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theflashesoflove · 2 years ago

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amuse-bouche

Jan Stevens x f!reader (nsfw)

a/n: i present to you my monstrous love for this woman. you can tell what her voice does to me. i have been writing it for several nights and completely fucked up my stupid sleep schedule. proofread, but there might be some mistakes i didn't catch. perhaps i need to go outside and touch some boob- i mean grass.

warnings/tags: descriptions of an injury, blood and cunnilingus

word count: 5k

💌: @maximoffslovergirl

A loud thud. A wooden stool slipping from under your legs, a mixer falling down to the floor, smearing everything with sweet sticky substance. A bowl of cream tipping over onto your dress, your skin, all over the floors. A strangled cry in pain, a dislocated kneecap. A blood stream flowing down your leg in a perfect straight line, an attempt to stand up- more pain.

Silence.

Your bandmates turned off the hardware, vibration and rustle of your symphony faded out. The first rule of performance: if you mess up, pretend it was intentional. Audience’s applause was a distant noise – standing on all fours, you were dumbfounded by pain, a white veil covering your vision for a split second. Good, they thought that your embarrassing collapse was just the last strike of a chord. The hall became deserted in a few minutes. A few long, unendurable minutes, and not a single person paid attention to you still being on the floor, petrified by pain.

Finally, your bandmates surrounded you, their hands reached out to your shoulders to help you get up, but you waved them away. You knew you couldn’t stand up, no matter how many hands would help you get on your feet. You groaned, falling over to the side to get your weight off your hands and knees. Blood and sweet cream mixed on your skin, making it sticky and hard to tear away from the floor. Fuck, it hurt. Like a fire burning under your skin, the pain streaming down your right knee across your calf and ankle to the tips of your toes. Your other leg was in pain as well, but a different kind of pain. A familiar cramp twisted the muscles of your left calf, turning them to stone. Excellent, both of your legs were nonfunctional. You bit your lip to suppress your cries and blinked the tears away.

The world around you didn’t exist anymore, pain placed you into a vacuum. At that moment, you thought it would be easier to just pass out from it, to come round when the pain was over and your bandmates miraculously delivered your body to Dr. Glock to deal with the injury. Speaking of Dr. Glock, you really didn’t want to see him. So when your bandmates suggested calling for him, you refused. They stepped away and proceeded to pack the equipment and clean up the food from the table. At least you didn’t have to attend the afterparty anymore. Stones scribbled something in his notebook, observing your agony. Perhaps he would bring this situation up during the interview.

You looked at your leg again, the wound still didn’t stop bleeding. Pink patches of blood and cream on your skin were connected with the scarlet river system. Your knee pulsated and swelled, pain capturing all of your senses.

But something managed to sneak in. Something soft, warm, intriguing even, something soothing and yet so very intoxicating. A hand on your shoulder. A flash of white fabric, black fabric, white fabric again, black eyeshadow, the scent of her hairspray.

This woman thrilled you right from the auditions. No one from your band understood your obsession with her, and they jokingly scolded you for getting distracted from perfecting your performance. But you had it all figured out. You’d managed to focus on your performances, but a part of you, a very big part of you, wanted to impress her. It worked like a perfect mechanism, her scrutiny, praise and helpful remarks brought out the best of your performing abilities, which rewarded you with more of her attention. Though you were sure, it wasn’t anything bigger for her. Her attention never meant anything beyond appraising your art, and the older woman was so out of your league anyway. Elegant, statuesque, with mouth-watering curves and dainty fingers. Her signature makeup complimented her soft features, her attires were so very her, quite formal yet with unmatched grandiosity. And you knew that all of it was expensive. That the fabric of her skirts and blouses was pleasant against her body, that no seams irritated her satin skin. However the thing that brought you to the edge the most was her sultry voice. Voice that made you want to crawl out of your body to no longer be limited by the human form and encompass every vibration of her vocal cords, every movement of her tongue against the roof of her mouth, every barely noticeable breath that accompanied her words. No angel choir could ever compare to her giving dinner speeches, to her squeaking when she was enraged, to her reprimanding your bandmates for ignoring her advice, to her guiding your band through the shops practise with her languid tone.

“Jan Stevens,” you whispered, suddenly so very aware of her proximity. And of the unappealing state you were in. You must have looked pathetic. You imagined that she was about to scrunch her nose and snort, but she just looked at you and crouched beside, a worried expression on her face.

Her voice drowned out your pain for a split second, “Poor thing,” she murmured, brushing your hair off your face. “Can you stand up?”

“She can’t,” your bandmate stepped in, but Jan Stevens didn’t even turn her head away from your face to acknowledge them speaking. She indeed heard them, though, and furrowed her brow, alarmed.

“We suggested calling for Dr. Glock. She refuses to see him,” the other bandmate meddled, annoying you to no end. You didn’t want Jan Stevens tut at you being whimsical and hard to deal with. To your relief, she did no such thing.

“I’ll take care of it, dear. Wim!!!” Before you could answer, she called out the institute's technical assistant. When he finally approached the two of you, her gaze still didn’t leave your pained face. “Please, bring her to my house. She can’t walk.” Wim sighed, but didn’t protest. He never did. And Jan Stevens tipped generously, so he scooped you up in his arms, ignoring your hisses.

Jolts of pain stroke you with every step Wim took towards Jan Stevens’ house. You tried not to press yourself into him too much and keep as quiet as you could. Well, you tried not to howl your lungs out, restricting yourself to teary whines. Jan Stevens followed both of you, but Wim had to wait before the front door for the older woman to open it and hold it for him to enter. He found the nearest seat he could settle you in and left, gaining a nod from Jan Stevens.

The woman disappeared somewhere and you tried to sit as comfortably as you could. But no matter the position, it ached, and ached, and ached. You became awfully aware of how sticky your clothes were, covered in stupid melted buttercream you used for your confectionery themed performance. You didn’t mind the feeling for performance's sake, but it wasn’t about art anymore. It was about your clumsiness, your foolishness, and it was suffocating. Squirming, you decided to take your dress off and clean yourself with it, ignoring Jan Stevens’ curious look when she returned to the couloir to see you in your underwear.

She held a small white box in her hands with a bright red cross on its lid, a first aid kit. Kneeling before you, she placed it on the floor, and waited for you to finish dealing with the cream. You hesitated as to where to put your dirty clothes, and the woman took it from you to carelessly drop it to the floor. She licked her lips and focused on your injured knee, tilting her head from side to side to examine it.

“Aren’t you supposed to be observing the afterparty?” you pried, feeling hot at being the centre of her attention.

She shook her head, “I have something more important to deal with. My absence is justified.” Your ears flushed at her words. “Are you in pain anywhere else?”

“My other leg,” you said, “is cramping. It’s… fuck…” Your left leg was stiff, toes unnaturally curled, and the more you focused on that pain, the more insufferable it felt.

The older woman stroked your legs, not caring that one of her hands got immediately covered in gore. Humming, she decided to deal with your cramp at first. She took your left leg and stretched it out, it made you shriek, muscles tightening so hard as though they were going to be torn apart. She bent your knee and pulled it toward your abdomen, leaving faint palm prints on your skin with your own blood. You couldn’t tell if your cramp was relieved at all, because your other knee still ached immensely. Jan Stevens looked at you under her lashes as she moved your leg. She visibly swallowed, tracing the path of your half-naked body with her eyes, and finally settled your left leg to the ground. Your mouth slightly agape, you watched as she turned her attention to your wound once again, her fingers circled around the source of bleeding, barely touching, feeling how swollen your knee had gotten.

Then, she did something you never expected. Jan Stevens leaned closer to your oozing wound, and stuck out her tongue to press it against you. You gasped, your fingers twitched – you had to stop yourself from burying them in her curls to push her away or to pull her closer. She lapped at your sore skin, acting surprised when the sudden sweetness of buttercream hit her tongue. She looked unabashedly satisfied. Your stomach flipped, a sudden gush of wetness covered your sex and you knew that you were doomed. If she had lowered her gaze, she would have been able to see the dark spot spreading on your underwear, exposing you.

"It hurts," you whined, grimacing. Her cool tongue gently swiped across your knee, aggravating. There were so many sharp sensations. And not a single question about her actions. A cramp in your left leg died down a bit, the echoes of the pain flaring up under your skin from time to time. The other injured leg ached, it ached even more now that Jan Stevens’ mouth was pressed against the mixture of your blood and sweet cream, devouring it like the best dessert she had ever had.

“I know, dear. Didn’t you know that saliva had healing properties?” Jan Stevens gave you a sickly sweet smile, but your pained expression made her face twitch in worry that she might have crossed the thin already nonexistent line. “I’ll help you, let me just…” and she caressed the skin of your calf, hands crawling up towards your knee where her mouth pressed against your skin again, making you whimper from strange, uncalled desire and, of course, boundless pain. “Shhh…” she cooed, her fingers grabbing your knee, open mouth pressed against your skin. She wasn’t kissing or licking it anymore, she just sat there, on her knees before you, her face flush against your dewy skin, hands snapping your kneecap into place with one quick motion. You cried out, hands gripping the arms of the fauteuil, nails scratching antique wood, tears splashing out of your eyes. “Oh, sweet girl,” her solacing voice brought you back to reality and you noticed that it was much easier to breathe.

The overwhelming pain gradually stepped away, leaving behind a soreness that was much more bearable. Absolutely crushed in the armchair, you suddenly felt so, so tired. And so fucking aroused. Because Jan Stevens planted one last kiss to your knee and turned to her first aid kit to treat your wound. There was a little bit of blood on her face, almost the same colour as her lipstick. She cleaned your leg, lost in the process, and you just wanted, just needed to feel her mouth again. To see her lips wrapped around your wound, to hiss as her tongue would lap on your injured flesh again. Her soft hands flew across your skin, applying bandages, and once she was done, she sat back on her heels and placed her hands on her lap, looking up at you.

“Better?” she asked, and you nodded, pursing your lips. Smiling, she added, gingerly, “You still must see a doctor, darling. I can arrange for someone else to examine you.”

“Thank you.” You knew that you looked like a mess. Dried tears on your face, dishevelled hair, weakness in your voice. Jan Stevens smiled and smoothed the fabric of her skirt, however she didn’t rush to get up and go on about her night. Her gaze studied you, curious, yet… unsure? She licked her lips, remnants of your blood hitting her tongue. Why did she look so hesitant after just almost drinking from your wound? You didn’t have enough strength in you to stare back, so you busied yourself with observing the couloir, now that your attention was no longer captured by strong pain. Jan Stevens fitted in this environment perfectly, and for a moment you wondered what her bedroom looked like. Was she her startling self even in the privacy of her home? Was she always wearing that makeup? She surely had to take it off at some point in the night, hadn’t she? What clothes did she sleep in? Did she sleep alone or was there someone keeping her warm from time to time? And did she even have a kitchen? It was most likely that she did, but did she use it?

Her voice snapped you back from your thoughts, smooth as silk, “The fall was not planned, was it?”

“Lost my balance,” you replied, not really willing to elaborate.

“You never had problems with it before,” she wondered.

“I just… I got lost in the sound and,” you started, unsure how to put it, “my thoughts lead me elsewhere.”

“Where?” she leaned closer, curious.

“Sometimes I forget that- that art isn’t all about the outcome. It’s about the process… I was carried away with anticipation of the result.”

“Tell me more,” her eyes bore into you. “What result did you anticipate?” And when she spoke like that, you knew you couldn’t withhold anything from her.

You blushed and looked away. “I anticipated… being seen. That once we end our performance, people might get frustrated it was already over. And some of them might… might think of me, even for a second. Might… notice something about me, might be interested in something about me… and- oh, it sounds so silly.”

“And what?”

“And some of them… might want me to be in their life. Some of them might want me,” you whispered, horrified at your own thoughts.

“Don’t you feel wanted?” She sounded almost disappointed.

The question was phrased rather oddly, you contemplated. Like you were supposed to feel wanted, like you didn’t recognise someone’s efforts. The truth was that maybe at that particular moment you did feel wanted. That maybe Jan Stevens’ treatment, and the way she still sat in front of you on her knees, looking deep into your soul, her sultry voice kissing your ears and making your body shiver with every word she spoke, maybe all of it made you feel wanted.

“I… I don’t know. My band needs me, although I’m sure they hate me for ruining the performance. But they can always replace me. And- I don’t want to be replaceable.”

It was too much to ask, you recognised that. Every person was replaceable, after all. Even directors of the Sonic Catering Institute, they had replaced one another until it was Jan Stevens’ turn to take the position. And someday there would be a replacement even for her. No person is truly unique, truly indispensable. There’s always someone else. Someone better, even. Your friend found new friends after you isolated yourself from them, your teacher found a new favourite student after you graduated, the company you worked for found a new employee after you quit. And even after your performance the audience walked away and found some other form of art to admire. They forgot about you – they probably didn’t even memorise you in the first place – until your next performance. But maybe, maybe there was someone who felt drawn to you. Maybe they weren't able to get you off their mind, maybe they attended every performance just for you alone, and maybe they would still think about you even after the residency would be over. And maybe they thought about you at night, and maybe they cried, because they would never be able to reach you, to hold your hand, to kiss you. And maybe you would inspire them to make art of their own. And maybe they would silently dedicate every art piece to you, or maybe they would say it loud and clear. And maybe they would live with a heavy soul their whole life, never having gotten a taste of you. Never having spoken to you. You would leave a trace in their heart, a scar even, and you would be irreplaceable for them until they draw their last breath.

Having such thoughts made you feel guilty. It was hard not to lose yourself in this craving for being special, hell, these thoughts had already made you fall down and bleed and cry in pain.

“This is why you create, to feel wanted?” Jan Stevens’s voice brought you back to earth once again.

“Partly, yeah,” the older woman tilted her head to the side in question and you explained, “I value the process. I revel in the process, but I also… I also crave the unachievable outcome, is it a bad thing?”

“Of course not,” Jan Stevens lifted herself, standing on her knees, and reached her hand to your face to gently stroke your cheek, “It’s better than lying to yourself.”

Fuck, why didn’t she kiss you already? You reminisced her face, contorted with pleasure as she licked the blood off your skin. You reminisced her hungry gaze, the breathtaking blues of her eyes swallowed by the dark pits of her pupils. And she was so close now, she caressed your cheek, and you noticed the corner of her mouth twitch in something she tried to suppress. “Do you do that?” you breathed out, looking her in the eyes.

“Do what?” her voice was sweetened by the amused smile that spread across her features. You wanted to grab her by the hair and bring her lips to your ear for her to whisper, and whisper, and whisper the filthiest of words. You wanted to wrap yourself in her voice.

“Lie to yourself,” your words made Jan Stevens’ expression turn stone serious. Did you upset her? Was she about to throw you out of her home on your broken knees? She slowly rose, your head leaned backwards, following her movements. Her hand grabbed the back of the fauteuil, and after regarding you from her full height for a second, she bent down until her breath tickled your cheeks once again.

“Yes. A lot lately,” her upper lip twitched again, and she breathed out of her mouth, hesitating for a second. “Every year,” she started her revelation, “I dread that there will be someone who catches my eye and I won’t be able to resist it.” She made a small pause, her eyes sparkling dangerously. “But I also secretly hope that among my residents… there might be someone… for me, not for the audience, just for me.” Her intense gaze turned you inside out. “Don’t you feel wanted, Y/N?” the older woman asked again, her tone different this time. “Just like you craved to feel?” And you knew you had to be honest.

“I… I think I do,” your voice trembled, ragged breaths left your mouth as she leaned closer, so painfully closer. She looked satisfied with your answer.

“Good.” And she kissed you. Slowly, although it was clear that she suppressed the urge to swallow you whole. She grabbed your chin and dug her nails into your jaw to keep your mouth open, and she swiped the tip of her tongue across your lips, moaning, the knot inside of your stomach made itself known again. “I could give you it all,” she whispered into your parted lips after tearing herself away. “I could make you feel so, so special.” Jan Stevens shifted to the side and licked the helix of your ear and you whimpered, and you clamped your thighs, the slickness between your legs was audible at this point. “But beware, once I start, I won’t be able to stop, ever,” her mouth captured your earlobe, tongue playing with your tiny earring.

Every word she spoke melted on her tongue like sugar, syrupy sweet syllables, meringue consonants and honey vowels. Her gaze bore into you like a spoon dipping into crème brûlée, and you were finally between her teeth, an indulgence she could never resist. She caressed your torso with featherlight touches, looming over you, her nails scraping your rubicund skin ever so slightly.

“Please,” you begged and spread your legs, instantly wincing and cursing under your breath from the pain. You grabbed her hips and leaned closer, hiding your face in the delicate fabric of her white blouse.

"Do you really think you can take it?” Jan Stevens spoke again, her voice almost dangerous, cutting through you like a knife. But there was something else in her question. It was half playful, half sincere. As if she asked 'Do you think you can handle me? My desire? Do you think you won’t get sick of me the second we finish? Do you think you really want to stay with me?’

“I can,” you said confidently, answering all of her questions at once. “Or do you want me to beg for you to finally fuck my face?” you snapped.

“That won’t be necessary, dear” Jan Stevens uttered and sharply breathed out through her nose. The upholstery dipped under her weight as she climbed onto the fauteuil, it was a tight squeeze, but she managed to fit your legs between her knees, not straddling you, not applying any pressure to your much-suffering legs. She towered over you even in this position, her crotch right in front of your face. She rushed to hike up her long white skirt, exposing her ivory thighs wrapped in sheer black stockings. Your eyes focused on her red lace knickers that looked like a cherry you wanted to catch with your mouth.

“Fuck,” you mumbled, breathing her scent in. You pressed your nose against her thigh, hands squeezing her heavenly flesh bedecked with stretch marks. She peeped at you from above, biting her lower lip in seething anticipation.

Two of your digits dove past the band of her underwear, you coated your fingers with her essence and slowly, carefully pulled them out and sucked them into your mouth. You groaned at the taste of her, tongue ripping the string of her wetness that connected your fingers. Once your fingers were out of your mouth, she tightly fisted her skirt in one of her hands to instantly pull you towards her with her now free hand, an airy moan escaping her throat as soon as your nose pressed against her clit through her knickers.

You lapped at the soaked lace, causing a delightful friction of fabric against her sensitive spot. With one finger, you finally pushed her panties to the side and immediately kissed her slit, eliciting a blissful sound out of the woman. Her hand was still in your hair and she was firmly holding you where she needed you the most.

“Oh, darling,” she drawled out and closed her eyes. Her fingertips massaged your scalp, and you hummed against the slickness, causing her to growl.

With a simmering passion, you lapped at her folds and pressed onward onto her entrance. Eating her out was an otherworldly experience, it seemed like all of your life events led you to this particular moment. Her breathy moans encouraged you to press harder, to grind your nose against her clit and keep worshipping her. At that moment, you thought of the afterparty that was held in the main building, and with a certain smugness you realised how lucky, how special you were to be here, with her, while your bandmates must have revelled in the audience's tribute. The honour of being with her was transcendent, it was the highest praise. A course that you wanted to prolong until her knees would give in, until she wouldn’t be able to release anything other than muffled sobs of overwhelming pleasure.

Her legs trembled above you. Grabbing her ass, you helped her steady herself, squeezing and squishing her plump flesh, and losing yourself, and allowing yourself to lightly slap her cheek to give her more, to give her the diversity of sensations. To show her that you would do anything with her, anything she would like, as many times as she would like, as filthy and rough as she would like, as lovingly and tenderly as she would like. To tell her, I wanted this for so long, and I can’t believe I’m here, and I won’t let you down, and I want all of your eccentricity, all of your ardour, all of your greatness, all of you, all of you, all of you.

I want to sleep in your bed and wake up next to you, and kiss your beautiful face the first seconds of the morning. I want to sit next to you during performances and hold your hand, and stroke your thigh when no one sees. I want to sit near you at dinners, and soothe you, when residents test your patience as they always do. I want to protect you from intruders, hell, I would slash their throats for you to finally feel at peace. I want to walk with you in the gardens and compare your eyes to the clear sky. I want to help you take off your makeup at night and apply fresh eyeshadow in the morning. I want to help you dress, I want to undress you as a night ritual. For I am greedy for you. For you finally, finally gave me a taste of life I missed so dearly.

The agonising aching in your knee never stopped, but you didn’t allow it to distract you from her. When some sudden jolts of pain made you let out a strangled ‘aw’ against her cunt, the older woman stroked your head, comforting you.

Jan Stevens groaned as you sucked on her clit, and you pushed your hand up under the band of her skirt, under her blouse, and you groped her tummy, nails biting into the softness. Her skin was warm, covered in sweat, – god, she must have been very hot being still fully dressed when the air around the two of you seemed so heavy and stuffy – and you kneaded her flesh before reaching even further, fingers crawling to her bra and under it to graze her hardened nipple. Your tongue swirled across her lower lips as you rubbed her nipple between your fingertips and pinched it, causing her to let out a hoarse ‘Y- yes, Yes!’. How enrapturing it was, feeling her come undone above you with the palm of her hand wrapped around the back of your head. Feeling her fingers tangling in your hair, as your digits moved in crushing waves across the skin you could reach, as her pussy fitted in your mouth oh so perfectly. A mixture of her juices and your saliva dripped down your chin and your jaw was on fire already, moving up and down, mouth closing and opening around her. And your tongue dipped into her just right, as far as it could go, and she moved her hips to meet its thrusts.

Eventually you retracted your hand from under her clothes, it replaced your tongue, massaging her sticky entrance in circular motions. Fuck, the way she dripped on your fingers made you groan, and you tried to pull away for a second to admire her form, but Jan Stevens protested and pushed your back right on her clit.

