#I think I’m done playing my tiny violin | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

glorioustidalwavedefendor · 3 months ago

Text

THIS

“Asgard isn’t sexist because of the Valkyrie!”

Thor: And who proved wrong all who scoffed at the idea that a young maiden could be one of the fiercest warriors this Realm has ever known?

Women can be Valkyrie, but not warriors

Valkyrie are elite SOLDIERS, that measn scedules, punishments and service

It‘s work

Honored work maybe … but hard wok non the less with very little freedom … so womens work of course

Being a warrior gives you more freedom, and is less rigid, less controlled, … in one word … more fun … and therfor mans work

→ being a mother and a homemacker is also valued work in certain cirlces, but it is service, it is hard work it‘s not fun … being a dad is fun, being a mom is work

He even supported Sif against the actively misogynistic Asgard that expected her to fail in a masculine profession (warrior).

Thing is

It‘s not even about women can‘t

It‘s about women shouldn‘t

If I may drag scanegatta in to this

she was good at it

she got medally becasue she was so good at it

everyone agreed that she was born to be a soldier

… as long as they thought she was a man …

the second they learned she was a women that tenor changed

it didn‘t MATTER how good she was and that she had proved herself

And of course they where all very polite about it and kind

BUT they where unyieldingly cruel in the verdict that it din‘t MATTER how good she was or wasn‘t

She had had her fun and now she had to go home and behave like an adult and do her duty as a women, since women have the most important duyt of all …

Plopping out babies

Same with all the girls that became cabine boys and where found out

They had already proofen that they where good at it

that they could do it

IT DOESEN‘T MATTER

NO ONE CARES

They where ususally treated more or less kind and with understanding but also the unyielding fact that they could not stay

Becasue women are homemackers and baby ploppers and that‘s that

except arguably Odin and Thor, but their magic is of a different sort

Also, Odin is a master of magic (horns) BUT also of battel (wings) so basically him beeing a fucking tank balances out being a p*nsy who does magic …

Thor only being a master of battle (wings) is fine, since warrior culture

BUT

Loki being a master of magic (horns) without being a master of battle isn‘t fine, becasue sexism

It‘s alright for a women to be femenine, but not for a man

until enough men start doing it, then they’ll get disproportionate praise for doing what women have done all along–I’m thinking of the stay at home father, or just the father who does household chores in addition to working

and eventually they kick women out of the field until women are told they can‘ do it because of their tiny litle women brains

→ IT used to befirmly in womens hand, but today it is considerd a stereotypical mas job

that thing he says in Avengers

If I may quote someone smarter then me:

Now, all his schpiels are not just tailored to each of the Avengers to enrage them, but they are also exactly what each of them believe a powermad world-conquerer would say. (...) If someone were to ask Romanov what a typical conquerer would think of her, she would say 'he would underestimate me, just as every man I’ve ever encountered, think me a weak woman, threaten me with rape and the murder of my loved ones and that will make him my plaything because I will play him like a violin’.

It might just be an additional element thrown in to make it all the more sweet when Natasha plays Loki.

Did she though?

Asgard is Sexist

“Asgard isn’t sexist because of the Valkyrie!”

Come fandom, sit a spell by my fire. Allow me to explain to you that you’ve fallen victim to the very same argument you’re able to identify as horseshit in real life. Just because a woman achieves something great, does not mean society is great for women.

Today we have any number of examples of women who excel in areas traditionally considered masculine. We have brilliant female scientists and mathematicians, chess grandmasters, athletes, soldiers, CEOs, politicians, etc. Yet society still assumes that women, on average, aren’t capable of excelling in these areas to the extent men can. How is this possible? If one woman can win a chess game at the highest competitive levels or run a company or country without it collapsing, why does society still assume that what holds most women back is the fact that they’re women?

Sexism. It’s sexism. The common belief (consciously or unconsciously understood) is that men are held back by their individual deficiencies, or, if society’s being particularly progressive, systemic injustices favoring the wealthy, while women are held back by their greatest deficiency: that they are women.

At this point you’re probably thinking, “Why is this person telling me things I already know? And what does this have to do with Asgard?”

Asgard is canonically sexist in this exact way.

Thor: And who proved wrong all who scoffed at the idea that a young maiden could be one of the fiercest warriors this Realm has ever known? Sif: I did. Thor: True. But I supported you…

Asgardian society assumed Sif could not be a fierce warrior because she is a woman. That was what they judged her as. That was her deficiency to overcome, and overcome it she did. You’ll notice that we really don’t see any female Einherjar. Sif seems to be the only female among Asgard’s warriors. She is certainly the only named one.

“But the Valkyrie!”

Yes, the (very dead, save for one woman) Valkyrie. Asgard’s greatest warriors. The elite of the elite. Strange that it is only in the group more skilled than other Asgardian warriors that you find women serving. Almost as if these women had to prove that they were better warriors than any other man before they were given recognition for the traditionally masculine skills they had cultivated.

“But Thor, a man, even said he wanted to be a Valkyrie!”

Thor: My God, you’re a Valkyrie. I used to wanna be a Valkyrie when I was younger…until I found out that you were all women.

(I really don’t like that he uses “God”.)

Cute as it is to imagine Thor running around wishing to be a girl, Thor makes it clear that he didn’t know only women could be Valkyries. He wanted to be one of Asgard’s greatest warriors. That’s who the Valkyries are. He doesn’t mind serving alongside women because Thor’s a feminist, or at least not a misogynist, but what attracted him to the Valkyrie had nothing to do with them being women. He didn’t admire them because they were women. He admired them as Asgard’s greatest warriors, the same way women today might find role models in men. You can look up to a scientist or politician regardless of the difference in gender when it’s a man, someone who isn’t considered an exceptional example of their gender, but an exceptional individual. Thor wanting to be a Valkyrie speaks more to his character and youthful ignorance of culturally learned gender norms than it does to Asgardian society, especially when you consider what he says next.

Thor: There’s nothing wrong with women, of course. I love women. Sometimes a little too much. Not in a creepy way, just more of a respectful appreciation. I think it’s great that there is an elite force of women warriors. It’s about time.

“It’s about time.” That’s very revealing. This whole ramble reminded me of the bumbling male feminist that’s super concerned about saying something politically incorrect, and so says something incorrect in the process of correcting what wasn’t incorrect. Thor’s awkward ramble about women supports what we already saw in Thor with Sif. Asgardian society has gender roles and norms, and warrior is traditionally a masculine role. Women are not generally recognized in that role. That’s why it’s about time an elite force of fighting women exists.

On March 13, 2018, an anon sent me the question: “How do you think Thor and Loki’s views and actions have been affected in the context of your Asgard is Sexist post?”

Let’s discuss Thor and Loki in relation to this culture in more detail, and without focusing on Thor’s comment in Ragnarok.

Thor

If there’s one thing Thor seems fairly secure in, even in Thor, it’s his masculinity, probably because he naturally finds himself drawn to the interests that Asgardian culture deem masculine (like fighting). It’s the expectations of him as a prince and king that he’s insecure in. Statesmanship, political machinations, etc. don’t come naturally to him, at least not pre-Thor. There’s a single moment that contradicts this. The Frost Giant insults him by calling him princess, but I assume Thor’s response is more due to being given an excuse to fight (as insulting a man’s masculinity is a great offense), rather than him feeling legitimately insulted.

In part due to that security, Thor��s able to avoid some of the more misogynistic ideas in his culture. Thor regards women as his equals. I can’t think of a moment where he’s disrespectful to them. However, there’s a teeny-tiny problem. Culture is a real bitch, and we absorb it regardless of how hard we try not to. Based on Thor’s behavior with Sif and Frigga and Jane and Darcy and Natasha and every other woman he’s interacted with, we know he respects women in a variety of roles in society. He even supported Sif against the actively misogynistic Asgard that expected her to fail in a masculine profession (warrior). Trouble is, we’ve also seen him interact with Loki. To be specific, we’ve seen him disregard Loki’s skills. He refers to them, both in Thor and in TDW, as “tricks”, which feels a bit dismissive. I doubt he’s consciously dismissing them on the basis of them being “feminine”, but that’s the most likely reason we assume the rest of Asgard does (look at Norse mythology and how closely magic and femininity tie together–the Thor movies draw inspiration from that). Besides Loki, no other man we’ve seen practices magic (except arguably Odin and Thor, but their magic is of a different sort). So, Thor’s unconsciously taken in some of the sexism of Asgard, and it’s impacted some of the things he says to Loki. If that were pointed out to him, I think he’d be horrified.

Loki

Loki’s a big ol’ mess because of Asgard’s sexism. Everything he values in himself (magic and, to an extent, eloquence), society at large finds weak, trivial, and feminine. This creates deep insecurities. Loki wants to be respected and valued without having to undermine who he is (who his mother, for the most part, made him), and in a sexist society, a man will find it difficult to be valued if they behave like a woman (until enough men start doing it, then they’ll get disproportionate praise for doing what women have done all along–I’m thinking of the stay at home father, or just the father who does household chores in addition to working). We also see Loki being very emotional. He cries (or nearly cries) in every movie. Fandom writes him as being able to conceal his emotions ( 🎶 conceal, don’t feel 🎶 ), but he’s completely pants at doing so in the movies. Contrast that with Thor. Even in the wake of his mother’s death, he manages to hold in a tremendous amount of sorrow. Thor actually conceals his feelings. Loki hides them behind an illusion, protecting himself from appearing vulnerable. We do see Thor’s sorrow later, particularly when Loki’s killed, but even that gets squashed. I imagine that’s linked to Asgard’s sexism, since Marvel media is made in our society, and that’s the reality of our society, too. Certain emotions, “real” men just don’t feel. I assume that’s why Loki takes to the shadows, to illusions, to avoiding sentiment, and to failing to communicate what’s upset him, which leads to conflict. When we headcanon MCU Loki as genderfluid, like they are in the comics, you’ve also got the additional struggle of fearing actively identifying that way, thus giving society ammunition to disregard your masculinity even further. Sometimes people are more willing to accept a transgender individual, than a non-binary/genderqueer person. The binary, we understand. Complexity, we shun. Asgardian society, being sexist in the same way our society is, would find it difficult to understand how an effeminate person who sometimes is a woman could ever be a “true man”. Also, drawing on Loki’s comic-canonical bi/pansexuality and his always canonical use of magic, the derogatory terms “ergi” (unmanliness) and “argr” (unmanly) are something to consider, something that would further prey on Loki’s insecurities. Of course, any discussion of Loki and sexism needs to address that thing he says in Avengers and the threat he makes against Jane in Thor. The latter I always considered to be a threat against her life, not a threat of sexual violence, but I know people do take it that way. In either case, I believe it’s manipulation, not a real threat. Loki’s attempting to rile Thor up and get him to fight back, so he says things Thor will find unacceptable. The former I consider part of Loki’s performance. More manipulation. He does that throughout Avengers, but we’re shown moments of vulnerability and fear, and explicitly told he lacks conviction, so the audience is signaled that many of Loki’s actions are performances (indeed, the speech where Loki claims humans crave subjugation is literally a distraction) or part performance, part Loki’s-a-hot-mess. Whether that line in specific was meant to be considered part of that, I don’t know. It might just be an additional element thrown in to make it all the more sweet when Natasha plays Loki. I prefer to think about these moments this way because I’d find it much more difficult to like Loki if I believed he were a misogynist, and because of Frigga��s impact on his life.

221 notes · View notes

thomine · 1 year ago

Text

the duet of one heart : alhaitham

pair: alhaitham x reader info: general audiences, controlling parents, rivals to friends (but still rivals)

summary: when alhaitham parted ways for good, it should have been the end of all things. still, he finds you among thousands of faces.

word count: 1.4k words series: day 7 of au august 2023 / prompt: musician links: work tag

Alhaitham doesn’t scan the crowd when he’s performing. There’s no need for him to capture the amazed faces of his audience. It doesn’t teach him anything he already knows about himself. However, he will give the audience a humbling glance before he leaves them breathless. He’s tried to unlearn this ritual since it also doesn’t change what he painfully accepted, but his body has ingrained this practice as it did with every note of his musical pieces.

He lifts the violin, positioning the chinrest where it belongs. His right arm raises his trusted bow as the spotlight shines on him. In that split second before he rips a note across the theatre, his eyes sweep across every face.

He hesitates from playing the violin—paralysed by a millisecond of confusion—before his instincts take over.

You should be miles away, yet you were sitting at the back.

When his performance ends, he bows, and he tries to find you through the gaps of his fringe.

It’s not the trick of the light.

When the curtains close, he is ushered backstage. Being bombarded with compliments by his manager has never been an issue with Alhaitham who had no where to go after his splendid performance. In fact, he likes to linger on stage hidden from the purview of his adoring fans and read a book to let the crowd wane before showing himself again.

This time, he finds himself pushing through the crew that circles him. He must find you again because only a fool makes the same mistake twice.

Cameras follow him the moment he steps out of the theatre hall. Periodic flashes of light disorient him enough to be annoyed, but his determination is stronger than that of the paparazzi acquiring their best shot. A couple of turns deeper into the city’s maze-like alleys is enough to get them off his tail.

When the coast is clear, he walks back to the theatre in hopes you might still be around, except you catch him before he does. You pull your hood down and call out to him as you did years ago. Time has touched your features but the admiration you reserved specially for him remains in the pools of your eyes, and Alhaitham finds it tiring to put the effort to maintain his neutral expression.

He says your name, perfectly as always.

“You look at me as if I’m not supposed to be here,” you comment after exhaling what he thinks is supposed to be a laugh. “Is it that hard to believe I’m standing right in front of you?”

Does he really look that way? He is too busy staring. There was a strong reason why he walked through the departure gate without looking back. He never would have thought he’d find you among his crowd again.

“I reckon your parents are well,” he says as he takes the sight of you one last time before he accepts that the truth of the matter is this: you’ve done the impossible. You nod, lips pressed into a thin line. You dislike it when he begins the conversation with such a sensitive topic, but he couldn’t help himself. They are the corner pieces for the puzzle of you and him. “Do they know you’re here?”

“It depends...” You press your back against the wall opposite him. If you are trying to hide the tiny tension in your eyebrows, the squeezy alleyways does not help. “I was part of a concert in Fontaine, and Sumeru is a train away so… my parents don’t need to know.”

Alhaitham reaches into his pockets and fiddle with his keys. This is not a good place to talk if you’re meant to be hiding from cameras, but he isn’t sure he can sneak you into his house comfortably.

He checks his phone, and his manager sent a few texts. Although perturbed by his strange behaviour, the manger states he left the backstage keys under the flowerpot nearest to the door if he ever returns for his cozy corner.

“Come,” he instructs as he turns and resumes his journey back to the theatre. He takes a quick glance at you still stuck to the alley’s wall.

“It’s too risky,” you note and look at him. “If they find out, who knows what rumours they’ll start spreading about you in the media—”

“I know,” he states as he gives his hand.

“The other time you almost lost your contract with Sumeru Symphany. I can’t bear being the reason for your downfall. I have to go. It’s the best for both of us.”

He holds onto your shoulder before you can slip away from him again. It amazes him how one minute you defy all he knows and the next you revert to a scared mouse, as if you did not experience the hell of the surgical table and lived to tell the tale.

“It would have been a loss for the group so I knew they wouldn’t break the contract over trivial matters.”

“Trivial?” you push his warmth away. “Alhaitham, my parents framed you for being a criminal. You were about to go to jail.”

