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et-lesailes · 5 years

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only for you

pairing: ransom drysdale x reader

word count: 1633

summary: you are a popular socialite married to the wealthy ransom drysdale and mother of his two children he is absolutely in love with. there’s going to be a photoshoot at your house for an upcoming magazine feature starring your family, but ransom wants to have some fun first.

themes: romance, fluff, smut

taglist: @evanstush, @tanyam93, @bval-1, @wonderwinchester, @patzammit, @rohaintahquil, @deidrashouseofpain, @sammyslonglostshoe, @jadedhillon, @bohemian-barbie, @whysparker, @sebastian-i-stan, @sebabestianstan101, @lille-kattunge, @teller258316, @peach-acid, @allsortsofinterests, @xoxabs88xox, @heyiamthatbitch, @cptn-sgrogers, @heyyouwiththeassbutt, @bangtan-serendipity, @troublermalik, @beardburnsupersoldiers, @hannie-stark, @bookish-shristi, @kind-sober-fullydressed, @whores4thor, @gingerninjaprincess16, @straightforwardly, @denisemarieangelina, @frencchfries, @xlanawriter, @littlemoistcarrot, @pottxrwolff, @arianatheangelworld, @ifuseekamyevans, @southerngracela, @nsfwsebbie, @rororo06, @savemesteeb, @raveviolet, @inactivewhore

notes: patreon saw it first- click here to check it out and join, i would be so grateful!! graphic creds go to @thewritingdoll!

The alarm sounds over the bedroom speaker at 5 AM, making you and Ransom stir and grumble incoherently under your breaths. “God, I can’t remember the last time we woke up before the kids,” he mutters lowly, wrapping his arms around you tightly. “Makes me actually miss the mornings with Ani coming in at 7 and jumping up and down on us until our internal organs are completely fucked.” You laugh softly, snuggling close to your husband as you bury your head into his chest. “We’ll be back to our routine tomorrow, but we’ve gotta get through this busy day first…” You smile thoughtfully as you glance up at him. “I’m kind of excited, though. Our first magazine feature with Auden. Remember how cute our shoot was with Anais two years ago?”

“Mm. How could I forget?” He smirks slightly, drawing you even closer in his warm and protective hold. “My two gorgeous girls, all dolled up and posing pretty for the camera. And Jesus, Ani was only one and she was a fuckin’ natural. I’m going to be scaring off a lot of boys when that girl grows up.” You laugh softly, playfully tapping on his nose. “At least just let our little girl have some social life, yeah?” You finally sigh, sitting up in the lavish California king bed and stretching your arms. “C’mon, babe, we gotta get up. The stylists and crew are gonna be here soon.” He groans but sits up too, wrapping his arms around you again and leaning down to bury his head into your neck from behind. “We don’t even need stylists. Look at us, we’re a couple of the hottest people on this damn planet.” You giggle softly, turning your head to kiss his cheek. “Well, would you care to join this hot person in a hot shower?” you murmur, and the man grins wider, growling in pleasure as he nips at your neck. “Hell yeah. Quick, before one of the kids wakes up.”

You smile and hop off the bed with him following close behind, entering the large master bathroom and turning to face him with a playful smile as you walked backwards towards the shower. “If only Auden could be appeased as easily as you can,” you tease, lifting your silk camisole off your head and tossing it aside on the floor. Ransom bites on his lip hungrily as he watches you, already removing his shirt and pants. “Shit, babe, you’re just so goddamn gorgeous. Come on, take it all off…”

You giggle and reach into the shower to turn on the water before unhooking your bra, stepping out of your matching shorts and slipping off the lacy panties underneath. “You’re lucky I want you so bad I don’t feel like teasing,” you murmur, taking his hand once he’s fully stripped and lightly pulling him into the shower with you. You sigh in pleasure as the two of you wrap your arms around each other, enjoying the warmth of the several shower jets on either side of you as well as the gentle waterfall feature on top. He leans down and kisses at your neck as he runs his massive hands over your smooth body, broad fingers exploring your breasts as he massages and gropes. “We’re on the same page then, baby doll, though I can’t help but make you want to squirm just a little…”

You can’t help but moan as he teases your nipple between his fingers, his other hand sliding down your waist until it reaches your thigh, squeezing firmly. You gasp softly as his fingers reach your entrance, rubbing against your folds as a cocky smirk crosses his lips. “I love how sensitive you are for me, sweetheart,” he murmurs huskily, pushing one finger inside to pump deeply. You grip his biceps as you tilt your head back, whimpering and rolling your hips as he keeps going. “As much as I want to make you cum for me over and over again,” he mumbles with a playful sigh, “I’ve gotta fuck you nice and hard before I’m supposed to behave for the rest of the day.” You smile breathlessly, humming as you dig your nails into his skin. “Oh? And are you actually going to behave?”