“Ah- f- fuck, don’t- don’t stop, don’t stop, ahh- don’t you d- dare stop,” it came out under her breath, sweet whimpers getting in the way of her words.

Clenching your thighs, you felt so close to your own release. Just a little bit more pressure, just something, something to rut against, just for a second, just a couple of swift strokes, just- oh. Maybe you didn’t even need any of that after all. Maybe Jan Stevens, oh Jan Stevens, rubbing against your face in fast hard motions with your name on her lips was enough to bring you over the edge without any stimulation. You shuddered underneath her and your fingers that previously just applied pressure onto her surface, slithered inside of her and were immediately clenched by her wet walls. She came, shivering so hard it made her slip out of your mouth and from your fingers and smear your cheek with her essence. Her moan rang across the room, you trembled under her, and your clit pulsated, triggered from that sound, causing a whimper of your own. You leaned back on the armchair, sweat dripping down your temples.

Jan Stevens dropped her skirt and gripped the baсkrest with both of her hands, breathing heavily. She looked at you from above, a clouded gaze admiring your exhausted state. Next thing you knew, she leaned closer and kissed you with such urgency it made your teeth clash against hers.

“I have never felt so desired,” you almost didn’t catch her whispering, still coming down from your own orgasm. Her words sounded detached as if she was pondering to herself rather than talking to you, almost surprised, stunned even.

I have never felt so lucky, you wanted to say. And I would give you more, and I would push you down to the floor and unravel you, and I would let you use me again and again and again. I would do all of it, if my leg didn’t hurt so fucking bad. Oh, there was so much she still didn’t know about your feelings towards her.

Soon after her feet met the ground, and she studied your appearance once again. You could see her musing upon something – she must have thought of the ways to help you get up. Without further ado, Jan Stevens scooped you up in her arms, and you let out a mixture of light giggles and quiet grunts from the pain.

“Now, I will tuck you into bed like a doll you are. And I will call a doctor in the morning,” she murmured, carrying you to her bedroom.

“Can I help you take off your makeup?” you muttered, pressing your cheek against her shoulder.

“Oh dear,” she thought about it for a second, an amused smile on her lips. You pouted, awaiting her answer. “Yes, yes you can.”

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a/n: i can assure you that reader absolutely adored her bunny pyjamas

#jan stevens #jan stevens x reader #jan stevens x y/n #flux gourmet #gwendoline christie

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yuzurujenn · 2 months ago

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[2024.12.23] AERA December 30, 2024 issue - Report on 'Yuzuru Hanyu ICE STORY 3rd "Echoes of Life" TOUR'

"Guided by 'Sound' Report on 'Yuzuru Hanyu ICE STORY 3rd "Echoes of Life" TOUR'

The third installment of the ice story by professional skater Yuzuru Hanyu has begun. This is a report on the first day of his Saitama performance, which took place on his 30th birthday.

Writer: Takaomi Matsubara Photo and Video Department: Takuya Matsunaga

------------------------------------------------------------------

Before the doors opened, many people had already gathered around the venue. Some were taking pictures of large posters, others were taking commemorative photos with the venue in the background. On December 7th, at the Saitama Super Arena, the "Yuzuru Hanyu ICE STORY 3rd 'Echoes of Life' TOUR" premiered. It marked the beginning of a tour that will visit Hiroshima in January 2025 and Chiba in February. Despite the cold air, there was a palpable sense of excitement.

As the venue opened and the showtime approached, the murmurs of the crowd filled the space, only to gradually fall silent. The lights dimmed. A loud round of applause erupted. Images began to play on the large screen installed at the back of the skating rink.

The scene that unfolded before the audience resembled a near-future cityscape, with a cluster of skyscrapers in ruins—suggesting a possible future. Amidst this, the protagonist of the story, played by Hanyu as "VGH-257 'NOVA'," wakes up, unsure of his memory, and questions himself.

"Why am I here? Why was I born? What is life?"

The Theme of "Life" and "Living"

The third installment of the ice story series, following "GIFT" and "RE_PRAY," is based on the theme of "life" and "living."

Hanyu later revealed his intent after the performance: "I've always been interested in the philosophy of 'living,' having thought about bioethics since I was a child and studied it at university. I reflected on the thoughts and theories that had been circulating in my mind for a long time and wrote this performance with the hope of giving you all an opportunity to find your own answer to the question of what it means to live in this world and to think about philosophy."

Many people, regardless of how deeply they have thought about it, will have considered the theme of life at some point. Simply presenting this theme is a major challenge. Moreover, the story unfolds on the ice while incorporating visuals. How to make it work as a narrative? That's where Hanyu's idea came in.

It’s "sound."

The guide who appears in the visual narrative says: "You can experience words and letters as sound."

By using "sound" as a medium, the theme is embedded within the story, and through the guidance of "sound," the meaning of life and the purpose of living are explored. As it is transformed into "sound," the performance on the ice also becomes an integral part of the story.

Philosophy Becomes Music

Hanyu continues: "Originally, I thought that scenes could become colors, sounds, or emotions. For example, some people associate the color 'red' with passion, while others see it as fear. It's all about individual interpretation. However, I was the type of person who, from a young age, would hear those things as sounds. It's not that I have perfect pitch, but rather, I would hear them in a sort of melodic sense. When thinking about my own experiences, and as I was writing fiction, I considered, 'What kind of abilities should I give to this character?' I incorporated elements such as the intonation of the words I use in training, the meanings behind them, and so on, into the story. Philosophy enters the body as sound. That philosophy becomes music, and the program is created. This is the kind of story I wrote, exploring many different ideas."

Starting with an excellent concept, the story unfolds with mostly new programs. Each program was carefully crafted to represent the story, but the most striking part was the scene before the intermission, transitioning from "Piano Collection" to "Ballade No. 1.

A Stunning 10+ Minutes

In "Piano Collection," Hanyu skated to five songs with brief 30-second pauses in between, without ever leaving the rink.

"From the continuous classical piano pieces to 'Ballade No.1,' it was something I had never done before. I didn't leave the stage once. I studied classical music with pianist Kiyozuka Shinya, and had detailed discussions with choreographer Jeffrey Buttle to meticulously plan the program and create this concept."

A large white cloth screen, suspended in the air, and the world on the ice were accompanied by projection mapping, where musical notes flowed. Through the performance within this setting, it expressed questions and inner conflict. The overall expression was truly breathtaking.

"Turning 30"

The story continues. The protagonist, struggling, suffering, fighting, and seeking answers to his questions, eventually reaches a certain conclusion. What will the audience, who has watched the opening performance or will attend one of the shows running through February, take away from it? With a lingering emotion, the story concludes.

While presenting a profound theme, Hanyu not only conveyed the theme but also revealed various aspects of himself through his expressions in the visuals and on the ice, creating a truly rich narrative.

One of the key factors that supported this was, of course, Hanyu's ability as a skater. His sharp quadruple jumps, triple axels, various spins, and connecting movements... He truly embodied the ice story once again.

Hanyu reflects: "The strongest feeling I have is that it's finally started. I was really nervous, and although I spent a lot of time training every day, you can't truly know until you're performing in front of everyone. There were parts where I wasn't sure whether it was a success or failure. Honestly, I feel like 'it really started now,' and I’m just glad that I could complete the performance without injury on the first day."

Hanyu was all smiles after the performance. The opening day of the tour was also his 30th birthday.

When asked about turning 30, Hanyu responded: "I feel like, 'Wow, I’m turning 30' (laughs). When I was told, ‘You’re 30,’ I thought, ‘Oh, 30...’ but the way I imagined being in my 30s when I was younger is completely different from how I feel now, both physically and mentally. I feel like I can still do a lot. In 'Echoes,' there are questions like, 'What is the future?' or 'What is the past?' but I think the future will be even better than I imagined, and by doing my best in the present, I feel like I can welcome my 30s in a way that’s different from the time when I thought, ‘30 means you’re getting old.’

"I had a vague image that figure skating would deteriorate at this age, but if you think about it in terms of other sports like baseball or soccer, I feel like this is the time when my experience, my sense, and my technique will start to really come together. I want to always approach training, practice, and performances with the mindset that I have hope for my future and that I will definitely seize every opportunity."

On this day, he performed a total of 15 programs, including three encores. The performance lasted over 2 hours and 30 minutes. Standing alone on the ice and demonstrating an overwhelming presence, he conveyed more than anything else the powerful message of his current state at 30 years old.

Dedicated Effort

It wasn't just on the ice. There was the work of conceptualizing the story, collaborating with the staff to bring it to life, the detailed direction, filming, and daily practice—all the accumulated effort leading to this point. With unwavering dedication, he continued to move forward as a skater and refine his work as an artist, and this process culminated in a tangible result on that day.

And it was a moment that gave a sense that even now in his 30s, he will continue to create new worlds.

The number of spectators on the opening day was 14,000. Not only that, many people in Japan and abroad enjoyed the show via streaming.

Many more people will surely watch the performances going forward. Yuzuru Hanyu's tour continues to deliver his story to these audiences.

Source: AERA December 30, 2024 issue, pg 37-41 Info: https://publications.asahi.com/product/25174.html

#hanyu yuzuru #yuzuru hanyu #羽生結弦 #figure skater #figure skating #aera #magazine #interview #machine #translation

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opera-ghosts · 3 months ago

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Miss Elizabeth Taylor Greenfield, or the "Black Swan," to adopt her musical agnomen, was born at Natchez, Mississippi. She was born in bondage. Her father was a full African; white and Indian blood flowed in her mother's veins.

Elizabeth had become distinguished in the limited circle in which she was known for her remarkable power of voice. Its tender and thrilling tones often lightened the weight of age in one who was to her beloved as a mother. How deeply slie grieved that she could receive no culture from art. Neither the remarkable compass of her voice, nor the wonder of her high and low notes, nor the proffer of thirty dollars per quarter, when the standard price was ten, could induce a Professor to include her among his pupils. The admission of a coloured pupil would have jeoparded his success.

She sang before the Buffalo Musical Association, and her performances were received with marks of approbation from the best musical talent in the city, that established her reputation as a songstress. Give the ''Black Swan," said they, the cultivation and experience of the fair Swede, or Md'lle Parodi, and she will rank favourably with those popular singers, who have carried the nation into captivity by their rare musical abilities. Her voice has a full round sound, and is of immense compass and depth. She strikes every note in a clear and well defined manner, and reaches the highest capacity of the human voice with wonderful ease, and apparently an entire want of exertion. Beginning with G in the bass clef she runs up the scale to E in the trehle clef, and gives each note its full power and tone. She commences at the highest note and runs down the scale with the same ease that she strikes any other lower note. The fact that she accomplishes this with no apparent exertion is surprising, and fixes at once the marvellous strength of her vocal organs. Her voice is wholly natural, and, as might be expected, lacks the training and exquisite cultivation that belongs to the skilful Italian singer. But the voice is there ; and as a famous maestro once said, "It takes a hundred things to make a complete singer, of which a good voice is ninety-nine." If this be so. Miss Greenfield is on the verge of excellence, and it remains for the public to decide whether she shall have the means to pursue her studies.

To several gentlemen in Buffalo belongs the credit of having first brousfht out Miss Greenfield in the concert-room. The Buffalo papers took the matter in hand, and assured the public they had much to expect from a concert from this vocalist. The deep interest her first public efforts elicited from them, gave occasion to the following certificate: —

Dear Sir :— At your suggestion, for the purpose of enabling Miss Elizabeth T. Greenfield to show to her Philadelphia friends the popularity she has acquired in this city, I cheerfully certify as follows :—

The concert got up for her was unsolicited on her part, and entirely the result of admiration of her vocal powers, by a number of our most respectable citizens, who had heard her at the residence of Gen. Potter, with whose family she had become somewhat familiar. The concert was attended by an audience not second in point of numbers, to any given here before, except by Jenny Lind ; and not second to any in point of respectability and fashion. The performance of Miss Greenfield was received with great applause, and the expression since, among our citizens generally, is a strong desire to hear her again.

Speaking of her concert in Buffalo, the "Express" says, "On Monday, Parodi in all her splendour, sustained by Patti and Strakosh, sung at Corinthian Hall to half a house. Last night Miss Greenfield sang at the same place to a crowded house of the respectable, cultivated, and fashionable people of the city. Jenny Lind has never drawn a better house, as to character, than that which listened with evident satisfaction to this unheralded, and almost unknown African Nightingale. Curiosity did something for her, but not all. She has merit, very great merit, and with cultivation (instruction) she will rank among the very first vocalists of the age. She has a voice of great sweetness and power, with a wider range from the lowest to the highest notes than we have ever listened to ; flexibility is not wanting, and her control of it is beyond example, for a new and untaught vocalist. Her performance was received with marked approbation and applause, from those who knew what to applaud.

It remains now for the citizens of Rochester to give her the commendation of their patronage, and then she is fully afloat. It will not be the first time that the verdict of this city in matters musical, has been responded to by the world. The price of tickets is one dollar ; and all must see the propriety of this charge, in a singer who has to combat the most crushing and the common contempt of another race — the race too, from whom she must receive her patronage and support. The Black Swan must contend for the highest prize, and sing for the best price, or she falls below even the second rank. It is first among the foremost wdth her, or a direct consignment to a low level. The consciousness of talent, moreover, will not allow her to put too low an estimate upon her qualifications, and she makes her appeal, therefore, to the generosity of a pubhc who cannot fail to appreciate the peculiar condition in which she is placed.

Another city Paper says,

Mucli has been said and written of this personage since she was introduced to the public as a musical prodigy. All sorts of surmises and conjectures have been indulged in, respecting the claim put forth of her merit, and generally the impression seemed to prevail that the novelty of "colour" and idle curiosity, accounted more for the excitement raised, than her musical powers. Well, she has visited our place, and given our citizens an opportunity of judging for themselves. We are ignorant of music, and unqualified to criticise, but a large audience were in attendance at Ringueberg Hall last evening — among those present were our musical amateurs — and we heard but one expression in regard to the new vocalist, and that was, wonder and astonishment at the extraordinary power and compass of her voice, and the ease vrith wdiich she passed from the highest to the lowest notes seemed without an effort. Her first notes of "Where are now the hopes?" startled the whole audience, and the interchange of glances succeeded by thunders of applause, at the end of the first verse, showed that her success was complete. She was loudly encored, and in response sung the barytone, "When stars are in the quiet sky," which took down the whole house.

We have neither time nor space to follow her through her different pieces. Suffice it to say, that there never was a concert given in this town, which appeared to give more general satisfaction, and every person we met on leaving the hall, expressed their entire approbation of her performance. No higher compliment could be paid to the "Swan," than the enthusiastic applause which successfully greeted her appearance, and the encore which followed her several pieces.

There was a very general expression among the audience, that the sable vocalist should give another concert, and, at the earnest solicitation of several of our citizens. Col. Wood, her gentlemanly manager, has consented to give another entertainment to-morrow evening, when the "Black Swan" will give a new programme, consisting of some of Jenny Lind's most popular songs.

The concert on Thursday evening, was what in other cases would have been called a triumph. The house was full — the audience a fashionable one — the applause decided, and the impression made by the singer highly favourable.

We can safely say that Miss Greenfield possesses a voice of remarkable qualities ; singular for its power, softness and depth. Of

all this she gave ample evidence in the twelve or more pieces she sang — a feat in itself giving evidence of great vocal resources. There is a lack of training perceptible, although the Swan sings with great correctness, and evident close regard of the notes upon the music sheet. No one can hear her without acknowledging her talents — if that is the right expression — but what is to come of this we are not advised. A couple of years' severe training is indispensable, before she can safely be put before the public on a sure footing. Again :

Rochester^ Corinthian Hall. This astonishing songstress has made her appearance in Rochester, and will sing this evening in Corinthian Hall, the most commodious building in western New York. She ought to have as large a house, and as brilliant, as any that thronged to hear the Swedish Nightingale. We heard the "Black Swan" more than two years ago, in Philadelphia and New York, in rooms little adapted to give effect to her performances ; but we were, even then, struck with the astonishing compass, power, and clearness of her voice. We understand that since that time, she has applied herself with praiseworthy perseverance and assiduity to the cultivation of her extraordinary powers, and has attained great proficiency in the art, which is evidently the bent of her genius. By her own energy, and unassisted, she has made herself mistress of the harp, guitar, and piano. We are informed that the proceeds of the entertainment this evening, are to be wholly appropriated to the completion of her musical education in Paris, under the world-famed Garcia. We predict for Miss Greenfield a successful and brilliant future.

The Rochester Aynerican writes : —

Corinthian Hall contained a large and fashionable audience on the occasion of the concert by this new candidate for popular favour, on Thursday evening. We have never seen an audience more curiously expectant than this was, for the debut of this new vocalist. Hardly had her first note fallen upon their ears, however, before their wonder and astonishment were manifest in an interchange of glances and words of approval, and the hearty applause that responded to the first verse she sung, was good evidence of the satisfaction she afforded. The aria "Oh Native Scenes," was loudly encored, and in response she gave the pretty ballad " When Stars are in the Quiet Sky."

Utica Daily Observer, January 13, 1852.

The Black Swan had a crowded house last evening, to enjoy her voice and criticise her musical powers. The songs she gave, were in the main very difficult of execution, and well calculated to test the qualities of the Swan. The manner in which she gave " The Last Rose of Summer," elicited an encore, when she gave a specimen of her notes, which were so supernatural for a feminine, as to excite belief that a male biped was usurping her prerogative. The deepest bass of the most wonderful barytone could not surpass it, and the greatest wonder was excited. Kathleen Mavourneen," and "0, Native Scenes," were remarkably well sung. The only failure we noticed was on some of the high notes, in pieces requiring very rapid execution, where she seemed to want that faculty of rapid and easy transition, so remarkable in Jenny Lind and Kate Hayes.

We doubt not, that with proper cultivation, the Black Swan will win the high reputation as a singer, which her remarkable powers should give her.

The concert of Miss E. T. Greenfield, nnder the dn^ection of the gentlemanly J. H. Wood, was one of the most successful that has been given to this city for a long time. From the great fame which had preceded the "Black Swan," had she not really proved herself what she is, a most remarkable vocalist, there would have been a strong feeling against all concerned; but there has' not, within our knowledge, an entertainment of the kind taken place in this city that received such general applause. Her compass of voice is probably greater than that of Parodi, Catharine Hayes, or Jenny Lind, even; but she lacks the artistic power of either. Notwithstanding this deficiency, we presume to say that the audience were better pleased with her singing than they would have been with either of those named above, though perhaps some few would not be willing to acknowledge it. The Black Swan sounds twenty-eight full notes, a qualification accorded to no one before her; and one which most successfully rivals the powers of ventriloquism wdiich Jenny Lind so successfully introduces in her echo song. Every piece she sung on Saturday evening was rapturously encored. The song in barytone was listened to with surprise and admiration, many of those present hardly believing it to proceed from her, so much did her deep, sonorous voice resemble that of a male. The second piece of the last part (sung instead of the first, which was loudly encored) and also the last piece, neither of which were on the programme, were enthusiastically applauded, and may be regarded as the best pieces sung: at least such is our impression. As we have already remarked, the concert may be pronounced the most successful ever given in this city. The instrumental part, by Professor Becht and Master Kook, was very able, but the effect was lost in the prevailing enthusiasm for the Swan.

The Globe, Toronto, May 12-15th, 1852.

Any one who went to the concert of Miss Greenfield on Thursday last, expecting to find that he had been deceived by the puffs of the American newspapers, must have found himself most agreeably disappointed.

Mr. Becht, the pianist of the party, commenced the evening with a very brilliant performance, which showed that his talents, if not of the very first rank, nearly approached to that point. He has a very considerable share of taste, but his forte passages were the finest, and were warmly applauded. After he had retired there was a general hush of expectation to see the entrance of the vocalist of the evening, and presently there appeared a lady of a decidedly dark colour, rather inclined to an embonpoint^ and with African formation of face. She advanced calmly to the front of the platform, and curtised very gracefully to the audience. There was a moment of pause, and the assembly anxiously listened for the first notes. They were quite sufiicient. The amazing power of the voice, the flexibility and the ease of execution took the hearers by surprise, and the singer was hardly allowed to finish the verse ere she was greeted with the most enthusiastic plaudits, which continued for some time. The higher passages of the air were given with clearness and fulness, indicating a soprano voice of great power. The song was encored, and Miss Greenfield came back, took her seat at the piano, and began, to the astonishment of the audience, a different air in a deep and very clear bass or barytone voice, which she maintained throughout, without any very great appearance of effort or without any breaking ! She can, in fact, go as low as Lablaclie, and as high as Jenny Lind, a power of voice perfectly astonishing. It is said she can strike thirty-one full clear notes, and we could readily believe it. After the surprise had subsided, there was time to find out the errors and defects. It must be confessed that Miss Greenfield has a very heedless way of throwing her beautiful notes about, has far from perfect command over them, and wants the knowledge of ornamental points, which can only be given by instruction from the best masters. There were plenty evidences that it was not from lack of ability to understand what was required, that these defects existed. The introduction of the deeper voice in the treble songs was a singularity, but was also an unpleasing offence against the ear.

Miss Greenfield is said to have great facility in acquiring the knowledge of music, and will certainly under proper tuition become distinguished.

The company to-night perform in Hamilton. Yf e hope on their return we may have another opportunity of listening to Miss Greenfield's wonderful strains, and Messrs. Becht and Schmittroth's excellent instrumentalization.

Her grace, from whom good acts seem constantly to emanate, permitted her to choose one valued at sixty guineas.

