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seancekitsch · 4 years ago

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Bitter They Kiss: A Paul x Reader x Marko fic

Warnings: double penetration,oral, dirty talk, ouid and wine, threesome, what do you expect from me

“Stay inside, y/n, just until you learn how to control yourself.”

“Marko, Paul, Stay with y/n tonight.”

Figures you’d be fuckin stuck with the terror twins tonight. No, not that you didn’t love them; these two stirred up a lot of trouble with you. They were a great time, but this was about how David still didn’t trust you not to make too big a mess.

Did he have somewhat of a good point? Okay, sure, maybe you’d killed someone in the tunnel of love on the boardwalk in front of witnesses in the car behind you and hadn’t tried to hide it. That was just one time. You were starving, and all of the newfound power is fun. There’s no reason not to use it.

But David saw this as some kind of issue, so you’re stuck being baby sat while David and Dwayne hunt for you until you ‘learn your lesson’ or some stupid shit.

You pick at the flaking black nail polish on your ringed fingers, foot propped up in the lawn chair you were sitting on, trying to bide your time with the cold feeling of hunger settling in your frame

“What's with that sour face, baby?”

It’s Paul’s voice coming from somewhere up in the rafters, before he drops himself down next to you. You sigh more than dramatically before letting your head loll to the side to meet his gaze.

“Whats up, Harpo? Zeppo stop kissing your ass so now you gotta come bug me for attention?” you quip, the Santa Carla coven really feeling more like a vaudeville troupe when hunting wasn’t on the mind.

“Oh it was more than kissing,” Marko’s laughing voice comes from behind you, earning a fake grossed out look from you thrown at Paul. Marko drops beside you opposite of Paul, with a case of beer in one of his hands.

“Do you even know who the Marx brothers are, y/n?” Paul sneers, “That's a pretty tall reference you just made.”

“Yeah, y/n, aren’t they your grandparents' humor?” Marko adds.

“The Marx brothers are all younger than you, old man,” you throw right back at them.

“At least we look better.” A pout forms on Marko’s angelic features, while a goofy grin seems permanently plastered on Paul’s.

“You seemed bored all cooped up in here,” Paul starts, “So we wanted to know if you wanted to party with us?”

Did he even have to ask? You roll your eyes and motion for Marko to give you one of the beers, and the boys high five. You and the boys crack open the cold cans in unison, taking big gulps before setting them down.

Quiet sets in among the three of you, unsure what to do. Usually, the cave is more crowded, all of you sticking close to one another, but still intermingling. It felt empty and tense without the others.

“Should I go turn on some tunes?” Paul asks, already moving to stand, when you reach behind him and pull him down by his jacket.

“If I have to hear another Motley Crue record this week, I’m going to scream,” you mutter, urging him to take another sip with you. They’ve heard you scream, and they don’t want to hear it again.

“Let’s play a game with the kid!” Marko suggests, and just by Paul’s expression you can tell there are a million evil thoughts in his head. Here we go. You roll your eyes as they start going through their usual game repertoire.

“Truth or dare?”

“You’re just gonna dare me to take my top off.”

“Seven minutes in heaven?”

“Do you guys think you could last seven minutes?”

“I can last seven minutes. Paul, can you last seven minutes?”

“Who wants to know?”

“Y/n wants to know!”

“Knock it off!”

“What about never have I ever, babe?” Paul suggests, taking a lock of your hair and twirling his finger around it.

And you actually don’t have shit to say against that game. It was the least pervy or dangerous of all of the games these two liked to play. If Dwayne were here, he’d suggest cards or something normal.

“Alright fine, lets play never have I ever you fucking children,” you huff, as you motion for Marko to pass you another beer, his cold fingers lingering on yours for a moment too long. As careless as Marko seems, he doesn’t act without intention. The guys are up to something.

It's a game you know well, one played often and usually used to humiliate each other, and tonight will be no different. If you’ve done the thing, you drink, if you haven’t, you don’t. It starts off slow, with lame things like, ‘never have I ever eaten an avocado’ or ‘ never have I ever been traveling’ but then quickly descends into madness.

That’s why you know you’re playing with fire when you utter the following phrase:

“Never have I ever kissed Paul.”

And something absolutely evil flashes in Marko’s eyes as he meets your gaze over the rim of the beer can when he takes a long drink, like a challenge.

“Well, sweetheart, never have I ever been caught staring at any of us like you wanna eat us,” he counters.

“Excuse me? I’ve never-“

Paul cuts you off.

“No, no babe you don’t get to say shit. I’ve seen the way you stare at us. It’s pretty hot.”

“Well, maybe I have checked you out…. once or twice,” you allow yourself to admit. A few beers and hunger for something has loosened your tongue as your leather shorts start to feel a little uncomfortable.

“More than a little,” Paul shoots back, “But don’t worry.”

Paul's bright eyes have mischief in them as you scoot a little closer to him.

“Why not?” you whisper, not missing the way he’s leaning in as well. That's when you feel Marko against your back.

“Because we look at you like that too,” and he closes the gap, kissing you roughly on the mouth. His stubble scratches against you slightly, knowing if this keeps happening your skin will be rubbed raw by the time you have to sleep. But you pull away, regaining your senses momentarily.

“Wait… Wait, are we doing this for real?” You watch Paul’s mouth melt into a lopsided grin as he nods eagerly, then look to Marko behind you, who has something intense in his eyes, a single nod.

“Alright,” you concede, grabbing your beer from the floor between your feet and chugging the rest of it, throwing the can whoever knows where, “Let's do this boys.”

They descend upon you, not unlike a fresh kill. Paul’s hands fly up to your face, first cupping your cheeks before tangling themselves in your hair, Marko groping at you before unbuttoning the flannel you were wearing and ripping it off of your body to discard it. Neither of them are gentle, but they don’t have to be. As a member of their coven they know they won’t break you. Paul’s tongue delves into your mouth, leaving no single tooth or gum unexplored, he kisses like unwrapping a present, holding you in place like if he doesn’t you’ll slip away from him. Marko on the other hand attaches himself to your shoulder and neck, mouthing at you before biting down.

You almost yelp before it melts into a moan, quickly swallowed by Paul and his roaming tongue. Paul continues, gently pulling at your hair as your hands roam his chest, while Marko’s hands paw at your chest.

“Think you want some more of us?” Marko asks, his voice a low growl, the sound muffled as he’s attached to the bite he’s made. You’ve been told that vampire’s feeding on each other is the most powerful aphrodisiac on earth, and you have a feeling you’ll discover the effects of it tonight. You nod, and Paul pulls his mouth from yours.

“Stand up sweetheart,” Paul tells you, and you obey without even wanting to ask why he wants you to. He leads you over to the couch, and he himself lays down on it, facing the ceiling with a wide grin.

“Climb aboard!” he shouts, driving the point home by slapping the sides of his face with both hands. Marko is behind you again, unbuttoning your shorts and pulling them down to the ground before you can do it for yourself. You lean into his touch, letting his hands roam your body, a moan leaving your lips as his fingers reach your cunt, teasingly rubbing against you, but not delving into you the way you want.

“She’s wet for us, Paul!” he calls, as if you’re not even standing there. It feels like you’re a plaything for them, but thats not true. They can’t mistreat you, because they’ve got you with them for eternity. You whimper into his touch, and he kisses you sweetly.

“I’m gonna treat you real good, y/n, and so is Paul. But if you don’t like anything, say so. You’re one of us, and we don’t wanna make you sad.”

Its like he knew everything you were just feeling, and pushed it all away gently. You whisper “okay” and a contract is sealed.

Marko guides you over to Paul, who has shed nothing but his jacket. You raise one leg, carefully straddling his face. Paul wants none of that, quickly grabbing your hips and pulling him right down onto his mouth. On first contact, his mouth is already open, tongue seeking to split you open immediately. His tongue seeks out your clit first, flicking the bundle of nerves making you almost jolt forward, but Marko is there to hold you in place. Paul licks and sucks at you like a man starved, moaning into you and making you shake above him. His arms hold you firmly, any of your squirming and bucking no use against his mouth. It feels amazing, all of your nerves feeling like static on edge as you feel your release embarrassingly near already. Paul moves from your clit to your wet cunt, and back again.

Your hands shake as you grab onto Marko for some form of stability, sliding down to his belt and gasping as you undo it. He carelessly lets his jeans fall once you get them past his hips, letting you paw at his cock greedily while he smiles down at you.

“How’s she taste, Paul?”

Paul speaks, muffled by you and sending shockwaves up your core.

“Alright!” Marko exclaims, and his hand catches your jaw, first slowly prying it open, then moving to press his thumb down against your tongue. His eyebrow quirks in a silent question, and you answer by closing your lips around him and sucking on the digit. He steps forward and removes his thumb so he can replace it with himself. He’s hard as a rock, and thick, with precum already leaking from the tip, which you greedily lick as he sighs. What a beautiful noise, you think as your lips wrap around the head of his cock and you sink down as far as you can. Never being one to back down, you try to take him as far back into your throat as you can, head bobbing as he moans and talks.

“Oh fuck, baby, just like that.” You swallow around him and he moans.

“Who taught you how to blow like that? Holy shit,” as his hand wraps around your hair.

All of his moaning and praising spurring you on as Paul abandons his ministrations and switches to fucking you with his tongue. What a fucking relief it feels to have something inside you, and you instinctively clench down on him, chasing any sensation you can. He doesn’t let up, tongue moving at an unmerciful speed as you-

Shockwaves hit your system as your body spasms, orgasm overtaking you by surprise, your scream muffled by Marko’s cock at the back of your throat, and he laughs. You almost gag as he pulls out of you, Paul not trying to be gentle as his tongue fucks you through your high.

“That was so fucking sexy, oh I wish you could see your face right now. Paul, I wish you could see her too! She’s wrecked.”

He’s probably right, you can feel the tears wet on your cheeks, your mascara probably running. You caught a glimpse of the line of drool from your lips as his cock left your mouth.

Paul finally slows down as your shaking dies down into tiny shivers, Marko holding you firmly by the shoulders, presses a gentle kiss to your forehead.

“Let me in?” he whispers, and you nod, not yet over your first orgasm but already wanting to feel that again. He lifts you up slightly, and Pauls big hands finally release your thighs to let you move. He slides out from under you, slapping your ass playfully as he stands up to take Marko’s original spot in front of you. His hands come up to cup your cheeks again as he kisses you, slowly this time to let you savor the taste of yourself on your own tongue. You inhale sharply against his mouth as Marko’s fingers enter you without warning. Just as soon as they enter, they’re gone. Then you hear him.

“You’re right, Paul, delicious.”

Paul hums against your lips, then releases you. You can hear Marko undressing as Paul asks,

“You wanna bite?” To feed from him, another vampire. You nod, again never being one to back down, and he pushes his hair aside to offer you his neck. Your arms come up around him as you get a good angle, kissing him a few times open mouthed and sloppy before you sink your teeth in.

t’s divine. Heat you almost forgot existed flows through your veins renewed, and your skin feels so aware of everything. The cool wind of the cave, the worn mesh of his tank top, the rough material of the couch that would have given you rug burn if you had a pulse. Just as you fully start to feel the effects of Paul’s blood, you feel Marko line himself up with your entrance, again entering you without warning. This time you feel him stretch you, his thickness deliciously painful. You scream against Paul’s skin, but it quickly turns into a low growl. You feel animalistic, wanting to push back against Marko’s hips as you take Paul in your mouth. Want to fully give yourself over to this and to them.

Marko feels your ass pushing back against him, and squeezes it playfully, before his arm wraps around your waist and pulls you back down against the arm of the couch.

It’s only when you start to undo Paul’s pants that Marko starts to fuck you, he starts out slow, then abandons his initial pace for a much more vigorous one.

He fucks you harshly, pulling almost all the way out before slamming himself back in as you take Paul deep into your throat like you did Marko. Paul isn’t as thick as Marko, but just as long. As you swallow around him, tongue massaging the underside of his cock, you wonder what it would be like to feel both of them in you at the same time. One hand reaches up to massage his balls and he keens at your touch, begging quietly for more. You’d experimented a lot, but never with two people at once. The thought was overwhelming, almost as overwhelming as Marko pistoning behind you. It's when his hand reaches beneath your legs that you can't control the wanton moans escaping your throat.

“She’s close,” Marko tells Paul, “This tight little pussy keeps squeezing me.”

Paul laughs, and then looks down at you,

“Can I get some too, pretty?”

You nod enthusiastically before pulling off of Paul’s cock with a pop of your lips. Not missing how you whine when Marko pulls out of you, Paul discards his clothes quickly before rushing to return his attention to you. He rubs your clit with his fingers while he asks,

“So how do you want us now?” You have the control, now you’re certain of it. At first you weren’t sure, the way they passed you around, the way they talked around you. But it’s all for you. You feel comfortable asking.

“Can I-“ Your voice comes out more watery and lost than you expected, “Can I have you both? Marko where he was and you in my ass?”

The men share a glance, eyes wide. Apparently they hadn’t expected that from you, but nonetheless they eagerly agree, grinning ear to ear as they kiss up and down your chest and face while they reposition. Marko lays down on the couch where Paul was, and you quickly position yourself to sink down onto his cock, moaning all the while. You stay there, still and waiting for Paul as he climbs up behind you. A strong arm pulls you down to rest against Marko’s chest as Paul preps your ass. You can’t help but whine as he inserts a finger, and then two into the second hole and starts scissoring his fingers. The added pressure against Marko’s cock inside you is already almost too much to bear, and you might finish before they even get a chance to get started in this position. You can feel Marko groping at your chest with the arm not around you, pinching your nipple before rolling it between his fingers.

“Paul, please,” you pant, begging to bite off more than you can chew from this. And he obliges, very slowly removing his fingers and pressing the head of his cock against your ass, sinking in slowly, inch by inch, centimeter by centimeter until he bottoms out. You have to concentrate not to scream and come right then and there. All of it, the sensation is so much, but still somehow you crave more.

“You good, babe?” Paul asks.

“She feels fucking good,” Marko responds, and you nod, worried that words will fail you. The both move slowly within you. Both of them panting and moaning as much as you, your muscles squeezing them as all three of you try to hold out and savor the moment. Two sets of lips attach themselves to your neck, one on both sides, and they both find purchase biting down on the skin there and lapping at the blood they draw, moaning in ecstasy at the taste. They work up a rhythm, moving in tandem against you, and you lose it first, orgasm crashing against you like the waves against Hudson’s bluff. You scream both of their names, begging for something unknown as they work you through your high, both of them reaching their’s almost right after you.

Spent and overstimulated, you fall limp against Marko, and he very gently pulls out of you, Paul follows suit much more slowly, careful not to hurt you. They move only to let you rest and lay down on the couch while they clean you and themselves up, finding some semblance of their clothes and blanket.

You’re breathless as they both finally come back to lay down with you, sandwiching you between the two of them, both of them pressing their chests against you. Paul wipes your hair from your sweaty forehead as Marko rests his cheek against your shoulder-blade.

“Did you like that, baby?” Paul asks, voice quiet and almost shaky.

You nod gingerly, bites against your neck sore.

“Good, because we definitely wanna do that with you again,” Marko mumbles, himself spent as well.

You like the sound of that, you think, as you pull them both closer.

#my work #marko lost boys x reader #marko lost boys #paul lost boys x reader #paul lost boys

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cosmiccandydreamer · 4 years ago

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Stability Chapter 11

Otis Driftwood x Reader

Masterlist is here.

"You listen to me, and you listen well! I am gonna kill every member of your family! I'm gonna hunt them down like the animals they are, and I'm gonna skin em' alive! They are going to feel the pain and suffering of every last victim!" A disgusting squishy sound-filled the empty void of the cell. Sheriff Wydell had stabbed Mama Firefly in the stomach and twisted it until the light left her eyes.

He was done playing this cat and mouse game. Mama's last taunt and laughter that ran through the station after more questioning pushed him over the edge. He had grabbed a large knife from his office and stabbed her in the stomach. As she fell to the ground he stood and took in the scene of what he had done. There was no turning back now, people like these people are monsters he thought to himself and the only thing monsters fear are other monsters. He had discovered through the interrogation that his brother was indeed murdered by Mama herself when he had come to investigate the cheerleader's disappearance.

Sheriff John Wydell's eyes widened at the sight of his dead brother getting up from the couch he was sitting on, he began stuttering "I'm, I'm walking the line on this brother. I'm... I'm walking".George Wydell scoffed and answered sarcastically "Well, mother pin a rose on me, that is so great! I want these motherfuckers dead! Kill 'em!" John Wydell jumped up in a cold sweat… oh it was just a dream he thought, or was it? It couldn't be this hard to be signed by his brother that he needed to avenge him. "I'm brother, I'm trying," he thought to himself.

"Why are you over here all by yourself handsome? Married or not you don't gotta be all alone"... Candy had slinked over to where Otis was laying on the couch downing a bottle of Jack Daniels. The rest of the crew was partying with the ladies at the brothel. Otis wasn't in the mood to party though. He wanted to get out of here and get moving.

He felt guilty which was surprising for someone like him, that he was here enjoying a safe environment for the night without knowing where you were. "What do you want woman" he scoffed and attempted to get up.. "now now lay down You look like a mess Is your back hurting or something I can give you a massage I am a masseuse Well at least I can give a good enough massage that feels like I'm a masseuse" Candy said in a sultry voice twirling her hair, "listen here woman I said I ain't fucking you so go on and get" Otis said shooing her away with his hand.

