to be reminded, so she says, “I suppose you’re right. But that’s just the point, isn’t it? I’m going to be walking around your brother’s place, and you’ll stop by, and we’ll say hello and all that, but then what? I—” She considers redirecting the thought, then decides against it. “I don’t mean to imply anything by this, Dr. Crane, but I was getting to appreciate your company.”

“Were you?”

“Wouldn’t have come here tonight if I wasn’t,” she says. Whispers, really, if she’s honest with herself, but she’d really rather not be because, being honest, she has to admit that it’s hard to take something like that platonically.

“Ah,” he says, and Daphne swears he heard it too, because he’s nearly smiling now. “I suppose that makes sense.”

“I just don’t think it would be wise to hang about where you’re likely to drop in, after something so…” There isn't a word she can use here that doesn't mean admitting that she knew what she was doing. She doesn't use any.

“Yes?” he asks, which feels a bit hypocritical given his history. She hadn’t asked him what he’d meant after all, and not for lack of wanting.

“It doesn’t matter. I just— You know I would never mean any offense, but you can be a bit sensitive sometimes.”

For a moment, he sounds like himself again, which means that he sounds like his brother, and Daphne thinks it's over. “I’d hardly—” he says, but he doesn't continue. “No, no, you’re right, of course. I can. But to think of you... giving up your life over one indiscretion…”

“I’d say it was more than one.”

“Of course, yes, I…” He hums again, and Daphne’s back to waiting for him to say something, even if it’s not honest. Maybe especially. He doesn’t.

She says, “You think I should keep working with your father, then?”

“I couldn’t say.”

“It sounded like you were trying to convince me—”

“Daphne?”

“What?”

“Do you plan on staying?”

“Tonight?” she asks, not sure if this is the question she’d like it to be. “I haven’t got much of a choice, have I?”

“No, no, I mean…”

“Forever,” Daphne suggests.

Dr. Crane presses his lips together. He looks painfully like himself like this. Then, he’s been himself the whole night, and Daphne knows that, she really knows that, but it’s harder like this. No way to maintain the illusion now. “That’s one way of putting it, I suppose.”

“I don’t know,” she says. “I don’t see how I could.”

“It would be difficult, wouldn’t it?”

“It’s not that I… I just think— With you…”

“With me, yes. Could I—?” He adjusts his posture so that it almost looks relaxed, except for the way it happens—almost spasmodically. “There’s been something on my mind recently.”

“Yes?”

“When I— When you came here, tonight, and you…” He frowns, like he doesn’t quite know what to say. “Daphne,” he decides. “You have a lovely name. Do you hear that often? Daphne. A naiad, wasn’t she? Daphne. Then, maybe I’ve been a bit on the Dionysian side tonight.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”

“I’m sorry.” It’s the first time either of them have said it since. Daphne doesn’t know what it means. Doesn’t know if he’s apologizing for more than a misunderstanding. “I’m avoiding the point,” he says and runs a hand through his hair. The gesture lends a sort of exhaustion to his appearance, so that his exhale feels heavier than it is.”You really don’t suppose we’ll be able to forget this?” he asks.

“It’d be easier if we didn’t see each other as much, but…”

“You said, before I… Before we… This… You said that you wanted—” And, God, she finally knows where this is going, and she hates every bit of it, because she still feels so terribly close to him. Still wants someone to love her the way she thought he loved Mrs. Crane but can’t possibly love Mrs. Crane because if he did he wouldn’t have done what they’ve done, wouldn’t be saying what he’s saying. And the part of her that’s still crashing from the breakup believes him. Believes that it could be him. Wants it to be, even.

But Daphne isn’t stupid and certainly not as stupid as he must think she is, so she says, “You shouldn’t.”

“I know that, but I—” and she can feel him saying it now, and she can feel herself believing him even though she shouldn’t. And it’s not just the part of her that’s been broken up with, or the part of her that hasn’t had decent sex in six months, or the part of her that’s stuck in some childish romantic daydream. It’s just Daphne. Wanting him to tell her what he can’t possibly mean. He stops himself. He looks at her for too long, with the eyes she never noticed until tonight. He sighs. “You know,” he says, and Daphne knows the moment has passed, “you’re right. I shouldn’t. It’s late, and I’ve embarrassed myself quite enough, so… Our rooms aren’t the most comfortably furnished, I’m afraid, and, under present circumstance, I can hardly imagine… Where would you like to sleep?”

Daphne doesn’t let herself answer foolishly.

scenario 406. Here is everything that goes better than Niles predicted: Daphne is not horrified. She does not immediately flee the scene, does not reach for the phone to book the next flight back to Manchester, does not so much as flinch when he asks her. She just looks at him with the eyes about which Niles has sworn to himself he will no longer wax poetic, presses together the lips about which Niles has sworn to himself he will no longer fantasize, and nods. It could almost pass for assent.

And then she says, “You’re married.”

And this is technically true, but he says, “Separated,” because there isn’t much else he can say with the potential to right this minor detail.

“Still married,” she says, and, really, she’s right, but, really, there is very little Niles can do about this at the moment, and he doubts Daphne will still be available the next.

So he says,“I suppose I am, aren’t I?” and waits for what is probably not entirely enough time before continuing. “You haven’t answered my question.”

“You are.” She exhales in a way that almost sounds like a laugh.

“I know. I meant the other question.”

“I thought I did,” she says. There’s no way for Niles to convince himself that she’s laughing this time.

But he’s committed to his optimistic streak, even as he watches her settle onto the arm of the couch, back toward him, so he says, “Oh?”

“It doesn’t matter,” she says. Her voice is clear even though he can’t see her face. Insistent. “You’re married.”

“Separated,” he corrects.

“And married.”

“And married, yes But, if, hypothetically, I were no longer married—“

Daphne turns back to face him. “You’re going to divorce your wife?”

“It’s a possibility. That’s why we’re speaking hypothetically.”

“Right,” she says. She’s facing the kitchen again, meaning Dad’s chair is the logical place to sit if he hopes to conduct anything resembling a normal human conversation. He sits instead on the cushion nearest her, functionally eliminating the possibility, and Daphne says, “Well, you’d be divorced.”

“Yes, that’s typically how it works.”

“You think I’d date a man right after his divorce?”

“Well, perhaps if he—”

“He needs time,” she says, and this really is better than Niles predicted—not because it’s not a no, and not because it suggests that there is maybe, someday the possibility of a yes, but because she means that she loves him.

But Niles cannot say, “I love you, too,” because she hasn’t actually said that she loves him, and, even if she had, that may be moving at something of a brisk pace given circumstance. So he says, “Yes, I suppose he does,” because this is the nearest he can get. Daphne, evidently, appreciates the gesture, because she shifts properly this time, a full ninety degrees, so that neither of them has to contort to see the other.

“So,” Niles says, “and this is still hypothetical, of course—if we suppose that I—that he—were divorced, and he’d been divorced for some time, and he’s completely over Maris—his wife, I mean… Would you…?”

Daphne grins and it is, for a moment, as if nothing has changed between them. As if they’re still dancing, or talking about her brothers, or watching the last half The Shop Around the Corner. “You’re asking if I’d ever date a man who’s been married before?”

“Yes.”

“Any man?” she asks. In another, better world, the first half of their conversation has not happened at all, and Daphne is asking this hopefully, longing for Niles to at last say how he feels. But in this world, which naturally is worse, Niles has already said it, and Daphne has already declined. No, not declined. Something softer, enough to make Niles go on.

“Well,” he says, “hypothetically, say it were me.”

Daphne smiles again. “In this hypothetical,” she says, “did this man—did you—did you ask me, while you were married? Say, three hours after I’ve been dumped?”

“Yes,” Niles says, finally as ashamed as expected to be the moment he spoke. “He’s exactly the same person. Purely for the purposes of the hypothetical, of course.”

“Right.” There are roughly forty-three ways the old Niles could describe Daphne’s eyes in this moment before devolving to the shameful-if-accurate “sparkle” and its kind, but he remains set on avoiding this pattern. In any case, it doesn’t keep him from noticing.

“You can say no,” he says, pretending it does.

“I know.”

“It won’t be the first time I’ve been rejected,” he adds.

“I know.”

“I suppose I was asking for that, wasn’t I?”

“A bit,” Daphne says. Then, just as quickly, “You’re in my spot, you know.”

“Your…?”

“I always sit where you’re at now,” she says. “Then you’re the one over. Every time you’re here. Even half an hour ago. Right where you are.”

“You sat down first.”

“Well, I thought you’d be heading out soon. Getting late and all. Wasn’t going to settle back in just for you to leave, was I?”

“Oh, um…” Niles feels suddenly aware of how this all seems, suddenly aware of how out of practice he is. He’s in her home, after all. Looking at it most simply, he has her trapped here. The realization is less than romantic. “Should I?” he asks.

“Depends on whether you’ll be staying where you’re at,” she says, apparently unaware of the gravity of the question.

“You’re kidding.”

Daphne takes on a mock-serious expression. When she speaks, there seems to be a trace of Niles’s own voice in it: “You’re not telling me you’re unschooled in the high-stakes art of couch politics.”

“Couch politics?”

“Come on. You have a brother. You’re telling me you spent all those years in the same house and you didn’t have a spot on the couch?”

Niles considers this. He didn’t. “I had a nook,” he offers.

“A nook?”

“A nook,” he says. “I was never much of a couch child.”

“Oh. Suppose that adds up, really.” She waits—for what Niles is unclear—then seems to hit upon something. “Well, you’ve got a side of the bed, at least.”

“Have I?”

“Had one, then,” Daphne corrects—an insufficient amendment given the nature of Niles’s marriage. “Scoot.”

Niles complies, shifting so that he sits exactly at the center of the cushion. Daphne sits beside him, closer to him than strictly necessary. Niles attempts to dismiss this fact. He says, “We slept apart.”

“Come on,” she says. Her right shoulder bumps up against his left. The action itself is entirely dismissible. Becoming swept up in it is entirely inevitable. “I’m not married, but I’ve got a side.”

“Have you ever considered that you’re simply a particularly territorial person?” he asks.

Daphne laughs. “Coming from the man who’s got a whole separate bedroom from his wife,” she says, and Niles resolves to take the opportunity he’s been given to redirect. “That’s rich.”

“So, ah, if I didn’t have a wife,” he says, “and I hadn’t for some time, and I happened to ask you on a date…”

“Oh.” Her voice sounds as if she has genuinely forgotten. Niles isn’t sure what to make of this, whether there is perhaps some distant possibility of normalcy between them after all. “Right.”

“You could say no,” Niles says, casually if not for the slowness of it, as if it’s the first time he’s saying it.

“Right.”

“So,” he says, decidedly less casually.

“I could say no.”

It isn’t a question, but Niles answers it like one: “Easily.”

“Long time to wait for a rejection, though, isn’t it?”

“I’m sure he’s waited longer.” And then, because the possibility is so strangely beguiling, to think that this could be over—to think that perhaps everything could return to the way it was—he says, “But it would be a no?”

“It could be,” she says, which is consuming in another way.

“But not necessarily?”

Niles watches Daphne study him, withdraws into that world of imagining himself in her place. By the time she answers, she’s directed her gaze toward the television, the pair of them reflected in its black screen, where Margaret Sullavan and James Stewart had stood just before them. “I’d have to think.”

Niles says, “Of course.”

“I’ve known him for years,” she says. Her eyes are still on the television, unfocused now. “What would it be by then? Five?”

“Something like that, yes.”

Daphne hums. The sound of it is excruciatingly mellifluous. “You know,” she says, and this is all it takes to know that what follows will be worse still, “hypothetically, don’t think it’d be a bad idea for him to get divorced.”

“Oh?”

“You know,” she says again, and this time he knows nothing at all. “Deserves someone who cares about him.”

“Ah. And that’s why you wouldn’t…?”

“I might,” she says.

“Of course,” he says.

“If it felt right.”

“That is everything, isn’t it? Feeling right,” he says and, for the first time in recent memory, keeps himself from revising the thought. “The strangest thing. For years, I thought that meant feeling comfortable.”

Daphne finally looks back to him. “You’re still comfortable with her?”

“I would be,” he says, “if this all ended, and we were still married.”

“But you don’t want that.” Her tone is indecipherable, or else Niles is resisting his need to decipher it. He resists his need to decipher the disjunctive.

“Maris doesn’t.”

“Then you do,” she says.

“Maris doesn’t.”

“Well, then it’s like I said,” Daphne tells him. “You deserve someone who cares about you.”

“I suppose I should say, ‘Maris doesn’t,’” he says.

Daphne shrugs. “Be a nice symmetry.”

“It would. I’m afraid I can’t.”

“Dr. Crane”—this is a blow all its own, but Niles supposes he can hardly expect better—“I don’t mean to be rude, but, when you say all this, you have to understand why I said what I did.”

“Of course,” he says, and he does, though he’d easily prefer the alternative. “It would be foolish of us, wouldn’t it?”

“A bit. Doesn’t mean you can’t date other women, though.” And then, with a wink, “Or something other than date, if that’s what you’re looking for.”

“Oh, well, I suppose so,” he says before realizing that this, perhaps, is not the best of times to ignore a gesture’s possible implications. “Of course, not— That wasn’t why I was asking—“

“You asked me on a date because you didn’t want to have sex with me?” This is fair if unanticipated, and Niles wonders just how visibly warm he’s become. Too visibly, surely.

“Ah, I, well, not— I don’t mean to—“

“Oh, I understand,” Daphne says. “Just having fun. And, speaking of, there’s this bar Roz told me about, just off Pike. She said she’d go with me, but…”

“I wouldn’t want you to cancel your plans.”

Daphne waves away the thought. “Oh, no.” She takes up an exaggerated new expression. ”’Strangest thing,’” she says, now miming the presence of a phone in her hand, as if the point couldn’t have been made without it, “‘but before I even got the chance, someone’s already gone and asked me on a date. Oh, yes, he’s gorgeous.’” (Niles makes the gallant effort to take this for the joke that it is.) “‘Anyway, I told him I was free tomorrow night…’”

scenario 421. Like this, Niles finally has sex with Daphne. And it isn’t particularly good. It isn’t bad, because it couldn’t be bad, but it isn’t good because... Well, it’s Daphne, of course, but it’s also Daphne, and the Daphne that occupies Niles’s fantasies is not quite the Daphne that he knows, and he knew this already, because he willed it to be so, but this means that, for all the years of dreaming of a woman who was nearly her, Niles is entirely unprepared for the real thing.

Of course, the Daphne-who-was-not-Daphne never was quite the same even as herself. One evening, nervous and softer than anything. The next, certain and stopping for nothing. Most recently, for the third time in eight months, speaking to him. Telling him everything he was too afraid to tell her. Everything. So that when they finally did have sex (because that was, admittedly, always the reason for this not-quite-Daphne’s appearance), it was nearly an afterthought. A pleasant afterthought—an exceedingly pleasant afterthought—but an afterthought nonetheless.

Even in all of this, it was never quite so awkward. They were never unused to each other in the fantasies, never hesitated after each first touch (before, perhaps, but never after), never seemed to be three seconds out of sync. And Daphne never kissed him like the real Daphne does. It isn’t bad, necessarily, not first-kiss bad, or even two-too-many-drinks bad (though it is nearly as messy), or, really, bad at all, except that it is, just a bit, if Niles is completely honest with himself. But mostly, and this is really about ninety-five percent of it, it’s surprising. New.

“Daphne?” he asks, and saying her name is enough to convince him that the sex was not bad or mediocre or even merely good. It was, Niles is now certain, easily the best sex two people have ever had. Not two. Any number. The best sex ever had, period.

But Daphne isn’t looking at him. She isn’t touching him. (How strange for that to be noteworthy!) She seems entirely set on forgetting everything they’ve done—already back in that borrowed dressing gown, half-sitting in his bed since returning to it, head tilted toward the ceiling. She replies anyhow: “Yes?”

“How are you?” This is not necessarily the question Niles had intended to ask, is not necessarily suave or charming—is not necessarily much of anything but strangely melodic, which is not quite the impression Niles had had in mind. But he says it, in the spirit of the day, because he can’t help but to say it with Daphne there, in his bed, looking as she does. More directly, which is to say more honestly, he says it on an impulse.

“All right,” she says. Polite. Noncommittal. “And you?”

“Similarly,” he says. “But I’d really—“

“We’ve really made a choice with this one, haven’t we?” She laughs at this, just barely, and he does, too, allowing them both the diversion.

“Yes, it seems we have.”

“Have to admit I never really thought…” Daphne sighs, and this calls to mind several events Niles expects to sustain him for at least the next decade. “You know. Us.”

“And now that we have…”

“Bit funny, isn’t it?” she says.

Niles considers this. Of all the words he has prepared for this occasion, funny was never among them. Still, it’s preferable to many of the alternatives, particularly given how readily mistake springs to mind. “Yes.”

“Never thought you’d be—” Daphne wrinkles her nose, conveying an emotion Niles can’t quite interpret. “Well, I suppose that means I must’ve thought about how you’d actually be, but… What about you?”

