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mondfahrt · 2 years ago

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Questions About Art

In the last couple of weeks, you've probably seen a few twitter threads like these (or their re-posts on tumblr) about the "decline" of art and architecture. Now, these kinds of posts (and people like The Cultural Tutor especially) have a lot of fascist red flags that other people have pointed out much more eloquently than I ever could, but I'd like to give my own two cents about why this view on art, architecture and their history proposes a lot of problems but also some questions that are worth getting into.

Some of the problems I'll be talking about are directly from these twitter threads, some I saw in the comments of these threads, and some I've encountered in my daily life. I'm not saying these are all fascist! In fact, a lot could just be labelled as "things you learn about art history when you don't spend years studying it". This mindset and this kind of bias are, as you will see, very very old and there are reasons why we still struggle with them today.

I kind of want people to know about arguments I rarely see talked about in non-academic spaces. Diversify the public discourse, if you will. I know some of these things tend to get complicated but I've tried to keep it as simple as possible. But if you have any questions about any of this, please ask! I can talk about art all day every day.

Also, I'm not claiming to know everything. If nothing here seems to make sense to you, that's fine, too. I'd really like to know your opinion, though! And if I've made mistakes and you know better: Please tell me!

(I also really understand that engaging with these kinds of arguments is maybe kind of pointless. People will see and like and think what they will see and like and think. Art has always been devisive. But I love talking about art and I think I do have some perspective on this topic. And the discussion is kind of the point here. Also, if you read those threads on twitter, most comments are actually saying some good stuff. Not everything is mindblowingly wrong. I'm elaborating on some of it.)

Okay, let's get this thing going!

1. What is supreme?

There are several problems here: The choice of vocabulary is probably the least offensive. But this person presents their opinion (and it is simply that) as fact while assigning subjective values to the Pietá. What is extraordinary? What is beauty? Why is it surpreme? Is it because of the assumed value of marble, historically taken as a luxurious material when it isn't really any better than any other stone... Is in fact worse under certain circumstances because it really doesn't like getting wet... But I don't think this person wants to talk about that here. I think what they really mean is: It takes skill to make stone look like flesh or fabric.

Now, the problem with this is: It's a myth. Granted, we'll maybe have to leave Michelangelo out of it, because apparently he did do a lot of the work himself, but... a lot of artists did not. In fact, the artist as this unique genius working on his own, all by himself, is a narrative that's been pretty much established because of Michelangelo and the way art history has literally been built on top of his legacy. But most artists, before, during, and after Michelangelo's time, had whole workshops and teams of people working for and with them. We don't know a lot of medieval artists today because they didn't think it was important who had done the work. They shared their skills and time and resources to make and build and craft. Same goes for artists during the 17th century, because most of them still needed the help of craftspeople to make a bronze cast, for example. Sometimes we still can't decide if something is "by Leonardo da Vinci" or by one of his students or made in his workshop because sometimes an artist had an idea, drew a sketch and let other people do things like the background or details he didn't have the time for because he was busy inventing planes. And no one really cared because it was still from his workshop and having him paint the whole thing would've cost a lot more. Not only money but also time.

What we can see here, over time, is the development of the narrative of the artist as genius, and the devaluaziation of workshops and crafts in comparison to art.

2. What is an artist?

This is funny because idea, concept, and intellectual work in general are initially what seperated art and craft. The male artist as genius who creates something (the Pietá) out of nothing (a block of marble) is an important narrative! Saying that Jeff Koons' works are worse because he didn't do it himself is kind of ridiculous because it's nothing new. Artists have done this for centuries. And devaluing his work because it's only an idea/a concept is even funnier because that's one of the most important aspects of art in the early modern period.

For comparison: This is one of Jeff Koons' Balloon Dogs, mirror-polished stainless steel with transparent color coating (here in magenta), 121 x 143 x 45 inches (307.3 x 363.2 x 114.3 cm), made between 1994-2000.

Douglas Crimp says,

"The extraordinary status that has accrued to the work of art during the modern period is, in part, a consequence of the romantic myth of the artist as the most highly specialized, indeed unique producer. That this myth obscures the social division of labor was recognized by Minimal artists. Traditional sculpture's specialized craft and highly fetishized materials were opposed by Minimalism with the introduction of objects industrially fabricated of ordinary manufactured materials." (1)

Jeff Koons is not a Minimalist. Their works from the 1950s and 1960s looks more like this.

This is Carl Andre's 4 Square 4 Void, installation 2018, 12 unit hollow square on floor, 0.5 x 160 x 160 cm.

Minimalists like Andre intended to completely erase the hand of the artist by using materials that had to be very obviously made with machines. This is where another art myth comes in as well: "I could have done that." Yes, that's the point. Minimal art is supposed to let you reflect on the way we lift artists to higher standards. Why would you treat Andre's metal squares differently than the concrete floor their lying on? You're actually even invited to walk on these! To reflect the way you experience the room around you, with the artwork and your body in it... (The Minimalists had a whole thing going on relationships between art, space and viewer as a critique of the supposedly "neutral" gallery or museum space but that's a topic for another day.)

The Minimalists (Carl Andre, Sol LeWitt, Dan Flavin, Donald Judd...) also did these high finishes like Koons, very shiny surfaces that show no traces of brushes or chisels. You're not supposed to think these have been done by one person. And if they're not done by a person but by a machine, or by a whole group of people working these machines, then who is the artist? What is an artist? And can anyone be an artist?

3. Is it art if you (don't) need to explain it?

They also wanted to make art accessible. Since the kind of art the Minimalists did was pretty much completely new and unheard of in the 1960s, no one understood it, which meant that everyone started on the same level. You're just supposed to feel their art, its position in the room and in relation to your body. Everyone can do that. No academic advantage. Some critics were furious about that.

Of course, this concept falls apart a bit when you think about art historians and critics engaging much more with art in general, talking to artists and other historians, knowing about materials etc. You'll never get a completely even playing field, if you ask me, but at least the Minimalists tried to do something.

In contrast: The twitter post above claims that the Pietá needs no explanation or context. But that's not exactly true, is it? Sure, you can appreciate it without knowing anything about it. Pain like that translates well in any case, I think. But being at least culturally Christian puts you miles ahead of everyone else already. Knowing that that's the Virgin Mary, mother of Jesus, who's lying in her arms, dead... otherwise these two people could be lovers, or siblings, or friends. It's also placed in a church, you can't really get close to it, which could make it hard to even see that the man in the woman's arms is dead, at first glance he could just be unconscious, even sleeping. Not having this context doesn't make this work less impressive, on a skill-level, but it does add some things.

Context matters.

Which takes me to one point in the discussion on twitter that actually makes me angry.

4. What is context?

The OP says that they don't know what to think about these sculptures. Maybe you don't either, that's completely fair! Let me add some context:

On the left: Veronica Ryan's Custard Apple (Annonaceae), Breadfruit (Moraceae), and Soursop (Annonaceae), all from 2021. Now, I had to research this but it was fairly easy. I just used Google. The titles suggest that these are fruit. The fact that they are the UK's first public sculpture dedicated to the Windrush generation makes me think that they're probably culturally and historically important to these people specifically. People from the Caribbean, where the artist was born and where these fruits are common, who migrated to the UK.