"Hey now no one said anything about fucking! How about I help you out friend to friend? You just must be tense worrying about your old lady out there". She sat next to him on the couch, he slowly got up to face her, "just a massage right No funny business or I'll throw your ass through the window". "Duly noted" she laughed and helped him stand grabbing his arm. She led him to a soft mattress on the floor.

Sheriff Wydell on the other hand was not having the best night either, he was racking his brain on what was the next step to take for finding the four of you. He found himself staring at himself in the mirror talking to himself "You know I got to tell you, that's some catch phrase you got there, Devil's Rejects. What? You got something to say to me clown, huh. I bet you scare lots of folks, don't ya? Yeah, regular fuckiin' killer. You want a piece of this motherfucker? You want a piece of this? Huh, what you got! What you got! Lord I am your arm of justice. Lord I am your arm of justice. Lord I am your arm of justice. Your righteous sword of vengeance. Let my blows be true. From the illusion leads me to truth. From darkness leads me to light. From death leads me to eternal life."

"Ah sir? That guy you asked for is here" his deputy Ray Dobson knocked on the door to his office breaking him out of his trance. It was his deputy, who made the connection that the aliases the family members usually went by and their connection to the old Groucho Marx films. He also discovered that the Fireflies were associated with the local clowns celebrity Captain Spaulding. Hoping to gain some insight into this connection, Wydell brought in film critic Marty Walker for consultation.

The over the top Marty illustrated how each of the killers named themselves after characters played by Groucho Marx throughout the course of his career. Things between Wydell and Walker quickly became unsavory when the critic made a remark about Elvis Presley. Marty head scateched his head while looking at the clues pinned to the board "that goddamn fucking Elvis Presley." Sheriff Wydell looked up at him with his eyes wide and full of rage.

"What'd you say about the King?!" Marty was clearly taken aback by the sudden tone change and looked around at everyone else in the room before sputtering out "I said he died three days before Grouch…" Wydell walked very close to him, looked him deep in the eyes and slowly said "Marty... if you ever say another derogatory word about Elvis Aaron Presley I WILL KICK THE LIVING SHIT OUT OF YOU!".

"Boss don't you remember we had to run in with that guy Charlie not too long ago didn't he stay around with the guy named Spalding?" Ray quickly replied trying to defuse the situation. "Well goddamn you're right Ray… let's go pay Mr. Charlie boy a visit" he backed away from Marty and grabbed his hat. "Be seeing you Marty"

Spalding had told Charlie that if he went and bought some fresh chicken He whipped them up some fried chicken on the house as a thank you for letting them hide out there. Unbeknownst to Charlie Sheriff Wydell had spotted him leaving the funtown and heading towards the chicken stand. He corners Charlie and demands that he give up the three of them and if he had any information on where you were he needs to give that information up to or it would not end well for him.

He also asked him if he catches Otis in any compromising situations if he could snap a photo. It would be in his best interest. "I was also wondering," Wydell said, closing the car door a bit more on Charlie. He had closed his car door on Charlie's hands after instructing him to approach the vehicle once they cornered him in with their vehicle. "Is this girl with them by any chance? and I'm only going to give you one chance to answer me honestly" he held up a picture of you, Charlie shook his head viciously "no no naw she ain't with them gods truth man god's truth".. "god's truth hmm well you know where she is? I would like to have a little chat with her" Wydell replied. "Oh c'mon what's that lil girl gonna do" Charlie attempted to chuckle. "Hmm" Wydell said "looks can be deceiving, anyways tonight midnight I'll be seeing you". He released his hand and drove off in a cloud of dirt and smoke.

Back at the house unfortunately or fortunately depending on how you look at it for Otis, Candy was actually a very good masseuse and actually did just give him massage without reaching for his penis which is what he assumed was going to happen. His back was killing him from the hours of driving and that shit van they had stolen from the family back at the motel.

He also was holding a lot of stress in his shoulders from the anxiety of the plan not going his way and not having any word from you now for multiple days. Unfortunately now she wouldn't stop following him around which was starting to piss him off because one she was annoying and two his back was still hurting and he could have used another massage. "You sure you don't want another one I mean you passed out during yesterday's massage just let me do your shoulders just a little more" she said skipping toward him.

He wasn't sure if she was just trying to be nice or she was trying to wear him down to fuck her or something. He sat cleaning his knife while staring off into space thinking about you and when you gave this knife to him. You were in town with Baby and wandered into an antique store. You knew as soon as you saw it you had to have it.. he was overjoyed at the knife and vowed to never go anywhere without it.

"What took you all so long? You said you were just heading into town for some supplies tonight" He asked , slamming the screen door behind him and walking out towards the car. You had insisted on driving your mustang into town with Baby on a girl's trip while he was in the middle of a project. He was hesitant but he allowed it because he knew that you two could probably use some girl time, he wasn't the easiest to always be around.

"Oh shut up Don't know why you always got to be rushing people" Baby replied flipping her hair and strolling past Otis. "Fuck you" "no fuck you" "no fuck" "Hey!!" You yelled waving your hand in his face. "I took so long because I got you something, I saw it and I couldn't pass it up". You pulled out a dark paper bag and handed it to him. He looked inside and got silent, it was a large beautiful knife. Taking it out the bag he held it in his large hands and studied it closely. "Shit darlin this, this is beautiful..for me huh?" "Yeah of course!" "Why though?" He asked looking back at you with general confusion on his face. You walked over and stepped up on your tippy toes to softly kiss him. "Just wanted to do something nice because I love you". You said patting his chest and walking inside after Baby.

He stood there for a few more moments looking at the knife and tucking it in his boot. Once inside he grabbed you by the waist and kissed you deep. "Thanks.. ah.. I just don't know how to accept gifts, not used to 'em." "Well I'm glad you like it" you smiled up at him "had me worried for a second I was starting wonder if you didn't like it" "naw I love it it's going everywhere with me always" he said wrapping his long arms around you "just like you".

"Stop hovering woman!! If I need anything from you I'd ask now get" he huffed at her looking back to his knife. She stood for a moment and turned on her heels and headed away. Charlie headed back to the house trying to swallow the anxiety in his throat. He didn't want to betry the group but he also wanted to protect his business and livelyhood. He stopped at the liquor store and grabbed a bunch more bottles of Jack Daniels, might as well get them drunk and make this shit easier.

#otis driftwood #house of 1000 corpses #three from hell #otis driftwood x reader #otis firefly #thedevilsrejects #the devils rejects

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llewey-watts · 4 years ago

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Work in progress post:

Detective Watts Best Quotes

Concocting A Killer

Watts: “Ah, so you’re the one who botched it.” Murdoch: “Excuse me?”

Watts: “Well, that’s why I’m here, isn’t it?”

Brackenreid: “Listen, Detective Murdoch did nothing wrong. The Crown is just worried that Shanley may claim prejudice if the same detective reinvestigates the case.”

Watts: “Right, right, right. You’re just biased. The coroner’s the one who botched it. Coroners. Odd lot. Far from reliable to say the least. Not to mention the smell.”

Murdoch: “Our coroner has a flawless record. And she also happens to be my wife.”

Watts: “Good God, man. You’re married to the city coroner?”

Murdoch: “Yes.”

Watts: “Oof. Is she pretty? Ah, she’d have to be pretty. I don’t know how else you could tolerate being married to a colleague.”

“The streets of this fine city are my office.”

Crabtree: “Should I read these files?”

Watts: “Absolutely not. The less you know, the more pure you remain. From purity emerges truth. From truth emerges justice. Knowing nothing allows one to see everything.”

“Our mind is where we live our lives. The only home one needs is the human skull.”

Watts: “Oh, no. You interviewed a witness?”

Murdoch: “Oh, no. She called on me.”

Watts: “Your involvement was to cease entirely. Instead, it appears you are continuing to seek a conviction. And based on what? A visual test done 12 years ago by a neophyte coroner?”

Murdoch: “Dr. Ogden is my wife.”

Watts: “Which makes it all the more likely you’re blind to her mistakes. No, it appears this dinner was a poor idea. Good night Detective.”

Watts: “The detective was wrong.”

Ogden: “About what?”

Watts: “You’re not pretty.”

Ogden: “Excuse me?”

Watts: “Look at you. Classic, Romanesque bone structure, excellent physiognomic symmetry. You’re not pretty. You’re beautiful.”

Ogden: “Well, I suppose I’m flattered.”

Watts: “Why? It’s merely an objective assessment. But that necktie **shakes his head**.

“Honestly, Inspector, how does anyone work with this man? He is some kind of renegade to whom rules are a foreign concept.”

“Let’s suppose for a moment that Mr. Shanley is guilty of this current murder. Now, does that make him more or less likely to be guilty of the first? Are you the same man today you were yesterday? Your hair is not the same. You cut and discarded it. Same with your fingernails. Over time, our entire body falls away and is reconstituted. How, then, can you be the same? Oh, but our thinking changes with maturity, with experience. In truth, the continuity of personhood may be nothing more than a delusion. In fact, it makes me question our whole profession..."

“We need to get out of doors detective. The truth is in the air. We must **deep breath** breathe it in.”

“We both know you didn’t do it. — We have to blame someone. The function of the police is to attribute blame on behalf of the community, but the community doesn’t particularly care if we blame the right person. — Why not? Man has been using scapegoats since Leviticus. The sims were placed upon the goat, the goat was banished to the desert, but mo one cared that the goat was innocent.”

“The ignorami at Station One have done it again. I clearly told them to release the man who looks like Karl Marx. They’ve let out some fellow who’s as clean-shaven as bloody Kierkegaard.”

Hades Hath No Fury

“How could I have been so unaware? My sister was in distress, and I suspected nothing. Age is no excuse for inattention. -but, sir, you found her. Your sister’s alive.- Yes. So I’m at peace.”

“Yes. Well life is but a cruel sport for whatever maker you are forced to believe in. -Detective Watts I understand...- Would your sister forsake you for a house of women who have eschewed the world in which you live?-my sister was a nun.-“

“Truth is absolute, unyielding and eternal, Jackson. It is our one constant in a turbulent universe.”

“Your face is *pause* symmetrical, but that hat *shakes his head*”

Merlot Mysteries

Watts: “Wine is proof that God loves us and wants to see us happy.”

Murdoch: “I highly doubt that”

Watts: “Oh, you reject the words of Benjamin Franklin?”

Murdoch: “Even a clever man is capable of a bad idea. no. wine, like any alcohol, is a depressant. It hinders the mind.”

Watts: “Ah, but ‘in wine there is truth.’ -Pliny the Elder.”

Murdoch: “Writers and Philosophers are seldom the best of judges. Especially when it comes to alcohol.

Watts: “Well, no one less than Louis Pasteur called wine, ‘the most helpful and most hygienic of beverages.’ Is it that you don’t enjoy the taste?”

Murdoch: “Ah.”

“Oh. Wait right there. I’m going to show you how wrong you are.”

“‘Wine can of their wits the wise beguile, make the sage frolic, and a serious smile.’”

“In the words of Diogenes, ‘What I like to drink most is wine that belongs to others.’”

Murdoch: “Spectroscopic analysis.”

Watts: “Ah, yes. Not reliable in my experience. How’s it meant to help us?”

Murdoch: “By comparing the wine in question to the light profile of other varying ages, we’ll be able to discern precisely how old it is.”

Ogden: “The older the wine, presumably, the light the color, thanks to the blanching effect of sunlight.”

Watts: “Mm, but it was kept in a cellar. Depending on conditions, two bottles of the same provenance could be wildly different. There’s absolutely to way to determine —“

Murdoch: “Thank you, Detective. Please.”

Watts: “All right.”

Ogden: “Ready?”

Murdoch: “Yes.”

Ogden: “It’s 4.3.”

**Watts waiting + messing around.**

Ogden: “It’s 5.2. 8.5.”

Watts: “Well?”

Murdoch: “[Sighs] They are all different.”

Watts: “Really?”

Murdoch: “Every grape, every year, every bottle.”

Watts: “Hm, you don’t say.”

Murdoch: “It compares to an 1880 Merlot...a 1902 Tempranillo...and...several others.”

Ogden: “Well, I suppose you told us so, Detective.”

Murdoch: “All right. Call in your expert.”

Watts: “Uh, not my expert. My sommelier.”

The Talking Dead

“No one intends to get murder **scratches his beard** and yet.”

Crabtree: “Sir, are you not concerned that you yourself are marked for death?”

Watts: “Oh, I don’y like it, but the truth is death could come to any one of us any day.”

Crabtree: “Still, no need to hurry it along.”

Watts: “Well, very little of life is under our control. Very little death as well.”

Crabtree: “Watts, have you ever been to Paris?”

Watts: “Ah yes, The City of Light.”

Crabtree: “I thought that was Buffalo?”

Watts: “No, I believe Paris came up with it first. Why do you ask?”

Crabtree: “Nina’s involved with a show that’s preforming there. She wants me to go.”

Watts: “Forever?”

Crabtree: “No, no, just a short while.”

Watts: “Well, the world is only an oyster if you choose to open it.”

Crabtree: “So go to Paris today, for tomorrow I might die?”

Watts: “Precisely.”

Crabtree: “What about you? What would you do with your last day?”

Watts: “Just this. Talk to a friend.”

Crabtree: “Who? Oh me?”

Watts: “And solve a crime.This is what were looking for.”

Crabtree: “Brilliant.”

Watts: “The City of Love with a beautiful woman. You’d be a fool to say no.”

Crabtree: “Thought you said it was the City of Light.”

Watts: “Light. Love. Are they not one and the same?”

Crabtree: “I prefer to love with the lights off, sir. I fear I’m bashful.”

Crabtree à la Carte

“A shame. It looks terrific. I think I’ll go out for lunch. Anyone care to join me? —- This disappoints me. But I soldier on.”

“I’ll work with her. People are not to be defined merely by their words, thoughts, and actions.”

“KRRRKRRRKRRRSHING SHING SHING SHING SHING! a moleta.”

“[speaking Italian] RESPONDA TO ME!”

That man’s look tho.

Watts: “It may once again be safe, but I’m not sure I’ll ever regard meat with the same enthusiasm again.”

Cherry: “Perhaps you should stick to freshly butchered cuts.”

Watts: “I thought the same. Then I read up on the abattoir conditions in the stockyards.”

Cherry: “The Shelleys subscribed to a Pythagorean diet. Da Vinci too.”

Watts: “Pythagorean? You mean vegetarian?”

Cherry: “I do. ‘My body,’ said da Vinci, ‘will not be a tomb to other creatures.’”

Watts: “Yes. Yes, it’s the only way to live, isn’t it? Join me, Miss Cherry. From this day forward, we shall follow the ranks of all moral men in our strict adherence to vegetarianism.”

Cherry: “Uh, I don’t think so. What, are we cows?”

Murdoch Schmurdoch

“Are you being facetious?”

“**To Constable John Brackenreid** Let me guess, you invited a lady to accompany you on an outing and she declined. — I would counsel you to persevere. Ask again. As Lord Nelson wrote, ‘the boldest measures are the safest,’ although I suppose a woman is quite unlike a Danish Fleet. — Yes. Tread softly, Young Brackenreid. Let her know that if her inclination changes, your offer still stands.”

Game of Kings

Ogden: “I see. Well, I don’t much fancy being stared at for the next five months.”

Murdoch: “Julia...”

Ogden: “Inspector, I couldn’t help but notice that you and all of the men were staring at the us both. Is there something you’d like to ask?”

Brackenreid: “Uh, no.”

Ogden: “Constable Crabtree?”

Crabtree: “What? [Chuckles]”

Ogden: “Higgins?”

Higgins: “No, ma’am.”

Ogden: “What about you, Detective Watts? You seem like a curious fellow.”

Watts: “Well, there is one thing.”

Murdoch: “What is that?”

Watts: “When’s the baby coming?”

Crabtree: “Oh!”

Brackenreid: “Bloody hell, Watts! They wanted to keep it a secret.”

Watts: “How could they do that when everyone clearly knows what’s going on here?”

Free Falling

Watts: “One hopes this won’t put too much of a strain on their relationship.”

Crabtree: “How so?”

Watts: “In the face of great loss, emotions can be misdirected. Feelings amplified. I knew a young couple who experienced a similar issue. They never recovered.”

Watts: “The secret to dealing with gruesome remains is to replace natural instinct with logic.”

Constable Brackenreid: “Okay. How?”

Watts: “Consider an ant. Imagine you trod upon one, crushing it, and leaving it’s body mangled beyond recognition. Now, does this disturb you?”

Constable Brackenreid: “Not really.”

Watts: “Exactly. So we simply apply the transitive law. If we are not disturbed by an ant, there is no reason to be disturbed by a beetle. If not by a beetle, then not by a caterpillar. Nor a butterfly, nor a sparrow, nor a fish, nor a rabbit, not a dog...nor a human. What we have here, then, is no more disturbing than the squashed remains of an ant.”

Hart: “What’s this?”

Watts: “A reminder of the inhumanity of man, Miss Hart.”

Hart: “How poetic.”

Watts: “Constable? It seems something’s troubling you.”

Crabtree: “How so?”

Watts: “There’s an expression on your face that suggests you have a thought in your head.”

Crabtree: “Do you remember I asked you about visiting Paris?”

Watts: “No.”

Crabtree: “And then I was away for some time?”

Watts: “No.”

Crabtree: “No. Well, in any case, I did. I went to Paris with Nina.”

