#did I just post this poem on it's own? yes. but then I bought an orange and couldn't resist XP | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

geekyglimpses-nest · 9 months ago

Text

5. Can't Help Falling In Love

Warnings: +18 minor don't interact, slow burn, graphic language, humor, sexual content, physical trauma, blood (gore), bodies/corpses, death, drug use, guns, murder (atempted), PTSD, violence, english is not my first language.

Summary: Delaney finds herself falling for Layla, despite her fears and past traumas. As they spend time together, Delaney reflects on Layla's warmth, kindness, and the light she brings into her life. Despite her hesitations and the weight of her past, Delaney finds solace and hope in Layla's presence. However, she struggles to open up about her past, fearing it will drive Layla away.

Notes at the end of the chapter

I am in town posting the flyers with the photo of the puppy and all his physical descriptions, my phone is written at the end in case the owner wants to reach out.

“Who is this cutie?” says a voice behind me. I turn and Layla is squatting to pat the pup, he gets exited and lets her pet him.

“I found him outside my lab yesterday. I’m hanging this flyers in case he’s lost” I point towards the flyers

“Poor baby” she says as she carries him “What will you do in case no one shows for him?”

“I don’t know, maybe get him to an animal shelter so that they may found him a new home”

“Well… if you ask me it seems to me he has already found a new home” she says as she sees the collar and leash I bought for him

“I don’t think so. I’m not at home often, I wouldn’t be able to take care of him”

“Oh come on… look at these sweet face, how can you turn away from such a sweet face. You can train him, he seems such a good boy” she says as she puts him to her face level and pouts. I smile

“He is but first I’ll have to see if he has an owner, if he doesn’t will see what happens next” I say

“Have you taken him to the vet?”

“I did”

“What did they say?”

“He is a 5 month old Border Collie pup, he was obviously abandoned but he’s overall healthy. He suffered from abuse, looks like his previous owners kicked him and had other dogs because his ears have been bitten” I show his ears to her

“Who could someone be so cruel and do such harm to such a good boy huh?” she says as she plays with him

“I’m guessing they left him on the entrance of my lab because the lab is on the highway so it was easier. Thank god he didn’t cross the highway. The vet said that it’s most likely no one will claim him.”

“You should keep him. I mean you already bathed him, took him to the vet, fed him and bought him a collar and leash. They’re the greatest company and he seems like a smart boy” she suggests smiling. Is it me or every time she smiles the street seems to have more light?

“If no one shows for him, I’ll keep him”

“Yes!” she says as she claps with the paws of the dog “What are you gonna name him?”

“Let’s not jump into conclusions just yet”

Layla puts him down and gives me the leash, we walk side by side.

“So you saved my number” she says

“I did. Thank you for the cookie it was amazing”

“It was freshly baked” I nod “So will you come to the premiere or not?”

“I will, I’ve put it on my calendar”

“Great” she says as she gives little jumps and I smile. “Will you let me take you out to dinner after it?” she asks

“I should be the one asking you on dinner, you’re the one organizing the play” I say

“Alright then, I do” She says and I laugh

“It’s a date” I say

“It is” she confirms and I smile

We keep walking and I let her talk for the most part. She tells me she’s lived in this town her whole life. She went to collage for interior design and architecture on D.C. and she’s saving to one day open her own interior design and architecture studio. She loves animals, baking is her hobbie, which is one of the reasons why she works at the cafe. She loves photography and writing poems. She also loves going to the cultural events of music, paint, poetry and wine that are constantly happening on town, she enjoys organizing and hosting most of them. She attends the womens meetings that happen once a week on town hall. She has the spirit of an entire revolution inside of her, she likes fighting for womens rights and for the future they’ll have. Her parents are retired and they live on Italy, she has no brothers or sisters.

Layla is a beautiful black woman that has the biggest and sweetest smile I’ve seen, the kind were her eyes close and dimples are drawn in her face. She usually wears red lipstick and her curly hair is down most of the times, being decorated by beanies, or colorful pattern silks. I love the sound of her honeyed voice, she loves to talk and I love to hear her. She can literaly talk about anything and I would hear her for hours and hang onto every single word she says, I listen about her dreams and her voice to me is like a siren song. Her voice draws me to such a place of peace, warmth and quiet.

I feel safe.

─━─━─━─「✦」─━─━─━──━─━─━─「✦」─━─━─━

8 months later…

Layla and I have been dating for almost a year now and it’s been honeymoon avenue so far. Last month we went to Italy so I could meet her parents. Lina and Charles Milfred. They were very kind to me, welcoming. The conversation between his father and me was the most fluent in the house because he used to be an astronaut so we mostly talk about our knowledge of what’s out there that seems so distant and unknown to us. I would sometimes catch glances of her mother and her looking at us talking, they would smile to each other and continue their conversation. On our last day I heard accidentally a private conversation between her and her parents in the kitchen when I was walking on the house’s backyard.

“She seems good. She treating you well?” asks her mother

Layla laughs “She is. She’s wonderful, so different of everything I’ve seen”

“Well… I like her a lot” says her father “Finally it was time for me to have someone to talk about what I like, since your mother always had you to talk about anything”

“Oh c’mon sweetheart I always listen to what you like to talk about” says her mother with a mocking tone

“Yeah, right… just before we go to bed and you fall asleep when I’m talking” They all laugh. Charles grabs both his wife and daughter and embraces them in a hug, kisses the top of his daughters head and kisses his wife in the lips.

A sense of jealousy almost chokes me. I don’t remember if I ever shared such an intimate touch or moment with my own parents, I barely remember them now. Their faces a blur in my memory. They died when I was very little, I was immediately send into the foster system and placed on an orphanage since no one wanted to adopt a girl who didn’t say a word for an entire year. I don’t really now what the definition of this kind of family is, but it does feel good to be close to one. A family that worries about each other, who are in constant communication and do phone calls everyday and send each other silly messages.

Talks of moving in together have occurred and it might happen soon, I mean she already basically leaves there. It wasn’t long before I was making space for her stuff. Some of her clothes hang next to mine, she has a spare tooth brush next to mine, her skin care products are now placed behind the empty space in the mirror, makeup and hair products are on the vanity. Natural tea containers sit next to my coffee blends, the pantry’s are no longer empty, neither is the fridge. The house now smells like flowers and a bakery. I never arrive to a cold home, she makes sure the heater is on before leaving. Food and water are placed on Brixton’s plates. Yes, I did keep the puppy, now named Brixton. He’s so big now and just like Layla predicted, he’s a very curious and active dog but well behaved. He follows anywhere I go, does everything he’s asked. He loves Layla, and Layla him. His favorite spot is right next to the heater after being outside in the snow or at the forest exploring or playing for hours. Apples are his favorites. Sleeping is his second favorite thing to do. He’s well trained so I take him everywhere I go, he mostly hangs on the coffee shop, the lab, Layla’s place and mine. Elodie loves him, she always brings him treats and enjoys taking him on walks.

Before we actually started dating officially, she redid the entire house. Before it was so plain and gray. Now the place is drowned in color, patterns and life in general. It was actually how we first started bonding together, she would come to my house once week to talk over her plans to redecorate. She said this would be the first time she had done it professionally since she’d gotten out of collage. I have to say she has a lot of ideas, creativity and talent, and that comes from someone who knows nothing of design, but that’s the thing about her. She makes you feel like you are in the same level of knowledge as she is because she makes sure you understand everything. She guides you through every single decision but doesn’t overwhelm you with options. She listens to everything you say and gives the best options.

══════⊹⊱≼≽⊰⊹════════════⊹⊱≼≽⊰⊹══════

A knock on the door let’s me know she’s here. I take a quick look to myself in the mirror. I walk to the door and before I open it I breath. Behind it is Layla as usual with her signature big smile, she wears a turtle neck black dress with sleeves and boots.

“Hey! I brought my favorite wine” she says shaking the bottle

“Wonderful, come in” I take the wine and put it on the fridge

I turn look at her and she’s admiring the house

“This place is amazing. I didn’t knew it existed” she says still walking around the house and then turns to me

“That’s kind of the reason why I bought it” I say as I approach her

“But it’s missing something” she says as she turns again. I lean on the kitchen counter

“And it is?”

“Life” she says on a whisper “It has no personality, no color, nothing that tells me you live here”

“Well… I don’t really have the time to decorate” I say

In reality, after living in Hell’s Kitchen I haven’t given a thought about decorating a place of mine, the D.C apartment was also almost as empty except for the furniture that already came with the apartment, before the accident I usually didn’t stay there so I never bothered on decorating.This might be the first place I actually could care about decorating in a long time.

“If you want I can do it for you. I mean I would need some details on things you like, colors, patterns, materials, etc but I can do it. I definitely need the practice before opening my own studio”

“Yeah, that would be great” I say with a smile

══════⊹⊱≼≽⊰⊹════════════⊹⊱≼≽⊰⊹══════

She kept coming back and forward from the house to the lab in order to ask me questions to get to know me better so she could do a good job creating a place where I felt it belongs to me, and it did. When it was done I felt it mine, something I hadn’t felt in a long time. This time together also helped for other feelings to develop between us. It happened so quickly I didn’t even notice when I had fallen in love with her. All of the sudden I couldn’t stop thinking about her. About her smile, her sweet hazel eyes, her voice. Her warm chocolate skin against mine. One touch of hers can cure decades of loneliness and pain. It came without a warming. The need for her is constant, her presence next to mine is a daily craving. She has met Mrs. Durmaz and she adores her, says she’s such a sweet young lady. She couldn’t stop talking about what a great couple we are and that she hopes we last. Mrs. Durmaz and dream boy Arturo are still going. I’ve met him and I have to say I haven’t seen Mrs. Durmaz so happy in a long time, he makes her happy and to me that should be enough. But I’m very protective of Mrs. Durmaz, so the age difference between them is a concern to me, I would hate to see her heart broken by this man so I don’t fully like him yet. And Mrs. Durmaz knows it so she really tries for us two to get to know each other but so far I’ve managed to escape from her attempts.

Elodie and I have been keeping on our research on quantum mechanics and time travel, we’ve had a lot of progress. Last night we discovered there could be a theory that this quantum bridges might be everywhere in the universe and they could be connections between all the galaxies and possibly other dimensions. With each step we make our research is getting somewhere decent, the fantasy of human made worm holes not so far from reality now. Investors knock on the door constantly, asking to be part of what might be the discovery of the decade. We’ve had nano tech millionaires, government representatives, NASA and so much more people waiting to be part of this. But Elodie and I have decided to keep everyone away from the research.

Everything is as normal as it can come. The stress, anxiety and nightmares from D.C. almost long forgotten. All of my past buried in my backyard.

══════⊹⊱≼≽⊰⊹════════════⊹⊱≼≽⊰⊹══════

I wake due to the coldness in my feet. When I open my eyes I see Layla is not by my side, I adjust my hearing and I can tell she’s down stairs with Brixton, she’s listening to music. I look at the time and it’s 10:47 AM, she clearly is the early bird in the relationship.

I walk to the kitchen and hug her from behind. She jumps but laughs when I kiss her in the back part of her neck. Her hans rest on my arms that are across her stomach and torso

“Morning sleeping beauty” she says as she turn to give me a kiss in the temple

“Hey” I whisper

“Coffee is fresh, I brought a piece of the cake I baked, it’s just out of the oven” she says as she keeps cooking

I walk to where the coffee and cake are and grab mine.

“What’s on the agenda today for you” she asks as she turn with an avocado and egg toast, she leaves it in front of me

“The usual… Going to the lab and then coming home. You?”

“I have my first meeting with the landlord of the office that’s near the lab. I’ve been emailing him…”

“You mean stalking him” I say with a mouthful of cake

“It’s not stalking if there’s proof I’m looking for him for only a business proposal” she says offended

“Sure babe”

“Anyway after weeks of emailing him, he finally responded and has agreed to meet me” she says happily as she jumps

Yeah… about that… I might’ve been responsible for that meeting. She’s been talking about this place for months now, saying it’s the ideal space for her studio and that she must have it but that it’s been mainly impossible to reach out the landlord of it. So I moved a few strings and voila! She has a meeting. She obviously doesn’t know that I’m behind it. She would hate me of she were to find out.

“Want me to come with you?” I ask

“So that you can scare him? No, I’m good”

“Well at least he wouldn’t say no to you that way”

“No, I’m good anyway” she says as she sits next to me.

The rest of the morning is spent in conversations of our day, terrible jokes made by her and me laughing even though they’re bad.

══════⊹⊱≼≽⊰⊹══════

One thing does bother me in our relationship. It’s the fact that after dating Layla for almost a year I know everything there is to know about her but she doesn’t know anything about me.

I’ve made sure of it.

She hasn’t asked either but I know her and I know she feels hurt and feels like I don’t trust her, but the reason is because I don’t want her to know what my life was before I met her. It’s a story full of darkness, evil, pain, heartbreak and loss. I lost myself for so long and just now, next to her, I’m learning who am I. My past self sits next to me, like a framed picture that stares into my soul, waiting. Waiting to come back. My past life is like a Pandora box an once you open it, it won’t close. And she’s so sweet I don’t want to ruin the image she has of me now. Of someone who dedicates her full self to her work and the study of the universe, who’s passionate about science more than anything, someone who is mostly anti social and quiet. Every now and then I can’t help but think that Layla shouldn’t be with someone as boring and plain like me, but she knows when I go there and reassures me that I’m perfect as I am and she loves every part of me, even the parts I don’t love about myself.

I sometimes fear that if I loose her because I didn’t tell her truth it’s going to be worse than before. The nightmares, the enclosure, the loneliness, the heart break. I won’t be able to come back from something like that.

I like who I am when I am with her. I don’t feel so broken and in pain. I don’t feel guilty or dirty. I feel like I have a worth in life.

══════⊹⊱≼≽⊰⊹════════════⊹⊱≼≽⊰⊹══════

“Why don’t you wanna talk about it?” she questions and I immediately can tell I'm closing off

“BECAUSE, LAYLA! It’s not something that’s gonna happen” I scream

“Why not? Where is this reaction coming from? I just asked you If we could go to New York because I wanna know more about you and your story”

“It’s not happening Layla! I’m not going back there” I whisper the last part

“Why? What’s so fucking bad that you wont let me see?”

“Shit Layla because it hurts. I left New York for a reason and it’s a painful one. Fuck” I cut my finger with the kitchen knife. Layla wanted me to help with tonight’s dinner, it started as something nice and romantic and it ended on a discussion.

Blood.

There’s blood. I freeze.

I hate blood.

“Oh my god, Delaney! Let me help” she says worried and coming closer to me, I push her and turn the other way around.

“Please go” I whisper as I put water on my bleeding finger. I feel her hand on my shoulder, I tense and shove it “I SAID GO LAYLA!” I scream so loud that Brixton whimpers and comes close to her. Minutes later I hear the door slam shut.

The water keeps running as does the blood on my finger. Brixton puts both his paws on one of my feet and looks at me “Shit buddy, I scared you didn’t I?” he squirms “I’m sorry champ” I dry my hands as the bleeding has stopped, I approach him and scratch his ears “I think I scared her too”

I go to the entrance and as I’m about to put my shoes on I catch out of the corner of my eye a silhouette on the back porch sitting, It’s Layla. I was so mad that I didn’t even see she didn’t actually leave. I walk towards the door and the sound of my opening it alarms her, she turns and when she sees me she keep looking onto the river.

“I’m sorry. I reacted badly and I shouldn’t have screamed at you the way I did” Layla ignores me “New York has the most painful memories in my entire life, every single time someone asks about it I automatically close off, it’s not your fault. It’s dark and I’m afraid if I show that part of myself, you’ll leave. Maybe not at the beginning but eventually, they all do. I lost too much there and I don’t think I’m ready to approach that black hole that I worked so hard to leave behind me. I’m still scared of it. Not even I think I can actually remember everything that happened there, a copying mechanism if I had to guess. And I’ve gotten to a point where I don’t know if that’s good or bad. D.C. is still so fresh, it happened a while ago, but it still hunts me. I fear that, like in that time. Any second, everything I worked so hard for, is going to be taken away from me. In the blink of an eye. I want to move on from all that pain and suffering.” I sigh, turn to her and grab her hand “You’ve been the only light of hope I’ve found for myself after all that, I don’t want to mix you with any of it. I want to only have the greatest moments of my life now. Here, in this house, with you, with Brixton and with my career, because I’ve never had that before”

“I can understand that Laney. You could’ve just said that and not treat me the way you did. Like I was… disposable” she approaches me and hugs me, I hide my watery eyes on her neck

“I’m so sorry” I whisper

“Okey. But I will tell you Delaney Kingsley, you ever scream at me like that again and I’m gone and your past won’t be responsible”

We are in each others arms for I don’t know how long but we can see the sun saying goodbye with it’s last rays of sunshine.

