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fortheloveoffanfic · 5 years ago

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Lullaby

Keanu Reeves x Reader (Chapter Summary- Two months later and one person is still being affected by a decision they made and another’s apparent rejection bothers them more than they’d prefer to admit.) (Warning- slight NSFW)

Chapter1 Chapter2

Chapter 3

A breathy sigh escaped her parted, plump lips. The silkiness of her legs rubbed against his thighs and her breasts felt firm and warm, just enough to fit in his palm with room for him to knead appreciatively. The slick heaven between her parted legs was so tight, cocooning Keanu’s member perfectly as he slid in and out of her in controlled thrusts. Her little gasps bounce of the walls, joining his low throaty grunts. Oh the sounds she makes. Y/n’s hair haloed around her on the white cotton pillow, messy and wild. She looked so divine in the most corrupted way. She’s so young, beautiful, oozing with youthful appeal. And she’s all his.

Except, she’s not. Not really.

With startle, Keanu awoke, sitting up in his bed, drenched in sweat......and something else. “Fuck,” he breathed, scrubbing his hands harshly over his face, proceeding to rub sleep out of his eyes. It was just minutes away from five in the morning and the sun hadn’t even risen yet, but Keanu knew that there was no chance of him falling back asleep.

It had become almost routine by then, his slumber being interrupted by dreams of Y/n, naked in his bed, or other parts of his house. The location never mattered, but for two months, it had been her. His mind had taken it upon itself to conjure up a slew of different sexual fantasies, ideas never seemed to be in shortage, much like his body’s gullibility when it came to believing them.

With a disgruntled sigh, Keanu shook the covers off and took a minute to offer his deflating crotch an annoyed stare. There was a stain at the front and those would be yet another pair of sleep pants that he’d have to hold back of the laundry hamper and deal with himself, lest Linda find out that she was actually working for a thirteen year old boy just discovering the mechanics of his body and not a grown man with the ability to not nut in his pants.

“The fuck is wrong with me?” He asked himself as he striped lazily, heading for the shower. As he got in, Keanu turned on the hot water, looking up as the water rained down from the entire ceiling of the sizeable cubicle. The shower in the master bath was one of the many things he loved about his house. It mimicked rainfall and could be easily controlled by the sleek silver knobs on the dark tiled wall.

As Keanu washed himself, his hands rough hands passing over his body, his mind flashed to the night from not too long ago, when he had gotten off the mere memories of a dream of Y/n. Since then, he had refrained from masturbation, at least to her image. It felt wrong, like he was violating her somehow. Y/n had probably forgotten their encounter by then, returning to....whatever women her age did. Shopping, dating men who weren’t fifty-something- learning how to run multi-million dollar empires.

He had refrained, yes. And Keanu liked to think that he was normally a man of great, strong restraint, but that morning, as he stood in the shower, hot water washing over him, his fingers brushed his member and thoughts of Y/n took a racy turn. He closed his eyes and started imagining that she was there, her hands touching him, settling to circle his growing erection, pumping slowly as her lips pressed to his, and she mumbled against him, “This what you want, huh? Let me make you feel good baby.”

Throwing his head back, Keanu groaned, his imagination running wild, his vison going white.

Men. They were all the same, weren’t they? Y/n was starting to believe the archaic stereotype. They had to be, else, she wouldn’t be in the position she was in. Sitting in a boardroom, eyes blank and teeth clenched as she listened to rantings of an ancient CFO, who apparently didn’t understand the concept of seasonal changes. As he spoke, Y/n found it hard to stay in the moment.....until he called her out on it, “You know, Miss Warren, if you don’t want to stay, the door’s right there. I’m sure kids your age want nothing more than to run wild all, boozed up.”

At his comment, Y/n sucked in a deep breath, closing her eyes as she tried not to snap. After a minute, she plastered on a wide smile, “Run wild?” She quoted, malice edging her tone, “I can assure Mr. Priestly, I’m not bored, just in awe of you’re.......stupidity. I’m not sure if it’s ignorance or if you’ve never watched the news, but the reason we aren’t making in the tropics is because of the hurricane season. You know, hurricanes; big scary storms; lots of wind and rain, really dangerous and we’ve had to close three braches so far because of them,” her words drew down, her tone grew whiney and mocking and an episode of quiet laughter ran across the table as other board members snickered.

The older man’s face grew hot pink with either embarrassment or anger, and from a mile away anyone could see that his jaw was clenched. The stocky, sausage fingers of his wrinkled hands clenched into his fist before he stuffed them into his pockets, fuming, “Michael, maybe teach your daughter a little respect,” Priestly glared at her father who sat at the head of the sleek glass table, combating his own proud smile.

Michael cleared his throat, leaning back further into his impressive leather chair, folding his arms and nodding, “Yes. Of course. Good observation Y/n,” he tried to look serious, clearing his throat and nodding stiffly, “But perhaps there are better ways to correct our colleagues,” before Priestly could grumble a remark about Y/n not actually being his colleagues, Y/n’s father continued, “But Roger, maybe next time, read the brief first,” he tapped his tablet screen knowingly.

The rest of the meeting went by mostly uneventfully, save for a few snide remarks traded back and forth between Roger and Y/n. At the end of it, everyone gathered their things, dispersing; heading back to their respective offices. After a quick word with her father about the rest of her tasks for the day, Y/n did the same. Usually, they’d ride the elevator together, but he’d promised her mother a lunch date, and Y/n had opted to stay back at the office.

As she stalked past the receptionists’ desk, one of the young girls, just about Y/n’s age or a little younger; Emily, called her back, “Oh! Miss Warren-”

“Emily, we’ve been over this, you can call me Y/n, we went to middle school together,” Y/n chuckled, rounding back to the large shared desk.

“Y/n,” Emily smiled politely, “You’re cousin is here, she’s waiting in your office.”

“Great! Thanks,” after pleasant good byes, Y/n went straight to her office, pulling open one side of the mahogany doors, the long silver handle cool in her palm, “Jill I-”

“Surprise!” A cluster of voices yelled in cheery unison.

Taken a back, Y/n jumped, stumbling back into the already closed door. It took barely a minute for her expression of pure shock, with just a bit of fright mixed it, before her face took on a more excited expression. There in her office, was almost everyone she had called a friend over the past ten years; a few girls her age from the country club her parents frequented, a couple people from college and just some others she’d met at parties and other snazzy events, “Oh my god! What are you guys doing here?”

“We’re here for you, obviously. Jill told us that you’ve committed yourself to these four walls,” a guy, someone who Y/n had met on her very first day of college, Mathew, broke from the small crowd, pulling her into a sideways hug, “And we’re here to tell you, that we won’t stand for that.”

“Matt,” Y/n yelped, hugging him back, “It’s been forever. How is the world of venture capitalism?” She laughed lightly.

“About as fun as it sounds,” he grinned, finally pulling away, going to a cooler that they had somehow managed into her office, and getting out a couple beers, “I’m serious though. We’re taking you on a vacation.”

“In May?” Y/n’s brows furrowed in confusion, “We can’t just-”

“Nuh uh,” Catharine, a young woman her age, who Y/n had known since she was sixteen cut her off, “Relax Y/n/n, it’s a week, not a month. You need to unwind and relax. And you’ve missed at least two birthdays, so you have to make up for those too.”

Y/n sighed, a little excited for the activities in the near horizon, but also a little worried about what her father would think if she just stole away from her work for an entire week. Seeing her tormented expression, Jillian stepped in, placing her hands on Y/n’s shoulders, “I already asked Uncle Michael; he’s okay with it and Aunt Heather thinks that this could be good for you,” Jillian's hands rubbed up and down the silk sleeves of Y/n’s blouse and her eyes pleaded with hers, “Come on cuz, all you’d have to do is pack a bag and grab your passport.”

Y/n worried on her bottom lip, thinking that it might be nice to get away for a week, to wear something other than high heels and skirt suits. Sighing, she rolled her eyes, pretending to be annoyed, her friends seemed to be holding their breaths in anticipation of her answer and a smile tugged at the corner of Y/n’s lips as she spoke, “Well, where are we going?”

Excited cheers erupted and someone popped a bottle of champagne, quickly handing her a glass. Jillian was the one to propose her toast, and answer Y/’s question, “To beautiful, sexy people, old friends, and yachts in Greece!”

At that, glasses clinked, and everyone drank.

“Hey, whatever happened between you and you sexy movie star friend?” Y/n along with Jillian, Catharine and a couple other ladies were gathered in her closet, helping her pack while everyone else made last minute preparations.

“What sexy movie star?” Amanda, another one of Y/n’s college friends, who had taken her business expertise to Silicon Valley after they graduated asked, “We talked on the phone last week and you didn’t tell me about a movie star. Who was he?”

“He’s hot right?” Catharine interjected, holding up a deep green sundress with happy colorful flowers on it. Briefly, she examined it, then, satisfied, she tossed it into a suitcase.

Another friend, Tracy, the lone doctor of their group giggled at their questions, before asking a couple of her own, “I think the real question is; which one of Hollywood’s silver foxes is Y/n hiding from us. Tell me his last name, an I’ll tell you if I’ve seen his dick.”

Y/n, who had taken a quick shower when they got back to her place, stood in her bathrobe, surveying her selection of bathing suits, “Why would you have seen his dick?”

Tracy scoffed, “You’d be surprised, I make a lot of money on penis enlargements. I’ve seen some pretty famous cocks.”

At that, the girls laughed and Jillian shook her head, “I too have seen famous cocks,” she laughed, “But don’t you have some kind of doctor-patient confidentiality?”

Tracy shrugged and it was Catharine who spoke up again, “I think we’re losing focus here; Y/n slept with a movie star and didn’t tell us. And she won’t even tell us who he was.”

“Or if she’s seen him again,” Amanda inserted.

When Y/n turned to face her friends, holding a bathing suit in each hand, one with a colorful pattern from a season ago and the other a timeless, black, designer bikini, all eyes were on her, expectant and awaiting an answer. Even Jillian, who knew exactly who he was and that Y/n had in fact not slept with him, look amused. “Well, I didn’t tell you because it didn’t happen. We almost had sex. Almost as in someone,” she shot an accusing eye at Jillian, “Interrupted us. And he was Keanu Reeves.”

“Excuse me?” Tracy laughed loudly, dropping the pair of denim shorts she had been holding, “As in Johnny Utah, Jack Traven, and my newest favorite; John Wick. Wow,” she paused breathlessly, “I’ve actually never seen his dick.”

“Oh” Catharine, an eternal romantic exclaimed, clapping her hands together, “He’s in my favorite movie-”

Before she could even finish, everyone was saying, “Sweet November,” then a little more disconnected, “We know.”

“You should call him,” Amanda suggested matter-of-factly, “That’s a once in a life time opportunity right there.”

“Yeah, okay,” Y/n began sarcastically, “I’ll just pick up my phone and call him, with a number that I don’t have, and ask him to come fuck me on the way to the airport. Hope seven isn’t too much of a crowd,” she ended with a chuckle.

“Like Y/n Warren who has everything at her fingertips can’t get his phone number,” Amanda argued lightly, “You could have anything you want. Any phone number, any address, anything. And that’s what’s stopping you?”

“Yeah,” Y/n gasped, not believing that she was actually being pressured about something like that, “What do you think it is?”

“Fear. He’s nice guy, at least according to everyone who’s ever met him. What if it doesn’t live up to whatever you imagined. You know what they say about nice guys,” Amanda winked and Y/n could have sworn that Tracy whispered something about over achievers.

Jillian was the one who spoke up next, “Well let’s not breath down her back, while we take a minute to consider that this might not be all her fault. Why don’t you tell them what you did.”

Y/n’s cheeks took on a bright pink tint, heat rushing to her ears, “How do you know that?”

“I heard, I was standing like, a foot away.”

Scoffing Y/n shook her head, zipping her suitcase closed and pulling it to the floor, “I.....invited him over. And he never came. There,” she finalized, moving on to finding something to wear to the airport, “He essentially rejected me and that’s it, it was two months ago and I don’t wanna talk about it anymore.

Before anyone in the room could propose otherwise, Mathew was poking his head into the doorway, “I swear I’m not looking,” he put a hand over his eyes, “But we need to get going, the car’s downstairs and the jet’s ready to go.”

Hurriedly, they finished packing and Y/n quickly got dressed in a pair of faded jeans and a grey cable knit sweater, hustling down the stairs, hoping to put the lingering disappointment from Keanu not showing up in the rearview.

******

Tagging- @baphometwolf666 @a-really-bi-girl @paanchu786

#Keanu reeves #Keanu reeves x reader #Keanu reeves x you #Keanu reeves fanfiction #Keanu reeves fanfic #lullaby #lullaby chapter 3 #Keanu reeves series #john wick #john wick x reader #fanfiction #ff #fanfic

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caleblewis94 · 4 years ago

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Preview: The Door To Infinity

Puck was now a forty-two-year-old man who still hadn’t learned his last name due to a grease stain from a slice of pizza obscuring the name on his birth certificate in the no-good year of 1978. Why couldn’t his mother or one of his eleven older siblings have told him somewhere during these last 4.2 decades, you ask? Why because they had all died in an oxygen tank explosion that had completely obliterated the house before the Fire Department could even arrive, of course. What else could have possibly happened? Puck’s mother whose name was literally Mother, and who had once been a nun before she was banned for playing Elton John on the church organ, could actually be called Mother Mother, the mother of Puck, because as the saying goes: once a mother, always a mother. That sure is a mouthful, thank God she’s dead.

Mother returned home from the hospital bringing with her a cart of portable oxygen bottles for her own mother, Mother the first, who suffered from COPD which was exacerbated by the pre-existing condition of being apt to not listen to advice or heed warnings. Upon the delivery of oxygen bottles, Mother Mother the mother of Puck finally thought to cut the umbilical cord. The wailing mucus membrane with the fat, pudgy face of a forty-two-year-old man on the disproportionately large head of a newborn had tripped her on the way up the stairs, reminding her that she had forgotten to “forget” him at the hospital. With a sigh, she cut the umbilical cord with the first thing she could find: a pair of safety scissors. The act was hilarious and took nearly fifteen minutes to complete. Afterwards, she lugged the oxygen bottles in and gave them to her ornery old witch, but minus the cool magical powers, of a mother.