Watts: “Mm.”

Crabtree: “And she wants to go again, but for good.”

Watts: “So you’re considering leaving us all behind?”

Crabtree: “I don’t want to. My whole life is here. But I could imagine a life there. I don’t know. If I...If I don’t go, I lose Nina. If I do, I lose everything else that’s dear to me.”

Watts: “One loss doesn’t outweigh the other?”

Crabtree: “The enormity of either seems too great to contemplate.”

Watts: “Oof. Well...I can’t give you any advice. But I can tell you what I know. I know that we spend our whole lives holding on to what we have. We fear loss as much as death itself. But without loss, there is no change. Without change, there is no? Life.”

Crabtree: “Detective. You realize there’s nothing written on the blackboard, right?”

Watts: “Uh, yes, but it provides a frame of reference.”

Crabtree: “Ah.”

Brothers Keepers

“Of course I’m not certain. Memories are fragmentary impressions at best. The mind moves like a flock of starlings. It’s hard to pin down a thought, let alone a memory.”

“Did I have reason? Nigel Baker tortured and killed a man I...A man who was in every way my brother. Someone who deserved my protection. I had ample reason to kill Nigel Baker. But as I have already made clear, I didn’t recognize him. So did I kill him with intention? No. Am I sorry he’s dead? No, I’m not. To be honest, even if given the chance to exact my revenge, I’m not sure I’m capable of it. Obviously, my philosophy rejects that very idea. No one asks to be the way they are, not even boys like Nigel Baker.”

In reference to justice being found:

Watts: “Where is that to be found? I’ve been asking myself that. To be honest, I’m unable to think of much else.

Murdoch: “You seek justice.”

Watts: “I crave it. If I could, I would demand it. I want the man who killed my brothers to feel their pain. To feel my grief at what he did to them. But he’s dead. At the hand of his father. Did he even know why? And now the father will likely hang. Is that justice?

Brackenreid: “Of a sort, I suppose.”

Watts: “Then why don’t I feel better?”

Annabella Cinderella

Constable Brackenreid: “Do you think I’ll get a chance to meet him?”

Crabtree: “Who? The lawyer? What do you want to meet him for?”

Constable Brackenreid: “I-I followed the trial. I felt sorry for her.”

Crabtree: “John, she killed her mother with an ax.”

Constable Brackenreid: “Harriet Rawlins wasn’t her mother. Annabella was a home child.”

Crabtree: “So that makes it alright?”

Constable Brackenreid: “She was beaten and tortured. Her home sister admitted as much.”

Crabtree: “The home sister that Annabella then tried to murder?”

Constable Brackenreid: “Rosemary Rawlins was abusive as well.”

Watts: “That’s what made it such a brilliant defense. The victim was painted as a villain, the villain painted as a victim. Annabella Cinderella.”

Crabtree: “So you’re a fan of the lawyer as well?”

Constable Brackenreid: “He took her case for free.”

Watts: “Oh, nobody’s motives are purely altruistic. It’s all in the service of his political aspirations. He running for mayor, don’t you know?”

Crabtree: “Thank you very much, Detective Watts, for everything. You as well, Mr. Daniels.”

Constable Brackenreid: “And I’m terribly sorry about all of this.”

Watts: “Of course you’re sorry. It doesn’t change anything, so why waste energy in saying it?”

Constable Brackenreid: “Does Detective Murdoch know?”

Watts: “No, he doesn’t. And that’s not the question you should be asking right now.”

Constable Brackenreid: “Sorry, I...”

Watts: “Nope.”

Constable Brackenreid: “W-What is?”

Lawyer: “How do we find her?”

Watts: “Ah. On the train over, I went through the file from the Crown prosecutor. There’s one more person we should protect.”

Lawyer: “Who’s that?”

Watts: “The doctor who filed the death certificate and attended the case.”

Lawyer: “Dr. Beattie was never called to testify.”

Watts: “He provided evidence that helped convict her.”

Lawyer: “Good point. Let’s go.”

Watts: “No. You stay. **waves gun in the air** This is police business. All right.”

Constable Brackenreid: “I’m not saying she’s innocent. I just pointed out that there are other people who may have wanted to kill her mother.”

Watts: “Which, if they did, would ipso facto make her innocent.”

Crabtree: “Did she say she was innocent?”

Constable Brackenreid: “She did, yes.”

Watts: “‘Twas ever thus.”

Constable Brackenreid: **opens the door** “Oh, my God.”

Watts: “Still think she’s so innocent?”

Constable Brackenreid: “This is my fault.”

Crabtree: “It’s jot your fault, John.”

Watts: “Losing the prisoner was your fault. This is merely a consequence. One cannot be accountable for every consequence, because the consequences of every action are infinite.”

Constable Brackenreid: “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

Watts: “Your feelings are irrelevant. It’s simply the truth of it.”

Crabtree: “It does confirm our fears. The girl’s out for bloody revenge.”

#llewellyn watts #murdoch mysteries #jack walker #george crabtree appreciation society #detective watts #quotes

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one-leaf-grimoire · 4 years ago

Text

"the knight who pierced the king's heart"

Chapter 5

Synopsis: Things don't go as planned and Julius makes a last stand. But maybe things aren't as serious as he thinks

Pairing: Julius x Lisa

WARNING: I have no self control so I wrote a spicy version of this chapter... it will only be in the AO3 version which can be found here

“JULIUS! What on earth are you doing in there?!”

Once again, Marx was yelling at his superior, banging on his bedroom door. Julius said it would take maybe 10 minutes to get ready, which went along with Marx’s plan for the day, but now it had been 15- five minutes was an eternity to the advisor. “The captains will be here in FIVE minutes! You better not be late-”

“I’m here, I’m ready!” Julius quickly opened the door, dressed in all his usual finery. If this meeting wasn’t a required monthly event, he wouldn’t be holding it. The kingdom was at peace, and there was plenty that he would rather do than talk about preparations for future war. He had seen enough of that stuff already. “You’re a tyrant, you know?”

“I have to be! Look who I have to babysit!” Marx snapped, turning away to lead Julius down the hall. Julius trudged along behind him, his mind already wandering. “Luckily for you, the meeting should be short.”

“Yeah…”

It had been two weeks since that day on the hill, and Julius had managed to sneak away five more times. Marx was still under the impression that Julius’s love interest was a noblewoman from one of the districts father from the castle, and so far that had kept him at bay. However, this whole time, Lisa still had seemingly no idea who Julius really was; and that was a problem.

I really have to tell her next time. Otherwise she’s going to hate me afterwards… in fact, maybe she’ll hate me no matter what. I am kind of lying to her after all-

That was what Julius was most afraid of. Every moment he spent with Lisa made him realize that his place wasn’t here rotting away in the castle; his place was by her side. But, if anyone knew, the two of them would be forced apart for sure. Julius was born into a noble family with a pure bloodline, but Lisa came from a small town in the woods, in the far reaches of the kingdom. To some, she had about as much worth as dirt. Becoming a knight earned her respect from some nobles such as Fuegoleon, but others would just see her as a pawn to be thrown aside in the next war. If anyone knew about the two of them, it would be over.

And when she finds out about me, she’ll have to realize what danger she’s in…

Anyone in their right mind would leave him. Julius knew he would. But in the end, something intangible outweighed that fear in his mind. He would rather have Lisa leave than not know who he really was… and how much Julius appreciated her in bringing out his true self.

But, first he had to get through today. Julius was in front of Marx now, walking up the staircase to the meeting rooms. His mind was fully occupied with problems. Fuegoleon will be here… maybe Sei too. They might recognize me from the party, that wouldn’t be good…

Unfortunately for Julius, there was a larger problem that he was not prepared for.

(An hour beforehand)

“Honestly! You really are trying to get hurt again, aren’t you? Sei, why are you encouraging this?”

Lisa tensed up at the voice before turning around to see, of course, Fuegoleon storming towards her. She had to withhold a groan. She appreciated how compassionate Fuegoleon was towards her and all his other knights, but sometimes his doting was a bit much. “I’m not getting hurt! Sei’s helping me train my right arm.” Lisa held up the Rapier in her right hand to show him. “Since my left is out of commission, I decided to try and become ambidextrous! The enemy will never see it coming!”

Fuegoleon frowned, glancing at Sei for an explanation. Sei shrugged, sheathing his own sword. “I thought it was a good idea. I’m supervising, anyway.”

“...I suppose that’s alright then. But-” Fuegoleon cleared his throat. “We have a captain’s meeting in an hour, Sei. We need to get going if we’re going to make it on time. Oh… and-” He looked at Lisa. “If you’d like to come, you’re free to do so. You’ve never been in the castle, have you?”

Lisa’s eyes lit up. “Not yet! I can really come?”

“Of course! Come on.”

Lisa grinned, excited, quickly sheathing her sword at her side. “Could this day get any better?”

Fuegoleon laughed a little at her enthusiasm before starting to walk. “You’ve been in an awfully good mood lately, it can’t be all the chores I’m having you do.”

“Nope! Well… I’ve had more free time lately because of this injury. I’m…”

Lisa smiled to herself, blushing a little.

“...I’m getting to do some things I never thought I would have time to do.”

Sei walked behind them both, and his eyes narrowed a little as he listened to Lisa’s words.

Yeah… she’s definitely still seeing that weird guy who looks exactly like the King, isn’t she? Well… I guess we’ll find out for sure once we get to the castle.

(Back to the present)

Marx was still talking on and on about something, probably a possible plan for the meeting. Julius was not listening, his eyes fixed on the tile floor ahead of him. They were almost to the meeting room, the entry hall was just up ahead. Voices could be heard from beyond, just around the corner. Captains were here already, and from the sound of it, Fuegoleon was just arriving. Uh oh… alright. No matter what, I just have to stay calm-

“LISA! Slow down, it’s not a race!”

Right as Julius stepped out into the hallway, he heard that name and his entire world froze.

LISA?! No way- she can’t be here-

He was cut off as someone smaller than him ran right into his side, having been walking at a very fast pace. Julius gasped and stumbled, his heart pounding. No, that must be a mistake, why would she be here-

He realized that he knocked the person completely to the ground. He turned and finally looked down, and his fear was confirmed: it was Lisa, blinking and getting her bearings after the shocking collision. Almost in slow motion, her gaze rose up to his, and they locked eyes.

It wasn’t immediate, but recognition hit her like a shockwave. Lisa’s eyes blew wide open, and her jaw dropped.

Oh god oh fuck-

“LISA! I told you not to run, and- oh god-” Fuegoleon froze when he realized who was standing there. “Y-Your majesty, I’m very sorry! Lisa- get up-”

Lisa was petrified, and so was Julius. Finally, she closed her mouth, swallowing thickly. She was obviously at a loss for words, and Julius couldn’t glean her inner thoughts. She was shut off, her face pale and stony. Was she scared? Angry? Shocked? He couldn’t tell. Julius didn’t know what to do, other than hold out his hand and try to conjure up a weak smile.

“...my apologies… I didn’t hurt your arm, did I?”

Slowly, Lisa shook her head, reaching out to take his hand. Gently, he pulled her back to her feet. With his heart pounding a million miles a minute, Julius gave her hand a subtle squeeze, hoping to provide some small comfort in this moment.

It’s me… it’s still me, Lisa…

To his dismay, Lisa pulled her hand back quickly, her face reddening. She averted her eyes and suddenly bowed her head deeply.

“I-I-I-I-I’m so sorry!!! I should have been watching where I was going, please forgive me, sir-”

Sir. The word shot an arrow into Julius’s heart.

“Come on, Lisa.”

Lisa straightened up, still not meeting Julius’s eyes, and walked off with Sei. Fuegoleon sighed before looking at Julius again. “Forgive me, your majesty, this is her first time in the castle.”

“No harm done.” Julius gave him a strained smile before walking by to the meeting room.

This… this isn’t how I wanted it to happen… I messed up.

The meeting was… awkward, to say the least. Julius tried to focus on his plan, talking more than he usually would for a routine meeting. But he kept glancing towards the corner of the room behind Fuegoleon. Sei leaned against the wall casually, his arms crossed, while Lisa was standing completely straight, her free hand clenched at her side. The poor girl was white as a sheet, staring blankly at the back of Fuegoleon’s head. Once, Julius’s eyes met hers, and both of them looked away immediately.

Fuck… what am I supposed to do???

He was supposed to have another date with her tomorrow, but he wouldn’t have been surprised if she skipped it. So, if he was going to get the chance to talk to her and possibly salvage the situation, it would have to be today, before she left.

“Alright! That’s all for the meeting, you’re free to go!”

Julius nearly jumped in his seat as Marx spoke up. The captains started to get up, heading towards the door. Without another thought, Julius jumped to his feet. “WAIT! Um-”

Great. Now everyone was staring at him. Julius drew in a breath. Come on… I have to fight for this. I messed up, but that doesn’t mean I can’t fix this! With all the courage in his body, he locked eyes with Lisa again, determined.

“Everyone… I would like you to all stay for dinner.”

Marx frowned. “What?!”

Julius nearly kicked him under the table. “I know it’s not planned, but now that we’re at peace, I don’t have as much time to talk to you guys… so all of you are going to have dinner with me at six!”

Marx frowned, but seemed to have calmed down. “Very well… please, feel free to spend the next two hours here in the castle. We’ll have dinner ready then.”

Julius didn’t take his eyes off of Lisa, and for once, she didn’t look away either. She bit her lip nervously, her hand clenching once again.

“I don’t know what you’re on about, but now I have a twenty person dinner to arrange!” Marx hissed at Julius as soon as they left the room. “Try to behave yourself, and don’t be late!!!”

“I know, I know, thank you, Marx!!!” Julius waved before racing off down the hallway he saw Fuegoleon go. I don’t have much time, I have to get Lisa by herself; she must know why I suddenly announced the dinner. Will she actually want to talk to me though?

He slowed down and peered around a corner, spotting the three CLK knights up ahead.

“I-I’m going to the bathroom-” Lisa said, her voice a little shaky still. “Go on without me, I’ll explore on my own.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Alright then. Don’t get in trouble! Come on, Sei.” Fuegoleon took his husband’s hand, and they walked off out of sight. Before Julius could emerge from behind the corner, Lisa dashed into the bathroom, shutting the door behind her.

Uh oh… Julius walked over, standing outside the door. I can’t go in… this is the girl’s bathroom. So I have to wait…

Meanwhile, on the inside, Lisa splashed her face with water, her hands trembling. With a shallow exhale, she straightened up to look at herself in the mirror. This is weird… that was Julius… Julius was actually the king?! She shook her head a little, her heart pounding hard. Is this some kind of joke? How could he actually like me?!

Lisa closed her eyes, trying to make sense of it all.

I don’t remember much about the awards ceremony… I was dizzy and in pain after my injury. I could hardly see his face when I kissed his ring, but I feel like I should have known…

Finally, she opened her eyes again, staring at her reflection.

I thought I found something special… why does everything have to be so complicated?

But… I suppose… this twist just makes it even more “special.”

Maybe this means that I’m actually “special,” too.

The door swung open, and Lisa stepped out again. Julius straightened up from where he was leaning on the wall, waiting for her. The two of them stood there in silence for a moment. Miraculously, Lisa seemed almost… relaxed… at least more relaxed than Julius was.

“... hi…”

Lisa stepped towards him, obviously nervous but more confident. “You wanted to talk, right?”

Julius nodded, and tentatively held out his hand. “Yeah… this way.”

Lisa did not take his hand.

Uh oh… uh oh… Julius’s anxiety was reaching a fever pitch. His hand hung by his side, feeling very cold and empty without her hand in it. She’s totally ready to rip me apart, isn’t she? I deserve it- I’m so sorry Lisa- what am I even supposed to say?!!?

He opened the door to a side room, and let her go inside first.

Staying calm is out of the question…

He stepped inside after her, and the door shut behind him.

I don’t want to lose her- is there anything I can do to-

Julius suddenly stopped thinking. It took him a moment to realize why: Lisa had immediately turned around and threw her arm around his middle, burying her face into his chest.

...AH?! Is this a good thing!?!?

She inhaled once, deeply, then looked up at him. Julius’s cheeks heated up when he saw the smile on her face.

“You feel the same… even like this…”

It was only after she closed her eyes and pressed her ear against his chest once again that Julius realized that maybe everything was actually going to be okay.

...thank goodness… Lisa…

He let his own arms wrap around her, but as soon as they did, she stepped back, anger flickering in her gaze. “BUT! You have some explaining to do!!!” Lisa glared up at him. “You’re the KING?!?! That’s like, first date information!!! Why didn’t you tell me?!”

Julius laughed nervously, not quite down from his anxious high. “I… I thought it would scare you away… I also didn’t mean to get so involved-”

“Scare me? Nothing scares me!” Lisa cracked a grin. “I’m kind of hurt that you kept it a secret, though…”

“I know, that was stupid of me.” Julius winced a little. “I’m very sorry… I didn’t know how you would react.”

“That’s fair, I guess… I’m glad that I know now. Even if it happened unexpectedly.”

Both of them laughed at that, melting the ice between them. Julius sighed with relief, walking over to the window. Lisa followed, her eyes still glued to his face. The two of them leaned on the sill for a while in silence, sides pressed together as they just soaked up this moment.

“Julius…”

“Yeah?”

He looked down to see her gaze locked on something outside. She seemed oddly… sad, and the realization made Julius’s stomach clench.

“...this isn’t a joke, right?”

His eyes widened.