He removes his fingers and starts pumping his erection, guiding it to your entrance and pressing himself against you. “Mm. Don’t I always for you, sweetheart?” You can’t even roll your eyes at his mischievous smirk, due to the fact that you’re too occupied moaning as he enters deep inside you. You’re closing your eyes in absolute bliss, your hips rocking back and forth as he presses you up against the shower wall, increasing his pace. “Fuck, baby, your body’s still so perfect even after having two kids-- how is that even fuckin’ possible?” He grunts as he grips your waist tightly, teeth tugging on his lower lip. The sounds of your moans and groans filling the cavernous shower, he continues fucking you nice and hard just as promised- you feel yourself reaching your climax as you pull at his wet hair, practically panting. “Ransom! Fuck, Ransom, I’m close!”

“Shit… me too, babe…” he growls, his hands cupping and squeezing your ass roughly. You place your hands on his chest, looking up into his eyes breathlessly. “Cum inside me, Ransom, please…” He doesn’t need to be told twice; he releases inside you with his jaw clenched, his groan hoarse and guttural. “Fuck. That was so good, baby doll.” He slowly relaxes his muscle, keeping himself inside you for a few moments before finally pulling out, breathing heavily. “Hoping for baby number three, sexy?” he teases, and you giggle as you catch your breath, running your fingers through your wet hair. “Why not…? I’d say we make pretty great babies together…”

He smirks, scooping you up into his arms under the shower as he kisses you passionately. “Damn right we do. Nothing would make me happier than to have another baby with you, Y/N.”

“Look at how pretty your mama looks, angel.” Ransom smirks proudly as he carries your three-year-old daughter while you’re getting your hair and makeup done for the photoshoot. You barely nibble on your lip as you smile, trying not to move your face too much in order for the woman to apply the makeup. “Mama’s soooo pretty!” Anais gushes, clapping her hands and making you laugh softly to yourself.

You can’t help but stare at your husband and daughter every chance you get; the four members of your family had the most adorable outfits picked out. You and Anais were wearing matching cream colored dresses while Ransom and Auden, your ten-month-old, had similar colored suits with slightly darker accents. Ransom had already finished getting ready, and a stylist was currently getting Auden dressed on his changing table. Once you were finally finished, you thanked your own stylist before standing up and going over to your infant, cooing fondly as you stared at how adorable he looked. “Look at my handsome boy! You look just like your Daddy, you know that?”

Ransom comes over, chuckling softly as he gazes at his child. “He really is a little mini-me. And Anais is the spitting image of you-- look at how gorgeous she is, hm?” He bounces his little girl up and down, making her laugh in delight. You smile and pick up your son once he’s all dressed, straightening his tiny bowtie before reaching over and gently tucking a strand of your daughter’s chestnut brown hair behind her ear. “Both of our children are absolutely beautiful. I can’t get over it.” You sigh happily, taking a hold of your husband’s arm and leaning up to give his cheek a kiss. “I love you and I love our family so much.”

“I LOVE YOU, MAMA!” Anais suddenly cheers happily, clapping her hands and making you, Ransom, and even her little brother laugh. “What about me, princess?” Ransom pokes the little girl’s cheek playfully. She giggles and hugs her father tightly. “I love you tooooooo, Daddy! And I love Auddie, and- and- and Bella, and Elsie, and-”

“Okay, okay, angel, we’re going to be here all day if you list all of the dolls you own.” Ransom jokes, and you raise an eyebrow playfully. “And whose fault is that?” He blinks and scoffs in defense. “What? I like to spoil all three of my babies, is that a problem?”

“Dada!! Dadadada!” Auden babbles, reaching out to grab his father’s finger. You and Ransom chuckle watching him until the crew signals that they’re ready; it’s time for the home shoot to begin, and you couldn’t feel more grateful for your lovely home and perfect family as the four of you sit on the couch, Ransom holding your beautiful girl on his lap and you holding your handsome son on yours. You do a series of photos-- some with the whole family, individual shots, adorable photos of Anais and Auden sitting together on the polished hardwood floor surrounded by their many toys, and then couple photos with you and Ransom.