“You’re asking me if I ever thought about—?”

At this, Daphne relaxes slightly and turns to her side, resting her head in her right hand. Relief at her apparent lack of repulsion aside, Niles wishes Daphne would have waited, this being quite easily the moment at which he would least like to face her. Nearly smiling now, she says, “Sex. With me.”

“I don’t—”

“Oh, come on,” she says, still painfully buoyant. (Niles thinks she will touch him again, but her arm stops short of his.) “No reason to be embarrassed now, if you have.”

“Isn’t there?” he asks, for he has come up with fifteen in the time since her asking.

“So you have?”

“Well,” Niles starts, but it’s obviously futile. “Oh, I suppose you’re right. Yes. I have.”

“You always have been a flatterer,” she says. “So, did I measure up?”

And he says, “Oh.”

Daphne echoes him, dropping her voice: “‘Oh.’” She laughs. “Suppose I spoke a bit soon there.”

The answer, most honestly, the thrill of saying her name aside, is no because four years of trying to substitute fantasies of someone for an actual sex life makes for somewhat unrealistic expectations. The answer, somewhat honestly, is that, yes, in terms of his actual sex life with actual women who existed for longer than thirty minutes at a time, Daphne was... Daphne was... “Oh, well, I—”

“It’s all right if I didn’t,” she says before he has the chance to further embarrass them both. “I mean, wouldn’t be the kindest thing for you to say to me after… Do you have any more of that pineapple?”

“Oh, um, let me— Did we finish it?”

“I’m not sure. Got a bit swept up in the moment, I suppose.”

“Right,” he says, but any grasp he had once had on his composure has vanished. “I’ll— Actually, I don’t know that it would still be particularly— You know, sitting out. I could make you something?”

Daphne laughs until it fades into a sigh. “With all due respect,” she says, “I’ve seen the kind of dinner you serve your dates.”

Because now seems an inappropriate time to confess that, in fact, he had never had any intention of inviting anyone else for dinner that night, Niles says nothing, and Daphne accepts the invitation to continue.

“It’s for the best, really. Can’t imagine sitting in this heat with an oven going as well.”

“It doesn’t have to be—“

Daphne stands. “I’m going to take a look,” she says.

“For what?”

“See whether we’ve left any pineapple. Is it all right if I bring it back here?”

Since his separation, Niles has adopted a stricter policy with regard to eating in the bedroom, figuring that, when living alone, such an allowance could only lead to his regression into the worst sort of bachelor. Also, he no longer pays someone to wash his sheets. Both of these points, however, feel increasingly trivial in the context of recent events. “Certainly.”

And with this, Daphne is past the doorway, and Niles is alone, and he supposes he’ll have to get used to that feeling again, once the awkwardness of their own situation outweighs the abrasiveness of the other. And just as quickly, she’s back, and Niles makes an effort to indulge in this more pleasant reality while it lasts.

“Anyway,” she says, settling into the bed with the platter a bit more precariously than Niles had hoped, “back to what I was saying. I wouldn’t be asking if I didn’t…”

“Oh.” This is an unfortunate redevelopment, as Niles had hoped that her own diversion had been sufficient in turning the topic of conversation elsewhere. “Are you still—?” he asks.

“Well, when you’re working that hard to keep from answering, can’t help wondering—“

Niles attempts a redirection of his own. “Drawing comparisons is…”

Daphne takes a bite of pineapple, and the silence between this moment and her reply does nothing to conceal the flaccidity of this attempt. “You did, anyway. More than.”

“Oh,” Niles says, deciding to overlook the less-than-complimentary implications of this formulation. This afternoon’s developments aside, he is not a man terribly accustomed to such good fortune; no other reactions are in his repertoire.

“It is all right if I say that, isn’t it?”

“Of course. I— Does that mean you—?” he asks. He means, Does that mean you intend to do this again? but saying it aloud seems to be crossing one too many a boundary, so he refrains.

“Do you?” she asks, presumably meaning the same.

“Well, we’d have to be more—” Careful, he thinks, but they were careful. Particularly him. Particularly in a way he would really rather he hadn’t been. “Today, we were—” Reckless, he thinks, but they weren’t reckless. They progressed in the smallest of steps, and they both knew it, well before it happened, and the real risk of recklessness is whatever he’s about to say knowing that he wants it to happen again. “We shouldn’t—” He reaches for a strawberry.

“But you’d like to,” Daphne says.

Thinking this is dangerous and saying it worse, but Niles does think it. He does want it, and more desperately than before, but more desperately still, he does not want to lose whatever they had that made her want to stay with him. “Only if you would.”

“You can say you’d like to without qualifying it, you know. If you would, that is.”

“I wouldn’t want to overstep,” Niles says, as if he could have reached this point by any other stride. (The strawberry in his hand is still uneaten. There are several versions of Niles that would choose to weave this into a less-than-artful metaphor.)

“All right,” Daphne says. Niles, at this moment, finally takes a bite from the strawberry, and he feels her eyes on her as he does. He hears the way her voice drops when she says, “I think I would.”

“You would?”

She laughs. “What, just being polite?”

“God, no.” This is too much. Niles knows it before he’s finished saying it, but the afternoon has already rewarded his imprudence; he has a streak going. “I— No. I— So… Hm. What would you like? From… this, I mean.”

“Oh, I’m an adult, I can handle—“

“I wouldn’t ask you to handle—”

“All right,” Daphne says. “Usually go on a few dates before sleeping with someone, but I suppose we’re past that, so the next best—“

Niles has imagined a few hundred too many ways of formulating the question to be beaten to asking it. He says, “Would you like to go on a date?”

“I wasn’t asking for that.“

“What were you asking?”

“I wasn’t asking anything.”

“What would you like?”

“Well, I’ve already told you, haven’t I?”

“Would you remind me?”

“I’d like you to stop asking me what I’d like,” she says, and Niles remembers suddenly that it was an argument that brought her here. “I’d like you to tell me what you’d like.”

“Well, if it isn’t overstepping…”

Daphne sounds almost annoyed, replying too soon and too briefly: “It isn’t.”

“I’m afraid my motivations today haven’t been entirely pure.”

“I noticed that when—”

“No, no, after that. I— This isn’t entirely how I planned to tell you…”

Daphne’s face softens. She speaks more slowly than she has in months: “You’ve been wanting to tell me something?”

“Yes. For some time. I just can’t seem to say it.”

“Yes?”

“You’ve been a wonderful friend to me lately.”

“If I was really that bad, you could just tell me.”

“No,” Niles says, the inappropriateness of his long-practiced admission only now occurring to him. “No. It’s— It isn’t that. I couldn’t say it, before, because you had been such a good friend, but we…”

“You can say that we’ve ruined it,” she says.

“We’ve taken a risk.”

“We don’t have to keep doing this.”

“I— Of course not, no. I was— I’d like to go on a date. With you.”

“You really don’t have to do that.”

“I’m not—“

“You know, you’ve always been such a gentleman to me.” Daphne licks the pineapple juice from her fingers, and Niles can imagine nothing further from the truth. Then, his imagination is otherwise occupied. “Even today. Especially, really. But it’s not the same, something like this. Don’t have to ask me just because we’ve had sex.”

“I’m not.”

“Dr. Crane—“

“Please, call me—“

Daphne doesn’t acknowledge his interruption. “I’ve seen the kind of women you date.”

“Who are you—?” Niles tries without success to work through the steps that led her here. “There’s Maris, Adelle…”

“That’s just what I mean, though.” She offers a wry smile and another strawberry. Niles accepts. “No one like me there, is there?”

“That’s certainly true.”

“So, you’re expecting me to believe that, after all that, you’re going to start dating me?”

“Not dating, necessarily,” Niles says, reasoning that it would be in bad taste to detail just why such a departure might be welcome. “We could start with one. You— I seem to remember you having a fondness for first dates.”

“I do,” she says. “You don’t.”

“I don’t. I was hoping that this one might be different.”

“And if it is?”

“A second, maybe.” With an intention that embarrasses him the moment he does it, Niles takes another strawberry as he continues. “A third. Fourth. Fifth…”

“Sounds like we’d be dating.”

“We could,” he says. “Eventually.”

“And until then, what?”

Cautiously (and probably too optimistically), Niles says, “We could keep…”

“We could.”

“Is that—?”

“Yes.”

“Are you—?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you.” At Daphne’s grin, Niles rushes to amend this. “I don’t usually say— Not that I’m frequently— Being recently separated— But you… I— I’m sorry.”

“I like that,” Daphne says. “’Thank you.’ It’s sweet.”

“Oh. Well. Thank you.”

“Second one’s not quite the same.”

“Ah. I don’t suppose it ever is.”

“Could always get it out of the way now.”

“Oh.” Niles knows he must say more than this, knows that Daphne is already rounding the corners of her mouth to imitate him if he doesn’t. He says the only thing he can both think and bear to say: “You called me Dr. Crane earlier.”

“I’m not doing that while we’re having sex,” Daphne says. “Last time I— Oh, well, never mind that, but—”

“I don’t want you to do that.”

“Too ethical for a bit of roleplay?” This feels like something of a turn, but Niles is still too dazed by Daphne’s earlier suggestion to voice it.

“As it happens,” Niles says instead, then considers this, too. Realistically, he concludes, this is a far more generous interpretation of the request than he deserves and certainly less pathetic than the reality. “Something like that, yes.”

“Well, don’t worry. It’s nothing I’m after.” When Daphne speaks again, her voice has lost its firmness: “Why’d you bring it up, anyway?”

“I— We’re— This isn’t just sex?”

“I think ‘just’ is a bit unfair.”

“No, I mean… No, it doesn’t… Would you call me Niles?”

“I don’t think I can.”

“I’m sorry?” Niles says.

“I mean, when we’re alone, that’s one thing, but if I start doing it then, I’m liable to start slipping it in other places, and, before you know it, it’ll be in front of your father. And how’d I explain that? I know we’ve been a bit friendlier as of late—”

“I think we may have passed by friendly sometime this afternoon.”

“Well, that’s just my point, isn’t it?” she says. “I spend a few evenings alone with you in four years, and all of a sudden I’m calling you by your first name.”

“And you don’t want to tell them?” Niles asks.

“Tell my boss I’ve been sleeping with his brother?”

“Ah,” Niles says, the general configuration of their relationship at last settling in. “I suppose not. Then, I believe your use of the present perfect continuous would imply something of a more extended arrangement, at which point it may be appropriate to use the word ‘dating.’”

“You know, I really don’t know that I’m sure about that.”

“Oh. Of course.” (And it really is what he had expected all along.) “I certainly wouldn’t want to rush— Of course, to some extent we already have, but—”

“It’s just—“ Daphne pauses. Niles watches the movement of her eyes until they meet his. She continues: “It all seems a bit strange, doesn’t it? The two of us. Dating, I mean. Not that I’d planned on this happening either, but I can’t even imagine where we’d go.”

“Where would you like to go?”

part three. how it starts.

scenario 117. Daphne puts on Mrs. Crane’s negligee because it fits and she’s never touched anything so soft and possibly also because she really needs the reminder that she’s worth something. Beside Dr. Crane, she feels it. Every time he speaks, she feels it more and she likes him more and she comes closer and closer to doing something reckless. He does it first.

scenario 406. It’s just them in the living room again, in spite of Frasier’s best efforts. Daphne had surprised them all, earlier in the evening, and asked if, so long as it’s not too much trouble, Niles might want to stay and chat a bit, and Niles had said no, of course not, it couldn’t possibly be any trouble at all. By the time Niles gets the courage, they are dancing again, the way they haven’t since last winter, not-quite-there but not-quite-drunk on Frasier’s most mediocre wine. Before he speaks, before Daphne can feel his hands shaking, Niles pulls them apart.

scenario 421. The heat wraps them up, and Niles is trying to remember that old letter about summer and lethargy and something else, trying to forget each look that Daphne gives him, but he can’t do either. It’s too much, with the two of them so close, her smelling of his soap, wearing his dressing gown. It’s inevitable. She’s the one who acts first, in the end, the one who finally says it. She says it like it’s something rational, like she’s the one who has to worry about being rejected: “You know, Dr. Crane, if we’re both feeling the same way, and there really is just the one solution…” He finishes the sentence for her.

#frasier #frasier fic #niles crane #daphne moon #niles x daphne #fic*#by ''ostensibly a man'' what i mean is i wrote a modified canon niles #but personally i have been known to promote a good he/him lesbian niles head canonin my day so.....#no one could stop you from reading this that way (although it may have looked a bit different had that been my intention)#ANYWAY. please enjoy this dinosaur

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kareofbears · 4 years ago

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take this as a free card to ramble about the walking dead 👉👈

oh anon, there’s no one i love more than you.

shoving this under the cut because i don't really think a lot of people would care what i have to say about this, since this isn’t really what my blog is about at the moment but wow is the walking dead a brilliant game that's mastered the art of story telling

just throwing this out there, i am currently listening to “Louis’ song” because he is my third favorite character in this whole game and also “Clementine’s suite” because its killer

okay okay so, why am i suddenly so up in arms about this game? let me tell you!

i first became interested in this game right when it came out, sometime in 2012. i was 11 at the time, and my family was pretty poor so i had to rely on YouTubers to watch this game and i absolutely fell in love with it. loved the characters, the twist and turns. but i only watched the first season.

and coming back to it now, as someone who’s consumed a lot of media, who avidly criticizes games and story telling, this game has the absolute best story telling I've seen from any game I've ever seen before.

this isn’t a new statement--people talk about telltale, revere telltale even now that their characters and storytelling is untouchable, and its true. you can tell that its about the story the minute you see the graphics of this game: a comic book. this isn’t about the gameplay at all, or the mechanics of killing walkers, no. its a story. a simple story of a girl who had to grow up in the world of a zombie apocalypse.

season 1 is a prequel to the rest of the game. it introduces us to a man named lee--lee who killed his wife in a fit of rage and was going to prison when hell breaks loose. and season 1 is brilliant because in a typical survival game like this, people go ape shit. they'll kill whoever they need to, steal whatever they need in order to survive. but the fact that they introduce clementine into this, a young girl who thinks the world of you, it holds you back. it reminds you that there’s actions to your consequences, that even in this lawless world, there are still things that we should keep and treasure and preserve in order to want to live in a world like this. and when lee dies? it teaches you, the player, to love clem as he did. because we are now in charge of clem. not lee.

in season 1, i killed lee

season 2 rolls around and honestly its kind of my least favorite season. the characters made me mad and it felt like my choices were weightless. but hold on, i think telltale actually did that on purpose. if season 1 is to show you that you need to preserve good and heart in order to fight in a horrible world, season 2 shows you how to fight in a horrible world--what you need to survive, who you need to be to gain allies, how to be strong. its purpose is to show you the underbelly of this nasty apocalypse, to show you that the world is shit and clementine had no choice but to grow up and catch up to speed with people four times her age. its not a happy season. pretty much everyone dies depending on your choices. as the player, there’s visibly no consequences to your actions: everyone’s an idiot and you’re the only competent one. there's no lee to watch you, no clementine to take care of. and that was done on purpose because that shit, as james put it, breaks you as a person. you don't come back from that. and she didn't.

in season 2, i killed jane and went with kenny and refused to go into wellington without him

season 3 is everyone's least favorite and for that, screw yall because i loved season 3. season 3 introduces the character to the consequences of what we put clem through in season 2. it shows an outside perspective of who clementine has become, who she needed to be in order to survive. it introduces the concept of having a family and a group that stuck with you from the very beginning rather than finding people along the way--this created a new group dynamic that we haven't seen before in this game. it also introduces conflict for the player: as javi, the player has to juggle whats best for his literal blood family and having to earn clementine’s trust. its a hard thing to do. season 3 has incredible characters, concepts, and it does something new by having little to no walkers--if anything, it’s a character study on how people react to an apocalypse without actually being directly affected by the apocalypse in that moment. (id talk about this more--i literally debated whether or not i should talk about what i learned in my English class about pandemics lmfao--but this post would get too long and its one am). season 3 is the cementation of who you chose clementine to be. there's no changing clementine at this point. whats done is done.

in season 3, i went out to look for aj rather than staying in Richmond

season 4 is incredible. characters were the best they've ever been, the plot was amazing (if not a little too grandiose sometimes). season 4 is a direct homage to season one, except instead of having to protect a sweet girl in a zombie apocalypse by teaching her how to survive, its having to teach empathy to a boy who knows nothing but violence and survival. its brilliant, i don't even know what to say about this. aj is obviously an amazing addition to this game and i think its what telltales been leading up to this entire time (even with their shut down). the idea of having no adults for a base is brilliant since these kids don't have the hesitation and beliefs and feuds that adults have from their days of norm. i thought i would hate it but both of clementines love interests have no right being so amazing. honestly i would love to make a separate post about season 4 in order to break it down, but the gist is its amazing. its the perfect end for clementine as a character.

in season 4, clem was romantically involved with and saved Louis

twdg might be my second favorite game of all time? right under p5r.

quick lists i wanted to make because i love making lists

favorite seasons

1. season 4 (but tomorrow this might change, since season 1 is just so brilliantly contained and simple and holds a lot of nostalgia for me)

2. season 1

3. season 3

4. season 4

top four favorite characters

1. clementine (shes probably my favorite female fictional character of all time)

2. lee (truly, he is my second favorite comfort character next to ryuji, so do with that info what you will)

3. my main man louis (god i love him so so so much)

4. javi (look i love him okay)

thank you anon for giving me an outlet to yell about this amazing game!!! i could just talk about this game forever and ever because there is soo much to say about it

#twdg #mine #ask #asks #spoilers for twdg obvs #ily anon

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ears-awake-eyes-opened · 4 years ago

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Haymitch, Effie, and Hayffie

(Musings, character analysis, my headcanons about their backstories and forward stories, especially about their relating and relationships. I felt like I needed to think through some of these ideas before writing more fics. These reflections got incredibly long, and I considered just keeping this in my drafts for myself, but maybe something here will resonate with someone else too, so here we go.)