“What? Of course not… why would I joke about something like this?”

Lisa shrugged, avoiding his eyes once again. “I don’t know… I…” She shook her head, not sure what to say next. “...I never thought anyone would like me like this… and now you are… I just… I don’t know whether to believe it.” Her voice wavered a little, starting to show cracks of her emotion. “You’re the King… you’re amazing and kind and regal and sexy-” Julius raised an eyebrow. “-and you like me?! I don’t understand.”

“Lisa…” Julius reached out, placing his hand on top of hers. Lisa finally looked up at him, and he saw tears in her eyes for the first time. “I know it hasn’t been that long since we met, but I’ve never felt more comfortable than during the time we spent together… I don’t really know how to describe it. But I know you were right.” He smiled at her, a soft, comforting smile that he hoped would put her heart at ease.

“We were meant to meet each other.”

Lisa’s hand shifted slightly, her fingers weaving with his. Her lips melted into a smile, and she let out a little chuckle. “I guess… but-” She batted her eyelashes at him. “You need to convince me a little better~”

“That sounds like a fun challenge…”

It felt natural to kiss her once again. Natural and perfect....

Julius... thank you...

Lisa... thank you.

#tkwptkh #fic #knight au #julisa #julius novachrono #oc: lisa #bc oc #julius novachrono x reader #julius novachrono x oc

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jaskierrrrrr · 5 years ago

Note

After reading the last prompt i was so stuck on Jaskier's warm hand squeezing Geralt's before he sleeps. I just want it again, Jaskier grabbing Geralt's wrist or hand warmly, going to move away, but then Geralt grabbing it back and asking him to stay. Cuddling or Jaskier playing with his hair or idk just something soft between them??? Your writing is beautiful thank you for sharing it with us.

*Dear Anon, I am so sorry this took so long! This was such a good prompt and I wanted to get it right! Had a pretty bad case of writer’s block for the past few weeks, so if you’ve sent me a prompt, I am working on it, I promise! ( @immrssebastianstanwp yours will be up soon I swear!!!) Enjoy <3*

***

Yennefer’s long gone, Borch has silently slipped away, and apart from the cruel words he’d yelled at Jaskier ringing in his ears, Geralt sits in silence, alone at the top of the mountain. He’s completely lost track of time- he could have been sitting there for hours. The anger that had been fuelling him has drained away, leaving only the bitter taste of regret and guilt. Guilt because he hadn’t told Yennefer the truth about his wish before he was forced to, regret about the words he hurled at Jaskier, who’d looked liked he’d been punched in the stomach.

And he would know, Geralt thinks miserably, tossing a pebble over the ragged cliff. He tries to tell himself that this is for the best; he should never have gotten involved in the first place, not with a dangerous sorceress or a fragile human who seemed incapable of not getting into danger.

He doesn’t believe it, mainly because he just wants a hug, and the only person who’s ever given him one is probably long gone by now.

He hadn’t realised how used he’d gotten to Jaskier’s touch until it wasn’t there anymore. There was a time, before Jaskier, when he’d almost forgotten what it was like to be touched in a non-threatening manner when it wasn’t absolutely necessary. Even those who didn’t show him outright hatred, those who were kind enough to offer him a bed or hot food still shrank back as he approached; those who paid him for slaying a monster prefered to toss his earnings at his feet rather than risk coming into contact with him.

But then, his path collided with Jaskier, who’s unlike anyone he’s ever met in so many ways. Not only was he happy to converse with Geralt like they were old friends, seemingly unafraid of Geralt’s swords and menacing expression, he’s also the only person Geralt can remember not being afraid to touch him. He hadn’t expected it; although he learnt that Jaskier was a very tactile person, always clasping at shoulders or shaking hands, he never imagined Jaskier would do the same for him.

It had been raining in Posada for what felt like days. After a few hours of travel with little progress made, they finally gave in and found room for the night in a small, crowded tavern not dissimilar to the one they first met in. Despite the large number of patrons, all seeking shelter from the downpour, they managed to find seats close to the fire. Just when Geralt’s clothes were dry enough to stop clinging to his skin, a young bard with all of Jaskier’s enthusiasm but a fraction of his talent began warbling at a pitch that set Geralt’s teeth on edge. Seeing the scowl on his face, Jaskier laughed merrily.

‘See, I told you not to take my singing for granted!’ As he spoke, he extended an arm and clapped his hand on Geralt’s shoulder. Geralt flinched, caught off guard, but found himself almost immediately leaning into the touch. Feeling almost uncertain, his eyes flicked to Jaskier’s, but the bard didn’t mention it, just moved steadily on to a new topic, perhaps letting his warm fingers rest on Geralt’s shirt a fraction longer than necessary.

Geralt didn’t say anything about it, and Jaskier, to his eternal credit, didn’t ask. Over the coming weeks, however, he seemed to test his boundaries. He started off hesitant at first, as if he was afraid it was unwanted. Geralt remembers how lucky he felt as to have someone like Jaskier, someone so open with his affection but also mindful of other people’s boundaries. And now he’d thrown it away, perhaps forever.

It took a while for Jaskier to gain confidence and Geralt to relax, but gradually they moved on from casual and fleeting touches to something more significant.

Geralt remembers how at first he tried to tell himself that he only let it happen because it was practical, like when Jaskier grabbed his wrist if he saw a potential danger- it was useful to have some way of distinguishing when Jaskier actually tells him something important. But it got harder to deny the truth, especially after Jaskier started offering to wash his hair when it was matted and tangled with blood and guts and Lord knows what else, his fingers gently digging into his scalp as he softly sang to himself, or when Geralt woke in the middle of the night to find Jaskier pressed against his side, sleeping soundly on the forest floor.

It’s only because it’s cold, he told himself, ignoring the strange feeling in his stomach. As Jaskier clumsily threw an arm over his chest, still sound asleep, Roach snorted softly.

Eventually, he started to reciprocate the touch. It was partly selfish, because the last thing he wanted was for Jaskier to stop reaching out, but more because he knew Jaskier too is comforted by touch. He’d seen it in the pleased expression when a pretty girl touched his knee, all the tension draining from his shoulders, or in the way he smiled when patrons of a tavern clapped him on the shoulder after a particularly lively performance.

But that smile had been nothing compared to the wide grin that appeared on Jaskier’s face if Geralt hauled him to his feet and dusted him down after he tripped over yet again, or the soft smile that slowly appeared when Geralt cleaned and dressed a wound on his arm by firelight.

He feels sick to his stomach when he thinks he might never see that smile again. It’s the thought of that that finally shakes him from his reverie. He knows Jaskier doesn’t hold grudges- well, not usually- and as he isn’t Valdo fucking Marx, he knows an apology is all Jaskier really needs. Aware that time is against him, he rises to his feet and starts packing his gear.

A twig cracks behind him, and he’s so preoccupied with the thought of Jaskier that he drops his sword and spins round, only to be met with what appears to be a standing corpse, caked in dried blood and dust, like it’s been dragged across the ground. Geralt has just enough time to recognise the eyes full of anger, just enough time to think how the fuck are you still alive before the Reaver plunges a dagger into his side. Grunting in pain and shock, he kicks out at the Reaver, who collapses in the dust. Geralt grabs his sword, and this time he makes sure the fucker’s definitely dead. Panting, he straightens up. The adrenaline deserts him; his sword, now heavy in his hand, falls to the ground. He puts a hand around the dagger and is alarmed at how hot the skin feels. Poison. Fast acting too, judging by how dizzy he feels.

‘Fuck,’ he says, and the ground rushes up to meet him.

***

When he opens his eyes, he nearly yells out in shock at the sight of lurid green scales and a forked tail, before he recognises the milky eyes of the dead dragon. He doesn’t remember making it as far as the cave, but as he looks down, he realises he didn’t, and that the weight on his arm is from a familiar head of brown curls. As if he’s sensed Geralt’s looking at him, Jaskier shifts, blinking heavily up at him. When his eyes focus, he sits up abruptly, pulling away. For once he’s speechless, the expression on his face unreadable.

‘This is cozy,’ Geralt rumbles.

The corner of Jaskier’s mouth quirks up. ‘Yeah, well it’s not exactly easy lugging around a massive Witcher who’s helpfully fallen unconscious,’ Jaskier retorts.

Geralt sits up, grimacing at the bitter taste in his mouth. Wordlessly, Jaskier passes him a flask of water. ‘How come you found me?’

Jaskier hesitates, biting at his lip. ‘I figured someone should wait with Roach, but when a few hours passed, I thought I should check on you. And it’s just as well I did,’ he says, rising to stoke the fire, ‘And that I thought to bring your potions, or you’d be a lot less talkative right now.’

‘Thank you,’ says Geralt, sincere.

‘Hmm,’ says Jaskier. ‘I killed that Reaver too, don’t worry.’ He bites his lip again, but this time it’s because he’s struggling to keep a straight face.

‘I’m pretty sure he was already dead, Jaskier.’

Jaskier turns to look at him. ‘Well, better to be on the safe side.’

There’s a pregnant, uncomfortable pause.

Geralt swallows another mouthful of water. ‘Jaskier-’ he starts.

‘It’s fine.’

‘I’m sorry.’

It’s insufficient, and he knows it. He’s fully expecting Jaskier to tell him to fuck off, but instead the bard walks back towards him and pulls him into an embrace. Geralt’s arms come up around Jaskier’s back, and he exhales a shaky breath of relief as Jaskier mumbles into his shoulder.

‘I know. I forgive you,’ Jaskier says, and as his arms tighten around his shoulders, Geralt smiles. He’s never letting go again.

#fics #my writing #prompts #geraskier #thanks for such a good prompt #anonymous #hope you guys like this!!!!#and that you're all safe and well

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lifeaftermeteor · 4 years ago

Text

Private Island [location redacted] Fiji, South Pacific 18 August 211

Relena stood before the mirror as her mother secured the string of pearls around her neck.

As Mareen stepped away with an appreciative hum, Relena took a moment to study her reflection. Her honey blond hair had been twisted into soft curls and then pinned up to prevent the sea breeze catching them. Her dress was short and only came to her knees, layered with tulle and lace. Her shoes were simple but stylish, fitting for their private event and a day at the beach. She smiled and turned to face her entourage, placing her hands on her hips and striking a pose. “What do you think?”

Amidst the unanimous approval, there was a knock at the door. “Come in,” Relena answered, smoothing her hands down the dress.

At the entreaty, Heero stepped into the room but stopped short, eyes wide at the sight of her. “Wow,” he managed, but didn’t move from where he stood.

“Come in, Heero,” Mareen told him, and Heero—seemingly embarrassed, judging by the pinched look on his face—quickly shut the door as instructed.

He took a few hesitant steps forward and opened his mouth to say something...but nothing came and so he snapped it shut once more. Relena watched the muscles in his jaw twitch a moment longer before she closed the distance that separated them. Only then did she register the glass bottle clutched in one of his hands. She smiled at it and took his free hand in hers.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, voice soft, almost reverent.

Relena bit her lip and smiled as she felt her cheeks start to burn. “Thank you,” she said and gave his hand a squeeze.

They studied each other for a time, both of them wound up with emotions they couldn’t name. But then Heero took a shuddering breath and seemed to gather his composure once more. “For you,” he said, passing her the bottle.

Relena took it with a soft laugh and opened it, unfurling the message.

---

Ich liebe dich

---

She read the words [1] and felt herself tearing up. Sniffling, she crossed to a nearby chair and sat down, taking several deep breaths amidst the concerned queries from her friends and family around her. They were getting married. He loved her. He loved her and they were getting married...today. Relena looked up to find Heero’s blue eyes looking a bit tearful as well. “I love him,” she told him, “so much.”

Heero replied, “I know. So does he.”

Relena nodded and closed her eyes, taking several deep breaths to calm herself while the others waited quietly. She was thankful for it. She didn’t think she would be able to keep herself together if they had swarmed her with their love and assurances. Taking a deep breath, she dabbed carefully at her eyes and twisted open the pen. “Sally, Heero. I’m going to need help with the reply.”

*****

Wufei glanced up as the door to their de facto dressing room opened and Heero entered, shutting it behind him and holding the glass bottle aloft. “You were gone longer than I thought you’d be. Sorry about that.”

“No, that was on me,” Heero said, shaking his head. “Mostly.”

“‘Mostly?’” Wufei asked, an eyebrow quirking at his runner as he approached.

Heero gave him a secretive smile as he passed Wufei the bottle. “You’ll see soon enough.”

Wufei watched him with wary eyes as Heero turned away and walked across the room. He took a seat near Trowa who was going over the final technical checks of his camera while Quatre hovered at his shoulder watching the process unfold.

Left to his own devices for a time, Wufei uncorked the bottle and unspooled the note. Relena had responded to his earlier sentiment in kind. [2]

---

我爱你

---

They were the tentative strokes of a novice and yet Wufei couldn’t tear his eyes away, warmth spreading through his chest and into his cheeks. She loves me, he thought, overcome.

From behind, thin arms wrapped around his waist and a pointed chin rested on his shoulder. Wufei’s grin widened. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Duo echoed, clearly reading the note too.

“She writes like you,” Wufei teased, trying to stave off the tears that pricked at the back of his eyes.

Duo snorted. “No awards for penmanship,” he said, giving Wufei a squeeze before withdrawing.

*****

The group had assembled on the first floor balcony, which overlooked the plantation gardens below. Chairs had been brought outside from the house and adorned with flowers from the landscape that surrounded them, lined up in short rows to form a makeshift aisle that led to the porch railing. The wedding party had all foregone color-coded attire, but Wufei’s entourage had dressed sharply in vests and slacks all the same.

At the end of the short aisle that connected the house to the bannister, Wufei fidgeted and Duo smirked from where he stood beside him. The moment before the moment of truth was always infinitely more painful. And Wufei was never really one for patience.

Duo let his eyes wander to the other guests while seconds ticked by. Trowa flitted about, snapping photos while Quatre had tucked himself in securely at Heero’s side. Hilde meanwhile was chatting amicably with Sally and Une. Mareen and Noin were presumably just inside with the bride. He smiled again and tightened his grip on the materials in his arms as a stray breeze swept across the balcony.

As it died down once more, the double doors that led back into the house opened and Relena stepped outside into the warm afternoon sun. Dress soft and delicate, smile wide, she was a sight to see. To his left, Wufei expelled a shuddering breath and Duo chanced a glance his way. The man was starstruck, cheeks flushed and eyes tearful and Relena approached down the aisle, a small bouquet of flowers clutched in her hands. She had eyes only for her fiance. Duo grinned. “Hold it together,” he hissed at Wufei, whose only visible reaction was to snap his mouth shut.

A small eternity swept up the aisle with Relena as she walked, and yet time seemed to rush up to them like a tidal surge. What had been ‘future’ was suddenly ‘now’ and as Wufei took Relena’s hand in his, bringing her up beside him, Duo swallowed down the familiar taste of panic.

Instead, he grinned through it and snuffed it out before it could take him. He smiled wide and welcoming as the two lovebirds struggled to remember that there was in fact a ceremony to be had. Duo took that as his cue to begin. “I don’t think I have to tell anyone why we’re here today, so we’ll skip that part of this morning’s daily briefing if that’s alright with you.” The comment earned knowing chuckles from the guests and good natured eye rolls from the couple before him.

“I will say, however, that out of everyone here to share today with you, I’m the lucky one who actually gets to marry you. That’s a high honor coming from you both—one I didn’t anticipate—so thank you, for your trust.

“Thank you also for adding a new qualification to my resume, since I did have to get certified for this in order for it to be legal under ESUN law, after all. I took this task very seriously. I even studied! I studied harder for this than I think I ever have before,” he said and finally righted the materials he had till now clutched to his chest, revealing a stack of books. They were dog-eared with colored page markers sticking out in every conceivable direction, and included a menagerie of materials. Half a dozen religious texts intermingled with the likes of Sun Tzu, Karl Marx, and Plato.

Incredulous laughter at the collection burst first between the couple and then outward across the guests to others. As their mirth simmered down once more, Duo said in all seriousness, “But when have any of us ever played by the book?” In the expectant silence that followed his question, he looked first at Relena, then at Wufei….and after a beat, chucked the books over his shoulder and the balcony railing behind him to fall with much commotion into the underbrush below.

Dusting his hands off, he settled his gaze once again at the couple before him. “So here’s the real deal…”

*****

“That was an excellent speech. I thought for sure Wufei would cry before he even got to his vows,” Sally said, sipping champagne as she watched the newlyweds slow dance on the stone patio in the garden, lost in their own world.

“It was an excellent speech,” Mareen agreed. She turned to Heero then and gently probed. “Relena tells me you’re a writer. So...be honest. How much of the ceremony was Duo and how much did you help with?”

Heero shook his head. “That was all Duo.” He took a sip of his own drink and added, “He wrote four different versions. Ended up delivering a fifth.” He squinted into the empty space before him, thinking. “I’m beginning to wonder why his creative process requires such levels of improvisation.”

Trowa chuckled where he loitered nearby. “Don’t know what you need till you get there,” he answered, hefting his camera and aiming it in their direction. “Smile you three. But not in a fake way,” he instructed, snapping the shutter closed a second later.

*****

“I wasn’t sure if you’d make it,” Quatre said as he took a seat on one of the garden benches next to Duo.

Duo huffed a dry laugh. “I could say the same about you,” he said, throwing back the rest of the contents of his glass before leveling Quatre with a face that spoke to his concern. “You looked a little peaked earlier. You alright?”