You smile as you gaze up into your husband’s eyes, one hand resting on his chest while he holds your waist. “Let’s get a kiss!” the photographer calls, and Ransom smirks. “Uh, gladly.” He leans down and kisses you with a natural intensity, one hand moving to the back of your neck and holding you close. You smile as you happily kiss him back- for a moment, you forget about the several people surrounding you.

“Thank you for being so good to me, Ransom.” You whisper, gently holding his face in your hands. He presses his forehead against yours, his blue eyes filled with affection and natural devilry. “Only for you, kitten. Remember that.”

#ransom drysdale x reader #ransom drysdale imagine #ransom drysdale fanfic #ransom drysdale fluff #ransom drysdale smut

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xyloophones · 7 years

Note

*whispers* prompt for tmfu au: “dishonest decade”

hi im crying also im ignoring all my other prompts bc i love this one a lot

(this line is from September 1, 1939 by W.H. Auden, if anyone wants to join me and cookie in poetry hell)

[tmfu au tag]

dishonest decade (all i have is a voice)

Yuuri measures time in works of art.

Examples:

In the amount of time it takes to boil water for tea, Phichit can hack into Baroness Catalina’s mansion security system.

Yuuri waits exactly ten minutes, enough time to review his notes for his midterm on Monday, before he goes inside.

The Baroness is out like a light. Yuuri quickly befriends her dog–– the Actual Disney Prince Yuuri effect, as Phichit would call it–– and makes his way to the study where the painting is being held.

(Sometimes Yuuri likes to think of himself as the subject of a Degas, all pretty blushing cheeks and perfectly pointed toes. Soft blurs of color, graceful, poised–– caught unaware and captured forever in reverent brushstrokes.

But Yuuri is never caught unaware. He’s too good.)

La Liberté guidant le peuple, the original Delacroix. Beautiful and angry and in the wrong hands. Yuuri allows himself the appropriate time to bask in its presence, caught up in the gunpowder and smoke and magnificence of it all. Phichit babbles angrily in his earpiece about the injustice and the irony and “Yuuri, the historical significance! Convince me not to drain her bank accounts, because I can do it! I have them right here!”

Yuuri snorts quietly, which he knows Phichit will understand as, “donate the money to that community center down the street that we like.” He hears Phichit gleefully tapping away at his keyboard.

It takes him another thirty minutes to carefully take it down. It was stolen from the Louvre-Lens late last year and Yuuri can tell immediately that whatever asshole that stole it clearly knew nothing about preservation. It was cut out of its original frame and then rolled up like some sort of elementary school poster board project. It’s no matter, the museum will know how to properly restore it. Still, Yuuri seethes.

The getaway is simple. Yuuri and Phichit had pooled together their money to buy a nice, spacious van late into their second year at grad school. It’s parked outside now, hidden from view with Phichit in the driver’s seat. Yuuri carries the painting into the back and Phichit peels away from the Baroness’s estate.

Two hours. An average job time, also the same amount of time as one of Professor Bin’s American Art lectures.

“I cannot believe this!” Phichit squawks as they’re speeding down the road, to the drop off site. “I cannot believe she had Liberty Leading the People. This is better than the time we found that Senator with that Jacques-Louis David in his den!”

Yuuri smiles fondly. “You’re a fan of this one.”

“What can I say, I’m a Romantic,” Phichit says, fluttering his eyes. “Capital R.”

Yuuri giggles, feeling much less anxious now that the job is done. It’s another hour–– time to dry a layer of paint–– until they reach the drop site. Their mysterious inside man has been working with them for years, taking their stolen art and rightfully donating them to the proper museums. Yuuri doesn’t know his name, but he trusts him.

This is a mistake.

(“Complacency,” Minako-sensei always said, “is the first sign of a rotted will. Rebel, Yuuri. Rebel.”

“Rebel,” Yuuri whispered to himself, the first time he stole a painting. He’d taken it off the rich governor’s wall and replaced it with a list of people who’d died as a result of his poor health care policy. Yuuri took the piece–– Yoshitomo Nara, Dead Flower–– and donated it the the local MOMA.)

They get caught.