I like this anecdote from an article in iNews on the day the sculpture was unveiled in London:

"On a wet October morning, shoppers wheeling trolleys nodded in recognition as they passed the work. A mother fielded questions from her young daughter, identifying the soursop for her and explaining what it was as they walked away. As Ryan posed for photographers, a young man sped past, pointed at the marble sculpture and shouted “sugar-apple!” - “That’s right!” the artist shouted back, beaming." (2)

I know what the Pietá is depicting, I've learned about it from growing up as a Christian and studying art history. I had to google what a soursop was, but other people have grown up with them and look at this sculpture, already knowing what it means.

Context matters.

I also think it's important to know that this is the first public sculpture in the UK by a Black woman. And I love that Ryan says she wants these sculptures of fruits to be a part of the community, to bring people together like food tends to do, to remind people of good things, to give them a place to sit or rest or climb on.

The Pietá sits high and mighty, untouchable, holy, and that's for a reason, too. But I like that sculpture like Ryan's, made from marble and bronze just like so many sculptures from the Renaissance, can also be like this, public and warm.

I don't have to understand everything about it. I have never eaten a sugar-apple, or a breadfruit. This is not art made for me. It does not need to be. But I can still find something in it, if I open my mind, do a bit of research, and don't expect everything to be spelled out for me.

Now, the sculpture on the right is a bit more complicated: It's Heather Phillipson's THE END, 2020, and it was placed in Trafalgar Square, London, on the so-called Fourth Plinth. The Fourth Plinth is a public art project intended to diversify the monuments in London. The other three plinths on Trafalgar Square all carry statues of white British men (two generals and one king). The fourth plinth was supposed to carry another general but the funds ran out and it remained empty until the 1990s, when it was decided that it would instead show different works of contemporary art temporarily, specifically commissioned for this place. Phillipson's work is supposed to look playful, joyful, even tasty, but with a darker twist. The drone on top of the whipped cream sculpture is recording a live feed of Trafalgar Square, a commentary on surveillance in public spaces, even - or especially - if those public spaces are places for people to come together and enjoy life and culture. The sculpture is not taking itself very seriously, just as it is poking fun at the seriousness of other (public) art, like the generals and kings surrounding it, or the paintings in the National Gallery behind it, but it's also political. Who does a public square belong to? Do we know who's watching us at any given moment? But also: Who are we watching? Everyone can watch the sculpture's live feed, all the people on the square, but also every statue of a dead white man there.

5. Do you need to be told this is art?

At this point, I do think OP is arguing in bad faith here. I'm not saying you have to like any of these artworks. Or that you have to understand them immediately, or get anything out of them. But they are so much more than just "shock factor". Actually, most of modern, postmodern and contemporary art is about so much more than shock factor, especially public sculptures. I've only talked about those here because the OP on twitter only talked about those but it's also my field of study. And I still needed to research a lot to write this, so I don't expect anyone to understand anything immediately. But when it comes to art, I urge people to keep an open mind. Most artworks are much more meaningful than you'd expect and I bet I could actually tell you a lot about Michelangelo's Pietá you didn't know that would change its interpretation to you.

Here are a few just for fun:

This is the only statue by Michelangelo with a signature. We're not sure why exactly that is. Because he saw this as a great work and was proud of himself? Or because he was only at the beginning of his career when he made it and needed to build a reputation?

Mary looks much too young in this to have an adult son. It's an anachronism that's maybe pointing towards her later ascension. Or towards some kind of "beautiful people are moral and good" metaphor that was very prominent during the Renaissance. Or maybe Michelangelo just didn't want to make an older woman.

This work is a masterpiece of composition: You don't even realise that Mary is much larger than Jesus because she's sitting and because her dress is so voluminous. But it's also only brilliant when you're looking at it from the front. It's placed in a church, in front of a wall, so you can't even see behind it. That means, Michelangelo didn't need to do a full piece that's amazing and interesting from all sides - which is, incidentally, a factor that becomes very popular during the Late Renaissance.

I think that last point is interesting because sculptures like those by Phillipson and Ryan do need to be interesting from all sides, since their placed in an open space. They need to do something with the space around them, not just with one wall in a church.

These sculptures are not random. Not even when you don't know what the artists wanted to do with them. If you get something else out of THE END or Custard Apple, that's fine! That's not random, that's just one way to look at art, it's interaction, it's dialogue.

6. What is the conceptual foundation of art?

We can disagree on this but I don't think the "conceptual foundation of modern art" is to question accepted standards of what art can be. (Setting aside that OP is most likely mixing up modern and contemporary art here.) There are hundreds of movements, styles, and theories in art. Andre, Koons, Phillipson and Ryan are just four artists out of thousands, and each one wants to do something different with their art. Yes, some of them want to question what art can be. Some want to question the assumed neutrality of the gallery. Some want us to think about our bodies in space. Some want to make political statements about surveillance. Some want to see their heritage represented in public.

Some of my favourite artists want to make you think about life and death and all the love we share in between. How we interact with people daily. Or how the world around us keeps moving and changing. Some want to make statements about gender and bodies, or the environment, or colonialism, or capitalism. Some want you to see all the shadows on a white canvas. Some just really like a certain shade of blue.

Art can be so many different things. I love Medieval art, and Renaissance art, and art from the Enlightenment... (I even have friends who study these periods in art history!) No work of art, no period in art history, is superior to another.

OP of the thread - as well as commenters like Mike Brook - assume that contemporary art is only one thing. They argue that idea and concept and meaning trump everything in contemporary art, that form has become meaningless. That's true for some artworks, concept art in particular, or art that can be reproduced again and again. Looking down at that art, criticizing it as meaningless or only interesting because of its shock factor, misses the point, though. And it is - and this is important - incredibly elitist.

7. What is art?

This is an argument we've had since the beginnings of art history - when one of Michelangelo's friends, Giorgio Vasari, published biographies of artists, likening them to nobles and popes and highlighting their unique skills in order to make them out to be geniuses. That meant, in turn, that you couldn't simply become an artist, but that you were born to be one.

Vasari had such an influence on art history - he's actually said to be the "father of art history" - that we still have to unravel these narratives today. Because when Vasari wrote these biographies, these stories, he only included the (in his opinion) greatest artists of all, with Michelangelo coming out on top. He's the reason we have an art historic canon, a set of artists who are considered important and great and worthy of study and admiration and remembrance. Of course, Vasari mostly included Italian artists because most art from north of the Alps was not as great. And anyone before Michelangelo couldn't be as great as Michelangelo because you needed to show progress, that art was moving forward, becoming better and better. Art made by women was always depicted as being less good than that made by men. And so on, and so forth...