Some say that a mother’s intuition can cause her to feel an impending sense of danger to her own. Perhaps this is why she went lovingly outside, cradling the slimy, writhing middle-aged newborn in her tattooed and cigarette burned arms, and ever so carefully dropped Puck into the first pile of trash she had found lying by the street, which just so happened to be a random bale of hay in a DIY manger that her neighbors had attempted to assemble after purchasing it from Ikea before growing frustrated and throwing it half-finished in the street. One can say this motherly intuition saved the baby named Puck that would one day grow up to become the man named Puck. Then again, her motherly instinct didn’t seem to apply to her other eleven comically-named children.

Mother Mother, the mother of Puck, went back inside her home. Puck no longer cried. Now he sat in the Ikea manger with his arms crossed and his lower lip jutting out. This would become his signature look which would make him quite popular, albeit for mocking purposes, with all of the former high school football stars who would form the majority of his coworkers at the glue factory in his adulthood. Moments after his mother entered the house behind him, he would hear, though he wouldn’t understand because he was a baby and everybody knows babies can’t understand words, his mother shouting at his grandmother in her obnoxious twang of a Country accent that Puck would thankfully never acquire himself.

“God Dayum, you old bat, Cain’t you read?” Mother Mother, mother of Puck shouted.

“I can read, you little skank. I’m just having me a cigarette,” Shouted Mother, mother of Mother Mother the mother of Puck.

“I’m tired of you smokin’ meemaw!” Shouted the shrill voice of one of Puck’s siblings. Judging by the whiny tone, it wouldn’t be unreasonable to assume it was Kyle.

“That’s too dayum bad.”

“The sign says no smoking, because it could explode if exposed to fire!” Mother Mother, mother of Puck shouted back.

“Then why hasn’t it yet?”

“Comical effect!”

In completely coincidental, and in no means embellished or made-up fashion, the entire house exploded immediately after the joke in the dialogue was wearing thin. The sound of the explosion sounded to Puck like the winner to the 1978 Darwin Awards if they were around in that terrible, no-good year of 1978. Kaboom with a capital KA.

Now, it’s reasonable to ask why Puck? Why this ugly, slimy, miniature spitting image of Donald Trump? Why did this little clump of living smegma survive in lieu of his entire family being incinerated instantly like a bunch of redneck Icaruses that flew directly into the sun because they didn’t believe the Science that said the sun can hurt you? It is because of a thing called fate. Puck wasn’t meant to die that day. For, you see, you beautiful reader, you, Puck was destined for greater things, like developing a nicotine habit he couldn’t quite kick, working in a glue factory overseeing the melting of the horses, and his destiny to die in a hilarious accident involving a shopping cart at the age of 42. As a wise man once said, so it goes.

∞

Puck, now a forty-two-year-old man full of past traumas and experiences that shaped him into the disgruntled, burned-out, and inconsiderate grump that people subconsciously hoped would drop dead, went to the supermarket. What he bought at said supermarket holds no importance whatsoever to the rest of the novel, but for the record was; 19 bushels of crab legs, 30 cans of Ragu spaghetti sauce, 20 gallons of vegetable oil, 12 cartons of increased fat milk, 8 sticks of extra-salted butter, 57 liters of Mountain Dew, 3 bottles of Coca-Cola that had been stuffed under the clearance shelf since 1958, 5 jugs of eggnog, despite it being the middle of April, two of those obnoxiously bright blue lightbulbs for some reason, and a Milkyway Lite because he was trying to watch his figure.

Puck pushed his shopping cart outside. Of course his luck would have had him picking the cart with the broken wheel, causing it to limp along like a sprinter who had torn their ACL and was desperately trying to hobble their way across the finish line. Plus, the fact that he had so much food weighing down the cart didn’t help him steer it any easier. Life was so hard for poor Puck. On his way to his car, Puck was passed by an old lady on one of those automatic shopping carts that truly highlighted the pinnacle of modern invention. The old woman was smoking three cigarettes at the same time, blowing tendrils of smoke through her nostrils like a dragon who had already expended all of his (or her) fire and couldn’t ejaculate any more. She had an oxygen tank on the back of the cart, though she wasn’t using it. Maybe she’ll need it later, Puck thought. Yes, riding an automatic shopping cart around a store for an hour sure is exhausting work.

Puck got to his car and popped the trunk, which promptly swung open much faster than normal, hitting him in the chin because even his car was tired of his shit. In the background was the sound of an explosion, but Puck thought nothing of this. He flung the groceries in the trunk and shut it back, then he promptly took the shopping and left it right there in the middle of the street, despite there being a coral only twenty feet away. It wasn’t that Puck didn’t see the coral—he did—he just decided to rebel. It was his way of sticking it to the proverbial man. Puck got in his car and drove home, the shopping cart looming menacingly in the parking lot, vowing to get revenge on the forty-two-year-old-man.

When Puck got home, he realized that he had forgotten to also purchase a diet Mountain Dew, because—how can he watch his figure without a pound of aspartame in his system?—Puck lovingly kissed his wife goodbye, and by lovingly kissed his wife goodbye, I mean he didn’t kiss her goodbye, he simply said “I forgot something, be back in ten” then left. However, he wouldn’t be back in ten. In fact, he also wouldn’t even be back at the supermarket in ten, traffic was awfully heavy for two in the afternoon on a Sunday. Also, he wouldn’t ever be back because he would be killed in a tragic, yet hilariously Shakespearean way. A way that said, maybe there is a God who occasionally involves himself in the affairs of humans to deliver righteous justice.

Puck went to the self-checkout line again, but this time at least he actually had under ten items. He hated the small talk Cashiers would make with him, especially the pretty twenty-something-year-old ladies who would make blatant attempts to flirt with him by saying things like “Good morning, sir,” “Paper or plastic?” and, worst of all, “Would you like a receipt?” The total on the screen came up to three dollars and twenty-three cents after tax. It was a bit more than he thought it had cost when he was just here half an hour ago, but he was trying to watch his figure, dammit, so he would not and could not be stopped. He paid for the bottle, and also a banana, and left, not even bothering to take the receipt that had printed from the machine.

“Have a nice day,” said a blonde and blue-eyed nineteen-year-old with a smile that conveyed anything but a genuine smile inside. It was a smile that seemed to say that this young lady was going through her own personal troubles and was having a tough time but was trying her best to be strong and kind to others. To anyone else it would be inspiring, but to Puck it was just another attempt to flirt with him. Puck, not wanting to be rude, gave her that kind of sideways smile any suburban white person would give someone they accidentally made eye contact with in public, and walked by, sidestepping a random broken piece of an oxygen bottle by the door. As he crossed the windy threshold that separates the land of groceries from the humid, suburban air of the Greater Atlanta Area, he swallowed the banana in one gulp. It was a fun party trick he had learned in college. He didn’t have to waste time chewing, and everyone loved it. Especially the random man he had accidentally made eye contact with in the process of the great swallow.

Puck walked out into the crosswalk without looking both ways, not that he needed to look both ways, there were stop signs and everybody in the United States obeys stop signs. He dropped the banana peel absentmindedly onto the ground and made his way towards his car.

As Puck approached his car, he bumped into the shopping cart he had left sitting in the street—not the corral, mind you—thirty minutes prior. The cart rolled forward towards him, ready for its vengeance. If it were alive and wielding a knife, it would totally stab Puck right in the abdomen. For far too long Puck had violated its shopping cart family’s rights of life, liberty and the pursuit of being put back in the corral. But, luckily for Puck, it wasn’t alive. It was a shopping cart. In frustration with this minor inconvenience, Puck pushed the cart further into the street with one swift kick.

“I should have used a basket,” He muttered to himself.

However, the shopping cart heard him make this remark. Or it would have heard him if it were alive and had ears or some other method for processing auditory information. And if it were alive and capable of not just processing auditory information but also understanding English, this comment would have been the last straw. The shopping cart would teach him a lesson if it were alive. Puck was so lucky it wasn’t alive.

Puck turned back to his car and fished for his keys in his pocket, except the keys weren’t there. What the hell, Puck thought. I just had them! He checked his pocket again as if he could possibly miss a keychain the size of Timbuktu, and to his utter shock, the keys hadn’t pulled a David Copperfield and magically reappeared. He turned back around to head into the store and angrily ask the poor girl behind the customer service desk if anyone had found and returned his car keys, as if she were the one herself who had misplaced them. However, before he could do so, something glimmering beneath the partially clouded sky caught his eye. His car keys lied in the bottom basket of the shopping cart that, after being kicked, scampered away before settling eighteen feet away from Puck and just a measly two feet from the corral.

You got him now, you devious shopping cart you, the corral would have thought if it were alive and capable of thought. With a long, drawn out sigh, Puck crossed the street. He removed the keys from the lower basket and glanced at the corral which was now literally not even out of his way to return the cart to. The shopping cart was already facing towards the corral like a baby reaching out for its mother. Puck didn’t even have to walk forward at all to return it, all he had to do was lightly push the cart and it would be back in its rightful place. Puck didn’t do this. Instead, he took the cart and placed it back in the middle of the street for some reason, and then went back to his car.

This would have been the final straw for the shopping cart if the shopping cart had any packets of straws left to give, never mind the rude comment about getting a basket instead. Oh, if only the shopping cart were alive and capable of inflicting punishment upon this horrible man with an even horrible-er—or, dare I say—horrible-est name. Puck? More like duck, the shopping cart would have thought, not that the cart would have any prejudices against ducks, it was just a slightly speciest saying it would have learned growing up in a family of shopping carts in the Southern states.

Suddenly, like a car that had hit a pothole at 110 miles-per-hour, causing it to flip over multiple times before flying into a tree, a car driving at 10 mph, ignoring the 5 mph speed limit sign on the wall next to the cross walk, struck the banana peel Puck had left in the middle of the street. The car going twice the speed limit, lost control and swerved to the left, ironically enough while using a blinker. The out of control car collided with the poor shopping cart with an unquenchable thirst for blood and vengeance at the devastating speed of 2 mph. Puck turned around in time to see the accident.

What, scientifically speaking, should have sent the cart forward with the same force as the weak kick Puck had given the cart minutes earlier, oddly enough launched the cart at the speed of 200 mph directly at the man who never put his carts back in the corrals where they belong. Puck didn’t even have time to realize the error of his leaving-shopping-carts-in-the-middle-of-the-street ways, before the cart flew directly into his face, causing his head to explode like the 125,452nd watermelon destroyed by the great philosopher Gallagher, splattering blood all over a man walking past who had made the foolish mistake of wearing a white t-shirt over-confidant in his ability to avoid acquiring a stain, and sparking the obsession with blood of a three-year-old who was watching the whole scene unfold through a pair of binoculars from his parents’ house across the street.

Puck, the youngest son of Mother Mother the mother of Puck, and the youngest grandson of Mother the mother of Mother Mother the mother of Puck, was dead, though his story and misadventures wouldn’t end there. It was a tragic death. Nothing that has ever happened in human history has ever been more tragic than the death of Puck on that cloudy April day in the year of whatever year this is being read in. But don’t be sad—stop crying, society says it’s not cool to cry with empathy—for there was a sign that he had read thousands of times before that read: Please put your shopping cart up, we can’t afford another fatal accident. So, if it makes you feel any better, Puck kind of deserved it.

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i-choose-liam · 5 years ago

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Two’s Better Than One - King Liam x MC

Summary: Liam is more stressed than he's ever been before. A certain guest coming to the palace has prompted this anxiety in the Cordonian King. How will Liam fare against his special guest?

Book: The Royal Heir

Characters: King Liam, MC (Riley Spencer), Dani Spencer (OC), Hana Lee, Maxwell Beaumont, Drake Walker, other original characters.

Rating: T

Word count: 1k+

A/N: This is a short series about Riley’s family. If you read this, let me know if you like it. Reblogs are always appreciated. Thanks!

Cordonia

The staff at the palace was rushing back and forth. “Yellow! Not pink! How do you get the two confused?!”, Liam’s assistant yelled at a staff-member. The unwanted linen was taken away in a cart, the sound of the wheels just a part of the entire hustle-bustle. Dani witnessed the scene in passing as she walked past the staff towards the nursery. One of Riley’s incompetent bodyguards, the hot one, was guarding the doors to the nursery. They gave her a nod. “Miss Spencer” She gave a mock salute and walked in as the doors were opened for her. The light from the windows was the first thing to catch her eye. Cordonia sure had a lot of sunshine. And said sunlight was making the couple standing in the middle of the room look like ethereal angels. Liam was talking to someone on the phone, but he perked up at once on seeing Dani. He hung up and walked over to give her a hug. “You made it”, he said, smiling. Dani hugged him back and kissed his cheek as they parted. “’course I did”, she said, “As if I would miss my niece’s first ever party” Riley spoke in that supercilious tone her voice took on when she was trying not to be condescending. “It’s a ‘royal luncheon’ in honour of Eleanor, not a party” Dani walked to her, saying, “Leave it to you to literally take the word party out of an actual party, Riles” Riley smirked, “Good to see you too, my evil twin” “You’re the evil twin” A gleeful gurgle came from the bundle in Riley’s arms. Dani got close enough to look at the cuteness-bomb her niece, Princess Eleanor of Cordonia, was. “Hiii, angelll”, Dani cooed. “You wanna hold her?”, Riley asked. Dani was still smiling down at little Eleanor. She said, “What do you think I flew all the way here for?” Riley quipped, handing over the baby to Dani, “The free booze?” She was already making kissy faces at her niece, holding her with utmost care. “No, no, no”, she said, “Aunt Dani came here for Eleanor. Didn’t I, sweetheart? My god, Riley, she’s sooo cute! I can’t believe she came out of you” Dani bounced Eleanor a little in her arms. She was doing her best to be careful, the baby was only three months old, after all. Eleanor fixed her dark, bright eyes on Dani’s face, smiling as if she enjoyed the bouncing. She gave another heart-melting gurgle, forming a tiny drool-bubble at the corner of her mouth. The bubble rose above her face, startling Eleanor. Her eyes went wide and she exclaimed “Wooh! Wooh!” as she stared at this strange anomaly near her face, shaking her fists and legs all the while.