I’ve been writing about Hayffie for a month, and I have some thoughts about their relationships/sexual histories both individually and together. It’s film-Hayffie that I’m into, so some of my ideas might conflict with what’s canon in the books, which I haven’t read in nearly a decade. When I eventually reread the books, I may feel differently, but these are my musings for now.

Haymitch:

We know Haymitch had a girlfriend when he won the second Quarter Quell at age 16. Snow had her murdered along with Haymitch’s mom and younger brother, so I’m guessing Haymitch loved her, otherwise Snow wouldn’t have bothered to have her killed since Snow always kills with intention.

Haymitch I imagine has probably always been good-looking-enough, but not extremely handsome. (I say this despite the big crush I have on Woody). I can see Haymitch as a kid having been witty, reasonably athletic, reasonably popular, a class clown and fairly obnoxious. As a teen without a father present/alive, home would have been a place of hard work, so school was likely Haymitch’s primary outlet for fun. I figure that particular girlfriend may have been his first serious love (and probably his only love).

I think he and she had some experience with sex but not a lot. They probably explored each other and discovered things together. They may have had sex only soon before the reaping, just in case the worst happened and one of their names was pulled. I’m remembering the guy I dated when I was 16. I loved him, but I didn’t want to have sex with him. However, if it had been the feeling of the end of the world, I probably would have slept with him. So, logic tells me they did.

Fast forward. Traumatized post-Games Haymitch wouldn’t have been with anyone else for a long time. I think it may be canon that he refused prostitution because he had no loved ones left to lose, but even if Snow did prostitute him, it would have been maybe once when Haymitch was still a minor, like Snow’s last nail in the coffin of crushing him. But Haymitch would have ultimately proven himself to be too much of a loose cannon/liability for Snow to use in that way.

So I imagine Haymitch has some history of sexual trauma. First in the intensity of sex with his beloved girlfriend within the feeling of coercion (let’s do it now or maybe never). Then with being prostituted to likely some wealthy middle aged woman. Rather than being the prostitute of a man, I think Haymitch would have killed the man or killed himself, depending on his trauma state at the time. So I don’t see sex with men, forced or otherwise, in his history.

It’s canon that Haymitch is basically a loner/shut-in who doesn’t like people in his house and sleeps holding a knife (when he’s able to sleep). I see him having the potential to be quite desirable to women and the potential for being a player. But trauma put a damper on those potentials. I think he could have sex whenever he feels like it, but for a couple of decades after his Games he just doesn’t very often (on average over those years once or occasionally twice a month maybe) because women are too much of a hassle, and they aren’t the love he lost. Alcohol is strongly his drug of choice over sex.

When he does have sex, I believe it’s one-night stands or casual sex with women who are players themselves and probably who he mildly dislikes. He steers clear of relationships that seem at all likely to become emotional. He firmly does not want to get attached to anyone again. Liking people is something he perceives as risky. Loving people is something he perceives as suicidal.

Haymitch is perceptive. Over the years, he’s learned some basics about what feels good to women physically. Pleasuring women has never been his first priority during sex, but I see him as the kind of guy who gets off on them getting off, so he would have made an effort to experiment a little and pay attention to the results. Unfortunately, alcohol often gets in the way of really focusing on women while he is with them. Which is one of the reasons Effie likes him better sober...

Effie:

I like to imagine Effie in early life, 0-9 maybe, with a very old great-grandmother in her 80s-90s. This great-grandma had memories of growing up in a free-er nation before the dictatorship gained in intensity, before the first revolution, before tyranny. I imagine she told Effie folktales that Effie remembers as bedtime stories. Those appeared to be fictional but were filled with archetypes and the roots of humanity. Her great-grandma was careful to protect the family, so she never spoke openly against the Capitol, but she understood and communicated deeper truths which shaped Effie’s heart/unconscious mind. I like to imagine Great-grandma offered Effie a reflection of the girl’s authentic self and offered her a small taste of empowerment. “Never forget you’re more than a pretty, well-mannered girl. Your wit is sharp. You have the capacity to be so much more than a face and a body bending to someone else’s will.”

To Effie’s controlling parents, and even to Effie herself in time, the great-grandma would seem eccentric. I envision her telling Effie that a woman doesn’t need a man to please her or to achieve greatness, and teaching her that she can please herself in all ways including financially and physically. Those lessons sunk in. I see Effie’s great-grandma having possibly been widowed young and surviving on her own awhile, with kids including Effie’s grandparent. In many ways Great-grandma was a self-made woman in her time.

Effie lost most of that connection to antiquity and to her authentic self when her great-grandma died, and she had nothing substantial to shield herself against the tight control and will of her family and Capitol life.

I imagine Effie mostly complied with that control but claimed autonomy in subtle ways. I think she had sex throughout the second half of her teens and throughout her 20’s, always being discerning, discrete, and selective about partners, rather than *sleeping around.* She had an intention behind each conquest. These conquests often had to do with aspects of self discovery, the desire for validation, and facilitating what she wanted in life, especially the ability to project a certain image in order to get where she wanted to go.

Did Effie fall in love with some of those young men? Probably, because underneath her thick facade, Effie has a tender heart which the facade protects like armor. Did she ever have her heart broken? Seldom. For the most part, she inherited and practiced ways of staying in control of her emotions within relationships. Most men thought of her as a desirable pain in the ass, but worth the high maintenance because she knows how to pleasure a man, she gives that focused attention during significant times including sex.

Did she ever experiment with sex with women? Possibly at some point out of curiosity and in seeking validation, but I don’t see women as her jam. Pretty and popular in childhood, she got along with girls in school. Later in her teens and adulthood, women mostly resented her natural beauty, fashion sense, drive to achieve, ability to attract attention, and her perfected facade. I see Effie feeling wistful at times for the quality of connections she had in youth, but her understanding of survival in Capitol society dictated that image and career-based connections were more important than purely emotional ones.

By age 30, during her years as an escort, Effie is quite singularly driven. She knows her body well, but there’s a veil over much of her inner self. The facade she’s built up is so thick that she doesn’t know much anymore about the vulnerable self beneath it. Haymitch can see the softness in her, whether he’s sober or drunk. She is both terrified and thrilled by his capacity to see the self she hides.

Hayffie:

I picture Haymitch as one of the first crushes Effie can remember having. I think of her as 8-9 years younger than him, so she would have been 7, nearly 8, when he was in the second Quarter Quell. She would have been quite taken with the way he held Maysilee’s hand as she died. Just as Effie was genuinely touched by Katniss caring for Rue as she died.

I see Effie having only been an escort since maybe the 72nd Hunger Games — long enough for the District 12 folks to know and mock her, but not too long. She had ambitions to move up in the districts, and she was on her way to proving herself as an effective tool of the Capitol: looking, sounding, and acting the part she was playing, and keeping herself veiled to the injustice of the Games and of tyranny in general. She was brainwashed by a lifetime of coercive propaganda, not because her mind is weak, but because the propaganda was so prevalent and multifaceted, including coming directly from her primary caregivers.

I think she probably expressed interest in Haymitch early on in their work together, seeing him as his idealized younger self. I think he turned her down then, in part because there was something about her that he enjoyed too much, even though he may not have been able to pinpoint what it was, because in the beginning he perceived her to be mostly ridiculous.

I see Hayffie playing cat and mouse for a few years — teasing, taunting, holding each other at bay and not doing much beyond tormenting one another during games 72-74, and learning each other’s nuances along the way. Effie would find Haymitch’s uncoothness off-putting and his wildness tantalizing. He would find her poshness annoying and the woman underneath all those layers a sensual curiosity.

The third Quarter Quell effected a personal transformation for each of them. Haymitch accepted the reality that he was caring about people; he couldn’t stop those emotions, even with alcohol, and he really didn’t want to. Effie’s eyes were opened to the injustice of the Games through her deep affection for her team of victors. Her armor came down enough to experience heartbreak — a related heartbreak to what Haymitch was experiencing as he lost old friends, like Chaff and Mags, and as he cared for Katniss and Peeta and helped launch a revolution.

I see this as the vulnerable time for Hayffie when their personal games of cat and mouse would pause, and intimacy would creep in and feel scary. They’d banter it away for a while but by then they’ve seen each other’s heartbreak, and the contents of a heart once seen, can’t be unseen.

In the absence of liquor for him and in the absence of facades for her (i.e. in District 13), hiding authenticity from each other would be tough. The taunting chase would continue in spirit, but physically they’d be ready to catch each other and play with that physicality if for no other reason to provide distraction.

“Let’s keep this casual,” they’d say. “No strings.” But the tapestry that had been weaving so long would take shape nonetheless. Strings would be everywhere, drawing them together faster than they could cut them.

Sex between them, after years of avoiding it with each other, would feel easy and alive, like breathing. Their bodies would fit well, so neither would have to work too hard to pleasure the other. I can see that sex between them has the potential to be very rough at times, though always with mutual consent. They both would be this interesting mix of selfish and giving. Their parting and coming together I see going on for years with feigned casualness. Cat and mouse again. The lightness would become more and more of a lie. Sex with other people would eventually whittle to nothing without much discussion about it.

They’d meet themselves in time as free individuals, and they’d realize they had fallen for each other all along, despite everything and because of everything. They would keep trying to stop it, and they’d keep failing miserably until finally moving into acceptance.

I don’t picture them ever married. Haymitch would want no government or religious bullshit in their personal business. But I see them eventually sharing their lives with increasing intimacy, how ever that might show up. I’m not sure yet how it would show up, though I like to think that several years down the road, Effie will move to District 12 “as the place becomes more civilized,” and when she perceives that there is meaningful work for her there. I also believe Effie’s perception of “meaningful work” will shift in time, initially out of necessity and then organically as she reconnects with her deep self and reclaims it.

I don’t picture Hayffie with kids. Okay, that’s a lie. I totally picture them with a kid and would have a blast writing the humor, affection, and angst inherent for them within that choice, but I don’t think that choice is in character for them. If they conceived a child, that would happen inadvertently. They’d both be terrified of parenthood, given their histories individually and together. Most likely Effie would terminate the pregnancy, but she’d be conflicted. And the more opportunity Haymitch would have to think about it, the more conflicted he would be as well.

The Hunger Games takes a toll in both ways. Kill a fetus to keep it from being born into a world where they’ve participated in and witnessed the killing of children? Or let the fetus become a baby with traumatized dysfunctional parents and hope for the best? I think they’d see it as a lose-lose, but also would feel so much tenderness about the possibility, especially if it happens years down the line in the feeling of “let’s do it now or maybe never.” Sound familiar? There’s some trauma reenactment there.

Trauma bonding and secure attachment:

I think that Hayffie could fall easily into reenacting trauma with each other. Here are some ways I see that playing out...

Haymitch experienced severe attachment trauma while still in early life, losing his parents and everyone he loved. This was on top of the trauma of being hunted and killing and witnessing death within the Games. This trauma was inflicted directly or indirectly by the Capitol. Haymitch has a lot of unresolved anger at the Capitol. Without integration there’s no healthy way for someone to cope with that severity of trauma. Hence, his addiction/alcoholism.

From the perspective of dysfunction, I can see him drawn to Effie because she’s a Capitol girl, controlled/controlling and emotionally abandoning. She doesn’t show up all warm and fuzzy and “talk to me, honey.” She shows up with open criticism and disdain for him. On the surface, she has those fundamental qualities in common with the primary abuser throughout his life (Snow). So through the lens of trauma reenactment, it makes perfect sense that he’d want to fuck her.

I imagine Effie experienced early life trauma that was more subtle but still impactful. She grew up in a place where one misstep could lead to her family’s ruin. She grew up with parents who likely demanded no missteps and were emotionally unavailable, being so focused on achievement over emotional health. To keep her parents’ approval Efffie needed to do everything precisely: appearance, manners, attitude, performance. When she didn’t exceed par, I imagine she was criticized and chastised. When she exceeded par she was praised. (Intermittent reinforcement.) Throughout her early life, she marinated in rigidity with constant reminders of what happened to people who were imperfect. Effie became an attention seeker and a people-pleaser. She sought validation from not just the masses, but also specifically from people who were the most critical of her and dependent in some way upon her *performance.*

From the perspective of dysfunction, I can see her drawn to Haymitch because he doesn’t offer her consistent validation. Even his *compliments* are teases, taunts, and mocking sarcasm. His alcoholism makes him emotionally unavailable and at times intermittently reinforcing. In moments, he’ll look right into her with unmistakable genuine attraction, and she’ll feel high when he does. The high comes because the attention is intermittent and unpredictable. In that state of emotional drugs flowing through her, it makes total sense that she’d want to fuck him.

Their potential for trauma bonding will make their relationship at times explosive and volatile, not overtly abusive but with sharp tongues and intense physicality that at times borders on punishing. Their desire for each other grows like wildfire, their bond tightens, and sex between them is compelling and delicious in a way that I don’t think either of them has experienced before.

I like to believe their potential for trauma bonding is only part of what draws them together.

I think Haymitch’s compassion in the second Quarter Quell touched young Effie’s heart very genuinely, and her young heart was also shaped by her great-grandmother’s unconditional love. With that heart, she in time grows deep affection for “her victors,” not just as validations of her self-worth, but as people who are truly deserving because of who they are, not what they do.

I think Haymitch has the capacity to see through Effie’s walls of makeup, clothing, and attitude to the heart of the girl who has watched him kill but doesn’t regard him as a murderer, rather she sees him still as the boy who held his friend’s hand in death. I like to think of him seeing that core aspect of himself through her eyes. Each time he sees it, he forgives himself a little more for the responsibility he feels for the death of his loved ones and everyone he ever killed in order to stay alive, and evey tribute who died under his mentorship. Haymitch carries impossibly heavy burdens on his shoulders, hence the alcoholism. Effie’s regard for him as a victor, a victor who showed compassion to Maysilee, to Katniss, to Peeta, and so on, lightens more and more over time the burden he carries.

I think their relationship is an interesting mix of dysfunction and healing. It’s raw and messy, and Effie desperately needs raw and messy, even though she fights against that a long time. Their relationship also has the capacity for deep tenderness and connection, and Haymitch desperately needs tenderness and connection, even though he fights against it a long time.

I so want to see Effie raw and messy. I so want to see Haymitch tender and connecting. That’s the unfolding I write for them together. It’s tough not to rush it, because it’s so interesting, and I want to see it all so badly.

After all these years, I am adoring Hayffie in this unexpected way. This ship is surprisingly intricate and beautiful.

P.S. If you made it this far, wow, and thanks for caring about the characters enough to read my extended ramblings. Comments welcome. I love to hear other people’s thoughts about Hayffie.

#hayffie #hayffie musings #effie x haymitch #haymitch x effie #effie trinket #haymitch abernathy #thg #hunger games musings #the hunger games #hunger games #character analysis #trauma reenactment #attachment trauma

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thesibyllinebooks · 5 years ago

Text

The New Yorkers (Part 23)

Percy and Annabeth held hands the entire taxi ride to the Empire State Building. Percy couldn’t tell whose palms were sweatier. He kept casting sideways glances at his girlfriend. Annabeth wore her curly hair in a long braid, showing off some gold earrings he’d bought her for her eighteenth birthday. Or nineteenth, he couldn’t remember. Her peasant top made her look like any normal cute college girl. But she wasn’t. She was an angry demigod possibly encouraging him to be escorted to his death in the back of a beat up taxi.

He hadn’t heard more of Annabeth’s plan. She assured him that she had one, but wanted to see how things went on Olympus first. Percy hoped Annabeth wasn’t hoping for a good outcome because he didn’t think she’d get one.

“Right here’s fine,” Annabeth said suddenly. The taxi stopped.

“Hey,” Percy said gently, turning Annabeth to look at him. “Things are going to be okay.” He kissed her. Who knows, this could have been their last kiss before the gods obliterated them.

“Things aren’t okay,” Annabeth reminded him.