Arrangements being completed for a Concert at the Stafford House, the following announcement at the same time was made to the British public : —

27 Margaret Street, Cavendish Square.

The Black Swan, in appealing to the generosity of the British public, assures them that the primary object of her visit to Europe is, to accomplish herself in the science of music, which professional friends earnestly counsel her to pursue, and which she embraces aon amore^ with the confident hope that, by the exercise of her vocal faculties in a more cultured form, she may be able to achieve the great object of her life. She is sensible of the philanthropic spirit of the people of Great Britain, and feels confident that they will receive her appeal with that kindness and forbearance that ever characterizes them in the cause of true humanity.

The Black Swan, therefore, has the honour of informing the nobility, gentry, and public, that she will shortly appear at a grand concert (the particulars of which will be announced) under distinguished patronage. Elizabeth T. Greenfield.

London, May, 1853.

We cannot refrain from quoting Mrs. Stowe's description of the concert, after dinner at the Stafford house.

" The concert room was the brilliant and picturesque hall I have before described to you. It looked more picture like and dreamy than ever. The piano was on the flat stairway just below the broad central landing. It was a grand piano, standing end outward, and perfectly banked up among hot house flowers, so that only its gilded top was visible. Sir George Smart presided. The choicest of the elite were there. Ladies in demi-toilet and bonneted. Miss Greenfield stood among the singers on the staircase, and excited a pathetic murmur among the audience. She is not handsome, but looked very well. She has a pleasing dark face, wore a black velvet head-dress, and white cornelian ear-rings, a black moire antique silk, made high in the neck, with white lace falling sleeves, and white gloves. A certain gentleness of manner and self-possession, the result of the universal kindness shown her, sat well upon her. Chevalier Bunsen, the Prussian Ambassador, sat by me. He looked at her with much interest. "Are the race often as good looking? " he said. I said, " She is not handsome compared with many, though I confess she looks uncommonly well to-day." The singing was beautiful; six of the most cultivated glee singers of London sang,

among other tilings, "Spring's delights are now returning," and "Where the bee sucks, there lurk I." The Duchess said, "These glees are peculiarly English." Miss Greenfield's turn for singing now came, and there was profound attention. Her voice, with its keen, searching fire, its penetrating vibrant quality, its timbre/' as the French have it, cut its way like a Damascus blade to the heart. It was the more touching from the occasional rusticities and artistic defects, which showed that she had received no culture from art. She sung the ballad, "Old folks at home," giving one verse in the soprano, and another in the tenor voice. As she stood partially concealed by the piano. Chevalier Bunsen thought that the tenor part was performed by one of the gentlemen. He was perfectly astonished when he discovered that it was by her. This was rapturously encored. Between tlie parts. Sir George took her to the piano, and tried her voice by skips, striking notes here and there at random, without connexion, from D in alto to A first space in bass clef; she followed with unerring precision, striking the sound nearly at the same instant his finger touched the key. This brought out a burst of applause."

Lord Shaftsbury was there; he came and spoke to us after the concert. Speaking of Miss Greenfield, he said, "I consider the use of these halls for the encouragement of an outcast race, a consecration. This is the true use of wealth and splendour when they are employed to raise up and encourage the despised and forgotten."

When Mrs. Stowe's account of the concert was read to Miss Greenfield, she remarked — "I should have looked well to the lady — for the black moire antique silk in which I was clad was the gift of Mrs. Stowe, and made under her own direction. "It cost her seventy-five dollars." Mrs. Stowe's sympathy seemed ever to have followed her with a watchful care. We find this interesting letter among her papers of this date.

The London Morning Post says,— A large assemblage of fashionable and distinguished personages, assembled by invitation at Stafford House, to hear and decide upon the merits of a phenomenon, in the musical world. Miss Elizabeth Greenfield, better known in America as the "Black Swan," under which sobriquet she is also about to be presented to the British public. This lady is said to possess a voice embracing the extraordinary compass of nearly three octaves ; and her performances on this occasion elicited the unmistakable evidence of gratification. She is, without doubt, deficient in science and cultivation, but she displays remarkable inteliigence, and is gifted with feeling and the capacity of conveying it to her auditors.

In the hackneyed song of " Home, sweet home," she produced, by the pathos and expression she contrived to throw into the music, a very decided impression ; nor was she less successful in other music of a different character.

Again, the London Observer remarks — "A concert of vocal music was given in the past week, at Stafford House, the residence of the Duke and Duchess of Sutherland, to test and make known the powers and merits of the American vocalist, Elizabeth Greenfield. She is now about twenty-five years of age, and has come to England to perfect herself in singing, in the hope of elevating the popular estimate of her unfortunate race, by the development and display of any artistic talent she may possess. Her dehut was in the highest 448 of

degree favourable ; Her voice was at once declared to be one of extraordinary compass. Both her high and low notes were heard with wonder by the assembled amateurs, and her ear was pronounced to be excellent.

London Advertiser, of June 16th, contained the following comments. "A concert was given at Exeter Hall last evening by Miss Greenfield, the American vocalist, better known in this country under the sobriquet of the 'Black Swan.' Apart from the natural gifts with which this lady is endowed, the great musical skill which she has acquired both as a singer and an instrumentalist, are convincing arguments against the assertion so often made, that the negro race are incapable of intellectual culture of a high standard. Miss Greenfield, by birth as well as appearance, is decidedly a negress, her father having been a full African, and her mother of mixed extraction. She herself was born and brought up a slave in the United States, although freed at an early age. On the death of her mistress her vocal abilities, which were already known in a limited circle, were, by the judicious assistance of some kind-hearted friends, brought into public notice ; and she was enabled to receive the necessary training and instruction. She speedily became a proficient in the art of vocalization ; and, after giving a series of concerts in the United States, she felt sufiicient confidence in her abilities to resolve on standing the test of an English audience. Her voice is a contralto, of great clearness and mellow tone in the upper register, and full, resonant, and powerful in the lower, though slightly masculine in its timbre. It is peculiarly effective in ballad songs of the pathetic cast, several of which Miss Greenfield sang last night in a very expressive manner. She was encored in two, "The Cradle Song," a simple melody by Wallace, and ''Home, Sweet Home," which she gave in an exceedingly pleasing manner. The programme of the concert was bountifully drawn up; for, in addition to the attractions of the Black Swan, there was a host of first-rate artists. Herr Brandt, a German artist, with a remarkably sweet voice, sang Professor Longfellow's 'Slave's Dream,' set to very beautiful music by Hatton, in a way that elicited warm applause. Miss Rosina Bentley played a fantasia by Lutz, very brilliantly, and afterwards assisted by Miss Kate Loder, who, however, must now be known as Mrs. Henry Thompson, in a grand duet for two pianofortes, by Osborne. M. Yaladares executed a curious Indian air, "Hilli Milli Puniah," on the violin, and Mr. Henry Distin a solo on the sax tuba. The band was admirable, and performed a couple of overtures in the best manner. Altogether, the concert, which we understand was made under the distinguished patronage of the Duchess of Sutherland, was highly successful, and went off to the perfect gratification of a numerous and fashionable audience.

From The Black Swan at home and abroad; or, A biographical sketch of Miss Elizabeth Taylor Greenfield, the American vocalist

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thebloomingtonacademy · 4 months ago

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How to Motivate Students: Top 10 Expert Suggested Ways and More

Sometimes it may appear as if student motivation is one of the difficult things to handle. Here lies the creativity and success of having students achieve peak levels of achievement. Be it teacher, parent, or school administrator, knowing how to motivate students is incredibly important in order to impact their performance and enthusiasm as well, thereby succeeding. From the expert's tips, here are the top 10 effective ways to motivate students, along with some additional insights that would keep them engaged and excited about learning. This makes it very effective among highly competitive academic institutions such as the Best British Schools in Ajman and Sharjah where the forte is on academic excellence.

1. Set Clear, Realistic Objectives

Goal setting will assist the students to remain focused. As much as the students understand clearly what is being expected of them, they will concentrate and stay motivated more. Therefore, these goals should be achieved but on the other hand challenging so students do not become too laid back in class yet still motivated.

2. Development of an Appropriate Learning Environment

A non-threatening, learner-friendly environment could make all the difference in the world. When children feel safe and comforted in a classroom, they are more likely to become participative and explore new things. In Best School in Ajman and Sharjah, educating workers concentrate on making a warm ambiance where a child may be valued.

3. Different Method of Teaching

Monotony can easily drain the motivation of a student. Utilizing different approaches and techniques, such as group discussions, interactive activities, multimedia tools, etc, will always ensure that the process is new and interesting. Varied approaches infuse curiosity and induce high engagement.

4. Constructive Feedback

Student development and growth depend on feedback. Constructive criticism may also help them develop awareness of strengths along with weaknesses. It must therefore enable them to strengthen the positive features of their performance while providing suggestions on the weaknesses with pinpoints.

5. Encourage Self-reliance

When children are given the sense of freedom with their studies, they can be responsible and independent in the real world. Giving a student the choice to decide matters to do with his learning process-the choice of subject matter for his project, what he is going to read aloud-gives him a kind of empowerment for which he feels motivation.

6. Celebrate Successes

Celebrate small victories to raise students' morale even higher. Appreciate them for all their effort; verbal appreciation, certificate, or even a round of applause motivates a child to reproduce and uphold positive behavior.

7. Make the lessons interesting to their interests

If the lesson contents are what the students are interested in, or even application to real life, then learning becomes relevant. This connects to them, and therefore they develop an interest in the material to be learned.

8. Encourages Teamwork and Cooperation

The group work setting provides an opportunity for learning in peer groups and social skills. Teamwork also encourages a sense of community within class, hence increasing motivation because the student feels he or she is part of a community, thus liable to participate within it.

9. Develop Growth Mindset

Let the children realize that hard work must lead to improvement. This is the belief that they can improve if they work hard enough, and this is what gives a student a growth mindset. If students feel that anything can be improved, they become more resilient and motivated to tackle a difficult task because they believe that failure less likely to come.

10. Technology in the Classroom

Boosting Motivation

Technology in Classrooms

One way to boost motivation is using technology in classrooms. There is an application like an educational one; a smart board or website that makes the classroom interesting and interactive for a child and maintains his interest in learning.

Other Ways to Encourage Student Motivation

Tailor-made Learning Plans: Teaching according to the requirements of every student is surely going to meet the demand of every child towards success.

Interactive Learning Spaces: Inclusive configurations of the classroom with convertible furniture and learning stations keep the students in motion and involved too.

Parental Involvement: An interested parent keeps the child interested, and involved parents could ensure that their child progresses successfully in academics.

Co-curriculars: Provide many of different co-curriculars, be it sports or arts that help students pursue their interests and discover further new talents.

Conclusion

These strategies, experts claim, will not make motivating students scary. Through such strategies, schools like The Bloomington Academy can assist their students in scoring academically as well as personally. Based in the UK to serve Ajman and Sharjah, The Bloomington Academy is adhering to such methods in order to ensure that every student gives their best in an environment that is both challenging and interesting.

#best british schools in ajman #british schools in ajman #British Schools in Sharjah

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oh-no-another-idea · 3 years ago

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word find tag

It’s raining where I live today! And I don’t have to do anything until 3:30, so I’m going to fill out a tag from @ashen-crest who has given truly excellent words today: round, top, face, and time. Thanks, friend!

Round: (I think I already shared this, but oh well, have it again)

Antonio continued brightly as though he hadn’t even spoken. “We are doing great at our current professions of evading death! Good job, good job. And Paris led a full out surgery in a moving train! Five stars, all the kudos. And Lewis didn’t die—I think you’ve triumphed the most, don’t you think? A round of applause for Lewis Huen, everyone!”

He caught sight of Velia’s face. “Too much?”

“I’ll say,” she said.

Top:

Velia waited impatiently as an elderly older woman with her hair braided up on top of her head spent the better part of ten minutes complaining about the state of her room, mentioning everything from a mysterious stain on her carpet to the penny-sized chip in her porcelain basin.

Mind wandering, Velia imagined what the boys would be saying if they could hear this rubbish. Oh this one’s been trained in the noble art of talking too much, Antonio might say. Like you, Lewis would retort, glaring out the window. Then Antonio would make some terrible joke about how it takes a genius to recognize genius and Fynn would start smiling and Paris would look pained.

Face:

Velia pushed herself up and shoved aside a clump of soaked hair. Paris was sitting beside her hesitantly, hands clenching and unclenching.

Like a lightning bolt splitting the sky in two, Velia was suddenly hit with an unexplainable sense of longing. She wanted nothing more in the moment than to have Paris look up and see her, to be able to ask him if he was alright using her face, her eyes, the way everyone else was able to.

Time:

Antonio frowned down at him, but there was a new line between his eyebrows that said he was worried. “Don’t call me idiot, you hotheaded bastard.”

Lewis pushed himself up on one elbow, and opened his mouth; Paris pushed him back down and glared at them both.

“Is this the time, you two? Honestly, what are you, children?”

Fynn and Velia coughed at the same time, and Fynn grinned down at his shoes.

Open tag!! ✨🌈🎉 Come share some of your work--suggest, around, spit, and answer! <3

#tag games #find the word tag #wip: invisible girl

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beinmybonnet · 4 years ago

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29th June 1613 - London, England

“Remind me again why we’re doing this?

“He went to the trouble to have a draft carried all the way to Brandenburg for me, the least I can do is attend the opening night.”

Andromache rolls her shoulders into her partlet. “The least you can do maybe. Why am I doing this?”

“Because you missed me. And because you cried when we saw Othello.” Yusuf replies, looking sideways at her. Curbing the inevitable objection, Quynh squeezes Nicolò’s arm and strides forwards to overtake them. He lets himself be dragged after her, taking care not to tread on her skirts.

“I love the theatre. Plus, we’ve spent the last week sleeping in a shack in the Dales. This,” Quynh waves her free arm over the bridge rail, “is a nice change of scenery.”

London Bridge is teeming with people, the warmth of the bustle settling like cinders into his skin. The city writhes in its haste. Against the far bank of the Thames tall buildings strike against the horizon, the old Southwark Priory still reaching high in spent pride. Buildings are painted pale with dark beams striking bold across them. It is beautiful in its own way, Nicolò thinks. Inelegant, but unique.

“It wasn’t that bad. I still think we should have stayed a little longer, at least until-

“Andromache we’ve slept in nicer caves.”

Quynh glances back over her shoulder meaningfully, brow rising. Andromache shrugs. A smile, although few would recognise it. They step down onto the riverbank as one, turning east.

Nicolò nudges his shoulder into Yusuf as they pass the gardens. “You fail to mention you sent that script back with corrections.”

“Revisions. Small ones.” Yusuf’s voice is low, his expression impish. “Barely noticeable.”

“Ah, here we are.” Yusuf waves Andromache forward into their usual first-floor booth and steps back to allow Quynh to pass. Nicolò pauses, peering up the stairwell.

“Full house.”

“First performance. Trust me, this will be one to remember.” Yusuf is bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet, and it makes Nicolò want to tuck his chin over a bobbing shoulder.

“You’d think the city would be a bit more subdued,” Andromache settles herself on the bench tucking thick plum skirts around her calves. She happily accepts a bag of roasted hazelnuts from Yusuf as he passes her to stand at the balcony. “They’ve only just recovered from their last bout of plague.”

“Exactly! This is the power of art.” Yusuf beams, arm sweeping wide. “Look at these people.” All around them the crowd is seething with anticipation, the noise growing as the wait goes on. Children scramble in the lower level of the yard for better vantage points, clawing their way up the beams supporting the lower galleries. People are shouting and laughing and drinking, the sound cocooned tight within the impressive structure. A man swings a laughing boy up over the mass, and a small group of women pressed against the stage begin shouting a suspicious sounding rhyme, pointing across the pit. Before they can finish a man in the gallery beneath them roars his response across the yard.

Nicolò’s brow furrows. “Clot-pole? I don’t…”

“She’s calling him an idiot,” Andromache supplies, “and insulting his hat.”

“It is a bit much.” Quynh’s leaning over the balcony to get a better look. “I think she’s accusing him of, err – short-changing her. Last night.”

Still grinning, Yusuf peers over beside her. “Oh, she’s quite angry. Here we go.” He sounds delighted. What looks like a parsnip sails over the head of the crowd. “A pity, she’ll want those for the third act.”

Quynh’s now bent almost double over the bannister and Andromache reaches to steady her without looking. “Isn’t this sort of thing that made the man move half of the troupe over to Blackfriars?”

Yusuf shakes his head in fond exasperation. “Ah, William has become far too prudish in his success. The engagement of the audience is the nature of theatre.”

“Engagement?” Nicolò smirks as something below meets its mark with a splat and a shout.

“Well, you cannot deny their enthusiasm-”

Quynh reappears with a whoop of triumph clutching her prize; a browning cabbage intercepted in the air. She rotates the rotten vegetable in careful examination. “Excellent.”

Yusuf raises his hand in hopeless protest as Nicolò leans back in his seat, eyeing Quynh. “10 crowns says you can’t hit the stage from here.”

She snorts derisively.

“20 if you can take King Henry off his feet.” Andromache counters, rising slightly to gauge the distance. Done, Quynh agrees happily, settling beside her and tucking her cabbage under the bench. Yusuf mutters an exasperated appeal for help to the heavens and Nicolò quickly tugs him down into the remaining space with a hand over his knee.

The parting of the stage curtain prompts the dropping of remaining projectiles and an enthusiastic cheer from the crowd. The herald clears his throat, steps to the edge of the stage and spreads his arms.

The first and happiest hearers of the town,

I come no more to make you laugh; things now,

That bear a weighty and a serious brow,

Sad, high, and working, full of state and woe,

Such noble scenes as draw the eye to flow,

We now present. Those that can pity, here

May, if they think it well, let fall a tear;

Be sad, as we would make ye

“Oh, so a comedy?” Quynh says brightly and Yusuf shushes her.

The first actors emerge from the wings in their velvets and the tale takes flight.

In all this noble bevy, has brought with her

One care abroad; he would have all as merry

As, first, good company, good wine, good welcome,

Can make good people. O, my lord, you're tardy:

Yusuf is mouthing the words soundlessly, engrossed.

There are many things Nicolò has enjoyed about visiting theatres over the years. He will readily admit this performance is an enjoyable one - the young man playing Buckingham is particularly charismatic, the audience viscerally immersed in his indignation. The actors proudly deliver their lines and their story to an increasingly hypnotised audience.

But the play itself has never been what really draws Nicolò to this place. He glances sideways again and immediately, expectedly, loses the thread of the plot. In this moment the talent on the stage could never hope to hold his interest as he sits beside this man. Yusuf has lost himself entirely to the unfolding tale, gaze flitting from figure to figure calling below. Passion alight in his eyes. The arts do this to him in a way Nicolò has seen nothing else in all their time together. They have walked familiar paths in gallery halls for hours on end, Yusuf’s eyes roving walls of painted expression. They’ve sat in houses of the dying and listened to children bringing comfort with songs of naivety. Literature, dance, poetry, music; in all their changing forms they have always arrested Yusuf in his entirety.

These things give people freedom Nicolò, true freedom, he had once said. Free of limitation and expectation, in art people reveal their true selves. It is beautiful.

For Nicolò, that beauty is reflected blindingly in Yusuf’s own experience. To watch him like this for the rest of his given days would see him depart this earth achingly grateful to his God.

But Yusuf feels his distraction and leans toward him. “You’re missing it,” he murmurs, smile pulling impossibly wider. Unbridled delight is etched at the edges of his eyes, and Nicolò wants to trace his fingertips over the creases. He only realises he has reached out and done so when Yusuf captures and kisses his palm. “Watch the play.”

“It is a story still within living memory, I know how it ends,” Nicolò whispers.

Yusuf will not have it, nodding towards the actors. “Watch them tell it.”

Anne Boleyn is drifting across the stage, hand at her chest and Nicolò turns dutifully back to the performance.

Was he mad, sir?

O, very mad, exceeding mad, in love too:

But he would bite none; just as I do now,

He would kiss you twenty with a breath.

This time it’s Yusuf’s eyes that flicker back towards him and Nicolò hears silent words in the curl of his lip. Twenty kisses in a single breath. A risky venture, no?

Nicolò hums, his thoughts mirrored beside him. We shall see.

Good lord chamberlain,

Go, give 'em welcome; you can speak the French tongue;

And, pray, receive 'em nobly, and conduct 'em

Into our presence, where this heaven of beauty

Shall shine at full upon them. Some attend him.

You have now a broken banquet; but we'll mend it.

A good digestion to you all: and once more

I shower a welcome on ye; welcome all!

King Henry VIII emerges from the curtains with a flourish, the actor clearly taking great pains not to stumble in breeches that billow around his knees. The theatre bursts into applause as a round of trumpets sound, and they shout their approval at the blast of a canon from the rafters. The actors move to their marks to begin the scene in earnest, and Andromache leans forward with interest for the first time.

“See, I told you! With the funding now available, they’ve really spared no expense,” Yusuf is still clapping. Andromache hums noncommittally sitting back, but her eyes are suddenly bright with curiosity.

“Quynh, if you’re going to win your money, I suggest you do it now.”

“Why? I was going to wait until the trial scene,” she replies, confused.

From his place beside her Nicolò can see clearly that Andromache is struggling to suppress a smirk. “Well, there won’t be much left by then.”

“What?” Quynh looks down the bench at him. He shrugs. Andromache sighs around her growing amusement.

Seconds pass before she speaks again.

“They’ve set the roof on fire.”

He doesn’t need long to piece together what’s happened. There’s a thin plume of smoke rising from the inner curve of the roof and within, a flicker of light no bigger than that from a candle waving gently in the rafters. The canon. They wadded the canon, he realises. The little flame wafts higher in the breeze. The crowd is oblivious, too focused on the stage to be looking upwards. He taps Yusuf’s thigh.