“It’s just flight information. What is so- you know what? Meet me in my office. I’m coming down there in a minute”, Liam was saying on the phone. Dani exchanged a knowing look with her twin. She raised an eyebrow. Riley nodded. “Did you scare him?”, Dani asked. Riley said, “I didn’t. He has been researching about them for almost a week” Liam walked to them then. He sounded frantic. “Dani, I hope you’re being taken care of well. If you need anything, I’ll be in my office. Don’t hesitate to ask for anything, okay?” Before she could reply, he was saying, “And I’ll see you as soon as I can, my love. I’ll be back” Both Dani and Riley stared at him in surprise as he kissed his daughter’s forehead, having clearly meant the words for her and not his wife. Liam strode away to the door, leaving Riley gaping after him, narrowing her eyes at his frame. As if realizing he had forgotten something, Liam turned around and walked to her. He was grinning. “Sorry”, he kissed her on the cheek, “Won’t happen again. I love you” “Uh-huh”, Riley replied. Dani bounced Eleanor in her arms again, taking in the look on her sister’s face. She smiled at Riley, “Poor guy” Riley just sighed.

***

Maxwell was humming under his breath as they sat in the antechamber to Liam’s office. Hana was saying to Drake, “And you made sure to ask the chef that he only use halal meat and sustainably sourced seafood?” “Um…”, was Drake’s answer. Maxwell chimed in, “Relax, Hana. You’re still in-charge of everything else. Liam just asked Drake to supervise the prep for the American dishes” “I know that”, Hana said timidly, “I’m just making sure” She sighed, saying, “Sorry if I seemed to be meddling, Drake. I prefer discussing this stuff with Liam and Riley. But Riley is spending time with her sister and Eleanor. And Liam’s just been so preoccupied lately” “Speaking of…” Drake indicated the door to Liam’s office. The King walked towards them at a brisk pace, taking a seat across from Maxwell. “Thanks for waiting, guys”, Liam said, tugging at his cravat.

Before he could even catch his breath, Liam was talking again. “Maxwell, I hope you followed the instructions for the entertainment program”, he said. Maxwell nodded, remembering all the non-party-esque instructions he had had to follow. “Of course. Nothing too loud, no fireworks, no confetti. Nothing un-eco-friendly. And Celine Dion will be performing shortly after lunch” “Thank you. Drake, the food and alcohol?”, Liam turned to him. “Yep. I talked to the chef. She said this might be the first time we’re going to serve fried chicken for a luncheon at the palace. Vegetarian options are available in three different Asian cuisines. And I personally selected the single malt…” Liam shot up in his chair, surprising everyone in the room. “No, no, no. No whiskey. I specifically told you she hates whiskey. Vodka. Vodka and cocktails are what she will be served”, he said, face harried. Drake said slowly, “Okayy…” Liam turned to Hana next. He said in a pleading voice, “I know you’re the only one who would never disappoint me, Hana. How are the rest of the arrangements?” She assured him, “I have followed all your instructions to the letter, Liam. And I have done my fair share of research on Analyn Torres. I’m going to do a debriefing for the palace staff before the flight lands. Maxwell will be with you at the airport for the welcoming” “No, I need you with me at the airport. I mean, I need Maxwell and you there with me” Drake scoffed, “Gee, thanks, Liam” Liam tugged at his cravat again and walked to the coffee table. He poured himself a glass of water from the pitcher and emptied it in one go. Maxwell looked at Hana with meaning, who looked at Drake, quietly urging him to talk to the King. “You know”, Drake said to Liam, “I haven’t seen you this nervous ever before. You okay, man?” Liam didn’t answer. He flopped down into his seat again, closing his eyes and absently rubbing his forehead. Hana tried, “You have addressed an entire congregation of world leaders at the UN, and you didn’t sweat a drop. This can’t be more difficult than that, Liam” Liam replied, “I have to make a good first impression” Maxwell said, trying to lighten the situation, “You are the King of one of the wealthiest, coolest countries in Europe, Liam. And she’s what? A college professor?” Drake seemed to agree. “Maxwell’s right. I don’t see why you have to be so afraid of meeting your mother-in-law. She’s probably the opposite of Spencer. She’s probably like Dani, and not Riley” Liam mumbled, “The other one is” Maxwell was confused. “What?”, he asked. Liam sighed. “Riley told me her “Mom”, Razia Spencer, is the relaxed, carefree one like Dani. My other mother-in-law, Dr. Analyn Torres, is an activist and a tenured professor at Columbia University, who’s known for her scathing criticism of capitalism and monarchy. She made the High Chancellor of Auvernal cry during his first and last visit to the USA” The room was suddenly quiet enough to hear the ticking coming from the clock on the wall. Hana said nothing, looking sympathetic to Liam’s cause of concern, as if she had known these fun facts all along. Maxwell just stared at one face from another, not knowing what to say. Drake broke the silence. “Well, damn”

***

Somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean –

Analyn scrolled the webpage on her laptop. The plane lurched a bit, sudden turbulence rocking her in her seat. She stayed calm enough to finish reading the latest from the Cordonian Daily. She kept assuring herself she was not trying to gather ammunition to use against her son-in-law, but part of her felt guilty just the same. She had promised her wife she wouldn’t judge their son-in-law before she even met him, and she always kept her promises to Razia. “Baby?” Analyn closed her laptop and turned to her wife, who was just stirring from a four-hour nap. She smiled at the look of confusion on her wife’s face, something which amused her to no end even after thirty years of marriage. Razia’s short hair fell across her eyes, which she was rubbing sleepily. “Are we there yet?”, she asked, half asleep. “No, my love. Still an hour or so, I think” “Okay” Razia clutched Analyn’s arm and rested her head on her shoulder again. She said, with her eyes closed, “Did you finish reading about Liam?” “I-I wasn’t… um…” “It’s okay. I won’t tell Riley. Hehe” Analyn smiled and put an arm around her love, saying, “Go to sleep, you. We’ll be in Cordonia soon” “I hope Eleanor’s got Riley’s eyes” “I quite like Liam’s eyes too” “He’s good-looking but, you know. Our baby’s our baby” “A stubborn 26-year old, yes” “Shush. We haven’t seen her in forever. We’re just going there to see her and our granddaughter, okay? No fighting” “Yes, darling” “Good. I sleep now. Good night” “It’s morning”, Analyn grinned. “Mhm” Her wife was asleep again in minutes. Putting away her laptop, and her inhibitions for the time being, Analyn wrapped her arm tighter around Razia and closed her eyes. She hoped to get some sleep before meeting her royal son-in-law for the first time. They had so much to talk about.

#liam x mc #king liam x mc #trh liam x mc #riley & dani #princess eleanor of cordonia #trh fanfiction #trh #the royal heir #fanfiction #thatoclady fanfics #playchoices

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nerdy-bookworm-1998 · 6 years ago

Text

The Arranged Marriage part 1: For King and Country

Pairing: Prince!Steve Rogers x Princess!Reader Words: 924 Warnings: None A/N: If you wish to be tagged in future chapters/works, feel free to send me an ask, and please leave feedback/reblogs. Also feel free to check out my Ko-fi and Patreon, links are available in my bio.

In a small country off the coast of Europe, on a large hill overlooking the capital city, sits a beautiful castle. The sun shines upon it, highlighting the marble walls with the golden trimmings. Inside, the castle is an anthill of activity. All the inhabitants are in a flurry, trying to prepare for the guests that are to arrive that very afternoon.

I myself am currently occupied with the seamstresses who are doing the final alterations on my gown for this evening's welcoming ball. The gown is a lovely dark blue with a black lace bodice and three-quarter sleeves. There is a firm knock on the door and the head of my personal guard, Natasha, strides in.

"My apologies your highness, but the king would like to speak with you in his study," she says. I've known Nat all my life, we grew up together. Her father was one of my father's closest friends. When she was old enough, she had started her training to become a knight, and today she is a captain of the guard.

"Can't it wait? My fitting is almost over," I reply, keeping as still as a statue so the seamstresses don't accidentally poke me with a needle.

"I'm afraid not, your highness, he said it is quite urgent," Nat insists.

"We have everything we need, my lady," the seamstress closest to me assures me with a smile.

"Very well, let me just get changed." I quickly change into my favorite lilac purple dress before making my way through the castle to my father's study with Natasha right behind me.

When we reach the large, heavy oak door I don't hesitate to give a firm knock, waiting for my father's voice to call me inside.

"Come in," I hear moments later.

Natasha escorts me inside before bowing to father and leaving.

"You wished to see me?" I enquire as my father looks up from the many letters strewn across his desk.

"Y/N, yes. Please, have a seat," he gestures to the tufted chair before him and I dutifully take my place. Upon closer inspection, I can see that he has something weighing more heavily on his mind that the daily toll of his royal duties usually takes.

"Is something the matter?" I ask gently. Anything I can do to ease his burdens, I will. Ever since my mother passed when I was a small girl, it has only been the two of us. I know that the advisors urged him on more than one occasion to take a second wife, but he would not hear of it. He told them to throw that idea out with his morning chamber pot.

"No...well, yes. Y/N, what do you know of our guests?" His question throws me off guard for a moment, but I recover swiftly to answer him.

"I know that they are the rulers of one of our neighbors, the king's name is Joseph, the queen's name is Sarah, they have a son about my age named Steven Grant, they have a powerful military, a prospering country, and they are one of our greatest allies," I rattle off a few of the facts that I had learned by heart.

My father nods approvingly. "Very good. Recently I have entered into negotiations to further our alliance with them. I have just received their acceptance of our terms. However, they do have one condition. The marriage of you and Steve. We announce the engagement this evening at the ball."

Of all the things they could have asked, this had never crossed my mind. But I am not a fool, I know we will need their aid if we are to win the war against king Thanos and his despicable Black Order. If I must marry Prince Steven, then I shall do so.

"Does he know yet?" I ask my father with firm resolve leaking into my voice.

"If he does not know now, he will by this evening. I suggest you get some rest, my dear, we have a long evening ahead of us and I need you to be at your utmost perfection, even more than you already are," father dismisses me with a sad smile.

That evening I have dressed in my midnight blue gown with my hair piled up on my head and cascading down my back in ringlets as I wait for the prince to escort him to dinner.

The click of his boots on the polished floors alerts me of his approach. I turn to find a tall figure with a broad chest tapering down to a narrow waist, cornsilk yellow hair and sea blue eyes striding towards me in a black dinner jacket, slacks, and a vest that matches the blue of my gown, with polished black shoes. My first thought is that he is extremely handsome. Then he draws close enough for me to see his expression and the coldness in his eyes with which he regards me.

"Your Highness," he says in a mock polite tone with a stiff bow.

"Your Highness," I reply with the same coldness he shows towards me before turning around. "The ballroom is this way," I say as I start off down the hall.

Once we get to the doors I take his offered arm and plaster a warm smile onto my face. If this is what the rest of my life will be like, I am in for a very long life indeed, but one thing is certain, no man will break me, certainly not Steven Grant Rogers.

Tags:

@mcdesij @spiderrrling @arrow-guy @interestedbystanderwrites @caplansteverogers @gwendelerynan @here2have-fun @bvckys-doll @bookscoffeeandracoons @bambamwolf87 @loricameback @rockrchick51 @love-nakamura @baebeepeach @timelordy-fangirl2 @jewelofwinter @caramell0w @jewels2876 @ladysergeantbarnes @notawritergettingtherethough @patzammit @fanfictionjunkie1112 @lumar014

#marvel #avengers #the arranged marriage #royal au #steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #prince!Steve rogers #princess!reader

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thesinglesjukebox · 5 years ago

Video

youtube

SAUTI SOL - SUZANNA

[7.43]

Sauti Sol do not appreciate your stories...

Olivia Rafferty: Pop-culture morsels criticising the Instagram influencer can often be trite and a little bit redundant, flexing a perspective that we've already been on board with since the dawn of Snapchat filters. But Sauti Sol take the trope and give it a delightful wryness, with the help of a guitar motif that wriggles constantly throughout the song. "Shaking what your doctor gave ya" is a brilliant lyric, delivered with enough smile in the mouth that you could almost forget it's a song about someone trying to sell you hair vitamins from a Parisian balcony. [7]

Jacob Sujin Kuppermann: An anachronistic piece through and through -- its references to plastic surgery and Instagram are the only indications of modernity, but the sweetness of the rest hearkens back to a more compassionate era of songs where a male singer shames the choices of a women he once had a connection with. It's a noxious message, but the love in the vocals almost, but doesn't quite outweigh it. "Suzanna" still charms, though -- it's mostly in the warmth of the guitars and genial chug of the beat, in the harmonies but not the lyrics. [6]

Nortey Dowuona: A slinking guitar one slips in the door, with a boisterous synth cloud and padding drums, with a sloppy bass and another swinging guitar flying through the window and all scrambling up and assembling behind Bien, Savara and Chimano, singing to Suzanna, who smiles tightly and teleports back to Sankofa Books and Cafe. [7]

Kylo Nocom: Sauti Sol's making-of video is absolutely worth watching just to see the absolute joy they have creating this song. The efforts of their labor are clear: this is a capital-P Pop statement, with well-deserved international ambitions as they prepare for their major label debut. I haven't heard a track as refined as "Suzanna" all year, nothing with as lovely minutiae as their ad-libs, their sensuous guitar work, or their almost-communal chorus harmonies. Yet the lyrics deserve some scrutiny for what feels like misogynistic back-handed compliments and outright disses that would be inexcusable elsewhere. These concerns are somewhat assuaged by a cute response parody that flips around the dynamic of the song, but I'm left uncomfortable with how much I can't stay away from the original's gorgeous arrangements. [8]

Alfred Soto: The melody's country lilt should prove, if any proof were needed, of the cross-pollination between country music and the music of several African nations. Possibly I overrate "Suzanna" because I need some buoyancy. [8]

Scott Mildenhall: There's an obvious case to be made for this being massively sexist -- every nation and every era gets its "Where Do You Go To (My Lovely)?" But whereas Peter Sarstedt was playing with an unfortunate tall-poppy syndrome/superiority complex hybrid, Sauti Sol sound lovelorn. Their mocking isn't quite toothless, but is concertedly undermined by the more pertinent desperation. They're willing to put themselves on the back foot, and the result is winning. [8]

Edward Okulicz: My first instinct was that the references to Instagram, silicon and "worst behaviour" were lightly condemning of an ex's new best life, but that isn't right -- it's a song about post-break-up denial and hopelessly, helplessly putting a smile on a situation, and you can hear it in every beat and every lick. The girl is gone, the narrator doesn't realise she's unfollowed him on Instagram, and the song is great fun. [8]

[Read, comment and vote on The Singles Jukebox]

#Sauti Sol #pop #music #music review

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lethe-rpg · 5 years ago

Photo

Antoine-Jean Chaudon was a well-known philosopher during the French Enlightenment era, famous for his works which poked fun at religions and aristocrats. Antoine-Jean was born in Paris in 1719 as the only surviving child of two commoners. His mother had advocated for his self-interests, giving him the freedom to partake in whatever pleased him while his father’s approach was on the opposite end of the spectrum. At the age of 11, his mother died during childbirth along with her baby. Left with only his father, Antoine-Jean was forced into the teachings of physics. It was an attempt to get his son on a different path towards success that the family have never experienced. Antoine-Jean’s father enrolled him into classes and even found him a job as an assistant to a famous physicist. What his father didn’t know, however, was that when he thought his son was at work, he was actually doing what he loved most – writing. Antoine-Jean wrote many books and poems in his life, all on the basis of criticizing the French King and spreading scandalous news that would ultimately and repeatedly get him exiled from Paris. The first time he was exiled and imprisoned in the Bastille was in 1726 for writing derogatory names for personages that would otherwise bring them shame. Antoine-Jean committed to his writing aspirations, even after the hurdles of his father’s objections and the continuum of being kicked out of Paris. Even if the aristocracy and monarchy didn’t appreciate his work, the rest of the public did. Antoine-Jean’s writing career was promoted from the growth of a novice of politics based on the informed public. His thoughts and public opinions became so popular, he was invited to book clubs and coffee shops to speak about it. Soon, his ideas of how society in France should work and his attack on the Roman Catholic Church quickly spread across France. His libelous works on French Kings got removed from access to the public, along with his permanent removal to England.