“Have you forgotten how I do not care? Their evidence might have swayed the views of the public as expected of those that do not think for themselves, but no matter how much dirt they use to hide, a treasure is still a treasure.”

You chuckle meekly.

“That confidence of yours…” you mutter, eyes downcast. “It boils my blood sometimes.”

“Because you know I’m right.”

You shake your head in surrender. “Fine. Where should we go?”

He grabs your hands, fingers gently slipping through the gaps of your hand. When he clasps his digits around yours, he makes a tiny promise that he won’t let you leave so easily. Back then, he resigned to the fate that there was no other choice, but now that you’ve appeared in front of him again, be it through your wits or by fate that was once so cruel, he’s willing to give it another shot.

Guiding you through the theatre, your tiny wows cause a small smile to ease up his lips. This building finished renovations last week and he’s proud to be the first performer. If the news reached you, then he achieved his goal.

When both of you are finally backstage, he introduces you to his corner. It’s minimal: towers of book surrounding a single chair. He offers you to sit on it as he gets another for himself, but when he returns, you’re more interested in the stage.

“It looks so different from this angle,” you observe as you scan the empty seats. You point in the direction you sat, eyes sparkling as you look at him. “I was behind a pillar, and you saw me from here?” You gawk.

Alhaitham swallows, a wave of embarrassment threatening to pull him under. “You’re too recognisable.”

You smile, seemingly aware of what he’s implying. “That’s good I suppose. All these years I thought I was crazy to try, but I’m glad I’m not alone.”

You bounce over to the edge of the stage, something having caught your eye. It’s the storage room. When he’s beside you, you ask if there are any violins.

“They’re discarded instruments,” he states, crossing his arms. “Use my violin instead if you insist on trying this stage.”

“The violin of my arch-nemesis? You must be crazier than I thought,” you joke before resorting to your serious mien. “I have other plans.” You open the storeroom and swat away the dust that flies up. Picking a random violine that still has its strings intact, you pull Alhaitham to the centre of the stage.

He gets the hint and prepares his instrument while you tune your temporary one.

It takes a while before you lock eyes with him, brimming with excitement.

“Just like the old days,” you say before playing a single note.

Alhaitham—the perfect prodigy of the century—hears the violin squeak. The sound falls flat at times and does not reverberate as clearly as it should. It sends his mind in a flurry, but your intimate understanding of melodies crafts a dream like song that calms his nerves, enough for him to prompt himself and continue. He blends his own improv with your steady lead, and before he knows it, he can’t tell what is played by him or you.

All there exists in this theatre is one heart. It sings.

author's note: my friend jokingly said i should write more happy endings so i tried!! hope this makes whoever is reading this smile although i wouldn't say it's a true good ending… lol. the issue between them is still not resolved… hahahaha…

62 notes · View notes

fraiserabbit · 3 years ago

Photo

“You’re the spitting image of your father, Thomas!”

“And he’d be incredibly proud of you now.”

‘Night Terrors’ ft. Thomas, with Gordon and Henry being such supportive friends and i love them your honour 🥺

His aunts’ words stuck with him as Thomas opened the door to the house. Annie and Clarabel meant well by it, sure, but it had soured his mood for the rest of the day. Thomas gently closed the door as he heard soft snoring from the living room. He crept up to the couch, peering over at the figure lying there. It was Henry, still in his uniform. Thomas smiled, gently draping a woollen blanket over his friend. Gordon was nowhere to be found. Not done with his jobs, I guess. He forgot any thought about his father for a while after that.

Suddenly, the door burst open. “I’m hooome!” Gordon sang out, posing in the doorway as if he were being photographed. “Did you miss me? Of course you did.” He laughed, hanging up his coat and kicking the door closed behind him. Thomas was staring out the kitchen window with a cup of tea, rolling his eyes at the entrance behind him. Well, the silence was nice while it lasted. He could hear Gordon’s boots stomping across the creaky floorboards to the couch. “Come now, Henry, off to bed.” Thomas turned around to watch Gordon rapidly tapping Henry’s forehead to wake him; quite an effective method, he must admit. Henry’s groggy voice could be heard weakly protesting the wake-up call as Gordon struggled to lift him from the couch. Thomas shook his head, chuckling. Finally, Henry relented and dragged himself to the bedroom.

“You know, you could’ve just left him there.” Thomas sipped his drink.

“He really must learn to not exert himself so much during the day.” Gordon took a seat at the tiny dining table.

“You should see yourself.”

“Excuse me? I’m perfectly fine!”

“The circles under your eyes say otherwise.”

Gordon scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. “Just some night terrors is all.”

“About what?” Thomas’ eyes widened. He’d never heard of Gordon having nightmares. He took the seat opposite his friend, leaning forward with interest.

“Well, it was about—hold on. Why should I tell you?”

“Er…because I’m such a good friend and you love me?” Thomas smiled innocently.

Gordon squinted at Thomas, thinking for a moment. “You’re half right.”

“Which part is the right-”

“I have nightmares about my family, Thomas.” Gordon’s face fell and his expression was dark. The mood shift was incredible. It unnerved Thomas. “Specifically about how—” Gordon immediately reconsidered. Thomas could hear the gears turning in his head. “Well, one part is about my parents.”

“Oh.” At the mention of parents, his aunts’ voices came flooding back to his head. He leaned back in his seat.

“The way they treated us like robots. ‘Windsor, that violin won’t play itself. Better fencing form, Polly. A disappointing lap time, Scott.’ It repeats in my mind. Over and over.” Thomas didn’t know what to say. Gordon shrugged. “Sometimes I wish I had your childhood. Or anyone else’s, really.”

“No, no!” Thomas frantically shook his head. “Trust me, mine was…not pleasant.”

“You had a father that loved you, didn’t you?” Gordon frowned.

“Yes! He was brilliant, and I’ll always have fond memories, but-”

“Then what happened?”

“He-” Thomas shifted in his seat. He didn’t want to remind himself. The visuals of his father in the smoke returned.

“Go on, Thomas.” Gordon leaned closer.

“Oh god, you even act like him.” Thomas’ eyes darted over Gordon. The way he tilted his head in curiosity. The way his head slightly nodded involuntarily. It only served to make Thomas uncomfortable. “I’m…only saying this once. And it’s not leaving this house.” He took a shaky breath, standing up and motioning for Gordon to follow.

They both made their way to the bedroom, where Henry had changed into a set of pyjamas and was comfortably tucked into the bottom bunk bed in the corner. Thomas kneeled by his bed in the other corner, pulling out a small shoebox from underneath. He opened it, staying silent. Gordon sat beside him, looking at the wooden figure inside. It was a train—though not one Gordon had seen before. Its left side had been charred; a few edges were gone entirely, leaving the overall shape uneven. The—green?—paint was faded and blackened in some parts, any details smudged as if the figure was grabbed just as the paint was drying. Thomas looked dejected, blankly staring down at the train.

“What were you going to say?” Gordon softly spoke.

“Someone burned the house down, Gordon.” Thomas’ voice was firm.

“How do you know that…?”

“Just when my father had finished it, they burned it down.”

A sleepy voice in the room piped up. “Did they ever get found?” Henry yawned, turning to lie on his side.

“I’d like to believe they did.” Thomas sat cross-legged on the shaggy carpet, absentmindedly picking at the material.

“Is this the last thing you have of him?” Gordon asked. He didn’t exactly know how to handle this new information.

“Annie and Clarabel have plenty of photos of him, at least.”

The bed groaned and creaked as Henry got out, crawling over to the both of them. “You have your memories, don’t you?”

“I suppose I do!”

“And…you have this little train, don’t you?” Henry pointed to the figure.

“He did make it for me, yes.”

“Then why do you keep it under your bed?”

Thomas was silent. He couldn’t answer. Suddenly, Gordon took the train and gently placed it on the nightstand. Thomas instinctively went to grab it, until Gordon spoke. “Doesn’t it look better there?”

“It looks wonderful, Thomas! Wouldn’t you agree?” Henry smiled.

Thomas stared up at it for a while. He saw his father’s handiwork in it. He saw his father coming home late, exhausted, but still making time to play and listen to his dumb stories about school. Most of all he saw his father’s friendly green eyes that always lit up when he saw Thomas.

“It looks like it’s always been here.” Thomas beamed.

#thomas and friends #ttte #ttte thomas #ttte humanized #some creative writing #OK SO IGNORE THE GARBAGE PERSPECTIVE #JUST THOUGHT THE SPACE LOOKED EMPTY SO IT'S AN AFTERTHOUGHT #I DRAW AND POST QUICKLY BEFORE I START GETTING NITPICKY #AND OBSESSIVE OVER TRYING TO PERFECT A DRAWING #AGHHHHHH #but hey i get to describe more of their house so like #worth the pain #oh also #stan's hcs #because lore stuff #death #✍🐇#UtE AU

136 notes · View notes

fyodcrs · 3 years ago

Note

Fyozai headcanons please 👀?

Oh my God, anon, I love you.

I’m sorry this took so long asdfgfghhjgh, but thank you so much for this! I finally had to make myself stop because this was already just - way too long. Lots of Sigma and Nikolai included, too ଘ(੭ˊ꒳ˋ)੭

These are all very soft. I’m incapable of thinking of these monsters as being anything but soft with each other. 🥺

Fyodor ultimately gives up his plans for Sigma. Erasing abilities from the world means erasing the Book, and it means erasing Sigma, and Fyodor decides that it just isn't worth it to him to sacrifice Sigma's life to save the world. He was always planning on killing Fukuchi and taking the Page. Instead, he manipulates the situation so it's Sigma who takes the Page, and uses it to save the ADA and undo much of what the Decay of Angels has done. Fyodor slips away, and meets with Dazai later. Dazai offers him a choice: stay, and search for a different path to salvation - or they could die together, the two of them, as they always should have.

Fyodor decides to stay. But only until he is sure that Sigma will have a good life, a real life. Dazai has that long to either make him want to live, or convince him to choose death by a lover's suicide. Whichever Dazai chooses.

Both of them have always wanted to die. But now they've essentially made a pact to live, until they decide whether or not it's worth it, to live, now that they're together.

Fyodor moves in with Dazai, of course. He complains constantly about how tiny the ADA's dormitory rooms are, but they don't go out and find a better place, even though Fyodor is obscenely rich because he's stolen half of Fukuchi's assets, still has 40% of The Guild's assets, and keeps stealing small amounts of money from Fitzgerald's new business (mostly to get Nathaniel's attention; Fyodor wants to say he's sorry, but he somehow can't bring himself to actually face Nathaniel).

Fyodor does extensively redecorate, though - if it can be called "redecorating" when there wasn't much "decorating" to begin with. If he's going to be a domestic rat now, he's going to make this closet of a room look nice, at least. Dazai is perfectly amenable. "Whatever you want, babe," is all he'll ever say.

Fyodor is, like, an amazing cook. He makes crab pirozhki sometimes and it's the best thing Dazai's ever tasted in his life.

Dazai is not allowed to cook. Ever. Ever ever.

Fyodor doesn't really like crab but it's Dazai's favorite so he makes it as often as he can stand it.

Fyodor is also really good at baking. Both Sigma and Dazai would die for the cookies he makes. Nikolai says his baking is like a "spiritual experience." Fyodor usually throws a cookie sheet at him. Sometimes a knife.

Fyodor can play the violin as well as the cello, and because the dormitory room is kind of too small for a cello, he gets himself a violin instead. Dazai makes snarky remarks but he loves to just sit and listen to Fyodor play.

Fyodor composes his own music sometimes. He never names his pieces, so Dazai starts naming them.

Somehow, Dazai has converted his “lover’s suicide” song into a rhythm that fits with one of Fyodor’s slow, melancholy pieces. Fyodor pretends to be contemptuous and mortified but really he finds it hilarious.

Both of them constantly use pet names with each other. Fyodor uses a lot of Russian pet names Dazai doesn't understand.

Fyodor absolutely refuses to say how old he is. Dazai keeps asking, trying to catch Fyodor off guard by asking at totally random times and sometimes waking him up in the middle of the night. Of course it never works. Fyodor just makes vague comments about being very old. Dazai’s pretty sure he’s full of it and he can’t be any older than, like, 25.

“Babe. Honey. Sweetheart. Love of my life. There is no way, absolutely no way, you are in your forties.”

“You don’t know that. Maybe I don’t even know that.”

*sigh* “This is what I get for dating someone a third my age...”

“I SWEAR TO GOD, FEDYA.”

Fyodor does, however, reveal when his birthday is. Sort of. He starts making vague hints about a specific date coming up being important for some reason. Dazai figures it out pretty quickly. Dazai, Nikolai, and Sigma throw a “surprise” party that isn’t really a surprise (Sigma made the cake; Nikolai isn’t allowed in the kitchen, either).

Dazai does love to flirt, and Fyodor can be…a little possessive. Dazai is the one who really gets jealous, though. There’s a girl working at the library who speaks Russian, and Fyodor likes to talk with her. Dazai is (not so) secretly plotting her demise. Same with the girl working at the cat café that called Fyodor “sweetie” that one time.

Fyodor keeps dragging Dazai to said cat café, and Dazai hates it. Plus, the fact that cats seem to adore Fyodor makes no sense. Cats and rats are supposed to be natural enemies!

“Well, lyubimyy, if you’d let me have a pet of my own, I wouldn’t need to go to places like this, now would I?”

“Why do you want a pet? You have Nikolai!”

Of course, they have a daily chess game, but they’re so evenly matched that usually it only ends when someone throws the game. Or Dazai just pounces on Fyodor (Fyo considers that a forfeit).

Dazai is Fyodor’s first kiss.

They can barely keep their hands off each other. Fyodor had never been interested in intimacy, had never even let himself think about it - there was never any point - but that’s all changed with Dazai. He finds he’s almost as insatiable as Dazai.

Basically, they spend a lot of their time either playing chess or fucking. Usually the former leads into the latter.

Dazai’s almost always on top. He likes to be in control, and Fyodor finds he likes it that way, too.

Fyodor is actually kind of naïve when it comes to sex, because it’s nothing he’s ever thought would matter to him, so he’s never bothered to learn much. Dazai is very enthusiastic about teaching him.

Fyodor isn’t just touch-starved; he’s been deprived of any sort of human contact that wasn’t violent for practically his entire life. Dazai makes it a point to touch him all the time - a hand on his lower back, a bump of their shoulders, an arm around his waist, brushing his hair back.

Fyodor hates the city, but he loves the ocean. Dazai takes him down to the water a lot. He knows all the secret places where they can find some solitude for a little while.

Sometimes they go out to the country. It seems to do Fyodor good, and Dazai starts to think that maybe they should leave the city, permanently - someday.

While they’re still in prison, Dazai learns that Fyodor has nightmares; he’s woken up in the middle of the night several times by Fyodor making a sound that’s almost - but not quite - a scream. It’s the reason Fyodor gets so little sleep - or part of the reason, anyway; his single-minded fixation on accomplishing his goal has caused him to neglect his health in many ways, not least the lack of sleep. Dazai doesn’t ask him about it, the way Fyodor doesn’t ask him about the times he has woken up calling out the name of a dead man. The first night Fyodor wakes him up, he doesn’t say anything, just pretends to go back to sleep - although he spends the rest of the night wide awake, listening to Fyodor’s uneven breathing in the dark and thinking. The second night it happens, he starts quietly singing his “lover’s suicide” song. The guards tell him to shut up and go to sleep, so Dazai sings louder, until the guards threaten to sedate him if he doesn’t keep quiet. Dazai huffs and puffs, but Fyodor’s breathing is steadier, and there might have even been a little snort of laughter from the other cell.