Quatre nodded with a sigh. “Yes, I’m fine. It’s just…” He waved his hand before him, non-committal and aimless.

Duo watched the gesture for a bit before suggesting, “The miasma?”

When Quatre looked his way again, he found Duo biting his lip between his teeth in a poor attempt not to laugh. Quatre smirked. “Yes, let’s go with that.” This did earn him a laugh from Duo and he felt the man’s tension subside somewhat. Quatre smiled.

*****��

Noin stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror and sighed, her cheeks puffing out as she did so. She had fled back into the house when she felt the tears coming and was thankful for the reprieve. And angry that she had cried at all. The one saving grace was that the light outside had finally faded with sunset and was now too dim for any of the guests to notice.

She would not let them know. This was their day and she wouldn’t allow herself to be the source of bitterness, especially not when there was nothing any of them could do.

Noin sighed again, her red eyes staring back at her through the mirror. She wouldn’t let them know how much it hurt...to not have a happily ever after of her own.

*****

Merriment made the hours bleed lazily into the evening, the wedding party surrounded by laughter and music. Food and drink and good company. But after a time the furtive glances Relena had shared with her husband were no longer scratching the growing itch. Taking his hand in hers, she passed a look to her mother—who only smirked in acknowledgement—and fled their reception for a more...personal celebration.

She pointedly ignored the cat calls that followed at their heels and whisked her husband off to their bedroom.

[1] Ich liebe dich, “I love you” in German. In LAM!verse, Sanq speaks a German dialect.

[2] 我爱你 (wǒ ài nǐ), “I love you” in Mandarin

#gundam wing #snippet saturday #wufei x relena #relena x wufei #it's their wedding day!!!!

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homogrimoire-archive · 4 years ago

Text

The Remnant Branches

CH. 6 - The Woe of the Wretched

Part 3: A Sibling's Love

Having completed his mission for Oz already, James returns to Jakob to deliver some unfortunate news. After, he begins his peaceful quest to search for any astronomical information this world may hold. This first takes him to the library in the nearby village.

AO3 Link

The elevator reached the surface with the sound of its old doors creaking open. Ironwood was feeling ambivalent, however. On one hand, his mission was complete, and he had five days left to do as he pleased. On the other hand, reviewing the video tapes revealed that the mother had perished in the factory while running away from her children with a man. It is only human to want to be free from burden too. Ironwood knew he had to at least tell Jakob that harsh truth.

“Oh, thank goodness you’re okay. You were in there for a while.” said Jakob as James entered the door.

“Yes, I’m fine, but, there’s no easy way to say this.” From the look on Jakob’s face, Ironwood could tell he already knew what was coming.

“It’s my mom, huh? It’s alright. Nier already told me. He said he found her on his way back, and brought me back some of her perfume.” he said sadly.

“How are you holding up?”

“I’ll be alright. And Gideon will come around eventually. … I just-” he let out a sigh. “I just don’t know what to feel now. It hurts that she left us, but I know this was all too much for her. She just wanted to be happy, and her happiness didn’t involve us, but I still love her. We had some good times, and she did try for a time, and she is my mom. I just can’t bring myself to hate her. I feel like I should be stronger, and not even cry for her. Is that bad?” he asked, eyes watery and voice on the verge of cracking. Ironwood thought for a moment.

“I will be honest, I can’t understand how you feel, so take this as a grain of salt: I don't think you’re wrong for wanting that. Ultimately, she hurt you, her child. But understand this,” James got down on a knee to be eye level with him, “you are strong. From all my years, I’ve learned that it's easier for people to hate than it is to love. It takes a lot of strength to love, especially after what she did. And look around you!” James got up and motioned him to look at the shop around him. “Despite everything, you’ve managed to run this shop and become an excellent blacksmith, all while taking care of your brother all on your own. That is no small feat, especially for someone your age. This is a tough time for you, but you will get through it. You are strong.”

“Thanks mister Ironwood.” Jakob sniffed. “I needed that. It's gonna be hard, but things will be alright. I think she would want us to be alright too. And besides, I still have Gideon.”

“I’m glad. Oh, and here’s some junk I collected on the way. I figured you could use it.” Ironwood tossed a bag full of scrap onto the counter.

“Sweet! Thanks!” he exclaimed happily.

“No problem Jakob. … It looks like I’ll be on my way now.”

“Alright, stay safe now. There are a lot more shades out there than here in the Junk Heap.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve faced all sorts of monsters before.” With a final wave goodbye, James closed the door behind him and made his way to the exit. He was never the best at goodbyes or any sort of closing remarks.

As he walked, he thought about how Jakob could still love his mother after what she did. However, he knew he would have to be content in knowing that he would never understand it. A child’s love for their parent was a powerful thing.

He rememberd that Nier told him that there was a library in his village just across the plains. He hoped he could get lucky and find some old star charts or any sort of astronomical information. While Remnant was overall more technologically advanced, this world had traveled into space, well beyond their atmosphere.

From the information stored at the factory, he learned that this world had sent people to their unbroken moon, set artificial satellites in orbit around their planet, and sent machines to study planets billions of miles away. It amazed Ironwood so, and he intended to learn as whatever he could from this world’s knowledge on outer space. It was about time he treated himself to enjoying his little hobby.

Astronomy was something that always interested him. So much of it was unknown. There was a sense of serenity in that. It was a place free of the chaos of a cruel world. He considered that space could be chaotic too, but in its own ways, ways much less cruel. Space is an exotic, previously unknown beauty to him. He dreams that it is a place free of duty and worry, where people are safe, and will never have to worry about the cruelest cruelties of life. Salem, Grimm, murder, and needless suffering are absent there in his dream.

However, more than that, much more than that, a part of him believes something. It is the part of him where his last shred of innocence exists, the part where he holds onto hope for a merciless and unforgiving world. It believes that there, he can finally love.

After about half an hour fighting aggressive shades across the plain, James finally arrived at the gates of the village. He knocked on the large door, and waited. Looking up, he saw a man looking down on him over the side of the top of the gate, and disappeared from view, shouting an ‘okay’ that led to the gate opening. A guard gave a grunt of acknowledgement as he passed. It was a quiet place, and nothing like Atlas. By the fountain, he noticed a woman at a fountain singing a song. It helped calm him after the heavy, heart racing, fighting.

Ku ata

Tsu no-o va-lai

Tzud-e jei

Fo-aul ae kai

She seemed like she could help him.

“Excuse me, miss, would you happen to know where the library is?” he asked her.

“Do I look like a tourist guide to you?” she said curtly. Ironwood didn’t know what to say. “I’m just joking with ya.” she laughed. “It’s that building at the top of the hill.” she pointed out. “I’m Devola, and if you need any help finding something, ask my sister Popola. She’ll be in the room on the second floor to the right.”

“Alright, thank you.” he waved as she resumed her song. He just hoped his encounter with the other sister wouldn’t be like that.

The library had all its books stacked up its walls, leaving it a rather open space. At first, he aimlessly wandered around, scanning the spines of the books he passed. So far, he hadn’t found what he was looking for, and decided to give Popola a visit. At a shelf next to the base of the stairs was a little girl struggling to reach a book. Her hair was a silvery white, akin to Nier’s. He noted that similarity. He reached for the book and handed it to her.

“Here you are.”

“Thank you mister!” she said with a bright smile. She took a seat at the stair’s first step and began to read the simple book. Aside from her pale skin, which could be attributed to a lack of sunlight, odd considering the eternal sun, she did not look sick to him. Once at the top of the stairs, he turned right and knocked on the door.

“Come in!” she shouted, and Ironwood entered. “Oh, a new face. Not often you see one of those. How can I help you?” she said, looking up from the paperwork on her desk.

“I’m looking for books on astronomy, or any information you have on it really.” he said.

“Hmm… Astronomy… I don’t recall there being any books on that here, but-”

“DEVOLA, HURRY, QUICK!” screamed a voice downstairs.

“Crap, crap, crap!” she fearfully repeated as she leaped over her desk and bounded downstairs. James made sure to get out of her way, and looked downstairs once she had past him.

At the bottom of the stairs was the girl from earlier. She was curled up, wincing in pain as a darkness enveloped her arms and legs. There seemed to be some lettering in it. It had almost seemed familiar to James, but it faded before he could more clearly see it.

However, he knew for sure that this was Nier’s daughter, Yonah, with her silver-white hair and some sickness that could only be the Black Scrawl. It was unlike any kind of sickness he had seen before. He saw Devola scoop her up in her arms and leave the library.

He made his way down the stairs and picked up the book she dropped, A picture book titled The Wizard of Oz. Amused at the title, but otherwise uninterested in it, he placed it back on the shelf. Aesop’s Fables, Red Riding Hood, Snow White, Beauty and the Beast, and Goldilocks and the Three Bears were among the selection of books with colored pictures and big fonts.

Realizing he was the children’s section, he went back upstairs to browse another random section. He managed to find what he assumed was the philosophy section, based on the titles. It was filled with names unknown to him, Friedrich Engels, Karl Marx, Karl Grün, Simone de Beauvoir, Georg Hegel, Zhuangzi, Mozi, and many more.

He picked up a book by Karl Marx and flipped through it. Interestingly, none of its words were capitalized. He assumed it was a printing error. Once he saw that it concerned economics as well, and he quickly put it back. He dealt with enough economics back home, and had no desire to read about it on his little vacation. He owed himself that much, even if he was starting to feel guilty for taking such a long break from his work. He managed to find the romance section, but quickly found that none of it was to his taste. Romance as a genre was he never really understood the appeal of anyways.

Eventually, he settled on a titleless book that was at the top of a first floor shelf. It seemed mysterious, and therefore interesting.

There was an android who was set to oversee a small village. Her name was Skald, and embedded in her was the incredible power of an ancient song from another world. The song allowed her to help and manage her village in incredible ways, but, it soon corrupted her and the villagers. As a result, her creators had her and the village destroyed.

Learning from their failure, the scientist removed the magical power of the song. Despite having less power than before, she still ran and oversaw the village well enough. Her creators were pleased and began to make plans for mass production. While her creators did that, she had grown close to another woman in her village. They did lots together, so much so that many began to believe they were sisters. And soon, they began to refer to themselves as sisters. The scientist saw that there was an increase in her performance during this time.

However, the woman died in an unfortunate and sudden accident, leaving Skald all alone. Her performance decreased greatly as a result, and she was eventually decommissioned. She was not saddened at the revelation of her fate. In fact, she seemed grateful. However, the scientists were saddened by their creation. They created something near immortal that could love, and would more often than not have that love ripped away from them eventually.

In honor of their creation, they learned from their cruel mistake. Skald was renamed Popola, the nickname given to her by the woman and villagers, and she would have a twin to be by her side. Her name would be Devola, after the woman who loved Skald as a sister. “Together, they could sing a song that would calm and heal the heart. Together, they would face an otherwise lonely existence. Together, love would allow them to survive a cruel world.” was the ending of the short story.

Ironwood wasn’t sure what to exactly think of the story. He wondered why someone would write such a preposterous backstory about their village leaders. But then his thoughts were interrupted by the door opening. In came the younger sister, Devola, who went to meet him.

“Good, you’re still here. Sorry about earlier.”

“It’s alright, things happen. Will she be alright?”

“Yeah, she’ll be fine, she just needs some rest and medicine. She’ll be back here tomorrow I’m sure, unless Nier gets back soon. But Popola wanted me to pass a message. She said that you should try the Lighthouse at the Seafront south of here, or the desert civilization east of here. There's a store there where you might find what you’re looking for.” She pointed in the directions he should go.

“Alright, thank you.” James said happily. “Oh, and before I forget and you might want to check out this book.” he said, handing her the book he read earlier. ‘“I can’t imagine why anyone would write something like this, and I think you wouldn’t want it in here.” Curiously, she took the book and glanced at the cover and its back, and quickly flipped through its pages.

“Ha! This is a strange little book. Thanks for catching it. Here, take this to keep it between us.” she tossed him a small sack that rattled. James opened it to find coins in it.

“Are you sure? I don’t think you need to give me this. It-”

“Hey, don’t worry about it.” she calmly interrupted. “You just go and have your fun.”

“Well, alright. Thank you then.”

As he walked to the eastern gate, he wondered what it would be like to have a sibling. However, he simply just could not imagine it. A sibling’s love was something he never felt, and would never feel. He wondered if he should feel sad about that or not.

We give the finality of death. Iron skin draws out fear and terror, and is bathed in flesh. We are satisfied by the snatching of life. We realize our purpose through the crushing of the bodies. In our delight, we spread death far and wide. We are the iron will. We kill. Kill. Kill. Kill.

This interloper knows what he does as he slashes the blade on the way to his destination.

He knows there is blood on his hands, and accepts it readily, for he knows he must.

What he does is as just as it is unjust.

He knows this, and slashes again.

It must be done, so he believes.

Anyone can do this, so long as they think they are right.

#James Ironwood #rwby #nier #the woe of the wretched #the remnant branches #2.5k words #if only james had taken the time to read marx\#lol #or any of the children's stories #sure he might realize things later on and have an existential crisis but it's better than what he's going through rn #then again remnant is probs going through an existential crisis having found out about salem

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mordoriscalling · 4 years ago

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48 Weeks (2/4)

(Part 1)

Throughout the 48 weeks that Geralt and Jaskier spend apart, their relationship develops.

Aka, part 3 of the Singer and the Sailor AU no one asked for but I wrote anyway. The events of this story happen after Stay or Sail Away but before Homecoming. Warnigns: some sexual content ahead!

Weeks 13-24

Week 13

He waits for Jaskier’s call impatiently, praying in his mind that this is not the time they’ve got the timezones wrong. He doesn’t even have five minutes to spare right now.

Finally, after the eternity of two more minutes, there’s an incoming call from Jaskier. He picks up and immediately says, “A storm’s going to hit us soon.”

He hears Jaskier’s shaky sigh.

“Okay,” Jaskier’s replies, his voice tight, “please stay safe.”

Geralt nods. Nothing wrong happens to the crew on his watch. He made that mistake only once.

Week 14

“Another storm’s coming.”

“What? What the hell, are we some kind of star-crossed lovers –”

“Jaskier. I have to go.”

“Right.” The glint of fear turn’s Jaskier’s eyes into a colour almost as pale as ice. “Send me a text when it’s over.”

It’s one of the worst storms Geralt’s even been through but there’s no way in hell he’ll let the sea take him or anyone he’s responsible for. They all have people to return to. The thought of his family gets him through it. Jaskier’s among them too.

Week 15

“You write those songs fast.”

“What can I say?” Jaskier answers with a disarming grin, “You’re my muse.”

Geralt snorts at the ridiculous notion but he can’t fight a small smile tugging at his lips.

He listens to the recording the moment Jaskier hangs up. The song is about longing, Jaskier’s longing. His voice is high-pitched, raw and vulnerable, and Geralt finds he can’t breathe.

Week 16

When he tries to thank for the song, the “thank you” refuses to go through his throat. “Siren,” he says instead, “I miss you too.”

Jaskier smiles, a tiny, soft thing. His blue, blue eyes sparkle and somehow, Geralt feels seen.

Week 17

“Have I told you about that time me and Rozalia tried to teach chickens how to fly?”

“You what.”

Jaskier laughs. “Yeah. When we were little, we often spent the summer holidays with our grandma back in Poland. She kept chickens and well... I remember when I was maybe eight years old, me and Rozalia noticed that Amelia, who was little then, loved to watch how the chickens try to fly up in the air.”

“So, Roza suggested that we try to teach them how to fly, and I came up with the idea of creating a... chicken launcher.”

“A chicken launcher?” Geralt repeats.

“Yes,” Jaskier answers with a chuckle, “it was a really crude thing that me and Roza built out of some random planks and bricks we found in the shed. But it worked! It launched the chickens some six feet in the air. Amelia was delighted.”

“What the fuck, Jaskier.”

“I know, okay? We didn’t hurt the chickens, I swear! Though none of them wanted to be placed on the launcher for the second time, wonder why.”

Geralt laughs and laughs, and laughs, the sound coming deep from his chest and loosening the tension in his body. He keeps cackling hysterically – because fucking chicken launcher – and comes to realise that he doesn’t mind Jaskier’s ridiculousness at all.

Week 18

Geralt quickly picks up on the fact that something’s off about Jaskier, no matter how much Jaskier tries to hide it.

“Why are you sad?” he asks.

For a moment, Jaskier says nothing, but then replies, “Valdo called me yesterday.”

Geralt frowns, surprised. “Valdo Marx?”

Jaskier didn’t fail to mention how much of a “backstabbing motherfucker and talentless swine” Valdo Marx is.

“Yeah,” Jaskier confirms with a wry smile. “I know he’d call, we’re in the same city coincidentally.” He sighs heavily. “I knew he’d be drunk. He usually calls when he’s drunk.”

Geralt stays quiet and Jaskier goes on.

“When he calls me, he just... reopens this fucking wound, saying all those things. How he loves me still, how he’s never stopped loving me, how we should meet and try again... but then he��ll start petty drama on social media to gain publicity and call my music shit because that news sells, and I–” A sharp exhale. “I wish it was simple. I wish I could only hate him but... Well. The problem is, we were something else together.” Jaskier laughs bitterly. “And yet, fame tore us apart.”

There’s a pause. Geralt doesn’t speak again, trying to process all of he’s heard. Eventually, Jaskier breaks the silence again.