In England, Antoine-Jean befriended many merchants and other philosophers, and soon, he got involved with trading and investments. There, his books and satires weren’t burned or censored. While he made money off the sale of his ideas and books, most of his growing fortune came from taking advantage and finding loopholes of the government’s attempt to fund their country. Royal patronage, moneylending, and financial speculations were some few routes he embarked on to fortune, often skirting the bound of propriety just like his works. Learning the ins and outs of trading and finding the weaknesses of their lotteries, Antoine-Jean did exactly what his father wanted – became successful. Antoine-Jean began investing in estates and building small communities around England and in the outskirts of Paris in the case he gets exiled, which occurred frequently. After an influential aristocrat mocked Antoine-Jean for having commoners as parents, Antoine-Jean took up dueling training to challenge him to a duel. Hearing about this, he was thrown into the Bastille once again. His several exiles from Paris also stemmed from sleeping with many of the aristocrats’ wives which forced him to find new homes in the small communities he created. In 1748, Antoine-Jean thought a peace offering would be signed in to existence when aristocrats offered to meet him in his town in Strasbourg. His disdain and complicated past with them were not enough to get him to immediately question their motives. Without hesitation when it comes to offerings of wine, Antoine-Jean took the drink from them, downing the wine with poison in it. It was their revenge for him starting affairs with their wives. If it wasn’t for a local townspeople who found him, he would’ve died by the hands of the people he hated most, the people that were publicly stained by his words. The local townspeople had bitten him, turning him into a vampire that he later fully utilized the new identity of. Words quickly spread about Antoine-Jean’s death, which was concluded with a good mix of celebration and mourning throughout France.

With his tomb built in Paris, Antoine-Jean had to change his name and identity, starting with dropping the name his parents had given him and changing it to his friend’s name, Nicolas. Nicolas spent his new, captivating life traveling around Europe but never staying anywhere too long should someone would recognize him. He kept his involvement in the markets ongoing, finding those loopholes that would benefit him. He capitalized on his new powers and skills by scaring nobles and pulling pranks on them. With the French Revolution at the height of formulating a new identity for France, Nicolas returned home to the communities he built. He provided them his protection, a team effort with other locals who shared the same identity as him of vampires, to protect other locals from the effects of war. He cultivated his lands and became the intelligent benevolence beloved by this townspeople. His later years are spent being involved in the black market throughout Europe, finding his wealth through corrupt methods and shrewd money handling. Even as Nicolas and not Antoine-Jean, he was still an outspoken enemy of every injustice of religious intolerance and the inequality of power between authority and the people. He continued writing books and poems, though keeping those to himself in case that people can connect those new works to his old ones as Antoine-Jean. He found a new hobby outside of writing and growing money in which he attended University classes to call out professors on their false information on history, one that he had lived through. He attended Philosophy classes to hear what is taught about Antoine-Jean just to correct them before their students. Nicolas has a reputation throughout Europe, which he tried to avoid, but his vain desire for attention and obsession with being heard made it impossible. His outspoken manner in the black markets left a trial on him, giving him trouble and threats that would ultimately drive him out of Europe and into Lethe by 2018. Finding the value in land in this town in Washington along with the protection he can utilize, Nicolas made the place his new home. He invested in some estate and built a nightclub, combining all his vices – partying, alcohol, drugs, and making money – into one place. With his belief of religions being a divisive measure and the only way to unify people is to allow them to act in their own pursuit of happiness and self-interests, he named his nightclub “Church”. Occupied with his club, he doesn’t spend his time and effort indulged in the politics in that society.

#taken #taken male #taken vampire #theo james #nicholas chaudon

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im-fairly-whitty · 6 years ago

Text

Caught in the Riptide -- Riptide!Incredibles AU

Violet Parr’s almost-boyfriend Tony Rydinger has super abilities he’s hidden his whole life. That is, hidden until the government asks him to join their new “exemplary taskforce” of new Supers to pave the way for legalized, registered, and government-employed Supers.

Tony has never wanted to be a capital S Super, but he figures that if participating in what he’s assured is really just a publicity campaign is how he can help defend his country against non-registered vigilantes like the Incredibles, then it’s his duty to do his best. Of course, the newly christened Riptide soon realizes that nothing is quite as simple as it seems.

Fanfic for the Riptide!Incredibles AU. A post-movie Incredibles 2 au belonging to @edorazzi (on tumblr).

Part 1: The Offer

“And then my family’s going on a trip next week,” Violet said, flipping on her blinker as they drove through an intersection, “so I don’t know when I’ll be back from that.”

“I can’t believe how many things your family does together.” Tony said, smiling as he stared out at the heavy rain hitting the car window.

He could feel the water all around them, falling from the sky, pelting the windshield, running across the pavement under them and spraying from the spinning wheels of the car as they drove. It made him feel alive. If he were alone he’d have the windows all rolled down.

“Oh, well, I mean, I guess,” Violet said, blushing a little as she turned the wheel, “my dad’s always making us go, and my mom’s always-”

“No, no, I think it’s cool.” Tony said quickly. He and Violet had been spending time together for months now, but she still got embarrassed over the funniest things. “I think it’s really neat that your parents want to spend so much time with you, even if it’s always so last minute. I mean, I wish I could see you more, but I get it.”

“Well, thanks.” Violet said. She was smiling that adorable little smile she did when he knew she wanted to smile big, “And thanks for being cool with it.”

“What kind of friend would I be if I wasn’t?” Tony said, playfully elbowing her, “I mean, you’re the one chauffeuring me to work.”

“Stop it Tony, I’m driving.” Violet said, laughing as she elbowed him back. “Sorry we’re taking all these side roads, Center Street is still all torn up, I hope you’re not going to be late.”

“Don’t worry about it, I’ll just tell my mom we forgot about the construction.” Tony said, “I guess the Incredibles sure had a blast taking out whoever was trying to rob the bank last week.”

“The DMV.”

“What? I thought they said it was the bank on the news?”

“I mean...it might have been the bank.” Violet said, casually shrugging her shoulders as they drove into the parking lot of the Happy Platter, pulling around back, “I don’t really pay attention to the news I guess.”

“I don’t really either.” Tony said, unbuckling his seatbelt as she parked the car in the back alley behind the restaurant, “All this Super politics stuff kinda goes over my head to be honest.”

“Don’t forget your umbrella,” Violet said as he opened his door, “you’ll get soaked.”

“Thanks.” Tony said, grabbing his black umbrella and opening it with a grin as he stepped out of the car, right into a puddle that came up to his ankles. “I don’t mind a little water though.”

“Well, you’ll mind a lot of water if you start your shift looking like a drowned rat.” Violet said with an amused look, “You’re already in your work clothes, you won’t have time to dry off.”

Tony leaned down to see her one last time, obediently holding the umbrella over himself to stay dry.

“You still want to come over to do homework tomorrow after school?” he asked, leaning his arm against the top of the car door.

“Only if we finally watch that dumb movie you keep bugging me about afterward.” Violet said.

“Aw, come on Vi! Creature from the Black Lagoon is a work of art!” Tony teased, “You just watch, it’ll be a classic someday. I think it’ll be on at seven tomorrow night, I’ll double check which channel.”

“I’m only watching it so I’ll have some peace.” Violet said, rolling her eyes in mock irritation. “I’ll bring the popcorn.”

“Perfect.” Tony said, stepping back so he could shut the door as Violet rolled the window down. “I’ll call you at like ten tonight, when I get off work.”

“Sounds good, my dad should be off the phone by then.” Violet said, “Have a good shift, Tony.”

“Drive safe, Vi.”

Tony backed up as she rolled the window up and put the car in reverse, waving at him as she pulled out of the alley and then drove away, disappearing into the pouring rain.

Tony wasn’t sure what he’d done to deserve having her as a friend, but whatever it was, he was glad he’d done it. And maybe, if he wasn’t reading all the signs completely wrong, they could even be more than friends soon.

He looked down at his shoes, they were completely soaked through to his socks. He smiled as he splashed his right foot a little, then closed his umbrella. He looked up into the stormy grey sky, stretching out his arms as the rain pelted him, soaking him to the bone in seconds.

The water was probably freezing, but even when he was a kid water temperature had never bothered him, whether cold or hot. He spread his fingers wide, letting the feeling wash through him. Every part of him tingled with energy, the water around him feeling like possibility, wanting him to reach out, to let it become a part of him.

But...he was already late for work. And besides, even in a back alley someone might see him.

He took a last deep breath of the stormy air, and then pulled a key out of his pocket, unlocking the back door of his family’s restaurant and letting himself into the kitchens. Mom would be expecting him to be waiting tables already, meaning he had to get out to the front.

He left sloshing footprints across the tile floor of the empty, half-lit backroom as he tossed his umbrella in the corner. Tony closed his eyes, taking in a breath and letting himself feel the water that was dripping off him, the water plastering his hair down, the drop of water dripping off his nose.

He took a careful breath, and then raised both his hands, imagining that he was pulling off a blanket. He opened his eyes as the water on him pulled forward and then off him, gathering into a clear mass floating in front of him, leaving his work uniform and hair completely dry.

He smiled to himself as he carefully moved his wrists, sending the water running through the air and splashing into an old sink, only some of it sloshing onto the floor. He reached out to the spilled water on the floor with his mind, commanding it to gather itself up and sending it up and into the sink with the rest.

Tony grinned as he quickly ran his fingers through his mussed hair and straightened his work uniform bowtie. His breath was a little shaky, but it was worth the satisfaction of an “insta-dry” as he called it.

Only his parents knew about his...skill, and he rarely used it, but he did have a couple small tricks that made life easier when no one was around.

He walked to the sink, turning on the tap for cold, and then walking to the other end of the counter to grab some of the plastic pitchers sitting on the shelf. He arranged a set of plastic tumblers on a serving tray, then looked over at the running tap.

Normally he’d just walk the extra five steps back to the sink to fill the pitchers the normal way...but there was still so much energy running through him from the storm he could still feel raging outside.

He might as well have just a little more fun before getting to work.

He reached out with his mind to the tap water, beckoning it forward with his hand and angling it into the two pitchers he had set on the counter. It took extra focus to keep the running water in the air, but he squinted his eyes, keeping his hands steady as he imagined running an imaginary hose from the faucet to the pitchers, carefully filling them both before letting the stream of water drop back into the sink with a splash.

Tony leaned against the counter, chuckling a little at his slight dizziness as he took a second to collect himself. He picked up one of the pitchers, inspecting it smugly. Not too shabby.

“That’s quite a party trick you have there, young man.”

Tony jumped, whipping around in panic, the pitcher he was holding sloshing water all across the floor.

A man in a trim suit walked out of the shadows on the other side of the room, an amused smile on his face.

Tony’s mind somehow blanked and screamed at him at the same time. The man had seen, he’d seen him use his power, he knew he wasn’t normal. Was he just a patron who’d wandered into the back looking for the bathroom? Was he from some kind of superpower tracking organization? Was he going to arrest him?

“I, I wasn’t, I didn’t-” Tony stuttered, taking a step back and clutching the mostly empty pitcher.

What if the man was a villain?

“Hold on there son, calm down.” the man said, chuckling as he held out a hand, “My name is William Gibbons, I’m just here to talk.”

“C-customers aren’t allowed in the back, Sir.” Tony said, his voice cracking and his brain switching into autopilot as he stared at the man’s outstretched hand.

“Hydrokinesis.” Mr. Gibbons said, putting his unshaken hand back in his pocket, “That’s an incredible power, ever use it for anything bigger than filling water pitchers?”

“No sir, Supers are illegal.” Tony said, his knuckles turning white from his grip on the water pitcher’s handle. “I mean, I think they are, I don’t really listen to the news that close, I just do little things, I mean, I try not to, I mean-”

“I’m sorry to have caught you on your shift Mr. Rydinger, but I have a proposition for you.” Mr. Gibbons said, pulling over two bar stools from the side of the room and sitting on one, waving for Tony to sit on the other. “I’m an agent for the United States Exemplary Taskforce committee for the Superhero Registration Accords initiative. Ever heard of it?”

“I-I don’t think so.” Tony said, cautiously scooting onto the other stool, “I mean, I’ve heard of the accords, everyone’s heard of that I think. Not the other one though.”

What he wanted was to run out of the room, but it was way too late for that. Besides, if Mr. Gibbons was going to hurt or arrest him he already would have, right?

“Well, that’s because the “other one” is a highly classified government project.” Mr. Gibbons said, tugging on the cuffs of his sleeves, “Which is why before we go any further I ask that you keep the subject matter of this conversation between us. I am bringing you into a conversation of utmost importance, one of national security.”

“Of course, yes sir.” Tony said, sitting up straight on his stool. National security?

“Times are changing Mr. Rydinger, as you’re probably aware,” Mr. Gibbons said, “there’s been a shift in our society recently with the re-emergence of Supers. While being a Superhero, and to some extent having super powers, has been illegal until very recently, we’re now seeing more and more individuals step up to the opportunity to use their powers in public. What’s your opinion on it, Anthony?”