Percy got out of the taxi. Annabeth slid over the seats and got out on his side. She shut the door and a second later her hand was back in Percy’s, squeezing the life out of him. The Empire Sate Building loomed over them. Though they knew no one else could see it, Annabeth and Percy craned their necks to look at the large, expanding mass of land and clouds above the building. Olympus.

Percy held the door for Annabeth. As soon as they entered, a security guard gestured for them to walk through the metal detectors.

“What brings you two here today?” he asked. For just a second, his eyes glowed gold. “Appointment?”

“No, we’re dropping in,” Annabeth said stiffly.

“Right this way.” He led them to a golden elevator. The doors slid open. Annabeth pushed the button for the 600th floor.

“I know this goes without saying, but don’t say anything rash,” Percy cautioned her. “I know you’re upset but we don’t want to make things worse.” Annabeth nodded stiffly. Her neck was bright red with nerves and anger.

“I love you,” Percy said. If the gods blew them to bits in the next couple minutes, he decided those would be good enough last words.

“I love you too, Percy,” Annabeth said quietly. The elevator doors closed. The elevator shot up at an alarming speed, giving Percy a serious case of vertigo. In seconds, they shot out of the building, and Percy could see the entire city below. They ascended through the ground and the elevator stopped. When it opened. they were smacked in the face with sweet-smelling air. The sky was powder blue and the spots of grass were a lush, glowing green. Instead of dirt roads, white sidewalks gleamed, leading the way to buildings that were a perfect mix of modern and classical. Mythical creatures grazed the nearby fields.

“I know I’ve said it before but you did amazing,” Percy said, bumping his girlfriend’s shoulder.

“Thanks,” Annabeth said. “I wonder how long it’ll be before it’s all destroyed.”

“Don’t think like that.” Percy and Annabeth walked on one of the sidewalks, making their way to the throne room. Nymphs and other wind spirits flew above. Satyrs and minor deities rode chariots, directed by stoplights.

Percy hadn’t been to Olympus as many times as Annabeth. Every time he came, he was awestricken. It looked better than Elysium, and was definitely a poor reflection of the war and destruction about to take place. He had half a mind to say screw the gods and picnic with Annabeth on the lush fields of lowers. That would definitely be way less stressful.

Annabeth stopped in front of the large, golden doors. They were maybe three or four times their height. Her posture tensed and her face turned red. She clenched her jaw.

“Should we knock, or...?” Percy said.

Annabeth shook her head. She raised her hand. Wind spirits pushed the doors open. The entire room was made of glittering white marble, save for the decorated thrones surrounding the hearth. Smaller thrones for the minor gods were situated closer to the fire.

The gods were arguing- no, debating, Annabeth decided. Were they planning? They all spoke over each other, each twenty feet tall. Only half the gods were there, the ones still loyal to Zeus, Annabeth quickly realized. Zeus was nowhere to be found. Neither was Hera, which was especially good for Annabeth’s sake.

The doors slammed shut. Hestia was the first to look up. Her flame-red eyes connected with Percy and Annabeth. She raised her hand for silence. At once, all the gods stopped speaking and turned to face them.

Percy wanted to melt on the spot. He hated having so many eyes on him, like he’d done something wrong. Whatever betrayal his father was planning, he wanted no parts in it. He felt childish for thinking his dad would be there. What reason would Poseidon have to be in the throne room?

“Annabeth.” Athena was the first to speak. She resembled her statue, the Athena Parthenos, except her dress and battle gear was replaced with a white suit. She glared at Percy, which only made Annabeth tighten her grip on him, showing she had no intentions of letting him go.

“Athena,” Annabeth spat back. Gods, here we go, Percy thought.

“Someone doesn’t look too happy,” Apollo muttered. He had his usual surfer look, his blond hair falling into his eyes. His twin sister, Artemis, elbowed him. Percy wondered why she’d decided to be twenty feet tall and still look like a preteen at the same time.

“They look lovely. Athena, I told you your plan would never work. Love is much stronger than The Mist,” Aphrodite chastised Athena. Looking at her made Percy’s head hurt. Her eyes shifted from blue to green, to brown. Her hair changed color and texture by the second. One moment, her skin was porcelain and by the time he blinked, it was dark.

“So sorry to hear about Poseidon,” Apollo offered. “He’s still my favorite uncle. Though he is a shifty little traitor.” Percy shrugged. He was more interested in the god’s sweet Nike tracksuit. He wanted to ask if he’d bought it at the outlet or online, but decided that wasn’t the task at hand.

Athena frowned. “Why have you come?” she asked.

Annabeth stepped forward, dragging Percy along. The closer she got to the gods, the more of them shrank to their height. Athena remained giant.

“You can war, you can fight, you can do what you want, but you can’t make us fight your battles. You can’t make other demigods fight your battles,” Annabeth said fiercely.

Athena raised a dark eyebrow. Percy cringed. Annabeth gave him that expression whenever he said something particularly stupid. “You know we are forbidden from direct war without exhausting all other options,” Athena reminded her daughter slowly.

“So you’re going to let kids die?” Percy asked, raising his voice. Athena looked like she wanted to say, well duh. “Zeus poisoned the lake at Camp Half-Blood. Friends are going to turn against each other all because you-”

“Because of your father,” Athena corrected him rudely.

“So what? Banish him or something,” Percy said.

Demeter stepped up. Her long, thin braids were intertwined with sprigs of grain. “Poseidon has been wayward since we were children. He’s always fought with Zeus. I don’t believe banishment would stop him. And now that he is in open rebellion, he’s already banished from Olympus.”

Percy wanted to ask how many wars Zeus had started, but he didn’t think even immortal gods had time to hash all that out. “Why is all this happening anyway?”

“Poseidon wishes to rebuild the pantheon in his image,” Hestia explained. “No king or queen of the gods, all of us equal. He views Zeus as a tyrant.” Well, Poseidon wasn’t exactly wrong.

“Well, that’s not so bad is it?” Percy asked. “You guys invented democracy, right?” Annabeth looked proud at his reasoning.

Athena shook her head and her eyes flashed. “Democracy is a mortal invention. We will not upset thousands of years of tradition all because Poseidon is jealous of his younger brother. We are gods. Power hierarchy comes with the territory.”

“So you won’t change your mind? For power?” Annabeth questioned. Her tone sounded like she was giving Athena one last chance to rethink her actions.

“For tradition. For Greece. I refuse to unravel our history. I warned you of what was to come, Annabeth. I warned you not to involve yourself.”

“After you took my memories!” Annabeth snapped. She let go of Percy and marched closer to her mother. Annabeth hoped Athena wouldn’t move forward and crush Annabeth under her humongous high-heeled shoe. “You can’t call on me to fight for you for years, then all of a sudden take my whole life away from me!”

“I didn’t take your entire life,” Athena said exasperatedly.

“You took Percy!”

Percy had to admit, even though he didn’t think it was wise for Annabeth to be screaming at her mother in front of the other gods, her open display of loyalty and love for him made him feel great. He’d have done the same for her.

“Because I knew you were likely to do something irrational for him, or because of him. And here you are,” Athena said smugly.

“I didn’t do this because of Percy! I’m here because what you did- what all of you are doing is wrong!” Annabeth shouted.

Percy and the gods watched uncomfortably as Athena and Annabeth argued. Hestia retreated, taking her seat back at her hearth.

Athena sighed. Finally, she shrunk down to Annabeth’s height. Despite her youthful looks, her stern expression reflected her aura of being thousands of years old. “I wanted to protect you. The thought of any of the gods harming you- Annabeth, you’re my most prized child. I love you too much.” Aphrodite ‘awed’.

Annabeth laughed in disbelief. Percy knew immediately she was about to say something out of pocket. “Percy has nothing to do with this, I repeat. The gods all know I’m your favorite. They could kill me whether or not I’m with Percy. And because I’m your favorite, you want to protect me? What about my other siblings, who might die fighting for you? You don’t love me. You never have. I’m just the most useful to you.”

Annabeth’s fists were clenched. She shook with anger. Percy stepped forward to put an arm on her shoulder. He knew her relationship with her mother was complicated, but he didn’t think it would come to blows on Olympus. He didn’t think Annabeth would accuse her mother of not loving her right to her face.

“How can you say I don’t love you?” Athena questioned.

“I mean, you’re not the best at showing affection,” Aphrodite said.

“If you loved me or cared about me, you wouldn’t have made me,” Annabeth ground out. The words hit Percy in the chest. “My dad didn’t want kids. He didn’t want me. I ran away because no one loved me. You never showed yourself. You never check on me, or wish me happy birthday. When I finally found someone who wanted to be in my life, you took him from me. You won’t even listen to what I’m saying to you now. You can’t love me. Because wisdom, and logic, and tradition won’t allow you to do what actually loving me requires.”

“Oh, snap,” Apollo said under his breath.

Percy was just as caught off-guard. Nothing Annabeth said was a lie, though. She’d pretty much grown up an orphan, unless either of her parents needed something whether it was babysitting her twin brothers or sailing to Greece to recover a statue. As bad as he felt for Annabeth, and as afraid he was for Athena’s reaction, he was proud of Annabeth for standing up to her mother. He’d never loved her more than he had in this moment.

“Annabeth...” Athena started. She then shook her head. “I’m a goddess. I have a duty.”

“You’re also a mother,” Annabeth reminded her. She unclenched her fists and sighed. “You know what? I knew this was how this conversation was going to go. Percy and I aren’t going to let you go to war. Even if it kills us.”

Percy wanted to protest. He’d never said all that. But for the sake of defending Annabeth, he gave all the gods a stern look.

“Please, don’t do anything foolish,” Athena pleaded. For just a second, a softness was apparent in her eyes.

Annabeth didn’t respond. She turned her back on the gods and slipped her hand back into Percy’s. Without another word, they exited the throne room.

“You’re amazing,”Percy reminded her. “And you’re right. Athena’s a pretty crappy, distant mother, but I think she does care about you.”

Annabeth shook her head like she was refusing to hear it. She marched Percy through Olympus until they were back at the golden elevator. The entire ride down was silent.

“Have a nice day,” the security guard said to them on their way out.

It wasn’t until they were on the busy street that Annabeth spoke again. “Percy, do you know why the gods are so powerful?” Annabeth asked matter-of-factly.

Percy wondered if that was a trick question. “Uh, because they’re gods?”

“Because we give them power. We worship them. And what happens to gods no one worships?”

Percy suddenly realized what Annabeth was getting at. Something all gods feared. “They lose their power. And if they’re forgotten entirely, their essence dissolves.”

Annabeth nodded. “Right, and how can gods start a war if they don’t exist?” she asked.

“They can’t.” Percy suddenly realized what Annabeth’s plan was. It was a large plan, a crazy one, maybe even impossible. But it was all they had.

“Exactly,” Annabeth said. “We shouldn’t care about gods that don’t care about us. So we won’t. We’ll have to get the other demigods on board. Honestly, taking out Zeus and Athena would be enough. No more rituals, no more offerings, none of it.” Annabeth was nothing if not ambitious. Only she would think she could get the demigods to dishonor and ignore the king of the gods into oblivion.

“But she’s your-”

“I don’t care,” Annabeth said fiercely. “It’s not like I’m killing her. She’ll reform in a couple hundred years. Which means she’ll be out of my life for good.”

Percy knew arguing about it wouldn’t do them any more good. He put his arm around Annabeth. He kissed the side of her head. He wasn’t sure at all what the future held but then again, when had he ever been? “Well, at least let me take you lunch, my little traitor.”

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voltage-vixen · 5 years ago

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Giving a Christmas present----MK

Christmas Countdown--- Day 21

“Was renting out the entire building really necessary?” Yuzuru muttered, while questioning his outlandish friend.

During one of their usual meetups, Kei suggested that the three of them gift MC presents this year for Christmas. Immediately on board with the idea, Kazuomi placed a few calls, and the trio soon found themselves being transported via limo to the nearby mall. The mall that Kazuomi had decided to have shut down for the day, allowing the three friends to have their own private shopping session.

“I’m just the interim owner for today,” Kazoumi smoothly replied, “I wanted to ensure that we would have all the time in the world to select the perfect gift for our dearest MC.”

“Being gloomy doesn’t suit you Yuzuru,” Kei gleefully chimed in, “Let’s do our best and make sure we find the best present possible for MC.”

Yuzuru trailed behind the others and watched as they strolled through each of the individual stores. He browsed around the different outlets, until he saw a store that particularly interested him. Wearing a barely noticeable smile, Yuzuru proceeded on his own search to find his own present for MC.

About an hour later, the three met back up outside the front of the building, and they climbed into the limo to making their way to Raven Hills.

Little did they know, that there was a man watching their every move from afar……..

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“What’s the occasion gentlemen?” MC questioned the infamous trio, as Kei handed her a glass of champagne.

Kazuomi called and invited her to Masquerade, and her curiosity had gotten the best of her. The atmosphere in the restaurant was festive, and she was relishing in the live performance from the orchestra playing various Christmas tunes.

“Perhaps we’re just fond of your company MC,” Kazuomi expressed. He placed a gold wrapped box onto the table, followed suit by Kei and Yuzuru placing their own gifts in front of MC.

“What Kazuomi is trying to say, is that we wanted to celebrate an early Christmas with you,” Kei proudly informed.

MC first glanced at the presents, then back at the group of men. She smiled as she reached for the gift in front of Yuzuru, but Kazuomi had another idea, and shoved his present into her hands.

“Open my mine first,” he demanded with a slight pout.

MC giggled at his childlike behavior, and rolled her eyes, while tearing away the wrapping paper of his gift. She gasped when she opened the box, to see a pair of beautiful diamond earrings.

“Kazuomi,” MC breathed, “These are beautiful.”

Kazuomi gestured to the box, and MC grabbed the box to find a well-designed coupon she could tell was professionally made.

“Reedem this for one night of mind-blowing……..I’m not finishing that sentence,” MC sighed.

Ignoring Kazuomi’s smirk, she reached out for Yuzuru’s, and the IT genius watched in silence while she made way with the paper.

“Yuzuru, is this one of those fit bits?” MC asked, adjusting the band to fit her wrist.

He simply nodded and leaned over to help MC find the perfect fit of the tracking bracelet, taking a few moments to admire the look on her.

“Thank you Yuzuru,” MC praised, before carefully placing his present back in the box.

“I figured this would be good for your training,” he quietly stated.

Good ole’ Yuzuru was as practical as ever.

She nodded her appreciation, before finally opening Kei’s present.

“Way to save the best for last MC,” Kei beamed, “I found the supplies and made it myself. Hopefully you find this acceptable.

“Kei, your gift is lovely!” MC reassured, while marveling at his unique offering.

Kei had pressed a flower bouquet together, and MC could still smell the flower’s natural scents. The diplomat was pleased with her reaction, and he snapped a discreet picture of MC on his phone.

Although they were at times whimsical, MC appreciated their thoughtfulness to include her in their gift recipients. She expressed her gratitude to them again, and then excused herself to the restroom.

On her way there, MC felt someone bump into her shoulder. Annoyed by this stranger’s rudeness, she was about to confront them, but her jaw dropped when she saw the recognizable face.

“Boss! What are you doing here?”

Boss held a single finger up to her lips to silence her.

“I couldn’t let someone else outdo me when it comes to my favorite agent. Check your purse,” the mysterious man huffed, before disappearing into the crowd.

Boss watched MC rummage through her purse, and he saw her grab the tiny gift bag that was slipped inside when he intentionally bumped into her. For you see, he was the one that had been watching Kazuomi, Yuzuru, and Kei at the mall that day. Boss refused to let them steal MC away from him.

She brought a hand over her mouth, and the look of adoration radiating from her eyes, confirmed the satisfaction Boss had been hoping to deliver.

With one final gaze of contentment, Boss took his leave, secretly looking forward to the next work day where he would get to see MC again.

L365 Masterlist

@agustd54, @joanneshiba

#masquerade kiss #kazuomi shido #yuzuru shiba #kei soejima #christmas countdown #voltage fanfic #mk fanfic #voltage inc #love 365 find your story #voltage fandom #day 21 #sorry this is late!

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victorian-lesbian-dandy · 4 years ago

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Two Couples

This is one of those ‘full of fragments, autobiographical and angry’ bits of writing. yeet.

The two couples standing in front of me could not be more different one screamed facade, fake. screamed that i rearrange my house and take down the photos before the guests arrived, that I’m ashamed of my family, i hope you don’t notice them, that I’m disappointed AND mad. Their smiles look like badly painted mask, their words read like a guarded speech, written and rewritten to passive-aggressive polite perfection. Its internal struggles and lying words, intentional or otherwise. Its reluctant affection, not knowing whether it is habit to hug or if they actually care. Its arguments and storming off and promises of serious conversations that, yes, do eventually happen but what follows them is not the sworn change, its manipulation and biting words, its truths that are angry and painful, and maliciously said.