“And now I’m touring, and he’s touring too, and everyone thinks we’re rivals, and it’s just getting so old. I have better things to do.”

Geralt doesn’t know what to say to that, so he only says what he knows from experience. “In the long run, it’s harder to hold on than to let go.”

“That’s –” Jaskier starts, then cuts himself off. He stares at Geralt through the screen with wide eyes. “That’s... true.”

Week 19

“Two songs?”

“I have no idea how I do that either. At this point, I’m convinced that I just can’t die. Sleep deprivation should’ve killed me long ago but here I am, alive and kicking.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt growls. His worry comes off as anger but most of his emotions do. Jaskier doesn’t seem deterred. Geralt has a suspicion that he literally has no self-preservation instinct. Still, he tries to stare Jaskier into compliance. “Go to sleep.”

Jaskier obliges after some theatrical complaining.

When Geralt plays the recordings after going to bed, he’s surprised how different the songs are. The first one is an enticing call for sharing an adventure, luring him towards thoughts of what’s beyond the empty vastness of blue, towards what’s unknown to him. It’s all Jaskier, whereas the other song is not like Jaskier at all. It has none of Jaskier’s usual energy; it’s just a call for help, a cry of deep sadness that Geralt knows very well. He hates that Jaskier knows it too.

Week 20

Geralt listens to Jaskier strumming his guitar idly and no words come to him even though he knows he should say something. He sees that Jaskier needs it but his throat refuses to work. The wolf signet is a heavy weight in his pocket and he almost curses the day he let himself have this.

He was aware from the start that he shouldn’t have. After so many years at sea, he’s almost grown an allergic reaction to getting attached like this; he knows it hurts like bloody hell. He had no idea that he’d be called for this deployment back then though, and Jaskier was there, irrationally familiar and safe. His eyes sparkled in the light of the room during that birthday party, his elegant hand was warm underneath his own, and Geralt gave in. He regretted it mere minutes later and he almost regrets it now.

This would’ve been so much easier without Jaskier. Loneliness is what he knows and waiting for Jaskier isn’t easy like that, especially not when he isn’t doing enough to have Jaskier stay.

He tries to think of Ciri’s laugh to cheer himself up but in the end, it makes his chest ache even more.

Week 21

When Jaskier’s face shows up on the screen, his eyes and grin almost scream mischief.

“Hello, dear,” he purrs, “What a sight for sore eyes you are.”

Geralt knows that tone very well. His body responds to it with a thrill of anticipation before he can form a single thought. Then, Jaskier stretches his arms, “accidentally” lowering the camera of his phone to show his naked, hairy chest, and any thoughts fly out of Geralt’s mind.

“No shirt on?” he asks, his mouth dry.

“I don’t have anything on,” Jaskier answers in that raspy voice which drives Geralt mad.

“Show me.”

“With pleasure, darling.”

Week 22

“The audience was wonderful today,” Jaskier says dreamily.

Geralt rolls his eyes. “You always say that.”

He’s been saying that very often ever since he’s started touring in North America two months ago.

“That’s because you got to say that,” Jaskier replies, “I have to make my audience feel special. I mean it this time, though. There was magic in the air.”

Suddenly, a heavy feeling settles in Geralt’s gut and he can’t help wondering if Jaskier truly means the words he says.

Week 23

In the past week, the sea has been moody, there have been several small but bothersome damages to the ship, and Ciri’s caught a nasty cold. Generally, nothing’s going like it’s supposed to, and Geralt is tired. He sees that Jaskier’s noticed.

They’re quiet, only looking at each other through the screen. The silence between them seems impassable but then it’s broken by Jaskier’s quiet question.

“Why is your hair white?”

“I won’t tell you,” Geralt snaps, because the very idea of talking about it sets his teeth on edge. Jaskier flinches at his harsh reaction. Geralt tries to amend it by adding, “Not yet.”

It’s a promise which he isn’t sure he can keep but Jaskier accepts it with a slow nod.

“Will you tell me how come you joined the Navy, then?” Jaskier asks quietly. “In detail, please. When I asked before, you only said that you didn’t have anything better to do.”

“That’s how it happened.”

“Geralt.”

“Fine.”

And so, Geralt tells him. He was twenty-three and still hadn’t dealt with having been abandoned by his mother and dumped by Yennefer, who he thought to be the love of his life at the time. He hated it so much that he decided it was his turn to abandon, and he quit everything.

Their adoptive father never suggested for them to follow in his footsteps but at the time, the Navy seemed a career good as any. Geralt and his brothers, not related to him by blood but still his brothers even before Vesemir took them in, truly didn’t have any plans too. Nothing kept them on land.

Now as he looks at Jaskier listening to him carefully, he thinks it’s funny how things have changed.

Week 24

“We’re halfway through.”

Jaskier sounds tired and Geralt heaves a sigh. The room is light but it suddenly appears very dark. He’s almost forgotten home and missing his family has got less painful but there’re still days when it chokes him, like today.

“You don’t have to do this,” he tells Jaskier.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s fine if you’ve changed your mind.”

Geralt hears Jaskier release a shaky breath.

“Have you changed your mind?”

“No,” Geralt replies, looking at Jaskier finally, hoping to be seen, “I want this.”

Jaskier smiles softly. “Good,” he says, his voice warm, “because I want this too.”

Geralt wants to call him an idiot but it would sound far too fond.

The day ends with another storm.

Part 3

***

A/N: The story about the "chicken launcher" is what me and my younger brother did one day when we were kids. I think it's definitely something the horror sister Rozalia and the wild brother Julian would do to amuse their nasty angel baby sister Amelia.

#myfic #gerasker #geralt x jaskier #the witcher fanfiction #modern au #the Sailor and the Singer AU

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marshal-raylan-givens · 5 years ago

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Angel’s Lullaby

Okay, so this was requested by @chompachompa for some Dave fluff and the title comes from Richard Marx’s Angel’s Lullaby from his 1997 Greatest Hits album. Enjoy :)

The day you and Dave brought your daughter home, Dave tried everything in his power to not mess up. He constantly asked questions, wanting to learn every little detail there was to making sure she was happy and healthy. Sure, Dave wasn’t entirely the smartest man on the planet when it came to certain things, and you’d never think he’d try to take being a father seriously. Dave McLean was just a party boy who liked hanging out with his friends, drinking a beer, and working in his garage. When you two got together, nobody was expecting that. You were nice and sweet, and while Dave was also, none of the crew could actually see Dave being in a relationship.

He was too immature and well, he wasn’t always the best boyfriend. Sometimes he’d accidentally forget dates to go hang out with Rod and the gang, or he’d just be too stoned out to really listen to what you’d have to say. You even had a discussion with the gang, especially with Denise, the only other girl in the group, about what you should do. The said to just give it time, let him get used to actually having another person to think of. When you first got together, it was almost like Dave treated you like any other girl.

Yes, he occasionally made you things, and you treasured them beyond belief, but talking about your feelings always seemed hardest. Not because you got emotional, but because Dave got emotional. The poor man would cry his eyes out on the phone with you, or in person, if you guys would get into fights. One time, it even got so bad, that you had Rod pick you up just so you could hang out with Denise and cry to her because you were at a loss of what to do. Dave was such a sweetheart, you had told her, sobbing into a tissue. “But I can’t see him being more serious when it comes to us. It’s like he doesn’t even care if we’re together or not.”

When you had come home the next day, having been too wine drunk and emotional to walk home, you found a new gift from Dave, your favorite flowers, and a hand written note. You sighed, picking it up:

Dear Y/N,

I’m so sorry about our fight last night. I was such a jerk and I never want to hurt you. Rod called me and told me how you felt and you’re right, I don’t do enough to show you how much I appreciate you. I honestly think you’re too good for me, and it’s a miracle you even like me. But I’m willing to continue to be with you, and while I might not be the best with words, I’ll do what I can to show you how much I love you.

Yours,

Dave.

P. S: I ended up with glass in my eye again, it’s no big deal, though.

You couldn’t help but laugh at the last part, though there were tears in your eyes, and worry did come over you as you heard a knock on your door. Walking over, you open it to reveal Dave, tape on his eye with a bandage, and looking as though he’d just got done crying again. One of you had to speak first, as he just stood in your guys’ doorway, afraid you’d kick him out or yell at him again. You reached your hand out, grabbing his as you pulled him into a hug. “I love you, too,” you sniffled.

“Hey, Y/N?” Dave asked softly, wrapping his arms around you as his face flushed and he buried it in your hair. “Hm?”

“I think,” he paused. “That was the first time we said I love you.” You freeze for a moment, slowly looking up at him and realizing he was right. He smiled down at you before sheepishly scratching his hair. “I’m sorry I haven’t been very good to you. I’m not used to the whole, ‘relationship’ thing, since girls don’t usually talk to me.” You nodded, understanding as he told his side. “But I do want to make it up to you. So, will you let me show you how much I love you?”

A few weeks later, you starred at the pregnancy test in your hands. You knew exactly how this happened but honestly? Despite knowing that, it scared you to death. You and Dave had been together roughly about a year by now, and the fact you guys hadn’t even discussed kids made this worse. You placed the test on your sink, pacing your small bathroom as Denise stood in the doorway. “It’s positive, isn’t it?” She asked quietly, you nodding frantically as you wrung your hands and thought of all the ways you were gonna have to tell Dave what was going on.

He’d been doing so much better, yes, since your last makeup. He even texted you today to let you know he missed you, that he was gonna pick up a surprise for you on his way home from the ice rink. Would Dave be okay with kids? He didn’t seem to really hate them or like them either way, almost neutral. He did like when the smaller kids were around though, he liked carrying them on his back for piggyback rides and making sure they didn’t drown in the local pool.

“It’s going to be okay, Dave loves you, you know that.”

“What if we’re not ready?” You were now on the verge of tears. “What if decides that’s too much responsibility? He’s not exactly the most responsible guy, Denise. What have I done?” To make your fingers less busy, you wished you had some bubble wrap to pop, that would stop you from almost pulling your hair out. Denise stood, “it’s going to be okay.” She repeated, stopping you and putting your hands on your shoulders. “Do you want me to go with you?” You nod.

The drive to Dave’s house felt like an eternity. You saw him standing next to Rico by the pool in the front yard, overhearing “pools are great for holding water, man.” Stepping out, you forced a smile and gave Dave a hug from behind, surprising him as just at the moment, Rico sprayed him with the hose. You couldn’t help but laugh. He wiped himself off and looked behind him, smiling. “Hey, baby! What are you doing here?” You took a deep breath before leaning up to kiss him, trying not to cry as you walked him over to one of the lawn chairs.

“Honey, we have to talk.”

“What… what’s wrong?” His face fell, and you immediately felt the need to correct him.

“Oh-! No, I’m not-!” You waved your hands, trying to calm his ease as he let out a breath.

“That’s good,” he laughed. “I thought you were gonna break up with me or tell me you were pregnant or something.”

He stopped laughing as he saw your face.

“Oh, no. Sweetie, did I- did I make you hate me? Do you not-“ he started crying, his shoulders shaking as you reached over to hug him, frantically attempting to comfort him as you repeatedly told him you weren’t gonna leave him at all.

“Then what’s wrong?” He sobbed.

You sigh. “Dave, I’m pregnant.”

He stops almost immediately.

“For serious?”

“For serious.”

Before you know it you’re standing, wrapped in a bear hug so tight that you can’t even return it, Dave sobbing into your shoulder as Denise lets the rest of the crew in on what was going on, a round of applause meeting the both of your guys’ ears.

Nine months later, after the baby shower, gender reveal, a Dad Party™ held by Rico for Dave in the garage, you’d pushed your bundle of joy out in a sobbing mess at 4:25 A. M. With Dave right by your side. You held his hand so tightly he thought it’d break, crying just as much as you did when you got to hold her. “She’s so beautiful.” “Of course she is,” Dave wiped some of the sweat off your forehead. “We made her and she’s gonna be so awesome.” You couldn’t help but laugh, kissing him and holding your baby as close as you could without hurting her. Dave had been so attentive during your pregnancy, fighting your mood swings, cravings, and when you just couldn’t sleep. He made your child’s crib, even.

This particular night was a bad one. You couldn’t sleep, and the baby wouldn’t stop crying. Dave was nowhere to be found and as you sat down in her room, you tried hushing her to sleep. Eventually, you fell asleep, as had the baby, before she unfortunately woke up when she realized you weren’t moving anymore, crying loudly. Feeling a small tap on your shoulder, you gently jolting to see Dave waving at you, he was smiling as he took the infant, switching spots with you and gently swaying her in his arms. If you listened hard enough, you’d be able to hear him sing gently. You weren’t sure where he’d heard the song but it was beautiful. Your heart swelled at the sight.

I was never alive

'Til the day I was blessed with you

When I hold you late at night

I know what I was put here to do

I turn off the world and listen to you sigh

And I will sing my Angel's Lullaby

Know I'm forever near

The one you can always call

Right all you know to fear

Are the shadows on your wall

I'm here close enough

To kiss the tears you cry

And I will sing my Angel's Lullaby

#tumblr ruined my format >:(#bill hader #dave mclean #hot rod #dave hot rod #bill hader x reader

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future-dregs · 5 years ago

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The Music of K/S

Kirk's perspective --------------- You Might Think, The Cars What About Love, Heart You Make Me Smile, Uncle Kracker Let My Love Open the Door, Pete Townshend You've Lost That Lovin' Feelin', The Righteous Brothers TMP Ebony Eyes, Bob Welch Seasons Change, Exposé, TMP Second Chance, .38 Special, TMP 1,2,3,4, Gloria Estafan Dreamin', Cliff Richard The Longest Time, Billy Joel I Won't Hurt You, The West Coast Pop Art Experimental Band More Than You Know, Axwell/Ingrosso Pink in the Night, Mitski He's So Shy, The Pointer Sisters Faith, George Michael If I Could Turn Back Time, Cher, TMP Kiss On My List, Hall & Oats I'd Love Making Love to You, Leonard Nimoy Every Time You Go Sway, Paul Young, pre motion picture Hole in My Heart, Luke Friend, TMP I'll Be There, Jackson 5 Babe, Styx Being With You, Smoky Robinson Right Here Waiting, Richard Marx Are You Lonesome Tonight, Elvis Presley I'll Be Around, The Spanners Dance with Me, Orleans Foolish Heart, Steve Perry All I Want, Kodaline, after TWOK Geyser, Mitski I Wanted You to Feel the Same, The Radio Dept. TMP Talking in Your Sleep, The Romantics Betcha By Golly Wow, The Stylistics We've Got Tonight, Bob Seger and the Silver Bullet Band When I Need You, Leo Sayer You Make Loving Fun, Fleetwood Mac If You Leave Me Now, Chicago Somebody, Bryan Adams Eternal Flame, The Bangles Open Arms, Journey I guess that's why they call it the blues, Elton John

Spock's perspective ----------------- I Need Your Love, Calvin Harris Anchor, Mindy Gledhill You've Made Me So Very Happy, Blood, Sweat, and Tears Sunny, Bobby Hebb Like a Prayer, Madonna Glad You Came, The Wanted All For You, Sister Hazel Words Get in the Way, Gloria Estafan, five year mission before TMP Sister Golden Hair, America Atlantis, STRFCKR Lovergirl, Teena Marie Lucky Star, Madonna In Your Eyes, Peter Gabriel You Are My Sunshine You Don't Know Me, Ray Charles What's Love Got to Do With It, Tina Turner Love Will Keep Us Together, Captain and Tennille So Emotional, Whitney Houston Sunshine of My Life, Carmen McRae Take Me Home, Phil Collins, mix of movies 3 & 4 I Do Adore, Mindy Gledhill Hard to Say I'm Sorry, Chicago, after TMP Lullaby, Dixie Chicks Goodnight Sweetheart, Dean Martin, spock prime, alone Lady, Styx Nothin' at All, Heart Your Smiling Face, James Taylor Can't Fight This Feeling, REO Speedwagon Forever Young, Rod Stewart, Spock, when he is left alone Laughter Lines, Bastille, Spock telling AOS Kirk about TOS Kirk Then He Kissed Me, The Crystals The Tide is High, Blondie Maybe I'm Amazed, Paul McCartney Affair of the Heart, Rick Springfield Sunflower, Post Malone I'd Like to Walk Around in Your Mind, Vashti Bunyan The Wonder of You, Elvis Presley Throwing it All Away, Genesis, when he is dying TWOK Lady, Commodores

Both/ spirk in general ----------------- Mirror, Justin Timberlake You Are the One, Firefall We Are Stars, The Pierces The Time of My Life, Bill Medley Heaven, Bryan Adams Say You, Say Me, Lionel Ritchie Who's in Your Heart Now, Studio Killers Funky at Heart, Studio Killers We Belong, Pat Benatar It Was You, Ashley Ballard You're Still the One, OMS Could It Be I'm Falling in Love, The Spinners Give a Little Bit, Supertramp Oh Boy!, Buddy Holly Nothing's Gonna Stop Us Now, Jefferson Starship You're the Inspiration, Chicago Something About You, Level 42

#Kirk #spock #space husbands #k/s #star trek #star trek tos #music #own meta #whenever I would hear a song that reminded me of them I would write it down

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all-things-are-nothing-to-me · 5 years ago

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Communization: The senile decay of anarchy

Communization: The senile decay of anarchy (or re-inventing anarchy) – fragment of the unpublished pamphlet “FAI Reloaded” by the Conspiracy of Cells of Fire.

i) Frozen Marxism

Today’s era smells like engine oil, cheap labor sweat and naphthalene of the morality of voluntary obedience… We do not want to be defined by the culture of techno-industrial fascism, the white uniforms of scientists, the neckties of technocrats, the eager silences of ordinary people, the stupid smiles of consumers… We do not match with the aesthetics of the glass world of flat television screens, the digital imitation of the life of social media, the display windows of lifestyle, the lens of security cameras. We do not fit in the society of captivity, the police checks of our identification papers, the supervision of security guards, the laws of the judges, the locked doors of prisons. We do not settle for the average normality dictated by morality, we don’t amuse our boredom with psychotropic drugs, we aren’t covered by the coldness of empty relations, we don’t read… Marx.