“I, well, I guess everyone’s just trying to do their best.” Tony said, shrugging his shoulders, unable to fight off a rising sense of deja vu, “I mean, I know Supers do a lot of damage to buildings and roads, but as long as they’re protecting innocent people I think that’s something good, right? I know there’s a lot of people who are using their powers for bad too though, I guess I can see both sides.”

“You’re a smart kid.” Mr. Gibbons said, nodding, “That’s a very diplomatic answer. Tell me Anthony, have you ever considered being a Super?”

Him? A Super?

“Not since I was really young I think.” Tony said, laughing nervously, “I mean, the whole idea sounds cool to any kid I think, but all I can do is throw water around. And I wouldn’t want to break the law like that anyway, filling glasses is one thing, but I would never go running around trying to stop crime, I’m not like, like the Incredibles or anything.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear that, you’re exactly the kind of person that I’m looking for.” Mr. Gibbons said, reaching into his coat and pulling out a business card, handing it to Tony.

He tipped the card towards the light, the words “Exemplary Taskforce” glinting back at him.

“This is going to be a time that is very confusing for a lot of Supers,” Mr. Gibbons said, watching him closely, “whether they’ve been participating in illegal activity, or doing their civic duty like yourself and obeying the law. The last thing that the government wants right now is for mass chaos to break out, we don’t need everyone who can buy a set of spandex starting to moonlight as a “hero” in their spare time. There need to be rules, there needs to be order. There needs to be an example set for the coming generation of Supers, and I would like you to be part of that.”

“I, what?” Tony said, looking up, “But I’m not a Super, I mean, my power isn’t really good for anything but drying off quickly.”

“That’s only because you haven’t trained your skill,” Mr. Gibbons leaning forward on his stool with a smile, “imagine what it would be like to walk outside into that rain right now and be able to reach out and stop every raindrop for miles around. Imagine being able to dive into the ocean and having all that water respond to your command. Being able to divert rivers to put out fires, containing explosions and debris with a wall of water, immobilizing criminals with the flick of your wrist and a puddle.”

Tony sat on his stool, holding his half-full pitcher of water and hearing the rain pounding the roof above him. For a moment he did imagine. The breathtaking rush that controlling that much water would be, how incredible it would feel to spring into action to help others with his power.

To not be afraid to live that part of himself out in the open.

“Well, when you say it like that it does sound pretty cool.” Tony said, smiling at the business card, “What...would someone on your taskforce do?”

“The taskforce is going to be a group of brand new heroes,” Mr. Gibbons said, “Supers who will be examples of heroes at their peak. Instead of being vigilantes operating with homemade equipment and their own rules, taskforce members will receive professional training, identity protection, publicity management, and a government issued paycheck for their services.

“The reason that Supers were outlawed was because of the unchecked destruction caused by well-intentioned vigilantes playing by their own rules. This time around we’re going to show everyone that Supers and the government can work together, and that it’s better for everyone. No more chaos, everything legal, Supers will finally be able to fully integrate into society. Their efforts will be a proper career, a way to build a safer world for us all.”

“That does sound pretty cool.” Tony said softly.

A world with legal Supers. A world with Supers who could be trained and paid and protected. A world where having powers would never have to be illegal again and everyone could be safe.

“I have school though,” Tony said, looking away from the card, “I have a job helping my parents with the restaurant. I’d really like to help, but I don’t know if I’m good enough to help so many people, there has to be someone better, someone stronger who wants to fight.”

“That son is what we call humility.” Mr. Gibbons said, smiling, “And believe it or not, it’s perhaps the rarest power a Super can have. If you choose to join the taskforce you won’t have to worry, your schooling will be finished with private tutors and your parents will receive a stipend that will cover much more than your half-time table bussing shift, believe me.

“As for strength, that’s what the training is for, and besides, the goal of the task force is not to be soldiers, it’s to have a group of levelheaded Supers that can be ambassadors to the public. Supers who can set an example for others to follow, to show unity and organization to help reign in vigilantes before they come back in full force.”

“And...if I say no thanks?” Tony asked, scratching the back on his head.

“It’s entirely up to you.” Mr. Gibbons shrugged, “There would be a legal silence agreement I would ask you to sign to keep this conversation to ourselves, and then you would be free to bus tables in peace for the rest of your high school career. There’s plenty of other law-abiding Supers out there who would be able to fulfill their duty to serve their country, to take our nation in the right direction, to set an example for the entire world of what unity and freedom really looks like.”

The whole world. A whole generation of Supers. Thousands of people, of kids like him, who’d hidden what they could do their whole lives.

Tony looked down at the water left in his plastic pitcher.

It was crazy, it was completely out of the blue, but...was it really that crazy when he thought about it? He never really wanted to be a Super, a real hero out on the streets, but he’d been born with his talent anyway, and he was already a firm believer that people who could help others should.

“Can I think about it?” Tony asked, looking down and rubbing his thumb over the business card.

“Of course. I wouldn’t expect you to make this kind of decision on the spot.” Mr. Gibbons said, getting off his stool and straightening his hat, “I’ve already spoken with your parents and they’ve given their permission if you’re interested.”

“Really?” Tony’s eyes widened. Mom and Dad had always been alright with his ability, but he’d never really, well, talked to them about it before.

“They understand that you have a unique talent, and that if you choose to develop it legally into a career serving your country that it’s your choice.” Mr. Gibbons said, putting his stool back against the wall, “Of course, I would recommend that you speak with them about it as well. I have another stop here in town before I head back, but when you’ve made up your mind my number is on the back of that card. Don't lose it, and remember that if you agree to join, the sooner you let me know the sooner we can start your training.”

“Yes, sir.” Tony said, getting up from his stool and slipping the card into his apron pocket, this time shaking Mr. Gibbons’ hand when he offered it. “Thank you for coming and talking to me about this, I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

“You’re a bright kid Anthony,” Mr. Gibbons smiled, “I know you’ll make whatever choice is best. I hope to hear from you soon.”

And without another word, he turned and left the kitchen. Leaving Tony standing alone with his half-full pitcher, and a business card that felt like it was burning a hole in his apron.

Tony stared at the wall for a long minute, his head a mess of thoughts.

He walked to the back door, almost in a daze, propping it open to see the rain still coming down hard outside.

A real Super. Really helping people. Helping bring order and unity. Something that only someone like him could do.

He reached out a hand, pulling some of the rain over to fall across his palm, dripping off his fingertips.

This was something he could do.

[Read Chapter 2: Old Friends]

----------

Hope you enjoyed part 1, I’ve been captured by this au and as usual will be chasing it as far as my excitement takes me. (Which my long-time readers know is usually pretty far.)

I have at least a couple more chapters in mind for this au, so be sure to follow my tumblr and AO3 to catch the next chapter as soon as it posts. Many thanks to @edorazzi on tumblr for starting this au with their wonderful artwork and headcanons, and for welcoming me on to write for it! Their ideas are fantastic and so fun to work with.

Cheers,

- Wit

(Support me on Patreon or buy me a Ko-fi!)

#incredibles #incredibles 2 #violet parr #tony rydinger #pixar #disney #fanfiction #riptide au #wit writes #i told yall i was gonna do it

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asoftervirge · 6 years ago

Text

between the salt water and the sea strands

RATING: PG, may increase as the story goes on PAIRINGS: R. Sanders/P. Sanders (main); T. Sanders/OMC (mentioned)

FIC WARNINGS/KINKS: Drinking, Near Death, mentions of drowning FIC SUMMARY: Roman, a young sea captain, is rescued by a mysterious person

TAGLIST: @backatthebein, @levy-the-b00kw0rm, @ierindoodles, @rosesandstuff, @notveryglittery, @patchworkofstars (if anybody else wishes to be tagged, please let me know!)

CLICK HERE IF YOU READ IT ON AO3 INSTEAD!

“And we’ll roll the old chariot along, we’ll roll the old chariot along, we’ll roll the old chariot along and we’ll all hang on be-hind~”

Roman smiled as he listened to his crew finish their shanty before clanking their tankards loudly and raising them to the high heavens, then laughing jovially as they spilled beer and ale onto the deck of the ship. He didn’t mind it of course, as he had his fair share of being a sloppy drunk and spilling everywhere. Besides, the ship’s deck also had her taste of sea water, blood, and fish guts, so a drunken sailors’ mess is just something else that makes her unique.

The young man made his way to the front of the ship, gracefully maneuvering around the swaying sailors that are mere seconds away from collapsing, gazing out at the view in front of him. The night’s sky was black and dark gray with no stars twinkling amidst its thick clouds, while the water that surrounded the ship was a eerie mix of dark green and blue. With how beautiful it was, it was hard to tell where the sky ended and the sea began.

He inhaled deeply, taking in the smell of salty water and feeling the cold wind blow harshly in his face, then exhaled slowly opening his eyes as he did so (which he didn’t even know were closed in the first place).

“Lovely, isn’t Logan?” he asked the mysterious person walking up to him from behind. He knew it was Logan due to how loud his footsteps were against the deck. That, and Logan wasn’t much of a drinker of ales and beers, stuck-up wine connoisseur.

“In seascapes and literature? Yes. But actually going out on a sea-faring travel? I’ll pass, thank you.”

Roman pouted. “You’re just a ripe old fuddy-duddy, aren’t you?”

Logan pondered that thoughtfully. “No. More like, someone who’d rather not become a victim of the sea’s cruelty and become feast to the creatures that call her their home.”

“In other words, a fuddy-duddy.”

“To each his own, I suppose.”

Roman groaned and dragged Logan closer to him. “Look at her, Logan! How can you call her cruel? She may be a wild thing, but she still as her moments of peacefulness!”

“And we have yet to see that since we left earlier this afternoon,” Logan reminds him, completely focusing his attention on un-wrinkling his sleeve rather than at the sight of the sea in front of him. “Remind me again, why we’re still out here? You know what your Father said—”

“That I shouldn’t be out at sea when it’s dark and dreadful out,” Roman mocked while rolling his eyes which, in turn, made Logan roll his. “Listen, we’re not that far off from port—”

“Nearly 20 nautical miles.”

“—My men are happy—”

“Because they’re drunk to the gills with beer and singing shanties.”

“—So why not enjoy the sea just a little while longer?”

“Firstly, a storm is on the horizon, so it would be best to sail back to port now. Secondly, I don’t understand how you became a thalassophile in the first place. You always liked riding your horse across the mountains, yet you suddenly develop a love for the sea a few years ago. How is that?”

(Truth be told, Logan knew the answer, and Roman knew he knew the answer.)

Roman had always loved the sea. Ever since he was a child, he always called the sea his second home. He loved her personality, her energy, the way she caressed the shore of the beach on her good days, and raged with fury on her bad. The way she stretched on for miles and miles. Empty, open, free. He loved the feeling of the wind blowing in his hair, the salty spray on his face, the sound of the waves lapping against the side of his ship and crashing in his ears.

He’d grown up in the capital city of Alexandria, which was also the largest port town in the country. You would think as someone who grew up near the sea, he would eventually get tired of it, but he never did. He didn’t have the heart to, his love of the sea remained to this very day.

His father Thomas was an actor in a theatre troupe, while his papa Alejandro was a sea merchant and a sailor. Whenever his papa came home from his travels, he would always tell little Roman story after story about what life was like on the sea, the places he had sailed to, and the people he had met during his trades. It would always bring a excited sparkle to the boy’s eyes, proudly declaring that he wanted to travel the sea with his Papa one day.

Unfortunately, that day never came because Alejandro was killed in an unexpected pirate raid when Roman was a small child. While Thomas wanted to forbid his son from going out onto sea, that only increased his desires. He couldn’t stand being so close to his calling, yet he wasn’t able to answer her. From morning to night he could hear sing beckoning to him, yearning for him to control her tempestuous nature and explore her mysterious, adventure-bound waters.

(And bless Poseidon, Amphitrite, Triton, and any other deity of the sea that gave him that opportunity.)

Being from a sea port town, he was used to having the occasional visit from pirates, usually making trades or wanting to get smashed at the drinking house, rarely did the town get pillaged due to it’s importance in sea trading, but that doesn’t stop pirates from being idiots.

One night, Roman and his boyhood friend and future navigator, Logan Faraday, found a young pirate captain swindling the residents out of coin and weapons, along with any other trinket they happened to have bet on. That, was when Roman decided to strike. He decided that he was going to challenge the captain to a bet; this time, through a coin toss. The rules where simple: if Roman won, he’d take the captain’s ship. If the the captain won, he’d take Roman’s most prized possession, a necklace that his papa gave him before he died.

Roman chose heads, the pirate captain chose tails. The coin landed on tails, yet it was Roman that was the real winner.

(Let me explain, both Roman and Logan noticed the captain cheating during all of his challenges. With Logan’s knowledge, and Roman’s papa teaching him about pirates and gambling, they were able to figure out the captain’s trick. Even one as petty as swapping a real coin for a fake.)

(With a chill and humbled smile, the captain surrendered his ship to Roman. Turns out that the young pirate captain was secretly hoping someone would notice his cheating so he could give up his life as a pirate. Wasn’t all that fun for him anymore. Fortunately, he managed to find fun with his handsome, sellsword of a husband.)

And that, was how The Crimson Prince was born.

“You do happen to know The Salt-Water Poems and Ballads, by any chance?” Roman asked after a long period of silence.

Logan quickly snapped his head towards him, the redoing of his cufflinks coming to a screeching halt. “You mean the book of seafaring and maritime history poems by John Masefield?” he asked, making sure he heard Roman right. Once his friend nodded, he only guffawed (not that he would admit that) and exclaimed, “Of course I do! It is, after all, the only poetry book you’ve ever read in your life.”

Roman rolled his eyes. “Then you know what I’m going to recite.” he tells him, standing proudly now, pretending to hold a tankard in one hand and gesturing to the sea in the other as he begins to quote:

“I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,

And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by; And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking, And a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking.”

Logan sat down, not actually caring about how dirty his clothing will get, and propped an elbow on one of his knees, resting his chin in his palm. He couldn’t help but shake his head fondly because even if he’s heard Roman recite this poem hundreds of times over the years, he secretly loves hearing Roman loudly proclaiming his love for Mother Nature’s cruelest mistress.

“I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied; And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying, And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.”