It takes half of Interpol and a well-timed ambush, but they get caught. They arrest Yuuri in the middle of his Modern American Art midterm, which is incredibly rude.

They make him wait six hours in an interrogation room–– enough time to steal three paintings, or two sculptures, or an entire stack of loose leaf paper drawings–– before they offer him a job.

It’s less of a job offer, more of a “work for us or go to jail” offer. Yuuri’s only condition is that he gets to work with Phichit. Within the hour they’re being shipped off to the CIA training facility and meeting their new handler, Agent Celestino.

“Your hair belongs in an impressionist painting,” Phichit tells him, straight up.

Agent Celestino’s brow furrows. “Uh… thank you?”

“It’s not a compliment,” Yuuri says, “he hates the impressionist movement.”

Agent Celestino’s eyes narrow and he stares them down for a long time before bursting into laughter.

“Kids,” he says, delighted, “I think this is the beginning of something beautiful.”

#yoi #prompt #ask #xylo speaks #thanks cookie #tmfu au #sksdlfka that was way longer than i was intending #also no im not really ignoring the other prompts HAA #soon i promise #thecookiemonster77

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snickerdoodlles · 7 years

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nor look be lost

Phichit and Yuuri are lit nerds with a love for poetry that burns bright and deep. They attend lectures and poetry workshops with an enthusiasm that sweeps everyone off their feet, ringing laughter and shining eyes. Their favorite activity is poetry telephone, stifling their giggles as old latin poems gain Batman and heavy language becomes “ask thou booty ask thou fault.” They record all their favorites in a beat up notebook, doodle-coated cover and pen stained pages barely clinging onto the wire spiral, and never fail to bring it with them to their favorite cafe’s poetry nights.

Scattered among their many recreations of famous verse are also fortune cookie poems, created through the piles of fortune cookie slips they collect just for this. One of these is a bizarre fluke of a poem that’s almost profound and Phichit smirks at Yuuri, mischief twinkling in his eyes, and says, “betcha wouldn’t read this on stage”

Yuuri reads it on stage three minutes later

Amidst his audience, Viktor gasps as this beautiful soft boy with a shy smile and laughter in his eyes comes to the mike and recites the most ridiculous poem. But, as odd as it may be, Viktor is moved

(“Chris,” he says desperately, clutching his best friends shirt. “ChRIS.” “Yes Viktor?” Chris says smiling, eyebrows raised. Viktor fans himself. “I’m gay.” “You’ve always been gay” “I’m gayER”)

So Viktor, feeling gay and excited and absolutely terrified, approaches mr. Beautiful Poet at the end of the night. He’s run no less than twenty of the most romantic and moving poems he could think of off the top of his head by Chris, only to veto them immediately because nothing could grasp this feeling in his chest right. He ends up settling for a verse of his favorite romance poem, one he’s had memorized since he was twelve like the sap he is, to tell to Beautiful Poet and hopefully impress or sweep Beautiful Poet off his feet (he’s not picky which). Viktor approaches Beautiful Poet with his sweaty hands behind his back and heat in his cheeks and

completely messes up his favorite verse in his favorite poem he’s memorized since he was twelve

(“FUCK” thinks Viktor eloquently)

“eXcUSe mE?!” thinks Yuuri angrily. This gorgeous prick Did Not just mess up a poem by W.H. Auden, aka Yuuri’s favorite poet, much less one of Yuuri’s favorite poems. The fuck does Gorgeous Prick think he is? Is Gorgeous Prick making fun of Yuuri and his fortune cookie poem? Because that’s just Rude, this is ART

(“FUUUUCK” continues Viktor’s internal screaming, because he doesn’t want Beautiful Poet glaring at him but also he’s still gorgeous and Viktor can’t handle anything)

In his head, Yuuri rips Viktor to shreds about Respecting Art, What The Fuck Asshole in 0.2 seconds with the most amazing and skillfully crafted argument. Physically Yuuri glares at Viktor for a full minute, completely missing Viktor melting into a helpless gay mess underneath his stare, before he turns away with an offended huff and walks out with Phichit

(“What a prick,” Yuuri rants angrily to a sympathetic Phichit

“Im a MESS” wails Viktor into a laughing Chris’s shoulder)

The next week, both are back, eyes sharp as they scan the crowd for each other for entirely different reasons. Their eyes meet and a flurry of activity ensues;

Yuuri, thinking Gorgeous Prick is back to make fun of people, flips through his notebook for one that makes fun of people with no respect for the arts. Or at least piss off someone with Gorgeous Prick’s pretentiousness

Viktor spends the next hour gathering his courage to approach Beautiful Poet. “How is he even this beautiful” whispers-hisses Viktor. “How can i apologize when I’m basking in such beauty?!” “you’re hopeless,” retorts Chris unhelpfully, phone out and recording for posterity

Viktor finally manages to shake his nerves shortly before Yuuri plans on going on stage. “Hi,” he says shyly with a smile.