The same narrative goes for understanding art. There are several instances throughout art history when people (mostly old white men) cried about the supposed "end of art". It happened with the Impressionists, with the Dadaists, with the Minimalists, with concept art and installation art and so on.

In 1967, art critic Michael Fried published an essay called "Art and Objecthood" in which he criticized Minimal art (especially in comparison to Modernist art) as being literal and theatrical. It is one of the most cited essays on contemporary art in recent decades. You might ask yourself, what about Carl Andre's metal plates on the floor could be theatrical? Literal can be understood: They are literally metal squares on the floor. They don't pretend to be anything else, like how Michelangelo's marble pretends to be Jesus, or how Ryan's bronze pretends to be fruit. In this way, they can be understood by everyone. You don't have to have read the Bible or been to the Caribbean to "understand" a metal square. You are simply supposed to experience your body in relation to it. That also means that the artwork speaks to every person differently and individually, because no one can experience art out of any body other than their own.

"Theatricality" to Fried means superficiality, deception, and emptiness of meaning. If a work of art doesn't claim to be anything else than what it is, it's superficial. If anyone can find different, individual meaning in a work of art, no one can really know what the artist wants to say, so it's deceptive. And if the artist doesn't care about universal meaning being found in their work, it must be meaningless.

Christa Noel Robbins says on Fried's essay:

In catering to each viewer in their turn, the ability of the work of art to transcend atomized taste and enter into something like a community of meaning making is foreclosed. Absent that community, Fried has long argued, a work of art has no real meaning; it is particularized, isolating the viewer in their own individuated field of experience. (3)

If a work of art doesn't transcend to give us some higher meaning, a meaning that's the same for everyone, is it art? Or is it an object?

That's basically what people who question any and all contemporary art, who ask "what is an artist?", have problems with. They don't want to see that a sculpture is just a block of marble, no matter the form. The form doesn't make it any less a block of marble, something very normal, and earthly, and not "supreme" at all. And not everyone will find (or needs to find) higher meaning in that block. Only if someone does find higher meaning in it, does it become art at all - Michelangelo's sculpture needs the viewer, just like the metal squares need the viewer to make them into art. Into more than objects. But this process is extremely subjective, for Michelangelo just as much as for Andre or Ryan.

"Anything can be art," complains The Cultural Tutor in another tweet. But that's not the real problem they have. The problem is: If anything can be art, and I don't like some of that art and I don't even think it's art, who's to say that Michelangelo's Pietá is art? If I can question contemporary art, isn't everything else in danger to be questioned as well?

(1) Douglas Crimp: "Serra's Public Sculpture", in: Rosalind Krauss (ed.): Richard Serra/Sculpture, New York 1986, pp. 40-56, p. 44. (2) Hettie Judah: "Veronica Ryan’s celebratory giant fruit are a lesson in how to do public sculpture well", in: iNews, 10/01/2021, URL: https://inews.co.uk/culture/arts/veronica-ryan-windrush-monument-fruit-sculpture-hackney-london-review-1227786. (3) Christa Noel Robinson: "The Sensibility of Michael Fried", in: Criticism 60:4 (2018), pp. 429-454, p. 432.

#art history #art #contemporary art #modern art #women artists #michelangelo #veronica ryan #carl andre #heather phillipson #michael fried #art criticism #turner prize #minimalism

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exquisitley-obsessed · 4 years ago

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We’re Leaving (Carlisle Cullen x Reader)

Author: @exquisitley-obsessed

Summary: The already infatuated Carlisle Cullen and reader are faced with their next challenge, but this time the danger is within their own family. Edward needs his father as he pulls away from Bella over the course of NEW MOON, but this means Carlisle must make the choice between his own happiness and that of his son’s. No matter what he chooses, someone’s going to get hurt.

Word Count: long

Pairings: Carlisle Cullen x Reader

Warnings: Heartbreak, abandonment, sex, drug abuse

A/N: Technically this is a fourth part of my ‘Dinosaur and the Vampire’ series however you don’t need to read it to understand. Plus, in my head this part functions better as a oneshot.

Dinosaur and the Vampire:

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

MY MAIN MASTERLIST

Y/n gasped, the pain was rippling from her chest now, ricocheting through her muscles as she collapsed on her bedroom floor. She could already guess his next words.

‘We’re leaving.’

***

The past couple of months had been glorious. Following the disaster that was the ending to y/n’s junior year where she somehow managed to get tangled up in a high speed car chase with a vampire named Victoria (who had promptly taken her hostage in order to track down y/n’s best friend Bella) - things had begun to look up.

Her infatuation with the town’s local medi-hero Carlisle Cullen had surprisingly taken off, after of course he revealed himself of being a 300 year-old vampire who had a taste for bunnies. Most days she met up with him at his mansion in her brand-new white Ford Bronco, that which Carlisle had bought specifically to save her life and, following the destruction of her own car, decided to gift her - that was an interesting conversation with her parents.

Of course that accident hadn’t just left her with a beautiful new mechanic baby but also some battle scars. The largest of which was a crescent white line arching over her left brow, not to mention the faded lines circling her waist. Her arms had healed up nice enough, the rope had caused them to double in size as blue and green bruises splotched on the surface for the first few weeks but they eventually died down. The story went that after being in a lot of stress and anxiety y/n had lost sight of the road and crashed into a car and it was stunning how no one thought to question it.

It was difficult being around her personal doctor for the first few days after the crash. So often would she catch him staring mournfully at her scar and bound hands, evidentially blaming himself for her battered state. Y/n spent most of the time convincing him she was fine and reminding him that she would go through so much worse to be where she was today.

And where she was, was a few weeks into her affair, unbeknown to all apart from Carlisle’s family and Bella. Together, Carlisle and her would often circle around the endless abyss of wood and glass that was the Cullen house, or drift up and down the small forest of a garden they had out back. Talking, always talking.

Carlisle was fascinated by every aspect of her previously thought mundane life. She could watch as he made mental notes of her favourite bands and books, what colleges she wanted to go to, her dream job. Y/n so often hated talking about herself but only because she felt that her life paled in comparison to that of Carlisle’s. He had of course explained his entire existence to her, right from its origins in 17th century London, and yet there was still so much he mentioned off-hand that left y/n floored.

Of course with the cat being out the bag, y/n’s and Bella’s friendship felt like it was flourishing for the second time. Now Bella was able to be honest with why she had been so distant, she didn’t have to lie when she explained the intensity of her and Edward’s relationship or why she kept disappearing with him after school. Y/n was able to confine to her about her relationship with Carlisle, about the way he always seemed to be looking at her through his soft amber eyes and the way he was so comfortable in touching her. Constantly brushing his fingers over her wrist or stroking her hair out of her face. All in all y/n had never been happier, of course until Bella’s tragic 18th.

***

For a night that would be so monumental to y/n’s life it seemed strange she wasn’t even present. Her parents had somehow dragged her on a holiday in Florida. And after giving Bella her early birthday present and a promise to Carlisle that she would be careful, she hadn’t thought much more of her time away. She spent most of the time on the beaches, reading and reliving all her memories with the doctor.