…

♪ Please Be Mine - Molly Burch ♪

The soft strains of a melody fill the room, casting a warm, intimate glow over the space. Delicate notes floated through the air, wrapping around us like a gentle embrace. We stand in the center of the living room, bathed in the soft light of the evening sun filtering through the curtains.

I extend my hand to Layla, her eyes sparkling with warmth and affection. “Dance with me,” I whisper.

My heart flutters at the sight of Layla’s head resting on my chest. Without a word, we move together, our bodies swaying in perfect harmony to the melody. As we dance, the rest of the world seems to fade away, leaving only the two of us suspended in time. My hand rests gently on Layla’s waist, while Layla’s fingers intertwin with mine, our bodies pressed close together. Our movements slow and graceful. With every turn and dip, they share secret smiles and tender caresses, lost in the magic of the moment. The music swells around us, wrapping us in its embrace as we move as one. We dance without speaking.

In that fleeting moment, nothing else mattered but the two of us, lost in each other’s arms. It was a dance of love, of passion, of everything they ever felt for one another, expressed in the simple act of moving together in perfect harmony. And as the final notes of the melody faded into the night, we hold each other close, the love shining bright in the quiet stillness of the room.

══════⊹⊱≼≽⊰⊹════════════⊹⊱≼≽⊰⊹══════

It didn’t take long before she said I love you, and for the first time in my life I didn’t felt like it was rushed, I felt it was the perfect time for it to be said.

And yet I haven’t been able to say it back to her.

Our relationship is easy and calm, it’s not complicated, there’s no drama and I never have to explain myself when I act differently, or when I want to be alone and inevitably push her. She always gives me my space and comes back. She’s everything I ever wanted from a partner and yet…

I’m still waiting for the other shoe to fall and ruin everything, I always do.

It always does.

Being with her…I feel like I can be a different person around her. I have no worries, the voices in my mind seem to be silenced. She doesn’t know about the dreams, nightmares and visions, but even those seem to have stopped from a couple months back to now.

She is the first person, other than Mrs. Durmaz, to ever see me for who I want to be and not see me as the monster I feel. She embraces every part of me, she sees my scars and doesn’t run away. No, she stays and heals every single wound as a soothing and healing balm, my soul and hope has been restored next to her.

I’m in constant fear of loosing her by my own account, no one to blame but the consequences of the past that will forever live in me. He sometimes appears out of nowhere and just stands, in a corner in silence, looking at us. Covered in a black tactical suit, black boots, mask covering most of his face, eyes barely visible, his shinny metal arm with a red star the only part of him that lets me know he’s there. Waiting. Observing.

I have nightmares where one minute she’s next to me laughing and smiling and then she’s gone, like dust. So is he.

God, I beg you, don’t let her leave my side.

Previous chapter | Series Masterlist | Next chapter

Notes: I was gone for a couple weeks but I'm back with updates! Hope you liked it, please don't forget to interact, it really helps me a lot to keep posting. Anyways thank you to the people that are reading!

geekyglimpses-nest out 👋🏽

#bucky barnes fanfiction #marvel cinematic universe #marvel fanfiction #bucky barnes slow burn #bucky barnes x original female character #bucky barnes x oc #enemies to lovers #original character #slow burn #the winter soldier

1 note · View note

love-little-lotte · 11 months ago

Text

That feeling when you get one of your favorite songs in the Eras Tour Surprise Song set

It's been a while, Tumblr! Life has been pretty busy, but I just want to share that I crossed another thing on my bucket list. And yes, that's when I saw Taylor Swift in The Eras Tour last February 7 🥹

I've been a Swiftie since I saw the Love Story music video back in 2009. Ever since then, I've followed Taylor's journey in her career, from the young country pop singer to the worldwide sensation that she is now. Seeing her for the first time after 15 years of being a fan was... incredible. I really had the time of my life with her.

My journey to The Eras Tour wasn't a smooth one. As a Swiftie in Asia, I had only two options: Singapore or Japan. I tried Singapore, but I got waitlisted in Ticketmaster and ran out of tickets in Klook. I tried Japan, but I lost in the lottery twice. (Also got scammed, but that's another story.)

After that second lottery in Japan, I lost hope and made peace that I may never get to see her. But when Japan opened the general sale, my friends and I finally secured tickets!!!!

(Yes, I made all those friendship bracelets myself. No one told me it was super addicting to make them!)

It was the best night of my life! I traded friendship bracelets, sang along to the songs I grew up listening to, and danced clumsily to every beat. (I'm pretty sure the quiet couple next to me were judging me.)

My main highlight of the night was the acoustic set/surprise songs. This part is the one I looked forward to the most because you get two unique songs every night. We didn't get the mashups, unfortunately (Australian Swifties, count your days!), but I got one of my favorite songs as my surprise song. Fresh from her Album of the Year win at the Grammys, Taylor decided to play something in Midnights that she never played live before. There were only three songs in Midnights that she never played before (afaik): Glitch, Paris, and Dear Reader. Thankfully, she played the one Midnights song in my Dream Surprise Songs List (spoiler alert: it's Dear Reader!)

For me, Dear Reader is one of the most personal songs from Taylor. Most Swifties use Taylor's songs (and herself) as "guiding light," but this song is a reminder that she's never the be-all-end-all solution to our problems ("never take advice from someone who's falling apart"/"but darling, darling, please, you wouldn't take my word for it if you knew who was talking"). But of course, at the end of the day, she still "shine so bright." It's the perfect ending song for Midnights, an album where she talks about so much self-antagonizing.

My second surprise song that night was Holy Ground from Red. Fun little fact about me: The first ever album I bought with my own money was Red. It was 2012, I was 14, and I was in my second year in high school. I saved for four weeks just to buy that album. And when did, I carried the lyric booklet all around, used it as my bookmark, and had fun just memorizing the songs. To this day, that Red Deluxe album is still in my room.

Also, it's just fitting that she sings this song with the lyrics "back when you fit my poems like a perfect rhyme"/"and the story's got dust on every page." It's such a nice touch after announcing The Tortured Poets Department (which, by the way, should've been announced that night if she didn't win in the Grammys 😭).

I'm only allowed to upload one video in this post (ugh, I hate Tumblr restrictions), so here's my friend's recording of Dear Reader and Holy Ground that night:

(Catch me scream and shake my friend because I was so excited when Taylor said Dear Reader and her panicked "my phone!" because she almost dropped it. And my "the other day" when I realized Holy Ground was the second surprise song 😭 And if you can listen carefully, yes that's me singing poorly in the background!)

Thanks for this wonderful night, @taylorswift. I hope to see you again!!!!!

#eras tour #eras tour tokyo #dear reader #holy ground #midnights #red tv #taylor swift #swifties

0 notes

c-40 · 2 years ago

Text

A-T-3 099 Art Of Noise - Into Battle

I was curious at how the Art Of Noise's Beat Box compared to The B Boys' Two, Three, Break (posted yesterday). They're both pretty abstract - AON get their name from Luigi Russolo's Futurist music manifesto “The Art Of Noises.” The Futurists had an obsession with machines and both The B Boys and AON are using machines to make music, the former record decks and an 808 the latter a Fairlight CMI sampler - so I was wondering how they'd mix together if you slowed Beat Box down a touch

The Art Of Noise

J. J. Jeczalik had been in the group Landscape and worked for Geoff Downes (The Buggles, Yes, and Asia) programming the Fairlight CMI, Anne Dudley was a keyboard player/string arranger working as a session musician, Gary Langan worked as an engineer at Sarm East Studios. They became members of Trevor Horn's production team in 1981 and with Horn as producer worked on ABC's Lexicon Of Love, Malcom McLaren's Duck Rock, and Yes's 90125. In 1982 Horn and his wife Jill Saunders (co-founder of SARM Studios) bought Basing Street Studios from Island Records and renamed in SARM West Studios. It was here where ZTT had it's offices. I've read part of the sale of Basing Street Studios was that Island would get the distribution deal for ZTT. ZTT - Zang Tumb Tuum, another Futurist reference - was launched in 1983, the label was founded by Horn, Saunders, Paul Morley, and Gary Langan

Like everything about Art Of Noise their are a few genesis stories and their debut release. These include the project came out of reworks of outtakes from the Duck Rock sessions, or the Red + Blue Mix of Yes's Owner Of A Lonely Heart was the template, and their debut shares samples that also appear on 90125, whatever it is, it could be all of those things or something entirely different, the production team of Jeczalik, Dudley, Langan, and Horn had a good thing going and the Art Of Noise was preparing for battle

The fifth member of Art Of Noise was the journalist Paul Morley who came up with the groups name (see above). In spectacular 1980s style Morley joined the group as a provider of concepts, art direction and marketing ideas. The group signed to ZTT (Morley also did the ZTT's marketing.) In machine music fashion there were no pictures of members of the Art Of Noise for their initial campaign. The title of the debut release Into Battle With The Art Of Noise references the content of Filippo Tommaso Marinetti's sound poem Zang Tumb Tumb. Every art student learns about the Futurists at A Level, well I did when I studied art, Zang Tumb Tumb is foundational artwork. The poem is an account of the Siege of Adrianople (Into Battle) 'Zang Tumb Tumb' is intended to mimic the sound of machine-gun fire. Typographically the poem is set Parole in libertà in a freeing expressive way. Graphic designers were referencing Futurists and Russian Constructivists on sleeve designs in the 80s, ZTT surprisingly didn't so much, it was more of the ideology. This brings us to probably what Zang Tumb Tumb author Filippo Tommaso Marinetti is best known for, that is co-authoring the Fascist Manifesto. An A Level art student will tell you, the Italian Futurists were fascists. You can also see Morley's approach as a nod to Tony Wilson at Factory Records and his comical bastardisation of Situationism. My uncle who was a teenager at the time and a fan of Frankie Goes To Hollywood (whose debut album was produced by these same people) proudly told me ZTT stands for Zang Tumb Tuum

The debut release Into Battle With The Art Of Noise comes out late 1983 in the UK

"The first of many Art of Noise releases to confound collectors with artist and title information incorporated in Paul Morley's oft-pretentious and sometimes-cryptic prose, "Into Battle" is, according to Morley c. 2009, 'neither an album or a single or an EP - just a length of music that we put on a 12" record.' At the time of release, ZTT's own advertisements called it a single, it had a single's catalog number, and it charted as such, prompting chart rules to be adjusted to clarify just how long a 'single' could be. The ZTT website refers to it as an EP, an album, or neither (just a 'record' or 'release'). Morley himself called it an EP during the Value of Entertainment concert in 1985. Meanwhile, the music press called it an EP or a mini-album. On the U.S. dance chart, the format was unspecified when listing it as the source of the long version of "Beat Box", but it later climbed the Black LPs chart, despite being advertised as a 12" by Island in January 1984

"The cover art [for Into Battle] is based on that of The Dave Brubeck Quartet's Time Further Out (1961), and incorporates a section of the panel "The Knights of Christ" from Jan van Eyck's "The Adoration of the Mystic Lamb" (1432)"

Different mixes of Beat Box are released as a single with the names Diversion 1 and 2 in 1984, Diversion 2 was released as Close (To The Edit) in the US. Close (To The Edit) also uses The Andrews Sisters sample used in The Army Now. "Although the original 10-minute version [of Moments In Love] appeared on both the Into Battle release in 1983 and the Who's Afraid album in 1984, "Moments In Love" wasn't released globally as a commercial single until 1985, when the song was featured on the Pumping Iron II: The Women soundtrack" The 1985 12" also has an edit of Beat Box (Diversion 1) now titled Diversion 10

Beat Box was popular in the US with black audiences, "they were awarded Best Black Act of 1984. Beat Box was the track that everyone went crazy over and boosted the EP to number one in the dance charts in the USA. Moments In Love made its first appearance on that record too, along with The Army Now that sampled the Andrews Sisters. Nobody had ever heard a record that had been created using what is now known as 'cut and paste' techniques before or an instrumental love song with the sound of hammers being hit instead of the sound of a drum. Art of Noise soon gained a huge cult following in the USA that has remained to this very day"

Moments In Love has been sampled to death since its release, including Moments In Soul by J.T. And the Big Family in 1989 when Italian DJs were putting Soul II Souls Back To Life beat behind anything and everything

The Art Of Noise - Beat Box (Into Battle version)

youtube

The Art Of Noise - The Army Now

youtube

The Art Of Noise - Moments In Love (Into Battle/Who's Afraid version)

youtube

#1983 #art of noise #trevor horn #anne dudley #paul morley #electronic #sample #cut and paste #hip hop #london #uk #80s music

0 notes

zeldaelmo · 4 years ago

Note

I'd like to ask about "Bakery Fake Dating" because that sounds amazing 💯🍞🥐🥖

I already rambled about this the last time, so I'll mostly copy&paste.

I like taking a trope and writing it with a twist. (I did it with the accidental marriage trope, eg. Usually, two people who don't know/like each other get married on accident in this trope, but I... didn't go there.) So, in this one, I'll rewrite the fake dating trope (and use a fic to write about one of my other hobbies - baking bread).

We have Link who owns a small bakery. Zelda is a regular costumer - she buys breakfast in the morning, but occasionally she would show up in the afternoon to buy some sweet things or bread.

As usually, Zelda’s family is high society and she suffers from the pressure of being the perfect daughter, etc. Her answer to this? Pretending a lot of skills she actually doesn’t have. The list is long: From evening gowns she has commissioned instead of sewing them herself over Christmas gifts she has bought in this tiny crafting store instead of making them herself to a translation of the old family history tome that a friend did for her in exchange for a term paper.

Recently, she has gotten herself into trouble because she was tasked to bring the bread for a family party. Unfortunately for her, her little lies only cause her family to expect even more perfectness. So, when her father patted her shoulder and praised her for her talent in bakery... she... didn’t admit that she has bought it. Her father asks her to bake the bread for Christmas, and that’s no problem, the cute bakery with the little baker (no, the other way around! The little bakery with the cute baker!) is just around the corner of her apartment. But... oh, no! She will stay a few days with her family, the bread won’t stay fresh. So, she actually has to learn baking if she doesn’t want to blow everything up.

One day, she enters the bakery, shoves a printout of a bread recipe in Link’s direction and tells him, that there’s something wrong with his recipe because it didn’t turn out as the one she bought. Link takes one look and laughs his ass off.

“I don’t know what this is, but it’s surely not my craft. You can’t bake bread with baking soda. That’s a cake. Or whatever. No bread.”

“Give me yours then? Please. I... it’s kind of an emergency.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t give out my recipes. Kind of professional secrets.” No fluttering lashes would change that. Not even the slight blush on her cheeks that makes her even cuter. But now that she is finally talking to him... he can’t pass up that chance. “I can create one for you, if you tell me what you need. As...as a gift for a regular.” He turns to the display, forms a tag with his fingers, and chuckles. “I could write ‘the baguette created for the pretty blonde who is the highlight of my workday’.”

Her blush deepens two shades.

“Zelda.” She states, voice a little too high. “The... the other line is too long for the tag.”

So, he does as promised, she tries another time, comes back and slams a piece of coal on his counter, claiming that she has done everything as written in the recipe. This clearly doesn’t work out, so they agree that he shows her how to do it. They spend a few afternoons in his bakery where Zelda tries to manage a presentable bread, but she fails miserably. A lot of flirting happens. Her parents call to ensure that she remembers her promise... so, there’s only one solution. Link has to come with her. As her fake boyfriend. (I have to figure out why she doesn’t ask him out for real, but for now we just pretend that there is a ‘good’ reason for that.)

Everything works out, they spend some awkward, flirty days with her family. That is, until Link overhears a conversation between Impa and Purah, two of Zelda's cousins.

“Did you see his dreamy eyes when she kissed him?”

“Jep. He has it bad. Poor thing.”

“I don’t get it. Why won’t she just admit that she does’t know how to do all these things? Why breaking heart after heart for poems or bread?”

“Oh, yes, the poor poet. He really believed she would go head over heels for her when he writes her sweet lyrics.”

Link knows that he is just a fake boyfriend, that was the deal after all. But he didn’t know that fake dating is her hobby. That he is one of several fake boyfriends she has dragged here over the years. That they all know that they are only pretending.