It does take a moment. “Oh dear.” Yusuf looks back and forth between the roof and the stage, face falling. “Well maybe-

There’s a loud pop as the flame meets eager fuel. It dances up into the thatch lining the hooped roof and flares wide and greedy. Whip fast, it licks across the reeds consuming them in crunches and cracks that have people now looking skywards and shouting. Those in the highest galleries rear back as the fire completes its rapid circuit of the roof. By the time the actors have abandoned their attempts at continuing and stand dumbstruck on the stage, the theatre is ringed in an ominous halo of flame.

“Yusuf, unless your intention is a repeat of ’54…” Quynh trails off sadly, holding her cabbage.

Clumps of lit thatch are beginning to drift into the standing audience and the pushing and shoving follows in earnest. One man charges through the crowd braying, his breeches alight. Andromache stands looking decidedly more cheerful. “Come on, we’ll help them clear the pit.”

Nicolò follows suit, a hand falling to Yusuf’s shoulder. He has to work to quell an absurd urge to laugh; Yusuf is glaring at the roof with all the stubbornness of a chastised child. He squeezes gently, sympathy winning out. “I’m sorry.”

“Canons, who on earth thought canons in a wooden building was…” Yusuf trails off, glancing up. “Nothing to be done I suppose.” He holds out his other hand. “Shall we?”

Drawing Yusuf up behind him, Nicolò moves out into the stairwell twisting up into the higher galleries where people are starting to pile down in haste. An older man stumbles in the rush and he reaches out to steady him. “Careful, sir. Head out towards the river.”

The man nods and quickly hurries on pressing his handkerchief to his mouth. The next woman through the door snatches her arm up to her chest before he can move to offer any assistance. Dirty papist she spits as she veers away. Yusuf tenses, a hard line pressed at his back. Nicolò just dips his head.

“Please hurry.”

By the time the flow of people has ebbed the flames are beginning to consume the ornate stage pillars. The curtains masking backstage catch like parchment and blaze furiously. “We should make sure the galleries are clear,” he says, “you take the east, I the west?”

Yusuf eyes the roof timbers warily. “Five minutes. No more.”

In the end it only takes Nicolò four minutes to usher the last stubborn gamblers from the gentleman’s room. The fact that the smoke has now crept down to waist level speeds this along nicely, and they hurry to the stairwell hunched and coughing. Nicolò stays low, following them down the last steep flight when his foot catches on something in the darkness, almost putting his hand through the adjacent wall in an attempt to steady himself. There’s a man slouched in the corner, limbs sprawled wide and snoring. An empty bladder clutched to his chest. The strength of the brandy fumes punch through the dense smoke to further sting at his eyes and his irritation almost threatens to outweigh his conscience. Almost.

By the time he staggers out into clear air dragging his oblivious charge Nicolò know he’s been much longer than five minutes. Behind him there’s a crash which sounds very much like the galleries have finally given in and collapsed. Sounds like, because his eyes are clenched shut, burning and watering. Pressing his hands to his knees, he tries not to gag on the tar in his throat.

A hand settles on the back of his neck whilst another cups a palmful of water to his face. Nicolò winces.

“I’m sorry,” he rasps, “He’s heavier than he looks.”

He can hear Yusuf grinding his teeth but his response is surprisingly placid. “Rinse your eyes.”

Yusuf presses a water skin into his hands and moves away. When Nicolò’s vision has cleared he spots him back near the eastern entrance, patiently shepherding two enraptured boys further from the fire as they gape at the sky. Even for one who has seen much, Nicolò must admit, it is quite a sight.

The playhouse’s cylindrical shape has moulded the fire into a twirling steeple of flame inside the structure, now reaching twenty feet clear of the building itself. The Globe resembles an enormous cauldron struggling to hold its roiling contents. It belches clouds of thick black smoke as its rim splinters and cracks under the pressure and heat. What’s left of the thatch continues to feed the furnace, keeping the flames bright and fierce.

Quynh appears, sliding her hand into the crook of his elbow to steer him away. She leads him to a grassy curve of the riverbank where people are congregating in groups and beginning to resettle on the ground. From one muse to another, the audience remain eager spectators, gasping and whooping as the bones of the building begin to break, sending up showers of sparks. Yusuf and Andromache join them just as the walls start to keel inwards.

“You were right, definitely one of his more memorable works,” Andromache announces as they sit. “Perhaps my favourite.”

“Yes, I’m so very glad you enjoyed yourself.” Yusuf’s tone is flat, but his eyes roll indulgently.

Quynh settles herself back against Andromache’s bent knees, facing the playhouse. “We can still make a night of it. We get a bottle of wine, some pastries. Watch the sunset.” Her voices softens slightly and she levels her gaze at them. “You really must go so soon?”

He looks to Yusuf, who nods. “We have passage on a ship to Antwerp. She leaves on the tide tomorrow morning.”

Quynh’s sigh is dejected. “You won’t consider staying just a little longer? We’re moving on to…” she trails off, peering up at Andromache – Devon, she supplies, “We could use your help relocating these women. The trials are becoming barbaric.”

Yusuf shakes his head, surveying the crowd. “I’d prefer not to tempt fate. London is not at its most welcoming for us presently.

Nicolò quirks his lip. “You mean for me.” Ah, he sees now. The woman from earlier is stood just a little further up the bank, clutching at well-dressed man and pointing at them. Yusuf stares back unflinchingly. Nicolò feels him shift to further block her line of sight to him.

Then he turns back to meet Nicolò’s eye and speaks firmly. “For us. If a place does not welcome you, it does not welcome me.”

Quynh has watched the exchange carefully and suddenly sits up. She clears her throat and calls out loudly enough for those nearest to turn. “Thou art a boil, madam, a plague sore!”

Andromache snorts and the woman raises her fan to her face appalled, tugging on her husband’s arm. It has the intended effect on Yusuf though and his grin returns to its proper place. Nicolò feels a familiar rush of affection for Quynh and her unfailing ability to put people at ease.

“King Lear,” Yusuf says proudly. “I didn’t think you were paying attention.”

“Of course she was,” Andromache interjects, “It’s a magnum opus of insults.”

Quynh grins up at her. “Oh, you worsted-stockinged knave.”

The retort is instant. “Brazen-faced varlet.”

“Ancient ruffian.”

Andromache shrugs. “Accurate.”

Their laughter comes in easy unison and Yusuf’s expression is unbearably soft as he watches them. “It won’t be for long,” he promises.

Quynh pulls her eyes from Andromache and nods. “Probably a sensible choice at the moment. You do look violently Venetian Nicolò.

He wrinkles his nose, affronted. “I do not-”

Yusuf is reaching for his face, so he pauses his protest for the gentle pass of a thumb over the bridge of his nose. “It’s your profile my love.” Yusuf’s tongue darts out over the pad of his thumb before it returns to rub more firmly at his nose. “Which currently is very sooty.”

With his hands still upon Nicolò’s face he murmurs. “Oh but what a piece of work is this man, how noble in reason, how infinite in faculties, in form and moving how express and admirable, in action how like an angel,” Yusuf blinks, his sincerity blinding, “in apprehension how like a god.”

It’s all Nicolò can do not to rub his flushed cheeks into Yusuf’s palms like an alley cat.

Andromache arches a refined brow at Quynh. “Nicolò gets a Hamletian ode to his soul, and I get ‘ruffian’?”

Quynh rocks onto her elbow in the grass without missing a beat. “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Mayhap a smouldering playhouse, ablaze in righteous flame?

“Likened to a smoking wreckage, how romantic.”

Nicolò would laugh but Yusuf is still holding his gaze and his face, everything else muting around him. He does this; bestows his love in soft declarations that leave Nicolò stunned, and then holds him steady until the words perfuse. Nicolò loves him so much he feels he might combust, with all the ferocity of the fire at his back.

Centuries before, he had allowed his disbelief to ask a question once, and only once. The intensity frightening him. Could a gift such as this truly be his eternal?

Nicolò smiles at his world and whispers.

So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,

So long lives this, and gives life to thee.

held in the embers on ao3 at theexistentialteapot

part one of this series can be found here

#god this one took years off me #but it's done!#thank you bones for the final shove over the finish line #i am so soft for this found family #and they deserve happy memories #yusuf would 1000% have been a theatre kid #the headcanon is lodged #userbones #usermarwan #tusermj #tuserceleste #the old guard fic #the old guard #mine

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iturbide · 4 years ago

Text

United in Song

okay so this has been in my drafts for I don’t even know how long and I’m tired of it sitting there collecting dust, so please enjoy this fluffy 3H platonic one-shot.

/////

If there was one thing Dorothea missed about the opera, it was the audience. There was a certain kind of thrill that came with standing on the stage, staring out into the darkened crowd while the music swelled beneath her voice and feeling their tension, knowing that they held their collective breaths in anticipation, in wonder of her song…there was nothing else quite like it, in her experience. And while she didn’t really want to go back to that life of endless practices and performances, of cutthroat rivalries and patrons as dangerous as they were wealthy, she felt a little pang standing in the Garreg Mach cathedral, singing her heart out for absolutely no one.

Well, no, that wasn’t quite true. The monastery choir had finally gotten a few more members, and as the nun in charge dismissed them for the day, Annette and Hilda hurried over before she could wander off. “Wow, Dorothea! You were really amazing!!” the little redhead gushed.

“Aw, thanks, Annie,” Dorothea giggled, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “You were both great, too!”

“You’re so sweet,” Hilda smiled. “But we couldn’t hold a candle to you! Your voice was so beautiful -- and I swear, it filled the whole cathedral.”

Well, that might explain all the sharp looks and decrescendo gestures she’d been getting from the director.

“It’s really a shame nobody else was around to hear,” Annette sighed.

“I know exactly what you mean.” Dorothea scanned the rows of empty pews as they walked toward the doors, feeling again that ache of longing. Even when they did get to stand before an audience, something told her they would just be the choral lead to a devotional hymn for some religious service or another. “Sometimes I really wish we could just…go out and perform, you know? Show off a little, hear the applause…”

“…well, why couldn’t we?”

Dorothea paused at the top of the steps, reeling her mind back from another stage dream to focus on Hilda. “I didn’t think they did that here.”

“Not that I’ve seen. Or heard about,” Annette agreed.

“So why not do something about it?” Hilda asked. “Put on a musical performance! There’s lots of places that would work, like the lawn outside the classrooms, or the walk along the dormitories…”

“Would that really bring in an audience, though?” Annette pointed out. “Back in Fhirdiad you’d see performers doing shows on street corners, but they never really drew crowds or anything.”

“And wouldn’t it be nice to have a real stage, and a real audience?” Dorothea sighed. It was a quiet walk across the bridge to the monastery…and the whole way, she just kept turning Hilda’s suggestion over and over. It really would be nice to have an opportunity to perform…maybe she could ask Professor Manuela about it--

“This is it!!”

Dorothea jumped at Annette’s excited squeak, whirling just in time to see her grab something off the Bulletin Board. “What is?” she asked, taking the parchment and smoothing it out.

“A flier for the Weapons Tourney?” Hilda read over her shoulder. Apparently this month’s challenge was for axe-wielders, and while the pink-haired noble might excel, something told Dorothea that she wouldn’t go anywhere near it without proper incentive from the Professor.

“No! …well, I mean, yes, that’s what it is, but I mean -- this is the answer! We have a music tournament!”

“…a music tournament?” Dorothea repeated.

“Yeah!” Annette giggled. “We could have sign-ups, and people could bring their instruments or sing, and it could have brackets just like they do in the training grounds, only they’d be competing with their music! And the audience response could be how the winner’s picked!”

Dorothea felt a smile dawn across her face. “…Annie, that’s brilliant! We could get a sponsor to help judge ties, and offer a grand prize for the winner…”

“We could make fliers the way they do for the training ground matches, too!” Hilda added.

“I bet if we ask around the monastery, we could get tons of sign-ups -- and I’m sure lots of people would want to see it!” Annette insisted. “Ooh, this is so exciting!!”

“It’s a wonderful idea,” Dorothea agreed. “And I’m sure if we join forces, we can make it into a dazzling show.”

As they put their heads together to plan, for the first time in ages, she felt a thrill of excitement for what lay ahead. Garreg Mach might not have much appreciation for music now -- but if they got their way, Dorothea would make sure that changed.

-----

“A music show? Oh, you mean like they’ve got at the fair? Hey, count me in! Are you gonna have snacks?”

“No, Raph,” Dorothea sighed.

“You sure? Everybody likes good food -- I bet you’d get a ton of people to come if they could eat while they watched.”

She shook her head, fighting back a smile. It was hard to be frustrated with him when he was so enthusiastic, but she did wish he’d think about more than food. “Do they have snacks for the weapon tournaments at the training grounds?”

“Heck yeah they do!” he laughed. “I never miss a tourney, they’ve always got something for the people in the stands…”

“…huh.” She hadn’t known that. Maybe they could ask about refreshments: after all, everything else had been going splendidly so far. Professor Manuela had been over the moon when they approached her with the idea, and had swiftly appointed herself as their ‘impartial’ judge (said with a wink that made Dorothea certain she was far more partial than she’d ever admit to being); while the former diva took to planning and preparations, including venue selection and construction, she left the three students in charge of gauging interest and getting early sign-ups so they could start preparing their brackets. Hilda, rather expectedly, had complained of feeling poorly, so Dorothea had agreed to help out in canvasing the Golden Deer…which had led her, rather unexpectedly, to Raphael and his surprisingly helpful suggestion.

“Alright,” she agreed, making a note for later. “I’ll see what we can do about snacks, then.”

“All right!!” he cheered. “You’re the best, Dorothea!”

“Aw, thank you,” she smiled. “But would you want to take part? You know, be up on the stage in front of the audience? We’re looking for any kind of musical talent, whether you sing or play an instrument…”

His face scrunched up for a minute in deep, somewhat painful-looking thought. “Hmmm…I’m mostly good for muscle,” he shrugged. “Don’t get me wrong, I love music! I’m just not much good at makin’ it -- oh, hey, have you asked Bernadetta yet?”

“Bernie?”

“Yeah! Oh, man, she’s got this little brass thingy she plays -- she was playin’ it in the greenhouse one day, an’ I heard it from all the way in the training grounds! It was the best thing I’d ever heard!”

“Interesting,” Dorothea mused, scribbling another little note down.

“You didn’t know?”

“Bernie’s pretty shy about her talents,” Dorothea confided. “Seems she’s got all kinds of hidden ones…”

“Uh…if you go ask her, can you maybe…not tell her I told you?” he asked nervously. “See, uh…she got pretty upset when I found out, and made me promise not to tell anybody, but then you came talking about music an’ stuff and I just got real excited about maybe seein’ her up there an’ hearin’ it again, so…”

“Oh, Raph, you’re a sweetheart, aren’t you?” she giggled. “Don’t worry. I won’t say a word.”

“Thanks, Dorothea,” he beamed. “You really are the best.”

-----

“M-music show? Me? Perform!? How did you find out? Did Raphael tell you!?” Bernadetta demanded through the tiny crack between the doors of her room.

“Raphael? I haven’t talked to him,” Dorothea lied. “Hilda’s asking around with the Golden Deer, since they’re her classmates, just like Annette’s asking the Blue Lions and I’m asking all my fellow Eagles. We’re trying to get a list together of students who want to take part. Do you have any musical talents, Bernie?”

“N-n-no!” she stammered. “Nope, not me, Bernie’s just good for staying out of the way, yes indeed…”

“I think you’re good for a lot more than that,” Dorothea insisted. “I know you’ve got so much talent, and it’s such a shame to hide it all away. Maybe you sing in here, or play an oboe when we’re all away from the dorms…”

“Trumpet,” the archer mumbled. “B-but I could never get up in front of so many people!”

“Oh, but from on stage, under the lights, you can’t even see most of the audience -- and wouldn’t it be great to share all that talent with the whole academy?”

“Maybe for you!” the archer squeaked. “All those people out there in the dark, staring at me, and no place to hide? That s-sounds terrifying!”

…Dorothea actually hadn’t thought about that. She was so used to basking in the attention…but that would be scary for someone as shy as Bernadetta. “That’s okay,” she smiled. “You don’t have to. But…would you maybe come to watch? Ferdie and I have already signed up to take part, and we could always use someone to cheer for us.”

“…m-maybe,” came the muffled reply.

“And if you do change your mind about being on stage, you know we’ll both be cheering you on, right?” she coaxed. “Annette even told me that Felix promised to come watch the performances, and you know how he feels about everything that isn’t training. We’d all really love it if you joined in.”

Silence from the other side of the doors. Had she pushed too hard…?

“I’ll…I-I’ll think about it.”

Beaming, Dorothea made a note on her sign-up sheet. “That’s all we’d ask for. Just let me know, okay?”

And maybe it was her imagination, but she thought she heard the smallest sound of agreement before the doors clicked firmly shut between them.

-----

Even in her fantasies, Dorothea never could have dreamed things would go this well. Not only did they get enough sign-ups to make a full five-round bracket, the whole monastery was buzzing with anticipation days before the event. It reminded her a little of Enbarr the week before a Mittelfrank production, where every group she passed on the street seemed to be talking about the upcoming show -- whether it was about their excitement to see the spectacle or despair over not getting one of the endlessly coveted (and frightfully limited) tickets. Here, thankfully, seating was hardly an issue, since Professor Manuela had managed to secure the Reception Hall for the event: the whole student body could fit there with standing room to spare, even with the stage taking up the front quarter.

Come the morning of the show, posters listing the contestants appeared on every bulletin board, and Dorothea scanned the starting matches before the thought of breakfast even occurred to her. She recognized more than a few names: Ferdinand of course, and herself (naturally), as well as Lorenz (unfortunately), Hilda, Annette, and even Bernie.

It was all so exciting, she could hardly bear it.

Time crawled by while she waited for the tournament to begin. Before noon she’d warmed up, improvised a few little tunes as practice, and rehearsed a few of her favorite songs in preparation. By the time the Reception Hall opened to the competitors, she’d chosen her starting and ending arrangements and decided on the pieces she would use if she faced any real competition. And once the doors opened and the audience began to crowd into the available seats, she felt her heart begin to race in anticipation of what was soon to come.

She didn’t even mind that she had to wait. The first match, to her delight, featured Annette and Bernie: blushing fiercely, the little red-head made her way cheerfully through an obviously original tune, while Dorothea’s fellow Eagle stuck to a familiar Imperial melody, squeezing her eyes shut tight and playing her trumpet at the stage rather than the audience. In spite of that, it was a remarkable performance, and Bernie might have won just by virtue of Raphael’s enthusiastic applause -- but his thunderous cheer startled the poor recluse and sent her bolting from the stage before the match could be officially declared, forfeiting her chance to proceed. But that might have been for the best, she supposed: Bernie clearly wasn’t big on the spotlight.

The rest of the first round and all of the second went smoothly enough. Though she didn’t bother watching every pair, she saw both Ferdinand and Annette proceed on to the quarterfinals, while Hilda lost to Lorenz in her second bout (though the noblewoman hardly seemed bothered by the loss). Dorothea’s own matches barely required any effort on her part to win: she’d spent so long practicing her favorite songs from her favorite operas in the days leading up to this competition, but a few simple melodies were all it took to ensure that she made it through the preliminaries. Even against her third opponent, all it took was the chorus from an Adrestian folksong to seal her victory...though Annette lost her own bout against Ferdinand in the same round. Dorothea congratulated her all the same, and promised to win for Annie’s sake -- perhaps a bold promise from anyone else, but one that the former Mittelfrank diva felt assured she could keep.

And sure enough, in the semifinals she not only faced her fellow Eagle but beat him handily with one of the arias she’d so carefully prepared. He lost quite gracefully, too, applauding her as enthusiastically as the audience itself and conceding even before Profesor Manuela could announce the final judgment. And with the round done, Dorothea made her way back behind the stage, humming to herself as she waited for the intermission to end and the finals to begin…

“Congratulations on sweeping the competition, Dorothea.”

She paused, turning to see the leader of the Golden Deer House grinning at her from a few feet away. Mustering up a pleasant enough smile, she offered a nod in greeting. “Why, thank you, Claude. Are you here to wish Lorenz well before I crush him?”

The nobleman blinked. “Why would I do that? Lorenz got knocked out in the last round.”

Dorothea stared at him for a long, silent moment. “To who?” she demanded, hunting about for a bracket that might give her an answer--

“...me, actually.”

Slowly, carefully, she turned again to face the leader of the Golden Deer. “Guess you weren’t watching the match,” he chuckled, hefting an odd lute-like instrument. “Lorenz was...less than thrilled with the outcome, if it helps.”

Actually, it just made her regret all the more that she hadn’t paid attention: she’d been looking forward to seeing his face when he finally lost. “Well, I suppose congratulations are in order for you, too, then,” she said, turning away from him again. “May the best musician win.”

“Oh, uh...about that.”

She glanced at him over her shoulder, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear as he drummed his fingertips along the neck of his instrument. “I was...well. I was wondering how you’d feel about calling it a draw.”

A thin smile carved its way across her face. “Are you that confident you can beat me, Claude?”

“Hardly,” he scoffed. “I have no doubt that you’d mop the floor with me.” She felt sure he was flattering her -- but she waited all the same, watching his grin soften almost shyly, though it still didn’t quite touch his eyes. “I was just...hoping I could perform with you, instead of having to compete against you. Y’know, everything here at the monastery is about pitting us against each other: the weapon tourneys, the fishing competition, and now this...I feel like we could put on a better show working together than we could separately trying to one-up each other. You can have the prize, too, if you want,” he added. “Pretty sure you’d win it anyway, but...what do you say?”