They’re music. A young child forced to play, nagged and battered to practice until the happiness music draws is down to just droplets. then, years later, once that music is claimed and solidified, an outlet and an escape, it becomes a punishment, the lack of music, the forbidden sounds. They're the sadness of looking upon an instrument you can no longer play, but trying anyway.

They're hobbies that you pretend to have, to be interesting at parties that you host, desperate to prove your worth, your ability as a host . And sometimes, you succeed. The stage is set, the guests are fooled, you're just one happy family. But other times, the melancholy is too much, the friends have known you too long, and any mask facade or gauze that is thrown up to hide the hurt and the pain is seen through. Seen through and commented on. This couple reek of other people offering help, a place to stay, a night away. Of offers that would never be taken, but accepted nonetheless, with eyes that can only say that they are resigned to their fate. Resigned to the angst and the hurt, the tears that don’t come because the most painful part is the lack of passion.

This couple is not vivid arguments with heated words and shouting and screaming. This couple is offhand comments, an unwillingness to understand the others around them, and the knowledge of love. Despite themselves, the couple still love, each other and those around them. But love is not enough to raise a child, to treat them well it seems. Love is an excuse, an excuse when their behaviour and actions are so bad they cause blood, 'but i know that they love me'. This couple wants the best for you but they don’t know what that it. This couple thinks they know you. They think your favourite colour is purple, that you like cooked peppers and that you enjoy the time in their household. Theirs. Not the family's.

This couple is wrong. They are sick, hurting and hurtful. This couple is a cage.

The other couple. They are warmth incarnate. They are sitting in the garden on a hot day, feeling productive and happy, not trapped. They're comfy clothes and the honest claim of "zero judgement!" with a smile. They're a shrill whistle followed by a wordless nod, as the cup of tea is placed on your desk. They're shouting and arguments about nothing that don’t put you on edge, don’t heighten your heart-rate because you know that this couple is also love. Love done right, unconditional and kind. This couple is telling stories about those you miss, instead of unfeeling silences on the matter.

This couple is support and encouragement. The realisation that you're free, and you're free to do what you want. To live the life you want to, not the life borne from a million compromises. They're cheap paints and failed art tutorials, and days later a request to paint the walls. They're newly decorated rooms and the freedom to express. Kind eyes at requests instead of tired and bitter ones.

This couple is hanging old photos on the wall, drilling holes left right and centre because it doesn't matter. Because any wrongs can be fixed.

It's compliments and insults intertwined so lovingly, said with seriousness and jest, but left always on a positive note. Its the uncanny ability to rarely go too far, and to shut up and listen when they do. This couple is family, this couple is wanting the best for you and trusting you to know what that is, instead of deciding themselves. This couple is trusting you to know yourself, and somehow still knowing you better than anyone.

This couple is stacks and stacks of DVDs, meticulously chosen and arranged shelf by shelf. Its film and music recommendations, its begging for you to learn this song. This couple is the refusal to make you feel guilty, empathy and shared anger. This couple is talking about dreams and nightmares, making them funny and offering comfort.

This couple is everything right with your life. They aren't perfect, but they are the best. This couple is your environment to thrive, now and for the years to come.

#oof the first couple is my dad and his wife #big oof :/#angst #writing #fiction #fragments #shitty parents #toxic dad #prose #vibes

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berrypepper86 · 5 years ago

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The world is not a wish-granting factory

“There’s an Ed Sheeran song for every emotion you’re feeling right now.” - Peter Griffin, Family Guy s18ep3

So I’ve read before that your first post when making a blog is supposed to be exciting, engaging and draw your audience in with a relatable subject matter.

Truth is I’m only really doing this as a way to get my thoughts and feelings out before I drive myself insane.

I’m an overthinker by nature - you give me something small and you can bet I can turn it into something outrageously hyooge and completely off the mark. I always read that you should trust your gut instinct, but that’s bloody hard when you’re not sure if it’s a result of your overcomplicated mind. I guess I’m thinking if I have an outlet for everything going on in my head that it’ll somehow make it easier.

At least my subject matter is relatable to any audience going. It’s the one thing that every single human being goes through yet feels that they are the only one in the world to go through it.

Of course it’s about love.

It’s about a guy.

And it’s about me going through the motions, wondering how and why this switch has been flipped on suddenly after nearly ten years of knowing this person. Wondering if actually this feeling has always been there and if that is the case, was there something within me that stopped it coming up to the surface?

At this precise moment, I don’t know if this story will have a happy ending. I don’t know if at some point in the near future, I’ll look back and realise that it was all just a moment in my life where I’d allowed myself to feel something for the first time in a long time and that that in itself was a good thing.

At this precise moment I’m not even sure what a happy ending looks like.

So okay, obviously I’ve seen all the rom-coms Hollywood throws out - all with the same recognisable formula but each with its own little unique twist but in the end, the guy and the girl always get together. A lot of the time one of them will fuck up majorly, threatening the whole story and the dream that true love will always prevail.

But it always works out in the end.

Sometimes they declare their undying love for one another only to lose each other at the end. And your invested soul is broken everytime you watch it but you’re always comforted by the fact that they were able to say those three words to one another before it all went wrong.

I’m that person who sits there and watches; pillow clutched to my chest and tears and mascara running down my face completely invested in the story happening on screen in front of me, hoping against all hope that they fall in love and live happily ever after. Whether it’s Hazel Grace and Augustus, Forrest and Jenny, Dexter and Emma, Jack and Rose or every single character in Love Actually.

Well, every single one except Alan Rickman’s character. I’ll never get over how he treated Emma Thompson.

I’ve been watching films and reading books like that for years. Sometimes I wonder if my perception of the perfect guy has been tainted by them. I’ve lost count of the number of guys I thought I liked over the years - all of them nice looking, nice personalities (well, some), showed an interest and seemed to like my oh so witty sense of humour (like Chandler Bing, I use humour as a defense mechanism).

But every time I put up a guard. It’s like I’d reel them in then shut them out before they could get too close.

I never meant to play anyone, or make them think that I liked them only to then kick them to the curb. I always found an excuse to flee before it got too serious. Maybe because the one long term relationship I had fucked me over more than I thought. The realisation that what I thought was love and a happily ever after (oh god just typing that has made me inadvertently pull the stink-eye) was just a very harsh lesson in what not to look for a bloke and a relationship.

That was years ago and believe me I am over that particular guy - I just don’t think I got over the aftermath of my feelings when it all fell apart, even though it falling apart was the best thing to have happened.

I put up walls, I shut people out, I felt like I was undeserving and anyone who would be with me would soon discover I wasn’t worth it. And I do still feel like that now. So much so that I thought there was something seriously wrong with me because I’m sure a lot of people feel these types of feelings but they still maintain relationships. They don’t allow someone to get close before fleeing the scene in complete panic they’d soon find out you’re not actually this confident person you put yourself out there to be.

So, at thirty-two years of age, I’d made peace with the fact that ya know what, this happily ever after thing wasn’t ever going to happen for me. Not that I thought thirty-two was old or passed the point of no return - just that these walls refused to budge for me for so long that I felt I’d never be cured. So I thought I might as well start accepting it.

No guy had ever lit up a spark in me. I’d never been in love.

And I actually felt okay with that.

Until recently.

And in a colassal fuck up of circumstance and incredibly bad timing, I’m on a rollercoaster of pure shite.

Welcome to the ride.

#love blog reallife edsheeran mythoughts outlet

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just-jordie-things · 6 years ago

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Halloween Party - Allison Argent

word count: 2900 warnings: summary: sexual tension is best released while at parties

For (y/n) (y/l/n) and Allison Argent, the only term that was most fitting was ‘it's complicated’ and it had been that way for a year now.

After the huntress had moved to Beacon Hills and met her soon to be best friend Lydia Martin, and her friend, (y/n), everything she thought she knew was flipped around on her. (y/n) had taken an immediate interest in her, and wasn’t afraid to show it either. The first moment she met Allison, her instant response to her introduction was asking what team she swung for. Lydia had teasingly hit the girl on the arm as she drank up Allison’s figure, while Allison pretended to be confused by the expression.

“She’s my new best friend,” Lydia had said to (y/n) when Allison has left.

“And she’s my new project” She had replied, watching the brunette walk off down the hall.

Somehow, (y/n’s) clear feelings and intentions didn’t get in the way of Allison’s blossoming relationship with Scott. She was friendly with her, they had sort of become friends, but there was always an underlying tension between the two.

Lydia knew it, she could spot sexual tension from a mile away. Scott could smell it, it was very distinct, but very prominent. But he wasn’t blind either, he had known (y/n) since elementary school, and he could see the way she looked at Allison with more than just a bit of a crush. She was absolutely infatuated by her. Stiles even knew it, and constantly teased (y/n) about it, when he wasn’t afraid she’d beat him up for it.

When Scott and Allison’s relationship had come to a dramatic end, it was (y/n’s) place that Allison found herself at, and even on her doorstep she wondered if this was a bad idea.

“Al?” (y/n) answered the door in her pajamas, looking at the huntress in complete surprise. “What’re you doing here- what’s wrong?” She took in her distressed features and rushed her inside.

“Scott and I…” Allison trailed off, and it was obvious what had happened.

“Oh, sweetheart…” (y/n) shut the door and opened her arms for the girl, who hugged her instantly and failed to hold back her tears. “I’m sorry darling, do you want to talk about it?”

“I did it” Allison mumbled into her shoulder. (y/n’s) brow furrowed, not understanding. “I broke up with him b-but it had to happen, we just aren’t in love like we used to be, and-”

“Hey, shh…” (y/n) cooed, petting Allison’s hair when she began to hiccup over her tears. “I get it, it’s okay, it’s okay…” She murmured, rocking the girl back and forth. “Don’t cry… shh… don’t cry sweetheart,”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know why I came here I-I couldn’t think of anywhere else to go you see I just wanted to not be alone” She choked on her words and (y/n) hushed her again.

“It’s alright,” She told her, finally releasing the girl and caressing her shoulders gently. “Can I get you anything? Water? Have you eaten?”

“No I… that sounds really nice” Allison sighed, nodding her head.

The girls had dinner together, and (y/n) let Allison vent through everything that had happened between her and Scott, until there was nothing left to say. Then they spent the rest of the night watching old shitty movies and laughing at the bad jokes in them, until both of them passed out on the living room couch.

Since that night, they’d become closer than before. Thus brings us, to the Halloween party that Stiles had decided to throw in Derek’s loft while he was out of town. Allison was hellbent on researching the Oni, while (y/n), Scott, Stiles, Lydia, and even Isaac were using the party to their advantage, hoping they’d show.

“So,” Lydia went up to (y/n), two red solo cups in hand filled with neon colored liquor, handing one of them to her friend. “Is Ally Argent showing up tonight?” The banshee asked. “She kept telling me there was no way, but something else tells me that there’s a chance she’ll show”

“Oh?” (y/n) quirked an eyebrow as she sipped her drink. “You think I can get her to come?”

Lydia snorted with laughter, which made (y/n) chuckle as well and rolled her eyes.

“You know what I meant”

“Yeah, yeah” Lydia waved a dismissive hand. “You’re really not going to ask her? This is your big chance, love” (y/n) seemed to contemplate it, shrugging her shoulders slightly as she looked into her drink.

“Allison Argent is an enigma,” She told Lydia, her eyes narrowing slightly as she thought aloud. “I’ve never known what she wants, she’s a mystery, and she’s… provocative” (y/n) said.

“You think you’re more than just into her?” Lydia asked, and (y/n) pursed her lips, and quirked an eyebrow.

“What, you want me to make a move on her?” She asked, scoffing a laugh and throwing back the rest of her drink. Lydia nodded as she giggled at (y/n’s) antics.

“Uh, yeah, you’ve been staring at that girl like a lost puppy for a year now, I think it’s time for something to happen before all that pent up frustration kills you” Lydia suggested. “And a party is the perfect place for that”

“I don’t think so, Martin” (y/n) said, chuckling as she shook her head. “Allison’s gorgeous, and trust me I’d give anything to be with her, but I’m not stepping in on her and Scott’s drama”

“They’re broken up, what drama would you be stepping in on?” Lydia asked with a roll of her eyes. “You’re making excuses, it’s not that hard, I’m sure you’re feelings as very clear to Allison already”

“Mhm, I’ve made my intentions crystal clear since day one,” (y/n) winked at the banshee, who again, rolled her eyes.

“We know,” She replied. “And not once have I seen her abstain from them, in fact, I think she loves your attention” (y/n) smirked slightly at the idea, humming to herself. “Maybe you could ask for yourself” Lydia said, nodding her head off another direction, and (y/n) cocked her head to the side, before turning to see the devil herself entering the room.

Allison Argent, looking out of place in her flannel and leggings, lacking the luminescent paint everyone else wore. But (y/n) grinned at the sight of her.

“You gonna go make that move or what?” Lydia teased, earning a glance from (y/n) before she made her way towards the new arrival.

When Allison caught sight of (y/n) coming towards her, she felt a hot blush race from her cheeks to her chest. She was in black short shorts and a tight blue neon crop top, neon paint was displayed in intricate patterns all over her exposed skin, and Allison couldn’t tear her eyes away from her body, there was nothing left to the imagination, and Allison’s was currently running wild.

“What’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?” (y/n) asked smugly as she looked Allison up and down. The huntress chuckled at the cliche line, but shrugged a shoulder.

“Lydia told me I needed a break,” She answered. “That if I came here I could find a good outlet for that” She added, a suggestive tone in her voice. (y/n) smirked as her brows rose.

“Well let’s get you some paint then,” She said, reaching for her hand, which Allison let her take, and dragging her to the stand. “Pick your color” She said, gesturing to all the paints and brushes. Neon pinks, oranges, greens, blues, it was a mess after everyone went nuts with it.

“I can do somethin’ for ya,” The girl at the stand offered, but side-eyed (y/n) after. “But I’ll bet your girlfriend here would much rather take over” (y/n) smirked, looking to Allison, curious to see if she’d correct the girl. She didn’t.

“I’ll let her do it,” Allison said, looking back at (y/n) with rosy cheeks and hopeful eyes. “If you want to” She added quickly, and (y/n) smiled, dipping a thin paintbrush into the bright orange paint.

“How could I refuse?” She mused, and Allison began unbuttoning her flannel, before pulling the sleeves down her arms for more canvas space for (y/n). The girl pursed her lips as she took in Allison’s exposed bright pink bralette. “You came prepared?”

“Just in case” The huntress shrugged, her blush still present as she bit her lip. (y/n) smiled before stepping closer, beginning to paint from her cheek, to her neck.

The process was time consuming, and (y/n) found herself painting tangled designs all across her shoulders neck and face, all the while Allison stared at her concentrated expression. Especially while she made swift brush strokes of pink over her lips.

“Did you do all this yourself?” Allison asked nervously after (y/n) had finished her lips. The brunette eyed all of the patterns of flowers and swirls that covered (y/n’s) face and neck, some on her exposed belly as well.

“Mhm, some” (y/n) said softly, too focused on painting Allison’s cheek to hold a conversation.

“I didn’t know you were such an artist” Allison had to raise her voice over the music, and (y/n) chuckled at how nervous she seemed, making conversation just to fill the silence between them.

“I’m sure there’s plenty you still don’t know about me” (y/n) teased in a smug tone, making Allison giggle slightly.

“Maybe tonight’s a good night for learning a little more, then” Allison suggested, and (y/n’s) eyes flitted towards hers, a curious daze in them.

“Maybe,” She responded simply, and set her paintbrush back on the stand. “Thank you” She said to the lady, and tipped her before heading off with Allison again. “You drink?”

Allison laughed aloud at the question.

“Yeah” She said, very seriously, and (y/n) chuckled a bit at the response.

“Excuse me for asking, then” She said with a smile, leading her towards the bar that someone, she didn’t know who, had set up in the loft.

“There’s a bar?” Allison asked out of complete surprise, the Hales would not be pleased if they came home right now. “Derek’s gonna be pissed”

“Derek’s always pissed” (y/n) said dismissively. “Besides, he’ll only be upset with the ones who orchestrated it all,” She gave Allison a pointed look. “Which wasn’t us” She winked. Allison flustered, but managed a nod of understanding that made (y/n) chuckle a bit.

She liked the way she was able to make the most badass huntress in Beacon Hills as anxious as a schoolgirl with a crush.

“He’s supposed to be out of town the whole weekend,” (y/n) assured her. “Which means all he’ll actually come home to, is a trashed apartment” Allison smiled, a small part of her finding this as revenge. Her and Derek didn’t exactly have a peachy history. “So what do you drink?” (y/n) asked.

“Anything” Allison smiled back proudly, and in a quick decision grabbed for her hand as they kept walking through the thick crowd of people. “I haven’t been to a party in a while” She commented.

“Me neither,” (y/n) said. “Too busy kicking ass?” Allison laughed bashfully, and nodded her head.

“Something like that” She said quietly.

They got to the bar and took two red cups off the counter, happily drinking and talking over the loud EDM music.

“No offense,” (y/n) practically hollered. “But this music is trash” Allison giggled, a bit drunkenly.