Logan gave a miniature applause when Roman finishing reciting (even if he intentionally leaves out the third verse). Roman smiled and bowed dramatically, laughing heartily as he helped Logan to his feet.

The sea was his home; she loved him and his father as they loved her. If there was ever a life he lived where it didn’t involve the sea, it wasn’t a life worth living.

A flash of light suddenly made the sky glow for a second and Logan grew worried. For as much as Roman loved to talk about the sea’s beauty, he knew she held as much fury as she did serenity. Logan knew her wrath as well as her comforts, her storms as well as her gentle waves, and he knew to fear the darkening of the skies above and the enlivening of the water below.

He knew to avoid the sea’s wrath— and he knew how hard it was to escape it.

“Roman,” he began calmly, not wanting to raise alarm in his friend and captain. “Now do you believe me when I say we should head back to port?”

Roman nodded. “You’re right.” he said, quickly making his way back to the ship’s helm. “Alright men, enough lollygagging! Get sober quickly and raise the anchor, we’re retreating to shore!”

Soon, rain began to fall across the deck in sheets of freezing cold, and violent waves tossed the ship from side to side; Roman shivered as he clung to the ship’s wheel to keep from tipping the boat over, his knuckles stark-white as he desperately tried to steer out of the raging storm. Logan stood to his side, snapping rapid-fire commands to the crew below, his grim face illuminated by the lightning crackling above and his sharp voice carrying over the deafening rumbles of thunder.

Roman shoved his dripping hair from his face and grit his teeth, yanking the wheel to the side. The ship rocked dizzyingly beneath him as the ocean battered it from below with all her might.

Crack, boom!

He whirled around, a desperate cry tearing from his lips as lightning suddenly slammed into the deck, sending his crewmates, his family, flying. The rain fell but did nothing to stop the flames the lightning left behind, growing bigger and more monstrous with every inch of Roman’s ship they devoured. As the embers flew and the heat licked at Roman, he turned and gripped the wheel once more, desperate to steer them out, to save them…but it was too late.

The water filled his lungs the moment he fell beneath, and though he chocked and struggled, he couldn’t find the surface in the midst of the chaos, couldn’t escape the darkness and the whirling, churning waves. The sea engulfed him at all sides, sending him tumbling, and darkness crept at the edge of his mind as the sea dragged him below.

He’d always known he belonged at sea, and now, like his Papa before him, he was coming home.

When Roman finally regained consciousness, his head hurt and lungs burned from the salt water he coughed up, he heard a singing voice. A singing voice that sounded like it belonged to an angel, hymnal and otherworldly, but he couldn’t understand any of the words. He considered it to be one of the most beautiful voices he had ever heard. He blinked wearily, the high sun shining directly in his eyes, wanting to see who the enchanting song belonged to.

Vaguely, he could see the silhouette of his savior’s face, the sun illuminating around their face, almost like they were carrying a halo. Due to this, he first believed them to be Papa coming to take him to the Great Kingdom in the Sky (he wouldn’t have minded that if he was honest). He gave them a gentle, appreciative smile, but before he could uttered a word of thanks or even a question as to who they were, they disappeared.

“W-Wait! P-Please!” Roman’s voice was raspy and it broke a little when he called out to them. He began pushing himself upward, ignoring both his head and body aches as he tried to stop the person from leaving. When he had fallen into the ocean, he was certain he was sinking to his grave, but here he was, still alive and breathing. All thanks to this mysterious savior who wished to remain just that, a mystery.

When he was finally able to sit up completely and all sunspots had left his vision, they were gone, no sign of them whatsoever. He frowned as he began to look around, wondering where they’ve gone.

For a few moments, Roman was afraid he imagined the entire scenario…but here was no way he could’ve come up with something that creative, could he? But if he did…why did their sweet voice and warm touch continue to linger in his mind. Why did it seem so realistic?

The young captain’s overthinking was soon interrupted by another voice calling out to him, followed by the loud crunching of footsteps on the sand.

“Roman!” the familiar voice yelled. “Thank the Gods you’re alright! We thought you’d died!”

A pair of hands carefully grabbed his shoulders as their form came into his field of vision. As soon as Roman was able to fully recognize their face, an enormous sense of relief washed over him as he let out a shaky breath.

“Logan,” he whispered hopefully, becoming overwhelmed with emotion. When he was thrown off the ship, one of the other thoughts that flooded his mind (aside from his Father and Papa) was Logan; how his beloved friend and navigator was also to meet a watery grave because of his pride and stubbornness. “I…I’m so sorry!”

“Shh,” Logan soothed softly, his voice strangely calm and gentle. Even if it went against his usually cool demeanor, he pulled Roman into a protective embrace. One that showed that everything was alright, and that he was alive and feeling Logan’s warmth encompassing him. “We believe you drowned. Some of our crew tried to aid you, but the currents were too strong. How did you manage to swim against them, surely your nose and lungs would’ve been filled with water.”

“Someone…someone saved my life.”

“Oh?” Logan asked, voice tinged with curiosity as he looked around the cove. “If so, then where are they? And how did they manage such a feat?”

“I don’t know…they’ve gone.”

“I’m sorry?”

“They’ve gone,” Roman repeated. “I woke up to the most gorgeous singing I’ve ever heard— what it was, I don’t know since I couldn’t translate the words— and then I saw them, or almost saw them, but then…they were gone…”

“Roman, I’m sorry but that doesn’t make much sense.” Logan tells him. “Are you sure you weren't hallucinating?"

“Logan, you— you have to understand I’m not making this up!” the young captain protested strongly, glaring at his friend with firm eyes. “I saw them, I heard them! I know they’re real!”

“You nearly died from drowning. It’s quite common for seafarers to have hallucinations, especially when they’ve nearly drank themselves to oblivion." Logan placated, resting the back of his hand on his friend’s forehead. "You also know that we’ve heard similar stories at the bars we’ve been to, sailors saying they’ve been saved by mysterious folk to draw in a crowd.”

Roman growled and violently shook his head to the point where another wave of pain rushed to him. He wasn’t even drinking on the ship, Logan knew that! And why would he make something like this up?! He was known to tell an exaggerative story, but nothing of this scale and grandeur.

This person, angel, whomever, was real! The vague, sweet-looking face, the angelic voice, the feeling of soft skin lightly brushing against his own. It couldn’t have been a hallucination, Roman was convinced of that.

Where had they gone when he tried to thank them? How could they have disappeared so suddenly and without a trace? Who were they? Maybe it was Papa, Roman thought with a sad chuckle.

But if it was Papa, he would’ve known; he would’ve called Roman “his little hijo del mar” and affirm that “the seas have called us home”; he would’ve sung to him in a deep voice, rich with passionate experience, not light with a calm gentleness; and he would’ve held a guiding hand and led him to the Heavens. So who was it that saved his life?

“Come, Roman. Let me take you home. I’m sure Thomas is worried sick about you.” Logan wrapped his arm around his friend’s waist, leading him back to port. After a few moments of trying to convince Logan his story was true (and the navigator remained in denial), Roman begrudgingly ceased his protests and allowed himself to be lead home.

#Sanders Sides #Sanders Sides AU #Roman Sanders #Logan Sanders #Patton Sanders #Royality #between the salt water and the sea strands

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justonesongmore · 7 years ago

Text

XXIII: 1923

On Irreducibile Particles, Rapid Assimilations, and Molasses Funks

1. Billy Jones: “Yes! We Have No Bananas”

One of the four or five irreducible particles of the silliness of the Roaring Twenties, the folly of the années folles, the glitter of the Goldene Zwanziger, the keynote and image of all that was evanescent and soon to vanish, like champagne bubbles, in the era to come. A vaudeville routine sold as a Tin Pan Alley ditty, with a stop-start melody and nonsense refrain that captured a bluff, jaunty mood and lent itself to repetition, sawing relentlessly away with or without the lyrics kidding the incomplete Americanisms of the Lower East Side. But that kidding remains, a none too subtle reminder that the white majority would never consent to seeing immigrants as fully human. Nonsense in the United States is always political; perhaps that too is not unique to us.

2. Clay Custer: “The Rocks”

The consensus among jazz scholars is that Clay Custer is most likely a pseudonym for the tune’s composer, but there are a few other Chicago-area pianists it could be, including his brother Hersal. Regardless, it’s the first disc on record to feature a walking bassline (so early in its development that it’s almost a stumbling one); this, combined with the previous year’s publication of “The Fives” from the same pen, is the birth of boogie-woogie piano. By decade’s end, the genre will have been fully formalized by pianists who all point to the work of Arkansas-born, New Orleans-trained, Chicago-adopted “Gut Bucket” George Washington Thomas as fundamental. Even apart from the all-important bassline, the chromatic opening trills and development of its themes—the rocks could be wave-dashed, or more euphemistic—give delight.

3. King Oliver’s Creole Jazz Band: “Dipper Mouth Blues”

Seven years is a long time in pop, which hot jazz still is. The gap between the Original Dixieland Jass Band’s first recordings and the first sides made by Joe “King” Oliver’s band—who would undoubtedly have been one of the ODJB’s primary inspirations back when New Orleans was the quarantined heart of jazz, before it spread like a virus to infect the entire nation—would have been noticeable in any era, but a comparison between the two reveals that while the white boys got the energy and the raucousness right, they missed the funk and the communal interplay. Oliver’s muted trumpet solo isn’t just virtuosity: it responds to and is responded to by the rest of the band, including the young second cornettist, recently arrived to Chicago from New Orleans.

4. Bennie Moten’s Kansas City Orchestra: “Elephant’s Wobble”

And just as the first true New Orleans jazz is waxed, so too is the first true Kansas City jazz: less molasses funky, more brightly riffed, with a hard-stomping rhythm that presages much industrialized pop to come, from Motown to techno. Bennie Moten, a nearly thirty year old pianist, composer and now bandleader who had knocked about the Missouri ragtime scene since his youth, scored his first recording date in St. Louis, with a band of Kansas City luminaries who individually hearken back to older forms, from Sousa’s drilled marches to Joplin’s ragtime of theme and recapitulation to Ossman’s savagely strummed minstrel banjo: but together, powered by the newly hot-running engine of jazz, they produce a gleeful, entirely modern sound that piledrives, lean and hungry for rhythm, into the future.

5. Sylvester Weaver: “Guitar Blues”

Most discographies will note this as the first country blues record; but Sylvester Weaver was born and reared in Louisville, Kentucky, which if it wasn’t a New York-scale metropolis was still no dirt-road waystation; nor is it the Deep South. Like most of his Black peers making their way before recording horns in the years before the electric-recording boom, Weaver was an urban entertainer—his first recordings were as an accompanist to blues singer Sara Martin. His instrument was called a “guitjo,” a banjo body strung like a guitar, and his slide technique sounds particularly otherworldly on its resonant body. The technique has appeared before, as played by Hawaiʻian musicians and white southerners; but here the sound connects (on record) to the blues, and the echoes from it will be lasting.

6. Os Oito Batutas: “Urubu”

We have heard the most prominent soloist in this supergroup before: choro composer and flautist Pixinguinha had already left his mark on Brazilian popular music in the 1910s. But when he joined seven other Black and mulatto choristas to form an eight-man group in 1919 so that a theater empresario would have an attraction in between showings of silent films, the result was a music that swung harder than traditional choro and even outpaced early samba: “Urubu” (the Guaraní word for vulture, and you can hear a wheeling, wing-fluttering flight in Pixinguinha’s flute) is just as modern, as dynamic, and as future-facing as any New Orleans jazz. In fact, musicians like Os Oito Batutas (the eight legends), demonstrate that the spirit of jazz was never exclusively a North American phenomenon.

7. Rosita Quiroga: “Sollozos”

Two legends in the field of Argentinean tango make their debut with this recording: Rosita Quiroga, the music’s first great woman singer, born in the lower-class milieu to which a cosmopolitan like Gardel only pretended; and Osvaldo Fresedo, the song’s composer, who when he begins to record in his own right will become perhaps the most emblematic tango bandleader of the decade, with a long career to follow. “Sollozos” (Sobs), with a lyric by the composer’s brother Emilio, is one of the great tango songs, uncovering the everyday pathos within the music’s slinky passion. Quiroga’s direct, unadorned vocal style refuses self-pity even as her words ask us to pity her, and the harmonium which opens the recording casts the plucked guitars which accompany her throughout in the light of eternity.

8. Carlos Gardel: “Alma porteña”

But as tango branched out into newly classed and gendered forms, Gardel the eternal cosmopolite continued to go from strength to strength. “Alma porteña” (Soul of Buenos Aires) is another of the deathless tango songs, in which the music itself is apostrophized as the cause, and cure, of all man’s ills. The mellifluous self-assurance in his baritone voice, the intricate backing of his accompanists Barbieri and Ricardo, and the swooping, tantalizing melody from Vicente Greco, who had been writing and performing tangos since the early 1910s, make a dazzling, almost overwhelming display of what I think of as Baroque tango, tango at its most self-important, self-mythologizing, and capital-r Romantic. If tango is une force qui va and Gardel is its prophet, why should we ever ask for anything more quotidian?

9. Bessie Smith: “Baby Won’t You Please Come Home Blues”

Three long years after the record companies learned that there was a market for “race” (for which see blues) records, the most famous and well compensated blues singer on the Black vaudeville circuit finally signed a contract with Columbia to cut her first records, accompanied on piano by early jazz pianist and empresario Clarence Williams, who had published (and supposedly co-wrote) this song. Its co-composer, Charles Warfield, later complained that he was cheated, which was probably true enough: music labels had much to learn from sheet-music publishers on how to screw over their talent. But the song itself is just a trifle: what makes it stick is Bessie Smith’s full-lunged performance, too self-possessed to be melodramatic about missing her lover, but too serious about her heartbreak to treat it flippantly either.

10. Ma Rainey with Lovie Austin and Her Blues Serenaders: “Barrel House Blues”

The blues singer who taught Bessie Smith to perform in public, and whose popular performances since the early 1900s in medicine shows, minstrel shows, and vaudeville had no doubt influenced white singers from Sophie Tucker to Marion Harris, also cut her first records for Paramount in 1923, at the age of forty-one. Accompanied by Chicago-based pianist and composer Lovie Austin and her hot jazz band, Rainey sings three verses that mock at Prohibition while reinforcing her own status as the elder stateswoman of the blues: the “Papa” of the song is presumably is Will Rainey, her husband, manager, and one-time partner, while “Mama” is herself, a creature of voracious appetite whose addiction to port, sport, gin, and “outside men” is a thorough rejection of a respectability that couldn’t touch her.