Beyond the curtain, she heard Professor Manuela take the stage again and announce the final round to the audience. Claude only watched Dorothea, though, seeming content to be patient and wait for her even as their names rang out over the wild cheering of the crowd.

And at last she smiled, lifting a hand to cup her cheek. “How are you at improvising with that lute of yours?”

“If you can sing a few bars, I can probably make something work,” he grinned.

“Why don’t we put that to the test?”

“With pleasure,” he agreed, bowing playfully before offering his arm to her. Returning the gesture with a teasing curtsy of her own, Dorothea accepted -- and they walked out onto the stage together, applause washing over them in waves of wondrous sound. They parted smoothly, Claude taking up his instrument and strumming a few notes to ensure it was properly in tune before looking expectantly to her, waiting for her lead; Dorothea turned her own attention to the darkness, savoring the anticipation of the shadowed audience before her...and finally beginning to sing, the somber melody echoing throughout the crowded reception hall.

“Reach for my hand, I’ll soar away, Into the dawn, oh I wish I could stay…”

A soft chord joined in, the notes as sweet and clear as her own...and yet it did not overpower her voice: instead it seemed to carry the words higher, elevating the music in ways she had not heard since she left the Mittelfrank Opera House. She did not falter, though: instead she continued, allowing a smile to creep into her voice as she sang.

“Here in cherished halls, in peaceful days I fear the edge of dawn, knowing time betrays…”

“Is this really gonna be the last song we do?” Claude asked, his voice carrying out into the dark and startling her back to reality. “Come on, Dorothea, we’ve gotta liven it up a little!”

Even as he spoke, his fingers flew over the strings, keeping the key but tumbling into a bright, rousing accompaniment. He winked at her when she turned to stare at him, repeating the same refrain in invitation...and though she’d only ever heard the piece as a wandering lament before, she could not deny his compelling harmony.

Their music rang through the reception hall, her voice rising into the rafters on the strum of lute strings...and for the first time since she’d come to the Officer’s Academy, Dorothea felt that familiar, wonderful thrill again as the enraptured crowd watched them perform their duet on the stage.

-----

In the fortnight following the tourney, Dorothea had become the most popular girl in Garreg Mach. It seemed like every young man, noble birth or otherwise, wanted a moment of her time, a scrap of her attention...and, of course, a chance to hear her sing again.

While they’d agreed to a draw before ever taking the stage, Claude had gracefully conceded when Professor Manuela declared Dorothea the winner. It had bothered her when it happened -- all the more for how she couldn’t correct the matter over the riotous applause -- and try as she might over the intervening days, she’d still been unable to set the record straight with anyone she spoke with (aside from Hilda, who didn’t seem the least bit surprised to hear it). But strangest of all was the fact, despite now having an audience eager to hear her perform again...she couldn’t find that thrill anymore. It had been there while she was on stage with Claude, but in every performance since -- no matter how many people she had hanging on her every note -- she just felt the same hollow sort of yearning she had in the cathedral before all of this began.

Dorothea sighed as she made her way out of the dining hall, taking the stairs down to the fishing pond and wandering toward the dormitories. All the attention did get tiring after a while; luckily the grounds seemed deserted this afternoon, and she stretched her arms high as she tipped her head back, breathing in the crisp autumn air while the sun warmed her face and the soft sound of music drifted by…

She stopped, scanning the lawn and the path along the row of dorms. No one was there that she could see, but she could hear the strum of lute strings; she hurried on, listening to the music grow louder and louder until she felt certain she was close -- but the sound was too clear to be coming from behind the closed doors, and there was still no one around that she could see. “Claude?” she called, raising her voice as much as she dared.

The music stopped. “Dorothea?” the nobleman’s voice replied -- not from beside or behind her, but from above.

Tilting her head back and shading her eyes, she stared at the young man peering at her over the eaves of the dormitory roof. “What are you doing up there?” she asked.

“Playing,” he said.

“How did you even get up there? And why are you playing on the roof, for that matter?”

“It’s complicated,” he shrugged. “...well, alright, it’s not that complicated, but...should I come down so we can talk?”

Dorothea opened her mouth to agree...and paused. “...I could always come up,” she offered.

A grin twitched across his face. “I’ll meet you at my room, then,” he laughed, waving before disappearing from view. Hurrying back down to the greenhouses, she turned into the stairwell leading to the second floor of dorms where most of the noble students stayed; at the top of the steps, she saw Claude poke his head out into the hall, beaming at the sight of her. Smiling despite herself, Dorothea hurried over and ducked past him without even thinking...and as he closed the doors, she stifled a giggle at the sight of his room.

She had seen cluttered her share of dorms before -- Linhardt’s came immediately to mind -- but she’d never seen anything quite like this, with books taking up half the bed, papers spilling off the desk and onto the floor, and shelves cluttered with a mix of plants, vials, and strange brass instruments she couldn’t identify. Claude seemed briefly puzzled by her reaction...though, after another moment, he rather sheepishly began gathering up the parchment piled on his chair to give her a place to sit. “So what can I do for you?”

“Well, first of all I’d like to know how you got onto the roof,” she replied. “And off it so fast, for that matter.”

He quirked one eyebrow in apparent surprise. “What, that? It’s easy.” Dropping the papers in a haphazard pile on the desk, he stepped up onto the wide ledge beneath the open window, leaning out into empty space and stretching one arm up...

Claude jumped.

Dorothea lunged for him, knowing already it was too late -- but he did not fall. She stumbled into the sill, gaping as he effortlessly pulled himself up out of sight; crawling up onto the ledge, she cautiously poked her head out the window...and saw him lean out over the eave, grinning down at her from his perch. “That doesn’t look easy to me,” Dorothea pointed out.

“It just takes some practice,” he laughed. “Want to come up? The view’s great,” he added, reaching a hand down to her.

The sensible, logical, rational part of her brain insisted that she’d rather not break her neck trying to get a nice view of the monastery...even as she extended her own arm, gripping his wrist and feeling him hold fast. She heard the instructions he gave her -- she was more than certain of that, since she never would have done this on her own -- but whatever he’d said escaped her the moment she stepped off the ledge into empty air, clutching tight to Claude’s wrist even as his pleasant laughter rang in her ears. In the end he did most of the work pulling her up beside him...but once she caught her breath and her heart stopped feeling like a bird trying to escape its cage, she had to admit that he was right: the campus was lovely from so high up.

“You doing okay?” he asked, patting her shoulder gently.

“Better, I think,” she agreed, scooting further back from the edge. “So, that explains how you got up here -- now why are we here?”

“Well, in my case it’s because it’s a nice day, I don’t have anything going on, and I’m tired of dealing with Lorenz, so I figured I’d come up here and play a bit. He can yell all he wants from down there, but I’m not stopping unless he gets on this roof to make me.” As he spoke, he removed the lute strapped to his back, strumming a few notes and idly beginning to tune it again. “But what brings you up here?”

“Well...actually, I was looking for you,” she admitted, tucking a few strands of hair behind her ear. “I haven’t seen much of you since the music tourney.”

“You’ve been busy,” he winked.

Dorothea rolled her eyes, leaning back against the slightly pitched roof. “Don’t remind me, I needed to get away from it for a while.”

“Really? I thought you’d be happy about all the attention.”

“I was at first,” she sighed, “and it’s been wonderful to have more chances to sing, but…”

She trailed off, watching a few wispy clouds wandering across the pale blue sky. After a moment, the quiet strum of lute strings fell silent; glancing over at the nobleman, she found him watching her with interest, his head canting slightly to one side as he gestured for her to continue. “It...doesn’t feel like I thought it would. Back in the opera, it was always so grand and emotional, singing to an audience -- I loved that feeling, and it’s one of the things I’ve missed most since I left. I’d hoped the competition would bring it back, and singing with you I found it again, but...I haven’t felt it since. I’ve been feeling guilty about the way it ended up, and…”

“Hey, I said from the start that you’d mop the floor with me in a competition,” he laughed. “I don’t mind. I’m glad I got the chance to perform with you -- that was my prize.”

“Be serious,” she huffed. “I’m trying to apologize!”

“And I’m saying you don’t have to -- it’s not like you had a say in Professor Manuela deciding on a winner.”

“But if I don’t get it sorted out, how am I supposed to enjoy singing like I used to?”

“Are you sure guilt is what’s keeping you from it?”

Her eyes narrowed slightly as she stared at him. “What do you mean?”

“You said that you haven’t felt that thrill since you left the opera. You didn’t get it again until the finals, right?” She nodded in agreement. “And then after the finals it was gone again?” Again, she nodded in agreement. “So what was different about the finals, compared to everything before and after?”

“The drama of the grand finale?” she offered.

“Well, that, too,” he chuckled, “but you weren’t performing alone, either: your melody had a harmony.”

Dorothea scoffed at the notion. “That seems…”

She trailed off as Claude leaned forward, propping his chin on his hands. She hadn’t thought of it like that before, but...her fondest memories from the opera were of performances with accompaniment: grand arias carried by a full orchestra, soft odes lilting over quavering strings. “...possible,” she conceded.

“So maybe what you were really looking for was a chance to sing with somebody, instead of going it alone or singing over them.”

“I’m flattered you think I’m so selfless,” she giggled. “Really, I just wanted an audience.” But even so, that final performance with him, building on one another’s leads and creating something far grander and more beautiful than Dorothea could have done alone...it had brought with it a familiar, delightful frisson.

“Well, I know I had more fun playing with you than I did taking Lorenz down a peg -- and I really enjoyed that,” Claude laughed, strumming his lute again, “and I, for one, would be honored to reprise the performance -- though, fair warning, I can’t promise a crowd this time around.”

“You know, I am free this afternoon,” she grinned. He beamed back at her, picking a cheerful tune on his lute strings -- an Adrestian folksong she recognized instantly; as she started in on the first verse and their duet drifted out over the quiet campus, she felt the thrill lift her heart again...and maybe it was just her imagination, but she swore Claude’s smile finally reached his eyes.

#fanfiction #fire emblem: three houses #dorothea arnault #claude von riegan #dorothea & claude #these two could have had such interesting conversations #but the only way to get that is with fanfiction #which is a shame #the title song reference is one of my favorite nods #dorothea singing it at half tempo to start #and then claude kicking it up to the faster pace #is just so much fun to me #also even though they don't have a huge impact on the piece as a whole #i just love the bits with raph and bernie so much #overall i'm still a little unsure about this particular one #but i really wanted to get it done since it's been sitting around for so long #and i needed something to get my mind on other things #let me know what you think #and if you'd like to see this one kicked over to ao3 too

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lorelylantana · 4 years ago

Text

Savageries of the Heart Chapter 1: Courtship

SFW

Zelda always hesitated outside of the King Daphnes’ door. Bracing herself for the twinge of disappointment that always came when she entered the room to find her father’s chair occupied by her uncle, she straightened her spine and stepped into the room with a schooled expression and a head held high.

“You called for me, your Majesty?” she asked, folding her hands in front of her abdomen as she stood in front of his desk. He didn’t acknowledge her for a moment, signing off one last document before looking up at her with a radiant smile that sent a chill down Zelda’s spine.

“Excellent news, my darling Zelda, I’ve found a husband for you.”

She sucked in a breath, “My husband?”

“Yes, my dear, at long last you're getting married! It was a challenge, mind you, but I’ve arranged for you to marry quite the accomplished Zonai warrior.”

She was speechless. As the first born of the royal family, Zelda harbored no false hopes of marrying for love, but she had at least hoped to stay within Hyrule’s borders, where she could at the very least continue her research.

“The temple will never allow it,” she insisted with a voice that shook in tandem with her beating heart. The smile on his face spread wider, though his eyes grew colder.

“The temple has always put too much stock on a bloodline bedtime story. Your mother was a gifted mage, but if present company is anything to go by,” he stood to walk around his desk and loom over her, “it was hardly a divine inheritance.”

“Zonai authority is established through combat prowess,” Zelda pointed out, “I fail to see why they would be interested in marrying me for my blood.”

“It doesn’t matter why they want you!” he snapped, the pleasant veneer of politeness cracking. He took a breath before placing heavy hands on Zelda’s shoulders, forcing them down into a slouch.

“What you don’t understand, Zelda dearest,” the King pushed through his teeth, “Is that we are vulnerable. Our military has been in shambles for an age, and ever since that wretched coup we have been surrounded by factions that refuse to fall in line. With the Zonai on our side, those other races will think twice before moving against us.”

In the ten thousand years since the continent was fractured there was never one incident that pointed to ambitions of conquest from any of the other five nations, but that didn’t matter to Zelda’s uncle, who had moved to a map of the continent. He stood in front of the east portion of the map, where the Akkala, Faron, and Necluda regions were painted Zonai green.

“My fool of a brother didn’t see the threats, but I do,” he whispered, frowning. He spun around to face her once again, “All you need to know, sweet Zelda, is that in a month’s time you will cross the Bridge of Hylia and make your home in the quaint woodlands that were once a part of our great nation.”

Zelda opened her mouth to protest, but he cut her off.

“Everyone wins!” he proclaimed, “We get the support of the largest nation on the continent, and at long last you can finally do something to help your country. As princess.”

Zelda sighed at her defeat, “I don’t know their language.”

“A month should give you a decent enough head start,” he insisted, sweeping a hand towards the door, “I suggest you get started.”

Zelda rushed out the door, desperate for a moment to process. Her plan was momentarily foiled by the arrival of Nohansen. The young prince was an unfortunate reflection of his father made all the clearer by his sinister smile.

“Ah! Have you heard the news, dear cousin? You must be ecstatic! The biggest day in any young woman’s life is her wedding day, and yours is a mere thirty days away!”

“I fail to see how we’re to organize a royal wedding in one month,” Zelda muttered. Nohansen’s smile sank into a smirk. He ruffled her hair, knocking her tiara off in the process.

“Oh, the wedding won’t be held here” he laughed, twirling the gold in his hands, “Of course not, we can’t have those barbarians running around our castle now, can we?”

Zelda took a breath to speak-

“No,” he said, holding up a finger to stifle whatever she was about to say, “We will be taking you to them. Your glorious wedding shall take place deep in the savage Zonai wilds. They even have a little spring said to be protected by a goddess. Does that not please you, O Daughter of Hylia?” he ended with a sneer.

Zelda snatched her crown back, the gold biting against her grip as she pushed passed him to rush through hallways stained burgundy with banners bearing her uncle’s crest to climb her tower, rushing up stairs and crossing the bridge to her study, the most remote room in the entirety of Hyrule Castle. She slammed the door and locked it before kicking off her shoes and climbing her desk to open the window high above it. She lifted her face to the breeze that rushed in. It was here, away from prying eyes, that she could truly relish in fresh air. She stood there a moment to relish the stillness before lowering herself to the floor and taking a seat in front of her carefully cultivated collection of samples of Hyrule’s most elusive flower, the Silent Princess. Despite her best efforts, she couldn’t get one to sprout within the confines of her study.

Her study was cluttered with several clay pots hosting their own samples. Stalks of Saffline and flowering Blue Nightshade gently glowing against the shadows. She also had several vials full of elixirs her uncle refused to consider implementing into the kingdom’s resources, citing a lack of reports backing her claims. Of course, any reports written by Zelda herself were disqualified because of a conflict of interest.

That didn’t mean her work went unnoticed. Zelda had built quite a rapport with servants and soldiers alike when she managed to concoct a working contraceptive elixir with ingredients common enough to distribute. From that point on Zelda became an unofficial medic to the people of Castle Town. Those employed at the castle had full access to the infirmary, but the same could not be said for their families. Since her activity outside the castle was heavily restricted most of her specimens were given to her by grateful family members who consulted her.

She was reviewing her notes on the Silent Princess when a knock at the door brought tension to her shoulders.

“What is it?” she asked, wary of her cousin coming in to gloat once again.

“You’ve been invited to dinner by his Majesty King Daphnes, he requests you come down immediately.”

“I’ll be right there,” she huffed, fixing the golden band on her head and straightened her hair before making her way down to the dining hall. To her aggravation, everyone had already been seated and turned to look at her as she walked in. Another one of her uncle’s tricks.

She sat at the last open seat at the head of the table. Her uncle intended to make a spectacle of her in some way, but she didn’t find out exactly how until dessert was served and the King knocked a spoon against his glass to call for the attention of the other nobles in attendance.

“It is my tremendous pleasure to inform you all as of today that our lovely Crown Princess,” he waved to a servant, who brought over a package “is officially engaged to be married!”

There was a round of polite applause before King Daphnes cleared his throat, continuing after they quieted down. The attendant placed a solid wooden box in front of Zelda after a maid cleared her unfinished cake away.

“In honor of this momentous agreement the groom in question was so kind as to send a gift to his beautiful bride to be and I thought it only right to share this celebration with you all by letting you bear witness to the first gift between our dear Zelda and her fiance!” the King turned to her then, laying another heavy hand on her shoulder.

“Don’t be shy now. Open it.”

At first glance Zelda thought the box itself was the gift. It was finely crafted, polished wood with a reddish tinge that she hadn’t seen before, and the various symbols and runes carved into it had her itching to go to the library. Zelda lifted the lid and reached in, pulling out a knife crafted by some creature’s polished jaw bone.

The room burst out in raucous laughter.

“My word!” a woman’s voice yelled, “I knew they were backwards, but to think they would present a young lady with the remains of some animal!”

“Well of course,” cried another, “If they couldn’t fashion a proper metal blade, what hope could they have of crafting jewelry?”

Zelda fingered the spiral carved into the lid’s center as she considered pointing out that the handle was made from silver wrapped in silk, but she doubted it would make a difference.

“Well she can always wear it about her neck if she wants to show off her engagement!” Prince Nohansen laughed.

Zelda did not wear the knife around her neck, but she did take to wearing it on a sash tied at her waist. The morning after the engagement was announced Zelda descended to the lower floors of the castle to reach the laboratory. Diplomatic relations between Hyrule and Zonai were nonexistent, but there was one researcher that spent a fair amount of time in Faron to study some of the plants there, and Zelda had gotten quite acquainted with him upon his return to the castle.

“Owlan!” she called, a smile growing on her face as the old man came into view, working diligently on documenting the fruits of his research.

“Come to glean Zonai secrets, your Highness?” he asked with a raised brow and his ever present gentle smile.

“You’ve heard the news then?” she asked.

“There’s not a soul in this castle who hasn’t. It’s the talk of the town,” he closed the book he was writing in and turned to face her, “Would you like a tutor in their language?”

“I would, but that’s not the only reason I’m here,” Zelda set the box she’d received the night before on his workspace, “What do you make of this?”

He took the box in his hand, giving the intricately carved lid, “If nothing else, you know that he’s a gifted carpenter.”

“You think he made the box himself?”

“Rather than a ring, Zonai engagements are marked with a dagger. Typically the suitor in question will present said blade with a personal touch. A seamstress would wrap it in a sash for her beloved, a gardener might send flowers along with the blade itself, and your betrothed,” he tapped the box lid, “sent a carved box. Would you mind terribly if I took a look at the knife in question?”

“Go ahead,” she said, taking an empty seat beside him. She turned back to him holding the knife in question with a frown.

“What is it?” she asked.

“It’s common for particularly capable warriors in the Zonai nation to slay a beast and have a bone fashioned into the blade. It’s a way of showing off, you see,” Owlan said with a mischievous smile, “but I can’t tell what creature it’s from.”

Zelda took the dagger in her own hands, running a ringer across the large fang at the point. Now that she had a closer look, she could see etchings on the bone as well, depicting a long horned serpent curling under the teeth.

“What should I send back?”

“I’m sure a reciprocal blade would be appreciated,” he said, a twinkle in his eye.

Zelda left shortly after to visit the blacksmith to have a dagger commissioned before heading to the library. After consulting a librarian she had several books on the Zonai language sent to her room while she perused the shelves until she came across the tome she was looking for.

The Hylian Bestiary was one of the oldest books in the castle’s collection, the original copy was written back when the kingdom encompassed the entire continent. She hefted the book onto one of the empty tables and flipped through the illustrations of beasts both alive and of their remains. She rested her head on her fist, nearing the end of the section and still at a loss. She turned a page, a little discouraged until she scanned it’s contents.

There wasn’t much information on this beast, apart from reports of different colors and different regions it had been spotted in. There wasn’t a live illustration either, but there was a careful sketch of a skull. Zelda opened her box and took out the dagger just to be sure. She held it up to the page.

Her fiance had sent her a Lynel’s jaw.

If his intent was to impress, he’d certainly succeeded. She had never seen one herself, but there had been occasions where her uncle had dispatched knights to slay one that had wandered a bit too close to hylian villages. It was one of the few times the King would approve of Zelda’s assistance of the medical staff, because they always needed extra hands afterwards. Zelda returned the book to its shelf and entered her study. The books she’d asked for were stacked on her desk, but she bypassed them for her cabinet of finished elixirs. She opened the doors and considered, wondering which one she should send to her betrothed. She considered a poison she’d extracted to coat the dagger in, but decided against it. With the language barrier as high as it was, she didn’t want to risk him drinking it. She ended up making a defensive concoction that would give him an extra layer of protection, which he might need if he made a habit of facing Lynels.

She was called down to the blacksmith’s a few hours later to approve of their handiwork. The blade was serrated, as she’s requested, and a fair bit longer than the knife around her waist, but she gave her approval and had it shipped off with her elixir to her fiance before returning to her study and reading through the basics of the Zonai language.