He had kissed her only a few nights ago. It came quite literally out of the blue. She was only stopping by his house to pick-up Edward’s copy of ‘The Catcher in the Rye’ when he was at the door waiting for her he seemed somewhat disturbed, as though he had had a rough day at the hospital. She had smiled at him as she got out and he in turn had pattered down the front steps.

“Hi.” Was all she managed to get out before he had caught her lips in his, his body flushed against hers as she was pushed against the car.

“Sorry.” He whispered breathlessly when the kiss had unfortunately come to a close and he rested his forehead against hers, gently rocking her in his arms. “I couldn’t wait any longer.”

Yet she couldn’t stay on holiday forever and inevitably she returned to the mess that was life back at Forks. When she got home the first thing she wanted to do was see Bella, to ask her about her birthday, if Alice got her that necklace y/n helped pick out, but Charlie was no help.

“I’m sorry y/n...” He looked incredibly stressed. His shirt old and stained his hair sticking up at the back, heavy set bags hanging below his eyes. “Bella...she’s...she’s not good right now.”

Y/n assumed Bella had come down with something and so she shrugged it off, blaming Charlie’s appearance on well, Charlie stuff. It was the next day at school when things started to feel really wrong, when the pain began to dig it’s hole.

***

“You looking for the Cullens?” Angela asked. Y/n snapped her head around, embarrassed that she had been caught glaring at the completely empty table near the back of the cafeteria. She would have never guessed it was related to Bella’s illness.

“Something happen?” Y/n tried to appear disinterested, picking at her food. It was September and not sunny so it didn’t make sense for them to be away perhaps they were in need of a feed or maybe they had family business...

“Yeah, they moved away.”

Angela said it like someone would talk about the weather and yet she might as well have leaned across the table and shoved her fork through y/n’s chest.

“What?” The word squeaked out. Y/n felt the colour drain from her face.

“The dad...you know the doctor one...well apparently he got some big time job offer down in California and...”

Angela’s words dissolved into the air, muffled by some invisible blanket. Distantly y/n was aware of her arms going limp, her fork clattering out of her hands as her body tingled numbly underneath her. The worst feeling was the shortness of breath, the way air couldn’t seem to move through her lungs anymore as her chest was weighed down with what felt like a sphere of lead.

The rest of the day couldn’t pass slowly enough. In history it seemed like y/n was watching the clock forever her mind racing a million miles an hour. Surely they hadn’t left properly, Carlisle couldn’t leave without saying goodbye at least. No, it had to have something to do with vampirism, maybe an old friend called or maybe they were in danger, 5 more minutes then gym and then she would find out.

In the end she decided to skip gym altogether jumping in her car and racing home, still in her daze. She needed to see Bella and then she would head up to the Cullen’s, there was no way they had really moved away. Maybe it was just so the humans weren’t getting suspicious, a strange feeling pulled at y/n’s gut as she remembered that technically, she was a part of the ‘humans’ or supposed to be at least.

“Charlie is Bella in?”

“I’m sorry y/n-”

She pushed past him, muttering an apology as she went but Charlie appeared too exhausted to stop her. Turning left she raced up the stairs two at a time before exploding into Bella’s room, she would know from Bella, she would get her answer.

Bella sat on her bed, her face white, her eyes glossed over. She didn’t even look at y/n as she walked in.

“Bella?” Y/n’s voice was shaky, the tears already bubbling in her throat. She knew deep down that she already had her answer. “Bella?”

Finally she turned to her, but there was no recognition. Nothing. Complete emptiness behind her eyes as she stared back for a few seconds before her eyes flickered forward.

Y/n left, apologising to Charlie under her breath as she jumped back in her car. But it was too late, the pain had already settled in her chest, her mind was already convinced. They were gone. He had left. Without even saying goodbye.

It was inescapable now, it spread like fire across her body, consuming her whole. She tried to start up her car but her body doubled over and she grit her teeth in pain. It had begun.

***

She didn’t know where to go, what to do. Most of her wanted to go to the Cullen’s house but she already knew it was most likely empty, devoid of all life. Could she really handle that?

Y/n went to start up her car when she realised that this car was all Carlisle had given her besides her own memories. She raced out of it, turning away from the sight of it and running into her house.

When she got to her room she shut her curtains with so much vigour a few hooks snapped off the edge, she knew she would see the pale car in her drive if she left it open. Before she knew it she was crying, trying desperately to control her emotions before they consumed her whole. Then she saw it.

Resting on her bedside table was an ivory note with her name etched onto the page in rich navy ink.

‘Dearest y/n l’n,’

A letter. He had left her a letter. She opened it carefully, if what she assumed was true this, as well as her car, might be all she had left of him; her sobs still hiccuping in her throat, she raced her eyes over his calligraphy. Five paragraphs. That was all. Five paragraphs loosely explaining how Edward was in a rough place, how people were judging Carlisle for his youth, how he needed to put his family first - five paragraphs.

Y/n gasped, the pain was rippling from her chest now, ricocheting through her muscles as she collapsed on her bedroom floor. She could already guess his next words, the words to conclude the letter.

‘We’re leaving.’

The worst feeling was when she read ‘we’, she knew from this word alone she was to understand that Carlisle did not group her with his family. The letter gave no insinuation that he was deeply sorry for their departure, or that he would in any way return at all. How, in the space of a few hours, could her world be turned completely inside out?

She went from giddily planning a small future with Carlisle to believing he had never cared for her at all. If he did, it certainly wasn’t as much as she had cared for him. Another wave of pain beat her down. She was just a stupid kid with a crush. Another wave. She was a fool, an embarrassment to assume that he wanted her even half as much as she wanted him.

Her tears got too much then, the letter shaking out her hands as the pain, now unbridled, exploded out of her. The waves of heartbreak crashing into her again and again, her stifled screams bouncing off her walls and ringing back in her ears, haunting her with her own pain.

He was gone, and he had taken her heart with him.

***

“Y/n we’re worried about you.”

“Don’t be.” Y/n laughed loudly, pushing her untouched pasta around on her plate. Angela glanced at her through tense eyes. “I already have a mum, Angela.” The words came out harsher than she meant to, not that she cared.

“But seriously, Mack?” Angela whispered, her voice low so the others wouldn’t hear. Y/n rolled her eyes.

“We’re not a thing, we just hang out and he...helps me out.”

“He’s a druggie.” Her voice was low, accusing, incredulous. Another roll of y/n’s eyes.

“Duh Angela. What do you think I meant by ‘helping me out’.” Angela just shook her head disappointed. Y/n didn’t care, she couldn’t. Technically sitting at that lunch table on that Friday she was still coming down from her high this morning, her brain soft and fuzzed around the edges and, most importantly, the pain in her chest non existent.

The drug scene in Forks was nothing to be impressed by. It was only by luck that y/n had met Mack, a guy a few years out of high school who had never made it to college. Y/n was pretty sure he was crushing on her but she didn’t mind exploiting that a little if it meant she got high for free.