The nightmares seem to trouble both of them less as time goes on.

They never really talk about their pasts, but they’re them, so they learn things about each other just by being around one another. There are things they don’t need to talk about, because they just know, and that’s more than enough.

They’ve both always been terrible at taking care of themselves, but they’re pretty good taking care of each other, it turns out.

Fyodor doesn’t talk about his faith anymore, but he has an old Orthodox Cross that he still keeps with him all the time. One night, Dazai impulsively stops at a bookstore and buys a Bible, translated in English. He sets it on the dresser and leaves it without saying anything. Fyodor doesn’t even glance at it. For a few weeks, it just sits there.

Then, one morning, Dazai wakes up to find Fyodor sitting by the window, the Bible in his lap. It’s been a while since either of them have been kept up all night, but the deepened shadows under Fyodor’s eyes says he hasn’t slept. They still don’t talk about it, but the Bible never ends up sitting untouched on the dresser again, and Fyodor starts wearing the cross around his neck.

Dazai insists that they’re married, that they got married in prison and their honeymoon was outwitting Nikolai and escaping. Fyodor categorically denies this, offended at the very thought that he would get married in an underground prison, of all places.

They are definitely married, though. Sigma, Atsushi, and Kyouka are their kids.

Nikolai suggests that they make it official and have Nathaniel be the priest. Fyodor trips over his own feet and falls face-first into some bushes (he immediately ceases to function whenever Nathaniel’s name is mentioned).

Fyodor and Dazai often randomly switch between speaking normally and speaking in their secret language, sometimes without thinking about it, sometimes just to annoy whoever they’re with (usually Sigma).

(Nikolai’s starting to understand it, though, and that’s kinda scary).

Dazai is very openly affectionate, and constantly tells Fyodor he’s the most beautiful thing in the world. Fyodor is usually very wry in response. He mostly shows his affection by flicking Dazai on the forehead to shut him up (it usually works, amazingly) and making crab pirozhki when he knows that Dazai’s going to come home grumpy.

Dazai suffers from a bit of separation anxiety. He’s very clingy, sometimes literally.

Dazai is absolutely enchanted with Fyodor’s hands, his delicate musician’s fingers, and his hair. He likes to call Fyodor “Snow White” to tease him. He loves to kiss Fyodor’s hands, and his hair.

Fyodor likes to steal Dazai’s clothes. He’s taken to wearing a strip of bandages around his right forearm. Dazai thinks it’s adorable.

Dazai sometimes drapes his coat over Fyodor’s shoulders. It has a weird way of making Fyodor feel...safe.

Dazai is still not allowed to touch Fyodor’s ushanka. Fyodor threatens to set a sniper on him again if he so much as thinks about it.

Fyodor is the only one who has ever seen Dazai without his bandages.

Fyodor is never going to let either Dazai or Ranpo live down the fact that he’s outsmarted the both of them, and that they only “won” because he surrendered.

They are the most terrifying duo.

They also randomly throw shit at each other sometimes.

Dazai is the first to say “I love you.” It’s the only time he’s ever taken Fyodor by surprise. Not that they haven’t both always known, but neither of them had ever said it out loud.

#fyozai #otp: cat and mouse #BSD #this took me over a week omg #I hope you appreciate these anon <33 #soft fyozai is what I'm all about

122 notes · View notes

ltadoriyuujl · 1 month ago

Text

you already know the drill annotation time baby!

Did you stop guarding Katsuki because you’re the spy Enji thinks or because not even the red wing captain could follow you undetected?

this is so funny WHO does that lunatic think we're spying for? the kingdom whose prince has spent like a quarter of his life in Takoba? nothing in that head but air and anger

All week, you growl through the effort of fastening garters to a stocking. Another. All week he has followed you and all week you kept his attention off your prince. If Bakugou had just stayed away, if he’d just hated you properly. You lean back to inspect neatly laced boots– Alderan dancing knots– boots so delicate they couldn’t be made for actual dancing. What will he wear tonight? You force a hand through wild braids.

give it up for girls with weird ass attachment styles they make the world go round

A prized hunting dog. You will be beautiful for one night and you can no longer avoid your job; assassins love to hide at parties.

god there are few things i love more than a good dog metaphor. don't mind the blood on my teeth its not mine but its there for you. many such cases

Prince Natsuo doesn’t have the energy to be surprised by you. He is not fazed by your drawn weapon and doesn’t flinch in the dark, but he remembers your name, “Captain Y/n?”

extremely nonchalant for someone who almost caught a blade between the eyes natsuo you will always be famous

Your Alderan senses are dulling in this kingdom. Your ghost never sounded so nervous.

I’m sorry, Bakugou’s heartbroken voice parrots. Don’t cry. He pleads with his hands on your cheeks. You can’t change what you’ve done. Bakugou Katsuki can haunt you til death, but you don’t get to hide from him.

this story's ghost/wraith motif may be secondary to the ocean theme and the hot vs. cold Aldera/Takoba dichotomy but it is no less dear to me

You smooth your hands up your hips and rest both palms at your waist where Bakugou held you, bleeding, poisoned, his forehead slipping off your shoulders with sweat and the lurches of the horse. A ten minute ride from the edge of the forest to the city gates, it was only the sky watching such desperation.

such an intimate moment and they were still in the enemies phase. bkg and eyes really did write the textbook on hate that loves you and love that drives you to the pits of despair

You would have attended and served quietly, you would have dreamed of home if the flame in that last pretty candle wasn’t flickering in a clear and lonely shade of blue.

you cannot imagine the speed with which my heart dropped to my stomach. chills.

Your prince will fight to the death, you cannot let him. Your prince will die for his friends, you can’t bear to lose a single one. Send me instead, you beg. Me, wait for me.

i really dont even need to say anything its right there man

“Highness!” You shout into the blue before realizing the silence of the ballroom doesn’t come from death. One thousand pearls startle immediately at the beast and her raised sword. Gowns of lace, suits of glass, feathers, freckles, masks and tiny shoes, bells, fans, crystal flutes of pink champagne, and not a single person speaking over a hush. Two hundred eyes watch the Alderan dog prepare to fire again into a party.

No one speaks. There is no laughter, there is a single violin playing from a fifteen piece band– did you scare the trumpets too?– weeping a waltz for the dancers who crane away from their partners to watch what you might do.

this is such uniquely freaky imagery i can't describe it. like me and eyes were on the same page the whole time what kind of party makes zero noise. we have GOT to get out of this kingdom man

The prince of Aldera climbs trees in the summer to reach the best apples. He likes to bathe at night. He is slightly shorter than his mother in her favorite boots and it bothers him, but never enough to say anything. His fingertips sparked when he kissed you.

MY MAN MY MAN MY MAN

“Won’t,” he rumbles, “won’t let you look crazy alone.” Prince Bakugou Katsuki steadies his palm just behind your waist and draws you onto the dancefloor, hand in hand. He is more than beautiful. Polished boots, white suit and golden embroidery– each button in his vest is flanked by a small Alderan sun. Dragons prowl along the hem. His red cape you thought lost, rocks you with homesick.

MY MAN PT 2 he's just so gorgeous it makes me ill

You, his war criminal.

They also invented matching each other's freak.

“The candles are blue at the queen’s request,” he rumbles, sacrificing posture to watch you properly, to correct you. “That must…I, I didn’t know. I wouldn’t have let them.”

crazy place. intolerable place. rei my darling i love you dearly but my god.

“Mind your ears, dragonne.”

with every new epithet and moniker he adds one diamond to the wedding ring. the royal coffers are almost empty Aldera is going to go into a recession

Kirishima towers over your prince and barks with laughter trying to get the man to spin under his arm.

I know this is bkg's story i know i knowww but the soft spot i have for kirishima can't be ignored he is so big and so full of love and one day im going to marry him

Peruro is a game and so when Sero Hanta and his cheeks tattooed with lipstick kisses, plucks you from your partner, Mina can hardly complain.

i imagined a cartoon style lip stick mark right in the middle of his forehead and i laughed for like 5 minutes

“Red suits you, dragonne!” Bakugou roars and you land square in his arms to the coo of a shepherd's pipe. You blink and his, him, he– he stares.

mhm mhm he's planning wedding colors

“Y/n, ’m sorry.” You fight yourself not to fight the closeness. It’s rotten work. Your gown matches his suit perfectly and pressed together you spin in the chaos and climax of a beautiful song.

its right there pt 2

A tall man shifts between rushing servants on the catwalks.

heart in my stomach pt 2

The impact of the spear shattered a chunk of floor beside your prince’s heart where it landed. Missed, you grin feebly. He’s okay. He is perfect and wide-eyed and beautiful, and the blade of your cherrywood halberd shines with blood from its home through your chest.

GROUP SUICIDE IN 20 MINUTES

head in hands pomme...pomme you've done it again...once this series is done im petitioning for it to be put in the library of congress

𝟏𝟕 | 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐁𝐚𝐥𝐥 (𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐨𝐧𝐞 & 𝐭𝐰𝐨.)

ー✧ prince!bakugou x royal guard!reader

"He does not grab you by the collar or threaten you with his teeth and when you grasp his hand to steady yourself from an awkward step, he is the boy who makes magic for you in the dark."

slight cw panic sequence. (I) reader agonizes after yesterday's kiss and of course the ball is today. blue mages haunt you, red wing captains stalk you, the wrong prince finds your hiding place (II) bkg will not let you embarrass yourself alone. ballgowns, blue fire, champagne, pearls, a song from home, relief and peruro. dance my love, or die. 7.7k

PREV | M.LIST | TAGLIST | NEXT

Captain Hawks has one job and you’ve made it so much more difficult than necessary. He’s had one job for fifteen years. Red feathers brick out southern wind from the hiding place he’s made above your window and he glares through gusts and goggles to watch you finally return to Prince Touya’s room. You crumple in a pile at the foot of the bed when the door clicks closed. You’re rotting. Sulking. The Alderan dragon everyone’s so worried about, you who his king assigned him to watch– you, the girl with wet eyes and hair full of hay.

You kissed your prince last night. He knows the feeling.

Hawks takes a sip of coffee and grips the barrel of his mug to keep ocean wind from throwing it off the roof. The king is right to worry about you. You have spent one week wandering palace grounds, greenhouses, pantries, walkways and stables and never once guarding your prince. Weird bird, are you the chicken or the egg? Did you stop guarding Katsuki because you’re the spy Enji thinks or because not even the red wing captain could follow you undetected? Because you know better than to keep close to your charge when something is stalking? Hawks winces in a particularly strong breeze. It’s the latter.

Two eyes burn suddenly from your gloom to the parapet fifty meters outside your window where the captain spills his coffee in a rush to stay out of sight. What he wouldn’t give to be warming a bed back in town but instead Hawks rolls his eyes, flat on his wings behind a gable wall. You rise and jerk your curtains closed, glare like black fire.

Princess Fuyumi runs clear through a ten foot portrait propped up in the hallway to be dusted. She’s cold, she’s sick of sending maids to find you and the ball is today. Master Aizawa is securing perimeters somewhere too far away to be helpful, Uraraka’s finalizing guest lists, and Bakugou is getting stitches because he’s good for nothing else. The princess shakes paint flecks from her hair. She rips canvas from her belt and throws the standing frame to the ground.

Kirishima has never dressed for a ball like this before because parties in Aldera usually require armor. What do you do at a Ball if not wrestle? Do Takobans dance Peruro? Sero and Kaminari assure him he doesn’t look silly in white. Todoroki sits outside beside the sea. Deku holds his hand tight to keep him from jumping in.

In the king’s rear guard, Shinsou nurses a broken finger. Enji derives gross entertainment from screaming at soldiers all dressed in blue and it smells like the king came home for this party. The queen cannot be found. Few people think to look for you. No one minds blue fire.

An already tedious afternoon dissolved when a boy crossed your path on turret stairs, your hiding place from prying eyes. You didn’t have the heart to bark when he stumbled through Excuse mes and My Ladys. The quiet wasn’t helping. You could trust Bakugou with his champion for a day but your prince’s hands still danced on your skin the longer you let thoughts linger.

The little footman continued, melting, as you raised your head from between your knees. He carried a box under his arm and waited for your permission to move in the tight stairwell, “From Princess Fuyumi.”

Inside the box under the arm of the boy on the spire stairs was a dress.

You spent last night between pickle barrels in the distillery and hid in the morning where you knew your prince wouldn’t think to find you, curled in the deepest sconce of the north wing watching staff fly past. Today is the ball. It’s why the princess ordered you a dress and it’s why you’re pulling gold lace through your fingers by candlelight. Aizawa’s training pit echos pretty like the sea when it’s empty and the uniform room has a mirror. It’s a dark little annex off the main ring without those Takoban windows Captain Hawks loves so much.

Soldiers can fight armed or barefisted, fire cannons and crossbows, deliver first aid, hunt, guard, salute. You would be the head of your kingdom’s army and so you must know one thousand more important things, like how to string a corset and when to use forks in a line on pretty tables. Silk the color of blood gathers all the heat of your chest and keeps it close. Does the heir of Aldera waltz Takoban? You take the buttons at the ends of your sleeves in your teeth to fasten them closed. What will he look like in their blue costumes dancing with their pretty ladies? Can you remember how to count rhythm in threes? Can you even look at him?

More important than a soldier, court mages, even more important than a champion, you are trained as Head of Royal Guards. You are poison tester, navigator, weaponmaster and seaman, you judge the safety of the room by the shoes of its hosts and you wear fine clothes at fine parties to accompany your masters like a trophy. A prized hunting dog. You will be beautiful for one night and you can no longer avoid your job; assassins love to hide at parties.

“Steady,” you whisper to the gods.

It’s been a few years but you know how to wear these clothes and you know how best to move, and you wince when the sheath of a dagger chills the skin under your ribcage where it hides. You sparkle unsettlingly in the gown and grunt through the effort of untucking stubborn skirts from hilts and scabbards. Wielding a candle to examine yourself more closely in the mirror, you judge the shapes impractical clothes make when they’re meant to fit only you. Pleats of red fall over themselves from your waist to your ankles and in your reflection a bit of fire stirs, because in a cold kingdom this gift was made of love.

You are blood red tonight from neck to heel. Gold tassels align themselves like military badges across your shoulders and the sleeves of the gown bleed to lace at your wrist where two green buttons wink. You can’t help staring. Jeanist’s dragontooth gleams on your breast.

This is an overstuffed week. Hedonistic, anxious like a blood clot heart attack. You are stalked, you are tested and attacked, you’ve pretended not to feel, you did half your best, you snacked instead of training and sat in pleasant company you love, why wouldn’t a ball punctuate this disaster? Something about preparing for war in the dark makes this bearable. Something about fastening a knife to your thigh keeps you from thinking about Bakugou Katsuki and the formalities waiting for you upstairs. Someone is watching you.

A man clears his throat outside the doorway, careful not to stand where you might see him but you are too focused to be caught by surprise. “What do you want?”

“Apologies, Captain.”

At that, air falls loose from your nostrils. Your lips don’t dare part to make a sound. Your self-important posture doesn’t have time to settle before red pleats freeze and the candle cracks like a knuckle in your palm because the horror of this hadn’t occurred to you. That voice will never leave.

“Y/n?” the flame mage murmurs again.