11. Esther Bigeou with Piron’s New Orleans Orchestra: “West Indies Blues”

Anglo-Caribbean music has not appeared in these pages since 1915, but it didn’t go unheard, nor was its influence insignificant. “West Indies Blues” was written by the great Black jazz songwriter Spencer Williams, with funning lyrics by Edgar Dowell, in the wake of Jamaican-born Pan-African Black separatist Marcus Garvey’s conviction on trumped-up charges of mail fraud: the broad dialect Esther Bigeou, a New Orleans native, uses to caricature West Indian speech is, at this remove, indistinguishable from the Coon dialects white songwriters had been putting in the mouths of US-born Blacks for generations. Even so, the sheet music was subtitled “a calipso,” and though it’s not proper Trinidadian calypso, it’s played by people who have heard it: Armand Piron’s orchestra was one of the foremost Creole bands of New Orleans.

12. Marion Harris: “Who’s Sorry Now?”

As the genuine articles began to take their rightful place before the recording horn, the white women whose imitations of blues shouters had made the racist recording market safe for the blues began to move into more genteel forms of music-making, where Black women presumably couldn’t follow. (We’ll see about that.) Marion Harris, a constant presence here since 1916, has never sounded more polished and inexpressive—which is to say, whiter—than when warbling this ditty by dilettante composer Ted Snyder (who we won’t see again) and Tin Pan Alley lifers, lyricists Bert Kalmar and Harry Ruby (who we will). A song of vindictive triumph paced like a parlor ballad, it retained enough kick thirty-five years later to jumpstart the career of a teenager who sang like a grown woman.

13. Sophie Tucker: “You’ve Gotta See Mamma Ev’ry Night (Or You Can’t See Mamma At All)”

Of course, La Tucker never followed the trends for white women singers. Now in her mid-thirties, she had built too firmly on a foundation of Coon shouting to move blithely into sweet girlish Tin Pan Alley fluff: but raucous faux-blues Tin Pan Alley fluff would do just as well. “You’ve Got to see Mamma” was written by popular hack Con Conrad (empresario Billy Rose is credited on lyrics), and in general outline it’s a good imitation of contemporary Black women’s songs, slightly saucy, humorously aggressive towards a wayward lover, and firmly self-respecting. But there’s no actual blues structure or emotion to it, which makes it all the better as a cloak for the indeterminately-raced Tucker to wrap herself in: big and brassy, but ultimately respectful of show-biz and social convention.

14. Wendell Hall: “It Ain’t Gonna Rain No Mo’”

The ways in which the desiccated remains of minstrelsy were shaped and pounded into country music are a major part of the recording history of the 1920s. “Ain’t Gonna Rain” is considered a folk song (four years later, Carl Sandburg would suggest that it dates to the 1870s), but Hall, a Midwestern vaudevillian who performed under the legend “The Red-Headed Music Maker,” punches out the verses, with nonstandard vocabulary and Southern rural hokum straight out of Uncle Remus, in a minstrel-inflected screech and yowl, a sound which would migrate into the “high lonesome” style which will characterize honky-tonk. But he’s also very much of his time: his instrument was not the banjo but the ukulele, the portable if not particularly versatile instrument which gave a fizzy, irrepressible soundtrack to the 1920s.

15. Fiddlin’ John Carson: “The Old Hen Cackled and the Rooster’s Gonna Crow”

Après Eck, le deluge: country fiddlers were still major entertainers in the rural communities where they set and called the dances, and as the South urbanized, they grew into bigger stars thanks to old-time fiddling conventions. The fifty-something Carson, of Atlanta, was hot enough stuff that he was a local fixture on the new medium of radio and appeared in newsreels. A sharp-eyed Atlanta distributor cajoled Okeh’s talent scout Ralph Peer into recording him in a rare acoustic-era location recording, a makeshift studio set up in an empty Atlanta storefront. Peer wasn’t happy with the results (he’d do better later), but the record, “Old Hen” b/w “Little Old Log Cabin in the Lane” (see 1907), sold out at the next convention. No hero, as we’ll see, Carson nevertheless lasted.

16. Asako Tanabe: “Sendo kouta”

As country music slowly pushes its way onto record, so too does the music frequently compared to it: Japanese enka, which (like country) originated in a specific milieu but has since broadened to mean any vaguely folkloric or traditional popular music. I’ve been unable to learn anything about the singer attributed here: 田辺朝子 is a common enough name that basic online searches are useless. But 船頭小唄 (often translated as “Ferryman’s Song”) was a major musical touchstone of the era, a street song which borrowed the melody of a Shinpei Nakayama composition. It became infamous in the wake of the Great Kanto Earthquake, said to have been predicted in the haunting, death-obsessed lyrics. A sentimental 1923 film of the same title inspired multiple recordings; this is the one posted to YouTube.

17. Mounira al-Madiyyah: “Asmar malak ruhi”

1923 was the first full year of nominal Egyptian independence from the British “protectorate” which had begun in 1882 and was formalized during the War to break Ottoman power. Although the British occupation would not be entirely ended until 1953, the promulgation of the first constitution and the convention of the first parliament in Cairo is worth commemorating here, with the voice of the first Muslim woman in the modern era to come to prominence as an entertainer in Egypt: before her (as throughout North Africa and the Middle East), the profession was limited to Jewish and Christian women. أسمر ملك روحي was one of her signature songs, one that has had long echoes in Egyptian light-entertainment history: “Dark King of My Soul” is one way to translate the title.

18. Mohammad el-Wahab: “Ma niish bahebbek”

Egyptian popular music was still only just being born: the September 1923 death at the age of 31 of café singer and musical-theater composer Sayed Darwish, whose melodies (some of which we will hear in future) borrowed Western structures and sometimes instrumentation in a break with classical Arabic formulas, is a useful demarcation point. Mohammad el-Wahab was a friend and close collaborator with Darwish in his last years, and would become perhaps the most important Egyptian popular musician of the twentieth century, but one. This early song, a light taqtuqa from the kind of genial musical romantic comedy which would come to form the backbone of the West and South Asian film industry, is an anti-love song performed in character as a rascal protesting (too much) that he only loves himself.

19. Marika Papagika: “Opou dis dio kyparissia”

The Anatolian Greek singer Marika Papagika was by now more or less the undisputed queen of the ex-Ottoman diaspora in New York City, despite continued challenges from Kiria Koula. Within the next year or so she would even open the first café-aman (and behind authority’s back, a speakeasy) in the Western hemisphere; but here, with her husband on cimbalom and other immigrant musicians on violin, cello, and percussion, she sings a song which takes its title from the Greek folk air “When You See Two Cypresses,” but hares off in other directions in the singing. It’s called a Zeïmpekiko (Anatolian Greek folk dance) on the label, but scholars, noting the modern fusions which New World residence has imparted to Papagika’s musical ecosystem, have called it an early example of rebetiko.

20. Naftule Brandwein’s Orchestra: “Doina and Nachspiel”

As we move further into the 1920s, the number of great recordings by the Eastern European Jewish artists who brought what we now call klezmer to the tenements of New York City will slowly decrease. Partly this is because of rapid assimilation and the inroads made by Jewish artists into mainstream US culture: the next generation of talented Jewish musicians were more likely to aspire to be Gershwin or Brice than Brandwein or Picon. But also, beginning in 1924, the country’s open (to Europeans) immigration policy was for the first time given a permanent numerical limit, heavily restricting (as it meant to) the number of new Jewish immigrants to the United States. There will be more klezmer records in future, but let this be a valediction for the first generation.

21. Isa Kremer: “Dwie Guitarre”

But there was a whole constellation of global Jewish culture which the policies set by a know-nothing Congress could not touch. Isa Kremer, the great Russian Jewish soprano, was born to bourgeois parents in what is now Moldova, but was publishing revolutionary poetry in Odessa as a teenager. She debuted as an opera singer in Italy; within a few years, she included Yiddish folk songs in her concert repertoire, supposedly the first woman to do so. The Russian Revolution left her without a home (her family had backed the moderates), and her peripatetic concert schedule brought her to the United States in 1922, where she was acclaimed by Jewish and non-Jewish audiences alike. This selection of Russian romans or “gypsy” music is illustrative of her clear voice and lively style.

22. Pau Casals: “Kol Nidrei”

Another example of Jewish music having entered the concert canon: the German (Protestant) composer Max Bruch had composed this piece for cello and orchestra in 1880, the melody of the first section based on the Hebrew prayer recited during the evening service on Yom Kippur and that of the second on one of Isaac Nathan’s 1815 settings for Byron’s Hebrew Melodies. (Gentiles appropriating Jewish art and being reappropriated by Jews in turn has a long history.) The great Catalan cellist Pau Casals rendered it sensitively, accompanied only by Edouard Gendron on piano, for Columbia in 1923. In those years Casals was the preeminent cellist in Europe, recording in France and conducting an orchestra in Barcelona. An ardent Republican, he went into self-imposed exile when Franco came to power, and never returned.

23. Marian Anderson: “Deep River”

Only two years out of high school, and still a decade out from becoming world-famous as the greatest African-American contralto of the twentieth century, Marian Anderson recorded her first sides in December of 1923. Her repertoire even then included this Harry T. Burleigh arrangement of a classic spiritual, which would become one of her signature songs. “Deep River,” with a stark simplicity of melody and lyric which contain entire implied universes of emotion and history, is one of the essential, irreducible elements of Black American art. Anderson’s early low, throbbing performance, recorded the same year that hot jazz and the blues fully came into their own on record, after some fifty years of what historians call the Nadir, an era of horrific violence and terrorism toward Black citizens, still resounds today.

#1920s

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pixelatedlenses · 8 years ago

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“You Can’t Have Black Faeries”: Black Magic, Representation, And Fantastical Reads and Writing , or How I Started Writing Black Characters on Tumblr and Never Looked Back

So I’m going to preface this with the fact that this is a veritable essay that kind of winds: it’s not really organized and would never be published on a formal news site. It’s just my story, all of what I remember, and clocks in around 6ish pages. It was important for me to write this during Black History Month because over the last year, I’ve undergone a lot of changes, and my writing has changed with it. I hope that you’ll read this and ask questions, and continue to support me as I change even more. I love my blackness, I love my writing, and I love sharing it with you all. I suppose here’s the roots of how I got to be Spencer Avery, my pen name that I use for my core writing, outside of beng Tomi for art and light novels.

It’s my story, and is more stream of consciousness than anything else. Basically: enjoy, is what I’m trying to say. Also, this is, of course, one of the supplimental pieces I mentioned in my post about writing about BHM in Japan. I hope you come to understand another part of me, and see why my black is beautiful. .

I can honestly say that at 24, I love writing black characters.

I stick representations of myself –my culture, fat black folxs, nerdy black folxs, magical black folxs– into whatever I can, whether it’s a mundane romance tale set in a perfectly normal world or a princess stuck in a tower. It became important to me about… eh, three years ago that I start to normalize those kinds of worlds, that Black folxs were just as magic as a Tolkien elf or a Harry Potter wizard. We belonged in those worlds alongside European styled magics too.

But it wasn’t always like that.

I started writing fanfiction at age 13. I was confused about a lot of things: I felt wrong in my black skin, about liking girls over boys and flowers, felt at odds with the black girls that teased me and bullied me into buying them snacks. (And also called my mother fat to my face, which yeah, we both are, but you don’t get to call her that, you know? Geez.) Most of all, I think feeling a sense of nothingness prevailed: I was a black girl playing at being good enough to be white, playing at stepping outside my ethnic roots to somehow feel capital-N Normal.

Video games, thus, became a home for me: I found myself in Naruto, felt at home in the vast worlds of Kingdom Hearts, was brave and empowered in Pokemon was somebodies hero in the countless rpgs stacked next to my bed. I don’t think its an exaggeration to say that I spent more time connected to a set of double a’s or a charger than I did reflecting on myself. I think now, a lot of Blerds –black nerds – often do: we’re pushed out with anti-blackness from our own black folx, and left to imagine ourselves as meaningful in somebody else’s world. It’s quite sad, and perhaps why now, I write so much fantasy and fiction featuring a black character overcoming: it’s a message that still needs to be heard and echoed.

Nevertheless, I was a lonely kid. It was the height of MySpace, I was a digital roleplayer under the all too ridiculous name Naruko Fai Uzamachi –I literally just let out the most pitiful Regret Groan – and I was still on the hunt for that last, little taste of acceptance.

Hence writing.

I put up my first fic on Fanfiction.net sometime in 2007, most likely May. It was a hot mess, but I’m saying that millions of words later in 2017. At the time, it was a release: I was deep into the 801 –that’s Yaoi for the uninitiated, taking from the alternative pronunciations for 8, 0, and 1 in Japanese – community, having found a weird, hypersexualized acceptance amongst likeminded women who felt pushed to Western society’s fringes. I was everywhere I could on MySpace, Aarinfantasy, and any board I could find to somehow make my 14-year-old heart ache less. Fanfiction was there as another balm: I have memories of sneaking onto the computer at midnight, trying to turn the brightness down just so to not wake my mother, and clacking out my feelings about depression, hurt, growing up, and wanting desperately to belong to something.

(As I’m currently at work, I won’t like it: it’s explicit, and I don’t’ look at things like that on my on hours. I can tell you it’s called “Land and Sky” and was a SasuNaru fic, a hot pairing even in 2017. You can look it up on my Fanfiction.net account, and for fun, do a live reading with your friends. I’ve tried to rewrite it multiple times, and may try this year as it’s the anniversary and my writing is hopefully better. I think perhaps that’s my penance for teenage me’s horribly written yaoi: rewrite a SasuNaru fic every ten years for the rest of my life. Of course, it’s funny now: at the time, I was Ride or Die about that fic.)

This led to me often seeking solace in Asian characters: they were the closes analog to me. Brown and black faces didn’t match me in terms of how I felt; they reminded me of the same mocking laughter, harsh hands, and hurtful words that were hurled at me daily. I didn’t want to like them, but perhaps a part of me also realized I needed something. Asian person –specifically Japanese character – offered that something. They were ethnic enough in my young eyes, and were close enough. Sometimes, characters were a tanned brown, many shades away from my dark skin, but felt cousin to my desire for acceptance.