Yuuri glares with the fervor of a spurned lover

“Ah,” he says sheepishly. “I’m um, really sorry about last week. I’m. Uh. Really bad at remembering things. Even things by my favorite poet. I had actually wanted to thank you for your poem from last week, I loved it”

(“Fuck,” thinks Yuuri, feeling vaguely like the world had disappeared from beneath him. Pretty AND sweet AND likes poetry? f u c k)

“That was a poem made out of fortune cookies,” says Yuuri bluntly, distantly wishing he could swallow his foot so it could shut him up. “I’m not good at writing poetry”

“Wow! Amazing!”

(Viktor’s eyes are literally sparkling. “FUCK” thinks Yuuri louder)

“You delivered what should’ve been nonsensical babbling and made it into a work of art” says Viktor, as though he’s actually enchanted. Yuuri would tell him being so nice to make up for last weeks blunder is unnecessary but his hearts currently stuck in his throat.

“Are you reading one of your favorite poems tonight?” asks Viktor, staring deeply into Yuuri’s eyes.

Yuuri doesn’t recall nodding, but Viktor clasps his hands and beams at him. “Wow! Amazing! I can’t wait to hear it!”

“Uh,” says Yuuri finally. Before he can manage the next bit, Phichit swoops in, smiling sweetly.

“Yuuri, it’s your turn!” Phichit turns his sugar sweet smile on Viktor. “Listen closely to my son. You’re going to love his”

Right, thinks Yuuri. Phichit doesn’t know Gorgeous Prick is actually Sweet and Lovely. Nor can he actually hear Yuuri mentally screaming at him to not. They really need to work on their ability to read each other’s minds for these sorts of situations. By the time Yuuri’s finished thinking this, he’s under the spotlight with absolutely no words in his head and a book of nonsense in his hands and all he can think is how badly this will surely end. He sputters and flips through his notebook frantically for a new poem and picks the first one that doesn’t have fortune cookie dust nor Batman in it

This is a Mistake

Yuuri is distantly aware he’s reciting what is the cheesiest Love Poem. (Literally. There are no less than six cheese puns.)

(There’s little of Yuuri that’s not left cracked. He can feel his soul leaking out through the crevices. He doesn’t even want to know what Sweet and Lovely thinks of him now. Hopefully the world will swallow him before he must face Sweet and Lovely again. If. He doubts Sweet and Lovely can even look at him after this)

(“cHRiS” whisper-hisses Viktor, wrinkling Chris’s favorite button down beneath white knuckles. He hasn’t blinked once since Yuuri took the stage. “chris” whimpers Viktor, slumping onto Chris’s shoulder. “He likes cheesy romance poetry. Chris.” Chris holds back his snort and his pats Viktor’s thinning hair.)

Yuuri finishes and scrambles off stage, making a bee-line for the bathroom or the bar, he’s not sure which. Then he hears Sweet and Lovely’s voice through the mike

He turns and sees Sweet and Lovely holding the mike in one hand and holding back a grumpy but fond redhead with the other. And then, while staring him right in the eye, Sweet and Lovely recites........literally the sappiest love poem to Yuuri

(“I can’t believe you were able to do that with a straight face,” says Yuuri fondly, years later. “Nothing about me is straight,” says Viktor immediately. Yuuri gives him a flat look. “Scratch that. I can’t believe you recited the lines in the right order” “YUURIIIIIII”)

And so begins the tale of Yuuri and Viktor simultaneously wooing each other via Bad Poems. It becomes an official poetry night tradition. Or at least, Viktor tries to make it official, but the rest of the crowd is so sick of their shit they threaten to kick them both out if they ever read a bad poem again, upon which Yuuri asks Viktor if he’d like to recite Awful Poems to each other over coffee so smoothly that Viktor is halfway through “of course” before he realizes they’re going on a Date