Today we live to the rhythm of a generalized crisis. Our daily life is throttled from the tyranny of numbers. Our life resembles an accounting book, whose calculations always find it deficient and indebted. They overwhelm us with financial terms and definitions, one half of which are unknown and the other half of no interest to us. The wandering charlatans of all ideologies, roam from one financial conference to the other and bombard us with ramblings and often incomprehensible interviews-speeches, each of them presenting his own social antidote to the economic crisis. On the shelves of the ideological supermarket every faithful consumer will find the antidote that suits him, in all shades. There are “revolutionary” antidotes, even “anarchist” ones. In Greece, the neo-communists, ex-anarchists, mix in the cauldron of ideologies anarchist labels, with plenty of frozen Marxism, anti-imperialism and a pinch of disguised national liberation. The new tension of “serious” anarchy dresses itself in a formal way and launches the trend of anti-capitalist struggle on a red background. The rhetoric of the neo-communists – “anarchists” talks about everything. In an effort to build a social marketing of propaganda for the masses, it promotes generalizations sanctifying the “oppressed people” and “workers” who, obviously, for them are “not accountable” for their responsibilities and silences, uses covertly socially palatable national references, such as “the Greek people”, “our country” and promises “social salvation” with the coming of post-revolutionary society, preaching in the assemblies of the need for centralized-structures… It seems that some neo-communists already rehearse their future offices. Perhaps, this what they train themselves for now, selling hegemony, experience coming from age and the wisdom of a leader within the anarchist milieu.

There, then, where some see an opportunity, because of the economic crisis, we see a trap. A trap of sinking in the swamp of confusion, of fantasies about the social “good” deriving from Marxist analysis, of certainties about revolutionary subjects, of economism.

First of all, the global crisis we are experiencing today is not just a crisis of numbers, financial figures and mathematics, but part of the overall crisis of values and conscience in the world of authority. It is the cannibalistic crisis of western lifestyle which after it grew big consuming blood and oil from the “underdeveloped”, it now feeds from the flesh. Today, the “developed world” not only lives in the grip of economic tyranny, but also in the desert of spiritual and emotional bankruptcy.

Unlike the Marxists and their “anarchist” great-grandchildren, who want to interpret life with the rationality of mathematics, we seek our liberation inside the blasts of a permanent existential revolt of relations, situations, values, morals, and everyday life.

Even the economy, which is the center of the tedious analysis of the communists, for us it is not a series of ordered numbers leading to the equation of the class struggle. Instead, the economy is, first and foremost, a hierarchical social relationship that speaks the language of money. Money is a symbol of accumulated power. It is a property title that owns objects, land, time, admiration, relationships, people. The anarchist challenge, then, cannot be trapped in the demand for “better wages”, “lower taxes”, “economic equality”… One cannot destroy the morality of property by making it equal and uniform to all.

The experiment of communist totalitarian regimes spawned monsters, dictatorships of the proletariat and obedient subjects. One cannot exorcise ugliness with a new ugliness, simply by changing the name to something more “social” and imagining that through the “anti-imperialist struggle”, the country won’t become a “modern colony “.

Even if one removes money, authority will find new beads and mirrors to swap for the obedience of the natives. Besides, authority is older than capitalism and money. So we laugh, but also get bored from the analysis and the texts of the anarcho-marxist theoretical moles. They write and rewrite super-analysis, but their figures don’t add up, as they cannot understand that life does not fit in the labels they stick to it … “proletariat,” “class struggle,” “anti-imperialist struggle”… First of all, anti-imperialist struggle does not require an overall anti-state perception of the anarchist struggle. Anti-imperialist struggle is also being conducted by the bureaucratic fossil of KKE (Greek Communist Party). At the same time, reading behind the lines both in the texts of the ex-anarchist now communists, we see a deliberate crypto-patriotism. National references (our country, the Greek people, etc.), focusing on the “foreign capital” (as if capital has a nationality), combined with the complete absence of anti-state edges is at least suspicious. The neo-communists – ex-anarchists do not speak for a moment about the destruction of the state. Instead, they speak in a denunciatory, political way aiming for its wide consumption and present themselves as the far left of the left government, which they denounce, but without openly declaring war against it. The extra-parliamentary opposition to the leftist government of SY.RI.Z.A. has nothing to do with anarchy and freedom. We do not seek neither a reform of the system, nor its leftist grooming; all we want is its total destruction. However, we live in strange days and we have to rearm even the most fundamental parts of anarchy…

Authority, then, is not just ugly, sullen faces attached to miserable bodies decorated with suits and ties, in the same way anarchy is not “honest worker’s sweat” and “The reading of the complete works of Marx and Bakunin“… Surely the first ones must become ideal shooting targets for Kalashnikov bursts, but this is not enough…

Authority is a social relationship.

Authority is born even in our friendships, in our meetings, in our love, in our daily lives.

Again, we have to cast it out of our relations. Of course, this is done only through a belligerent/armed confrontation with the existent, as our searches are not a hippie inner meditation but practical wishes best expressed when our fingers fill magazines with bullets and our hands arm our weapons to “talk”…

ii) Overcoming revolutionary myths

The class of the poor, the oppressed, the “ones at the bottom”, the workers, is a faded label, which for us does not represent anything in itself . They are words that are lost in the void and their echo is immersed in a past that has been overcome. The working class is a massive forced social identity, which crushes the uniqueness and particularity of the individual, of every different man under its weight. The people is the fairytale that connects a variety of persons with completely different perceptions, habits, anxieties, thoughts, personalities, characteristics most of them regressing into confusion, homogenized in the mouths of politics experts with the name “the people”. The people, the society is the realm of contradictions. It is the common place of origin, and we who deny the ethics and values of society also come from it, but it leads to different options of destinations. Within the society reside slaves who want to look like their bosses, subjects who worship order, conservatives who defend normality, the petty bourgeois who worship property, the fascists who fear everything different, the good citizens who fall in love with the privacy of their home and the cleanliness of their furniture, the underclass that envy the ensconced, the ensconced who are indifferent, the poor who grumble but are afraid to act, immigrants, delinquents who admire the privileged… At the same time, within the same society, there are progressives, sensitive philanthropists, leftists, pacifists, communists, libertarians, anarchists, revolutionaries even the nihilists-negators of society.

What is called “the people”, “society” is all the above mosaic of relations between a fog of persons, some of them connected with an affinity of perceptions and experiences, others at a fierce war with each other.

The people is always seen in a positive way. The people are claimed by all, from the fascists and conservatives to leftists and anarchists. The people are “poor”, “honest”, “depressed”, “wronged” and of course “wise” when voting… The people and the working class, according to political experts, is eternally deluded, thus always in need of guidance. Marxists and their anarchist great-grandchildren are always willing to guide (in the name of “the people” of course) and offer the promised land, the post-revolutionary society. In their texts, posters and events, they always speak in plural, using the collective “we” of the people, the workers, the proletariat, considering that, presenting themselves as part of the proletariat, they will become more likeable and the take the people on their side. The funny thing is that, usually, the political representatives of the proletariat have no connection with it, as, to put it in a “class” way, they come from petty bourgeois or middle-class layers (eternal students, regulars and owners of coffeehouses, economically dependent from their parents etc. .).

As new messiahs–liberators , they address the motley mass of the working class, considering it as the ultimate revolutionary subject. But from within the working class comes the indifference of many, the misery of the petty bourgeoisie, the patriotic cannibalism, the 500,000 voters of the fascist Golden Dawn, law-abiding citizens, informants, the conservatives, the pious of the churches, the faithful TV-viewers, the zombies of the digital world and social media, the happy consumers…

What connects us as anarchists with all these people?… From the absolute nothing, until irreconcilable hostility. Anarchy and the labor movement followed two parallel lines and it is geometrically proven that parallel lines do not intersect. Why, then, should we acknowledge the oppressed in a general and vague way as “brothers” and talk about class war, along people with whom we do not have anything in common? Better to put forward the overall anarchist attack that eliminates all these illusions of the common front of the oppressed. Because right now, all that connects us with the oppressed is the economic condition we are required to live in. But the common coercive economic condition we experience as marginalized, along with the poor, the unemployed, workers, migrants is a forced condition and not a conscious choice. Except from all of us who consciously chose the social margin and refused material privileges, what most oppressed people desire is not to destroy the world of exploitation, but to move to their bosses’ mansions, wear their clothes, imitate their manners and, in turn, oppress all those under their authority. The slave who seeks rights without having a liberating conscience will soon seek to wear his master’s suit. One only needs to notice the accumulated micro-authority that oppressed ones bear inside them when they express it against all those they believe to be “weaker” than them; the native against the immigrant, the immigrant against his family, the “most experienced” workers against their new colleagues… This is the class of modern proletarians. A mix of mercenaries of misery and cannibalism, ready to offer their services to the highest bidder. Oppressed people with oppressed complexes, wanting to be like their bosses.

We don’t want, therefore, to seek comrades and allies inside coercive common conditions we did not choose, but through common choices.

We are neither tricked nor pleased by ephemeral alliances with those who fight for a better salary or rights and reforms of the existent’s misery. We may find ourselves next to them behind barricades or in conflicts with the cops, but we’ll never meet with them substantially unless they demolish their internal moral identity of the worker, the student, the unemployed, the demonstrator and unless they refuse the world of order and laws all together.

We don’t care about those who, having nothing to lose, go out in the streets, but about those willing to lose everything to regain their lives from the beginning…

Besides, among the first ones, you’ll find the biggest traitors, who, in the first hitch or in front of the lure of an economical promise, will desert you, squeal you or even turn against you…

In contrast, in the latter case, you’ll find some of your closest and most authentic comrades and accomplices… How many times have we not found ourselves in the middle of a stormy sea of confusion and contradictions? The same people with whom we were side by side, throwing rocks and Molotov cocktails at the cops and sharing times and moments behind flaming barricades, in the context of a corporatist claim of a “wild strike” for better salaries, returned fast to their daily routine and shielded themselves again with the uniform of the lawful citizen, voter, family man, TV-viewer right after their claim was either satisfied or rejected. From the “wild strike” of Chalybourgia, we ended up with the mobilization’s total control by the union adjacent to the Communist Party and the warm welcome of Golden Dawn’s MPs, who rushed to show their solidarity to the “Greek worker’s” struggle. From the barricades and the flaming nights in Keratea and the sabotage of the landfill facility installation in the area, we ended up with high election rates for the Golden Dawn in the same area.

But even the “wild youth” reciprocates in its contradictions. From student squats and attacks against cops it jumps without a second thought to pogroms against immigrants and panegyric fiestas of national pride (“athletic” successes of the national football team).

It is not enough, therefore, only to occasionally overcome the law by throwing a rock or a Molotov cocktail. This is surely a necessary step. However, along with the bank or the police vehicle which we’ll torch, we ought to torch all the authoritarian residues inside us, the moral preconceptions and the conservative stereotypes we inherited from this world.

Of course, as we hate criticism for the sake of criticism and the degradation of digital pseudo-nihilist dirge, that criticizes everything except from the deformed “super-ego”, our position is clear. As much as we want to want to crush the petty politics of the newly minted anarcho-marxists, we evenly want to demolish the ivory tower of the “ideologists’” theory of pure anarchy.

We analyze and decode the complex of society’s explosive contradictions, not to remain spectators and admire our “authority”, but to organize strategically our anarchist attack. There are the so-called intermediate social struggles, some of which (i.e. students’ squats) are interesting due to their composition and their diversion, which may trigger chaotic situations that are the ideal field of expression of our hatred for the system. Obviously, we’ll not be absent from these struggles, without forgetting, of course, that the “ideal” is blotted by reality and what’s left from the rose is the thorn.

However, as we don’t cage ourselves into demands and reformist notions, we maintain our characteristics and don’t lose ourselves in petty political discounts to become socially “liked”. Therefore, we invade as anarchists and don’t hide behind other social masks (unemployed, worker, demonstrator); in contrast, we wear the hood and attack, without fearing the pit of contradictions of the intermediate struggles.

So, if we want to destroy this world of organized exploitation and boredom, we must talk about the overcoming of classes and not wiggle the shroud of “class struggle” as a flag. Red anarchists that talk about class struggle have a corpse in their mouths which has begun to rot. In continuous anarchist insurrection, all classes are abolished. The individual, discovering in a liberating manner its conscious self, is in total rupture with the class of which it comes from, whether this is the proletarian one or the petty bourgeois. We refuse every class because it’s a result of fissions triggered by the system. Every class bears inside it the characteristics and ethics of the existent. The beloved child of red “anarchists”, the proletariat, carries inside it the ethics of labor, the pseudo-pride of patriotism, the worship of petty ownership, the remains of religious conservatism… This is the sad representation of the confusion which triumphs inside the intermediate reformist labor struggles that never overcome their myopic self to acquire an overall liberating perspective.

iii) About Black Anarchy

We renounce, therefore, any notion of “class struggle” which, in its most radical form, the Marxist variation, aims to the conquest of power through the dictatorship of the proletariat. We spit on the “experts” of revolution, the communist leadership, the veterans and the “anarchist” personas of public relations that compete with each other for the position of the greatest helmsman of revolution.

Besides, liberation will come when we smash the heads of our self-appointed “liberators”.

We refuse to wait for the objective conditions of mass uprising. The preparation of big masses as a precondition for the “revolution” against authority only triggers postponement.

We know we live in times of “crisis”. Some ex-anarchists chose to follow the Marxist rhetoric of pragmatism, economism, thinking that they speak the language of political realism. They could not stand as anarchists; they’ll prove to be incompetent as Marxists…

Their arguments already transform and lead to obsolete alliances with individuals and political milieus that define themselves in terms of political opposition. Anarchy no longer has anything to do with them…

We insist on anarchy’s blackness.

In chaos, disorder, living dangerously, nihilism of action, in the armed confrontation with the existent, in the fire of the continuous anarchist insurrection.

We reject all the idealized principles that revolutionary theories talking about the future liberation and social harmony promise. Life offers no guarantees. The time is now and the place is here…

Let’s be honest; we don’t know how a liberated tomorrow will be “functional”. That’s exactly why it’s liberated.

Because it’ll be full of possibilities, questions and doubts. Whoever seeks for certain answers and Marxist certainties will soon seek the guarantee of authority and priesthoods of red power.

We maintain our questions and black flag…

This is black anarchy.

Anarchy, however, demands the organization of the new anarchist urban guerrilla, if we don’t want it to degenerate into a meaningless poetic chatter, doomed to be followed by the alternative integration in the system. Concepts that are not armed, like anarchist individualism, nihilism end up being harmless words in the mouths of even more harmless individuals who confuse anarcho-nihilism with the subculture of “antisocial lifestyle”.

Anarcho-nihilism combines the propaganda of words with the propaganda of shootings, fire, dynamite. Its dynamics is forged on the anvil of actions where consciousness and experience meet in a never ending dance and not in the keyboards of the digital world of noting.

Therefore, the anarchist urban guerrilla has the possibility to carry anarchy from abstract theory to practice where our desires are armed and trigger our own reality.

The Conspiracy of Cells of Fire and FAI are the reflection of our desires. We promote the creation of an informal network of cells and groups of anarchist affinity with the aim to diffuse the practical theory and attacks. We weave our own spider web… We organize our attacks against the outposts of the world of organized exploitation and boredom. We hit the banks, the police stations, the courthouses, the prisons, the ministries, the party offices, the corporate empires and whatever guards and reproduces the values of this world. Of course, we don’t forget that new anarchist urban guerrilla’s target is not just the blowing up of things and execution of authority’s officers, but, simultaneously, the destruction of social relations that bear inside them the poison of power. Therefore, in parallel with the organization and diffusion of FAI and CCF via bullets and bombs, we desire to smash with our texts all these daily social conventions and slap the mentality of willing obedience that are half of the authority’s power…

We hate the hand that holds the whip as much as we hate the back of those who uncomplainingly accept its hits…

Don’t follow me… I’m not leading you…

Don’t walk ahead of me… I’ll not follow you…

Carve your own path… Become yourself…

WE ORGANIZE 10, 100, 1000 cells of Informal Anarchist Federation and Conspiracy of Cells of Fire

ATTACK FIRST AND ALWAYS FOR ANARCHY

Conspiracy of Cells of Fire – FAI/IRF

Imprisoned Members Cell

#Conspiracy of Cells of Fire #ccf #anarchy #communism #nihilism #post left anarchy #the invisible committee #tiqqun #anti tiqqun #fai #irf #attack #direct action

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chiseler · 5 years ago

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The Last Light

There is a moment in David Lynch's Twin Peaks: The Return that on its incandescent surface could have been lifted, weightless, from the great post-war dream of materialist deliverance: The top on the convertible is down, the radio on; The Paris Sisters are singing I Love How You Love Me as a reincarnated Laura Palmer lifts her face to a cloudless sky. Within the tapestry of this early Phil Spector production — his trademark reverb eternally associated with Romance and Death (two conditions Spector knew all too well) — the voice of Priscilla Paris is a siren sound from the American Beyond. We could be hearing a dream goddess lullaby from the whispering gallery, or sweet nothings from the crypt. We don't know. We'll never know. Just as Quentin Tarantino’s Once Upon a Time... in Hollywood keeps us guessing with the elusive murmur that “Sharon Tate will never die,” granting her a gaudy, wondrous L.A. to cavort in where it's 1969 forever and movie stars still matter, so we find ourselves in Tarantino’s version of paradise (complete with flame throwers to the face). In this oneiric echo chamber, momentarily shared by Lynch and Tarantino, Surrealism smiles down upon a vision of American blondness; muscle cars soaked in sunlight; the terrible ecstasy of unending motion; candy for the eye and ear.