It had been four months since they had left. They might as well have taken Bella with them considering she was a shell of a human being: unresponsive, uncooperative. There was nothing behind her eyes, just like the day y/n had come searching for her. That had been one of the last times y/n had stepped foot in the Swan house. Partly because y/n’s new found drug habits wouldn’t go down well with Chief Charlie Swan, partly because y/n couldn’t stand the sight of Bella.

The emptiness, the hollowness, the pain. It was just a reminder to y/n of what was waiting for her the day she became sober. In the beginning, after a few days of wallowing in the pain, feeling as though she were unable to move, y/n had forced herself to go to the beach where she had ran into a bunch of La Push boys. They were smoking green and it was clearly their first time, they called out and invited y/n over clearly expecting that she wouldn’t accept.

But she surprised both them and herself by walking over. After sitting and smoking them with a bit she found herself smiling and laughing at their jokes as her head became warmer and fuzzier, moreover, the pain of his abandonment warmed into nothingness. She had asked them where they got the weed and they had pointed her in the direction of Mack.

“Down for tonight?”

Y/n read the text as it flashed across her screen.

“You bet :)″

She sent back. Two more lessons and then her high could be refreshed and the cycle could continue.

***

Y/n gasped as she awoke. Nightmares had been more common the past week. They were a regular occurrence when he had first left but going to bed high had always numbed it out. But recently his ivory skin and ribbons of muscles were becoming clearer through the haze.

Rolling over in the dark with some desperation she flicked on her phone and dialled his number.

“Hey Mack, I just called cause-”

“You have a bad high?” He murmured over the phone, distantly she could hear his TV playing in the background. She could picture him, half-dressed surrounded by trash as he got himself high for the third time today. Y/n pushed the image away - no, I’m not like that. It’s different for me, I have a reason.

“Yeah.” She muttered, “I just didn’t know who to call.”

“Usually bad highs are a sign you’ve been smoking too much.” She had basically been smoking consistently for four months now and if she wasn’t smoking she was drunk and if she wasn’t drunk then the pain began to settle.

“Ugh, are you going to tell me I have to stop?” She laughed quietly over the phone, trying to cover the slight desperation in her voice. Distantly she was aware of her parents sleeping in the next room, it was stupid, she was eighteen now and it felt as though she had been through enough trauma to move out, to get away from school. On the other hand school seemed to be the only thing holding her together now.

“No, you don’t need to stop smoking but maybe try something else?” He asked nonchalantly.

“Something else?”

“I stock more than green but it’ll have to be sooner rather than later.”

“Sooner?” Y/n murmured robotically. She had bought enough to get her through the week.

“This weekend?” He asked, almost as if he read her mind.

“See you then...your place?” She rolled over in the dark.

“See you then?” She could hear the enormous grin settle on his lips and it sent a shiver down her spine - she hung up. She had promised herself to never do anything more serious than weed but now she was faced with an ultimatum: break her promise or embrace the darkness.

***

“Hi Mack.” Y/n smiled when he opened the door, he didn’t say anything just grinned and stood to the side letting y/n into his dingy apartment. Y/n had used the same lie to her parents that she used whenever she came here - that she was sleeping over at Angela's. Not that they ever checked.

Of course she wasn’t sleeping over at Mack’s, to be honest she didn’t trust him enough for that, normally she left late and would drive her car up to the Cullens house, it wasn’t too far and the road was easy enough to follow when intoxicated. It was the only time was she was able to wander around the house without feeling any guilt or remorse.

Mack’s place was tiny, made worse by the clutter and rubbish. A small corridor lead to a small living room which the tiniest of kitchens looked out into. Mack had a strip of lights around the top of the ceiling that were constantly flashing multi-coloured as loud obnoxious music played, somewhat muffled in the smoke.

“Hey y/n.” Danny, Mack’s roommate, smiled from the couch, clearly already lost.

“Hey Dan.” She smiled before collapsing at his feet, her knees propped against the coffee table where booze and skins cluttered the surface.

“You’re in for a treat.” He slurred, his arms limp by his sides as his eyes flickered back and forth, his mouth ajar. Y/n felt somewhat excited at the sight of him, so out of his head - this excitement no longer frightened her.

“He’s not lying.” Mack laughed, full of energy as he jumped up and grabbed something off the kitchen counter before holding it in front of her face. A small white square was compressed in the middle of a tiny plastic bag. “These things pack a punch.” He laughed, y/n laughed. “You’re still down to do this right? I’m not going to pressure you or anything.” He said, and for a moment it looked like he was actually concerned for her.

Y/n thought seriously about it for a moment. There was nothing stopping her from getting up and walking out, telling him that it was a mistake to come here, even just telling him that she’ll run the risk of sticking to green. Except the weed wasn’t enough anymore, she was realising that. To keep him away she would have to go further, and she was more than willing. It seemed somewhat funny, that to escape her doctor she had to pollute herself.

“Of course.” Y/n heard her voice laugh as she shuffled out of her jacket and pulled her hair out from it’s knot. If Mack and Danny could, she could.

“Awesome.” He grinned before sitting down on the coffee table in front of her so that her head was somewhat between his knees. “This is how you take it.” He said, clearly enjoying being a ‘teacher’. Y/n could see him properly then.

Mack was in his early-twenties, the same age he was supposed to be. A short brown beard tufted around his jaw whilst shoulder length brown hair was pulled into a low pony at the back of his head. He was sweet really, just lost.

“Stick your tongue out.” Y/n obliged, picking up on the moment of tension as he placed the white square on her tongue with his forefinger. She felt no guilt as she lapped her tongue back into her mouth slowly, gazing into his dark eyes as his finger rested on her bottom lip.

The rest of the night was a blurry mess; mistakes were definitely made and y/n was definitely going to have to find a new dealer. It was strange how that night only happened because she was so desperate to escape Carlisle Cullen, and yet for most of it, it was his icy face that she was picturing instead of Mack’s.

***

Weeks had passed and y/n’s drug exploration was starting to get a little out of control. She was sure her parents were picking up on her strange behaviours: never home at weekends, always fidgeting, bleary eyed and always tired. Perhaps she was just being paranoid, Mack said that could be one of the side effects.

But it was lucky she was high one specific Friday as she parked her car outside Mack’s apartment complex. She glared at the Bronco, she had seen Bella ripping the radio (Emmett’s gift to Bella) out of her own truck, removing all traces of the Cullen family’s existence. It wasn’t so easy for y/n.

She was thinking of him again. It had been quite obsessive these past few days and that’s why when she first saw him, leaning against his black Mercedes in the shadows, she couldn’t quite believe her eyes.

“What the hell.” She was so sure she was hallucinating, she blinked fiercely.

“Y/n.” He said her name and she felt her eyes flutter closed, how good it felt to hear her name dripping from his lips. She wasn’t aware she had memorised his voice so well. She audibly hummed in response to the sound before snapping herself out of it and ignoring his form. Mack was just upstairs with something new to try and then he would go away. “Y/n.” He said her name again as though he were sure she hadn’t heard him.