How humiliating that he hoped they would eventually get somewhere! He is just a tool, like the others. But... the chemistry between them in his bakery, it was there or did she fake that, too? Anyway, he is going to pack his things, blizzard out there or not.

Meanwhile, Zelda in the living room with her parents: “Of course, I can bake fruitcake for dessert.”

Uh-oh. I’ll leave you here, can’t spoil everything.

I would love to make this a Christmas story or a advents calendar story (I really adored Ned's idea last year), but I don't post not finished, betaed stories and it's already July. I'm slow. 😂

#zelink #fake dating bakery AU

26 notes · View notes

revolutionary-demosthenes · 5 years ago

Text

4th of July: John Laurens and Slavery, and why we shouldn’t idolize him

I’ve written several drafts of posts trying to explain John Laurens’s complicated relationship with slavery and, in a broader sense, how the hypocrisy of freedom for our country--while denying the freedom of enslaved people--has led directly to the situation we find ourselves in now, in terms of race in America.

I’ve struggled with even going there, because I’m trying to focus on the present now, not the past. But I firmly believe that America can only fix its present once we’ve faced our past. And I want this information on my blog. John Laurens was not a perfect man, not even close. He was an abolitionist, yes. But how he came to these views is complicated and his personal conduct towards African-Americans is often troubling. Too often, in fact, the racist ideas of his era are visible in his writings.

There’s lots out there about not glorifying or idolizing historical figures, such as Thomas Jefferson, Washington, and other slave-owners.

This is becoming particularly clear today, with the truth of violent systemic racism in America finally becoming more fully recognized. When people watch videos of a black man begging for his life under the knee of a policeman, that brutality becomes undeniable.

But John Laurens is often exempt from this “historical disclaimer” of sorts. In the world of the Hamilton fandom and even more broadly in history, he becomes The Abolitionist, a White Savior figure who abhorred slavery and fought for racial justice, no exceptions, no fine print.

But there is a fine print for John Laurens. And it is a vital one to examine, because it shows us the importance of carrying our beliefs into our personal lives, not just our political ones.

First, let’s acknowledge the circumstances John was born into.

South Carolina, where he was born in 1754, was a southern colony, and as such relied mainly on agriculture in its economy. The rich plantation owners were the pinnacle of society. Washington’s family is an example of one such rich and powerful plantation owning family. The wealth and standing in society of these men led to positions in the government. And a man who illustrates this perfectly is none other than Henry Laurens.

Henry Laurens, John Laurens’s father, was, despite his pleading to the contrary, a significant slave owner and slave trader. Though in his private life he claimed to dislike slavery, he co-owned the largest slave-trading house in North America, Austin & Laurens. It doesn’t matter what he thought, or claimed to think. What matters is what he did.

Henry Laurens owned between close to three hundred slaves. His attitude toward the treatment of his own slaves was dehumanizing, self-righteous, and willfully ignorant. He chose to look upon himself as a “good” slave owner, rather than actually face the horrors he was perpetrating. He wrote in a letter that he’d rather treat his slaves “with Humanity” and make “less Rice” than “submit to the Charge of one who should make twice as much rice & exercise any degree of Cruelty towards those poor Creatures who look up to their Master as their Father, their Guardian, & Protector.” What Henry is trying to say here (to my reading) is that he’d rather his plantation produce less of a crop and not work his slaves too hard than treat his slaves cruelly to produce more profit.

Henry Laurens, in an attitude that is all too familiar today, consistently chose to think of himself as an exception to the problem rather than as part of the problem. He was quick to talk up abolition and condemn cruel treatment of enslaved people. But when it came to his own slaves, he insisted that “my Servants are as happy as Slavery will admit of, none run away, the greatest punishment to a defaulter is to sell him.”

I don’t know how John’s mother, Eleanor Ball Laurens, viewed slavery, but she also came from a large slave-owning family. Even if she personally didn’t approve of the practice wholeheartedly, she benefitted directly from slavery and married someone in the slave trade.

So this is the life John Laurens was born into. A life of incredible privilege, sourced directly from the the slave trade and the labor of kidnapped and enslaved Africans. This is the first thing that needs acknowledging in terms of John’s relationship with slavery. He was able to accomplish much of what he did because of his social standing and wealth as the son of a very powerful South Carolinian, powerful mostly because of his standing in Southern society.

John was able to get his education in Europe because of slavery. He was able to use his father’s influence to become an aide-de-camp to George Washington. His social standing and quality of life all stood upon the backs of slaves.

Because of this background, John was exposed to the brutal truths of slavery since he could understand the world around him. Is this how he came into his abolitionist views? It absolutely could be. But it is more likely that John first became serious about abolition when he was taken to Europe for his education. He attended a school in Geneva, a cosmopolitan place that was very open to new ideas. Being an abolitionist was not considered as radical there as it was in the Southern Colonies, and there was more writing on the subject of abolition, including a poem by Thomas Day, an abolitionist patriot, whom John was friends with.

So John’s serious thoughts on abolition may have partly been a product of being away from a place where slavery seen as a part of life and being in a place which was more open to abolition. John may have thought slavery wrong for a long time, but lacked adequate support to be vocal about it.

Significantly though, John did not abandon his beliefs when he returned to America. He continued to be a vocal abolitionist, and unlike his father Henry, confronted actual slave owners and tried to convince them to free their slaves… including his boss, General George Washington.

He also converted Lafayette into an ardent abolitionist, and Lafayette, even after Laurens’s death, stuck to these beliefs. He later in life even bought a plantation and ran it with the labor of paid black people, to prove it could be done.

But once we get to the war, we must also talk about Shrewsberry.

John didn’t own slaves, technically. But his father dispatched two of his slaves to serve as John’s valets during the war, one of whom was named Shrewsberry. (Something to note: I am not sure if these slaves were paid or not. I would assume not, and I have yet to find a record of payment, if it did exist. But if anyone knows more about this, I would love to know the answer, as it’s an important question to think about.)

This alone would mar John’s “perfect abolitionist” image, but it gets more disturbing when you consider how John viewed and treated his valets. I should mention we don’t have a ton of evidence of their living conditions, but what we do have is distressing.

On to the primary evidence: if you read the correspondence between John and his father, a funny/not funny pattern is that John is always requesting clothes, fabric, hair powder, etc., from his father. He usually thanked his father for these items. But here is a quote from a letter John wrote to his father on December 15th, 1777: “Berry received a hunting shirt and a check shirt. If there be any difficulty in getting him winter clothes I believe he can do without.” So while John advocated for black Americans in his public life, his private conduct tells differently.

And this is further evidenced when, after Laurens’ death in 1782, Thadeus Kosciuszco wrote to Nathaniel Greene that John’s slaves (his father's technically, as explained above) were “nacked” and that they were in need of “shirts jackets Breeches.” (“nacked” meaning “naked.”)

While John Laurens was certainly more enlightened than the average man of his time on the subject of slavery, he still had trouble connecting his broader ideas of freedom and emancipation to his personal life. He also wrongly blamed Shrewsberry for the loss of a hat, writing to his father, “Shrewsberry says his hat was violently taken from him by some soldiers as he was carrying his horses to water. If James will be so good as to send him his old laced hat by the bearer I hope he will take better care of it.” The blame for this incident obviously lies upon the soldiers who stole Shrewsberry’s hat, but John acts like Shrewsberry was in the wrong, or somehow that having the hat “violently taken” indicated that Shrewsberry was not taking care of the hat. The automatic and unjust condemnation of Shrewsberry again speaks to how John did have the prejudices of his time period in his head, even as he fought against them in a broader sense.

Later in the war, John left Washington in favor of his home state, South Carolina. He wanted to raise a regiment of slaves to fight for the patriot cause, who would then be emancipated for their service. John had written his father about the idea earlier, saying,

“I would bring about a twofold good, first I would advance those who are unjustly deprived of the Rights of Mankind to a State which would be a proper Gradation between abject Slavery and perfect Liberty—and besides I would reinforce the Defenders of Liberty with a number of gallant Soldiers—Men who have the habit of Subordination almost indelibly impress’d on them, would have one very essential qualification of Soldiers—I am persuaded that if I could obtain authority for the purpose I would have a Corps of such men trained, uniformly clad, equip’d and ready in every respect to act at the opening of the next Campaign…”

Reading through this carefully, we can see some ideas expressed here that are important to note. Firstly, “proper Gradation between abject Slavery and perfect Liberty.” This means that though John did want to free the slaves, he did not think that black people should have the “perfect Liberty” that whites enjoyed. Additionally, when John writes, “Men who have the habit of Subordination indelibly impress’d on them” he is suggesting (to my reading) that because slaves were constantly treated as inferior, they would be good soldiers (I assume because soldiers have to obey their commanding officers.) Honestly, this reads to me like John wanting to take advantage of the cruelty slaves endured because “They’re used to it.”

Henry wrote back that what John was offering was hardly better than slavery, again assuming his attittude of “my slaves are happy.”

John wrote a long letter in return, explaining his reasoning and also basically being like, “dad please support me, dad, please.” But there are also some phrases here, in his letter defending his abolitionist views, that are revealing about the prejudices John harbored.

He writes, “I confess, indeed, that the minds of this unhappy species must be debased by a servitude, from which they can hope for no relief but death, and that every motive to action but fear, must be nearly extinguished in them.”

Note John’s reference to slaves as a “species” rather than a race. (And, by the way, race is a social construct, not an actual biological thing.) The belief that blacks and whites were separate species was common at the time, and often used by slave traders to justify their actions. And this bit of writing shows that even if John didn’t really believe this wholeheartedly, he at least had the idea in his head. However, later in the letter John does use “race” so it’s a little unclear what he actually believed.

And we can see the belief that black people were not as intellectually capable as white people, owing to their enslavement.

Gregory Massey puts it this way: “Young Laurens reasoned that blacks were not innately inferior to whites; rather, their apparent mental deficiencies resulted from generations of enslavement.”

John goes on, “I have had the pleasure of conversing with you, sometimes, upon the means of restoring [the slaves] to their rights. When can it be better done, than when their enfranchisement may be made conducive to the public good, and be modified, as not to overpower their weak minds?”

What sticks out here is, of course, the assertion that the slaves had “weak minds.”

Essentially, John thought that once black people were allowed to live free, “rescued from a state of perpetual humiliation” as he put it in the same letter, their nature would change to more like whites. Black Patriots and Loyalists: Fighting for Emancipation in the War for Independence by Alan Gilbert states,

“Nonetheless, John Laurens retained a slave-owner’s perspective about the psychology of blacks at the time. In a 1776 letter to his father, he ignored manifold black acts of resistance and their hunger to be free: ‘There may be some inconvenience and even Danger in advancing Men suddenly from a State of Slavery while possessed of the manners and Principals incident to such a State... too suddenly to the Rights of freedman. [T]he example of Rome suffering from Swarms of bad citizens who were freedmen is a warning to us to proceed with caution.’ [...] The son insisted, however, on the principal that slavery is simply wrong, the immoral shackling of another: ‘The necessity for it is an Argument of the complete Mischief occasioned by our continued Usurpation.’”

But the same book also says, “John Laurens was a practical abolitionist. Favored by nature and fortune, he chose no easy path. He could, for instance, have worked for Washington, recruited a company of white soldiers as his father urged, and still have advocated for the “public good.” Instead, he committed himself to the nobler course of fighting determinedly for abolition.”

However, “18th century abolitionist” usually did not mean someone who believed black and white people were equal and should have the same rights. It meant that you wanted to end slavery. The difference between these views often gets blurred for John Laurens. Saying that John Laurens was an abolitionist is accurate, but he probably did not believe that black and white people should have the exact same rights, at least not at first. That needs to be acknowledged. John was an abolitionist, but it is unclear how much equality he really wanted.

Only paying attention to his anti-slavery professional life also leads to the idea that it is safe to idolize Laurens, rather than critically examine his complex views on race. The idea forms that he is the one white man from the 18th century we can be fully proud of. The one we can say is our beautiful cinnamon roll without having to confront his relationship with slavery. The fact that John Laurens wanted to help enslaved people gain their freedom doesn’t change the ways in which he benefited from white supremacy, nor how he treated his personal servants, nor the racist ideas he expressed in some of his writings.

This does not mean Laurens was evil, or that you can’t like and admire parts of him. By the standards of other revolutionary figures, like the aforementioned Jefferson and Washington (and Madison and Hamilton to an extent*) Laurens was remarkably enlightened. But also, that in itself is terrible. Like, the idea of a “good guy” from the 18th century is still one that believed that black people had “weak minds” owing to their enslavement.

If we truly want to reckon with the racial sins of America, and how they originated, we need to see figures like Laurens for all they were. Not just the noble abolitionist, but also the inherently privileged white man whose righteous public crusade was enabled by the very system it sought to end, slavery. We also need to see him as the extremely wealthy young man who regarded the command of his servants as part of the natural order of his life.

I didn’t write this solely for history. John’s story is a reminder to all allies that actions based on our beliefs are important to make in our private lives, as well as public. Yes, it’s important to advocate for racial justice in our public and professional lives. But it’s also important to examine and be honest about our own forms of privilege and the ways in which we have internalized the racism of the world around us. All white people in America benefit from slavery and the systems it was built upon, even those whose forebears came to America long after slavery was abolished. I firmly believe that a step forward for racial justice in the US is simply to acknowledge privilege, because we cannot fix a broken system until we realize all the ways in which it is broken.

#John Laurens #slavery #abolition #Alexander Hamilton #I hope it came out okay #also I'm completely open to feedback #long post #Jefferson #Washington #Madison #founding fathers #4th of july #quotes #letters

574 notes · View notes

shepard-ram · 4 years ago

Note

Hello again this is Ender-anon with the next chapter of this story as we move on to Wilbur. p.s the poem will be at the bottom.

The most important day of your life so far.

Everything was chaos, as people rushed back and forth getting everything ready for you coronation the next day, dignitaries from other countrys ariving with gifts, the kichens had to order food from abroad inorder to fully cater the event. You however were nervous for a different reasion between going over the speechs with Enciodes and practicing the holy vows you would undertake tomorrow with the current Saintess Anya Silverash ( Enciodes and Ensia's sister), the Arctic Empires delegates had yet to arrive you knew thanks to Tommys latest letter ( and hadn't that been a surprise learning that you friend was the third prince, but you had assured him that it would change nothing between you he was still Tommy to you) his brother prince Wilbur second in line to the throne would be arriving with them since Tommy father had said that Tommy couldn't go. Which is why when the Arctic Empire arrived (with so many gifts Tommy really had gone overboard you though) without the prince saying that he had gone on ahead of the main group a wave of panic sweeped through those in attendance. The wilds were dangerous for outsiders at night the beasts of the land wouldn't attack your citizens ( ancient magic prevented them from doing so a spell cast by an allie of your venerated ancestor) but a lone prince was a different deal. Jumping into action you asked the nobility in attendance the Silverash,Rostova,Schwire and Nearl to search their grounds as they were the few nobles with manors outside to capital and on the way to get your winter coat discretely ordered a hidden member of the Armourless Union to imform the three Obsidians that finding the prince was their new hightest priority and to sent everyone Platinum, the two Lapis Lazuil and to track what woodlands hadn't been searched yet. Rushing out of the capital, lanturn in hand rushed into the nearby woods, woods that you had explored as far back as you could remember, woods you knew like the back of your hand as such when you heard the wolves howling in the distance you knew the quickest route to take after all those seconds could be the difference between finding the prince or finding a corpse.

Leaping over a ridge you found yourself between a terrified Wilbur and a pack of 5 wolves both pausing with your entrance. Wilbur snaped out it first yelling " Kid get out of here, I can distract the wolves RUN" you instead turn towards the wolves and told them to leave as they do you grab the stuperfied princes hand and lead him back towards the capital where you hand him off to his countrys dignitaries while you returned to the palace to get some sleep ready for your coronation tommorow. You looked at your reflection now dressed in your ceremonial outfit based on you ancestors outfit minus the black helmet of course looking over at your soon to be ex-regent Enciodes who looked at you with pride in his eyes, after gathering your nerves you follow him knights flanking you to the second biggest building in the capital after the palace, the temple to the Karlan Goddess. Kneeling before Anya at the goddesses alter you swore to protect your people, your nation and to uphold you nations values rising after Anya placed neatherite crown upon your head. Turning to look at those in attendance you saw Enciodes with tears in his eyes, Buldrokkas'tee with his daughter Yelena holding her up so she could see and curiously prince Wilbur looking at you with a weird look in his eyes that was a strange combination of pity and longing all while clutching a piece of paper close to his chest. During the after coronation celebrations you did manage to start a conversation with him by talking about Tommy of all thinks but he was what you two had in common you both cared about him a great deal before you left you handed him a letter to give to Tommy once he got back to the empire, he staired at it for a moment before handing over the piece of paper you saw him holding earlier you looked at it to see a poem on it "Its my gift to you, as thanks for saving me" he proclaimed after reading it you saw the themes of close bonds and friendship ( at least thats how it looked to you) and as such you thanked him for such a thoughtful poem giving him a hug " I must admit I can most certainly see why my baby brother is so attached to you" and with that he turned and left with the other delegates back to the Arctic Empire.