(Now, of course, I realize that wasn’t the answer and that Japanese-Americans are often ridiculed for their own desire to enjoy their culture, while Westerners –predominantly Americans of European descent – often police fan culture within Anime and Manga or general Japanese pop, and that has often led to exclusion. That’s not to say there aren’t black folxs out there policing Japanese-American consumption of their own culture too: there certainly are, and they’re just as wrong.)

Writing, thus, developed into a series of long worded fanfiction pieces that I posted all across the web, primarily on FF.net, which was my stomping ground for a very long time. I can still google my many pen names –Syrus Gardenia Fuze, which apparently I asked to be called, dozens of Japanese names with African-esque sounds, and eventually, Nagone, which I took kanji –immaturely and without any knowledge of the language, as I was studying Spanish and not even Chinese yet to understand characters and radicals– to mix together to form “a strong sounding name” which I still use today, but hope to change this year actually– and find my pieces. I get hits daily from kids going through the same growth I did: kids who message me asking questions about the fictional worlds I built, kids who express the same sadness, heartache, and loneliness of being classed as different. PoC kids who tell me that they’re looking for themselves and found it in my writing.

Growing up certainly hasn’t changed in a decade, you know?

However, by the time that college rolled around, fed-up, still black, now queer me was tired, and fanfiction wasn’t always doing the same things it had. I was sick of school, wanted desperately out and to move to Missouri for college, but was stuck in a mundane year. After a blow up at my bullies which resulted in me getting kicked out the band hall and nearly breaking a bass clarinet from dropping it on the ground, I stopped writing: I just flat out gave it up. It felt like it was putting away childish things, tucking away the past, and would let me move on.

Of course, at this point, you’re realizing that I didn’t stop as I’m talking about writing. Let’s continue.

I came back to it in college after my father died because I need Home again. I was still focused on Japan and Japanese media because Japan was cool: I hadn’t had the realization that Japan was a country, and hadn’t really delved into my studies that would lead me to a degree in History and Asian Studies focused on Japan and on showing a 360 view of the nation rather than “it’s got pop culture!” I was still hiding from being black: high school had brow beat me with “Why do we need Black History Month?” gorilla masks when Obama got into office –with friends remarking that I should be proud on of my people made if at 17 and 18– and general Southern Fried Racism that I was more than willing to reject being black. My pool of genuine black friends had grown from two to six: I added a few men into the mix -almost all are college friends I still love- and was steadily working towards some awareness that I was black and not secretly a white girl beneath.

Home was in writing more fics: still primarily yaoi, though I had dabbled in yuri and girl’s love with the arrival of my first partner. I was a bit more brazen and brave about what I wrote, and started showing PoC women together instead of solely Japanese men. It was a radical change, and made me feel a little bit better between regretting being queer and loving college. But there was still a stark absence of anyone black: in fact, I honestly can’t remember ever writing a black character for most of my early writing life.

So, I bet you’re wondering when that black part will come in?

Well, it starts probably in 2013ish when I made my writing Tumblr.

I’d heard about Tumblr through my fourth partner, an asexual with a penchant for wanting a mixed child because they were “cute” and wanting a boy despite being agender and stating that no one should choose gender.

(I should add that they often remarked they wanted to spin the sperm of their donor to increase the rate of a boy, and would be sad to not have their child come out how they wanted. It made me feel very gross, and I was not at all sad to break up with them. It was for the best, and I hope that they realize now that it’s kind of gross to want a mixed child for their aesthetic and not because you wouldn’t mind having a child with multiple cultures. They were a nice person, but it’s alright to accept that nice people -even me- have microaggresions that we must constnatly work at.)

I started with a cosplay tumblr: it was dedicated to my costuming which I did often enough, and was made with the mindset of being a black cosplayer. This was a huge change, and it came solely because of an event the year before: namely, the murder-death killing of Trayvon Martin, a boy who was sent to rest by a man who is, simply put, a racist and hated him for his skin.

That changed my world: it was like I’d been literally seeing black and white, and suddenly, there was an entire spectrum of Brown that I fit into. I was a black person, ahd the potential to get killed for my skin, for not being submissive, for being a perceived threat, and that was scary. It was the kind of thing that, for months, kept me awake. I saw, for the first time, the ugly face of kind racism: I had white friends remark that President Obama wouldn’t know how it felt to lose a child like that because he was only half-black, and he was the President, one of the good ones. I saw that perhaps, I was perceived like that: that my intellect, my quiet nature, my bookish ways, and my gentleness were only Right because they were White, that a percentage of people around me where trading Me for being Good, and a Good Black.

(Insert another groan.)

So my writing changed with that: it became more active, more constant, and eventually in 2014, solidified into this blog with all the meager beginnings I could offer. I remember my first posts were from a roleplay senior year: they focused on the characters of our werewolf campaign. I think after that came some reposts from FictionPress –I really want to start utilizing that again this year, alongside Wattpad and other sns for writing– and then… well, then I started writing for myself. It started with fae –I’ve always like fae since I first read Holly Black’s Modern Fae series, specifically Valiant, sophomore year of high school– and so I started to transplant black features onto them. My fae ranged from sweet to scary, were villains, heroes, lovers, and friends. They were varied like I felt I was: black had stopped having a singular identity or word bubble of terms that were solely “ethnic” and was a mass of very difficult faces, all living very different lives. I mirrored that onto the supernatural, and it worked: I started to gain ground and felt that I was doing something right. It felt good, and that momentum carried into grad school, picking me up when I was down, giving me a place to escape, but also critically write about big feelings.

Simply put, writing was good.

(I also got into Legend of Korra heavy and started writing fic again. I’ve been on a two year fic break, but plan to pick it up soon, after I finish my current project which I still can’t talk about.)

You’d think that after nearly a decade of writing, I’d have written for myself, but I always think I was writing for others: it’s a habit I still struggle with because I’m a people pleaser and want to make folxs happy, but writing for myself was the most freeing thing I could ever reward myself with.

Now, I’d love to tell you I remember my first black girl, but the one I remember most –and the one that’s fairly well-known and recent– is Cobalt “Colby” Johnson, a college-aged, plump, chubby black girl from my novella Gelid. She’s from 2015, her story written in a month in a cast of all non-white characters. Colby is probably one of the dearest characters to my heart, and when I get a chance, I will rewrite her purposely quickly written story into something bigger, seal up her plot holes and give her more body.

Colby, as a character, was not originally meant to be an analog of me: I never set out thinking, “Yeah, this is me, but if I ended up in a crazy, month long adventure”. At the time, I was writing her as a challenge: finish one thing, and it would mean I could finish anything I set my mind to. Surprisingly, when I did finish, it gave me the strength to do just that: finish things, even if it took time.

Colby was the culmination of all the things I felt that big black girls needed: adventure, an acceptance of self. She was my swan song to the me that hated being fat, to the me that hated being fat and black, to the me that thought other black girls also wanted adventure. It was important to me that I give that adventure and have the black girl win: I gave her winnings in the form of a solid relationship with her mother that was genuinely healthy, a good friend, and the power of being a diety essentially. Certainly, thinking now about the story, there’s massive plot holes to how that all happened, but that wasn’t the point: it was getting that story out of me and out for people to engage with.

Regardless, Colby became me because writing is a part of me: every character takes from their owner, right? Colby was no different. But she was magical because she did something special to me, and made me crave writing again.

(Please search the Gelid tag on the blog. I really love this story because it changed me, and once I wrote it, I finally stopped looking back to my mistakes and started to change my writing to be more self-serving. And hey, if there’s enough interest, Gelid will receive a published rewrite and maybe even an ebook form like I had formerly planned.)

After that, a cork was popped, and I’ve been writing a lot more black girls since. Black folxs I should say as most range from AFAB persons to trans and genderqueer, genderfluid and fully other: dragons who take female form but are just them, otherworldly entities, fae who don’t need human gender roles. Honestly, I feel the momentum is still here even though I had to step back from writing to transition my life to Japan. I’m still writing black girls, though now, my life is influenced by half-Japanese and African-American folxs, writing for an often underserved part of Japanese society.

The fantastical is a powerful thing, you know, and when a pen is your sword, you can do a lot of great things. I wish that younger me had the ability to see that would be our reality one day: yet I’m glad I didn’t because realizing that was sweet, if not hard fought for, and makes writing even more valuable to me.

This year, of course, will bring more black girls, along with Japanese writing, largely because of my new environment. I have plans for many stories with all black fae communities, returns to old characters like Colby (Gelid) and Flavia and Sorrell (Polychromatic (18+), a piece from the wonderful SSBB, which was a dream come true!), a magical girl series called end game that contains black duotagonists, and lots of other stuff. I won’t reveal my entire hand: I want to keep some things close to my chest, but I can say that 2017 –and perhaps the rest of my life– will be the Year of Black Magic, of celebrating my skin through writing, of realizing worlds where real society is tossed out and equality, fairness, and mutuality reign.

I’m going to end this telling you that I’m still a work in progress: a decade of actualized self-hate is not cured by writing some pretty badass black folx overnight, or even in a few years. Loving my blackness, writing my blackness, and living both of those things are a daily effort, and sometimes, it gets beaten down and I feel worthless because ultimately I am a human. I’m not invincible. Yet I still find the ability, day by day, to rise up and be proud of me.

I’m but one of many black writers, but I’ll say that I’m proud: a decade of writing, a decade of The Struggle, and I’ve arrived. I love my life, and especially love my writing. I hope to share it for as long as I can on here, and everywhere for the rest of my life.

Say it loud: Spencer Avery’s Black and Proud!

tl;dr: I won’t ever have an all white story again, and honestly, probably never a story without 96% POC characters. It may be the case that I’m that one writer with the Token White Person in the future: I often wonder if that’ll be true. I don’t mean that in a negative way either: I love writing characters, but I also think it’s important that little black girls and black folxs can see themselves succeed not through strife, but through living in other worlds and engaging with life without having to always Overcome. Strife is not a Black Descriptor: it’s not all we are meant to do. Once I write black, I sure ain’t going back: ugh, that’s the wrong tense, but you get the point. I love writing representation for people who look like me, who are dark brown, darkly toasted, and proud. I don’t know if I ever could stop: the thought makes me rather sad. I hope that 14-year-old me who sought representation in tidbits, in girls like Tally Youngblood who I desperately hoped had an inkling of actual melanin, would be proud: that me would love to know that there are fae and witches, princesses in towers and deities that look like me: black, curled hair, big-brained, and adventurous in whatever they do.

#black history month #bhm2k17 #writing while black #pocharibhm #black writing #black characters #poc characters #think piece

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thealpharecords · 8 years ago

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VICTOIRE HEEJIN RYU

AGE: Twenty-Two COMPANY: Alpha Records POSITION: Stylist/Concept Designer FACECLAIM: Jeon Jiwoo PLAYED BY: Izzy

Born and raised in Paris, the fashion capital of the world, it was no wonder that Victoire was enthused with the concept of fashion from a young age. Her mother was already a junior designer for a highstreet label by the time her daughter was born, and her mother’s chosen profession only helped to further her interest. A childhood spent scribbling images of outlandish outfits on whatever paper she could get her hands on could only lead one way, and by the time she was a teenager Victoire was already making half of her own clothes.

Although her heart remained in France, a job opportunity for Victoire’s father had the whole family pack up and move to London when she was 15, causing her to have to be kept back a year to be able to take the English qualifications. This was a low point for her, as not only did she miss her home and friends dearly, but she suffered bullying from some other students who found fun in mocking the fact the she was held back and that she couldn’t speak fluent English, though she was very capable. However, she persevered, and as she made more friends and became more comfortable in the new country, she was able to appreciate London for its own unique charms and fashion scene, once again inspiring her to draw and create.

Victoire stayed in London until she was 18, finishing her schooling with a host of A-levels in artistic subjects. Instead of going to university straight away, as all of her friends were, she elected to take a gap year and return to original home of Paris, which she still missed even after all that time away. For the first three months, she stayed there happily, but eventually, she grew a little restless – as much as she loved the place, she wanted to see more of the world than just the two cities she’d grown up in, and so she spent the rest of the year travelling the world. It was natural that she visited some of the fashion hubs of the world due to her continued interest in the art of designing and styling – New York, Milan, Tokyo -, but she also visited a lot of other places purely for the fun of it. Toward the end of her year, she landed in Seoul, and something kind of…clicked. She’d visited South Korea several times before, of course, to see her grandparents and other relatives, but they lived out in the countryside, so she’d never actually been to the busy capital, and she found that she loved it. Rather than travelling back to the UK for university at the end of her year, she retracted her place and decided to stay in the city. She applied for an internship at Alpha Records purely on a whim, not quite knowing yet how to get into the fashion industry there and thinking that getting an inside view of the entertainment world was the most fun way to kill time. After six months as an intern, she’d managed to make an impression on the stylists and concept designers there and, after proving a portfolio, was taken on as a stylist in training. These days, despite her still young age, she’s one of those that rule the roost in the visual departments – it was impossible to deny her bags of creative and artistic talent for long. Not only a stylist, she’s also evolved into a fully-fledged concept designer, so as well as simply putting together outfits and designing makeup and hair looks, she helps create the concepts that the outfits are at the centre of, and she loves it.

In terms of personality, Victoire is the bubbliest person on the block, though you wouldn’t expect it from the way she styles herself. A lover of both punk rock and high fashion, she combines the two to create a look which can make her seem quite intimidating – that is, until she opens her mouth. She’s incredibly easily excitable, and is innocently delighted by the simplest things. She’s an extrovert through and through, and is known to be a little like ‘a puppy in human form’ (or so say her friends when she’s not listening). She’d deny all this, of course – she’d have you believe she was a goddess of the night, if she could, but she kind of ruins it by being unable to stop grinning. The only times when she’s not wholly happy are when she’s stressed or you’re annoying her (though if you’re her friend, the most aggression you’ll get is her blatantly ignoring your antics and rolling her eyes), so if she’s at all truly angry, you’ve really messed up and there are probably going to be tears. Really, she’s just a kind, good natured, playful kid that just wants to look cute, make beautiful things, and have fun.

As a staff member at Alpha, a company outside of the Big Three, the whole ‘rivalry drama bullshit’ as she likes to call it doesn’t really affect her. As long as her idols get awesome concepts and look good on the dancefloor, she’s not really bothered what the other companies are doing unless it concerns a friend who’s in one of them, they put out something that inspires her, or they’re stealing her stuff.

#victoire heejin ryu #victoire #staff #jeon jiwoo #jiwoo

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