A week after she sent her own engagement dagger she had received another gift from her fiance. Unlike the first, this gift was contained within a basket. Zelda had the good fortune to intercept the servant on the way to deliver her gift to her uncle. The maid in question was a regular consumer of one of her contraceptives, so it didn’t take much convincing before she was walking back to her room with the basket tucked under one arm. She sat on her bed, and somewhat excitedly opened the lid of the basket-

And slammed it back down again. She stared at the basket as though it might combust for a moment, heart slamming against her ribcage. Not wanting to jump to any conclusions, Zelda gingerly picked up the basket and placed it on her desk, ond once she put a few paper weights over the lid, paid Owlan a visit.

“Good afternoon your Highness! Are your studies going well?” he asked, looking up from the medication he was crafting.

“How do the Zonai feel about snakes?” she asked by way of greeting.

“Well I would say they’re quite fond of the little creatures,” Owlan explained, “Snakes in general are held in high regard due to their resemblance to one of their guardian deities. The Faron Python in particular is a common pet.”

“A snake is a common pet?”

“Contrary to popular belief, they can be quite friendly. The Faron Python is known for being affectionate and gentle, that coupled with their penchant to hunt pests earned them a spot in many a Zonai household.”

Zelda found herself in the library once again looking for answers regarding the nature of an engagement, and returned to her room with an illustrated guide to Faron Pythons and their care. Once she was once again seated on her bed with the basket placed in front of her. She made sure to turn to the page to a diagram of the snake’s physical characteristics to make sure she could verify her suspicion. Not wanting to spook the creature, she took the lid off slowly, giving the snake a moment to adjust to the light of her room before taking a closer look.

The serpent itself was shockingly beautiful, bright white scales with splashes of blue along its body that looked almost translucent reflecting the light filtering through her windows. After a few tense moments, Zelda carefully reached in the basket. The serpent didn’t shy away, so she felt secure enough to tuck her hand underneath a section of its body to gently lift it. First it was only a few inches, giving the sweet creature a chance to escape, but it only curled around her hand in an embrace that felt softer then it looked. The snake slowly turned to look at her. A tongue flicked out of an upturned mouth, and Zelda was lost.

From that day forward, it was common to see the Crown Princess of Hyrule walking through the castle with a serpent coiled around her neck. She liked the reaction her new friend had on those around her, even her uncle and cousin seemed to give her a wide berth whenever they caught sight of the python leisurely draped around her shoulders. She never mentioned the snake’s name because she liked the watchful respect she acquired and refused to undermine it by advertising that the intimidating serpent’s name was Noodle.

With this new edge to her authority Zelda made doubly sure that any gifts from her mysterious groom came directly to her hands. The benefits to this policy were two fold, the first being insurance that her uncle wouldn’t make a further mockery of her engagement or perhaps keep the gift if he took a liking to it. The second was the prevention of any diplomatic incidents. As much as she loved Noodle, Zelda was well aware that a snake in a basket could be interpreted as an assassination attempt.

As thanks for her new friend, Zelda sent one of her old journals she thought had a thorough description of how she made some of her earlier, more basic elixirs. She knew there was a chance he might not understand Hylian, but she thought it would be a good way to get to know her. She had tried translating the recipes, but gave up after the first few and sent the incomplete list rather than spend her remaining month translating a single journal. Her Zonai vocabulary was primarily conversational and sadly didn’t include scientific vernacular.

She must have gotten her point across, however, as just a week later she was delighted to find a few vials full of her fiance’s attempts to recreate her recipes.

Zelda was also surprised, quite a feat after Noodle’s auspicious arrival, to find a Silent Princess pressed into glass. At first she was perplexed, wondering if her fiance had simply ventured a lucky guess, but then she recalled the day she began researching the flower and attempting to foster it on her own was also the day she filled that journal, suggesting her fiance had read to the last page of her journal before preparing his third gift.

Her elation at this discovery was fueled by a torrent of relief. She had heard the stories of arranged marriages gone wrong. She had considered countless times in the past weeks that the gifts sent could be a ploy to gain her affections only to have such generosity evaporate as soon as the final wedding vow was spoken. Yet the Silent Princess in her hands whispered tales of a considerate husband, who took the time to read through all she had written and took the time to learn her interests. Deep in Zelda’s chest, she felt hope flicker, foolish as it might have been.

#zelink #zelink botw #botw au #link botw #the legend of zelda #the legend of zelda breath of the wild #zelda botw #arranged marriage au #zonai link #fanfic

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bbyx · 4 years ago

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ripple effect - part eight

Summary: During her fourth year at Hogwarts, (y/n) Deauxville falls for none other than Cedric Diggory. But it's not easy when you have to deal with protecting your family's fortune, keeping your father's illness a secret and having two of your closest friends catch feelings for you.

Pairings : reader x cedric, reader x draco, reader x harry

“You’ll never guess what happened today.” Ron says, hurrying to catch up to you as you enter the Great Hall for dinner.

“What, Ron?” You say amused.

“We think Hagrid fancies Madame Maxine.”

“Finally found a woman his size huh.” You grin looking at Hagrid in his mismatched suit fumbling next to Beauxbaton headmistress.

“ Who do you reckon the Goblet will pick.” Says Harry, materialising beside you.

“ Krum for sure.”

“ B-but what if he gets injured, he’s the best seeker!” Ron stutters, turning pale.

“ You should come sit at the Slytherin table if you wanna meet him so bad.”

“Yeah right. They would slit my throat before dessert.” Ron scoffs.

“Suit yourself.” You say before splitting up to your respective tables.

“My mother wants you all to know that you’re all invited to the Malfoy’s New Years ball, as always, and she’s sending out the official invitations next week.” Draco says, sipping on his pumpkin juice.

“ Oh my god! I think Astoria is finally old enough to attend her first ball. Do any of you already have a dress?” Daphnees exclaims, turning to you and Millicent.

“ Balls are boring, the only fun part is the after party.” Theo says stifling a yawn.

“(y/n), I hope you don’t mind, but my mother’s already picked out a selection of dresses for you. I tried to stop her but,” Draco says, his ears turning slightly red. “erm she wouldn’t listen. Anyways, she’s sending them over as soon as heavenly possible.” He finishes, imitating his mother’s posh voice.

“ That’s fine, your mom has a good eye for clothes anyways.” You smile reassuringly.

You and Draco had been each other’s dates for formal events ever since you could remember. It was just easier, not having to worry about finding a date. And (y/n) also knew that Narcissa Malfoy would have loved to have a daughter and that shopping for (y/n) brought her so much joy.

“Well, the goblet is almost ready to make its decision,” said Dumbledore. “I estimate that it requires one more minute. Now, when the champions’ names are called, I would ask them please to come up to the top of the Hall, walk along the staff table, and go through into the next chamber where they will be receiving their first instructions.”

The flames in the cup turned from blue to red and silence overtook the hall. It sputtered and a charred piece of parchment flew out.

“The champion for Durmstrang,” Dumbledore read, in a clear voice, “will be Viktor Krum.”

All the Durmstrand students jumped up cheering in foreign languages and patting Krum on the back.

“Bravo, Viktor!” boomed Karkaroff, so loudly that everyone could hear him, even over all the applause. “Knew you had it in you!” Viktor stands up, his lips slightly upturned and goes to the chamber.

The silence comes back when the Goblet starts sputtering again.

“The champion for Beauxbatons,” said Dumbledore, “is Fleur Delacour!”

The remainder of the Beauxbaton students were absolutely devastated, some of them even crying. The other students were too busy ogling Fleur to cheer. She graciously slips into the other chamber.

The whole room is practically shaking with excitement as the cup starts sputtering again.

Not Nick please.

“The Hogwarts champion,” Dumbledore calls, “is Cedric Diggory!” Every single Hufflepuff jumped to his or her feet, screaming and stamping, as Cedric made his way past them, grinning broadly. He winks as he passes by you, making your heart melt. The applause for Cedric seemed to be neverending. Even Draco gave in and started clapping.

“Excellent!” Dumbledore called happily as the cheering died down. “Well, we now have our three champions. I am sure I can count upon all of you, including the remaining students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, to give your champions every ounce of support you can muster. By cheering your champion on, you will contribute in a very real —”

But Dumbledore suddenly stopped speaking. The fire in the goblet had just turned red again. Sparks were flying out of it. Another paper popped out of it. Dumbledore looks perplexed.

“Harry Potter.”

The entire room was looking at Harry, who looked shell shocked. For a split second, your eyes meet. “Harry Potter!” Dumbledore calls again. “Harry! Up here, if you please!”. Slowly he stands and awkwardly waddles to the top table. “Well . . . through the door, Harry,” said Dumbledore.

“It’s always bloody Potter. How did that fucking pinhead manage to trick the Goblet.” Blaise says venomously.

“ He’s Dumbledore’s little darling, that’s how.” Draco says, his jealousy leaking through each syllable. You were about to jump to Harry’s defense but decided against it, not wanting to start more conflict.

“God, the Hufflepuff party is gonna be wicked. Allison Odgen’s in Hufflepuff, Ogden as in Old Odgen’s Firewhiskey and I heard that she’s got two whole crates of firewhiskey just for tonight.” Theo says, musing.

“ I heard a couple of seventh year Puffs stole a shiton of weed from the Greenery too.” Milicent adds.

“What party?”

“The one for Cedric, duh” Daphne says while wrapping an arm around your shoulder.

“Oh. In the common room?”

“No, at the bottom of the lake.” Theo answers sarcastically. “C’mon let’s go before it gets too crowded.”

“You guys go ahead, I'll be there soon.” You say crestfallen, as your friends hurry out of the Hall. (y/n) had been looking forward to finally spending time alone with Cedric. He was supposed to show you around the Hufflepuff common room but you had a feeling that wasn’t going to happen because of the party. After a while, you find yourself alone in the gigantic Hall, which is a very eerie feeling. The candles had burned low and shapes were flickering on the stone walls. The silence makes your ears ring and you decide to just meet Cedric at the party when a voice makes you jump.

“So,” said Cedric to Harry, with a slight smile. “We’re playing against each other again!”

“I s’pose,” said Harry.

“Harry! Cedric!” They both jump, not having noticed you in the dark hall. You run and grab Harry in a hug.

“Harry! What on earth happened?”

“I didn’t put my name in!” He desperately shouts, his voice cracking.

“I know, I know.” He gazes at you for a couple seconds, making sure you believed him.

“Do you want me to come to the Gryffindor common room with you?”

Harry takes one look at Cedric’s clenched jaw and your worried face. “No it’s fine. I’ll erm see you tomorrow. Enjoy yourself tonight, we’ll figure it out in the morning” And with that he leaves.

“No hug for this champion?” Cedric says pouting.

“Of course!” You say, throwing yourself against him. “I’m so excited for you.”

The golden flickering lights of the dying candles made his lips look even more inviting than usual. The Hall that had looked so daunting minutes ago, now looked like a safe haven. His grey eyes are fixed on yours and he slowly leans in. You close your eyes, feeling his hot breath on your mouth when someone coughs loudly. Your eyes flicker open while Professor Moody limps out of a dark corner.

“P-professor!” You croak.

“You are just like your mother, Miss Deauxville, coercing well raised boys into doing your dirty work.” You look at him, mouth agape. “As for you, Mr.Diggory, I suggest you stay away from these types of women.”

Cedric looks like he’s about to pounce on Moody, but you grab his forearm.

“Ced let’s go.” You say softly, while Moody stands there as if daring Cedric to hurt him. You try pulling him away but he’s far stronger and heavier than you. Finally he gives in to your tugging, puts a hand on your back and leads you out of the hall. The two of you walk in silence.

“Cedric” You say, grabbing his hand. “It’s not a big deal, let it go. He’s just a psycho old man.”

“It’s not about that.” He mutters, staring ahead.

“What is it about then?” You say as you near the Hufflepuff common rooms. The hallway was vibrating with the beat of the music playing inside.

“It’s about the fact that he interrupted our kiss.”

Cedric brings his hands up to your face and flashes you his blinding white teeth. He leans down and barely pecks your lips before the door of the common room swings open.

A drunk Ernie Mcmillan stumbles out and you see Cedric’s eye twitch.

“Ayyyy it’s Dedric Cigorrry. The whole house s’been looking for you Cigarette.” He manages to say before vomiting the contents of his stomach in a nearby barrel. You and Cedric move past him and enter the common room. The place is decorated in an embarrassing amount of posters bearing Cedrics face, Hufflepuff banners hang from every corner and music is blasting so loud that the furniture shakes slightly.

“I promise I will show you this place when it’s not trashed.”Cedric manages to say before a mob of girls in yellow robes swarm him.

“Cedric! We organized all of this!” The leader says motioning to the group of girls and the posters of his face.

“Er wow. Thank you so much.” He flashes them his million dollar smile. The crowd forming around him was making you claustrophobic so you go sit with your brother and his friends.

“Aren’t you going to congratulate him?” You ask the boys who are sitting at a large round table in the corner.

“Yeah of course, once the fan club’s done.” Graham says, his eyes focused on the paper he's cutting.

“We’re having a blunt rolling competition.” Xavier says motioning to the dried leaves on the table.

“Aah, can I join?”

“No. You can be the judge.” Your brother says.

“You’re such a narc Nick.” You say while pulling out a chair.

A clearly fucked up Jeremy laughs. “Nick the Narc. That’s funny.”

You moved around from friends to friends during the most of the night, but the only presence you craved was Cedric’s. He was surrounded by people congratulating him but finally he broke free and headed to the table with his friends. You make a beeline towards his, leaving Daphne on the dance floor. She doesn’t notice, she’s too busy dancing her heart out with a group of Hufflepuff girls. All the boys hug him and he’s smiling like an idiot.

“Ced, have i evver told you-” Jeremy starts slurring but he stumbles forward. “Alohaa” He throws his hands up and start swaying.

“Cedric, man! You’re gonna win this thing I have a feeling.” Nick says ruffling his hair.

“What d’ya want.” Graham says motioning to the different baggies on the table.

“I’ll have whatever he’s having.” Cedric says motioning to Jeremy who was swaying back and forth with a paper bag on his head.

“(y/n) wanna have a shotgunning contest. If you win you can have my shoes. If I win you have to kiss me” Peregrine says holding a tray full of firewhiskey shots.

“Why would I want your shoes?” You say, glancing at his black tennis shoes.

“I dunno.”

“Fine, let’s do it.”

Graham starts lining up the shots, seven each.

“ My bet is on Peregrine, physically he stands a better chance.” Xavier says with all the authority of a rocket scientist.

“You have no clue how much the Deauxville’s can drink then.” Nick says, nursing his own drink.

You give Peregrine a competitive smirk. “Three, two, one, go!”

When shotgunning whiskey, the first three shots are always the hardest. The first burns your throat like you’ve just swallowed a big gulp of salt water. The second one, if done fast enough, numbs all sensation in your mouth. The third one is when most lightweights die off, it sends electric shocks through your body. After the shock of the third one, all the others seem dull. The faster you go the more time you’ll have before the alcohol in your blood reaches your brain. After that your vision will start clouding and you can maybe manage two more before you’ll collapse or hurl your brains out. Luckily for you, Peregrine dies off after your fifth shot and stumbles to a nearby basket.

“Learned from the best.” Nick says proudly. Cedric’s mouth is agape.

“Wanna go again?” You tease when Peregrine comes back.

“Christ! You’re good” He says taking his shoes off and throwing them at you. You catch them easily.

“Nick pass the weed!” (y/n) hollers at her brother.

“Yeah Nick, don’t be such a weed hog.” Cedric says.

“Nick the Hogweed student. That’s funny.” Jeremy says muffled by his paper bag.

You take a moment to look around the room. You had to give it to Cedric, the Hufflepuff common room was beautiful. The high ceilings had copper lighting fixtures that sent golden light through the space. The walls were full of hanging plants and the floors were covered in plush mismatched carpets. Soft couches and wooden tables were scattered around the room. At the moment the room was full of Hufflepuff students, a handful of Ravenclaw and the eternity of the Slytherin population of Hogwarts because they would rather die than have a Gryffindor champion. You spot Theodore and Draco on a nearby couch. Some blonde sixth year girl is eating Theo’s face. Draco is playing with the thick rings on his fingers not paying attention to Pansy’s storytelling. Milicent is part of a group of students sitting on the grand piano, singing furiously along to the lyrics of the song. Blaise is too drunk to notice that the girl he’s flirting with happens to be a very tall plant. And Daphne is dancing with Hannah Abott. You do a double take. Daphne is now kissing Hannah Abott.

The kissing reminds you of the interrupted kiss between you and Cedric. You sneak a peek at his lips. Just then Xavier drops something heavy in the middle of the table. It’s a deck of cards in the middle of the table.

“Strip poker!” Peregrine shouts excitedly.

“You wish.”

“I’m the card dealer.” Graham says, grabbing the deck.

“Xavier you forgot the poker chips dumbass.” Graham says.

Xavier sighs “Yeah, couldn't find them. It’s okay though, we can use-”

“Shoes!” Peregrine says, toppling his drink on the floor.

“Peregrine, I have your shoes.”

“Oh well fuck, i’m on team (y/n) then” Peregrine says.

You motion for Draco to come sit because he’s the best player you know. He sits and rolls his eyes at the shoe idea but agrees to play.

“Well boys, start saying goodbye to your shoes.”

Two hours and 11 pairs of shoes later, most of the partygoers had cleared out. You were glad to find your white sneakers still clad to your feet. After the game had started, so many people joined but you and Draco were the only ones still wearing shoes. He had fared better though, with 15 pairs of shoes.

The air in the common room was thick with smoke, the music had stopped except for some Ravenclaw playing his heart out on the piano. (y/n) is lying on a couch with her head in Cedric’s lap, her feet on top of a sleeping Jeremy. Theo as usual was nowhere to be found and you suspected that Daphne was in Hannah Abbott’s dorm. Blaise was still relentlessly talking to his plant, the boy could talk about himself for hours on end.

Cedric plays with your hair.

“I’mm tired.” You slur lazily.

He chuckles.“(y/n) you can’t fall asleep here.”

“Whyy?” You pout up at him.

“Because Nick already looks like he’s going to hex me.” You blow a strand out of your face and turn your head towards your brother. You sigh, not wanting to create new tensions between you and your brother.

“Blondie, take me homee.” You holler at Draco.

“Gladly.” He says helping you up.

You throw Cedric his shoes. He dodges your clumsy throw that was heading straight to his face.

“There you go Cinderella.”

“Goodnight (y/n)” He chuckles.

(y/n) and Draco are walking down a dark hallway illuminated only by the pale moonlight, your footsteps resonating. You stop in your tracks.

“Draco, I've just had a brilliant idea.”

He doesn't answer, just raises his eyebrows.

“The shoes. On the… fuck whats it called. The big light thing?”

“A chandelier.” He sighs, shaking his head.

“Yes! Chandelier. We hang all the shoes on the chandelier in the great hall.”

“And how are we going to do that?”

“ God I don't know! You’re supposed to be the smart one.”

He sighs deeply, but takes your hand and starts walking towards the great Hall.

When the two of you were done, they’re were 26 pairs of shoes hanging on the chandelier. From sneakers to dainty ballerina flats.

“The chandelier looks so much better now, see? We should do this to all the chandeliers in our houses”

“I’ll make sure to tell my mother to keep it in mind.”

“Let’s get out of here.”

“Finally,” Draco says looking at his thick silver watch. “It’s 4:38 am.”

“No point in going to sleep then.”

“You’re insane.” He chuckles, catching you as you stumble forward.

You smirk devilishly. “ I just can’t wait to see everyone’s face at breakfast tomorrow.”

#cedric diggory #harry potter #draco malfoy #hp and the goblet of fire #cedric diggory x you #cedric diggory x reader #cedric x you #cedric x reader #harry potter x reader #draco malfoy x reader

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airiat · 4 years ago

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Boy with the Sun Song (VII.)

iorveth/f!oc | m | friends to lovers, tooth-rotting fluff, hurt/comfort | no warnings apply

vesta aep maghenn knows iorveth (iorveth aep mirbrach, to her) in a way that no one else can claim: they grew up together in the blue mountains and have been the closest of friends ever since. when iorveth’s unit is wiped out in an ambush by a powerful but unknown adversary, he seeks shelter with vesta until it’s safe for him to rebuild.

[read on ao3]

“Something the matter?”

I looked up from the notebook I had been writing in over to where Iorveth sat on a tree stump in the grass, shaping a length of wood for my new bow. Soon after our first lesson, he sent me into Vengerberg with a pouch of coin, some mine, some his, and a very detailed, carefully curated list of the supplies I was to get. He told me that this was not how he’d normally liked to do things--his Scoia’tael had their own sources for materials--but such was the condition of his new position in life.

Still, he’d become much more content after he’d taken on this project, the feel of his energy now resembling something more like the music he plays on his flute.

While I was endlessly happy to see him in higher spirits, Iorveth’s constant presence was a damper on my creativity. I still wrote relentlessly, as I always did, but every time I put ink to paper, the only words that seemed to come were ones about him.

“What?” I asked.

“The looks you’ve been giving your paper…” Iorveth responded. “I might have to use some of them in my next fight.”

“Shouldn’t you be whittling your ploughing wood instead of watching me?” I retorted.

The scarred side of his lips tilted into a half-smile. “I was, in fact, ‘whittling my ploughing wood’ but all your huffing distracted me.”

“Sorry,” I muttered, returning my gaze to the accursed words on the page before me. Something about a scar ‘like red lightning across a pale sky.’ Abysmal. A disgrace to the Common tongue.

“What is it, Vesta?” Iorveth pressed.

“Nothing,” I answered without lifting my eyes from the paper. “I don’t think you could help.”

“Perhaps I could,” he said. “Why don’t you give me a chance?”