Y/n ignored it. The sweetness of his presence was quickly turning sour, and the corners of the hole in her chest were beginning to sting.

“Y/n, it’s me.” That stopped her. From the corner of her eye she could see him step out of the shadows, his pale skin iridescent in the street light. He looked unsure, pleading, desperate. “Y/n.”

“No.” She gasped suddenly. There was no more guessing, she couldn’t even try to deny that it was truly him. She stumbled slightly in the street and he was by her side in a second. When she was stable in his arms he held a lock of her hair between his fingers inhaling deeply. “Your blood smells different.” He murmured. She had forgotten what it was like to be around people who could move so quickly. “Y/n, what have you been putting in your body?”

“Leave me alone.” She murmured, her head still fuzzy and numb from the sight of him. Was it a dream? No it couldn’t be. As she got over her shock, anger pooled in her gut.

“Are you high?” His eyes were confused and worried.

“If I am what would you do about it?” She smirked.��“You have no right to critique my lifestyle.”

“Your lifestyle?” He asked somewhat incredulously, his eyes were slowly melting darker and darker. “Poisoning yourself with LSD is a lifestyle for you?”

“It’s a coping mechanism.” She spat suddenly. “To deal with the pain that you left me with.” That shut him up.

“I would’ve never left if I knew you would do this.” He grimaced. Wrong move.

“Stop!” She gasped suddenly, her arm snatching to her gut where she was sure the pain would brim over. She thought seeing him again would melt her troubles away, instead his presence seemed to intensify them. “Stop talking like you get a say in what I do! You lost that privileged the day you left! Left with nothing but a stupid note Carlisle!”

“I left to protect you. I didn’t want to cause you pain. Remember Victoria?” Was all he could say in response.

“Victoria...” Y/n spat. “What Victoria did to me pales in comparison to what you did. You’re the one whose hurt me the most Carlisle. Do you understand?”

She was still in shock at the sight of him. A million questions were racing through her head but none of them seemed as important now. Her shouting must have alerted someone’s presence because she heard movement near the apartment steps as someone walked up to them.

“Are you okay?” It was Mack but he seemed a million miles away now, unimportant.

“Are you her dealer?” Carlisle strode forward, his voice pure steel.

“Carlisle stop it!” She spat, jumping forward and pushing against his stony chest but it was like trying to move a mountain.

“Are you the one that did this to her?” Carlisle ignored her, still towering over Mack.

“You did this to me!” She suddenly exploded. Carlisle was past listening.

“If I ever see you near her again. I will break you myself, I promise.” His voice was calm meditated, as if every word had weight.

“What are you, her boyfriend?” Mack asked venomously. “Well then maybe I should let you in on a secret.”

“Mack shut up.” Y/n felt fear bubble into her throat. Sure she could swear in that moment she hated Carlisle but that’s all it was, a moment. There was no point in ruining her future.

“Your girlfriend ain’t too loyal.” Mack drawled out, a coy smirk slipping on his lips as he rocked back and forth on his toes. Carlisle tensed. “At least...she wasn’t last night.”

An animalistic snarl snapped from of Carlisle lips like a whip and within the second he had Mack pinned against the bonnet of a car. Then, just as quickly as he moved, he remembered himself. Letting Mack drop Carlisle’s breath heaved before he turned and stalked towards his car without sparing y/n so much as a glance. Always the pacifist.

“Carlisle.” She called, rushing after him but Mack caught her elbow.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were in a relationship?” He asked and if y/n wasn’t mistaken he sounded somewhat heartbroken, all his previous anger evaporating.

“I’m not.” Y/n gasped struggling to get out of his grip.

“You’re in something.” He murmured, letting her go.

“I’m sorry Mack, I really am. I’ll...call you.” The words were falling over her shoulder as she escaped, but he was already gone and distantly she could hear his Mercedes ripping into the night as he drove away.

***

“It’s not his fault.”

“I don’t need this right now Edward.” After jumping into her Bronco y/n had followed Carlisle’s black Mercedes back to his house. During the drive she couldn’t decide whether her anger was riling up or fizzing into the air and thus, nothingness. He had been so close, she had put her hands against his chest, he was right there.

“Please I just...” Edward’s eyes were tentative as he blocked her path on the house steps, “It’s my fault why we even left, all he was trying to do was be a good father to me.”

“And you think that’s and excuse?”

“No, of course not.” He added hurriedly. “It’s just, I love him, and I know he loves you. Please don’t walk away from him.”

“Walk away?” Y/n gasped, angry tears pricking behind her eyes. “I never wanted to walk away. I never even considered it. You were the ones who left and you took everything with you.” Tears spilled and she hurriedly wiped them away. Edward grimaced. Y/n took her opportunity and stormed past him into the house. To her surprise there stood Rosalie and Emmett; a few hours ago and she would have run into their arms laughing, overjoyed to see her friends again.

“Where is he?” Was all she spat and to her surprise they looked somewhat intimidated as they pointed loosely in the direction of the kitchen. She stormed past them and up the stairs swinging a right to find Carlisle waiting for her, leaning over the counter his head in his hands, he glanced at her.

“Y/n I-” He began.

“Shut up.” Was all she said. Distantly she was aware that Emmett and Rosalie had followed her along with Edward. At the far window she saw movement and assumed Jasper and Alice had come to see what the fuss is about. “You had your chance to talk the day you left but you chose not to, so, what you’re going to do is you’re going to sit in that chat, patiently, whilst I stand her and say what I got to say...understand?”

Carlisle stood now, an internal battle dancing behind his eyes as he glanced from y/n to his family. Y/n was aware of them staring now, watching the leader of their family, the alpha male be challenged, all tentative to see what he would do next. Slowly and with weight, Carlisle walked a few paces before he slid down into a chair, leaning forward and resting on his knees as he looked up at y/n through his lashes. This sent a tremor through the family and within the blink of an eye they were all gone, giving Carlisle and y/n their privacy.

“Carlisle...” Now she was here, she wasn’t quite sure what to say. “I am...sorry...about Mack and what we...” She trailed off, maybe it was not the best idea to start with this. “But you can’t judge me. You just can’t.”

“I know.” He whispered, his brows furrowing apologetically.

“All this...the drugs, Mack, everything, all of it’s just me trying to cope. And it’s not an excuse but-”

“Please don’t apologise.” Carlisle whispered and within the second he was standing in front of her cupping her cheeks in his hands and brushing his thumb under her right eye. “Never apologise.” He kissed her forehead. “You did nothing wrong.” He kissed her nose. It seemed like he went to go kiss her lips but he hovered, as if he remembered himself and he pulled back slightly, resting his forehead against hers.

“I’m sorry for the way I behaved. It was foolish and embarrassing of me.” He decided to say. “Back at the apartments. It’s just...”

“Just what?” Y/n murmured, now in a daze.

“I could smell it.”

“What?”