Why would Aldera want you back? Playing princess instead of posting sentinel. Knowing you’re spied upon and letting Bakugou find you, day after day, letting him help you house spiders, letting him spar, letting him smile, letting him sit beside you– you knew what was watching you– something worse than flying captains. It’s why this horrible place remains horrible and the cold like frost can never be shaken off the back of your neck. It’s why the queen hides in stables and why your blood runs black in the instant you understand yourself through your reflection.

Your two shoulders fly through the doorway first so that when the blue mage attacks your legs will be spared enough to carry you upstairs. You can outrun him, you can outrun anyone. You should have paid more attention to ball preparations this month instead of languishing in your prince’s backwards attention. You should have killed yourself to kill him before his body hit the water. Why wouldn’t an assassin slip through the cracks of your distraction? And why wouldn’t it be him? Unkillable.

The candles inside the changing room are doused and shattered so that you are the only possible flammable thing in this dusty arena and you pull the knife from your hip as you soar over the threshold.

It would have flown hard when you released it– might have even killed a ghost– if you hadn’t seized up as the figure came into view. White hair, tall with sunken eyes, only slightly shorter than his father. You right yourself to land on your new dancing boots, and their heels wail two lines through the sand at the edge of the arena.

Prince Natsuo doesn’t have the energy to be surprised by you. He is not fazed by your drawn weapon and doesn’t flinch in the dark, but he remembers your name, “Captain Y/n?”

Like a cat your eyes go wide and your knife clatters to the floor. Half-fresh braids fall over your shoulders in a deep and rigid bow. Your fists bunch the soft material at your hips and you consider dropping to your knees in the silence and dust of the sparring pit so far away from any party he should be attending. Your heart beats to a new fear, “Highness,” you stammer to the ground, “I–”

“Do you dance, Captain?”

You do, and you quirk an eyebrow at the floor. It’s becoming increasingly clear, for how threatening this country is, that its eldest princess actually took all the reason at birth. Swallowed it from the room with her first cry and left kings and countrymen to stumble on their words, for even when you are not threatening him at knifepoint there’s a dread just behind the prince’s every word. Your Alderan senses are dulling in this kingdom. Your ghost never sounded so nervous. “I’m sorry, sir,” you lift only your head from the stiff bow, “I don’t understand.”

Prince Natsuo’s suit is blue trimmed silver. He is white trousers and shining bells, military honors, rope tassels, broad like his father, beautiful like his mother and dressed like a blue glass bottle. He’s never spoken to you and seems to have trouble even looking at you now, like a rabbit the dog runs past in a hunt.

You soften, “May I escort you to the party, sir? You’ve made a wrong turn,” rising fully as the prince gathers his thoughts and keeps well away from you– no. Less away from you and more just to himself. Like pouring a cup just full enough to tease the tension at the rim, Prince Natsuo is bursting with nothing to say.

All week you hid from spies and all week Alderans made it their job to find you, to be near you. Today you hide from just one man and suddenly every person in the cold kingdom knows exactly where you are. Winged captains weather the winds to watch you and squire boys can retrieve you from tall towers. Maids predict which hidden paths you’ll take from the kitchens to ask if you’ll need a bath– intercepting you without issue or sweat. Are you that predictable? Unsubtle? Obvious and lacking, or does horrible Takoba deserve a little more credit? Her skittish prince can track you down to the darkest corner of his castle like it's only natural to hide from festivities instead of attending them.

“Please excuse my being started.”

“It’s your job,” he musters just as you scoop up your blade and tip it back into its sheath amongst skirt folds. “Thank you– for your job.” He’s fidgeting, not murderous, and his voice no longer sounds like a monster. The prince scratches gently at a bauble on his chest as you peer through the dark, “I’m sorry.”

“Your Royal Highness, it would be my pleasure to escort you upstairs.” You square yourself to the blue bottle prince, “Humble Y/n, apprentice to the Captain of Her Alderan Majesty’s Royal Guard. My apologies. You had to come all this way just for a proper introduction.” And extend your hand to him, a polite smile on your lips. To death then. You’ve survived worse than a party.

Natsuo does not take your hand. He pops something off of his chest, drops the something in your hand and straightens his suit jacket, content with or oblivious to the fact that his sister inherited all his good social reason. You eye him first and then study the metal on your palm that glints in dim moonlight– candlelight– and tense as the room’s circle of sconces suddenly blink to life one by one.

Of the fifty candles in the training room ring, the first five from the entrance miraculously catch bright warm fire. Six, then the seventh, one by one around the edge of the room. Natsuo rushes to pat out your panic, “Magic candles.”

“Magic candles,” you repeat, which makes much more sense than a drowned magician. You exist at the edge of complete catastrophe, always prepared to fight that man who was too bored to kill you, but magic candles make sense. When have you ever seen a servant in this cold place spend their time lighting candles?

“And a medal,” Natsuo continues. You follow his line of sight to the object in your hand. It’s silver. It fits right in the cleft of your palm. The inscription around the edge is in a language you don’t know but what is clearly the moon sits in the center. A comet streaks across it and together they make the emblem of the House of Todoroki. “The medal of honor.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“It’s yours.”

“It certainly is not,” you say, the air sort of floating from you instead of being pushed out by your voice. Eleven, twelve candles, a quarter of the room is lit. The badge warms in your fingers but you no longer look at it and extend your hand back to the prince in a gown that already makes you too ridiculous to breathe. He shakes his head and you push your open palm a little farther like a plea.

“I’ve seen you. I heard about…my father’s arrival in your training exercise and I, I didn’t, I don’t think my sister’s champions would have been fast enough to stop him if you hadn’t. You kept my mother from the mad magician and I doubt anyone has thanked you and I, I just– my father wouldn’t allow honors on your gown and mine is more than I deserve.” He straightens his jacket again and continues to struggle with eye contact. Twenty-two, twenty-four, twenty-seven candles come alive in the cold arena and the ring of light reaches the pair of you at the far end. “It’s much less than you’re owed.”

Prince Natsuo bows to you deeply and turns so quickly that arena-sand clouds his feet. He does not accept your escort and he doesn’t turn around. He only strides across the room, thirty-three candles, and out the dark but open doors. It’s easy to imagine him judging his own performance just where you can’t see him; he exudes the nervous energy of someone who cringes when they turn your back to you. You’re smiling before you realize. Fourty.

It’s slightly warmer than you’ve felt all month, in clinging red skirts and candlelight. Aldera is always bustling so Takoba is loney in comparison, but maybe there is comfort where you have never looked before. Comfort in red gowns. Comfort in sweaters beside the sea, comfort in silver soldiers and a training room where you are not their commander. That thought is a shock and you clutch the comet in your hand at the edge of the room. Forty-five.

Aizawa’s training pit warms by candlelight under its glass ceiling. Oppressively tall and so much like drowning, the stars blink down at you from their thrones like dappled moonlight on waves. You fasten the comet pin to your bodice with eyes tilted to the sky. Your first night here the sky was the only one who knew you. You smooth your hands up your hips and rest both palms at your waist where Bakugou held you, bleeding, poisoned, his forehead slipping off your shoulders with sweat and the lurches of the horse. A ten minute ride from the edge of the forest to the city gates, it was only the sky watching such desperation. There was comfort in that, under the threat of death. Comfort in your loss of rank here, in anonymity.

Rescued from a crowd, rescued from punishment, rescued from the sea, from cliffs, from sickness, from solitude. Saved by magic, saved by strength, by yourself and by your prince, over and over again in this wet kingdom.

There is comfort in teaching strangers to fear you and you blink through the memory of your cherrywood halberd soaring through a dinner party. The loss of its weight at your back makes you ache and your ears start to itch as the rest of the night replays itself. Forty-seven. Bakugou pressed close between your legs at the lip of a table. His thumbs smoothing your cheeks over like parchment and his cheeks flashing red at a realization– at everything you now realize he was trying to say, to show you. You’re grateful for the privacy of the stars again so that no one can ask why you smile in an empty room.

Forty-eight. Dying for a person is so much worse than dying for a cause. You thought it might be the end when the blue flammed mage forced his hand around your mouth or when a garden screamed in ashes under his boot. When he– he took you by the shoulder and branded the shape of his palm to your flesh, when your arm was relieved of its socket– everything, all of it came so much easier than the moment your prince stepped forward to face him. Easier than Bakugou collapsing in a burning clearing, easier than counting the decline of his heartbeat through the clothes on your back, easier, so much easier than retching up seawater together on the sand.

Prince Bakugou is agonizing. Forty-nine, he’s upstairs, gilded, waiting for you.

You shake your head like unnecessary thoughts might come loose with the movement. For one night your worry can be in not staring after your charge– not tasting his lips when you wet yours at the edge of the party– and not in hallucinations of murderous mages. A comet and a dragontooth remind you of the weight of a heart. The last candle around the glowing arena beats to life beside the first and it is time for a ball.

You would have smoothed your skirts over the daggers hidden among them. You would have checked your hair again in the mirror and tested the fit of your boots with a few secret skips. You’d have imagined the warmth of Bakugou’s hands and his magic, to ease the ache of watching pretty blue ladies waiting to dance with the barbarous and beautiful prince. You would have attended and served quietly, you would have dreamed of home if the flame in that last pretty candle wasn’t flickering in a clear and lonely shade of blue.

Fifty.

“Find cover!” you hiss at the squire who collapses to the floor rather than get knocked down the stairs in your charge, “Douse the rugs!”

You call over your shoulder and hurdle the staircase railing rather than waste time sprinting to the bottom. If all of your training boiled down to a single skill, if there was only one chance, one thing you could be trusted to do in the blink of an eye it was arming yourself.

A shortsword shines in your fist as you sprint, its wall hooks worse for your wear after being ripped from the armory on your warpath. The scabbard is fastened sloppily to your left hip. Cruel images of half-scorched bodies, croaking victims that need both your hands to carry them to safety, your prince– they necessitate the holster which whips your thigh as you tear through a quiet castle. Quiet, so quiet, too quiet for a ball, idiot, you should have known. Every single light in the castle blinks to life in the very last lilacs of sunset, and every single one of them quivers with blue fire.

Seed-sized wall carvings flow through their forms, animated by your speed. Stone does not creak when you step over it, hardly any servants linger in empty hallways and the thought that one squire boy will be the firefighting force for the whole castle is horror compounded by horror. “Captain Hawks!” You bellow with the last bit of air between strides.

He’s watching you, he didn’t abandon his assignment for a party. You burst from servants’ paths onto the exact blue rugs you knew the stairs would lead to; your Alderan senses might be dulling but this castle is no longer a maze. Takoban cluelessness can take over all it wants. All it needs to do is get you to the ballroom in this stupid fucking dress. One by one, sconces yawn in innocent blues and burn so hot and so quickly that wax weeps to the floor.

A window in the line takes your pommel to its pane as you retch the sword’s hilt through the glass and shout, “Hawks!” louder, between flying shards, into the night, “Fire!”

Candles instead of your dress, a candle instead of your flesh. He could be anywhere, nearby, outside, straddling corpses, you don’t know the rules his magic follows and every step you take without bursting into flames is a second you can’t waste. Your prince will fight to the death, you cannot let him. Your prince will die for his friends, you can’t bear to lose a single one. Send me instead, you beg. Me, wait for me.

You soar down two flights of twisted stairs and lurch at a tight corner before colliding with a laundryman and his blue candlestick. “Run,” you seeth without stopping, vaulting over both the man and portrait strewn across the floor beside him, ripped at the center and trailing flecks of paint. The last turn is towards the right leg of the grand staircase, entryway and ballroom dead in your sights. Red wings don’t appear and so you hook your hips, and your gown with it, over the lip of the banister.

Hardly a breath escapes the closed ballroom doors. Why are there always too few guards here? What ball makes no noise? What kind of monster could kill a room of people without making a sound? There are clicks, you panic as the banister ends and dismount the slide into a sprint. There is the bone chilling image of the blue mage clicking over corpses with the heels of his tall black boots– the body of your prince lying charred and bloodless before he could even let loose a spark.

Your dancing boots make the loudest sound in the entire palace as you run your legs harder, to carry you farther, until finally your hands are flat on the ballroom doors and your biceps scream under orders. The elven silver budges only slightly. There should be footmen outside to let guests in and the anxiety of their absence gives you an unnatural strength, enough to force one gilded door open a crack and slip into the destruction with your weapon raised.

Find him, find him, find Bakugou first, soft sunny hair and pomegranate eyes, the boy who barks laughter, he who wields the magic of old gods, your heart, find your prince, get him home.

Silver foot bolts shriek over marble as you force your way inside. You are a cacophony always. You are blood splattered across the edge of the dancefloor when you burst into the party.

Balls in Aldera breathe life to the city. Any comfort you felt for Takoba dies with your entrance. Waiters roll between guests with trays of cake and wine, and the winter floral decorations must have cost a fortune for petals to be sewed and draped and weeping from the walls because this certainly was meant to be a ball. Your fingers ache for the weight of your halberd for the first time since you lost it in the sea.

There is no mage when your heckles fall. No mage when your shoulders droop and your sword with it, not when you search the ballroom for your Alderan sun, not a single shock of white hair taunting from the windows. Every candle in every abra, every chandelier, sconce, cup, spike, or lamp, is a melancholy flickering blue above the sea of silent guests.

Your weapon falls slack. You exhale as the swordpoint chips the floor.

The queen sits on her throne beyond leagues of distracted dancers and servers and bards, with her hands folded and her husband beside her tense, hunched, and licked by fire where you startled him out of his seat. The great ballroom window blinks with its audience of stars. Just outside and over the cliffs, the maws of the sea applaud.

You jolt, as do the guests closest to you, at the sound of metal crush but it is only Uraraka in her uniform, catching the tray of a server who panicked at the sight of you. Shinsou’s hair isn’t hard to pick out from his post beside a waitstaff door and he thins his lips instead of speaking. No one speaks. There is no laughter, there is a single violin playing from a fifteen piece band– did you scare the trumpets too?– weeping a waltz for the dancers who crane away from their partners to watch what you might do. Their every gown is white, blue, green– silver like sea foam. Their hair obeys them and folds into smooth shapes at the tops of their heads so that their noble throats can be struck sick by the air of a room above the sea. You are the only foul red thing here.

The flame of worry collapses in your chest along with your heart. Quietly, blue fire watches back without laying a finger on anyone.

Oh.

“Y/n?”

There you are.

The ring of dancers at the center of the room curl around in their timid waltz, revealing new faces from the back of the crowd. Kirishima in a fit white suit, too focused on not crushing his Takoban partner to even realize you’ve arrived and then Mina, full of worry with her hands in Fuyumi’s and both perfectly placed in the seaside painting with their layered dresses of white. She makes to break away from the current, to rescue you, but her prince beats her to it.

He is cloaked in red. An abandoned partner jingles angrily as he drifts through the tides and calling your name is the easiest thing in the world, “Y/n.” He glows. You have hidden from this all day, and tonight his war cape arcs sanguine circles around him.

The Sun approaches, he glides to you like picking up a stray is part of this dance. He takes up your swordhand in his, weapon clattering to the polished floor and with a magic-heavy hand at your waist the scabbard belt falls away. Hair pushed straight back and two red earrings dangling, Bakugou rolls his eyes, “It’s a dogshit party,” and a few pieces of hair fall over a stitched gash on his cheek, “but I doubt a swordfight will fix it.”

You don’t understand and you don’t try to speak through volley after volley of embarrassment.