After Viktor finishes swooning, poetry nights gain its first actual official tradition of “take a shot every time Viktor or Yuuri recite a poem about how much they love each other” (they all end up smashed)

#yuri on ice #yuuri katsuki #viktor nikiforov #viktuuri #victuuri #??#cookie's writing #bad poetry au #hey xylo #stealing ur thing where i name a fic after a line in a wh auden poem lmao #i know you said you weren't planning on it but feel free to add if you wanna !!#okay wow im tired #its 1:30 am for when i scheduled this #whoops

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pwitness · 7 years

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“Phyllis McGinley: Catholic “housewife poet” who wrote about domesticity and about saints. Suburbia is often a target of Distributist critique, but McGinley does highlight another side of it, the sanctity of it, perhaps the kind of joyful holiness which is possible within a slightly dysfunctional system (and aren’t all systems a bit dysfunctional?). She wrote “light verse” about the deepest of topics. Perhaps in this way she was a bit more realistic than her male medievalist colleagues. For example, consider her take on Daylight Savings Time:

In spring when maple buds are red, We turn the clock an hour ahead; Which means, each April that arrives, We lose an hour out of our lives. Who cares? When autumn birds in flocks Fly southward, back we turn the clocks, And so regain a lovely thing That missing hour we lost in spring.

It is easy to see why people would be contemptuous of this sort of thing, but you can see in Phyllis McGinley a gentle kind of semi-Chestertonian attitude towards suburbia: seeing the enchanted within the industrial society.

There is a real sanctity evident in McGinley’s poems which takes the form of humility, as for example in “Reflections at Dawn”:

I wish I owned a Dior dress Made to my order out of satin. I wish I weighed a little less And could read Latin. Had perfect pitch or matching pearls, A better head for street directions, And seven daughters, all with curls And fair complexions. I wish I'd tan instead of burn. But most, on all the stars that glisten, I wish at parties I could learn to sit and listen...

Buffet, ball, banquet, quilting bee, Wherever conversation's flowing, Why must I feel it falls on me To keep things going? Though ladies cleverer than I Can loll in silence, soft and idle, Whatever topic gallops by, I seize its bridle, Hold forth on art, dissect the stage, Or babble like a kindergart'ner Of politics till I enrage My dinner partner.

A feminist could easily read this as Phyllis McGinley giving an aesthetic sanction to women being demure, “seen and not heard”, but the reference to longing for Latin suggests something deeper, as does the reference to “ladies cleverer than I”; she seems to have the same insight as chapter six of the Rule of St. Benedict on the value and holiness of silence (which comes before a chapter on humility). Her insight into the dangers of being oppositional appear in “The Angry Man”. She did not enjoy her childhood, growing up on a ranch where she felt isolated and enduring the death of her father at age 12 (which precipitated the family’s move to another state), and thus appreciated the stability of suburban family life.

Robert Speaight was an actor who read a bunch of T.S. Eliot’s poems on record and played Thomas Becket in the first production of Murder in the Cathedral. His brother, George Speaight, was a puppeteer who also wrote histories of the circus, clowns, and Punch and Judy (the first academic study on the history of Punch and Judy). They were Roman Catholic converts; George had worked on Eric Gill’s farm, and Robert was also friends with Gill and wrote a biography of him which discreetly avoided discussing Gill’s sexual proclivities. Robert also wrote a biography of Hilaire Belloc and called Maurice Baring’s book Have You Anything to Declare? “the best bedside book in the English language”.

David Jones was a painter and poet. During art school, he would visit Westminster Cathedral and admire the Stations of the Cross by Eric Gill. He became Catholic in 1921 and was received by Father John O’Connor, the inspiration for Father Brown (who concelebrated Chesterton’s Requiem Mass with Father Vincent McNabb; eulogy by Fr. Ronald Knox). Fr. O’Connor referred Jones to Gill; he joined Gill’s guild and was even engaged to his daughter at one point. He was an illustrator, doing work for example for T. S. Eliot's The Cultivation of Christmas Trees, and invented a genre that still influences calligraphers, “painted inscriptions”. He also wrote an epic poem of World War I, “In Parenthesis”, which T.S. Eliot wrote the introduction to. WH Auden called it the best book about the war. Jones himself probably had PTSD from his experience being wounded as a soldier in the War. He also wrote essays on art that were influenced by his Catholicism, such as “Art and Sacrament” and “Use and Sign”.