“Your scent...on him. On his neck, his shirt. Deep down I already knew what had happened but then hearing him...say it...and gloat.” His teeth gritted.

“If it’s any consolation, if I knew you were coming back I would have never-”

“But you didn’t know I was coming back. Because I left you here with nothing.” He was talking to himself now. “I...” He began. “I knew I was hurting you the day I left, the idea alone tormented me for months but I kept lying to myself, telling myself I would put you in more danger, more pain if I came back. But seeing the reality of what I had done to you, coming back to your blood smelling different and...” He trailed off.

“I know.” Y/n filled the silence, overwhelmed now at the feeling of him flushed against her body.

“I’ve got to hand it to Edward.” He chuckled to himself. “He’s more persuasive than he looks.” They stood like that for a moment, just comfortable at being able to be around one another again before y/n scrunched up her eyes.

“God, I've just been so caught up in being angry at you that I don’t think it’s really settled that you’re here. I feel like I’m going to wake up and this is just going to be a cruel dream.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” He cut her off gently, his eyes steely. “Not because I’m afraid of what you’ll do to yourself if I leave, not because you necessarily need me. But because...I don’t know how many chances I’m going to get to love someone like this.” He chuckled slightly. “And I mean, I have an eternity stretched out in front of me...but to love someone the way I love you...completely and utterly and with every piece of my heart and soul...”

His words fizzled into the air, the greater meaning behind them understood by them and only them.

“I’m sorry about Mack.” They were swaying slightly now, as if there were some soft unheard music. “He’s sweet...and he’s just lost...I guess I was for while.”

“As long as it was...consensual.” Surprisingly this made y/n laugh, a noise he had missed with his whole soul.

“Let’s not talk about it anymore.”

And they didn’t. From an outsiders perspective no one could have guessed anything was ever wrong between y/n and Carlisle. Just as before things gently shifted back into place, old routines were picked up and recent habits died out. Carlisle made good on his promise, he spent the rest of eternity doing everything in his power to make y/n happy, for that was all that mattered for him.

“To love someone the way I love you.” Became their phrase. Before long journeys apart, before what felt like impending doom when it came to Victoria, or the Voultri. He murmured it to her before she slept and shouted it after her car when she pulled away - an ode to their relationship, and all that they had been through. Y/n and Carlisle, the Dinosaur and the Vampire.

Tag List:

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@glimmering-darling-dolly

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itsclydebitches · 5 years ago

Photo

Discredit Part Three! (Click on each pic for something resembling quality!)

Part One---contains translations, podfic, and related works---Part Two

Tagging, credit, and transcript all below the cut 💜

First off, people who specifically asked to see more of this nonsense may God in all Her glory bless you accordingly:

@internet-or-sleep, @just-some-girl-on-the-internet, @readytoocomply, @vocallsama, @fellowshipofthegay, @lucky-leafeon, @alph4centauri, @sumoranges, @diaphanedreams

Aziraphale’s profile pic is courtesy of good old Neil, found here. All others are from Creative Commons.

Sorry it took so long to produce more stupidity. YOU ALL ROCK 🎊🎊🎊 Here, have a messy transcript.

Abdou G.

Have you ever walked in on a conversation and, despite clearly missing the majority of it, feel like you could reconstruct it, word for word if necessary? That happened at Fell’s today. The ‘talk’ had obviously been going on for a while, but I can give you a perfect summary here: rude fuckboy thinks he gets to say who God is, Fell was having none of it.

Best response? Turn around, walk back to your apartment (pro-tip: this only works if you’re just a few blocks away), and change your shirt. I walked back in with my I MET GOD, SHE’S BLACK tee and had the pleasure of seeing Fell do a double-take.

“Yes, thank you, that’s what I’ve been trying to say!”

***

Doug E.

Scout’s honor: I once saw that Crowley dude unhinge his jaw and eat a large pizza in one goddamn bite.

Update: you heathens read about this gay abomination with his dislocated jaw and what you decide to question is whether I was acTUALLY A SCOUT?

***

Mary L.

I came in with my four-year-old last week fully intending to keep him within sight at all times. Yes, I bought one of those kiddie leashes and no, I don’t regret a thing. You try holding down two jobs as a single mom to the bonefide antichrist. I love my boy, but the devil got to him, telling him things like, “Yes, Freddie, permanent marker would look just great on Mum’s only work jacket!”

I said as much to the owner because this mom needs to vent sometimes.

I wish I could give this place a higher rating, but the ownership is frankly terrible. Inconsistent hours, no help when you’re trying to find a book, just basically all around bad customer service, BUT it still gets five stars because when I told the guy I was raising the antichrist?

“Oh yes. I did that myself not too long ago!”

We parents need to support one another. Otherwise the world is going to burn. So here��s a good review for you, Mr. Bookshop Guy. A part of me hopes you’re a better dad than you are a bookseller. The other part? The bigger part? It’s very aware that Ms. Pot here just met Mr. Kettle.

Now if you’ll excuse me, Freddie just got into the flour.

***

Alfred B.

I hereby nominate Mr. Fell as the British Steve Irwin. I’ve never seen anyone handle a red bellied black snake like that. I mean yeah, they’re a chill species overall, but there’s a difference between casually handling a snake and fucking chucking one onto the chair because it’s in your way. (Okay. Maybe Irwin was a little nicer.)

Renee K.

whos steve irwin?

Alfred B.

...How old are you?

Renee K.

Alfred B.

You existed on this planet for two years with him and you dare to ask me this? Go boil your head and then use google. Good god.

***

Mark F.

overheard the owner telling his boyfriend that last they met his brother tried to set him on fire? and succeeded?? actually now that I think about it, not sure which brother they were talking about---his brother or boyfriend’s brother--but WHOEVER has the brother needs to... i don’t even know. do something about that? ring the police or go to therapy or SOMETHING. i mean maybe they already have, i’m just an eavesdropping tourist, but the idea of someone setting that bow-tie cutie on fire—DID I MENTION THAT? PERSON ARSON. MURDER—makes my blood boil

***

Shiefa N.

People aren’t joking about overhearing weird conversations here. I walked in on two men (owner and husband? owner and escort?) debating Seven Minutes in Heaven. You know, that stupid kissing game the better looking kids got to play in middle school. It got pretty heated at one point (pun not intended), arguing about whether seven minutes of making out was divine or damning behavior. I hung out long enough to catch the segue into a lust vs. love debate and then had to skedaddle. Nice couple. I support their weird flirting habits.

***

Chang Z.

Is it legal to visit a store for things other then what it sells? I realize that makes me sound druggie or something but I swear I’m dealing with a much healthier addiction. (Ha. Maybe.) I cosplay (yeah, yeah, move along, trolls) and Mr. Fell has an absolute wealth of historical clothing. It’s astounding! I thought they were particularly detailed costumes at first, but no. I’m majoring in Textile and Apparel Studies. I know a naturally worn piece of fabric when I see it. Mr. Fell is always cracking jokes about how he wore this frock in the 19th century, this shirt in the 17th, oh don’t you just love my old vest? (He has... so many vests...) I indulge him because anyone who lets me borrow this stuff for free deserves all my attention and fake laughter.