The most important encounter of his life

Wilbur was pretty sure even before meeting this ruler that he would hate them even though he hadn't met them yet. Why you may ask? First they charm his precious baby brother into letting them call him Tommy something that he only allowed family to do but he wouldn't stop carrying that doll dressed in black claiming that it was a gift from you, then whenever post would arive he would all but tear the poor messenger apart just on the chance you sent him a letter he remembered after he sent the letter informing you of his status he was sure that that would end this farce and he would have his adorable little brothers attention again but nooo you sent a letter telling him that it didn't matter Tommy was still your friend and that reguardless of his title he you wouldn't treat him any differently and to your credit you didn't. But thats nothing compared to what he's currently going through no since Tommy is to young he has to be the representative of the royal family to your coronation (despite Tommy throwing the biggest tantrum he had ever seen), so now he's walking along a poorly constructed road with a the other delegates with the mountain of gifts that his brother has bought you using every coin he had. Tired and just completely done with this day he told the others that he would be walking on ahead and they would meet back up at the palace, that was the plan at least he thinks to himself as he runs before he had strayed from the dirt path and stumbled upon a wolf pack that was now chasing him so his day has gotten even worse great. As he hits a dead end he turns to face the wolves looking around for a way to clime up the ridge above him as the wolves closed in, only for a kid in a winter coat holding a lanturn to jump down inbetween him and the wolves startling them both thankfully he snaped out of it first and yelled at you to run he wasn't about let a kid only a few years older than his baby brother get torn apart by these wolves but instead of fleeing you gave him a reassuring smile before turning to the wolves " He is no enemy of our nation, leave now" you commaned and to his surprise they obeyed his mind going blank trying to process what he just witnessed as you lead him out of the woods. It wasn't till he was in his room in the newly built embassy that he realised he never learned his saviors name after interrorgating the delegates he learns to his suprise that his savior was the person that took his place in his brothers heart.

Maybe he misjudged you he thinks as he spends the time before your cononation collecting information about you pretending that he was merely a curious tourist and when he returned to get dressed into his formal wear he thought about what he had learned, the most dishearting information was how alone you were you had no surviving family no cousins,no siblings and no parents but you still found reasions to smile, to try you best to be the ruler you nation would need despite the fact that said nation in his humble opinion was undeserving.How he had missjudge you so much, of course his brother would try and give you family that you never had he couldn't even think of a world without his little brother, his twin or his dad but you had to endure a world where that was the norm for you, and now he though bitterly this nation would be your burden to carry alone without family to turn to for help. He of course need to thank you and in his own way apologize for his incorrect image of you, he didn't bring his guitar so a poem would have to do, perhaps he could put an offer of family in it so you knew that you wouldn't be alone, yes that sounded good. As he stood with the others of importance during you coronation he couldn't help but think how small you looked in that all black outfit dispite knowing you were older that Tommy in this moment you didn't look it to him as you made vows that in the eyes of your nation, in the eyes of your goddess would forever bind you to a nation undeserving of you, a nation that had caused you to grow up alone surrounded by advisers and (if his brothers rants were anything to go by) a schemeing regent. He truly pitied you and wanted to take you away from this back to the empire where you could be a child for once not be forced to be a ruler, Tommy would be happy if he wisked you away and he realised as they placed a neatherite crown on your head he wouldn't mind having being your big brother. To his surprise you can over to talk to him during the after party, as the subject of conersation shifted to Tommy he saw your eyes light up as you trades stories back and forth acting less like royals from different countrys and more like siblings talking about their younger brother. Its only when you press a quickly written letter into his hands and asked for him to hand it to Tommy that he remembered his poem as such he handed the poem over to you and exsplaned that it was a thank you gift for rescuing him (and for him being so wrong about you) he searched your face as you read seeing if you got his hidden message before you thanked him for it and gave him a hug , hun he could in this moment certainly see why his baby brother was so attached to them oh if the look on your face was anything to go by he just said that aloud time to leave he thinks.On the plane ride home he can't help but read the letter you wrote for his baby brother only for his eyes to widen as you ask Tommy whats its like having a big brother like Wilbur or what its like having a big brother in general but a infuriated look fills his face as you say you think your starting to see Enciodas ( the scheming regent his brain supplied )and his sisters as your big siblings as your family,oh that seals it he thinks he is going to be big brother and save you from you misguided loyaltys at least he count on Tommy to help rescue their future sibling from themself.

Wilburs poem

It's hard to put into words, what I want to say.

But I want you to know your thought of, in a very special way.

Though the distance in between us, keeps us continents apart.

There will always be a place, for our bond within my heart.

Poems are strange arn't they, two people could read the same poem but come away with comletely different ideas as to what it means... Ender-anon

Okay I might stop talking all together on this entire FICS but this- yes absolutely very good

#ask #ender anon #tw. yandere #c: wilbur #c: tommy

34 notes · View notes

ofmermaidstories · 4 years ago

Note

I really like your blog because you have this really life loving vibe, the type of people that see all the beauty in the world and stuff, so I wanted to ask you for some advice, if that's ok. By nature I'm also like that, kinda mushy, very heartfelt, but a lot of mistreatment from people in my life made me also very cynical, judgy and distrusting. How do you manage to keep this wonderous mentality about life?

In the afternoon, I like to stretch out on my bed, amid my pillows and my blankets, and soak in the late light and the autumn chill. I follow a grocer on instagram in a city three hours away from me because they post pictures of the produce they sell: pumpkins cut in half, jewel-bright tomatoes held in someone’s hands, sourdough loaves made by a neighbour. On the weekends they offer bouquets of flowers, supplied to them by a woman who bills herself as “a weekend florist and full-time mother” — this weekend it’s red berries and sunflowers, bundled up like babies being brought home from the hospital.

On Sunday it’ll be Mother’s Day: I’ll be spending the day deep cleaning the house and ignoring instagram and facebook (mostly bc they’re boring tho, let’s be real).

I live a two-hour car drive from anyone I remotely socialise with who isn’t the cashier at the supermarket I go to. Sometimes, I get so mad that I have to force myself to mentally and physically shut down, like, complete black-screen mode, sit there and stare at the wall — it’s a self-defence tactic to spare whoever I’m getting angry at, and to spare myself: unfortunately, I’ve developed a bit of a talent for being able to say the right thing in which to hurt someone with. Unleashing it comes at a high price, and I like the people in my life, so I would literally rather bite through my own tongue then let any of that vitriol fly when I’m angry and not thinking straight.

The rubbish trucks come for the bins every Tuesday. On Monday evening, around 9pm, I’ll wheel mine out to the road. There’s no streetlights out here, and I live in a rural area — so on dark nights when we’ve lost the moon, you can look up and see the Milkyway, like you’re standing underneath a river of stars.

I buy myself flowers; the women at the florist in town treat me like I’m their most favourite person in the world (and I eat that shit up). Afterwards I’ll be carrying whatever weeds I’ve bought with me, through the supermarket or whatever, and someone will always comment on them. I’ve lost one of the pearl earrings that belonged to my Grandmother’s set, a woman long gone, now; I’ve also misplaced my favourite hairclip, pale blue with a shinning shell clasp, that I got from a seller that shut down during the mess of last year.

Last weekend, I visited the cemetery; I sat with who I was visiting and watched an old man half a lawn away from me sit in a folded chair and read a book, play a little radio. A couple, visiting one of the plots behind us, carefully took the decorations on it - frogs, lots and lots of frogs - and brushed them off, wiped them down. Reglued a few and then set them all back into place, proudly.

There’s a young boy, interred next to my person, who I never met in life; he was fifteen years old and it’s been five years, now, and his site is littered with rubgy scarves and laminated letters from his friends, photos of them together, photos of them separately, growing up without him. Empty bottles of beer, badly written poems about meeting again. I say hello to him as I peel mandarins as a offering for the possums that forage around the cemetery at night, and occasionally I brush the leaves off his footy scarves and when I go to leave I say goodbye to him, too. After my last visit, I went to the busiest shopping centre in the city and ate braised beef noodle soup, from a place where they make the noodles in front of you, pulling them and stretching them easily. I messaged a friend with updates about my meal, laughing as she kept me company even from thousands of miles away, and then just as I finished, some friends who live in the city asked if I wanted to have some cake with them — from their favourite cafe. They’d given me a key to their home, earlier, so I could come and go as I pleased. The key meant a lot to me, though they’ll never know it; it meant a lot because it felt like a physical manifestation of trust, of them saying that yes, they did want me in their lives, no matter how limited or what kind of time left we had together.

People are multifaceted; like gemstones. We can be mean and delightful and trusting and hurt. I lean into the soft, squishy parts of myself with abandon — a lot of the time it works out. I tell people I love them. I let them say they love me. A couple of times, people have left my life because they didn’t have the space in theirs for me anymore — it was hurtful and ugly each time. Humans can come together so easily, sometimes, that the joy and brightness of it can make you forget how ugly and hard it is when we leave each other in the wrong way. People and things will hurt you. That’s just a fact. Some days you’re not going to have the energy for anything but the self-preservation of being distrustful, or cynical, judgemental, and that’s okay — I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, sometimes we have to be selfish to protect what’s left of our hearts.

I keep a list of things that make me smile. I also keep a list of things that fucking shit me right off. The list of things that shit me is longer than the list of things that make me smile, but it’s because when I see something good — a bright red letterbox, a little kid that’s waving to everyone, a pleasing colour of the sky — I don’t think to write it down, because it’s generally so fleeting and so cheery. It does its job. Find the small things in your day to day that you like to linger over, that make you happy; the bad stuff still happens, and you’ll still have waves where it doesn’t seem worth the effort, but the small bright things fill the moments and remind you that it’s all part and parcel of this universal existence.

Here’s to a gentle weekend ahead, Anon. ✨🌻🍊🌿

#ofmermaidstories-asks #wow someone muzzle me i did not mean to ramble like that lksdfjlksdjfklsdfj #hopefully it was even a fraction helpful though UGH #mer muses on the nature of love and connection and seperation

18 notes · View notes

baby-witch-eli · 4 years ago

Text

Quantifying my Craft

I found this lovely post by @breelandwalker, who I totally recommend checking out, and it inspired me. My cards and horoscopes have been pushing me to reflect on my goals lately so this is exactly what I needed right now! I decided I'd give it a go.

Broad Concepts

I like to follow western traditions; Celtic traditions in particular are near and dear to my heart. This is why I chose to focus my worship in the Celtic Pantheon, and I'm currently working on building a relationship with Brigid. I would consider myself an eclectic, although divination and nature magic are my two main areas of focus. While I like to ask others for advice while I learn, magic is something I prefer to practice on my own. I've only been practicing since late January, interestingly enough I started around Imbolc. So far I've found intentions are the most important aspect of witchcraft and it has helped me greatly to practice intention in all aspects of my life.

Working Space

I began constructing an altar to Brigid yesterday. Frustratingly enough, my mother is going to have me put away all my small little items and decorations tomorrow as we're trying to sell our house. We won't be moving for a few more months though. I'm hoping I'll be able to keep the altar up but I'll look into online altar options if needed. I already keep an online altar to myself on an app called #SelfCare that I would highly recommended.

Right now my altar to Brigid has a white candle in a green holder; a sailor's knot I wore around my wrist until it started to come undone; a silver bell for music and creativity; the first piece of pottery I ever painted; a picture book of the traveling I did around Michigan a few years ago; an empty journal I hope to fill with art and poems dedicated to her; and a beaker (cauldron stand-in) I dedicated by burning a sigil in that holds nineteen white rose petals and a whisker my cat lost. I'm charging a carnelian and working on a piece of fox, the spirit guide she sent me, embroidery to add to the altar. It's positioned on top of an organizer I have on my desk, which is pushed up against a window.

There's a spot under my porch I wanted to use for meditation but I discovered I'm too jumpy and distractible to meditate outdoors. I don't like having my eyes closed when out of the open and I have an exaggerated startle response. Instead, I find it better for me to meditate in the bath. Sitting in water at least ankle deep with the lights off, after everybody else has gone to sleep and when the moon can shine through the window, is the ideal place for me to sit and follow a guided meditation. I find meditations that take me on a journey through my astral space are the most effective.

Ideally, I'd like to be able to have my own space where I can freely spread my altars and workspaces throughout the house. I want to be able to fill it with plants and books and cards and candles. While I'm at home trying to avoid suspicion from my Christian family, I just have to make the most of what I have.

Tools

My first deck is on the #SelfCare app. I call it my "Familiar Deck" as that's the one I'm most connected with. It's brutally honest, which I love. My second favorite deck is the "blue-eyed" deck I use for my Daily Draw. Another brutally honest deck and one I find to be very accurate. When asking Brigid questions, I prefer to use the Yes/No deck. It gives you your answer and is also good at accurately conveying "secondary," not yes/no, messages. You'll notice all of them are online and that's because, once again, I live with my Christian family and must be covert.

I have a quite a few crystals as I, thankfully, was interested in collecting them when I was younger. The tumbled crystals I have are small and few; most of my crystals are raw. I keep forgetting to charge them when there's a full moon out. I'll have to set a reminder or something to that effect. At the very least, I'm happy that I don't have to bother with trying to obtain any without my parents becoming suspicious. One of these days, I'd love to start collecting rings and wear several. It's also silly little dream of mine to get an onyx pendulum someday.

As far as books go, I bought a beautiful journal I've dedicated as my grimoire. It's dark blue with shiny, gold space decals. I would love to collect witchy books but I don't have money and I couldn't get away with it while living at home. I hear there's an excellent discord that stores witchy books and I think it's something I'll look into. For now, my information comes from my internet research. Thankfully, I did debate for several years, so I know how to find sources from accurate cites, but it certainly takes a lot of work to find good information that way.

The Year

I’m interested in learning more about the Wheel of the Year and incorporating it into my practice. Imbolc is especially important to me, as I worship the goddess Brighid. I missed it this year but I hope to celebrate it in the future. I have yet to study the important of dates outside of astrology so I’ll have to make sure I study it more.

History of My Magic

Honestly, I’ve always felt a very strong pull towards magic. I was raised in a very religious family though so I was always afraid that answering the call would condemn me. I grew up reading as many fantasy stories as I could, connecting with any animal I was able to, and spending as much time in the woods or by water as I could. The woods and the water have always felt full of magic to me and inspired me to want to practice witchcraft. Ever since I was little, I’ve had a great fondness and affection for the moon and stars. I’ve also always felt very drawn to Celtic folklore, magic, and Irish culture. I have distant family ties to Ireland and even though it’s a relatively minor aspect of my heritage, it’s always felt the most important to me. Movies like Song of the Sea and Brendan and the Secret of Kells helped tighten my bond with it. I even started learning as much as I could about the Fae after some books I read piqued my interest. I’ve always been the kid who kept a firm belief in magic even after all my friends “outgrew” it.

It took me a long time to finally answer the call to magic. Like I said, I was raised in a religious household. My grandparents even accused me of being a witch when I went through my Harry Potter phase! It actually made me rather pleased. There were a few times I came very close to beginning practicing witchcraft but I shied away for fear of Hell. It wasn’t until I finally was able to distance myself from the church earlier this year that I decided to start practicing magic behind my parents’ back. I’m very glad I did.

Progress

I’ve only been practicing for a few months. I’ve been very busy with college so it’s been pretty lax so far. I’m trying to build some sort of consistency. The end of the semester is a bad time for that, for sure. I’ve really connected with astrology and tarot-reading. Learning about the symbolism of different bugs and animals has also been something I’ve honestly also done, so it’s nice to be able to incorporate that into my practice. Dragonflies have always been signs of good luck for me (or bad omens, as the one time I saw one dead was one my Grammy found in her garage; she showed it to me a month or so before she passed away from cancer).