Graham Sutherland painted a picture of Winston Churchill that he hated, which an episode of “The Crown” was dedicated to documenting. It depicted all of his brokenness and agedness and perhaps inspired him to resign. But Sutherland was also a convert to Catholicism and had painted a Crucifixion which showed Christ’s weakness in vivid detail; perhaps for him there was something Christological about showing Churchill’s weakness, something Churchill couldn’t see. He was commissioned to do that painting by the Anglican priest Walter Hussey, a patron of the arts who bemoaned the fact that the Church and the arts were being divorced--think what he would have thought of our ugly new church buildings! Sutherland also did the tapestry of Christ at Coventry Cathedral. His deep faith is not mentioned on “The Crown”.

Kazimir Malevich was a Christian mystic, and his “Black Square” was first displayed in the same spot on the wall where an icon would have hung. It is a kind of commentary on the Soviet oppression of religious images and spirituality; it has left a black void in its wake. It can be compared to how T.S. Eliot uses free verse to criticize the emptiness and individualism of his society, or how Andy Warhol shows the banality of our new religious symbols--like corporate logos--or stares at the Empire State Building for 8 hours to contrast it with how a traditional church really could be stared at for hours.

Roy Campbell was a poet who converted to Catholicism in Spain and was sympathetic to Franco’s regime; Borges thought his translation of St. John of the Cross was almost better than the Spanish original. (Borges seemed to prefer English to Spanish.) Tolkien: “Here is a scion of an Ulster prot. family resident in S. Africa, most of whom fought in both wars, who became a Catholic after sheltering the Carmelite fathers in Barcelona — in vain, they were caught & butchered, and R.C. nearly lost his life. But he got the Carmelite archives from the burning library and took them through the Red country. [...] However it is not possible to convey an impression of such a rare character, both a soldier and a poet, and a Christian convert. How unlike the Left - the 'corduroy panzers' who fled to America [...]”. Lewis, meanwhile, didn’t like him, wrote a poem against him, and drunkenly read it to him at the Eagle and Child (Bird and Baby). Campbell’s line “Against a regiment I oppose a brain. And a dark horse against an armored train” inspired Alex Colville’s painting Horse and Train. He also punched the communist poet Stephen Spender who didn’t press charges because he liked Campbell’s poetry. His poem The Georgiad was a parody of intellectual fads like the Bloomsbury Group. He was often left out of anthologies because of his political views, which seems to vindicate the ballad written by Phyllis McGinley:

"You'd better compile a collection Of words that another has wrote. It's the shears and the glue Which will compensate you And fashion a person of note. For poets have common companions. Their fame is a wraith in the mist. But the critics all quarrel To garland with laurel The brow of the anthologist, My son, The brow of the anthologist."

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sniktandfwoosh · 7 years

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Starting Over - Chapter 4: In For A Penny, In For A Pound

Title: Starting Over

Pairing: Well, several. Jean/Logan and Scott/Emma for sure. Maybe a bit of Kitty/Colossus and Rogue/Remy for fun and flair. We'll see what we get into. :)

Rating: T at the beginning (mainly for language, because dude...seriously...Logan swears a lot.), M (for fluff, maybe?) later on.

Author's Note: I know it's all a lot to go over at once, but hopefully this will be a good restart to this fic. 4 chapters in and I think it's heading good places. Thoughts? Please read and review!

How should we like it were stars to burn

With a passion for us we could not return?

If equal affection cannot be,

Let the more loving one be me.

W. H. Auden

A cloud of red hair fluttered in the wind, caught in the edge of approaching storm. The owner of the hair turned her face to the sky, seeming to relish the feel of the wind on her face.

How appropriate that there's a storm coming in. This could be the story of my life.

There was something so comforting about the park at this time of day. Just after 6, there was still a lot of daylight left, but the sun was no longer beating down on the city through the clouds. Instead, it formed a warm glow behind all the skyscrapers. The dark clouds out east at sea served as an exquisite contrast of dark and light.

This is too much of my existence right now. Maybe I should have checked the weather.

Jean's toes curled in her ballet flats. She'd debated for an hour and a half what would be the best thing to wear.

A floaty dress? If it was windy in Philly it was going to be more so in NYC.

Something more formal? They were meeting in a park, for God's sake.

Maybe jeans? Good lord, the only jeans Jean had were raggedy and paint splattered.