“Highness,” he steps to a rhythm in fours, heel toe, toe, toe heel forward into the fold of your dress to guide you back into the stream of dancers. “I didn’t– I–” Your feet barely make the proper shapes to keep up for your Alderan heart is a grease fire not a hearth. Bakugou holds his head high to the side with the posture of a king. His pupils occupy their lowest corners so he never need take his eyes off of you.

You, his war criminal.

“Sir,” you manage and wince when you dare a peek past his shoulders towards onlookers.

He is embers, “I have a surprise.” He does not grab you by the collar or threaten you with his teeth and when you grasp his hand to steady yourself from an awkward step, he is the boy who makes magic for you in the dark. Bakugou Katsuki’s ears are scarlet even as he stares ahead, sweat pearls between your fingers and he sweeps you close, albeit awfully tight, through the steps of a Takoban dance. His face catches light from the candles above and the shadow of his pale lashes sweeps over both cheeks.

A corded thigh slips between yours and back again to the tune of one sad string. The rhythm doubles for four steps and calms again. You could dance the continent around for all the etiquette training you’ve endured but something about the lack of ghosts here, something about your heart beating out of time with the song, about red eyes and a clenched jaw, the hand fingering notches on the small of your back like it might a cello– you are suddenly on the catwalks again with your lips smiling into his, you are holding back tears, you are clicking teeth and stumbled steps and hands cupping cheeks, and your heart bleeds all over the dancefloor. Your voice cracks, “I’m so sorry,” and it is the loudest thing in the room.

“The candles are blue at the queen’s request,” he rumbles, sacrificing posture to watch you properly, to correct you. “That must…I, I didn’t know. I wouldn’t have let them.” Bakugou raises his right shoulder in invitation for your hand to rest there but your fingers lift from his arm as he turns you both, and settle on that small new wound at his cheek. You breathe deeply as your chests slot together, no fight in sight. Your relief almost comes in tears.

Party guests do not stop staring, especially now that the foreign royal has spirited his beast to the dancefloor. At a distance, familiar faces train gazes your way. Little doctor Shuzenji and Aizawa beside her nursing a pink champagne flute, both ribboned in their bests. Uraraka offers you a tight lip at the edge of the dancefloor. Fuyumi boxsteps in line nearby, the lonely violin picks up pace, hand in hand with her youngest brother and attempts to lean in to whisper to you before Bakugou cages them both out with his shoulders.

He clears his throat, “Captain,” the second-loudest thing in the room, “will you dance with me?”

It’s not your best, admittedly, but the thought your four-step is poor enough your partner needs to clarify does lighten the mood, and you nod. Half your focus is sacrificed to keeping calm in such a full room and the other half is completely at his mercy.

“Peruro?” Bakugou raises those flaxen eyebrows, his lips led by yours. The dance peruro. Destructive and certain to give the Takoban King an aneurysm. Something like comfort slips in. Your eyes widen suddenly and your prince with you. What does he see? you wonder. You nod again.

The waltz will reach its climax soon and Bakugou leads you through a perfect Takoban rhythm until the second he dips forward to whisper, through your hair and over the silence of this cursed party, “Mind your ears, dragonne.”

You shudder immediately at the name, hand in hand, chest to his. Something in your perfect center bursts in white flame and you throw your eyes down to your skirts.

“Dance!” Bakugou’s voice cracks like a whip of thunder above the soggy party and he lifts his chin over your head. The vibration of every syllable rumbles from his ribs to yours and his growl is smoke on water, “or die.”

The next second a horn howls one crescendoed note and every hair not squeezed into your silk dress, prickles. You jerk your gaze back up to Bakugou, unsure what expression you might be making, “How?”

But your prince is still grinning wide so you must be too. “Bribed em,” he leans close and as one confused violin trails off, another trumpet joins the fray. Dancers look around distractedly and onlookers whisper, louder, slightly louder, to be heard over the addition of percussion to the building swell of tuning instruments. A pair of cymbals crash like earthquake, a waitress topples over.

Shinsou shakes his head in the corner of the room and rubs his face, fondly entertained. The king is out of his seat again. Suddenly a fifteen piece band is making the sound of home. The band vibrates under an arc of camellias and the small woman seated at the front pulls a flute from her suit jacket. The herding call of her shepherd’s pipe gathers the cacophony and just as quickly as the group disrupted the peace, they hush behind seventeen beautiful whispers of the pipe, clear and bright as stars. It is the quiet start of Mitsuki’s favorite drinking song. Fear of crowds melts from you like bedtime stories.

faire of the fields

the girl who plays for me

dance and i will watch you

dance and i will join,

you who

teaches beasts to love

send us all to war

She draws the final note long and low, violins become fiddles, trumpets repeat the tune, a drummer growls, two pipes build, and the flute cheers back atop a flirty melody of three before the brilliant song erupts. Bakugou clasps your hand tight and throws you from his grip so that you might twirl and glow under his arm but the rules of peruro dictate a little more focus than that.

The closest dancers to you shriek when Mina barrels through them and pulls you out of his hold. She squeals with two gloved hands on your waist, “Miss firelight!” Her dress envelopes yours and the spinning doesn’t stop until you’ve tripped a man at the edge of the dancefloor and very nearly toppled over yourselves.

Over the curve of her shoulder you snort, shocked by your own glee, as Takobans try to adjust their waltz to the Alderan rhythm and inevitably four-step themselves into a fervor. Kirishima towers over your prince and barks with laughter trying to get the man to spin under his arm. Shinsou is no longer brooding at his post. He is hand in hand with Kanminari, flecked all over with petitfour cream, who has led him into the fray.

“Lady Mina!” you bellow and take up her hand in yours. You fasten your waists together and both of you fly into the tide. When was the last time you put the blue mage’s voice away? How long has it been since you last danced Peruro? Singing while stepping, laughing, diving for bystanders and squealing when drunk guests toppled over themselves to be the one to lift you into the air. You steal your partners in peruro, and fight to keep them. It keeps the room from feeling small, from crushing you. When you are thrown whoever catches you gets the next dance and the songs never end.

Euphoria threatens to spill over the fire Katsuki started in your heart. Flame mages are far from your mind under blue candlelight.

The queen does not move, but she might be smiling. Fuyumi yelps when her champion scoops her up from behind and places her on her shoulder. Even the youngest Todoroki and his freckled champion tut about together to the rhythm. You hope no one tries to steal the blue prince; he might not survive it; and make eye contact with Natsuo while you completely butcher Mina’s three step dips. He stands at the base of his parents’ thrones, unmoving, but pink with excitement.

Takobans, even servants, lingering at the edge of the crowd cannot outswim the rip current. They belong to a quietly stubborn nation who will attempt their delicate hop skips even to the bleat of an Alderan horn. Only cowards leave a dancefloor and it is the first respectable tradition you’ve seen here.

In a flash of red across the room, your prince takes up two stiff women in each arm and you almost spit in laughter as they go purple under the instruction of the barbarian prince. The polished floor vibrates. It’s too loud to think, a mix of happiness and screams of indignation as pretty lords and ladies are pulled into the fray by those countrymen only slightly drunker than they.

Peruro is a game and so when Sero Hanta and his cheeks tattooed with lipstick kisses, plucks you from your partner, Mina can hardly complain. The flutist roars her approval and her fiddlers breathe life into the happy song behind her. Trumpets pluck, bleat, and howl complex harmonies that prove you’re Alderan from the sheer intoxication of the sound.

Sero’s long arms wrap behind you and you’re off your feet before you can speak. “Return of the Red Captain!” His grip on your sides is more ticklish than hell and you giggle and squirm as you fall into a dip. His palms hit something hard, the dagger concealed in your gown, “Are you armed?” He chuckles and tugs you up and close, back to chest.

“Me? Never.” You peek over your shoulder, both laughing, and he peels you from him so tight you spin away three times fully and far enough away from him that Kirishima poaches you without difficulty.

His Alderan fire rolls off the warm parts of him in waves of pine smoke and happiness. How many yards of fabric it must have taken for Takoba to stitch his suit– the cost– you can’t imagine. He hoists you onto his shoulder before you can think a moment longer.

Your red pleats swell in the air and settle with your hips on his broad shoulder. The hidden sheath under your bodice taps his ear. “Are you armed?!” He hollers and spins once to make you squeal and grip tight to his hair. Princess Fuyumi covers her mouth to hide laughter and you beam at each other from your shoulder seats, over the sea of Takoban heads. The champion shrugs you into his arms and back onto your feet. The new heels of your dancing boots click like bells every step you take.

Eijirou is a wonderful dancer, and difficult to burgle. He throws his hands above his head and the pair of you clap, kick one leg out and turn, eyes always locked and teeth shining. With your next kick, your hip checks a short man attempting to dance Takoban and knocks him into another pair. Eijirou’s next clap, behind his back, startles a woman so badly she covers her ears and the whole room reeks of home. Drown in it Takoba, dance or die.

Your friends are safe. There’s nothing to fear from shitty parties and you spare a thought for the servants you must have traumatized on your rampage down here. Wers and mers, the window you broke– Kirishima’s hands are at your waist because you are distracted, you are searching, and before you can brace yourself he has thrown you clear into the air.

No matter how much you hate it here, the ballroom is beautiful and Natsuo might be a wonderful king. His decorations shine in the queen’s candlelight. Early winter flowers are strung by the thousands to garnish balustrades and window frames, they erupt from iridescent vases and hang in an arch over the howling band. Bundles of pearls dot every corner and swallow the moonlight. Silver shells and whistles, inlaid cuffs, white wigs, Takoba is most beautiful by moonlight. There’s no sun here. Did you ever think you’d hate him? That you’d miss him? Where is he? Your prince likes plums best because they’re sour and he blows on dandelions when no one’s watching and he works construction with his men when the city needs repair and he hates how dry paper feels on his fingers. The daggers at your hip cool in your descent.

“Red suits you, dragonne!” Bakugou roars and you land square in his arms to the coo of a shepherd's pipe. You blink and his, him, he– he stares. He is terrible at piano and walks with his head down after rain to keep from stepping on worms. He mends his own clothes because his father taught him how to sew. “You,” he attempts to speak, “Captain, you,” but the high of the dance dissolves from him even as the music swells because you stare and bring your fingers to the wound on his cheek.

“You’re beautiful,” you breathe. He does not find his words in the space between your faces. Your prince goes pink. Enough of the room is dancing now that you need to read lips to truly hear anything but he understands your every thought without effort as he lets you down. There’s a hand on your back to keep you close. I’m afraid. It hurts to be so close to you. He presses his forehead to yours.

The prince rolls figure-eights against your forehead with his own. Two much less focused dancers jostle your duet and Bakugou sweeps a foot forward to trip the leader before lifting you over the pile of men and returning to the dance. You glow red in his arms above him, halo of the moon.

A tall man shifts between rushing servants on the catwalks. Your prince beams below you, king of the sun. It's a pretty party. It is perfectly loud. A polearm is readied on a scarred arm in the dark and no one minds blue fire.

The flutist picks up speed, spurred on by the tambourine, and each note from each instrument cuts itself off to make time for the next. Every place you touch one another aches. If it would just stay like this forever, dancing, knowing without speaking, you could kill any enemy. The sky would learn to kneel, if only you could keep the adoration of winespilt eyes.

A series of gasps, a yelp, and Kirishima’s sweet laughter punctuate the thought. Bakugou was meant to wear fine clothes like these. Sparks like fairy lights twinkle where sweat beads on his jaw and you would have given nine lives to kiss him one more time. He will be a good king too. There is a scream.

Your hand on his shoulder bunches the fabric of his cape, and you lurch forward to lock your other hand around his back. Your foot is dead behind his before he can blink and with a surge of momentum from the dance, the last swell of fiddle, a prayer for old gods, luck from the sea and something like love, you knock the prince over your shoulder and onto the ground into the thickest thrall of dancers.

He laughs the whole way down and holds you where he can to keep from knocking your heads together. The sound is molten gold. You would sin to hear it always.

He is still laughing, howling, bursting with joy when he hits the ground and you with him in your perfect dance peruro. He doesn’t notice the whine of dropped instruments or revulsion of the crowd because he cannot look away from you. On his back, on the floor, beneath you, Prince Bakugou lifts his arm to cup your face and freezes in the new and sudden silence.

PREV | M.LIST | TAGLIST | NEXT

tagged angels ! @ltadoriyuujl / @cherripunch26 / @chandiewashere / @sakurarr1122 / @ihavefixations-and-onehiccup / @juni-does-art / @romiinlove / @todorokiskitten / @zukowantshishonourback / @phoenix-draws77 / @starryparkrr / @misscaller06 / @420mitskilover / @kalulakunundrum / @the-omnipotent-phlowr / @butterscotch-ripple-icecream / @cutiepatoodie / @catsoupki / @acid-rain27 / @sky-angel101 / @flyhighinthesky

#annotations #another pomme banger

129 notes · View notes

wowbright · 3 years ago

Text

Fic: Lucrative

Tan Hands and Tan Lines Sophisticated Word Challenge 2021: lucrative

Words: ~800 words

Rating: Teen and up

Summary: Chandler doesn't show up to church. But someone else does.

I’m belatedly going through the prompts for The Tan Hands and Tan Lines Summer Event 2021 to flesh out my Mormon!Klaine universe. This one takes place after Can't You See and before Lift Up Your Head.

My Mormon!Klaine Masterpost.

Notes: If you have any questions or typo corrections, feel free to use my ask box!

_____

Chandler didn't show up at church on Sunday. Not that he'd said he would, but he hadn't said he wouldn't, either. Kurt was glad not to have the surprise. It was all well and fine to be the object of someone’s flirtations in a coffee shop, but at sacrament meeting? The fun of it would turn into mortification.

Gay college students weren't a very lucrative field for conversion, anyway.

Kurt looked over at Elder Anderson, who was listening intently to the opening music. The Schmidt children and their mom were playing a modification of Pachelbel's Canon on strings. The violins weren't terrible. Schwester Schmidt’s cello, on the other hand, was actually nice.

Elder Anderson noticed Kurt looking at him. “That cello,” he mouthed. He put his hand over his heart and made it flutter along with his eyelashes. “So good.”

Kurt tilted his head toward his companion so he could whisper without being overheard. He didn't think about how close his lips were to Elder Anderson’s ear until later that evening, when he was trying to fall asleep. “Do you play?”

Elder Anderson shook his head. “Just piano. And a little guitar.” The music hit a quiet spot. Elder Anderson scratched a few words in German on the edge of his bulletin. Maybe when I grow up.

Kurt snatched the pen from his companion. You're already grown up, technically. He’d meant to be reassuring, but as soon as he was done writing the words, he wondered if Elder Anderson would take them as an admonition to stop dreaming. Well. He could fix that. Eternal progress. Always time to learn.

“Oh my gosh.” Elder Anderson squeezed Kurt’s wrist. At first, Kurt thought his companion was reacting to his brilliant observation. But then— “Guess who just walked in.”

Kurt looked up. Doro was standing in the doorway, majestic in a dark shirt and slacks, and Stefan just behind her. “I thought they weren't coming till Easter.”

“I guess they changed their minds.”

Kurt waved to get the couple's attention. They were looking in the opposite direction. “Be right back.” Kurt slid out of the aisle and met them at the doorway. “Nice to see you! We have room in our aisle. Come.”

They looked relieved to see a familiar face. According to the notes in the mission log, their one and only visit had been last summer, and in a very Catholic way they had only stayed for the service, then immediately left without mingling. Kurt would make sure they at least met the Higashis. Takuya was an engineer, Doro was a scientist—they had to have something in common, right?