Recently, I began meditation. I met my spirit animal, a brown-eyed fox, who I ended up learning was sent by the goddess Brighid to guide me. I contacted Brighid about twice and set up an altar for her. The first time I heard her speak to me was when she was telling me I don’t drink enough water (I haven’t met with her since I pulled an all-nighter for college and I’m sure she’s not particularly pleased with that). I’m hoping to get back into my meditative practice soon. I’ve also needed to meditate to ask about a crow or raven that my sister and I kept crossing paths with while going out to lunch together. I’m not sure if it’s a sign of something or if the Morrigan wants to contact me. I’ve also heard the name Cernunnos repeated in my head lately so I’ve wanted to look into him too. I didn’t think I’d have anything to do with deities after my experiences with Christianity but Brighid quickly changed my mind.

Final Notes

I actually started writing this post a week or so ago but life got crazy. I’m in the last few weeks of my Freshman year of college, so it’s hectic. Right now I’m staying at a cabin in the mountains over the weekend, so I’m hoping this will give me the chance I need to wind down and reconnect with Brighid and my higher self. I’m hoping to get a daily routine going for my practice over the next few weeks.

#green witch #baby witch #witch tarot #witch notes #witch life #witch journey

16 notes · View notes

vagabondedlife · 4 years ago

Link

Kei Fujiwara’s name is hardly recognizable to most fans of Japanese cinema despite her crucial role in director Shinya Tsukamoto’s early cult classics. As Tsukamoto’s “right hand” woman in the 1980s, Fujiwara became closely involved in his underground theater troupe, Kaijyu Theater, and contributed to the productions of the experimental and DIY films The Phantom of Regular Size (1986), The Adventures of Denchu Kozo (1987), and Tetsuo: The Iron Man (1989). Her credits include actress, cinematographer, prop artist, makeup artist, and set-designer (her apartment was used as a primary set). She also engineered Tetsuo’s iconic phallic drill.

Born in Kumamoto in 1957, Fujiwara moved to Tokyo in her early twenties and discovered theater troupe director Jūrō Kara, who became her mentor. After a decade, she created her own troupe called Organ Vital, which underwent a series of evolutions but remains her life work. Her new project this year is Ibunkitan, a form of micro-nomadic theater, whose kanji characters mean “strange-listen-machine-story.” A private person now living in the reclusive mountains of Nagano, Fujiwara rarely gives interviews, but seemed excited to talk about her rarely discussed directorial debut, Organ (1996).

An avant-garde exploration of violence, pain and pleasure with an operatic amount of coagulated blood and extrasomatic body horror, Organ follows two detectives after they break into an organ harvester’s warehouse and collide with yakuza gangsters, a drugged doctor, and his eye-patch wearing sister Yoko, played by Fujiwara herself, who also produced and wrote the film. A cherished work among hardcore fans of Japanese cult cinema, Organ is still ripe for rediscovery. The film’s offerings of a full-bodied sensorial experience and an abusive questioning of cruelty prove tirelessly relevant.

Fujiwara’s work was recently revived at FFFest in New York City with a double feature of Tetsuo: The Iron Man and Organ. Fujiwara prepared a special statement that was shared as an introduction. Following the screening, we had the opportunity to speak to the artist about her life, practice, and ideals in more depth. The conversation was held over the phone in Japanese.

NOTEBOOK: Is Ibunkitan a new Organ Vital?

KEI FUJIWARA: Yes, it’s a new Organ Vital. When I was young, I lived in the rural area. I always just read theater but never had the opportunity to see state-of-the-art theater. When I was in high school, I was always reading, and I picked up an Antonin Artaud book that featured this French term. It meant the vessels of life. When translated to English, I’m told it just becomes, “vitals of organ,” or something, but in Japanese it is called gozōroppu and to me signifies the corporal. That’s the name of my theater company, and it has always been that for me. Born into this three-dimensional world with bodies, we sense and express. That’s what’s interesting in life. Ibunkitan can be done in a very small space. We’ve done it in temples, in the corner of a shop, in salons. Our first performance was in March, and we’re planning to do another in November. We've been invited to perform my new Jomon-inspired piece in a live-house in the mountains in Nagano, so we’re preparing some woodwork for that now.

NOTEBOOK: You were working in Shinya Tsukamoto’s Kaijyu Theater production between working with Jūrō Kara?

FUJIWARA: Jūrō Kara, my mentor—when I was in Jōkyō Gekijo [Situation Theatre], he took a liking to me and wrote roles for me. A lot happened, and Kara said he would make a new troupe with me, but I had other plans, so I left once, and he said, “As my mentee, you can leave but wait for me to come get you.” That’s when I went to work with Shinya Tsukamoto on his plays and films. It was after Tetsuo: The Iron Man [1989] that Kara started the new troupe “Kara-gumi” and I returned to work with him.

NOTEBOOK: How was it that you began working with Tsukamoto?

FUJIWARA: I had just left Kara and after a while a friend said that Tsukamoto was looking for someone to act in his plays. He was Tsukamoto’s classmate and an actor, and he made the introduction. I found Tsukamoto interesting and talented. So, I began working diligently as his right hand after that.

NOTEBOOK: I wanted to ask you about Tsukamoto’s 1987 film, The Adventures of Denchu Kozo.

FUJIWARA: Denchu Kozo and Tetsuo were actually both shot in my apartment where I was living at the time. You know all those cats? I couldn’t rent a normal apartment, so I had to live in a cheap nagaya tenement house on the verge of getting demolished. I just needed a place to live that permitted pets. Denchu Kozo and Tetsuo’s interior shots are all at my place.

NOTEBOOK: Are the scenes projected in the TV monitor in Tetsuo from Denchu Kozo?

FUJIWARA: Yes. They’re from Denchu Kozo.

Above: Organ

NOTEBOOK: What turned you onto making Organ, if you were always only interested in theater?

FUJIWARA: That was because of my experience filmmaking with Tsukamoto. It prepared me for how arduous it would be. Theater is an impermanent art, and that’s why it’s such a luxurious art form. But film is like capturing a world in a crystal ball. The joy of creating film is like making your own universe. My staff members at the time— six men other than myself—were all talented, and I thought, “Everyone’s here, why don’t I just make it?” So, all the staff also became the actors, and that’s how we started filming. But it was so difficult at first. We used the atelier space we had and reformed it over and over and shot it like that. It was time-consuming. It became the warehouse set, the school set. It kept on transforming. We did it all in the same space.

NOTEBOOK: That seems like a very theatrical way of using space.

FUJIWARA: Yes.

NOTEBOOK: But first, you started writing it?

FUJIWARA: Yes, I first started writing it. I’m actually not very good at planning. I just think that if I put my mind to it, I can make it happen. So I wrote the script, and had the staff pool in their savings. Between the seven of us we had 200,000 yen, so I thought, “Great, if we have 200,000 yen and one reel of film is 5,000 yen, and even if we bought lights, we can make 30 minutes of footage.” As for the equipment, there are countless aspiring-filmmaker boys who have camera equipment lying around collecting dust, so we borrowed from them. As for the set, we were all used to making it for our theater. We were good at foraging free stuff to make things. That warehouse set in the beginning of Organ was made with an extremely cheap budget. Then we started filming. All those organs in that scene were worked from what was supposed to be our dinner for the day [laughs]. We used real food. We took some gelatin- and konjac-noodles and thought, “This can look like veins!”

NOTEBOOK: And then you had it for dinner?

FUJIWARA: Well, we ended up not being able to, because it was covered in fake blood! It was all about how little money we could spend and still make something, which was a valuable lesson for me.

NOTEBOOK: You’ve mentioned the Kenji Miyazawa poem, Ame ni mo makezu1.

FUJIWARA: Yes, I just really like Kenji Miyazawa. I like the way he thinks, and his philosophy. He’s a Buddhist, and as I haven’t studied Buddhism properly, I cannot say for sure, but I think his seimeikan, or view of life, is on par with that of Osamu Tezuka. Osamu Tezuka and Kenji Miyazawa are two gods with the same perspective regarding seimeikan. No matter how great their art is, Yoshihide Otomo and Hayao Miyazaki can never reach Osamu’s level. Osamu’s core is love. There’s only love. The way they think about life is totally different. I was reading manga before I was literate [laughs]. I like Osamu Tezuka, but also Sanpei Shirato. And in my teens, I liked Daijiro Morohoshi. He’s an extremely interesting person.

NOTEBOOK: Do you think that your films need to be discovered?

FUJIWARA: They need to lock in perfectly with someone’s desire to watch it, or else watching it has no meaning. It just appears as a confusing, grotesque film.

NOTEBOOK: Please tell us about your make up and special effects.

FUJIWARA: Since Tetsuo, my method is always the same. I don’t have any background knowledge of special effect makeup. I just have a gut feeling of what can and can’t be used. Tsukamoto had these drawing storyboards for Tetsuo, like the steel body and the drill penis. For the latter, Tsukamoto just wanted to make something simple and said it would be enough if we could just pretend like it was moving, but I thought it would only be interesting if it actually moved. I didn’t have any hi-tech skills, so I thought, “That’s it!” I took the nearest working electric fan, dissembled it down to its core, used all the rubber and tape I had at home, sprayed it up and got it to go, vroom [laughs]! It was the same for Organ. I used household products, mostly kitchenware.

Above: Organ

NOTEBOOK: What about your cinematography?

FUJIWARA: I had no background knowledge. The first time I started shooting was on Tsukamoto’s set. A lot of people who graduated film school and wanted to help were there, but Tsukamoto didn’t trust any of them. Just because you have technique doesn’t mean you can shoot well. He thought that the person wielding the camera needs a certain amount of power, of energy. So I, who had never touched a camera in my life, was given the camera and told where to press to get it rolling, and shot all of the scenes Tsukamoto was in.

NOTEBOOK: Do you still shoot with a camera lately?

FUJIWARA: Rarely.

NOTEBOOK: As the occasion for this screening was FFFest, Female Filmmakers Festival, could you comment about your experience as a female filmmaker?

FUJIWARA: Something men don’t have—there are two types: female filmmakers who focus their perspective on their immediate surroundings and daily lives, and those who focus on creating a worldview from the even more intimate bodily perspective. That’s what’s a little different from male filmmakers. Even in theater, most female directors write familial narratives, although I don’t [laughs].

NOTEBOOK: The podcast Ladies Horror Night, on the occasion of this screening, recorded an episode that raised the question of why you, a female filmmaker, didn’t include more female characters. I’m not sure about this pressure for female filmmakers to represent female subjects, as I think there’s power in the female filmmaker re-writing the male-centric story. Can you speak on this and how you came to write the police story in Organ?

FUJIWARA: When I think about seimeikan—our view of life—it appears to me that the moral judgment of good versus bad is not something universal, but just a rule that protects our lifestyle in society. It’s a regulation. We make regulations to protect ourselves. That takes the form of “good” and “evil.” But that’s not the good and evil that holds ground in nature. Animals kill other animals for their own predation, right? Humans, too, in the context of war, can kill other humans and become heroes. The concept of zen-aku, or the notion of good and evil, is just a societal regulation. The police represent upholders of this regulation. And then there are those who defy this regulation, who lie in a realm completely different from this conventional morality. Organ is a clash between these two groups. That’s how I formed the police narrative. As for why there are few female characters, well… In the case of females, expressing them requires—for many, not all—a focus on the micro world, the micro perspective, that is, if you pay attention to their priorities. In other words, if you have a goal and you want to finish something, but she says she needs to take a bath at this certain time and cannot participate, there’s nothing you can do. In my theater, only men can keep up with me. Because of this standpoint, if a woman were to express a woman, she would need to create a micro world. But when describing a police story, a macro worldview, the direction would lose focus.

NOTEBOOK: It would become more internal?

FUJIWARA: Right. That’s why there aren’t as many female characters. But the wife of Numata represents the reality for women. And also the female teacher who approaches the criminal but gets killed. Woman participated in this way. But it’s hard for them to take leading parts for the narrative. It’s hard to let them be there and have their perspective be represented, because their perspective is in a different dimension.

NOTEBOOK: What about the character you play, Yoko?

FUJIWARA: Yoko is outside of that realm. She’s an outlier. She doesn’t represent family or the household or the joy of daily life, because she didn’t enjoy any of those things. That’s why she can exist there.

NOTEBOOK: How did you direct your actors in Organ, was it different from how you usually direct them in theater?

FUJIWARA: It’s the same. The only direction I gave them in Organ was that they only get one shot. I don’t give actors multiple takes. If there’s a camera or equipment problem that requires another take or two, I’ll do it. But I won’t do it for the actor. The actor has one chance, the take. But, on the offhand that the actor makes a mistake and requires a take two, I tell them they need to buy their own film roll. That was the rule. So, no one ever made a single mistake. They were all dead serious, completely focused. They’re all broke and have no money to buy film.

NOTEBOOK: In that sense it’s theatrical.

FUJIWARA: Right, and I had one actress tell me that that it was brilliant. She said, “I do lots of work for TV and film, but everyone is so lukewarm and they do take after take, and think about it so leniently. But there’s none of that here. The one take is the real thing.”

NOTEBOOK: So, that urgency was good for the actors?

FUJIWARA: Right. They said they couldn’t afford to buy their own film.

NOTEBOOK: If you give theater actors the same direction for film, how does that work? The performances in Organ don’t come off as exaggerated; I doubt a viewer without knowing would assume they are all theater actors.

FUJIWARA: There’s no difference. In theater, my scripts are like music scores. The lines come out and dance, modulate, sing, calling on the innate sensation playing the instrument that is yourself on stage. The actor, with this music-score-as-script, has a multitude of possibilities of how to play it. In film, the scripted character is a part of the environment. They are simply material for the scene. I didn’t need to explain this to them, they naturally just became materials for the scene.

Above: Organ

NOTEBOOK: That’s a good transition into my next question: can you talk about your music and sound design direction?

FUJIWARA: Music is difficult. What I say doesn’t get across, because I was working with new people. They hadn’t even seen any of my theater. I like German bands, something strong and hard. But even if they mimic the Germans, the Japanese can’t avoid making music that doesn’t sound soft and weak. One day I said, “Make it more powerful, something that alludes to the power of nature, more animalistic and sturdily-built,” and they said, “Okay.” The demo they brought to me literally had animal sounds, like elephants wailing and dogs barking, and I was like, “…That’s not what I meant” [laughs]. It didn’t get across. But there were some interesting sound bites that I could use. But Japanese band musicians can’t get over their own softness. I think what they have is different.

NOTEBOOK: So you’re not happy with the results?

FUJIWARA: Well, I’m the type of person that thinks, que sera, sera. So I wasn’t satisfied, but…

NOTEBOOK: You’ve mentioned that you a very easily scared person. But in Tetsuo and Organ, your characters say, “I won’t be afraid.” How do you interpret this difference?

FUJIWARA: When I came to Tokyo in my twenties, the first theater directors I met said they’d never met anyone as weak and sensitive as myself. They didn’t think I could live on a few years longer, much less do theater, and that I might find myself drugged up in a brothel in the near future. Kara was the only person that ever said to me that I was the strongest person he’d met. In other words, the fear and strength that I have appears to others as a weakness that can barely withstand life, but it’s just my highly sensitive nature they see. In actuality, I’m very strong. I feel very easily, so that seems weak, but my capacity for empathy is just very large. I feel others’ pain and sadness so strongly that I throw up thinking about them. That’s why I don’t watch TV or read the newspaper. Or else I would be crying all day [laughs].

NOTEBOOK: Watching Organ feels like you’re making the audience feel this extreme pain you describe.

FUJIWARA: Yes, that’s the result of the film. My second film, ID [2005], is even more so.

NOTEBOOK: In addition to fear and pain, pleasure is another large theme. After the screening, someone told me your film was grotesque but something about it was so pleasurable. How do you maintain that balance?

FUJIWARA: I think humans, in order to live, can’t cut those away from existence. If you deny desire, you’re not human. The existence of such things causes our misery, too. Thus, desire and slaughter are inescapable. My fear and sorrow regarding this, and my questioning what are they anyway. That’s what I wanted to portray.

NOTEBOOK: What’s interesting about your portrayal of violence is that Yoko uses the gun as a weapon but doesn’t shoot from it. The one time she tries to shoot at her father, it wasn’t loaded. She mostly hits with it.

FUJIWARA: When I act a role, it needs to be real for me to imagine it. I can’t shoot a gun just like that. I need to feel it. Whenever I do something I feel a corporal build-up that can’t just be released by shooting away.

NOTEBOOK: Shooting it would be too easy?

FUJIWARA: An action needs to be taken. The body and the heart are connected. It’s not that easy.

NOTEBOOK: What was the biggest challenge in shooting Organ?