“You aren’t though” She replied cheekily, and (y/n) burst out a laugh.

“Are you a bit tipsy, Allison Argent?” She asked with a grin, and Allison grinned back, squeezing onto (y/n’s) hand.

“Maybe just a little,” Allison said, pinching her thumb and forefinger close together, making (y/n) chuckle. “Enough to ask you to dance with me?” (y/n) smiled at the offer.

“What an interesting change of roles… you’re asking me to dance?” Allison nodded her head, still grinning from ear to ear, all teeth and twinkly eyes.

“Yes please” She answered, and (y/n) set her empty cup back on the counter, offering her other hand to her. Allison giggled, throwing back the last of her drink and setting it by (y/n’s) so she could take her hand.

“I’d love to” (y/n) said, dragging her with her onto the dancefloor. Allison was still smiling as they got to a somewhat open space. Allison was looking up at her happily, still holding her hands.

(y/n) raised their hands and released one of Allison’s to twirl her around. The huntress grinned, being pulled back closer than before, both earing smiles as they stared at one another.

The more the music played, the more fun they had, messing around as they danced goofily with each other. It was the first time in a while that Allison let herself let loose, and she couldn’t have thought of a better person to do it with.

“I’m glad I came here tonight,” Allison leaned in but still had to yell over the music. “I’m having a really great time” (y/n) grinned back at her.

“I’m glad you came too,” She replied, her hands falling on the huntress’ hips as they swayed togher, side to side to the beat. “You know I do enjoy spending time with you” She said, pulling Allison closer ever so slightly, her hands roaming up the skin of her waist.

“You’ve made that evident… yes” Allison responded. (y/n) grinned at that.

“I like being more straightforward with you,” She told the brunette. “Honest gets you places, you know”

“Yeah, I’d think it does” Allison said, a blush rising on her cheeks just from her answer.

“Yeah?” (y/n) smirked as Allison flustered a bit, and the Argent girl nodded.

“Yeah…” Allison trailed off, biting her lip slightly out of nervousness. Her hands were linked behind (y/n’s) neck. “Look, uh…” She trailed again, piecing together what she wanted to say. “I know we’ve always…”

(y/n) raised her brows expectantly, wondering where she was going with this. Allison was looking at (y/n) like she was waiting for her to finish her sentence for her.

At a point, she shut her mouth and a smile took over her features. Her eyes twinkled as she looked up at (y/n). All she could think about was that first day she’d met her, and how if she’d known then that she’d be here, she would’ve made a move to begin with.

As they danced, (y/n) was looking at her with complete adoration and intrigue, her eyes never wavered from Allison, how could they when she was the most beautiful thing in this room?

Leaning down so she could speak into her ear, (y/n) smiled as she whispered to Allison. “Everyone in here looks dull compared to you”

Allison leaned back from her, looking at her with absolute seriousness, before leaning up and planting her lips on hers in a hasty and passionate kiss. While she was taken by surprise, (y/n) stopped her dancing completely to settle her hands at Allison’s hips, tugging her in closer to deepen the kiss. Allison’s hands shot to tangle themselves in her hair, completely lost in her kiss.

When they did part, and only because air was becoming an issue, Allison got half a breath in before (y/n) was kissing her again, this time softer, but just as powerful.

“It’s about damn time, Argent,” She mumbled against her lips. “Granted, I was waiting for you, and I would’ve waited forever” Her hand skimmed Allison’s jaw, before cupping around the back of her neck as not to ruin her face paint.

“You’ve got a bit of pink lipstick,” Allison said, reaching her thumb up to rub away the remnants of her own neon makeup on (y/n’s) bottom lip. “There” She hummed when it was gone.

“You’ve got quite the smudges yourself,” (y/n) responded, smiling at the smeared lipstick on her face. “I could either fix it, or finish the job” She offered suggestively. Allison grinned girlishly.

“Definitely finish the job” She answered, leaning up to kiss her again.

Lydia, who was standing not too far from the two, with a drink in her hand and Stiles by her side, let out a sigh of relief. “Finally”

“Finally?” Stiles asked. Lydia gestured to (y/n) and Allison, who were making out in the middle of the dance floor without a care in the world. “Really?” Stiles questioned again. “Those two have been together since sophomore year” He said before taking a drink.

“No, she was with Scott then” Lydia said, not understanding the boy’s statement at all. Drunk or not, Stiles was always a bit confusing.

“Oh please,” Stiles scoffed. “It was always (y/n), I mean sure, she liked Scott, but,” He blew a raspberry and shook his head.

Lydia looked back again at her friends, who were swaying slowly back and forth together to the loud EDM music. Allison’s hands on (y/n’s) shoulders, their heads resting together as they danced to their own music.

“(y/n) was always the endgame”

taglist: @the-crime-fighting-spider @socially-awkward-nerd @all-alone-he-turns-to-stone @lovelynerdytraveler @writings-and-stuff @jurassicpork @abookworm247

xoxo ~ jordie

#teen wolf #teen wolf x reader #teen wolf imagine #teen wolf fanfiction #teen wolf scneario #Allison argent #Allison argent imagine #Allison argent scenario #Allison argent fanfiction #crystal reed #crystal reed x reader #crystal reed imagine #crystal reed fanfiction

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mozgoderina · 7 years ago

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Yue Minjun: behind the painted smile (The Financial Times)

One of the art world’s most bankable stars, the Chinese artist talks about capitalism, democracy and the legacy of Tiananmen.

Pale and weary from an exhausting promotional campaign in Hong Kong, Yue Minjun looks nothing like the “laughing man” of his celebrated paintings. As he works his way through signing a stack of catalogues in the fiercely air-conditioned boardroom of his sponsor, it is hard to imagine him breaking into the guffaw of his pink-skinned caricature, eyes tight shut and white teeth bared, which he has described as both a self-portrait and an alter ego. But there is often bitterness behind the Pagliacci smile, and his character is portrayed as the fool who, for better or worse, has become inured to Yue’s bleak version of the modern world.

“My work is to do with the fundamental agony of being human and the sense of confusion that comes with living in our society,” he says, speaking in September at the start of his first solo show in Hong Kong, “The Tao of Laughter”. It is rather a weighty message for visitors to the crowded shopping mall where the exhibition is being staged. But Harbour City – the vast collection of luxury waterfront outlets frequented by mainland Chinese tourists on shopping trips to the tax-free haven – makes, he thinks, a perfect backdrop. “The shopping centre is the heart of human activities in today’s world,” he says. “I want people to look at my art and then pause for reflection as they look for luxury handbags.”

The 50-year-old former electrician is among the biggest stars in Chinese contemporary art today. He belongs to a generation of artists who grew up during the cultural revolution and have taken the world by storm as they track their country’s radical transformation, escaping the limits of socialist realism under which most of them were trained and coming up with their own distinct styles. Yue’s repeated use of the same motif since the early 1990s and his prolific output – there are several hundred paintings featuring the “laughing man” – make his work highly recognisable and now highly desirable to international collectors and curators.

Yue has become a fixture in any survey of contemporary Chinese art, such as the inaugural show at the new Saatchi Gallery in London in 2008, which attracted more than half-a-million visitors. The previous year “The Execution”, probably his most famous painting, sold at Sotheby’s in London for £2.9m, roughly the same price as Cézanne’s “Maisons dans la verdure” sold for in New York a month later.

“The Execution”, which Yue finished in 1995, is widely seen as his most political work. A row of men is lined up against a scarlet wall, laughing, but also looking vulnerable in nothing but grubby briefs. A number of fully clothed men are about to shoot them with imaginary rifles and they, too, think the whole thing is a game, judging by the expression of the one executioner who faces the viewer. It is difficult not to associate this image with the 1989 massacre in Beijing: the wall in the picture is a similar colour to the real Tiananmen Gate and those who died in the military crackdown on a peaceful demonstration were mostly unarmed young students and workers. It also has obvious art-historical references to Manet’s “The Execution of Maximilian” (1868-69), and Goya’s “The Third of May 1808”, both paintings made in response to the political events of their times.

Li Xianting, a well-known Chinese art critic, counts Yue, along with other artists such as the painter Fang Lijun, as members of the “cynical realism” movement, formed partly in reaction to the trauma of 1989. But Yue refuses to be labelled and has always avoided making direct comments on politics. The closest he ever came to saying something negative about the Tiananmen massacre was in an interview with Richard Bernstein of The New York Times in 2007. “My mood changed at that time,” he commented. “I was very down. I realised the gap between reality and the ideal.”

Speaking about the subject in Hong Kong, he remains elusive. “There are many people who want Chinese artists to speak out for them,” he says. “They always have this need to look at my art through a political lens. It’s restricting.”

He ventures a little further: “I think all conflicts are not one-sided but a reflection of current conditions. I’m not saying [Tiananmen] was not important but the main thing is for the two sides to move beyond the conflict and find resolution.”

Compromise, however, does not sit well with the convention that artists speak up for justice and freedom of expression, particularly when there are plenty in China who do exactly this, such as Ai Weiwei, persecuted for his criticism of China’s authoritarian rule, and the jailed Nobel peace laureate Liu Xiaobo, who inspired many around the world with his courage. But Yue remains unapologetic. “I paint about the universal experience. Why do I have to be explicit all the time?”

. . .

Born in 1962 to two oilfield workers in north-eastern China, Yue was a child during the cultural revolution, but grew up in a country where Chairman Mao was still idolised. He studied at the fine arts department of Hebei Normal University, and was inspired by the works of another Chinese painter, Geng Jianyi, whose faces are more grimacing than laughing, representing a deep, internal anguish. In the early 1990s, soon after graduating, Yue moved to Beijing when the country relaxed its rules on internal migration, and shared a studio in a derelict farmhouse with other poor artists including Yang Shaobin. Today, he has two full-time assistants working for him in a custom-built studio and lives in a luxurious Beijing mansion.

There is no doubt that Yue and his fellow artists have done well out of the art market’s China fever in a way that their Russian counterparts never did. The changes to Yue’s personal circumstance parallel the nation’s own transformation.

“To me, capitalism can mean democracy, fairness,” he says. “It’s not all bad. At the same time, it has become the new God. Instead of going to temples, people in China pay their tribute to Mammon in the shopping mall. Religion has been replaced by this vacant materialism.”

Hong Kong, one of the most capitalist cities in the world, is, for Yue, the new China. His show of a dozen paintings, all featuring the laughing man in a variety of situations, is hung in a room tucked away between the luxury outlets. Each work is accompanied by a poem, mostly despondent in tone. “All these fools will probably perish trodden down, pulverised by an unspeakable and awesome apocalypse of which menace they are not even aware,” reads one. But what most visitors see are the five giant bronze versions of “the fool” on display in the mall forecourt. These might be viewed as a post-modernist deconstruction of the classical statue but they also form a cutesy backdrop for holiday snaps. The sunny, cartoon-like appearance of the laughing man also makes him perfect for an accessory line. The shopping mall is offering limited-edition Yue Minjun umbrellas and make-up pouches to those who spend over a certain amount, and he has also produced teapot sets in partnership with two galleries in Taiwan and Beijing.

Yue says his ultimate goal is to make the laughing man a household icon. Critics have said that it’s a clever way of debunking the tradition of Communist party mythologising. He says he just wants to spur the unthinking crowd into adopting a more philosophical approach to life. If commercialisation is what it takes, then bring it on. “Some artists are totally market-driven. Others are so supercilious they don’t want anything to do with it. I am somewhere in the middle,” he says.

Yue’s painting portfolio is more diverse than many art critics give him credit for. A recent retrospective at China’s Chengdu Contemporary Art Centre showed works which hark back to the Chinese ink landscape tradition, and a range of other pieces will be on show at the Fondation Cartier in Paris, where his first major European retrospective opens this month. Marcello Kwan, a specialist in Asian contemporary art at Christie’s, puts Yue’s importance partly down to his arrival in the early 1990s “when Chinese artists wanted to bring in a new era which challenges the rigidity left behind by the previous decades. His laughing man is his answer to Mao Zedong, who used to be the idol. Using himself as the basis for a new idol is a very interesting subversion,” he says.

Yue comes closest to saying something subversive when he describes the role of laughter in his works. “If you are faced with a situation you cannot change, then laughter may be the only possible reaction,” he says. “But if many people start laughing, it can become a proactive force for change.” His creature might lack the wit and wisdom of a Shakespearean fool, and any wry comment on the human condition is hidden behind the laughter. But maybe that’s the point in a country whose critics are silenced.

Source: The Financial Times / Enid Tsui. Published: November 2, 2012. Link: Yue Minjun: behind the painted smile Illustration: Yue Minjun [China] (b 1962). 'Welcome', 2005. Oil on canvas (170 x 140 cm). Moderator: ART HuNTER.

#art #contemporary art #painting #brainslide bedrock great art talk #article #the financial times #yue minjun

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amaranthkick · 7 years ago

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Fusion Confusion

(AO3)

Lance was insecure about the skills he can offer for his team. Shiro overheard and came up with a plan to help prove to the blue paladin that he was stronger than he thought. He just didn't expect the turn this mission was going to take.

Lance and Keith had a fight. Angry words were spilled and feelings were hurt.

That lead to Lance storming out the castle to the cliff edge overlooking the majestic ocean.

Ugh! Keith was always so strict and focused on fighting this war and completing missions. He didn't like Lance ‘fooling around’ on missions. It caused friction between the two of them. Not everyone handled stress like he did. Lance needed to joke, needed the mood to be light and not so serious all the time. The pressure would crush him. Not everyone was born for war. Not everyone was perfect and amazing at everything like him.

Lance knew he was just getting angry and that Keith was just being himself trying to get things done in an efficient manner. He needed and outlet. Thankfully something that used to help him on Earth, was also present on this planet: the ocean.

Their fight caused his insecurities to surface again after he just managed to push them down.

So he indulged his emotions acknowledging them by yelling about them to the ocean til his throat was sore and tears were streaming down his face.

I am trying my hardest out here!

No one understands being in someone's shadow for so long!

I don't have a thing that makes me stand out!

How come I'm never good enough!?

He panted out of breath. The hurt was still in his chest like deep wounds raked into him with deadly claws. Lance squeezed his eyes shut and kicked a rock down into the ocean.

Lance could feel Blue purring worriedly through their bond. He berated himself for making her worry and tried to reassure her he was fine. He turned and walked slowly back to the castle. Lance was going to spend the rest of the day inside Blue taking a nap preferably. When he's calmed down then he'll go talk with and apologise to Keith.

He didn't notice Shiro hiding behind nearby foliage. The black paladin went out and followed him just wanting to make sure he was alright. His face was crestfallen having heard every emotionally-packed word.

The castle warped to the planet Egreter, that has sent out a recent distress signal. They weren't attacked by the Galra luckily but the city had been harassed by bandits recently.

The Egretians didn't ask for help to try and look for the bandits. They already had people trying to investigate and instead wanted help to fix the any damage done around the city. Shiro and Allura had a meeting with their leader and offered any aid that they were willing to accept to help find them.

While waiting for new mission the paladins explored the city.

Hunk and Pidge were interested in their technology. The two paladins learned that most of it was powered by the green crystals they would see attached somewhere on the machine. There was a mine quite a ways from the city that held a large source of the crystals.

Keith was surveying the town, looking for what was damaged and trying to spot suspicious activity. He helped any civilian who asked the red paladin for help.

Lance found an awesome zoo. The caretaker was very knowledgeable of the different species on their planet. From the tiniest beady-eyed winged dog-like creatures to the more ferocious ‘kings of the jungle’ creatures. They looked so cool.

She even gave him some herbs that they used to capture the creatures thinking that the brave paladin would want a shot to fight a mighty beast. He tried to kindly refuse but she already shoved it into his unwilling hands.

The paladins rushed back to the open fountain in the middle of the city when Shiro called for them on their coms.

Allura explained that the leader of Egreter would allow the paladins to aid in the investigations if they showed helped the townspeople first. He wanted to wait til the soldier scouts reported back then would decide how to proceed. There however, was one secret request from the guard captain himself though, it was to check on the mine to see the state of the green power crystals that filled it. There were reports lately that suspicious figures were heading in and out of there. His soldiers were spread thin what with protecting the city and searching for the suspects. He said it wasn’t necessarily part of the investigation but they could use the opportunity to look around.

“Shiro and Lance will be the ones to go on the mission to check on the mine. The guard captain also asked to keep an eye out for his recruits who were sent to scour the nearby area. He said that they haven't come back yet.” Lance and Shiro nodded with a ‘yes princess’ then headed towards the mine.

Allura turned to the three remaining paladins. “We will aid anyone in need here in town although keep an eye out for suspicious activity in case the bandits are hidden here in town.”

As the team nodded in affirmation, she glanced at the two heading towards the path in the forest that led to the mine. For some reason Shiro insisted on going on this mission and taking Lance with him.

---

Lance needed to see for himself the talents he brings to the table. But he couldn't do that while playing support where he was looking at everyone else. That was when an idea struck him.

“Lance, I’ll let you be in charge of this mission.”