Perched in my hammock strung up high between two tall trees, I had an excellent view of him sitting below me. So plain, so unassuming he looked in his simple green tunic, the tangle of leaves and branches inked on his neck rising past the collar.

He’d stopped wearing his scarf as often, choosing instead to brush his hair over the disfigurement in a dark, but less intense covering. In that very way, he looked so much like the Iorveth I’d always known--Iorveth aep Mirbrach--not Iorveth the Scoia’tael, Iorveth the criminal.

And then it hit me.

“What if I wrote your story?”

He looked at me like I had suddenly sprouted wings and started squawking like a bird. “My story? What bloede story could there possibly be to tell?”

It was my turn to look at him with the same bewilderment. “Are you kidding me? You’re a living legend, Iorveth.”

He muttered something that sounded like ‘son of a whore’, but I couldn’t hear him clearly enough from where I sat to be sure. Regardless, he scowled and his energy began to churn like storm clouds on the horizon.

“I’m no legend,” he said, loud enough for me to hear that time. “I’ve simply been doing what needs to be done. Nothing more.”

“And building a legacy in the process,” I persisted.

“If that’s how you want to look at it, then fine,” he said. “But that’s not the way I do. I have no story to tell.”

“I have an audience, Iorveth. When I speak--write--people listen. My work has reached all across the Continent.”

“That’s wonderful,” he replied, raising his hands to give me a fake round of applause. “I’m so happy for you, Vesta.”

I rolled my eyes. “I know you understand the power of a story,” I said. “Look at how much of our culture is built upon them. Look at what your story did for Saskia.”

“Some ploughing good that did,” he snapped. “For any of it.”

“Iorveth, could you hold your tongue for one godsdamn minute?” I snapped right back at him.

“Fine, fine,” he relented, inclining his head as if to tell me to continue. “I’m listening.”

“I could write you as a hero,” I began. “I could paint all your deeds under the most beautiful, noble light. I could make people sympathize with you, wonder how they’d ever hated you. Look at everything they’ve taken from you after everything you’ve done for them--we could say that you lost your eye defending Vergen, a haven for humans and nonhumans alike. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“But why should I care about what a bunch of filthy dh’oine think of me?”

“Don’t be so dense,” I responded. “To further your cause, of course.”

Iorveth didn’t seem to be appeased by that. In fact, it brought the winds of his anger back to a gale force when they had begun to die down. “Why should I whore myself out to become some dh’oine’s infantile little fantasy of what an Aen Seidhe ought to be like?”

“I know,” I admitted. “I know that part of it isn’t ideal.”

“If you know, then why even suggest it?”

“Because I had hoped that for once in your life, you could set aside your pride and do something for the greater good.”

“My pride,” he scoffed. “What about my honor?”

“The honor is that your sacrifice will make life better for all of us,” I answered. “Your actions have done some good for us, but your reputation still precedes you. Whether you intended for it to or not, your image is what the dh’oine see when they think of us.”

Iorveth didn’t say anything for a long time, returning instead to work on my bow. His attention was not entirely on it, however. I closed my eyes, sat back against my hammock, and felt him cycle through the stages of grief in rapid succession until he finally stopped on resignation. I would have preferred acceptance, but I settled for that.

“If I did agree to let you write this, what would I need to do?” he asked.

I remained exactly as I was, trying not to betray my excitement. “You would have to tell me about everything you’ve done and I would figure out how to best shape it to suit our purposes.”

“You do realize the nature of my past, yes?”

“I’ve heard bits and pieces of it,” I said lightly.

“And it won’t change the way you think of me? You won’t see me as a monster the way everyone else does?”

I sat up and opened my eyes, locking my gaze with his. “No. It won’t. You’re the dearest friend I have, Iorveth. Nothing could change that.”

The tips of his ears reddened, a light flush sweeping across his face as he looked away from me. “We’ll see if you’re still saying that by the end of this.”

“I have the utmost faith.”

“If you say so…” he hedged, but I knew he wasn’t convinced.

“When would you like to begin?” I asked.

Iorveth shrugged. “Right now, I suppose. Not as if you were having any luck with whatever you were writing earlier.”

“Hey,” I protested. “You don’t know that.”

“Oh, I’m quite certain I do,” he said, cracking a small smile. “Your huffing and puffing was so loud I could hardly hear myself think.”

“Fine,” I said, reaching for my notebook and holding my pen to it. “Whenever you’re ready.”

#this chapter became the basis for my main fic #iorveth #iorweth #iorveth/oc #the witcher #my writing #my posts #tag: iorveth #bwtss

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gstqaobc · 4 years ago

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🇨🇦🇬🇧🇨🇦THE MONARCHIST LEAGUE OF CANADA🇬🇧🇨🇦🇬🇧

FLASH OFFER: TODAY IS THE 10th WEDDING ANNIVERSARY OF THE CAMBRIDGES.We have a limited as new supply of a newspaper of the day after, with full coverage of the happy event in a special section provided by the Times of London. We're giving these away to members on request for the cost of the postage. Please request by return email and provide your mailing address (can also be a gift to someone if you want) so we can quote postage and let you know how to pay online. COMPLETE TEXT OF STATEMENT BY THE QUEEN APRIL 21 I have, on the occasion of my 95th birthday today, received many messages of good wishes, which I very much appreciate. While as a family we are in a period of great sadness, it has been a comfort to us all to see and to hear the tributes paid to my husband, from those within the United Kingdom, the Commonwealth and around the world. My family and I would like to thank you all for the support and kindness shown to us in recent days. We have been deeply touched, and continue to be reminded that Philip had such an extraordinary impact on countless people throughout his life NO PLATINUM JUBILEE MEDAL? CHAIRMAN FINCH WRITES: Should the League take this on? Members’ opinions sought. I have recently been informed that in a recent virtual Honours and Awards presentation on The Queen’s birthday, LCol Carl Gauthier, DND Honours and Awards, stated that there will not be a Canadian Platinum Jubilee Medal in 2022. There is still time to reverse this decision, but it will need a groundswell of public opinion which is perhaps difficult to engender. To the uninformed, advocacy for issuance of “gongs” can seem an emphasis on reward for loyalty, of seeking recognition and of something superficial rather than, for instance, promoting the sort of excellent grass-roots community and organizational projects that still echo the real pride and excitement during our country’s centennial year, 1967. But perhaps is there is an aspect arguing for the awarding of Jubilee Medals - as in the past - that people will understand. That is, that the life of any nation is not determined only by the great and the good - the folk who receive major Honours such as the Order of Canada, the Order of Military Merit and their lesser though no less deserving cousins, the Meritorious Service Awards and the Sovereign’s Medal for Volunteer Service. Their distribution is, rightly, kept controlled in terms of numbers; and while to deny that “politics” play any part in the selections of the senior Orders, most would agree that many extremely deserving Canadians receive this special level of recognition. However, less nationally notable people every day make a sustained difference, in modest ways usually unsung. We think of the feeding program volunteer who every Friday toils in a church or synagogue basement to prepare, serve and clean up after meals for homeless people. The innumerable families who made welcome our new fellow Canadians who made their way here from, say, Syria. The organizer of patrols to pick up and bring to care and shelter abandoned pets. The Scout, Guide or 4-H leaders who inspire responsibility and skill among their charges. The driver who takes patients to and from chemo or dialysis - and provides an ear for them which no drug can afford. And so on it goes. These people form the fabric of a civil society. They fill in the cracks and provide the personal touch that “official” and overtaxed social services cannot always show. They do their good works down the decades, seek no recognition and at most are given a round of applause when they ‘retire.” Those knitters of the warp and woof of our nation are precisely the ones for whom receiving a Platinum Jubilee Medal would come as an amazing surprise, and a cherished reminder that they “made a difference” - mirroring the life of service of our Queen. Canada is a blessed country. Most of our natural wealth - be it oil or diamonds, wheat or cod - we harvest from the Earth. But we ignore at our peril the human wealth we often take for granted. A Jubilee provides a wonderful opportunity to shine a spotlight, however briefly, on 70,000 of those good Canadians who, as our Sovereign urged us all to do, “represent all that is best and most admired in the Canadian ideal.” What do you think? What should the League do? LEAGUE ADVERTISING CAMPAIGN CONTINUES The next League advertisement will appear in this coming Saturday's London Free Press, followed by an ad and editorial matter in Vistas (Ottawa). We are in the middle of resuming advertising across the country, in a variety of daily and weekly newspapers, to alert folk as to the League's existence at a time when the Canadian Crown has been in the news, in ways both moving and unhelpful. The response has been excellent, and many new members have joined. These ads have been made possible thanks to you, our generous members, who know that education and outreach is the core of our work - and more important than any clubby sense of self-satisfaction (to which all of us fall prey from time to time!). This sort of publicity also reminds both members and potential members that it is easy to make excuses about what one can't do; but now is the time for "can do"! As well, the golden rule of advertising is repetition - most of us don't buy insurance every day, but when we do we sure remember the frequent airing of crazy situations in the Farmers' ads and the nutty characters in the Progressive commercials, not to mention our favorite Gekko! Which leads to the importance of this and similar advertising as the League prepares to rejuvenate its branch organization with a master plan to be released in late Spring, and then a gradual dissemination of its action across the country, with fresh leadership, visible metrics and common expectations - while of course allowing for adaptation to local needs. Thus, our sincere thank you for making this modest publicity appear from the Victoria Times- Colonist in the West to the Halifax Chronicle Herald down East, and many outlets in between. We always like to receive feedback about these efforts, and especially suggestions for community papers, mainly weeklies, which tend to remain around for a week, are closely read and charge far more affordable rates that the dailies.

GSTQAOBC 🇨🇦🇬🇧🇦🇺🇳🇿

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tory-ben-hi-shelton · 4 years ago

Text

my favourite quotes from code

"Okay, pal." Ben gripped our captive at both ends. "Count your blessings that my friend here is a total softy."

It'd been nice fishing alone with Ben. The two of us didn't spend much one-on-one time together, and he often went mute when Hi and Shelton were around. Probably because those two never let anyone get a word in edgewise.

"Don't be such a baby." I teased. "They're practically lap dogs."

"Lap dogs won't rip your face off. Or eat you."

"All in all," Shelton said, "this is a tremendously dumb game."

"You're a dumb game." Hi shot back.

More dramatic moans, but the boys stopped what they were doing.

"Fine." Hi.

"Whatever." Shelton.

"One time." Ben held up a single finger. "One."

"This game is popular?" Ben was sitting on his tackle box in the shade of a large Elm. "Sounds pretty nerdtastic to me."

"We can't all practice birdcalls like you."

"Honey, in my day a young lady didn't speak to her elders like that. We were taught manners." I was about to further reduce her opinion of my upbringing when the shade to Kit's office rose.

Kit once said I terrify him. He meant it in a good way. I think. Pretty sure.

"Tory!" Whitney squealed. "He's going to attack!"

"Maybe." I walked into the kitchen and snagged a diet coke from the fridge. "Try to protect your throat."

"Tory!!!"

"Later." Jason tossed a head nod to Hi and Shelton as he passed them. The Two Stooges clumsily returned the gesture.

Shelton drifted back to my side wearing a sly grin. "That was smooth, player."

"Shut it."

"I know." I signed, turned. Ben often knew what I was thinking.

Shelton rapped a short sting of characters just above the signature: Hemxvivobz

"That's useful." Hi said. "Sounds like a sex position."

"Like everything you do is cool," Hi snorted. "Still have that ninja costume you wore to my twelfth birthday party?"

"Ben, that's brilliant."

Suddenly, the boy was all blushes.

"No big deal. Easy, really."

"We have got to work on our decision making process." Shelton was shaking his head. "Right now we just follow Tory over every cliff."

"Oh, boohoo." I mocked. "Get moving."

Already handsome, flaring took his attractiveness to a whole new level. His coppery skin practically glowed in the evening light. I turned quickly, surprised by the colour rising to my cheeks.

Ben took a breathe, seemed to realize how hard he was clutching me. His hand dropped as if burned.

"Come on Shel-Dogg," Hi stuck out a fist. "After everything we've done, the dark shouldn't scare you anymore."

"And yet, it does." A moment passed, then Shelton reluctantly bumped Hi's fist.

Terrified, I lunged towards my wolf dog. An arm circled my wait and dragged me to the ground.

"Just follow my lead." Code for: I have no idea.

"Very nice," I said. "I wasn't aware break dancing was back in style."

"Now you are." Hi popped open a bag of Bugles. "I also do a killer mime."

Ben smiled for the first time all afternoon. It was nice to see. When he deigned to flash his pearly whites, Ben went from sullen boy to charming young man. I much preferred the latter.

"What happened?"

"A crazy female line backer pummeled my chest." Hi grumbled. "She's still pinning me to the ground. And she isn't as light as she might think."

Their Cinderella run had made Shelton and Hi popular with the older kids. The two were joking and talking trash, seemingly holding their own. For some reason, this made me proud. What an odd thought.

Without thinking, I launched myself at Ben, catching him off guard. The weight of my body knocked him over backward. Never hesitating, I jumped on his chest and started slapping his face.

Ben was slouched in the copilots chair, too dizzy to stand.

"He's no good for you," Ben said abruptly. "Doesn't deserve you."

"Just be quiet." Soft. "We're almost home."

Ben's eyes were slits. "That guy, he's..." His hand rose, fell. "Dime a dozen. Doesn't know anything. About you. The real you."

Mercifully, Ben trailed off. In moments, he was snoring.

Hi and I headed for the lot. I hoped Wimpy and Vomitasaurus and gotten their acts together.

"Off-limits." Shelton muttered. I chose not to hear.

"I could kiss you, Tory."

"Some other time."

"Choir practice?" Ben rolled his eyes. "Perhaps your worst cover story ever."

Hi grabbed Shelton by the cheeks. "You, sir, are a genius." He leaned forward to kiss eachother one.

"I try." Shelton flailed as Hi his first sloppy smacker. "Man, get off me!"

"Problem? Why?"

Hi looked at me strangely. "We're a little busy Friday night."

"Busy? Doing what?"

The boys exchanged a look. Hi snorted.

"I don't know about you," Shelton said, "but I'm escorting my friend Victoria to her debutante ball."

"Fine! I won't go anywhere else alone. Ever again. Scouts honour."

"You're not a scout," Hi pointed out. "No loopholes, Miss Brennan."

I nearly ground my teeth. "On my honour as a lady, Hiram."

"Excellent! I accept."

Hi lifted the heavy cream envelope penned with my name. "What's this?"

"Oh, that." Could anything matter less right now? "You guys are gonna love it."

I passed along our invitation to the Claybourne Manor. Their groans drew every eye in the room.

"Ben, stop the boat."

He looked at me funny. "We're in the middle of the ocean, Victoria."

"Jason's my friend," I said quietly, "but he's not a Viral. He's not part of my pack. He'll never mean as much to me as you do."

Ben's eyes snapped to meet mine. He stared at me intently. I felt my cheeks burn.

"And Hi and Shelton, of course." I added quickly.

"Of course."

"We're always one step behind. Running straight into whatever direction the Gamemaster points. He's owning us right now. Scripting our every freaking move!"

Abruptly Ben was beside me, his hand finding mine. "Later, Tor."

Voices intruded from far away.

"Oh man, she really did it this time!"

"Should we call a nurse?" Panicky. "An ambulance?"

"And say what, exactly?" hissed a third. "That our friend passed out after some bad telepathy?"

I considered running away. Joining a travelling circus. I had a savings account, and a tiny trust fund courtesy of Aunt Tempe. I could probably get as far as Singapore before anyone noticed. I'm very resourceful.

Hi, naturally, had opted for flair. His tux was crushed purple velvet with tails, accented by all white silk—tie, vest, gloves and suspenders. He completed the outfit with a freaking top hat and cane. Whitney had nearly fainted on seeing him.

Ben lurched forward to catch my elbow. "Jason will escort her."

Unable to speak, I thanked him with my eyes. "You'll do great," Ben whispered, patting my hand. "Just picture them all in their underwear." I gave a decidedly unladylike snort.

"Don't choke, Boat Girl."

I almost laughed. "Step off, bitch."

"Oh, we're, um playing a pretty serious game of Dungeons and Dragons," Hi stammered. "I'm, like, the head ... unicorn master, and Tory has to find my magic... beans. Seeds."

Hi cracked the door. "Ladies first."

"Why, thank you, sir."

For the hell of it, I dropped into another formal curtesy. The boys snickered. Then, straightening their soiled garments as best they could, gave me a polite round of applause.

"You okay, Tor?" Shelton had a sandbag on one shoulder, hauled up from the beach. "We don't have time for an ER run."

"We could amputate," Hi suggested. "Shelton, get the whiskey."

"Comedians, both of you."

"I dreamed it."

"Aha! You dreamed it." Hi yawned and rubbed both his eyes. "I think it's time we get you medicated."

"Good thing we're Virals," Ben said.

Our eyes met. He actually smiled.

"I'm with Tory," Ben said firmly. "To the end."

"Thank you." I felt a rush of affection. When it really matters, I can always count on Ben.

I stared at Ben, aghast, incapable of speech. My friend. My confidant. Trusted above all others on earth.

#this is a contender for my favourite book #virals #virals series #long post #quotes

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leviskokoro · 4 years ago

Text

desc :: When Azul made a deal with Mari for extra madol, he didn’t expect her end of the deal to be like this.

pairing :: azul ashengrotto x mari | octowings

word count :: 1388

warning/s :: suggestive themes?

notes :: @sweets-and-fluff-is-what-i-am gave me the idea to write this

“Do we have a deal?”

A question Azul was quite familiar with, being the one that uttered it every time a poor unfortunate soul was to come to his office. The people that came to him would more than often have such wishes like “I want to slack off in school but get good grades” or “I want enough money to get a limited-time legendary card in a gacha game”. Most of them were quite childish.

Howeverㅡ this time, things were different. The one that came to his office was a being that had him interested for quite a long time. That person was no other than the prefect of the Ramshackle Dorm. She was someone that stood out for many reasons other than being the only female student in an all-boys academy. Unlike the majority of students of this school, she did not do things for her own gain. In fact, quite the opposite really. It perplexed him all the time when she’d do things for people without asking for anything after.

So imagine his surprise when she came to his office, saying she needed money. When he asked why she needed the money, she said that she wanted to renovate the Ramshackle Dorm but the Headmaster wasn’t giving her the money to do that.

That led to them having a discussion over the arrangements for the deal.

“In exchange for madol to renovate the Ramshackle Dorm, you’ll have to perform in the Mostro Lounge for a week,” Azul told her the conditions of the contract.

It shouldn’t be too unreasonable for her to decline it and it would profit him. He’s heard her sing for a moment in the Music Room. He’d have to admitㅡ Her voice was soothing, something that could fit the ambiance of the lounge. All he’d have to do is have the Leech twins spread the news that the only female student will be performing in Mostro Lounge for a week. That would be enough to generate interest and increase the number of customers.

He then placed one of his golden contracts on his pristine desk.

As she gave it a quick scan, he recalled the last time she was in his office. Oh how he felt joy in those moments staring into her troubled expression. It was also the first time that he was puzzled by her motives. There was nothing to gain from freeing all those students, so why was she so set on doing it?

But then, her answer finally came.

“Alright.”

She took the pen and signed it. Her handwriting was still atrocious, it seemed. It put him off the first time seeing it and those feelings didn’t change.

Maybe he could teach her proper penmanship next time.

When Mari looked up at him with those innocent-looking brown eyes, Azul smirked. His sky blue irises gleamed.

“Excellent! I look forward to seeing you perform.”

Azul knew that having a female performer sing at Mostro Lounge would lead to more customers than usual, but this exceeded his expectations. Every table was filled and his employees were busier than ever. The Leech twins did a splendid job at spreading the word. He thought this as he observed from the shadowy area of the VIP room.

From where he was sitting, he noticed that there were some familiar faces among the crowd that waited for the start of the performance. Some students were people he expected to see like Ace, Deuce, and Cater due to it being Mari who’s going to perform. Then there were some unexpected appearances like the famous influencer Vil Schoenheit himself and the ever-elusive Rook Hunt. Even a few Diasomnia students came by to watch.

After moments of waiting, the lights dimmed, causing the crowd to silence themselves. A spotlight turned on, pointed at the center of the stage. A sultry voice came from behind the curtain.

You had plenty money 1922

A sun-kissed leg stepped onto the stage and the curtains were drawn, revealing Mari in all her glory. She was clad in a shimmering red dress with a sweetheart neckline and two slits that went all the way to her hips. Azul felt as if his jaw hit the floor and his cheeks felt warm. It seemed that he wasn’t the only one, seeing the shocked expressions of the crowd.

Her movements were slow and sensual as she continued to sing. The piano playing in the background only amplified the tone of her performance.

You let other women make a fool of you.

Why don’t you do right…

Like some other men do?

Mari walked across the stage, her dress swishing lightly as she did so. The way she seemed so confident in herself was a striking contrast to how she usually was, often wearing an expression of uncertainty.

Get out of here.

Get me some money too.

What… happened to her? It’s like she’s a completely different person at the moment.

You're sittin’ down and wonderin’ what it's all about

If you ain't got no money, they will put you out

Why don't you do right

Like some other men do?

Azul found it impossible to take his eyes off of her. An amalgamation of all sorts of emotions stormed within him. He placed his hand over his mouth, feeling that his entire face was warm.

Get out of here.

Get me some money too.

He could feel the Leech twins watch the scene with amusement as Mari stepped down from the stage. Her 15cm heels clicked against the floor when she did so.

Now if you had prepared 20 years ago

You wouldn't be a wanderin now from door to door

Why don't you do right

Like some other men do?

She continued to sing, swaying her hips lightly as she walked from table to table. All Azul could do was observe her.