FUJIWARA: The most difficult challenge was the first scene, in the warehouse. When the doctor and yakuza fend off the police while trying to dissect the man. That shoot was in the middle of summer, but we had to close off the warehouse because it was a night scene. It was hot, smelly, only men, and everyone’s body odor was suffocating the room. That was really difficult. At the time there were seven of us, and now there are three of us, just Takahashi, Mori and I. In Organ, all the actors take on multiple roles. Whenever they weren’t onscreen they were doing lights or shooting. We shot it scene by scene in order. I remember towards the end of the film, during the scene in the tunnel, when my role Yoko comes in on a bike and there’s a fighting scene, we couldn’t get a permit to shoot. We were able to shoot outside the tunnel on the road but not inside. But I badly wanted to shoot inside so we went at midnight, and the characters got all bloody and we were shooting, and the police came. They thought it was a real yakuza fight and took off the safety on their pistols and were about to shoot at us. We thought we were done for. The character Yasuda, who later falls into the ditch and gets stabbed with a Japanese sword, was responsible for getting the permits and he had all the documents on him. So, he came out from the ditch all bloody and with a sword in him, screaming, “We’re shooting a film!” terrifying the police even more. While he was negotiating with them we finished shooting the scene. The police just told us to be safe and left, but it was all thanks to him for putting his life on the line. We really thought we were going to get shot. Usually film shoots have large crews and it’s obvious, but in our case, all the crew were also the actors, so it was hard to tell, and the lights were hidden.

NOTEBOOK: What about the camera?

FUJIWARA: Yes, but it was a small 16mm Scoopic, and the police were so focused on the bloody actors they didn’t notice it. The police were terrified, but it was a great location and I just needed to shoot there no matter what.

#link #in case they delete it

36 notes · View notes

shadow-assassin-blix · 4 years ago

Text

A Picture is a Poem Without Words

Chapter 9

A/N: Okay. Some slight drama. Canon typical violence. Slightly nsfw-ish in that there's some fingering.

(Noticed far too late that half of it didnt transfer over, fixed that)

Diego and Blix do some much needed bonding.

Everything tag: @mikeisthricedeceased

Pacho tag: @yungkvte

They laid there a few minutes more, simply enjoying one another’s presence, before with a small groan, Blix sat up.

She quietly stretched, turning her neck side to side, grunting at the small pops and cracks her neck made. Pacho straightened up next to her pressing a kiss to her shoulder.

“Gilberto said he found you in my office last night? Doing homework as he claims,” Pacho teased as he brushed her back behind her hair.

“Just… trying to understand your world. Gotta say… it’s far more complicated than I thought it was,” Blix lightly noted as she turned to look at him.

“It’s not all crazy parties and getting high. It’s a lot of work to be one of the best cartels in the world,” Pacho said with a smirk.

Blix hummed in response, pushing off the covers, as both of them got up. Blix quietly got dressed, throwing on some shorts and a tank top. She finished getting ready, as Pacho waited, looking at all the things she had unboxed the day before. He stared at the items curiously.

“Your mother had very strange tastes,” He muttered quietly as he picked up the mace.

“Indeed, she did,” Blix stated as she walked up to him, ready for the day.

Pacho turned to look at her, “Not planning on using any of these on me, are you?”

“Hmm. Don’t know. Depends on whether you’re a good boy or not. Don’t test my wrath,” She said with a teasing smile as she walked past him, toward the hallway.

Pacho shook his head with a smile, before following after her.

They made their way downstairs, joining the others for lunch.

She got about halfway through her meal before she remembered she had to make some phone calls. She got up and called Theo to see where he had gotten on the warehouse that they believed was König’s.

“Hey, so there is a lot of activity going on in a warehouse that’s allegedly abandoned. We’ve been monitoring it from a safe distance, and we’ve seen a lot of armed guards patrolling. We’ve seen König wandering the property, but we have yet to see anything damning,” Theo reported, a small yawn escaping him as he finished.

“Good to know. Keep watch for now, we’ll catch him soon enough. Has there been any other robberies I should be made aware of?” She questioned as she paced around the living room.

“None so far. Not sure if that’s good or bad. But I’ll keep you posted,” Theo answered.

“Yeah. Hm. He’ll mess up soon enough and we will be there when it happens. Talk to you later,” Blix ended the call with a small sigh.

She ran her hand over chin, in contemplation. She had slowly wandered down a hallway away from everyone and was near a door that was slightly ajar. She looked inside and saw something that made her smile. She pushed the door further open and saw books lining several shelves and cases.

As she examined the books, she realized they were the books that her sisters sent her from their mother’s home. She ran her fingertip down the spines of several, quietly remembering each story. Several were antiques of the classics and others were miscellaneous. She walked further in and noticed there was an area full of throw pillows and soft cushions surrounding a window nook.

The window, she noted, looked out over the grounds, and it was slightly breathtaking.

She sat on the seat, gazing out.

“See you found your library. Pacho will be sad that you found this before he could show you,” Diego’s voice came from behind her.

“I’ll act surprised when he shows me. He set this all up just for me? Why?” She asked looking around from her seat.

“Isn’t it obvious by now? He cares for you. Loves you even. Just like he does me,” Diego responded as he joined her.

“Are you okay with that though? Sharing him? I know we never actually really sat down and talked this out,” She mentioned as she made room for him to join her.

“I’ll admit in the beginning, I wasn’t thrilled by you,” Diego began.

“’Wasn’t thrilled?’ You tormented me for days!” Blix exclaimed shoving him lightly.

“Okay. I was an ass. The point is, I see now, you are not just some fling of his. You make him happy in ways that I cannot. Just like I make him happy in ways you can’t. He wants both of us. We are not fighting for his attention. He wants us, we want him. That’s that. Plus, he’s allowing you to see the inner workings of the cartel; information that is usually pretty heavily guarded. If he trusts you with that, then I can trust you with him,” Diego explained, taking her hands into his.

Blix nodded once in response, with a small smile.

“So… is he going to be busy with the brothers today?” She inquired after a moment.

“Probably, why?” Diego asked looking at her curiously.

“Well. One, I promised Phobos I would take him out for a ride today. Two, I just thought me, and you can hang out. Get to know one another. If you ‘re cool with it,” She proposed.

“How about tomorrow? I have somethings I need to do this afternoon, but tomorrow I am pretty much free. We could run around town if you’d like?” Diego countered.

“Sounds good to me. Now, gotta harass someone in to taking me to the ranch,” Blix muttered thinking of who to choose.

“Or… I’ll drop you off on my way out. Gotta head out anyway,” Diego offered.

“Ooh. Yes. Lemme go put on boots,” Blix said excitedly, getting up.

She rushed upstairs to get her socks and some boots. She hopped on one foot each, as she threw them on. She ran downstairs, meeting up with Diego; they hopped into his car, driving off.

In no time, he had dropped her off. She walked over to Phobos’ stall, grabbing a brush on her way to him. She pulled him out of his stall, taking him to a small post to tie him to. She began to give him a thorough brushing, quietly talking to him.

Once he was brushed, she saddled him up and began to trot around with him. She walked around with him, letting him get used to her. They spent a good 2 hours wandering the grounds before returning to the stables.

Navegante was waiting for her when she got back with Phobos. She got him settled back into his stall and stretched for a moment before joining Navegante. He took her back to Pacho’s home, dropping her off before disappearing himself.

She walked inside and was told by some guards that Pacho and the brothers had left; Pacho should be back by tonight though.

She decided to just continue her reading upstairs in his office. She spent a few hours doing that, when a guard informed her dinner was ready if she was. She got up and made her way downstairs, after securing the files she had pulled out. She took the plate of food, eating at the table, somewhat watching the soccer game that was playing on the television.

She had just finished eating, when there was a knock at the door.

“What the hell?” She whispered as she got up.

She grabbed a gun that was hidden in a drawer, walking toward the door. She opened it cautiously, gun tucked behind her back.

She stared at the man before her. She had never seen him before, but noticed he looked somewhat familiar.

“Hello? Can I help you?” She questioned him.

“So, you’re the woman my boy is in love with? Seems he’s finally becoming a man,” Came a deep, gravelly voice.

It was then she realized why he looked familiar. He looked a bit like an older Pacho, but with Alvaro’s curls.

“Mr. Herrera. What brings you here?” She asked him dully, immediately annoyed by his presence.

“Wanted to speak to him. Found you instead. You’re much prettier to look at then he is,” He announced pushing his way inside.

“Yes. Please come in,” She muttered annoyed.

She quietly grabbed her phone, discreetly calling Pacho, hoping he picked up. She set the phone down on the counter, watching her intruder look around the living room.

She took a breath of relief when she saw that the phone had connected.

“Mr. Herrera. I don’t know why you are here, but you need to go. Pacho is not here, nor is Alvaro. You are not welcomed. So, either get out, or I’ll make you leave,” She warned him loudly, trying to gain his attention.

“Please. You’re not going to do anything. So, what is it about you that you turned my son back to a normal man?” He asked with a snarl as he turned to her.

“Normal? Oh no. He is still very much gay. He just enjoys my company. Get. Out.” She replied coldly, as she pulled the gun out.

He chuckled, somewhat darkly, “Are you really going to shoot me? I don’t think you have it in you, wench.”

She narrowed her eyes in response, aiming the gun to a spot near his head. She took one shot, the bullet grazing his ear at it embedded itself in the wall behind him. He groaned loudly, touching his ear gingerly.

“Next one, will go between your eyes. Now get out. Leave me alone. Leave Pacho and Alvaro alone. Neither of them wants anything to do you with. You come near them again, and I will bury you so deep into the ground that the Earth’s core will incinerate your corpse,” She promised him, motioning with the gun for him to walk out the door.

“Such loyalty to a man who will only break your heart. Tell me, whatever did he promise you to receive such protectiveness?” He asked as he slowly moved to the door, his eyes fixated on the gun.

“Heh. He’s not the first man to ever break my heart, doubt he’ll be the last. Why does everyone think he bought me? Bought my loyalty? It’s truly starting to vex me. I’m a simple woman Mr. Herrera. Offering simple human decency is enough. Now get out of my home. I truly hate cleaning up blood,” She growled as she stepped forward.

She watched as he ran out, to his car, and made sure he drove off before closing and locking the door. She moved over to the phone, picking it up.

“Pacho. You there?” She asked her voice cracking slightly.

“Yes. I’m here. I’m almost home honey. Is he still there?” He inquired, his own voice shaking.

“No. He’s gone. Ya know… I expected your dad to be a piece of work, but I never thought that I would want to immediately strangle him once he started talking,” She tried to joke, but in all honesty, she was a bit freaked out.

She hears him snort before replying, “Yeah. He’s… something.”

“How… how far away are you?” She asked in a whisper.

“5 minutes. Tops. Salcedo has already… detained… my father who we passed by on our way in. He won’t be bothering you anymore,” Pacho firmly stated.

“I’ll see you in a few then?” She confirmed as she took a seat on the couch.

“Yes. I’ll see you in a moment,” Pacho tells her.

She slowly hung up, waiting on the couch for him. In a minute, the room was filled with guards and Pacho.

Pacho walked over to her, his eyes roaming over her, as he checked her.

“He didn’t hurt you, did he?” Pacho questioned as he looked her over.

“No. I’m okay. He just… unnerved me a bit,” She answered him.

Diego popped up next to them, whispering something in Pacho’s ear. Pacho simply nodded in response, his eyes never leaving hers.

The whole house was buzzing about with tension; several people were trying to figure out where the hell the guards were that was supposed to be there. Why was he able to come on the grounds?

Blix was tired of everyone fussing over her, 10 minutes had passed and everyone and their mom it felt, had come to ask her if she was okay. She stood up, and made her way upstairs, away from everyone and their concern.

She hid in her room, keeping the door locked. She went to bed, but it was a fitful sleep. When she finally woke up the next day, she felt exhausted as she sat up. She quietly got ready for the day, hoping a shower would wake her up, and wash away the funk she felt. She walked into her closet trying to decide what to wear, when she heard a rumble of thunder, followed by the sound of rain.

“Guess that answers that,” She mumbled to herself as she grabbed jeans, a shirt, and some boots.

She quietly got ready, unlocking her door, as soon as she was dressed. She strolled downstairs, smiling smally at the sight of Diego, who was leaning against the back of the couch, waiting.

“Hey. Ready to get out of here for a bit?” Diego asked her when he sees her.

She nodded, looking around. She spied Pacho in the kitchen, she slowly walked over to him. He was finishing up a phone call, when he spotted her. Once he hung up, he made his way to her.

“I’m sorry for just… leaving the room last night. Not used to that many people fussing over me. It was a bit overwhelming,” She whispered as he stood before her.

“It’s okay beautiful. I’m just glad you are okay. My father… he won’t be bothering us ever again. I’m sorry you had to deal with him by yourself. He should have never been able to get to the house,” Pacho said pulling her into his arms.

She hugged him back with a sigh.

“I hear you and Diego are spending the day together?” Pacho mentioned with a curious look.

“Yeah. I mean… we both care about you. May as well get along right? So, we are going to go get to know another,” Blix explained scratching the back of her neck.

“I like that you two are spending time together. Though now you two will conspire against me I feel. But I’ll deal with that later,” Pacho teased as he walked her back into the living room.

She chuckled at that, grabbing a jacket and an umbrella that was offered to her, as her and Diego made their way out to his car.

“Alright. Where we going first?” Blix asked as they started to drive.

“Figured we could go grab a bite to eat to go, followed by either some shopping or we could go to a museum?” Diego listed out as he fiddled with the radio for a moment.

“Food yes. Shopping maybe. Museum. Hmm. I’d be down for that. Be nice to go to museum that I don’t have to investigate,” Blix replied nodding her head to the music that was now blasting from the radio.

Livin on a Prayer by Bon Jovi was playing, and she began to rock out to it. Diego laughed for a moment before joining her.

When they got into downtown Cali, they picked up some muffins and hot teas to drink. They ate as they drove to a nearby museum. They parked, dashing inside the museum trying to avoid the rain as much as possible. They strolled around the museum, talking about each piece that caught their interests. Diego was apparently quite a history buff.

Blix looked at him with a soft smile.

“What? What’s with that look?” Diego questioned as they were finishing up their walk around.

“Nothing. It’s… it’s nice talking to someone who knows what I’m talking about without… having to explain 30 other events and situations. It’s honestly nice, having someone else explain new facts to me,” She explained with a shrug.

“Clearly, you haven’t dated the right men. Pacho especially loves art, ask him to take you to an auction sometime. He’d loved that,” Diego joked, throwing an arm around her shoulders.

“Hm. Loves art eh? Is that why he bought a Caravaggio without verifying it was real?” Blix snorted as they walked into the gift shop.

Diego choked on a laugh, “Oof. Well. First off, Miguel bought that and gifted it to Pacho. Pacho only kept it up because it was a gift. He hated it otherwise.”

“Good to know. So, where should we go after this?” Blix asked staring at some trinkets.

“Don’t know. Where do you like to shop?” Diego asked picking up a glass figurine, staring at it before putting it back down.

She bit her lip at the thought that came to mind.

“Ever been thrift store shopping?” She inquired, with a raised eyebrow.

Diego looked at her surprised, “Noo. You… you like thrift stores?”

“Yeah? Duh. Do I look like the kind of person who likes to shop at fancy-schmancy places?” Blix countered gesturing to her outfit.

“Soulmate. That’s what you are. Let’s go!” He excitedly said dragging her out to the car.

The two of them spent the next several hours, going to various thrift shops, trying on outfits and being goofy. The two of them both bought several things from each shop, items varying from outfits to accessories.

When they had their fill of shopping, they grabbed a bite to eat, parked on the side of the road, munching away happily.

“I don’t ask this to annoy you, but are you okay after last night? I’ve had the displeasure of meeting their father as well. It’s…” He trailed off making a face.

“Yeah. I’m okay. It was just unnerving how much he and Pacho looked a like,” Blix noted with a small shudder.

“Same. Took me a while to separate that what he said, did not come from Pacho himself. This is the third time he’s appeared out of nowhere and it’ll be the last. You can always talk to me about it. Pacho… he knows how terrible his father is but doesn’t quite understand why it’s hard to get over the things his father says,” Diego commented.

Blix nodded with a grateful smile, “Thanks.”

The two of them finished their meal, tossing the remains into a nearby public trashcan. As they made their way back to Pacho’s house they talked about their pasts. He knew a great deal about hers so, he was telling her mostly about himself.

“Parents abandoned me when I was a kid. Bounced around in the foster system for a long while. When I was 17, I ran off, decided I wanted to make my own way through the world. Ran into Pacho, quite literally, and my life changed from that day forward,” Diego began.