“Me!? Why? Are you sure?”

When Shiro nodded, Lance stroked his chin deep in thought. Why would Shiro let him lead a mission?

Hmm… Ah! Sometimes there were things you miss out if you’re always in the front. Shiro probably wanted a new perspective and he could probably see more bigger pictures if he was in a supporting role. He could pick up where Lance slacked off. Very smart. Even if he wasn’t going to be in charge he was a good leader. Lance nodded to himself thinking his logic was perfectly sound. “Ok, let’s do this.”

Lance walked ahead of Shiro taking in his surroundings. The bark of the trees around the dirt path were a sickly bluish color which could have been concerning if that wasn't normal for this planet. Their leaves though, were a vibrant chartreuse. It was almost like they glowed when the sun hit them.

Lance could see a hill rising up along the left side of the path. It didn't have a smooth slope but instead had rough edges jutting out almost like a cliffside He squinted his eyes when something glimmered near the center of the side facing the path. It was similar to how sunlight would reflect off a shiny or metallic surface. As suddenly as it appeared it vanished.

Lance stopped in his tracks. He could have sworn he saw something move. The hairs on his neck stood on end. His gut was telling him something’s wrong. Just like back when he took one last look at the fake Rover.

Shiro also stopped walking in time with Lance. He tilted his head confused, he didn’t notice anything. “Lance?”

Lance gasped when there was a small flash of light. He could tell it was the same kind of flash as whenever he fired his bayard. Something was firing at them!

“Shiro, get down!” The black paladin ducked just in time for a shot to whiz by the top of his helmet narrowly missing him and blasted a spot on the ground.

Lance formed his laser gun and carefully aimed at the spot where the flash came from and fired a shot. He preened when he hit something, a trail of black smoke marked its location and there was no more laser fire.

“Let's go check it out!” Lance started heading towards the source of the smoke gesturing for Shiro to follow him. He got his jet back ready to jump up the hill using the little ledges as footing.

Shiro tensed his jaw to keep from gaping in wonder. Not only did Lance take just one shot but also it seemed like it only took a second for him to figure out where to return fire. It only fired at them once, how'd he shoot it down so accurately?

It was quite a ways from the beaten path but they found the source of the smoke: a stationary turret with its muzzle blown off by Lance. The turret must have some targeting system programmed to attack anyone going to the mine.

But this was worrying, no one mentioned any security system. The bandits were most likely behind this. Luckily though, it must have been set up recently as there were hardly any reports of injuries from this thing.

From up there they got a good view of the entrance to the mine. It was closer than Lance thought which was nice, it seemed as if they were walking for a long time.

“Oh? Shiro do you see that?” There was a tiny bit of red amidst the yellow-green foliage. Shiro strained his eyes to see what it was. It moved a minute later revealing the one of the Egretians presumably a guard judging from the red uniform he was clad in. He looked around for threats then when the coast was clear promptly went back into hiding.

Lance and Shiro nodded to each other and headed towards the guard. Lance called out to him so that he wouldn’t think they were sneaking up on him and attack on sight. The guy was with two other scouts. They were sleeping to recover from their wounds they had gotten from the turret.

“We were trying to keep a watch on the mine but as soon as we got near…”

“Something fired at you, right?” Lance completed to which the guard nodded.

The guard looked over them and noticed they didn't have any scorch marks on their persons. He questioned, “How did you get here unscathed? Just peeking out a nudge too much from our hiding spot would attract laser fire to us.”

“Lance here, managed to shoot a stationary turret down at an impressive range.” Shiro gestured to Lance smiling when the sharpshooter puffed his chest out in pride at the compliment.

“We're paladins of Voltron. Your captain’s worried about you though. You want us to help you and your teammates get back?” Lance offered out his hand to the guard.

He kindly refused with a warm smile. “Thank you for your kind gesture but thanks to you that turret is gone and we now have safe passage back. I'll wait for the scouts to recover then head back with them.”

The guard pointed at the direction to the mine. “If you could, please check on the mine. We were not able to get in.”

“Of course! That's our mission anyway. Hope your friends get well soon and stay safe.” Lance and Shiro fondly waved goodbye and headed towards the entrance.

---

The tunnel had some fixtures built into the wall to provide light. The inside cave rocks were a light blue color. There was no forks or other tunnels so they didn't get lost. It lead them to this giant barren room.

The room was a dead end, the mine didn't go any deeper than this. There was only blue rocks on the walls and dirt on the floor. There was not one green crystal in sight.

Lance's face fell. They were too late, someone had managed to steal everything. He started to wander around the room trying to find any clue to go on. Something caught his eye, its color easily contrasting with its surroundings.

Lance picked up a small amber colored crystal. It was hardly as big as his fingernail. The tiny thing couldn't have been chipped off a green crystal. Did the bandits drop this?

Shiro jogged over to Lance when he couldn't find anything. The place was wiped clean, there wasn't even any footprints to track. Whoever they were dealing with were really good.

Lance held out the amber crystal for Shiro to look at. “This is all I could find. Maybe someone back in town knows more about this?”

“Yeah, we should report to Allura and the guard captain about the empty mine too.” Lance put the crystal into his pocket for safe keeping. They nodded in agreement and turned to face the exit.

They tensed when there were three robot drones approaching them. The drones weren't Galra but they didn't seem friendly either. They raised their rifles and started going at them guns blazing.

Shiro and Lance put up their shields separating to lighten the shots they were taking.

Lance tried to shoot back but they would just block his attacks with their arms or laser guns. The only bright side was that he could distract them enough to give Shiro some breathing room to dodge or try to get closer.

He saw a laser miss Shiro and blast a hole in the wall to reveal a secret entrance. There must be more tunnels hidden here. Not that the Egretians needed to go further than this room when it was filled with green crystals.

Wait a minute, something didn't feel right. It was as if these guys were hardly aiming for either of them like they were firing just for the sake of firing. Why?

The answer literally fell from the sky or in this case ceiling. A stalactite nearly smashed Lance into a pancake. All this blasting was causing too much vibrations. Oh no!

“Shiro! They're trying to cause a cave in!” Lance yelled the warning for the black paladin. His eyes widened in heavy realization. This was very bad.

It went from bad to worse when the robots seemed to pick up that they understood what was happening. They started to outright fire at the ceiling. One of them blasted at the only exit causing rocks to fall and seal it up trapping all of them inside.

The cave shook violently, more and more debris fell. They were running out of time. Lance looked back at Shiro who seemed to be trying to think of a way to escape.

Ahh! Just behind him was that small opening that was revealed in the battle. It was a gigantic risk, Lance didn't know if that tunnel would lead to another exit or was just another dead end but it was their only hope.

Their time ran out, huge chunks of rock started to fall. “Shiro, watch out!” Lance ran at full speed and all but tackled Shiro into the tunnel. They both tumbled together down a slope. Shiro clutched Lance trying to cover him with his own body. Whereas Lance tried to do the same for him.

They synced up with the desire to protect each other. Unbeknownst to them, the amber crystal started glowing in Lance's pocket. Its power affected the both of them. The two paladins blacked out before they knew what was happening. Soon the two bodies tumbling down the cave became only one.

---

“Mmnn,” Lance groaned slowly regaining consciousness. He put his hands underneath his chest to push himself up. The cave he was in had some green crystals studded in the walls providing some light if a bit dim. But he would take it, he just needed a moment for his eyes to adjust.

Lance started to look around, dread pooling in his gut. He couldn't find Shiro. “Shiro? Shiro…! Shiro, where are you!? Answer me please!” Lance desperately called out for him hoping he wasn't buried under the rubble that blocked off the cave they fell through.

---

Shiro woke up feeling oddly numb. He tried to move his body but he couldn’t tell if his limbs responded. There was also a strange sensation running just on the surface of his body almost as if it was moving on its own. Sight came to him next but it was like he was seeing through someone else’s eyes which kept darting to and fro and it was making him a little dizzy. Then it felt like ice was forming on top of him, creeping all over him, surrounding him in a frozen prison of dread.

He heard Lance’s shaky voice growing more and more worried. “Shiro? Shiro…! Shiro, where are you!? Answer me please!”

“Lance?” Shiro called out wanting to reassure him that he was alright. The ice quickly melted away and took the feelings of dread with it. It was replaced with a calm, steady ocean filled with overjoyed relief.

“Shiro!? Thank goodness! Are you alright? Where are you?” Lance sounded significantly less panicked, a good sign. While Shiro didn’t know where he, himself was, what was concerning was that he couldn’t see Lance either. Not with his strange new line of sight that he couldn’t control.

“More or less. I’m not completely sure where I am though. I think I’m safely in that tunnel you pushed us into before the whole cave in.”

“Ok, that’s good? But I should be able to find you cause I’m here too, shouldn’t I? Well at least you aren’t buried under the rocks.” Lance was rambling probably to try order his thoughts and keep calm.

Lance eyed the mountain of rubble. Maybe there was another room just beyond it and Shiro was there. He lifted his right hand and placed it on the pile of rocks in front of him. “Shiro, is your path blocked by…?”

Was his gauntlet darker than usual? He took a closer look. It was black and not his usual blue!

“Shiro!?” Lance looked excitedly over his shoulder expecting to see the black paladin beside him. But his face fell when he saw that no one was there. “Shiro?”

It felt like a chilling breeze bringing fear and confusion wrapped around him. Lance tilted his head at the sudden emotions, they almost didn't feel like his own.

Lance started gaping when he looked over his right hand. The arm clad in black paladin armor it was- it was his! It was attached to him at the shoulder as if it was always there. No, no! It was just the light, yeah, his brain playing tricks on him. That's it.

He let out a shaky breath unsettled when he noticed his right hand felt strange. Lance slowly took off the gauntlet and slipped off the glove to check his hand. His brain sputtered to a stop. He couldn’t believe what he saw. His hand was metal, the same metal hand Shiro had and it had been clad in the black paladin armor too.

Lance stumbled back and yelled, “Shiro!! Why do I have your hand!?” He waved, curled and uncurled a fist with his metal hand to make sure it was his hand. The metal limb obeyed all his directions proving it really was in his control. It was frightening, nothing was making sense.

Shiro was shocked as well. Why did Lance blurt out that he had his hand when it was right here in front of him? It might have been moving on its own but- wait a second. A crazy thought hit him and he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to entertain it. Shiro felt numb with the realization that was happening but it left him thoroughly shocked and unable to fully process it. And yet if he accepted it then things would start to fall into place. He took a moment to ground himself then plowed ahead.

“Lance? Could you lift your hands in front of your face, palms facing you?”

“Like this?” Lance did as he was asked proving Shiro’s idea correct: that he was perhaps somehow looking through Lance’s eyes or Lance was in control of his body? Maybe? Everything was so confusing.

He told Lance of his theory and he took it as well as anyone would in this situation. Shiro felt the ocean around him shift and crash, no longer calm. The ocean must be Lance, it kinda felt like him when he concentrated on their bond in previous bonding exercises but it felt way too close now.

“W-Why? What happened? Tumbling down a cave shouldn't do this.” Lance took in a deep breath trying to calm down, panic won't help them. He put his right hand back in the paladin armor again. He stared at the black color then lifted his left hand. He inhaled sharply at the familiar shade of blue that stared back at him.

“Shiro, are you seeing this?” He looked over his armor. It was a mix and match of both their colors.

Shiro did see it but couldn't quite understand what it meant. He mentally sighed, while he would've wanted to take the time to fully understand what happened, they were still trapped in the mine. There were also the bandits still on the loose. They had to focus, hold off on their questions for now, and push forward. “Yes, I do Lance but I don't think we'll get answers here. We should go.”

“Oh r-right,” Lance took a calming breath, “the bandits are getting more bold. We gotta warn the others.” He got up to look for his helmet that must've been knocked off during the fall when Shiro grunted an assent.

Now that he looked around, on the opposite side of the room away from the rubble the cave went on further. Oh, there was his helmet which also was a mix of black and blue. It must have rolled all the way over there.

The walls near the helmet were made of a reflective material. Lance picked up the helmet only to drop it again when he caught his reflection. His breath was stuck in his throat. The wind he felt in the back of his mind which he assumed was Shiro also abruptly stopped in shock at what looked back at them: the person in the mirror wall had a complexion closer to Lance's, he had Shiro’s scar across the bridge of his nose, his hair was Lance's soft chocolate brown with Shiro’s white tuft in the front, and his eyes, widened in astonishment, were blue but had slivers of silver mixed in.

Lance brought a shaky hand to his- their cheek and breathed the obvious yet earth-shaking observation, “i-it's like we fused…”

(Part 2)

#shance #fusion au #writings #part 1 cause im eager to share with yall #welp #ruh roh

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timalexanderdollery · 5 years ago

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How bad right-wing journalism helped kick off the impeachment saga

A portion of a call record is displayed on a monitor as Ambassador Kurt Volker, former special envoy to Ukraine, and Tim Morrison, a former official at the National Security Council, testify before the House Intelligence Committee on Capitol Hill in Washington, DC on November 19, 2019. | Jacquelyn Martin / POOL / AFP

A pro-Trump smear campaign by the president’s lawyer led to a “perfect” phone call and a whistleblower.

During an impeachment hearing Tuesday, Republican Rep. Devin Nunes praised the reporting of a “veteran investigative journalist” whose work had proven to be a “problem for the Democrats” and the media.

That journalist is John Solomon, formerly of the Hill and currently a Fox News contributor. Republicans like Nunes have relied on Solomon’s work during the impeachment inquiry to build the case that Trump was right to be concerned about former Vice President Joe Biden’s actions in Ukraine and those of his son, Hunter Biden, and to argue that the “real” scandal is how the Obama administration tried to get the Ukrainian government to cover up corruption.

But Solomon’s “journalism,” particularly on the subject of Ukraine, has been proven to be false, repeatedly. Solomon did not immediately respond to a request for comment.

Substantial reporting from outlets including ProPublica and the Daily Beast show that Solomon spread disinformation about Democratic presidential candidate Joe Biden and the former US Ambassador to Ukraine, Marie Yovanovitch. In his work, he effectively laundered dirt provided to him by Donald Trump’s attorney, Rudy Giuliani, producing articles that directly led to a whistleblower report alleging that Trump, based on Solomon’s false assertions, demanded the Ukrainian government investigate the Bidens or risk losing military aid.

The foremost allegation made by Solomon was published by the Hill in March, when Solomon interviewed the former Ukrainian prosecutor Yuri Lutsenko. In the interview, he accused then-US Ambassador to Ukraine Marie Yovanovitch of giving him a do-not-prosecute list to stop investigations into corruption. The accusation was proved false, and was ultimately recanted by Lutsenko himself — but by then, it was too late.

The falsehood had made it into the right-leaning media ecosystem, where other false allegations surfaced, like that Yovanovitch was anti-Trump and told Ukrainians to ignore him because he would soon be impeached. She was fired from her post in May of this year.

We need more ⁦@RichardGrenell’s and less of these jokers as ambassadors. Calls Grow To Remove Obama's U.S. Ambassador To Ukraine https://t.co/0jgzp1ZqmU

— Donald Trump Jr. (@DonaldJTrumpJr) March 24, 2019

Trump was seemingly laser-focused on Yovanovitch, even referencing her in his infamously “perfect” call with Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelensky as being “bad news.” But Yovanovitch’s real crime appears to have been standing in the way of Rudy Giuliani, and, more importantly, his efforts to investigate Joe Biden on behalf of the president’s reelection efforts, according to statements made by the former mayor to the Wall Street Journal.

As Republicans continue to dig in on impeachment, Solomon represents a media figure with mainstream credentials those supportive of Trump can use to burnish their views and their defenses of the president. But ironically, it’s Solomon, and Solomon’s misinformation stemming from Giuliani and others, that is responsible for the impeachment inquiry in the first place.

Solomon’s conspiracy theories came from Rudy Giuliani and his allies

This spring, John Solomon, then the executive vice president of digital at the Hill, posted an interview with former Ukrainian Prosecutor General Yuri Lutsenko, whom Solomon introduced as a “hero” who spent two years in prison for battling Russian “aggression.”

But that interview was actually part of a long-running smear campaign by Giuliani aimed at undermining the Ukrainian ambassador to help Trump.

As my colleague Andrew Prokop reported:

According to the accounts of other witnesses who have testified in the impeachment inquiry, Yovanovitch was highly respected among her colleagues. But she ran afoul of two powerful people: Trump’s personal lawyer Rudy Giuliani and Ukraine’s prosecutor general (under the previous administration) Yuri Lutsenko.

In an apparent effort to win President Trump’s favor, Lutsenko and Giuliani began discussing the possibility that the Ukrainian prosecutor general could launch investigations into Trump’s enemies. He’d investigate Burisma (the Ukrainian natural gas company whose board included Hunter Biden) as well as purported Ukrainian interference in the 2016 US presidential election.