David Lynch’s favorite film, to this day, remains Otto e Mezzo, directed by Western Europe's sorcerer of confectionary delights, Federico Fellini; the man who put the “dolce” in La Dolce Vita. And here you have a fleeting taste of ideologies swirled together and spun like ribbon candy: a blur of four-wheeled luxury from the New World, zooming past regional splendor into that fraternity of man: the socio-economic nirvana imagined by Karl Marx.

Careening from one via to another at harrowing, white-knuckle speeds, Fellini was heard to lament that “Some of the neo-realists seem to think that they cannot make a film unless they have a man in old clothes in front of the camera.” George Bluestone, recording these words in 1957 for the pages of Film Culture, was sittings in the literal passenger seat of the ideal metaphor of post-war ebullience in action: that famous Black Chevy skirting the Italian Scylla (the Vatican) and its equally dogmatic Charybdis (the Party); expert, 20th century precision guiding them through Roman streets with graffiti-scrawled churches proudly bearing the hammer and sickle. At those velocities, anything could make sense.

“What for you is the greatest human quality?”, Bluestone asks. Fellini responds, “Love of one’s fellows,” a period-appropriate oath that rings true to his brand of ecumenical solidarity.

“The greatest fault?”

“Egoism.”

Try, if you will, to imagine our more locally sourced egoists nodding along with Fellini in soulful agreement on that one. As a kind of compatriot of Edgar Allan Poe, David Lynch (and, to some extent, Tarantino) spawns from his abiding axiom that “The death of a beautiful woman is, unquestionably, the most poetic topic in the world.” In Lynch’s hands, American television has become a brightly lit seance for Poe’s ethereal dead. Immortal creatures afflicted with the dream of physical existence, then afflicting the dreamers. Twin Peaks: The Return modifies Poe's axiomatic truth with great help from Amanda Seyfried's Becky and her pair of visionary's eyes, melting Spector's dark edifice of sugar in deathless, Sternbergian close-up — iridescent search lights, ever more urgently scanning the sky above for a sun to swallow her whole. We can only witness and internalize this shimmering ingenue trading places with Old Sol, as if the drugs she's consumed have entered our system and not hers.

Filmmakers like Fellini and Lynch celebrate bodily extremes in intriguing, if differing ways that should naturally gallop right beyond the pale but nevertheless become wholly, weirdly digestible. It is perhaps the innocent glee, even wonderment, of these artists in the vast variety of shapes the human body can assume; innocence which acts as a giant eraser for every awareness on our part of how physical representation in the age of political correctness is meant to function. Lynch is able to present the disabled as by turns childlike, mysterious or magical beings without ever worrying about lending them agency (The Elephant Man's John Merrick is a passive whipping boy for seemingly the whole of Victorian London) or the lie of adult sophistication (the latest Twin Peaks iteration includes a pint-sized hitman who whines like a puppy when his icepick is broken).

Fellini's dwarfs and grotesques, on the other hand, emerge from the struggle of a one-time Marc'Aurelio cartoonist willing one-dimensional images into three-dimensional embodiment. His big women, of course, are fetish figures. They always were. Gargantuan beauties, evidence of a sexual ideal formed in infancy: the big Italian mammissima, seen from below. As Fellini grew into a rather large adult himself, this ideal was simply re-scaled accordingly (even the icy mountain of Anita Ekberg takes on new implication). Goddesses all, they are, however, not meant for conventional movie stardom.

And what of Tarantino? Once Upon a Time's Margot Robbie IS the no-longer-doomed Sharon Tate as she watches herself on the big screen; enjoying a thrill that few have ever known so guilelessly that any half-baked charges of narcissism shrivel to nullity before they can escape a single throat. Here before us is an essential glimpse into the vanishing phenomenon of movie stardom itself, reflexive handwringing from the woke balconies notwithstanding. Tarantino has at last achieved something transcendental: even his grotesques — slack-jawed, gap-toothed, gormless members of the Manson Family conflated with more contemporary Identitarian cultists on the lookout for 'Lookism', knives unsheathed — are downright mythic. Robbie's Tate is a visage both generically perfect and possessed by the angels, every one of them a blond resident of LA County, sincere and unknowable as desert light.

The vampires, creatures of night slain by sunlight, infiltrated the movie theaters in the 1920s and never left. They sit next to us in the dark, having ceded the power to hypnotize us to the glowing screen itself. Photochemical vagaries invariably allow movie darkness to behave in impossible ways; as if the physical properties of film itself knew no rules, and thus invited us to accept its essential anarchy without question. Before us is a darkness that GLOWS.

A Black & White image flipped into negative can produce black fire, or the black sunlight which illuminated the Transylvanian forests of Nosferatu, through which a box-like carriage rattles at Mack Sennett speed. But with only the smallest underexposure, a little dupey degradation of the print, or even a little imagination (such collaboration is not discouraged), this liquid blackness will spread anywhere, everywhere; the most luminous pestilence known to creation. Be it in the laughing nightmare of Fleischer cartoons of old (Out of the Inkwell, indeed) or Jean Epstein's photogenie phantasmagoria, we're left to wonder. Is daylight burning out the corner of a building, or is it the blackness of the building which is eating into the sky? As with so many such questions, film permits us no answer. We are to simply watch as characters smudge, their shadows emanating out beyond themselves, pulsing and flickering with an obsidian internal flame.

By the time Jean Epstein adapted The Fall of the House of Usher in 1928, it could wisely be said that Poe had been already aggrandized through the mechanism of carbon-arc projection; which is but one way to say that the vision that once seemed unharnessable, had at last been industrialized. Dragooned. Pressed into an ever more modern service at a pace to be measured in frames-per-second. Artists like Epstein and Chomon were the first generation to wield an immense cultural and commercial instrument; at once abidingly real and totally incomprehensible. No medium of expression predating cinema could so thoroughly lift audiences from linear time, or could as convincingly, in the words of Jean Epstein, render death as a conscious state.

Transcendentalism barely scratches the surface here. A more apposite term — the one he nuances in his film theory, “photogenie” (a genesis out of light) — pulls transitory moments, otherwise escaping human perception, into focus. If Poe engrosses us in Romantic conceptions of death as a means to visionary truth, Epstein reveals that same supposedly “elusive” end in our earthly world of telephones, sports cars, Kodak cameras for the every-man and moderne manicures for up-to-the-minute dandies.

The Victorians were falling away. And with them a system of reality contained in narrow, overwrought performances. Withered technique as a means of reflecting Nature — or, to quote Balzac, the “conjugation of objects with light” — was displaced, uncrowned by Jean Delville’s Death (1890), which embodies an altogether different kind of virtuosity, one no Academy could ever comprehend. The charcoal drawing and ode to Edgar Allan Poe’s Masque of the Red Death yearns with a combination of verve and starkness toward a capital “G” Gloom destined to escape salons.

Coming of age in a series of shady elsewheres — the fairgrounds, nickelodeon parlors and movie palaces of an Edwardian America — nitrate and its twinkling mineral essence gave Poe's crepuscular light its time to shine and thereby illuminate the world. No longer held in the solitary confinement of a page of reproduced text or an image, however still, rendered in paint or ink. Poe's singularly tormented vision was finally written alchemically, in cinematographic rays beamed through silver salts; into moving images of such aggressive vitality as to blast every rational thing from one's mind.

All hail magic mirrors! Celestial mandalas! Giant eggs and butterfly women! Segundo de Chomón's The Red Spectre (1907) ruthlessly invades our eyes with a wraith-magician dissolving through his coffin lid in a red, hand-tinted, flame-flickering hell. His caped, skull-masked presence was to herald the manic new thespic truth that, from this moment forward, the art of acting is in how you respond to light, and how light responds to you. The Specter of Chomon's dark bauble is in every element Poe's Red Death — japing and performing tricks for us, his adoring fans and welcome guests, before announcing our doom — literary metaphor slammed against a literal backdrop of amber stalactites, pellucid as an ossuary.

Doctor Pretorius might have been musing on the history of cinema in 1935’s The Bride of Frankenstein when he said: “Sometimes I have wondered whether life wouldn't be much more amusing if we were all devils, no nonsense about angels and being good.”

by Daniel Riccuito, Tom Sutpen and David Cairns

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maiselous · 6 years ago

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Two Comics

Sorry, I just have to get this out of my system. So I wanted to just spit out some short one-shot, but it kept growing.

If ya love it/hate it, hopefully it inspires more folks to write/draw/create more Maisel stuff in general.

This is set-up right after the bar scene in 2x10. Our two sad comedians share a cab and end up at his place bc Midge wants to sober the man up (ie take care of him. :’) Ugh he so vulnerable.)

His apartment is small, but more put together than Midge thought it would be. She lets him know, and he says “Well I’m not here enough to make a mess of this place, so I gotta do it on the road.”

“Well regardless of what’s in your house, at the end of the day all you need is good coffee and good company,” she says as she rummages around his kitchenette for his coffeemaker. Under the sink. Bingo.

“Words of wisdom,” Lenny murmurs as he plops down on the small sofa beneath the living room’s only window. The rain won’t let up, and they’re still both a little soaked. “Was that Groucho Marx?”

“Karl, actually. Even the communists enjoy a cup of good joe.” she quips. Lenny cracks half a smile. He loves bantering with Midge. It’s easy, not forced. When they met he could see from a distance that she was formidable, commanding the attention of the whole room and spinning her crazy life into a tragic comedy. Up close she was just as charismatic, but warmer.

“Nice and hot for you,” she brings over his coffee and sits next to him.

“Many thanks. You likely saved me from blacking out at my least favorite dive downtown, and for that I’m eternally grateful.” He doesn’t meet her eye. He’s probably not capable yet.

As he sips on the mug, Midge’s thoughts linger on that last part. She’s grateful to him too. They’ve helped each other a lot over time. It’s been about a year since she met him, drunk in the back of that police car. God, how things have changed. Between them though, things haven’t changed that much. If he were anyone else, she’d feel indebted to him. But, she tells herself, he’s her good friend. She likes that she doesn’t have to keep up some perfect impression around him, especially since he’s so big in the industry. At the same time, she doesn’t have to slow down for him to catch up. He just gets it. She always felt like they were on the same page.

____________

They’re relaxed on the sofa, listening to the rain. At least, Lenny’s relaxed. Midge is sitting upright and her hands are firmly on her lap. Of course he doesn’t want her to be uncomfortable. Now he feels a little insecure. They rode together because she offered to see him home; a classic Midge Maisel move. She was concerned because she’d never seen him so down, and he had too much to drink. He doesn’t say it, but no one’s offered to take care of him in a long time. And now she’s here, hesitant. He understands, but is slightly disappointed. He always thought they were on the same page.

____________

Midge can tell Lenny’s the type who enjoys silence. For her, silence makes too much room for her thoughts to take over, and they are beginning to do just that. ‘Is this okay? What would other people say? Do I care? Should I be here?’ She looks over at Lenny, and all her questions are answered: Yes it’s okay, no one cares what people think, and this is exactly where I should be.

He hangs his head back against the sofa and closes his eyes, which makes his hair sparkle with the lingering rain droplets. There’s a larger one floating just above his ear and she instinctively reaches to wipe it away. Suddenly her hand is there, fingers resting on the side of his face while her thumb rubs the water away.

This sends a quick shock throughout Lenny, but he plays it cool, reacting slowly because he is Lenny Bruce after all (and he’s still a little drunk). Wearily, he rotates his head to face her. Her hand is now cradling his cheek. He looks right at her--lazily and intensely at the same time, as if he literally can’t help but to focus on her because she’s the only thing in the world to look at.

Midge, strangely, is reassured. He’s still his exhausted, gentle self. He’s not some man who would think she’s leading him on or force her to see this through. His eyes are far more resigned. If they could talk, they would say “What are you doing to me?” And she wouldn’t have an answer, but she does love the way his skin feels.

They stay still there, not wanting to shatter the moment. Same page.

But Midge looks at his eyes and feels a palpable need to say what she thinks of him. “You deserve,” she begins just above a whisper. “So many good things.”

Lenny knows she’s referencing their conversation at the bar earlier, but it still felt like more. Beyond the warrants, the comedy career, beyond the baggage that comes with it. It’s something good friends wish for each other. Even so, somehow, it still felt like more. He pressed his head more into her hand. “You think that I could deserve you?”

Midge brings her other hand up so now she’s holding his face with both hands. She caresses his jaw and slowly lowers her hands to the base of his neck. She leans in, and a slow smile crosses her face. “Always and everywhere.” Lenny tries not to smile at the memory of that off-hand comment at the Gaslight. It seems so long ago.

She closes the remaining space between them with a kiss. They never really act this way with each other. The subdued wit, the quieter voices, the slow movements. It seems out of character for New York’s most dynamic comedians. At the same time it feels exactly, perfectly right.

Lenny kisses her back. His hands, which just put down the coffee mug on the table in front of them, find their way to her waist. He pulls her closer to him, which makes her catch her breath. He hesitates for a moment, wanting to make sure she’s comfortable, and she presses herself more firmly against him.

Their movements are not slow anymore. She lets her shoes falls to the floor as she curls her legs up on the sofa. He squeezes her waist even more, and she she opens her mouth for him.

If Midge could see herself in the mirror, she would panic. Her hair has been undone by the rain. Her makeup’s practically gone and her dress is still damp. She would never have planned it this way. But Lenny kisses her more and more deeply and she cares less and less about her looks. He finally grabs her and brings her on top of him. She opens her eyes to find him looking at her directly. He looks intoxicated, but not in the way he was earlier.

And of course Lenny is entranced. He's wondering what the Hell he did to deserve Miriam Maisel, his favorite mad divorcee from the Upper West Side to straddle him on his sofa in his tiny downtown apartment. He says none of this, obviously. Meanwhile, Midge traces a line of kisses across his forehead. They’re tender and light. She’s not used to this. Even in bed, she’s always been the ‘cool girl’, making moves she thinks her man would like. This right here though, is for her.

Her lips make their way to his neck, and when she uses her tongue to move back up to his ear, he shudders and moans as if he’s been holding it in for a long time. Midge is sure it’s the best sound she’s ever heard. She finds other ways to make him utter that sound again. His roaming grip tightens and loosens with each movement; her back, her ass, her arms, her hair, all for him to explore.

Midge stops to catch her breath and realizes just how undone she is. Her hair is falling in her face, her dress is falling off her shoulder, and the area around her mouth feels red and raw from pressing against his stubble. She doesn’t give a shit. She sees that Lenny isn’t much better. His hair is frizzy and disheveled, and his clothes are beyond wrinkled. She begins to sigh, but it comes out as a laugh. A grin spreads across his face too. “Oh, this is what it takes to make you really laugh, huh? Am I funny now?” He pretends to be offended. She laughs harder, which he loves. “This was it all along, huh?” Midge falls into him laughing and she breathes in his scent deeply. She feels him hold her a little tighter, and she wonders if he’s gotten her second-hand drunk, if that’s even possible, or if maybe she’s just deliriously content.

_______________

They continue their ‘conversation’ for hours. On the sofa, in his bed, on the floor, in the doorway. It’s rhythmic, satisfying, and occasionally really loud. It’s determined, varied, and fucking exquisite. It feels like a perfect comedy routine on stage: performative and fun but also natural and fluid.

It’s punctuated by long, sleepy silences. As they lay together on his mattress, Midge rests her head on his chest. Lord only knows what time it actually is, but she measures the seconds with the quick thump-thump of his heartbeat. The rhythm, along with the distant police siren and orange glow from the street lights outside, remind her that they’re still in New York, on some weeknight, in reality.

Lenny lightly traces circles up and down her back, absentmindedly stroking the marks where her brassiere was. He thinks about where they were just hours ago, and how he opened up to her at the bar. Midge told him everything would be okay, and God, in this moment, she was more right than she could’ve known.

She’s not looking at his face, but she can feel him begin to smile and even laugh. “Two comics walk into a bar...”

That set-up suddenly seems absurdly real. She laughs and continues smiling, thinking about their conversation earlier at that bar. Midge recalls that question Lenny asked earlier: is it worth it? She was so doubtful only hours ago. Laying here next to him, feeling his fingers on her back and his heartbeat under her cheek, she knows her answer is yes.

#tmmm #The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel #lenny x midge #midge x lenny #fic #one-shot #mrs. maisel #lenny bruce #midge maisel #miriam maisel #luke kirby #rachel brosnahan #marvelous mrs. maisel #i am NOT a born writer #just remember that as you stumble through

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