“How did you ‘quite literally’ run into Pacho? Explain that good sir,” Blix wondered with a teasing smile.

“Was running from a cop, stole food cause I was hungry, and ran right into Pacho. Cop was fortunately on the Cali’s payroll, so Pacho just waved him off. Took me in, 2 months later we were together, and have been since,” Diego told her with a laugh.

Blix laughed softly at that, listening to him tell more stories about himself.

Soon enough they had pulled up to the house, and after grabbing as many bags as they could, they hurried inside. It took a few minutes to sort out what went to who, but soon enough they had parted to go placed their stuff in their rooms.

She was hanging stuff up when she heard Pacho’s voice, “Did you two have fun?”

She looked toward him, before skipping over to him, “Yes. We did. It was a good bonding experience.”

Pacho shook his head at that, pressing a kiss to her lips softly.

“Would you like to come swim with us? I think Diego may be a bit in love with you. Something about history and thrift shopping?” He ribbed lightly.

She kissed him back, walking over to her closet to grab a bathing suit. She grabbed a two piece, changing into it quickly. It was times like this she was glad his pool was indoors. She grabbed a towel, following Pacho to his room, where he changed as well.

Pacho after getting dressed, stopped and stared at her for a moment. He was checking her out, a smirk growing on his face as he examined her.

She noticed his staring, “What?”

“Just admiring you,” He stated simply as he walked forward.

She looked down and away, a slight warmth to her cheeks.

“Snake charmer. That’s all you are,” She muttered as she turned and led the way to the pool.

Pacho’s smirk only grew, especially as he was treated to her backside.

“Stop staring at my ass,” She called over shoulder.

Pacho slowly caught up to her as they entered the pool house. Diego was already doing some laps when they joined him. The water was warm, as she stepped in, dunking herself when she got in deep enough. She floated calmly as she heard the guys goofing around and splashing each other.

She felt one of them swim up to her, and she turned her head to see who appeared.

“May I ask where all of these scars came from?” Diego politely requested as he looked at her.

She straightened up, to stand, wadded over to the edge, pulling herself up to sit on it.

“Ask away,” She granted, ringing water out of her hair.

He came up to her and would point at a scar. Her answers tended to be brief as she explained them, many were from work and others were from her childhood.

Pacho had at some point joined them, listening quietly. Once she was done, Pacho slowly pulled her back into the pool. As she rejoined them in the water, Pacho kissed the side of her neck, gently. She turned her head to him, kissing his cheek. She moved forward, wanting to do some laps before she got too tired.

When she was done, she got out, wrapping her towel around her, watching Pacho & Diego for a moment. While they were distracted, she made her way inside the house, briefly stopping to get a drink. It was while she was taking a sip of her Pepsi that she heard a strange noise. Setting her drink down, she moved toward the sound, which led to the basement door.

She knew she should let it go and ignore it, but she couldn’t help herself. She opened the door, walking down the dimly stairs. As she reached the bottom there was a lone light shining onto a man, tied down to a chair.

She realized as she got closer that it was Mr. Herrera, who had been badly beaten. His head lulled up to look at her, hearing her footsteps.

“Well, well, well. My son’s whore. What brings you here? Want to take a few hits too?” He taunted, spitting out blood.

“No. Heard a noise. Making sure the house wasn’t haunted. Now that I see that it’s just you… well. I think I’ll let you die alone and miserable,” She responded disgusted.

She turned away from him, planning to just go back to her room.

“Wait. Don’t you turn your back on me. Come back here,” He demanded, with a groan and a cough.

“No. Don’t think I will. Enjoy the rest of your life. However short it may be,” She stated not turning around.

She could hear him yelling more profanities at her as she closed the basement door, grabbing her drink, and going upstairs.

Unaware that Pacho had seen her emerge from that room, he listened to his father’s shouts for a minute before ordering Navegante to get rid of him. He found Blix in her room, grabbing clothes to change into for bed, after her shower.

“You should join me in my room, once you are done,” He told her, causing her to jump slightly as she wasn’t expecting him.

“Christ! Clearly need to throw a bell on you, so I have a warning system,” Blix startled, pressing a hand to her chest.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you,” Pacho apologized before requesting. “I know that…sometimes curiosity can get the best of us. Do me a favor, please don’t go down to the basement anymore. For your own safety.”

“I promise. I’m going to go clean up, and then I’ll join you in your room,” She promised him.

About 20 minutes later, she was strolling into Pacho’s room. She had finished her drink beforehand and joined him on the bed.

“Diego joining us?” She wondered.

“Not tonight, he has other plans,” He whispered to her.

“Your dad… was he always like that? Or was he just good at hiding his hate before he found out about you?” She asked him, shaking her head.

“Hm. Let’s just say… my mother left him for a good reason. She was trying to gain full custody of us when he kicked me out. I didn’t care much. I was moreso worried about Alvaro. I was able to help my mother gain custody of him at least,” Pacho explained, as he wrapped his arms around her.

She returned his embrace, “That’s good….” She paused for a second. “I assume Navegante took care of him.”

Pacho nodded in response, and Blix simply said, “Good.”

She burrowed herself into his arms, growing tired.

“I did want to thank you though. For defending my honor. Not many people would be willing to shoot at their partner’s parent. In fact…” Pacho trailed off, as his hand slowly slid down her curves.

His hand languidly found its way into her sleep shorts, moving past her underwear. His fingers ran themselves up and down her slit, toying with her folds lightly. She took in a shuddering breath as his thumb brushed against her clit.

He gently slid a finger inside her, making a come-hither motion, before a second finger joined. The palm of his hand brushed against her clit teasingly, slowly working her up. Her body was growing warm, and breath short as his movements became more deliberate.

Soon his fingers found a spot that made her gasp loudly, her hands trying to find purchase wherever. His fingers moved over that spot several times, leading her to a swift orgasm. She rode out her orgasm for a moment or two before he pulled his hand away.

“Well. I was tired, but now I don’t really want to sleep,” She moaned softly.

“I was hoping you’d say that,” Pacho groaned as he rolled them over slightly, laying on top of her.

They spent the rest of the night trying to wear each other out.

#pacho herrera #narcos #pacho herrera x oc

25 notes · View notes

ghostiesblog · 4 years ago

Note

happy 100 followers!!!!!!!!! could you write a small flarrie secret admirer drabble? if not that’s totally ok!! congrats again!!!

Thank you anon!!! This is NOT a small drabble lmao I have no concept of doing anything in moderation. Might even edit it a bit in a while and post it on ao3. Thank you for the awesome prompt. Here ya go:

I'm not magical, I can't read your mind

Pairings: Flarrie | Warnings: none

There’s a rose on Flynn’s desk. There’s a rose on Flynn’s desk. And she has no idea who put it there.

Well- she does know who put it there, she knows that it’s Nick’s job this year to distribute the Valentine’s Day roses and messages, a school tradition that Flynn normally despises and mocks to no end. But someone must have bought the rose, addressed it to her and handed it in and Flynn absolutely cannot fathom who would do that for her.

Definitely not the person she wishes this was from. But now is not the time to think about that.

Almost frantically, she scans the rose for an attached message, or at least an indication about who the sender is.

Nothing. In fact, it looks like the cardboard tag has been ripped off, leaving only the corner with her own name, attached to a piece of string.

“Ooh”, Julie says, waggling her eyebrows, when she spots Flynn puzzling over her flower. “Who’s this from?”

“No idea”, Flynn says, dragging her thumb across the jagged edges of the destroyed tag. “No idea…”

Later in the hallway, Flynn tries her best to stealthily transfer the rose from her backpack into her locker. She fails, obviously, because she when she looks around she catches Carrie blatantly staring at her from a few feet away.

“What?” she snaps, irritably. Yes, Carrie has very clearly been trying to be nicer to both her and Julie, but Flynn is still weary of this new found peace.

She also might be a bit annoyed simply because she got a rose and it isn’t from Carrie.

Immediately, something in Carrie’s posture changes and her face scrunches up.

“Nothing”, she says. “Just wondering who’s stupid enough to send you a rose.”

Flynn feels like she’s been punched in the chest. “What’s that supposed to mean?!” she says incredulously.

“Don’t you hate valentine’s day?” Carrie asks and now Flynn is just confused. Why does she still remember that?

“It’s anonymously”, Julie chimes in unhelpfully. “From a secret admirer”

She sings those last words teasingly, like she’s done all the way through English lesson. Like she has any room to talk with the songs Luke and her write about each other on the daily.

Carrie raises an eyebrow, seemingly unimpressed.

“Someone sent you a rose and didn’t even write their name? That’s so stupid.”

“It’s not-“, Flynn starts and then breaks off. Why does she suddenly feel defensive over this anonymous sender?

“Sounds like a coward to me”, Carrie says with a sickly sweet smile before turning away. “See you in music”, she calls and disappears down the hallway.

“What has made her revert back to demon today?” Julie says, sounding as confused as Flynn feels.

Flynn doesn’t expect any follow up after the rose on Valentine’s Day. It has been fun coming up with more and more wild theories with Julie and the band (the latest being that it’s a ghost who has fallen for Flynn when they saw her setting up the lightshow at the Orpheum), but to Flynn at least it is clear that that was the end of it.

So when she finds a small envelope on her desk the next morning, it takes her a bit to figure out what’s happening here.

Inside, she finds a small piece of paper with, curiously enough, words clearly written by a real typewriter on it.

To: Flynn

I’m sorry I’m a mess,

But you simply make me speechless.

I couldn’t let you go without a note,

After I trashed the first one I wrote,

So let me just say, though this is nothing new,

I seem to have hopelessly fallen for you.

When Carrie catches Julie and Flynn pouring over the poem during lunch while walking past their table, she scoffs.

“A bit cliché, don’t you think?”

Flynn scowls and hides the note with her hand. “Go away Carrie”

“The meter’s off”, Carrie says haughtily before stalking off.

“How did she spot that so fast?” Julie exclaims incredulously.

The next note shows up in Flynn’s bag while she’s working on a Spanish presentation with Nick and Carrie.

Roses are red,

Violets are blue,

I like your music,

And your rapping too

“Now that’s just tacky”, Carrie says, while spying over Flynn’s shoulder.

Flynn rolls her eyes.

Flynn,

No poem today, just wanted to say that your smile made my day.

“They’re not even trying anymore, are they?” Carrie mocks.

With your gentle soul and your kind eyes,

You chase away the clouds in the skies,

Never met a person, so loyal and strong

And anyone who had you, would be a lucky one.

“Skies? This sounds ridiculous!”

Flynn curses the fact that Carrie keeps seeing these.

I’d write you a song, but no melody is beautiful enough to fit you.

Even Julie calls that one cheesy but for once, even though she sits right there with them, Carrie has nothing to say.

Flynn looks on confused while Carrie scribbles into her notebook with a pinched expression on her face, pen gripped so tightly that it looks like it might break any second.

“She needs to finish this new Dirty Candy song by tomorrow”, Nick explains.

“Yeah and I hate everything I write the second it’s on the page!” Carrie growls, clearly completely lost in whatever she’s dealing with.

I try to tell you every day,

But you just take my breath away

These rhymes seem silly and never enough

Forgive me, I am blinded by love

“Coming on a bit strong there.”

And she’s back.

Hi Flynn,

I think I’m giving up on the rhyming- It’s a bit strange, isn’t it? Also I swear I’m not a stalker! Just a girl who likes you a lot and is too scared to tell you.

You looked so pretty at the dance yesterday, and you were awesome as a DJ- you always are.

“Surely you must be fed up with this nonsense by now?” Carrie asks, when Flynn passes her on her way out of the classroom, the newest note folded neatly in her hand.

The thing is- Flynn is annoyed. But not exactly by the letters. Her secret admirer is sweet and earnest, seems to love music as much as Flynn and all of her friends do and the little poems always brighten her day.

What’s annoying is that she still can’t figure out who this mysterious person with a crush on her is. And that the person she wishes it was is intend on mocking the whole thing to the best of her abilities.

Every time a new note shows up, Carrie is there, ready to tear it into pieces with pointed words and vicious critiques.

Flynn tries to not let it affect her too much. Otherwise, Carrie has been perfectly civil, friendly even and it feels like a bit of their old friendship is restoring, slowly, piece by piece. And what she says about the letters is mostly directed at this person that none of them really know, not at Flynn herself.

It still feels personal, somehow.

Flynn,

I had a bad day today, but you were really nice to me. It made it all a bit better. Thank you.

It’s when Carrie one day snatches one of the notes right out of Flynn’s hand to call it “embarrassing”, “awkward” and “clumsy”, that something in her just snaps.

“You know what Carrie”, she says, loudly, almost shouting it even, “can you, for once, just keep your unnecessary comments to yourself?”

Almost immediately, Carrie’s arrogant smile falls and Flynn uses the moment of surprise to steal back her piece of paper.

“You’ve been so mean to this person. I don’t know what your issue is here but I need you to back off on the attitude. I might not know who this is from, so I don’t even know if I like whoever is writing these but I like the letters.”

Carrie looks absolutely shocked, completely frozen in place, her jaw clenched tightly. Good.

“Yes, they might not be perfect”, Flynn barrels on, “but they’re honest, and raw and so, so kind and I can tell that they come from the heart and isn’t that the most important thing?!”

Without waiting for an answer, Flynn picks up her bag that she leaned against the lockers when she discovered the note and brushes past Carrie. She knows she’s a bit too worked up, but it has been a trying week.

Only a few moments later she realizes that she saw tears forming in Carrie’s eyes.

In Spanish class, Flynn notices the glaring absence of Carrie in the seat in front of her and a little bit of guilt starts building up inside of her. She has no idea what’s going on, but something clearly is up so after their teacher finally lets them go, Flynn goes on to try and find Carrie.

The music room is one of the first places Flynn thinks of and sure enough, she can hear gentle piano notes and Carrie’s voice singing very quietly drifting through the slightly cracked door.

Before barging in, Flynn stops short when she recognizes parts of the lyrics. Is that- one of the poems she received only a week ago?

Slowly, she tiptoes into the room. What she sees is Carrie, cross-legged at the piano, bent over her notebook full of scribbles that she’s clearly reading from and that somehow contain parts of the poetry that has been a big mystery to Flynn and all of her friends for so long. Just now Carrie’s singing the words that are undeniable not just poems, but song lyrics, and she has added onto them and-

Flynn doesn’t understand anything anymore.

“Carrie!” she says, before she can stop herself. Carrie flinches and bolts away from the piano, the chair clattering down to the floor in the process.

“Flynn”, she breathes, looking terrified.

“I-“, Flynn stutters, “What’s going on? Is this some kind of prank?” She doesn’t think she could take that.

“No!” Carrie yells and immediately winces at her volume. “No, I would never do that to you”

“Then why-“, Flynn is getting more confused every second, “you wrote those? I thought you hated- the notes, I though you hated the notes”

To her horror, Carrie is now actually crying.

“I do hate the notes, I mean I feel so stupid, you hate Valentine’s Day and then I send you a rose, but I just- I like so much and I didn’t know what to do and I wanted to tell you but I couldn’t and then I wrote you those notes but they always sounded so stupid to me”

Carrie is full on panic rambling now and Flynn is barely processing all this new information that is thrown at her.

“I just couldn’t stop myself and then you said you actually like the notes? But I know you’d never like me, as a person, I mean I am awesome as a performer but horrible as a friend, let alone as a girlfriend and-“

“Carrie-“, Flynn tries to intersect, “Carrie!”

Carrie stops and finally looks at her, wide eyed.

“I do like you, as a person”, Flynn says. Her heart is beating out of her chest but she is not letting this go.

“I- what?” Carrie looks as confused as Flynn felt just a minute ago. “You do?”

“Yes”, Flynn says and now she can’t stop the smile on her face, “I really like you. Actually, I always wished those notes were from you.”

Carrie blinks. “You. Okay. Okay. Um- I really didn’t-“

Flynn laughs. “Deep Breaths Carrie.”

“I don’t really know what to do with this now, I’m not good at all this”, Carrie says, waving her hands around but she’s smiling too now, wider with every moment.

“How about a date? Milkshakes?” Flynn asks and she doesn’t even feel afraid anymore.

“Yes”, Carrie says, her eyes sparkling with happiness. “I’d love that.”

#jatp #julie and the phantoms #flarrie #flynn jatp #carrie wilson #fic #writing #prompts

9 notes · View notes

urcadelimabean · 4 years ago

Text

Hello wonderful friends ;) I come bearing news.