But Yovanovitch got in the way. When Lutsenko asked the US embassy to set up meetings with FBI or Justice Department officials, she objected, saying that’s not the typical way these things are handled. Instead, she encouraged him to meet with the FBI’s legal attaché in Kyiv. “I don’t think he really appreciated it,” she told investigators.

Solomon’s interview made a blockbuster (and false) assertion: Yovanovitch had given Lutsenko a “do-not-prosecute” list that included a founder of an anti-corruption group, Anti-Corruption Action Centre (AntAc). That group, according to Solomon, was funded by Hungarian-American billionaire (and conservative boogeyman) George Soros.

Solomon wrote that “the implied message to Ukraine’s prosecutors was clear: Don’t target AntAC in the middle of an America presidential election in which Soros was backing Hillary Clinton to succeed another Soros favorite, Barack Obama, Ukrainian officials said.”

But there was no “do-not-prosecute” list, which Lutsenko himself admitted a few weeks later. AntAc was funded by a host of entities, including donations from Ukrainian citizens and the European Union; the United States; the governments of the United Kingdom, the Netherlands, and the Czech Republic; alongside the Open Society Foundations, a Soros-developed grantmaking group. Lutsenko didn’t spend time in prison in retaliation for his efforts against Russia — he was sent to prison for embezzlement and abuse of office, two years before Russia became making incursions into Ukraine.

And in other articles for the Hill, Solomon made more false assertions about perceived enemies of Trump.

For example, he wrote that Joe Biden had pressured Ukraine to remove former Ukrainian Prosecutor General Viktor Shokin in order to shut down an investigation into Burisma, a Ukrainian energy company whose board included Biden’s son, Hunter Biden. Those allegations were turned into a 30-second attack ad for the Trump campaign on Facebook, viewed more than five million times. But former Ukrainian President Petro Poroshenko said that Biden’s demand for Shokin’s firing was not at all improper — and Biden was hardly alone in wanting Shokin, who was reportedly engaged in corrupt behavior, removed.

Solomon further wrote that a so-called black ledger that showed off-the-books payments made to former Trump campaign manager Paul Manafort by a pro-Russian political party — payments that resulted in Manafort’s resignation from the campaign — was fake. But that ledger is absolutely real.

In summary, Solomon falsely asserted that Democrats worked with Ukrainian officials to help spread falsehoods about Trump campaign officials and quash investigations into Joe Biden’s son, and that Yovanovitch had kept Ukrainian officials who might blow the whistle on the alleged scheme from entering the country. But none of that was true.

Solomon’s work relied heavily on information fed to him by Rudy Giuliani, who orchestrated, in the words of senior State Department official George Kent, a “campaign ... full of lies and incorrect information” aimed at getting rid of Yovanovitch by connecting her to George Soros and a conspiratorial effort to help Hillary Clinton win the 2016 election — a theory that Former National Security Council official Fiona Hill told Congress earlier this month seemed based on the falsehood that “George Soros rules the world and, you know, basically controls everything.”

Giuliani sent a host of memos containing misinformation to Solomon. As Jeremy Peters and Kenneth Vogel of the New York Times detailed:

In an interview, Mr. Giuliani said he turned to Mr. Solomon earlier this year with a cache of information he believed contained damaging details about Mr. Biden, his son, Hunter Biden, and the special counsel Robert S. Mueller III’s investigation of Russian interference in the 2016 election. “I really turned my stuff over to John Solomon,” Mr. Giuliani said. “I had no other choice,” he added, asserting that Obama-era officials still “infected” the Justice Department and wouldn’t have diligently investigated the information he had compiled.

“So I said here’s the way to do it — I’m going to give it to the watchdogs of integrity, the fourth estate,” he said.

Giuliani’s interest in smearing Yovanovitch centered on her refusal to permit a politically motivated investigation into the Bidens. But Giuliani also worked with two Ukrainian businessmen, Lev Parnas and his partner, Igor Fruman, to spread disinformation about Joe Biden and Yovanovitch, and they had motivations of their own.

As detailed by the New York Times in October, “Mr. Parnas and Mr. Fruman boasted that they had worked with Mr. Giuliani to force the recall this spring of the American ambassador to Ukraine, Marie L. Yovanovitch,” partly because Parnas believed Yovanovitch was getting in the way of his work in the oil industry. (Both have recently been indicted on campaign finance charges.)

Remember that Solomon interview with Lutsenko, in which Lutsenko said that he had received a “do-not-prosecute” list from the American ambassador? Parnas set up the interview, and according to ProPublica, watched the interview from the control booth.

More concerningly, Solomon was introduced to Parnas by his personal attorneys, Joe diGenova and Victoria Toensing, who had worked with Giuliani previously and, according to Fox News, were helping the former New York City mayor “to get oppo research on Biden.”

It was diGenova who was the source of the smear against Yovanovitch regarding her “anti-Trump” status, saying on Sean Hannity’s Fox News show in March, “The current United States ambassador Marie Yovanovitch has bad mouthed the president of the United States to Ukrainian officials and has told them not to listen or worry about Trump policy because he’s going to be impeached.” More recently, he’s claimed that George Soros controls a majority of the State Department.

When Solomon wrote that piece alleging that Yovanovitch had given Lutsenko a “do-not-prosecute” list, he sent a draft first, to three people: Parnas, diGenova, and Toensing.

Here’s the page from the packet that @ErinBanco shared yesterday (with emails blacked out by me) https://t.co/XoJioxuaCs pic.twitter.com/McqEmaJVCe

— Natasha Bertrand (@NatashaBertrand) October 3, 2019

As a result of investigations into the validity of Solomon’s work, Solomon’s columns were shifted from “news” to “opinion” in 2018. The editor-in-chief of the Hill announced Monday that his work is now being reviewed, “updated,” and in some cases, corrected by the paper’s staff. And members of Congress have decried his work as having “no veracity whatsoever.”

But Solomon stands by his stories, and even told Fox News he was considering “targeted legal action” against those who criticize him.

“Notorious for massaging facts”

Controversy isn’t exactly new for Solomon, whose previous reporting at larger outlets seems to have focused on “blockbuster stories” that lacked blockbuster facts. Or as the Washington Post’s then-ombudsman Deborah Howell put it, “a ‘gotcha’ without the gotcha.”

One example: when he wrote a front-page story for the Washington Post in 2007 about the sale of former Democratic vice-presidential candidate John Edwards’s home. One Washington Post reader said of the story, “I read it three times and could not figure out why it was a news story, let alone a front-pager. What’s worse was that the placement, the headline and the tone of the story clearly implied that former senator Edwards had done something sleazy.”

As the Columbia Journalism Review detailed in 2012:

As a reporter for the AP and The Washington Post, he dug up his share of genuine dirt, but he also was notorious for massaging facts to conjure phantom scandals. In 2006, for instance, Solomon and fellow AP writer Sharon Theimer tried to tie now-Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid to disgraced super-lobbyist Jack Abramoff. The piece hinged on a series of meetings Reid had with Abramoff’s staff to discuss a pending minimum-wage bill and gifts from Abramoff associates who opposed several casino-expansion projects. What it failed to mention is that Reid stuck to his longstanding position on both issues—meaning that any implications of influence peddling were bogus.

Solomon’s career in journalism saw him at the Associated Press and the Washington Post in the 1990s and early 2000s before he became editor-in-chief of the Washington Times. There, he tasked himself with making the conservative-leaning newspaper the Washington Times more “objective;” using the term “gay” instead of “homosexual,” for example.

In 2008, he told the Washington City Paper of his work at the Washington Times, “The only point I have made with the reporters and editors who write for the news pages is there must be a bright line between opinion and editorializing that rightfully belongs on the op-ed and commentary pages and the fair, balanced, accurate, and precise reporting that must appear in the news sections of the paper.”

Solomon left the Washington Times in 2009 over financial issues, but returned in 2013 after a time spent as executive editor at the Center for Public Integrity — a tenure marked by no small degree of controversy, particularly over Solomon’s efforts to turn the Center into a daily reporting outfit (one that would pay a firm run by Solomon roughly 4 million dollars a year in commission, based on that firm’s projections).

But Solomon had a real talent for boosting traffic and getting attention, which became his focus when he left the Washington Times to go to Circa, a mobile news app that shut down in 2015 before being relaunched that same year by Sinclair Broadcasting Group, a right-leaning company perhaps best known for requiring outlets to run specific pro-Trump promotional segments.

Solomon became Circa’s chief operating officer. It was at Circa where Solomon gained the attention of some of the right’s biggest names, like Sean Hannity, for reporting alongside Sara Carter on how Michael Flynn was mistreated. Or how the “real” Russia investigation should focus on collusion between Hillary Clinton and the Department of Justice and alleged anti-Trump bias in intelligence services.

That line of argument didn’t gain him much credence among many journalists — one conservative writer told me that Solomon was “known to have credibility issues” that required readers to find a secondary source for any of his scoops. But in 2017, he joined The Hill, a paper that launched in 1994 and describes itself as “the newspaper for and about Congress, breaking stories from Capitol Hill, K Street and the White House.” I reached out to the editors at the paper, and will update if and when I hear back.

At The Hill, Solomon’s work continued to focus on “exclusive” stories that tended to fall apart under scrutiny, like the Uranium One allegations against Hillary Clinton, or ones that weren’t very exclusive at all, like a piece alleging that an attorney had “sought donor cash” for two women who accused Trump of sexual harassment (the attorney in question, Lisa Bloom, had set up a public GoFundMe for one of the alleged victims, which is not unusual).

But it was Solomon’s work on Ukraine — work based largely on misinformation given to him by Rudy Giuliani and associates of Giuliani, including his own attorneys — that made the biggest impact. Because it was that work that led to a whistleblower complaint focused on allegations that Trump, working with Rudy Giuliani, was “pressuring [Ukraine] to investigate one of the President’s main domestic political rivals” by withholding military aid.

In the White House’s partial transcript of a July 25 call between President Donald Trump and Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelensky, Trump refers directly to assertions made by John Solomon:

If you could speak to him that would be great. The former ambassador from the United States, the woman, was bad news and the people she was dealing with in the Ukraine were bad news so I just want to let you know that. The other thing, there’s a lot of talk about Biden’s son, that Biden stopped the prosecution and a lot of people want to find out about that so whatever you can do with the Attorney General would be great. Biden went around bragging that he stopped the prosecution so if you can look into it… It sounds horrible to me.

If John Solomon uncovered about Republicans the corruption in Ukraine and at highest levels of US to illegally interfere in a Pres. campaign and to buy the office of VP for millions, he would be a hero of Swamp Media. There would be a movie made “Pay for Play.”

— Rudy Giuliani (@RudyGiuliani) October 3, 2019

Despite it now being called into question, John Solomon’s work remains an issue, in large part because it is still taken as fact among some right-leaning pundits and, clearly, the president himself.

On Friday, for example, conservative pundit Glenn Beck alleged that Yovanovitch should be “held for perjury” when she asserted during sworn testimony that she did not give Lutsenko a “do-not-prosecute” list. His source?

“Award-winning investigative journalist John Solomon.”

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corneliusreignallen · 5 years ago

Text

How bad right-wing journalism helped kick off the impeachment saga

A pro-Trump smear campaign by the president’s lawyer led to a “perfect” phone call and a whistleblower.

But Solomon’s “journalism,” particularly on the subject of Ukraine, has been proven to be false, repeatedly. Solomon did not immediately respond to a request for comment.

We need more ⁦@RichardGrenell’s and less of these jokers as ambassadors. Calls Grow To Remove Obama's U.S. Ambassador To Ukraine https://t.co/0jgzp1ZqmU

— Donald Trump Jr. (@DonaldJTrumpJr) March 24, 2019

Solomon’s conspiracy theories came from Rudy Giuliani and his allies

But that interview was actually part of a long-running smear campaign by Giuliani aimed at undermining the Ukrainian ambassador to help Trump.

As my colleague Andrew Prokop reported:

And in other articles for the Hill, Solomon made more false assertions about perceived enemies of Trump.

Giuliani sent a host of memos containing misinformation to Solomon. As Jeremy Peters and Kenneth Vogel of the New York Times detailed:

“So I said here’s the way to do it — I’m going to give it to the watchdogs of integrity, the fourth estate,” he said.

When Solomon wrote that piece alleging that Yovanovitch had given Lutsenko a “do-not-prosecute” list, he sent a draft first, to three people: Parnas, diGenova, and Toensing.

Here’s the page from the packet that @ErinBanco shared yesterday (with emails blacked out by me) https://t.co/XoJioxuaCs pic.twitter.com/McqEmaJVCe

— Natasha Bertrand (@NatashaBertrand) October 3, 2019

But Solomon stands by his stories, and even told Fox News he was considering “targeted legal action” against those who criticize him.

“Notorious for massaging facts”

As the Columbia Journalism Review detailed in 2012:

In the White House’s partial transcript of a July 25 call between President Donald Trump and Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelensky, Trump refers directly to assertions made by John Solomon:

— Rudy Giuliani (@RudyGiuliani) October 3, 2019

“Award-winning investigative journalist John Solomon.”

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gracieyvonnehunter · 5 years ago

Text

How bad right-wing journalism helped kick off the impeachment saga

A pro-Trump smear campaign by the president’s lawyer led to a “perfect” phone call and a whistleblower.

But Solomon’s “journalism,” particularly on the subject of Ukraine, has been proven to be false, repeatedly. Solomon did not immediately respond to a request for comment.

We need more ⁦@RichardGrenell’s and less of these jokers as ambassadors. Calls Grow To Remove Obama's U.S. Ambassador To Ukraine https://t.co/0jgzp1ZqmU

— Donald Trump Jr. (@DonaldJTrumpJr) March 24, 2019

Solomon’s conspiracy theories came from Rudy Giuliani and his allies

But that interview was actually part of a long-running smear campaign by Giuliani aimed at undermining the Ukrainian ambassador to help Trump.

As my colleague Andrew Prokop reported:

And in other articles for the Hill, Solomon made more false assertions about perceived enemies of Trump.

Giuliani sent a host of memos containing misinformation to Solomon. As Jeremy Peters and Kenneth Vogel of the New York Times detailed:

“So I said here’s the way to do it — I’m going to give it to the watchdogs of integrity, the fourth estate,” he said.

When Solomon wrote that piece alleging that Yovanovitch had given Lutsenko a “do-not-prosecute” list, he sent a draft first, to three people: Parnas, diGenova, and Toensing.

Here’s the page from the packet that @ErinBanco shared yesterday (with emails blacked out by me) https://t.co/XoJioxuaCs pic.twitter.com/McqEmaJVCe

— Natasha Bertrand (@NatashaBertrand) October 3, 2019

But Solomon stands by his stories, and even told Fox News he was considering “targeted legal action” against those who criticize him.

“Notorious for massaging facts”

As the Columbia Journalism Review detailed in 2012:

In the White House’s partial transcript of a July 25 call between President Donald Trump and Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelensky, Trump refers directly to assertions made by John Solomon:

— Rudy Giuliani (@RudyGiuliani) October 3, 2019

“Award-winning investigative journalist John Solomon.”

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shanedakotamuir · 5 years ago

Text

How bad right-wing journalism helped kick off the impeachment saga

A pro-Trump smear campaign by the president’s lawyer led to a “perfect” phone call and a whistleblower.

But Solomon’s “journalism,” particularly on the subject of Ukraine, has been proven to be false, repeatedly. Solomon did not immediately respond to a request for comment.

We need more ⁦@RichardGrenell’s and less of these jokers as ambassadors. Calls Grow To Remove Obama's U.S. Ambassador To Ukraine https://t.co/0jgzp1ZqmU

— Donald Trump Jr. (@DonaldJTrumpJr) March 24, 2019

Solomon’s conspiracy theories came from Rudy Giuliani and his allies

But that interview was actually part of a long-running smear campaign by Giuliani aimed at undermining the Ukrainian ambassador to help Trump.

As my colleague Andrew Prokop reported:

And in other articles for the Hill, Solomon made more false assertions about perceived enemies of Trump.

Giuliani sent a host of memos containing misinformation to Solomon. As Jeremy Peters and Kenneth Vogel of the New York Times detailed:

“So I said here’s the way to do it — I’m going to give it to the watchdogs of integrity, the fourth estate,” he said.

When Solomon wrote that piece alleging that Yovanovitch had given Lutsenko a “do-not-prosecute” list, he sent a draft first, to three people: Parnas, diGenova, and Toensing.

Here’s the page from the packet that @ErinBanco shared yesterday (with emails blacked out by me) https://t.co/XoJioxuaCs pic.twitter.com/McqEmaJVCe

— Natasha Bertrand (@NatashaBertrand) October 3, 2019

But Solomon stands by his stories, and even told Fox News he was considering “targeted legal action” against those who criticize him.

“Notorious for massaging facts”

As the Columbia Journalism Review detailed in 2012:

In the White House’s partial transcript of a July 25 call between President Donald Trump and Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelensky, Trump refers directly to assertions made by John Solomon:

— Rudy Giuliani (@RudyGiuliani) October 3, 2019

“Award-winning investigative journalist John Solomon.”

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0 notes