Elder Anderson stood up and they shifted seats so there could be one missionary on either side of the couple when they sat back down. Easier to tutor them through the service that way. It was always a little nerve wracking sitting with investigators. Kurt wondered what they were thinking, what the service looked like through untrained eyes. If the boring parts looked fresh and new, or were boring to them, too. If the meaningful parts, like drinking water from a tiny cup, seemed mundane.

Doro and Stefan’s expressions were inscrutable. They might be bored. They might simply be taking it all in.

Things took a turn during the mid-meeting hymn, Praise to the Lord, the Almighty [x]. It was one of those hymns that was impossible to sing halfheartedly, and though Kurt tried to hold back a little for the sake of the investigators, Elder Anderson did not. That turned out to be the better choice. His enthusiasm spread to Stefan, and then to Doro, and soon they were the loudest four in the congregation—but only momentarily. Because joy was contagious, and so was the Holy Spirit. The congregation caught fire. Their collective voices filled the room with a passion and resonance Kurt had rarely heard within chapel walls.

Schwester Schönfeld got up to give a talk. Kurt didn't know what to expect—he’d never heard her speak in church before—but she was smart and witty and well-spoken outside of church. Kurt gave a quick prayer that she would say the words Stefan and Doro needed to hear.

“Some of you know I am a scientist by trade,” Schwester Schönfeld began. “A microbiologist, to be specific. Every day, when I go into work, I feel grateful to have a job that brings me closer to God through studying his creation.”

Doro leaned forward. Her interest was piqued.

Schwester Schönfeld spoke about the scientific process and finding God in the details, in evolution, in the strata of rock carved out by the Breitach River, in the human fossils dug from the Neandertal Valley. “Is it rude to take notes?” Doro whispered to Kurt.

“Go right ahead.” He handed her his pen.

She jotted neat German script in the margins of her bulletin.

The Holy Spirit was moving.

#wowbright writes fic #mormon!klaine #klaine fanfiction #klaine fanfic #spaceorphan's sophisticated challenge: lucrative #tan hands and tan lines #my thatl #see what i did there #hope so

27 notes · View notes

makeste · 4 years ago

Text

BnHA Chapter 299: No Chains Left

Previously on BnHA: Horikoshi was all “and then AFO broke out all of the inmates from six other prisons and took a nap. well anyways, here’s the hospital angst.” Kacchan woke up two days later and was all, “WAIT BUT HOW ARE DEKU AND TODOROKI AND ALL OF THE OTHER CHARACTERS EXCEPT IIDA DOING” and then we cut to Shouto’s room where the other U.A. kids were sitting around being Mutually Traumatized and giving each other moral support and such. Everyone was alll, “...”, and then the rest of the Todofam showed up, INCLUDING POSSIBLY REI?! which, omg. The chapter ended with Kacchan STOMPING THROUGH THE HALLS all “WHADDYA MEAN DEKU HASN’T WOKEN UP YET”, dragging along Satou and Mineta behind him, fueled by the power of ALL OF THE FUCKS HE NOW GIVES. He gives so many fucks now you guys. This boy cares so much he can probably deduct it on his taxes.

Today on BnHA: SPEAKING OF PEOPLE WHO GIVE A LOT OF FUCKS, the story cuts abruptly to Hawks, freshly recovering from his near-death experience, and pondering the threads that have weaved the tapestry of his life and led him to this moment. Basically he grew up in poverty with his Jerk Dad and Jerk Mom until his dad got arrested one day and his mom sent him off to go Find Money Or Something, and so he rescued a busload of people and found himself a new career. Back in the present day, Hawks and Jeanist ride around town in Jeanist’s Jamborghini having awkward encounters with civilians in a country on the brink of social collapse, and visiting Hawks’s mother’s home. Hawks is all “I know from an outsider’s perspective it must look like my life currently sucks, but now that the HPSC is gone, my public image is shot, and my parents are finally out of my life, I’m actually feeling SURPRISINGLY GOOD.” Anyway so he’s gonna go meet up with Endeavor now, and p.s. this chapter was fucking fantastic though, damn.

oh my god?? is this Hawks narration?? something about him growing up watching the heroes on TV and thinking of them as fictional characters

okay I scrolled down a little bit more to see the rest of that “Keigo” panel, and wow

this is basically a shed. poor boy definitely grew up rough. let me tell you guys, I came in here ready for some BakuDeku shenanigans; I was not prepared for Hawks Flashback Angst. I AM HERE FOR IT, but also wow I gotta brace myself now lol

HELLO MISTER HAWKS’S JERK DAD, SIR

BnHA sure does have an array of Jerk Dads, doesn’t it. makes me appreciate characters like Masaru and JirouDad all the more for bucking the trend

anyway. so Horikoshi, you really thought that one itty bitty chapter of hospital catharsis would be enough to calm us all before you went right back to showing us child abuse huh. my god man can we rest

BABY HAWKS

swear to god this kid can’t be more than five or six, and yet he has this completely blank look on his face even with his dad looming over him being all threatening and shit. like he’s shut down his emotions to protect himself. imagine what has to happen to a child for him to have learned this at such a young age. fuck

AND MEANWHILE THIS GUY

don’t mingle with humans?? not “other” humans, just humans?? what is this implying here?? and also holy shit Hawks definitely didn’t inherit his looks from his dad orz

then again he doesn’t really bear much of a resemblance to his strung-out mom here either

omg omg omg. and this child is basically trapped here in this environment with these two people. this explains a SHITLOAD about Hawks’s personality though you guys. his ability to completely separate his real thoughts from the face he presents to the outside world. his pragmatic approach to analyzing and solving problems. his layers of emotional walls. turns out almost none of that came from the HPSC training -- that was all learned hands-on in his own personal do-or-die survival nightmare childhood!! oh, boy

and small wonder then that he latched on to Endeavor so strongly if he really is the one who brought down his dad and inadvertently saved him from this. also, just putting this out there, I know people are always talking about him and Dabi being foils, and I think it’s very interesting how Touya grew up in a household where he saw firsthand the dark side of hero society, and so ended up becoming a villain in order to bring it down. whereas young Keigo had almost the exact opposite experience, growing up experiencing the dark side of villain society and becoming a hero in order to bring about a world where no one else has to experience that. just. both of them are so determined not to become their fathers. some interesting parallels there

so Hawks was sort of an accident after his parents had “thanks for helping me not get caught after I killed that guy” sex, and now this little boy is growing up in squalor and being beaten by his father for things like Sitting In The Wrong Out-Of-The-Way Corner Trying Not To Be A Bother To Anybody. holy fuck. this is so rough to read through you guys

wait so does Jerk Dad have a an eyeball manipulation quirk?? because he doesn’t have the wings like his son, but wth are these things??

this presumably also means that Keigo has never been to school or anything either. he basically doesn’t exist. he thinks heroes are fictional characters, he doesn’t realize that they’re real people. these are people who could help him if he could escape and find them, but he doesn’t know, and they don’t know about him

OH MY GOD HE’S JUST SITTING IN HIS CORNER HUGGLING HIS ENDEAVOR PLUSH OH MY GOD

how could this child possibly have an anti-fandom when he’s done NOTHING WRONG HIS ENTIRE LIFE. huh. just explain that to me. lol I mean I’m not looking to pick a fight with anyone, but also, MAYBE I AM, idk?? this kid has gotten me all riled up lmao

anyways, Protect Keigo 2021, and thank you Horikoshi for these three very terrible pages. I am pleased to inform you that you’ve effectively gotten your point across and you may now commence saving this kid already

YAY

oh no, Keigo’s dumbass jerk dad tried to steal a car and the popo nabbed his ass and now his mom can’t just sit around neglecting her VERY YOUNG SON all day long, oh horrors. sorry lady my tiny violin is on backorder. just imagine that I’m playing a very sarcastic song on it for you

anyway so what are you gonna do now, abandon him? I can hardly imagine he’d be worse off, if anything it might be a near-instant improvement

LMAO HE’S ALL “WAIT WHAT ENDEAVOR’S A REAL FUCKING DUDE?!”

AND THEY SAY THAT A HERO CAN SAVE US~~~~ I’M NOT GONNA STAND HERE AND WAAAAAIT~~~~~ I’LL HOLD ONTO THE WINGS OF THE EAGLES, WATCH AS WE ALL FLY AWAAAAAAY~~~~

lol what a randomly pivotal moment in his young life. TIME TO GO MAKE THESE MEMES INTO DREAMS YOUNG ONE

anyway so his mom freaked out and grabbed him and they wound up at a train station with her TELLING HIM TO GO GET HER SOME MONEY, oh my god. SURE MOM LEMME JUST WALTZ RIGHT ON DOWN TO THE “JOBS FOR FIVE-YEAR-OLDS” STORE AND TELL THEM I NEED SOME CASH. ffff manifesting someone to come help him in 3... 2...

...

SIGH, JUST GO RESCUE THE PEOPLE FROM THE BUS, KEIGO. is this the outfit he was wearing when that happened?? it must be, right?? I can’t imagine them surviving more than a couple days out here unless this starts getting REALLY dark in a way I know that even Horikoshi won’t explore, so yeah. cut to the HPSC now please. never thought we’d be glad to see them. I mean sure, it may be an “out of the frying pan...” case, but good god

THANK YOU!!

and I guess it was his mom’s eyeball quirk then. anyway, whatever, see you again never, hopefully. lol oh man. thaaaat, was upsetting. need to center myself here for a sec. NAMASTE

OH YAY THE PRESENT

so we cut from Baby Hawks Angst straight to Present Day Hawks Angst, huh. not that this exhausted and traumatized lil lad isn’t still a baby to me too, I’ll have you know

BEST JEANIST, ALWAYS WITH THE JOKES

“WHEW, THOUGHT YOU DIED ON ME FOR A SEC THERE KID.” lmao. Caleb will no doubt ruin this by making his word choice all stiffly formal as usual, so I’m just going to treasure this “WOULD YOU LOOK AT THAT, I’M FRESH OUT OF FUCKS” version of Jeanist while I can

look at him, driving his Jeanistmobile

again, is it any wonder Kacchan was bitching about Endeavor’s dinky little car when he was used to riding around town in style like this. anyone else staring at this panel trying to figure out how this car is somehow secretly made of jeans

NOOOOO

FUCK YOU DABI LMAO. PUTTING THESE VOICE ACTORS OUT OF A JOB ONE BY ONE

anyway so Jeanist is all “GOOD THING IT’S THE FUTURE AND WE’RE SO GOOD AT MEDICAL SCIENCE” to handwave how Hawks went from one step shy of being a very handsome corpse, to sitting around texting Jeanist in a car all of two days later

OH MY GOD, AND FINALLY AN EXPLANATION FOR THIS

wait a minute. I’m so confused lmfao. soooo, was Hawks all “anyway, here’s Jeanist’s dead body, you can examine it but please don’t look at him too closely and also I’m gonna need that back unharmed.” how tf did you pull that off lmao

(ETA: also isn’t this technically confirmation of the ol’ Noumu Jeanist theory lol. I’m gonna go ahead and say it is.)

NO BUT PLEASE, CONTINUE. I unironically love reading Horikoshi’s overly convoluted “SEE IT’S NOT A PLOT HOLE” explanations

lkldslfk so wait, you’re telling me Hawks convinced Dabi and the League to put Jeanist’s body in storage, and basically just hoped they wouldn’t use him for any experiments until he could put his plan into action and have the HPSC’s people break in and find and revive him?? WHAT COULD POSSIBLY GO WRONG. A FOOLPROOF PLAN IF I’VE EVER HEARD ONE

fff this man really asked Jeanist to risk it all to prop up his little cover story, and Jeanist was all “sure why not” omfg. anyways, thanks for recapping all of this out loud for no particular reason in your car conversation you two

LMAO NOW WHAT

TROUBLE YOU SAY? GOOD THING THE NEW NUMBER ONE HERO IS ON THE JOB THEN

okay no it’s just some random thugs strolling around terrorizing the downtown. fuck ‘em. so Jeanist is making short work of them now

uh oh

won’t come? not can’t, but won’t?? what???

WOW

well I guess that makes the local heroes A BUNCH OF SHITHEADS now doesn’t it?? jesus

and okay, serious question, if the cops are spread too thin and the heroes have literally walked out on the job, what exactly is stopping everyone from deciding to use their quirks to defend themselves, legal or not? nothing, as far as I can tell. society just got a hell of a lot more chaotic

anyway so this is an interesting panel here

man, Dabi really did pull it off, didn’t he. well anyway so here’s that better world all of the villains were wanting, you guys! isn’t it so great?? everyone’s terrified and angry and losing hope and society is inches away from collapsing into total anarchy! but hey, at least we exposed the number one hero as a hypocrite

anyway so what are these guys up to

fucking hell, he’s visiting his mom. I really wasn’t prepared to commit this much emotional energy towards reading this chapter today. BUT VERY WELL, WE PRESS ON

?? wait she’s not there?

is this supposed to explain how Dabi knew who Hawks really was? except that there’s the little matter of how he even know where to find his mother in the first place. feels like we’re still missing something there, but oh well

OH MY GOD

RHA I TAKE BACK EVERY WORD I EVER SPOKE AGAINST YOU. YOU ARE A SCANLATION GROUP FILLED WITH ANGELS LMAO. I WILL TAKE THIS PANEL IN MY HANDS, AND TREASURE IT AND KEEP IT SAFE

ANYWAY, BECAUSE MY TIRED BIRD SON’S LIFE SUCKED SO MUCH ALREADY, IT TURNS OUT HE’S ACTUALLY PLEASED WITH THIS NEW TURN OF EVENTS LOL HOW ABOUT THAT

GOOD FOR YOU BBY. YOU GO OUT THERE AND BE YOUR OWN PERSON

and in all seriousness, I love that identity he chooses -- chooses, because it actually is him making a choice now, possibly for the very first time in his life -- is “guy who helps people”, though. it really is nothing short of miraculous that he held on to that kind of optimism and desire to do good even with everything he’s been through. there were so many times he could have chosen to turn his back on the world in retaliation for the way it treated him. but he didn’t!! and here he is now, finally free, and what he wants to do with the rest of his life now is simply to help others. anyway please excuse me for a moment, I need to go find some sort of basket or a big vase to put all of my fresh new Hawks Feels in, pardonne-moi

YEAH BOIIIIII

“FIRST ORDER OF BUSINESS, MISTER JEANIST, WHERE DID YOU FIND YOUSELF THAT SWEETASS CAR.” hey, all I’m saying is if this boy’s wings really aren’t growing back, he’s gonna need to find himself a new means of transportation y’know?

oh my god you guys it’s a flashback to his mom buying him the Endeavor plushie when he was like two because, and I quote, ALL MIGHT WAS TOO EXPENSIVE

oh my god oh my god. my boy out here with a new lease on life finding hope in the darkest of times

wasn’t your throat supposed to be all fucked up lmao. Horikoshi was suddenly all “oh shit the VAs are gonna be pissed at me if I keep this up huh”

“that’s why Bubaigawara was such a great guy” motherfucker IT IS A TERRIBLE DAY FOR RAIN. FORECAST SAID NOTHING ABOUT THIS

:’)

yes ma’am. yes indeed. confirmed, I really will straight up fight some motherfuckers for this child. well not really, but YOU KEEP YOUR DISCOURSE OFF MY LAWN AND OUT OF MY BLOG YOU HEAR. THIS IS A HAWKS-FRIENDLY SPACE. WE RESPECT TAKAMI KEIGO IN THESE STREETS

and he’s saying (or is he thinking?? what a weirdly shaped speech bubble this is) that even if what Dabi said about the Todoroki household is true, “I’m not sure it’s the same now.” which happens to be ABSOLUTELY CORRECT. man this whole chapter really is all about saying “fuck the past” and moving forward and I am living for it

SON!!!!