I’m back home and figured I’d let you guys know how it went.

First things first. He is “crazy” about me, and “madly in love” with me. He had been waiting to tell me he loves me, and it was very easy to say it back once we had met in person. He says he loves me so frequently that he asked if it bothered me. (Ridiculous - the fact that he wants to say it so often and so sincerely and sweetly makes me ridiculously happy). We spent the week passionately kissing, cooking together, giggling, hugging, watching movies, lying in bed talking late into the night. We made out outside in the snow under the moonlight. We listened to Bach and Mozart and metal and silly 80s music. He made me breakfast every single day and forbid me from touching a single dish to clean up. He played the guitar for me and sang me silly love songs he wrote. We discovered that yes, I can in fact carry him in my arms (often to bed)...the fact that this turns him on is hilarious and amazing. I am unreasonably happy about that.

He is VERY tall. I mean I knew that, but, he is very tall. I can still carry him.

He is a very good kisser. And his lips....so soft.

I was worried things wouldn’t be the same when we met in person, but they were even better, and I got to see his completely-lovestruck-with-Sasha face up close, and it was so so so incredible.

I won’t let this post get too nsfw, but just know that I had a very very very good time. He is not just a considerate lover, but one who prioritizes my enjoyment so far above his own that I had to ask if he was having as good of a time as I was. Falling asleep together was blissful and so easy. He had a lot of marks on his neck when I left, and he really enjoyed me giving them to him, and it was all just very hot. Also he smells good. He kisses my forehead and cheeks a lot, including in the middle of a steamy make out session. He often grabs my hand and holds it to his heart.

Everything was so ridiculously easy with him. I had felt so self conscious and then suddenly I didn’t feel self conscious at all. I mean, the fact that he refers to me as a goddess.....doesn’t hurt.

Remember when I was like, imagine if I had a boyfriend who worshiped the ground I walked on, wouldn’t that be crazy? He admires me. He wanted to shower me with love, and he did.

The poem I wrote for him about alternate ways we could have met, and the book I gave to him (festooned with love notes) both touched him deeply, and I’m really happy about that.

The feminist points he gained by actually preferring the fact that I don’t shave my legs....out of this world. He really likes me as I am, not “despite” anything. Not despite my leg hair, definitely not despite my muscles. He loves how strong I am.

We talked about how I haven’t dated anyone, and I brought up how I also have had crushes on women, not just men, and like I expected, he was maybe a tiny bit surprised but was mostly just very happy to know more about me, which is the perfect reaction. He wishes he was attracted to men in order to disappoint his mother, but alas, he says he will have to find another way to disappoint her.

We lay in bed having conversations about so many interesting things, and it’s amazing how much we can share with each other.

When we were making salmon, I poised a knife over a stick of butter and said, I usually use this much butter but is it too much for you? His response: I love you so much.

I asked if “boyfriend” sounded official enough, and if “love interest” sounded more emphatic. His response: “.....boytoy? ....................consort?”

Sometimes it makes me nervous that he says I’m perfect, because nobody is perfect and eventually there will be some sort of conflict, and I think that’s natural. Sometimes he says the first thing that comes into his mind, and I will have to ask him not to make jokes about certain topics, because it’s not so much that I’m offended as saddened by certain things being brought up in a casual manner.

We have such good communication though, and I’m really glad. He is so emotionally open and it feels like we have a lot of intimacy. And we just enjoy each other’s company so much. Waking up and eating breakfast and having the entire day with him was the best feeling.

Sometimes when I compliment him he is too self deprecating. I said “if you keep dodging my compliments I’m going to have to get back at you somehow” and he made his very cute lovestruck face at me and said “do your worst.” One of the cheeses he bought for me was so delicious that he was like “I’ve only seen you make that face at me...” somehow this led to a conversation in which he was an expensive and delicious cheese originating from Switzerland and aged in France, then imported to the United States. He added that he was melting around me. The way we flirt and tease each other is so fun and makes me smile from ear to ear.

It was hard to say goodbye, but I’m glad that it was hard. I really, really miss him.

To be continued :)

#posts about the love interest

18 notes · View notes

sleekervae · 4 years ago

Text

The Neighbour [0.7]

Masterlist

The sun was high in the sky, bright and casting everything in a flattering golden light. The grass blades beneath Eva's body pricked at her fair skin and Remington's hair tickled her spine, the May heat was blazing but she was happy as she proofread her latest article.

Remington had his white heart-shaped sunglasses on, and Eva was sure he must've been asleep from how still he was. She broke her attention from her laptop and looked over her shoulder, stormy blue eyes gliding over the expanse of his torso and the many tattoos that were like a gallery to his world. A gallery that she had the pleasure of enjoying just for herself.

With a sharp intake, Remington stirred when he felt he was being watched. And when he saw Eva's delicate face looking back at him, he smiled back, face thick with sleep but he looked happy.

"What are you looking at?" he asked.

"Just checking on you," she replied coyly, "You comfortable?"

"Yes I am. Had no idea you made such a good pillow," he grinned, to which Eva simpered amusedly, "How's your article coming?"

"Just proofing before I send it," she said.

"How much you getting for it?"

"Seven hundred and fifty bucks"

He gave a stirring whistle, settling down against her flank and closing his eyes, "Make that money, Eva,"

Eva was quiet as he nestled down again, but she kept her eyes fixated on his body. She admired the way the light bounced over the sunscreen-slick film on his skin, and how effortlessly pretty and cool Remington looked in contrast to the lush green grass beneath him. The tips of her fingers brushed at the cooler blades beneath her chest, fighting the urge to reach over and touch the ink on his bicep.

And just like that, a new poem jingled in her brain and sprinted to her fingertips. The poem was drafted in minutes, and as Eva read it over and over to herself she was at a loss as to whether she should publish it to her blog. She knew Remington had looked at her poetry, and she wondered what he would think if she posted a piece about him. Or what his fans would think if they happened to find her blog. Would people even know it was about him?

Nevertheless, she took another glance at his rising and falling chest. In her lens she looked at him like a muse, a piece of art that she wanted to record and worship with her words. And that feeling made her nervous.

... But it also had her simmering with excitement.

"You're still staring at me," he suddenly said, a mischievous smile spreading across his face.

Eva rolled her eyes, though a sheepish grin spread across her own lips as she pushed her laptop across the grass, "Let me up,"

Remington's eyes snapped open again as he lifted his head so Eva could get to her feet, "You alright?" he asked.

"I'm just gonna' get something drink. You want anything?" she replied.

"I'm good," he threw his hands behind his head as he laid back down in the grass, "I'll guard your computer for you,"

Eva chuckled, "You're so brave,"

"Aren't I?"

Eva slipped her tank back over her bikini top, rubbing at the hot spot where Remington's hair had prickled over her skin. Her hand seemed to shake as she pulled back the glass sliding door, quickly slipping inside and finding Emerson sat on the couch with his notebook and variety of charcoals. Pepper was sleeping at his feet, but she perked up and tried to crawl to the top of the couch when she heard Eva's footsteps.

Emerson turned to his neighbour, "You okay, Eva?"

"Yeah," the small brunette replied, "Could I grab some water?"

"Of course," he smiled, "You know where the glasses are,"

"Thanks," she grabbed herself a glass of cold water and headed back for the door, stopping when she peaked over Emerson's shoulder and gazed in awe at the gothic victorian architecture covering two full pages in his journal, "That's so sick,"

"Thanks," he replied happily, "Did Remington tell you about our graphic novel?"

"He did. Did you illustrate everything?" she asked incredulously.

Emerson shrugged sheepishly, "I had a lot of help. I'll let you read the first copy that comes out, if you'd want"

"That would be awesome,"

It was then an idea stirred in the back of Emerson's head, "Do you write any fictional stuff?"

Eva shrugged, debating whether she should bring up her fanfiction hobby, "... I've dabbled,"

Emerson smiled, "Well, I'm planning to make these into a series. When we start drafting the next volume, would you want to work on it with us?"

Eva's heart nearly leapt into her throat, "You serious?"

"Why not?" he shrugged, "It's always more fun working with friends, anyway,"

Eva's face flushed, "Emerson, I'm honoured! I'd love to work with you guys,"

Over in the backyard, Remington shifted and sat up from his nap. He blinked his eyes a few times to get used to the sudden influx of light, then focusing in on the shadowy silhouette of Eva and Emerson in the house. He watched her smile, and the hand that wasn't holding a water glass came to rest on her chest. He wondered what they were talking about: probably art, the pandemic, the album party that was coming up this week.

Or was it possible that they were talking about him?

Remington took a glance at her macbook, the screen having just fell asleep. Curiosity got the better of Remington, he wondered why Eva kept glancing at him between her writing. He checked again and Emerson and Eva were still having their conversation, and Remington reached over and tapped the touchpad, bringing the laptop back to life. Eva's main page was her article about dog fighting and the people who ran these gambling rings, but Remington clicked on the open Tumblr tab. A draft of a new poem stared back at him, and before he knew what he was doing he was reading it word-for-word.

"You sleep soundly, protected by the company of

snakes, angels, and demons.

They guard your organs, flesh, and muscles.

Without moving eyes they watch the world pass you by

While you're none the wiser, drunk on beer and sunstroke.

The breath that leaves you fans over a crest of regality, valiance,

The summer grass tries to scratch away the frowns of the skulls on your arms,

You've come too far to continue to be sad.

At least, that's the impression I get.

I like your homage to the illuminati: that little triangle below your intestine

forever searches for lies and enlightenment.

Or maybe you just decided that it looked cool?

And I love that angel, clinging to your spine as you dive into the four corners of hell

Yet it drags you back to the surface, reminding you of the better qualities you have

that overshadow the bad ones.

Your body is a gallery, and I've bought myself a ticket.

I only planned to take the basic tour, a brief introduct --"

Remington quickly clicked back to Eva's article when he heard the door sliding open again, but Eva had caught him snooping. She looked down at him quizzically.

"What are you doing?" she asked, her standing figure blocking out the searing sun.

Remington glanced back at the screen, "Reading about the bastards who exploit defenseless animals and force them into fighting for monetary gain," he replied quickly, "Very profound work,"

Eva had the mind to know he was spouting straight bullshit, but she didn't press on, "Thank you," she set down her water glass and started to pull off her shorts.

"Your thirst quenched?" he asked.

"Yes, and now I'm going to go for a swim," she smiled, "You're more than welcome to join me,"

Remington sat back as her tank top fell to the ground, revealing the small flower tattoo on her ribs peeking out from the band of her bikini. Eva stood at the edge of the pool, shook out her hair, and dived head first into the crystalline water. Remington smiled to himself as he stood up, his heart thrumming as fast as a hummingbird could bat its wings when as the words he read fluttered behind his eyes.

She was writing a poem about him.

Eva emerged from the water just as Remington took a running start, and without warning, cannonballing into the water beside her. As she wiped the water from her eyes more had splashed over her head. Remington broke out of the water seconds later, laughing when he saw the scowl on Eva's face.

"You're so fucking chaotic!"

"You love me,"

The album was to drop this Thursday at midnight, and they were going to stream and celebrate its release at Sebastian's place with a party. A small party, with Daniel, Andrew, their mom, and their girlfriends.

And of course, Eva had been invited.

Remington assured her it was just going to a small casual affair, and all she needed to bring was her "gorgeous smile". Those were the words he used. Nevertheless, Eva had a constant flutter in the pit of her stomach as Thursday neared; annoyed because no matter what she pulled out of her closet she seemed to have nothing to wear, and popping advil because her period decided to pay her an early visit the morning of the party.

Remington continued to check Eva's Tumblr and Instagram pages now and again, wondering if she had posted the rest of that poem. He felt a little guilty about snooping, and he wondered what her reaction would be if she knew he had looked. Or perhaps she already knew that he had and she was only letting it slide because she didn't want to talk about it. And as he stood in the shower on the morning of the party, not snapping out of his thoughts until Emerson banged on the door loudly for his turn, Remington began to realize he wanted Eva so much more than he should have for a friend.

Pluto lay diligently at the foot of Eva's bed while she worked, wearing a face mask to hopefully keep her period acne at bay. She read through her most recent poems, a shiver crawling up her spine every time she read them. It was scary because within the last few days, she realized Remington had become the muse she examined and picked apart in her pieces. It wasn't that she hadn't written about boys before, she had, but they didn't elicit the same excitement Remington did when he touched her; or when he was even near her.

In the two and some months she had come to know him, Eva's world had grown so small and yet exploded so suddenly in such little time. Remington was a firecracker of wild colors that splattered across the folds of her brain and drew her into him like a moth to the light. She wanted to watch him move, work, and no matter what she wanted to make him smile. After listening to his music, she knew how badly he needed to be happy. And there was a part of her that wondered what it would be like; how would he be with her if they started a relationship? What's it like dating a rockstar? She imagined the day-to-day wouldn't be very different from how they were now: great friends just one step further on the scale of intimacy.

The more she thought about it, the more she wanted it. She wanted him.

✧✧✧

Remington's tongue tingled as he approached the complex courtyard in the late evening, his gaze flying to her balcony to hopefully get a small glimpse of Eva. He smashed the call button for her apartment and waited for her sweet voice to pick up.

"Yellow!" she answered happily.

"It's your friendly neighbourhood psychopath," Remington smiled as he spoke into the speaker.

Eva chuckled, "Come on up! I got the door open,"

The front door clicked and Remington slipped inside, his mask over his face as he waved to the landlord who was too nose deep in his newspaper to give a damn about him.

He pulled his mask down and knocked first before entering Eva's apartment, first being greeted by Pluto who leapt out of his bed and began to rub himself against his pant leg. Remington scooped him up in his arms.

"It's good to see you too, buddy!" he cooed at the cat, "Are you coming to the party with us? Maybe if we ask nicely your mom will take you?"

Remington's attention diverted from Pluto when he heard Eva walk in from behind. Turning around, any words he had were suddenly stuck in his throat when his eyes fell over her. Just when Remington thought she couldn't look any more gorgeous, she blew all his expectations out of the water in a body-hugging black, white, and red plaid dress, white sandals on her feet and her short hair loose and wavy. She only had on mascara and some eyeliner, but in his opinion, Eva didn't need any more than that.

She was absolutely beautiful.

Her smile faltered when Remington hadn't said a word, not even a hello, "... You're looking at me weird," she said, bordering on panic as she glanced at her dress, "Do I look weird? 'Cause I can go change --"

Remington quickly snapped out of it, "N-No! You're fucking gorgeous," he gaped, "Sorry, I didn't mean to stare like that --"

"No, it's okay," she assured him, smiling sheepishly as her heart skipped a beat, "You look really good, too. Yellow suits you nicely,"

Remington chuckled, continuing to cradle Pluto as he glanced at his pants, "See -- me and Emerson got into a debate. I say they're yellow, he think they're lime,"

Eva shrugged, "Regardless, they're on the citrus spectrum," she grinned, going to grab her purse, "Are you sure I can't bring anything? Like a bottle of wine, or --"

"Nope! Seb's got all the alcohol we'll need," he replied, "You can bring Pluto if you want, though. Emerson's gonna' bring Pepper,"

"He's better off here where I know he'll be safe. Over there, I'll constantly be worried if he's trying to tear up the carpet or... or eating another shoe," Eva shook her head.

Remington shrugged as he set Pluto down, "Just as well, I don't think he and Pepper like each other," he said.

"Oh really? What gave that away?" Eva asked in mock disbelief, "The constant hissing, the yapping, the growling? The cat's staying here,"

"Sorry bud, I tried," he said to Pluto. The tabby spun his tail before striding off back to his bed.

Eva took a deep breath and stared up at the ceiling, "He'll be fine," she sighed.

Remington cocked his head, "You okay?"

"Yeah," she nodded quickly, "It's that time of the fucking month again and my stomach does not like me,"

He swallowed with uncertainty, "... It's just a period thing, right? You're not losing taste or smell or anything, right?"

"No, it's just a period thing," she assured him, "I'll be fine. I feel like shit, but I just need some fresh air and some good music,"

"Lucky for you, I can provide all of those things. And just to reiterate, you look fantastic," he said.

"You're sweet," she smiled, slinging her denim jacket on and clutching her purse, "Shall we?"

"We shall," Remington quickly held the door open for her, "After you, my lady,"

"Why thank you, kind sir,"

#remington leith #Remington Leith imagine #emerson barrett #sebastian danzig #palaye royale #Palaye Royale imagine #Palaye Royale fic #poetry #boy bands #band imagines #band imagine blog #band blog #original story #original female character

38 notes · View notes