Get out of here

Get me some money too

Get out of here

Get me some money too

Mari sat herself on a table, the one occupied by the Heartslabyul members. The song was coming to a close and she leaned closer to Ace, pulling his tie so that he’d come closer to her. Their faces were inches apart and his face was redder than the strawberries on Riddle’s tarts, staring at her bug-eyed.

Why don’t you do right…

Their faces were inches apart and his face was redder than the strawberries on Riddle’s tarts, staring at her bug-eyed.

The Octavinelle dorm leader felt a twinge of envy towards the Heartslabyul first year.

Like some other men… do?

The girl pulled away, smirking before turning around to retreat to the stage as the music came to a finish. It was safe to say that she left everyone speechless.

After a moment of silence, a round of applause could be heard. Azul could even hear Rook sing his praises in French.

“Oya, she was quite good, don’t you think so, Azul?” Jade spoke up. He could hear the smirk in his voice.

“Eeehhhhh~~ Shrimpy has a really nice voice. I can’t wait to hear her sing again,” Floyd said, grinning. “Maybe if I squeezed her, she’ll sing something new.”

“Yes, I see that I made no mistake in having her perform. We’ve seen an exponential increase in customers today. I’m certain they’ll want to come back for more,” their dorm leader answered, pushing up his glasses and regaining his composure.

Now that the performance was over, the customers paid for their meals and left. They also left tips for the performance. Time to go to his office.

Once he finished calculating today’s profits, Azul finally concluded that profits were quadrupled. He clasped his hands together, deep in thought. If she were to be performing for a week and the interest level was consistent throughout all the days, then he’d practically be bathing in cash.

Howeverㅡ

Despite knowing this, he felt his stomach churn at the thought of her performing in front of other people again. He remembered that last part where she leaned in close to that Trappola. Something burned within him. He hated it. He despised that irrational feeling.

Azul rubbed his temples. His lips pulled into a firm line.

This was more troublesome than what he had anticipated.

But as the popular saying goes—

The show must go on.

#twisted wonderland #twst #azul ashengrotto #kokoro writes #my mc #octowings

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ohtheseboysilove · 5 years ago

Text

The greatess actress II [Ben Hardy x F!Reader]

sWords : 4, 000 K +

Warnings : mostly angst, fluff

Summary : Things aren’t always as they seems.

Note : More angst for you guys, I know you all ask for it so here you go :) I’m really gmad for all the reviews and positive feedbacks I had for the first chapter so thank u so much ! I didn’t start writing chapter 3 yet but I have few ideas so if you guys have suggestions or theories I would love to heart hat !!! (i mostly replied to the messages in my inbox bc it’s easier to see them than the comments !!) Much love xx

x Masterlist x

“And…action !”

You pretended to leave and Ben grabbed your wrist, tugging him against him rather roughly. You put a flat hand on his torso and looked at him with big, lost eyes.

“What—”

“Don’t say anything, baby” Then he crashed his lips on yours, sending a wave of electricity down your spine as you replied eagerly to the kiss.

The kiss was intense, slow and hot, during for what seemed like age. You weren’t really complaining. But it was the third time you did this scene because of the director who always wanted to add something and it started to be a bit much for you and your weak heart.

“And we got it ! Awesome guys !” The director jumped from his seat and went behind the camera looking at the screen with enthusiasm. “Everyone, take 5 !”

You sighed discretely and detached yourself from Ben, running a nervous finger through your hairs.

“Are you still coming tonight ?” You glanced toward the blond man, gaze falling right on his swollen lips, tempting and deliciously-looking red.

“Hum, probably ?” You scolded mentally yourself to stop looking at his mouth like a fucking creep and instead focus on his eyes.

Which maybe wasn’t better.

“Oh come on, it’s Randy’s last day ! He won’t forgive you if you don’t come” Ben winked and you chuckled awkwardly, ignoring the way the butterflies were going crazy in your belly.

“I guess you’re right” You smiled almost shyly, his bright and beautiful eyes were always making you kind of timid. “But I won’t stay long, we got an early scene tomorrow” You felt yourself become ridiculously red when he laughed loudly and threw an arm around your shoulders, squeezing you tightly against his strong body.

“You’re right and I’m pretty excited for tomorrow anyway”

You both walked to your trailers, next to each other, as the day was done and you couldn’t wait to go back into your own clothes.

“You are ?” You briefly remembered that the scene you had to do tomorrow was pretty romantic, lot of touchy-feely moments but nothing sexual, thanks god.

“Yeah, I mean…we’re filming at the beach so obviously breaks gonna be funnier than on set” He grinned and you silently swallowed back the disappointment bubbling in your chest.

“The beach, right” You forced a smile. Of course that was the reason why he was excited, idiot. He had a freaking girlfriend for god’s sake. “I will see you later, Ben” You waved awkwardly and climbed the few steps to your trailers before closing the door behind you, barely hearing his answer.

You let your body fall heavily on your bed, feeling exhausted and completely stupid.

It wasn’t the first time you had feelings for one of your co-star, honestly it was hard to stay hermetic when your job was to kiss a handsome and nice guy all day long. Once, you had to film for few weeks with Liam Hemsworth and god, the man was absolutely breathtaking. You had a tiny crush on him during the filming but nothing horrible, it didn’t make your job more complicated or anything. It was fairly innocent. You just enjoyed what a beautiful man he was but you stayed in control easily.

You also dated for two years with one of your previous co-stars, George Mackay but it was pretty obvious from the beginning that the both of you were into each other, which made everything easier.

You didn’t forget either when you had a tiny role in a big Hollywood move where you were only needed to literally make out with Leonardo DiCaprio. It was probably the first time you were so nervous to act, which was ridiculous because you barely spent more than two hours on set. But it was Leonardo freaking DiCaprio, your first crush had been Jack Dawson from Titanic so obviously it was huge for you.

No one probably remembered you from this movie but it was your little moment of pride. You made out with Leonardo freaking DiCaprio.

But nothing could compare to your feelings with Ben. You weren’t prepared at all for the wave of feelings which hit you strong in the face. Not at all.

When you first heard that you would be filming with Ben as co-star, you did some researches and found out it was the guy from the Bohemian Rhapsody movie, you were happy because he was an excellent actor in this film. And you couldn’t denied he was pretty attractive which could help as you were supposed to play lovers in this new project.

It started with an innocent crush, making your friends a bit jealous because you were kissing and holding hands with the new heart-robe of Hollywood. But it turned out to be much more when you started hanging out with him. He wasn’t only handsome. He was really funny, humble, generous, always making sure you were comfortable for any kind of intimate scene but he was also sensitive and not as confident as you thought first.

He was everything you could dream in a boyfriend.

You sighed loudly and rubbed your face roughly, heart beating heavily in your chest.

Why did you have to fall in love with an unavailable man ?

“We’re gonna miss you, big guy !” You watched Ben cheekily tussled Randy dirty red hairs, a large smile on his face.

“´f course you will ! But no need to go all emotional on me, Hardy. You’re still invited to my wedding in two months” Randy chuckled, his hand wrapped around a large pint of beer.

You giggled quietly as the two friends hugged again, both of them pretty tipsy after several drinks. Randy was playing one of Ben’s closest friend in the movie but he finished to do all of his scenes and he was now, sadly, leaving the set.

You took a little sip of your Margarita, only the second drinks of the evening for you as you hated being tired or hungover to film. Especially when you had to focus much more with your feelings for Ben, making your job much harder.

“Who is gonna kick my ass at FIFA now ?” The British man complained with a pout, making the whole table giggled.

“Literally everyone, Hardy” Joshua, one of the secondary actor of the movie spoke up, earning a round of applause from everyone.

You let your eyes trailed on Ben for few seconds. You couldn’t help but looked at him. He was so different out of the set, much more relax and you loved even more this part of him. His blond hairs were all over the place, slightly longer than before and it was certainly doing things to you. The way his eyes were sparkling due to the alcohol made your heart beat faster, this childish look was good on him, always wearing his boyish smile which made your knees weak.

And, surprisingly, Isis wasn’t here tonight. You felt like you could breath a little bit easier when she wasn’t around. You were so worried she found out you were in love with her boyfriend, it was scaring you more than everything.

“(Y/N) !” You jumped at Randy's voice and quickly tore your eyes from Ben’s jaw, pushing aside any thoughts.

“Yeah ?”

“I said do you want another drink ?” You nodded weakly and swallowed thickly, feeling nervous to almost been caught day-dreaming about Ben. “What were you looking at so intensely ? This little boyfriend of yours ?” The red hair laughed and pinched the blond’s cheek, making him groaned.

“Hey!” Ben pushed his hands away from his face and looked at you, an amused smile on his features. “I’m pretty sure she wasn’t looking at me, she see me enough all day long”

“True” You grinned and internally screamed. You could never be bored of looking at his pretty face. Never.

“So who where you looking at ? Did someone caught your eyes perhaps ?” Everyone turned, very discreetly, around and started giggling like teenager when they saw a quite charming brunette glancing over the table, few of his friends clearly teasing him.

“I see” Ben winked at you, finishing his drink with one gulp. “I think you should talk to him” He tilted his head toward the guy and you cringed internally.

It was literally the last thing you wanted to do. You didn’t even notice this guy until they all started looking at him. Your luck, obviously.

“I’m not sure about that” You laughed awkwardly and pushed few strands of hairs behind your ear, hoping for something, anything, to save you from talking to this stranger.

“Oh come on ! He is literally devouring you with his eyes” Ben nudged you gently. “And you were doing the same a minute before” He smirked and you were half relieved that he didn’t notice you were ogling him, not this random dude.

“(Y/N) ! (Y/N) ! (Y/N)” You wanted to disappear right now. You watched your friends cheering your name until you had enough and decided to agree, walking to the bar where you knew the guy would meet you too. “Go get it girl !” Randy drunkenly yelled and you felt your whole face turned red.

“Hey” You looked at the brunette, he wasn’t bad looking clearly. Curly hairs and cute dimples. Totally your type before you fell for a blond beefy guy.

“Hi” You smiled nervously and discreetly glanced toward Ben, looking for any kind of reassurance that he was maybe a bit annoyed by the fact that you were talking to another guy.

You couldn’t help yourself but wished that maybe he was sharing your feelings. Deep down. Maybe he was falling for you too but still confused with Isis. Conflicted. It was selfish but there were nothing you could do about these thoughts. Except keeping them for you.

But for all answer from Ben, you get a cheeky smile and two thumbs up. Clearly not bothered by the situation. You returned the smile, fake and smaller one before turning around to the man, your throat tight and your heart even more broken.

These feelings were clearly one-sided.

“You look like shit, hun” Molly greeted you as you sat, or rather flopped very graciously, on the chair in front of her, a fuming Costa cup in your right hand.

“That’s why you’re here” You snorted lazily before taking a sip of your coffee, not in the mood to talk much.

She glanced at you, feeling the mood immediately and decided to start your hairs and makeup in silence, humming quietly.

The whole crew was at the beach for the day and the place was truly breathtaking, a little creek mostly quiet except for the soft rolling of the waves. It was still dark outside, the sun barely peaking up and you needed to get the perfect scene as the director really wanted the whole sun rising romantic moment for your and Ben’s characters.

“Ten minutes before we started !” You sighed quietly and quickly finished your coffee, feeling already done with this way too cute scene for you.

Ben waved at you from his chair, Isis not far from him, both of them getting ready too. Yeah, like it wasn’t hard enough for you, Isis managed to get a small part as an extra for few scenes. Easy when you dated the main actor. And even more when you were as gorgeous as she was.

“All done, honey” You thanked Molly and rose on your feet, walking toward the small wardrobe department to get your clothes for the shoot.

A cute little yellow bikini and a pair of sunglasses were all you needed for today. The thought of spending so much time near Ben with so little clothes on was stressful. You nearly fainted when you spotted him walking in his blue swim trunk, a beach towel lazily hanging from his right shoulder.

What a sight.

And…action !“

You took a deep sight and blocked every other thoughts than the ones about Ellie, the character you were portraying in this movie.

"I’m glad we decided to come here” Ben or rather Will, murmured in your ear, hands softly resting on your hips as you were perched on his lap.

“Me too” You slightly turned your head just enough to catch his eyes, smiling sweetly.

The scene was indeed very romantic. Kind of cliché but still, it was making your heart beat much faster. Ben was seating on the white sand, his body pressed against you was bringing shivers down your frame.

Your group of friends were seating around a camp fire, giggling and chatting as you and Ben were with them but in your own bubble, looking at each other lovingly.

As the sun slowly rose, you continued to act as you had to, suppressing the love which was wrapping your entire body every time you looked at him. Few kisses were exchanged, few touches as well and other sweet little attentions between the two of you, carefully following the script.

It was even harder because for you everything felt so natural. When you had to play with his hairs at the back of his neck you weren’t acting, not really. It was easy, like you done it your whole life. When Ben rested softly a hand on your knee you didn’t feel awkward or nervous, it felt right. And it had been like that since day one.

“You’re not too cold ? I felt you shiver during our scene” Ben whispered as you had a mini break, waiting for everyone to go back at their assigned spots.

You wanted to laugh at his innocent remark. God bless this sweet, innocent Ben. Yes it wasn’t very warm but the simple feeling of your half naked body against mine was the only main reason of my shivers.

But you simply nodded. “Yeah but it’s alright we’re almost done with this scene anyway” You patted his shoulder nicely and he gently rubbed your forearm, in a nice attempt of keeping your warm.

Few hours later and you were still on the beach, few more scenes to film with this time, the sun high in the sky and the heat nicely warming your skin.

You shielded your vision to watch Ben cockily walked toward you, his body dripping wet from the bath he just took in the sea.

“Hey there” He grinned and didn’t lost a minute before laying on top of you, making you squirmed under him at the freshness of the water.

“Get off me idiot !” You giggled and tried to wiggle your way out but his strong body was easily caging you.

“Can’t do that, you’re really comfy” He laid even more on you and you let out a shaky breath as you could feel every muscles of his body against yours. “Everyone is having fun, except you, come on !” You gasped when he ran his wet hand in your hairs, purposely messing them on your face before moving off you.

“I’m reading a very good book” You weakly replied, the lie tasting bitter on your tongue.

You were just avoiding going near his girlfriend. You were on a break for a little hour and most of the crew was in the water and you would love to join them. But Isis was there too, gaining most of the attention as she was always speaking loudly or giggling. And did you mentioned how pretty she was ? Everyone could see that too. So you just felt awkward next to her, stupid really but she was so confident and dating Ben. You were so scared that somehow she noticed how you looked at him and understood what was going on. It would be a total mess if she did.

“Yeah, whatever” The blond rolled his eyes at you bad excuse before catching your hips and throwing you over his shoulder. You screamed from the top of your lungs as he run toward the water, chuckling louder every time you asked, rather yelled, him to let you go.

He threw you on the water as everyone cheered, apparently really amused by his stupid joke. You felt two hands quickly grabbing you from under the water and you took a big breath, the salty water dripping on your face.

“You’re alright ?” Ben’s giant smile immediately warmed you up. You clenched your hands on his shoulder, wiping the water from your features with your free hand, couching a bit at the salty taste.

“Asshole” You mumbled as you pushed your hairs away from your face. You slapped his chest when he audibly laughed. ”This is so not funny ! I was fine on my towel" You protested but couldn’t suppress the amused smiled from blossoming upon your face.

“Why are you laughing then ?” Ben teased you and you rolled your eyes before swimming away from him, heart fluttering heavily at the simple interaction you just had with him.

Why he had to be so bloody cute with you all the time ? It wasn’t helping your case.

You looked behind your shoulder toward Ben and your smile dropped immediately when you spotted Isis, hanging around his neck as they shared a giggling kiss.

He was just being friendly, get your shit together for god’s sake, (Y/N).

You didn’t miss the suspicious glance that Isis threw you, her brows slightly furrowed like she was in deep reflection. She gave you a little smile when she caught your eyes on her before she focused back on the British man.

You deeply hoped she wasn’t thinking anything about this little friendly moment between you and Ben.

“Baby, can you put me some sun-cream on ?” You raised your head toward Ben and stood up, grabbing the protection from his hand.

“You knew you could do it yourself” You commented as you applied a small amount of cream in your hand before rubbing it onto Ben’s large shoulders.

“I can’t reach some part” He grinned, sunglasses hanging low on his nose.

It was like the universe like to torturing you. Every scene you had to do was painfully touchy today and it was putting you under a strong pressure. Isis’ intense gaze on you wasn’t helping either, she watching with attention every of your interactions with her boyfriend.

It wasn’t your fault, you were just acting right now. But you felt incredibly uncomfortable under her eyes. Like you were doing something wrong. Which you weren’t as it was your freaking job.

“You’re just lazy, Will” You rolled your eyes and kept rubbing the sun-cream on his back, breathing quickening as you reached his hips. “Done” You announced before he turned around, welcoming you with his beautiful and chiselled face.

“Why about here, hum ?” He cheekily drummed his digits on his firm pectoral. He cocked his head to the side, wearing your favourite boyish smile. “Don’t wanna burn” He pouted and you bit your lips, finding him unfairly adorable.

You quickly stopped your day dreaming and scoffed as you were supposed to, pretending to be annoyed.

“You’re a pain in the ass, Will” You repeated the same actions, pouring cream in your hands before rubbing it on his warm torso, goosebumps spreading all over your skin,

“But you love me anyway” He replied with a little smile, pushing his sunglasses on the top of his head.

“Yes, I do” You murmured and, not without difficulty, grinned at him. You were supposed to be happy but the painful truth hiding behind your words was hard to get along with.

“Your hands are so much softer than mine” The blond sighed as he closed his eyes, your pads barely touching his abs. You couldn’t go further or you would literally combust.

“That’s because you never want to put night cream on yours, silly” You said and took few steps away as he lowered his head toward you, eyes still closed. You sighed loudly and quickly rubbed the sun cream on his face.

“No, no ! Stop !” The director made you jump as Ben opened his eyes, both of you looking at him. “(Y/N), darling, you were doing perfectly fine but this last scene…you need to be gentle and tender, alright ? It’s supposed to be a romantic scene between Ellie and Will, not looking like you just want to get ride of him” You chuckled weakly and nodded, watching the director going back to his chair.

“Already annoyed with my presence ?” Ben teased as he went back to his previous position.

You simply smiled and waited for the green light of the cameramen before executing the script. You slowly rubbed your fingers against his face, caressing every of his features without looking away from his eyes, giving to the director all the love he wanted. You swallowed thickly at your proximity, his eyes not leaving yours for a second as you kept caressing his strong cheekbones.

“There you go” You rubbed the remaining of cream on his neck and locked your arms behind it, repressing a shiver when his hands found your face.

You absolutely adored how his digits slid softly on your skin, cupping your jaw like if you were the most precious thing in the world. His thumb gently caressing your cheek as he pressed a sickly sweet kiss on your lips. You could feel the warmth coming from his chest and the pleasant sigh which escaped your mouth wasn’t for the act anymore.

There were absolutely not better feeling in the world.

You let out a deep breath as you snuggled further into your hoodie, the warmth of the day already fading away as the sun disappeared slowly. You grabbed your phone and answered few texts, exhaustion rolling down your bones.

“Are you texting the guy from yesterday ?” You shook your head lazily, letting a yawn escaping your mouth as Joshua, who was playing your brother, sat next to you. “Why not ?”

“Not really interesting” You didn’t bother explaining further, to tired for that. ”How it’s going with Danny ? When he is coming already ?“

Joshua’s eyes immediately lighted up at the mention of his boyfriend.

"Very well, thanks” He beamed and showed you his new screen lock, an adorable picture of the two of them with their new puppy. You let out a little aww and Joshua smiled wider. “He is coming next week, I can’t wait to see him ! And to introduce him to you !”

You listened to his exciting chatting, a little pinching for your heart at how happy and in love he was.

You groaned and get up from your chair as Ben was late for filming. You knew Isis was around so they probably just didn’t see the time, laying in bed. Still, it wasn’t something Ben did often, he was always in time and ready to work.

You swallowed roughly as you walked to his trailer, praying they weren’t shagging because you didn’t know how your heart would take it.

“It’s my freaking job, Isis !” You jumped at Ben’s loud voice followed by few cursing words.

You froze and decided smartly to not knock on the door and instead waited patiently next to the trailer, ear dropping shamelessly. You shouldn’t but you couldn’t help yourself.

“Well, I don’t like it at all, Benjamin !” She yelled back and you heard him sighing, probably knowing he was already late and his girlfriend wasn’t helping. “You didn’t see the way she look at you !”

You felt the same way as the day your best friend from high school threw you a bucket of freezing water on your head. You stopped breathing by fear they would hear you and tried your best to not panic.

Was she talking about you ?

Of course she was ! Who else could be the She ? You were done, done, done. The rest of the filming would be just awkward because of you and your stupid feelings.

"Oh my god, Isis ! We already had this conversation, (Y/N) is simply doing her job, alright ? You need to stop being so paranoiac for Christ’ sake !”

You felt yourself sweating uncomfortably as you listened to them, heart beating like crazy. This was a nightmare.

“She is not acting anymore Ben ! Open your damn eyes for once !” Isis groaned as she slammed a cup loudly on the table, making you jumped again. “She is not acting at all ! It’s fucking obvious !”

“What are you saying Isis ?” Ben muttered, clearly done with this argument. “Come on, enlighten me as apparently you know better than everyone !”

There a beat of complete silence, your muslces completely tetanised as you waited for her answer.

Isis let out a sarcastic, cold laugh. It worried you a lot. And then she pronounced these six little words which would make your heart stop.

“She is fucking in love with you, Ben”

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