“the first step is at my beginning” fklkjlk. what an iconic fucking line??

AND HIS WINGS!!!! THEY ACTUALLY ARE GROWING BACK AHHHHHHH. “PUT A RAINCHECK ON THAT CAR, JEANIST-SAN.” THE HAWKSMOBILE CAN WAIT, RIGHT NOW HE HAS TO GO INSERT HIMSELF BACK INTO THE TODODRAMA WHETHER THEY LIKE IT OR NOT

you guys. I came here ready for some BAKUDEKU HOSPITAL ANGST, and I got DIDDLY SHIT of that, and none of my other kids were even in this chapter, but!!! ASK ME IF I CARE LMAO omg. because bird son is hanging with his new best friend, and he’s out here Finding Himself and picking up the pieces and putting them back together stronger than ever because RESILIENCE HAS A NAME, AND IT’S SPELLED H-A-W-K-S, and you guys. profound, my love for this child. holy shit. hey google, play Silence by Marshmello

#bnha 299 #takami keigo #hawks (bnha)#best jeanist #bnha #boku no hero academia #bnha spoilers #mha spoilers #bnha manga spoilers #makeste reads bnha #I found peace in your violence #can't tell me there's no point in trying #I'm at one #and I've been quiet for too long

564 notes · View notes

the-scarlet-witch-22 · 4 years ago

Text

Chaconne (Agatha Harkness x Reader)

Summary: You are an aspiring concert violinist who attends an audition for the Manhattan Symphony Orchestra, under the new direction of famous conductor Agatha Harkness

Word Count: 4.2K

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NBNquKkKcF4

A/N: Hello! This is an AU fic heavily inspired by one of my favorite tv shows Mozart In The Jungle. This is going to be at least 3 more chapters, and I already have the second part done so it should be uploaded by the weekend. Also, I added a link to the piece that is heavily mentioned throughout this fic. It’s not necessary to listen to it before reading (or at all haha), I just thought I’d add it in for anyone curious :) Hope y’all enjoy! Please let me know what you think, and my inbox is always open for any questions. Also: I do not own Mozart In The Jungle...Jeff Bezos please do not sue me.

You rushed through the bustling streets of Manhattan, silently cursing yourself for not getting a cab. Not that it would’ve made much of a difference; rush hour in the city was horrendous no matter what form of transportation you chose. But at least you would have been sitting in an air conditioned car and not running through the crowded streets. You tightened your grip on your violin case as you hurried across the street, destination clear in your mind.

You had been finishing up your final private lesson of the day when you received a call from one of your old college friends. They informed you to drop everything you were doing, not literally because that would include your very expensive and very fragile violin, and hurry down to symphony hall because one of the first violinists in the Manhattan Symphony had sprained her wrist and they were holding open auditions.

A part of you knew the odds of being selected from hundreds of the best violinists in one of the most affluent cities for music was slim to none, but you also knew you had to take this chance. It’s what you had been working so hard towards during undergrad and grad school, and it would be nice to have a more...stable job. The Manhattan Symphony Orchestra was one of the greatest and well respected orchestras in the world, and you would kill to earn a chair.

You ran faster than you had in months, and made a mental note to add more cardio to your basically nonexistent workout regime because wow, you were out of shape. Rounding the corner, you quickly dodged running into other pedestrians and could see symphony hall a block away. Despite the burning in your lungs begging you to stop running like a mad woman, you picked up the pace and sprinted to the building.

Ever since you started playing the violin you swore to anyone who would listen that you would play in the Manhattan Symphony Orchestra. Your siblings would always ask for concert tickets to see their favorite band, or sporting tickets, but you always begged your parents to take you to the symphony. While your siblings hated it and complained how long and boring it was (and the outrage that they weren’t allowed to bring food inside), you were enraptured by the entire experience.

You fell in love with the sounds of Dvorak, Beethoven, Brahms, and Tchaikovsky. Sitting in the concert hall you waited in anticipation to watch the musicians who had spent their entire lives preparing for that moment; to pour every ounce of their soul into their instruments. Ever since the moment you stepped inside your first concert hall at the young age of five, you knew this is where you wanted to spend the rest of your life.

Shaking those thoughts aside you hurried through the building to where the blind auditions were being held. You silently thanked whatever genius came up with the idea of a blind audition, because you were a mess after running over twelve blocks from your apartment. Following the signs on the walls, you found the warm up room, but was surprised to find everyone packing up.

There were over a dozen people of various ages, and you noticed one of them crying. A woman around your age noticed your disheveled appearance and sighed. “If you’re here for the blind auditions, they were cancelled.”

You felt your heart drop. “What? Did they already find someone?”

“No, because the new conductor is a total psycho,” Someone else said angrily. “She kept yelling about how we’re all wasting her time and she’d rather have her pet rabbit play New World Symphony.” He motioned to the girl who was sobbing. “And she told Megan her tone was so bad that she would personally throw her violin into a wood chipper so no one would have to suffer through her performing again.”

The new conductor he was referring to was one of your favorites. Agatha Harkness. She was beloved throughout the music community and had many fans, but you had heard rumors of her hard work ethic and ability to make people cry in under a minute. You thought back to your undergrad violin lessons where one of your professors told you that your tone while playing Mendelssohn sounded like a dying donkey. Musicians were often times very blunt.

“That’s a bit harsh.”

“A bit?” The guy rolled his eyes. “This job isn’t worth it. I’m going to audition for the second violin chair in Iowa. It might not be as great of an orchestra but at least their conductor isn’t the devil incarnate.”

As the others continued to pack up, you still felt your gut twisting at what could have been. Feeling rejected, you left the room and saw the back entrance to the stage open. From a quick glance around it appeared the hallway was deserted, so you quickly ran through the door, violin case still in hand.

Time came to a stand still as you walked on stage and stared into the seemingly empty concert hall. You dreamt about this moment more times than you cared to admit. There was something so peaceful about being on stage. Taking a deep breath, you closed your eyes and pictured a scene you had spent years dreaming about. Realizing the opportunity to play in this hall wouldn’t likely come again, you made the split decision to open your violin case.

Staring at your violin, you briefly wondered if this was a good idea. But, you silently argued that no one else was around, and besides, you did run half a mile to get here. It would be a waste to not play and appreciate the gorgeous acoustics. Plus you could feel your fingers aching to play something, anything, to let out the feelings of disappointment from missing the auditions.

Gently pulling out your bow, you applied a generous amount of rosin before grabbing your violin. You took a few minutes to tune, and the moment your bow hit the strings you felt a shiver at how the sound bounced off the walls. You went through a condensed version of your normal warm up and played a few different scales before debating on what piece to play.

Although your friend had briefly explained the audition would be sight reading and then playing excerpts from Dvorak’s New World Symphony, the auditions were over and you wanted to play something else. It wasn’t the flashiest piece, or one of the better known violin concertos, but it felt right. Vitali’s Chaconne arranged by Charlier. You had originally learned the gorgeous piece during your junior year of undergrad for a concerto competition and it had quickly become a favorite.

Clearing your mind of everything but the music, you closed your eyes and began to play. Your bow swept across the string, producing the opening g-minor chord. The melodic sound rang through the empty hall and you felt your heart ache at how good this felt. It had been a while since you had the time to play this piece, but it was like it had been no time at all. Your fingers danced across the strings and you felt all the uneasiness leave your body.

While this wasn’t the most complex piece you had ever played, it required your full attention. The chaconne was structured as a simple sixteen bar phrase that was rephrased and dallied up with different techniques and melodies which made it easy enough to memorize, but hard enough that you needed to focus on the pattern your fingers made.

With every movement of your bow, every run you made up and down the fingerboard, you were letting out the pain and sadness you felt radiating through your body. It was hard to put into words how playing the violin made you feel, but the best explanation you had come up with was that it was your salvation. There was no sweeter medicine than performing. No matter how out of control life was, how bad things got, your solution was turning to music. It saved you.

As you neared the end of the piece, you felt your bow arm gently ache and you knew you had to have complete focus if you were going to hit the upcoming octave slides that led to the double stops of doom. Octaves were never a violinist’s favorite technique, and they were your own personal kryptonite. You had rather tiny hands, which made the stretch from your index to your pinky rather difficult on a good day. You changed the position of your hand to make the reach to hit the upper octave, but briefly winced when you realized you had fallen flat on the lower note.

You ended with a flourish of your bow on the final g-minor chord and let out the breath you had been holding in. You stood there for a moment, soaking in the afterglow of your performance and enjoying the quiet that radiated throughout the spacious room. Just as you went to clean off your violin and leave before you got kicked out, you heard the sound of slow clapping from within the hall. The hall was dimmed and you saw a figure sitting far up in the upper rows. The mystery figure continued clapping and they stood up and walked down the steps towards the stage. There in all her glory stood Agatha Harkness, the newest conductor of the Manhattan Symphony Orchestra.

“Not bad, but your octave slides could use some touching up,” Agatha offered as she stood at the bottom of the stage. “You tend to go flat on the lower notes.”

You felt your breath hitch as you saw the famous, and apparently very scary, conductor staring at you. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize anyone was still here.”

“Ah so you aren’t here for the auditions?” Agatha questioned, arching an eyebrow up at you. “What are you doing here then, breaking and entering? I’d hate to have to call security on you.”

“What? No, no I’m not...” You stammered, feeling your cheeks turn red. “I came for the auditions but I was told they were cancelled.”

Agatha laughed, and you noticed how it was more of a cackle. “They were. But believe me dear, I’m sure you would have done the same if you were in my shoes.”

“One of them said you threatened to throw their violin in a wood chipper. Isn’t that a little mean?” You pointed out.

“You did not have to listen to that imbecile butcher the opening of Mendelssohn,” Agatha argued, folding her hands across her chest. “Throwing her violin in a wood chipper would be the least I could do to ensure no one else suffers hearing that disgrace of a sound ever again.”

You stifled a giggle that threatened to escape. “I’m sure it wasn’t that bad.”

Agatha waved her hand in the air. “Maybe. But you,” she pointed a finger at you, intrigue colored her features. “You were good. Vitali’s Chaconne is a personal favorite of mine. Everyone always chooses to play Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto in D Major, or Mendelssohn, or Brahms, or something big and flashy. I’ve always preferred a more subdued piece like Vitali. Violinists don’t take enough time to appreciate the beauty of a chaconne.”

You stared at her in disbelief. Almost no one had even heard of Vitali’s Chaconne, but she did and it was her favorite. “Thank you, Miss Harkness. I-“

“Ah ah ah,” Agatha waved a finger to silence you. “I’m not finished. You were good, but not great. Your octave slides were flat. Your bow hold is giving me a headache, you need to relax more. Your vibrato is too fast, we need to work on slowing it down. Didn’t your teacher ever tell you that? And don’t even get me started on your opening chord.” She eyed the younger woman before continuing. “But despite all that, you have promise.”

You were speechless. She wasn’t yelling at you? “You think I have promise?”

Agatha nodded. “Which is why I’m offering you a job.”

“I got the position?” You smiled. “I can’t believe it.”

Agatha’s eyebrows furrowed. “What? No, don’t be ridiculous. You’re not ready to play with the Manhattan Symphony.”

“But you said you were offering me a job,” you repeated the words of the older woman.

“And I am. As my personal assistant,” Agatha explained as if it was the most obvious answer.

“You want me to be your assistant?” You said in disbelief. “Miss Harkness I’m not so sure if I’m qualified-“

Agatha cut you off again. “If you’re serious about being a violinist, especially being a violinist in my orchestra, we need to work on your technique. Natural talent only gets you so far my dear.” She shrugged. “And I may have just fired my newest assistant for being entirely incompetent.”

“I don’t know what to say,” You admitted. This certainly isn’t how you expected your day to go.

“I’m not going to force you to work for me, dear,” Agatha drawled out. “You can walk right out that door and continue on with your presumably simple and boring life.”

“And if I stay?” You prompted, already knowing what you were going to choose.

Agatha slowly walked up the steps of the stage and approached you. “Well then I’ll have my work cut out for me. As will you, darling. I’ll be working you quite hard.” You blushed at her suggestive tone and she smirked at your reaction. “Blushing already? I’ve barely even started.”

You cleared you throat before nodding. “Alright. I’ll do it.”

“Then let’s get started.” Agatha smirked. “This is going to be fun. Now, let’s take it from the top.”

Working for Agatha was interesting. She was very hard to read, and you could never tell if she was mad at you or if she was just in a mood. You had spent the past few weeks helping her prepare for the first symphony rehearsal of the season. Granted you weren’t doing much to help, all she was asking you to do was make copies of parts and to organize folders for each section.

Today was different. You entered the mostly empty building with a drink holder containing two cups of coffee in one hand and your violin case in the other when the sound of Agatha’s heels came click-clacking down the hallway. From the moment she rounded the corner, you could tell she was in a foul mood.

She was mumbling something incoherent but she stopped when she spotted you. “You’re late.”

You chose to not comment on the fact you were an hour early and instead carefully set down your violin case to hand her one of the cups of coffee. “Bad morning?”

“Hayward is an asshole,” Agatha seethed. “I had the entire season planned out but he thinks I’m not appealing to our investors.”

Well that explained it. Tyler Hayward was CFO of the Manhattan Symphony Orchestra and was a Grade-A asshole. You only had a few interactions with the man but they had all been quite unpleasant. He was less than pleased to discover Agatha had fired the assistant he hired and chose to hire you without consulting him. Luckily Agatha had all but kicked him out of her office and told you to come to her if he gave you a hard time.

“How is Dvorak’s Symphony No. 9 not appealing to investors?” You asked in confusion. “Everyone loves The New World Symphony.”

“That’s not the problem. He thinks I’m playing it too safe with the soloists,” Agatha explained and you thought of the soloists selected thus far. You could see how they would be safe options, but who doesn’t love Joshua Bell?

“But it’s too late to get out of those contracts without losing money,” You pointed out. “Does Hayward not know that?”

“Oh believe me, Hayward always gets his way,” Agatha spat out, and you noticed she appeared to be growing angrier. “He’s still mad I was voted in as music director by the board instead of his choice for the position, so he’s punishing me. And now I have to deal with Maximoff.”

You made a mental note to address the first part about Hayward later when Agatha wasn’t as grumpy, but grinned at the mention of the famous pianist. “Maximoff as in the Wanda Maximoff? She’s-“

“A wild card and not the soloist I envisioned having,” Agatha finished for you, glaring at the mere thought of the woman as you both walked towards her office.

“But she’s an amazing pianist,” You argued, remembering the one time you had the opportunity to watch her perform live with the Royal Philharmonic. “The way she plays is beautiful, and magical, and-“

Agatha growled and glared at you, picking up the speed she was walking at. “And she has no control. She doesn’t listen to direction and thinks she’s always right. Her ego is her downfall.”

You arched an eyebrow. “Wow, that sounds absolutely nothing like you.”

Agatha let out a laugh but still sent you another glare. “Don’t push it, darling,” Agatha warned you as she unlocked the door to her office. “I am nothing like Wanda Maximoff.”

You rolled your eyes after she turned around. “Right. So I’ll take the Beethoven parts out to make room for Wanda’s piece?”