She'd given up and gone for jean shorts, a lavender tank, and black ballet flats. Something casual, comfortable, and staying away from anything oppressive or presumptuous. This was just a meeting and a chat. And maybe, just maybe, nobody had taken the time to see why Logan was going off so far into NYC when he preferred being alone in the woods.

The habit of doing a light scan of anybody nearby had developed since Jean had come back this time. It'd helped her avoid a couple of near run-ins with Emma and Kitty. Nobody was ready for that confrontation, least of all Jean.

It was no surprise, then, when she felt the mental scream of elation coming from a man just across the pond behind her. The elation was suddenly blunted, almost as if the man knew someone was watching and dampened his thoughts. She turned, and the anxiety of seeing so familiar a face after her last "visit" threatened to overwhelm her.

In through the nose, out through the mouth.

The nausea rose, and then receded slowly as the figure stepped onto the bridge. He stopped a few feet away from her in his usual uniform of jeans slung low on the hips, a tank top, a button up shirt, and those boots of his that he always wore. It was so achingly familiar that it took Jean a moment to remember to breathe.

"Nice night out, yeah?"

The voice was rough, a little deeper than she remembered. It struck her as absurd that he was commenting on the weather, and the laugh that bubbled out of her mouth left her bent over and wheezing before she could gather herself together.

"Yeah, it was a dumbass comment. Maybe if your mouth wasn't hangin' open or you weren't laughin' yourself silly you coulda said somethin' less stupid."

Thank you, Logan, for always having a quip.

Jean's embarrassed grin stole across her face, and once more her toes curled inside her shoes.

"It's all weird. Isn't it? It feels weird. Last time you had to kill me a lot. And I'm sorry for that. And I know I can't erase it. I just want something better, something more than misery in every universe. And that should be possible, yeah? But it's all so much and I know they're going to ha-"

Logan was inches from her and reaching for her hand before she realized he'd moved. He held it gently, thumb working circles over her palm, trying to calm her. Jean looked up at him, miserable and fighting back the burning rush of the tears she swore she wouldn't cry.

His head tilted, and it took him a moment to speak, taking care to measure his words gently.

"I can't speak for that lot up at the school. And I ain't gonna lie. I'm worried. There's been a lot of times where this has all gone to shit no matter who wanted what. But I've been thinkin', and it strikes me that there's been a lot of people messin' with your head."

The side of his mouth lifted in a crooked grin before he continued.

"I don't think I've ever heard you be so cussed about anything, except maybe how you hated pistachios and that whole thing on the moon. I don't know how you'll do it, but you seem so hell bent on doin' it I don't think anybody could tell you no, not even One Eye and the Ice Bitch."

Jean sniffed, still a little teary, and couldn't resist a snicker at Emma Frost's nickname. She tried to not focus on what it meant, Logan holding her hand. All she knew was that it felt warm and safe, and she didn't want him to let go. Logan continued.

"I just worry that ya might not be able to do it alone. I'm bettin' you're not hangin' around any other mutants, otherwise they'd sell you out to us real fast. It gets lonesome, not being around anybody who knows what it's like."

The snort that came from Jean was highly unladylike and made Logan grin.

"Yeah, I can't imagine trying to explain to my therapist that I house a god-level force of creation, or that I've died and come back so many times my head is still spinning." Jean sighed, looking down as her brow furrowed. "I'm not sure anybody knows what it's like, but at least the therapist is trying to help."

Logan's brow arched. "Therapy? That's...different. Didn't take you for the psycho babble type."

His resposne was met with an eyeroll. "Learning how the mind functions and how it can turn against itself is important. It's given me a lot of perspective on what we all go through on a regular basis. We practically fight wars and have the weight of several universes on our shoulders. Why wouldn't we stumble and break sometimes? But when we do, we need to be able to take accountability and move forward without being petrified of the past. And I won't do it again. I refuse." She bit her lip, scowling at the stones on the bridge in frustration.

"Hey, no offense intended, darlin'. It's just different, is all. And you're not wrong. We've been through a hell of a lot, and somehow we keep on truckin'. Maybe it's because we don't know any better. But for now...for now just live." Rain began to sprinkle around them. Logan grinned, and turning and pulling Jean along started to cross the bridge.

"Now, wasn't there some kinda talk about coffee?"

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/3350657/4/Starting-Over

#jean grey #phoenix #wolverine #logan #james howlett #x men #fanfic #fic: starting over

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