Agatha sighed and combed her fingers through her wildly curly hair. “Well I’d rather just tell the little Sokovian princess she’s not allowed anywhere near my orchestra. But since that would be frowned upon, yes put the Beethoven back. Her agent should be emailing us the parts later today.”

You set off to prepare the dreadful task of reorganizing each folder while Agatha studied different scores. She had her baton out and was mindlessly conducting as she went through the fourth movement of the Dvorak. Over the past few weeks you had started to fall in love with watching her conduct. There was something so mesmerizing by the way she could bring different pieces to life with the mere movement of her hands. You watched her right hand lightly grip the baton and noticed the position of her fingers lightly grasping the silver object while her blue eyes scanned the score.

She felt your staring and smirked as she continued conducting. “See something you like, dear?”

Blushing furiously you went back to your task of sorting music, but every once in a while you allowed yourself to take a break to watch Agatha conduct, and although she smirked whenever she noticed, she didn’t make any more comments. Eventually you finished the work and put the folders away while filing the Beethoven in the cabinet.

“Good, you’re done,” Agatha said as she stood up. “Now it’s time for my favorite part of the day.”

You internally groaned and realized what she wanted. “Where you make one of the interns cry and go get lunch?”

“Close, dear. But no.” She motioned to your violin case. “Come.”

This was your least favorite part of the day. Now, you were used to receiving constructive criticism, and even just good old fashioned criticism. Over the years you had less than kind violin teachers, and you shuddered at the memory of Stefan throwing a chair across the room when you only had three pages of Mendelssohn fully memorized two months before your recital preview. He kept yelling in Russian that he would not be the first faculty member to have a student fail a preview. Or the time Jacqueline caused you to have a panic attack right before your sophomore year concerto competition because she didn’t ‘like your stage presence’ and went on some insane rant, and then yelled at you more while you were sobbing. Ah, the fond memories you had of college.

But there was something so intensely nerve wracking about performing in front of Agatha that it made all of those encounters seem like fun and games. You weren’t sure what it was about the woman, but there was just something about her presence that constantly had you on edge. What made it ten times worse was that Agatha seemed to be aware of the effect she had on you, and did whatever she could to make you blush.

You took a few moments to tune your violin and roll your shoulders back while Agatha made herself comfortable in the audience, but you both knew she wouldn’t stay out there for long.

“Now darling,” Agatha called out from her seat. “I want you to remember what we’ve been working on. The first impression you set when your bow hits the string needs to be dominating. I want to feel like you’re pinning me down on the stage. Make me want it.”

You stared at her incredulously and shook your head, trying not to visualize what she just said to you. “Right...pinning...dominating,” You murmured as you straightened your stance and took a deep breath. Setting your bow on the string, you made sure it was positioned at the frog.

“I can see you tensing from all the way out here,” Agatha said in a mocking tone. “Do I need to come up there and help you relax?”

You knew her coming anywhere near you would do the opposite to relax you. “Nope. Just stay where you are!”

“Oh, are you the one giving orders now, my dear?” Agatha teased as she slowly got out of her seat and made her way towards the stage. “I’m just trying to help. You need to relax your shoulders, otherwise you’re going to end up with a hunchback.”

“I like the Hunchback of Notre Dame,” You offered weakly as you watched her stalk her way up the stairs, her heels clicking up each step.

Agatha rolled her eyes. “Of course you do.” She closed the distance between you and put her hands on your shoulders. “You need to relax.” She examined you closer and arched an eyebrow. “And breathe, my dear. Unless you want to fall in my arms.” You had taken to staring at the floor of the stage until you felt her hand gently cup your chin, forcing you to gaze at her. “Am I that hideous to look at that?”

“Ha, you’re so funny,” You managed to get out before taking a deep breath, and once again tried to relax your shoulders.

Despite your best efforts, you still felt tense, and Agatha noticed it as well. Letting out a gentle huff she moved behind you and began to rub your upper back. “Jeez, have you ever had a massage? It seems like you need one.”

“That’s a bit above my current pay check,” You quipped and blushed when you heard her responding chuckle.

“If you’re asking for a raise, you’re going to have to do better than that,” Agatha replied, her breath tickling your ear and sending delightful shivers down your spine. “You need to let go, darling. This much tension in your shoulders will do too much damage to your posture.”

She hit a particularly hard knot and you couldn’t help but moan at the sensation. You thought you heard Agatha mumble something under her breath but you were so lost in the sensation you didn’t ask her what she said. Agatha continued rubbing your shoulders and you slowly felt yourself relax into her touch.

“That’s it,” Agatha murmured. “Good girl.” Your eyes shot open at the praise and you heard her lightly chuckle. “Relax, dear. I could do this all day.”

Your shoulders eventually loosened up and you couldn’t help but groan when Agatha took a step away from you. “Quit your whining and play that chord,” Agatha demanded as she turned away from you, clapping her hands loudly. “I want to be wowed.”

Taking a deep breath, you fixed your stance before setting your bow back on the string. You were hesitating, and Agatha knew it too.

“Any day now. It’s not like I have anything else to do,” Agatha’s words were sharp but you knew she meant it as encouragement.

You let go of any fears you had of what would come next as you positioned your fingers on the string and rolled your bow to produce the g-minor chord. Your left wrist was loose enough to slow down your vibrato and you went through the first section without any interruptions from Agatha. As you began the next phrase you remembered what Agatha had told you about making it bigger and better than before.

“Always leave them wanting more,” Agatha had instructed her. “Make each phrase slightly different. No one wants to suffer through ten minutes of the same few notes.”

You added more vibrato for this phrase and changed the dynamics so you were growing in sound until you heard her calling for you to stop.

“Stop! Stop, that’s enough,” Agatha yelled as she walked back towards you. “That was...better.”

“Dare I say you sound surprised?” You joked causing her to glare at you.

“Fishing for compliments, are we?” She questioned, but eventually relented. “You’re getting better.”

You grinned wildly at her praise. “That was the nicest thing you’ve said to me so far today.”

“Keeping score?” Agatha mused, a smile threatening to tug at her lips at your enthusiasm. “Like I said, you’re getting better, but there’s a lot of work to do. I want to hear those octave slides and not feel like my ears are bleeding from your intonation. Chop chop.”

#agatha harkness x reader #agatha harkness imagine #agatha wandavision #wandavision #agnes x reader #agatha harkness x you #marvel au #wandavision au #orchestra au #Agatha Harkness

355 notes · View notes

white-collar-lawmen-and-conmen · 3 years ago

Text

Future

A/N: Yikes. I cried several times writing this. I'm very proud of how it turned out - I think it's one of my strongest pieces on the entire blog - but be warned: bring tissues. Also, Mozzie's quote is originally from Abraham Lincoln. Requested by @ladykeqing

Summary: In the wake of Neal's death, a regret haunts you.

Word Count: 1,964

Peter sat you down and told you in his home. Well… just June’s home, now. The way Mozzie had trailed behind him, for once wordless… His face looking ashen… A part of you had known even before Peter asked you to sit down.

“He told me to say he’s sorry,” Peter said, barely more than a whisper that somehow felt deafening to your brain. “And that he loves you more than you know.”

The room was suddenly stifling. It was more than just the emotions in the air, layering over each other into a thick, caustic fog. It was the darkening of shadows that stretched in from the glass doors, and the silence of the record player that drove deep into their eardrums to muffle the little sounds of life coming from each other. The penthouse was, in an instant, so tiny and deathly empty, and you wished so dearly that you’d been at your own apartment. Staying the weekend had seemed like such a great idea before you abruptly became the only resident.

For a few seconds, you had a mind to just stay put and let the shadows come and take over. To let the agonizing ache of loss engulf your entire heart and continue expanding until it was bigger than your body and you disappeared forever. All so you wouldn’t have to keep looking at the records Neal would never again play and the table he would never again sit at. So you would never have to spend a last moment in the home of your lover before turning your back on it and, by extension, him.

Without him, there was nowhere to turn. The prospect of your remaining lifetime without your partner made your chest and throat tighten with another round of sobs. It all felt so dim. You tried to hold it back, but couldn’t last long before your hands were to your mouth and a strangled whimper was breaking from your lips.

Mozzie could have fooled you into thinking he hadn’t heard, so resolute he was in boring a hole into the rug with his stare. Peter looked towards you with deep brown eyes, solicitous and pleading at the same time. He was as stunned as you were – but where you were being crushed under the weight of isolation, at least Peter got to go home to El. You didn’t have anyone to go home to anymore. Hell, without Neal, did you even have a home at all?

You envied Mozzie. Really, you did. His Buddhist leanings might be a comfort to him, able to think of Neal’s absence as temporary, or his spirit as remaining around them in some way or form. But when you tried to imagine you could feel him still there, the encroaching shadows and silent record player and empty bed all drew together at once until you were drowning in the lack. It was as if your haywire senses were punishing you for thinking even for a moment that you could feel your loss as anything less than absolute. He was gone and the world was permanently less wonderful.

A gunshot. Neal hated guns so much. Maybe this was why.

Wait. No. Time didn’t work like that. Right? He couldn’t hate something for a reason that hadn’t happened yet.

Laughter that bordered on hysterical bubbled out of your throat as you anxiously covered your face, waiting for the mania to pass. Laughter was easier than sobs. It physically hurt less. Emotionally it was so much worse. You could feel the concerned eyes on you while you waited until your desperate giggles died, just like your partner.

“I never said,” you said, wresting the words out before cries – or worse, more laughs – forced themselves out instead. You looked down with shame and guilt. His last words to you were almost cruel. Tender in their meaning, but cruel in consequence – he would never know how deeply you cared for him. You hoped he did. Didn’t you show it all the time? But that was different from hearing the words out loud, and now not only were you going on without Neal, but you were going on carrying the burden of knowing you hadn’t been able to offer him the comfort of certainty in knowing he had been loved in life and would be grieved in death. “I never got to tell him I love him.”

The mere look that Peter gave you in response would have broken your heart if it hadn’t already been lying shattered somewhere between your stomach and the floor. It was as if he were imagining for himself not getting to tell Elizabeth how he felt, or worse, imagining how alone or afraid she might feel if she didn’t know there were somebody fighting for her and remembering her every day.

Sobs would come any moment now. Your throat was tighter than a string on a violin, and any minute you’d stop being able to breathe. In, out, you reminded yourself. Keep it together just a moment more. And then another moment after that. You couldn’t break down until you were alone. You didn’t know why you couldn’t break in front of Neal’s family, but didn’t have the energy to question it, either, not when you barely had the energy not to scream and weep into your hands.

“He knew.” Mozzie’s words were quiet but startling and said with all the confidence of Neal himself. “You didn’t have to say it.”

“But he deserved to hear.” Knowing it and hearing it were different games and Neal, for all his faults, deserved to hear it, too. “He deserved to come home. I don’t…” You lost your train of thought. Why were you talking about yourself when you weren’t the one whose brilliant life had been stolen? After a small shake of your head, you sniffed and shakily breathed out. “We had an entire future. And now there’s nothing left.”

You could see it passing in your imagination, all the little milestones that you’d come to anticipate. Content days at home, interspersed with adventures to his favorite places around the world, marked by marriage and birthdays and achievements and anniversaries. You’d never articulated them out loud, never even realized fully that you’d started to await those days, but now you saw them vanishing and you realized not only were you having to grieve for the best man you’d ever known, but you’d also have to grieve for the missed experiences and joys that he had lost, and the shared life that you had to give up on, as well.

Mozzie finally looked up to you and you noticed that his eyes were puffy and red behind his glasses. You didn’t even know someone could cry that silently. “The best thing about the future,” he quoted, slow and weighty, probably to keep his own voice level. “Is that it comes one day at a time.”

The comfort was meaningless to you. One day at a time was worthwhile when it was endless days of love and companionship. When that was gone, it was just day after day of being adrift with nothing to hold onto.

You sniffed again and replied in a surprisingly even voice, “My future is laying in the morgue.”

~Future~

Leaving Y/N was one of the hardest things Mozzie had ever done, and he had a lot of challenges and dubious decisions in his past. Leaving her to wallow and suffer rubbed him in every wrong way possible, except for the one where it meant – at least for now – that she would be safe. He didn’t think, if he stayed, that he would be able to hold back from blurting out the truth. He couldn’t even look at her for fear of spilling. Not once her tears started. He couldn’t watch his friend, and his best friend’s love at that, weep with agony she didn’t need to feel.

Neal begged to differ, though Mozzie knew that it tore his heart in two to hear her voice over the long-distance connection. When Mozzie was sure the suit was out of earshot, and that Y/N and June had both stayed inside, he lifted his phone from his pocket and breathed heavily in the cold December air that seemed to burn his lungs.

“Did you hear all that?” He asked, impressively steady and managing to get his criticism and support across with his tone simultaneously.

He took off his glasses, thankful Neal couldn’t see that he, too, needed to wipe his eyes dry. Alive was good. Alive but far away and unreachable – at least for the foreseeable future – was still painful.

“I did,” Neal confirmed, voice and heart both heavy somewhere at least a thousand miles away. “I wish…” Neal trailed off, and Mozzie wholly believed that he also needed a moment to compose himself. Why either of them bothered pretending not to cry, he didn’t understand, but they had already dedicated themselves to the farce. “She’s safer this way. If she looks for me, we’re all in danger.”

“If you let this go on, she will never forgive you.” Mozzie warned, thinking about the broken look on your face. It had been like watching a dropped plate shatter in slow motion to see the cracks begin to appear before your very spirit seemed to splinter. Then he thought about how desperately you wished Neal knew you loved him, and he thought maybe there was a chance that desperate love would override the anger. He amended, “Or, if she does, it’ll never be the same.”

“I know.” Neal agreed readily but with a quiver to his voice. “I want to come home, but not if it means visiting her grave.”

“The cautious way it is.” Mozzie put his glasses back on his face, bravely shoring up his willpower. “I can’t know where you are, and she can’t know you’re out there.”

“Keep an eye on her for me.”His voice was full of sorrow and longing.

“Of course.” Neal didn’t even need to ask. If there came a time when the Panthers were dealt with and Neal could – well, if not return home, at least be reunited with Y/N somewhere without an extradition treaty, Mozzie would be the first to set it in motion. “Be well, mon frére.”

“You, too, Moz.”

The line went dead.

~Future~

Approximately four thousand miles away, on a windy beach, Neal stood barefoot in the dark, watching the light from the moon reflect off the choppy, shallow surf. The breeze drifted through his hair and bit across his face with the sting of northern weather.

He looked down at the open phone in his hand, fighting every feeling in him to turn it back on and beg Mozzie to take the phone back up to his former penthouse. Or, worse, to turn his whole body around and get on a ferry to the mainland, and fly back to New York as fast as possible to hold you in his arms. The heartbreak in your voice had been almost too much for him to bear. It would have been, if not for his terror of being reckless and selfish and letting you pay the price.

He had known you loved him, and because he loved you so unbelievably much in return, he couldn’t go home. Not yet. He would work on it from afar, where no one knew he was breathing, much less could trace him back to his darling. One day, if he were incredibly lucky, he could come home and you would still have space for him in your heart and mind. For now, he would have to settle on replaying your words in his head.

I love you, too.

Neal hurled the phone out into the ocean.

#white collar #white collar x reader #lawmen and conmen #neal caffrey #neal caffrey x reader #fanfic #fic #oneshot #future #hurt #angst #sad #requested #drama

73 notes · View notes