Yeah. You read right. Artifacts borrowed for free. He’s even let me alter some of the stuff because I’m not exactly his size. Should this stuff be in a museum somewhere? Probably. Am I calling anyone to take my personal cosplay supply away? Noooope.

***

Leah M.

Helping to spread the word here because I’m not sure how much foot traffic this place actually gets.

I pass Fell’s every morning on my way to work and yesterday there was a new sign in the window. This might not seem very interesting to most people on here, but you’ve got to understand that Fell’s never changes. None of it. I’ve lived in Soho since I was a boy and this place has always had the same placard with his insane times listed, same stripped paint on the door he’s never gotten around to fixing, same spiderweb in the corner I absolutely swear. My dad used to pop in there when he was in college and I swear he’s taken me through the stacks, points out books that haven’t moved in 30+ years. It’s nuts and more than a little bit impressive.

So you can imagine my shock when I passed by and saw not one, but four new papers in the front window. They’re drawings and I recommend going and taking a look for yourself. I don’t think I can accurately describe the utter chaos of crayons and glitter that’s displayed there, let alone what it’s trying to depict. A dystopia? The end of the world? If so the apocalypse features a surprising number of dogs.

There’s a fifth paper off to the side, written in Fell’s messy penmanship. It just says, “My god-children drew these!” and if that’s not the cutest things you’ve ever heard get out of my face.

***

Gabriel A.

azirfell

alzaphral

azzzzzirafal

i’m a litttle drunk but azifjkaafha’s place is good he just needs a name easier to spell

***

Aziraphale

Dear Gabriel A,

My partner Crowley told me about this site and the many lovely well-wishes you all have left us here. I have come to express my thanks and to offer a bit of advice. You are hardly the first person to struggle with my name, dear girl! I recommend the following three step process:

A - simple, yes? + zira - a nickname I’ve adopted over the years, easy enough to recall + phale - this is admittedly more difficult as our ending, “phale,” is neither spelled in a way nor presumed to be pronounced like the “fell” sound we end up with. In truth my name is more along the lines of Azz-ear-raf-AE-el, but change is inevitable and you needn’t hear about that transformation, nor the etymology involved in getting “fell” out of “phale.” I say this not because I don’t wish to teach you, but because my partner has reminded me--in a rather rude tone I should add--that this site has a word limit. Suffice to say you should simply memorize the “phale” portion and you shall be, as the expression goes, in tip top shape!

Best regards,

Aziraphale

P.S. Nothing personal, dear boy, but I fear I’m not terribly fond of your name either. I would highly recommend changing it if you’re ever of a mind to do so. Cheerio!

#good omens #ineffable husbands #air conditioning #long post #good omens fic #(apologies for that)#(tried for text post and the quality was totally unreadable)#pgnbri #attempting to tag you here #since tumblr won't let me do it in the post :/

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aminiatureworld · 3 years ago

Note

Hello! cookie anon here, dropping by again to say that I hope you're doing well ! The holidays are fast approaching and from where I live, literally ever street corner is decorated with christmas lights, parols, and decorative streamers - which is honestly so fun to see (altho I do question their electricity bills but hey, as long as its colorful i'm cool with it!)

how have you been with your deadlines? i hope that you're free from some of it! if not, i'm giving u energy and motivation to push through and finish ur tasks, I believe in you! but anws, remember to take care of yourself and remember that your wellbeing comes first and foremost.

moving on, remember when i told you that i've started a writing blog like months ago? it was under the name enchantingries - i deleted it a few days ago </3 mainly because i lost motivation for writing + i haven't even been able to play genshin for a while, which is a shame :(( i fortunately saved my writings somewhere so they at least won't go to waste.

but hey, at least i tried it! and it was fun for a while, so i wish i'll find the passion to write and come back again soon !!

i think that's all, i really should stop writing these messages @ 3 am in the morning ;-; anws, take care, bestie !!

- 🍪

Hello dear cookie anon!

I’m so glad to hear from you again! And I’m glad to hear you’re enjoying the Christmas decorations! I have to admit I’m a total sap for the holiday decorations and music and all that, so seeing the lights around here is also so fun, it makes so happy, a bit like I’m a kid again. Although I too question the electricity bill haha

And I’ve been alright! I got a big eam done and another project and the big paper I’m working on has a pretty good extension time. Though I also have a final and catch up homework and then stuff due at the beginning of next year, but let’s not think about that (because if we do I’ll cry haha). And thank you for believing in me! It definitely does five me the energy I need to push througha nd just get this done. I’ll be so happy when I can stop analyzing 17th century pamphlets T-T

And I’m sorry that you lost motivation for writing and playing! I have to admit I’ve not been playing as much recently too, though mainly because of work. I logged on to do more of the event (I’m going to have to speedrun it again) and I got such a wave of nostalgia. Though I do think that Genshin is a game that’s deceptively easy to get burnt out on, no matter how advanced in the game you are. It’s hard because the story is great but life, well, it keeps going. Still I’m glad you saved your writings! It’s never a waste to create something, no matter what, no matter if you lose interest or if you look back and think you’ve improved. Writing, no matter what it is, is always a good thing. It helps you grow as a person after all!

What matters is you try and enjoyed it! And I’m sure one day it will come back. It took me ages to write again after the first time I stopped (when I truly burnt out). I have requests on my main account that are from 2017! And it took to the pandemic to truly write again. But even if I took that break from fic and from fiction writing (mostly) I am still so proud of where I am now, and I love it. So don’t worry about not writing for a while. You’ll grow and get new ideas and experiences and hey! Maybe one day writing will call for you again in a new or old way! Don’t beat yourself up about it is the only thing.

And omg I hope you don’t have to wake up early tomorrow! I hope you get some lovely rest and that you feel alright. It’s always lovely to hear from you cookie anon, I hope that you never worry about that. Have a lovely week and I hope that you enjoy your holidays to the fullest!

#asks #anon #🍪 anon

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jafreitag · 3 years ago

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Grateful Dead Monthly: Gaelic Park – New York, NY 8/26/71

Fifty years ago today, on Thursday, August 26, 1971, the Grateful Dead played a concert at Gaelic Park in New York City.

Gaelic Park is located at West 240th Street and Broadway, five miles north and east of Yankee Stadium, in the Bronx. In 1926, the Gaelic Athletic Association purchased it to host the Gaelic Games. What are Gaelic Games? I’m a sliver Irish (just learned that a few years ago from a cousin who did some DNA stuff), but I didn’t know about such games until I asked the Google machine. Here you go, from the Wiki:

“Gaelic games (Irish: Cluichí Gaelacha) are sports played in Ireland under the auspices of the Gaelic Athletic Association (GAA). They include Gaelic football, hurling, Gaelic handball and rounders. Women’s versions of hurling and football are also played: camogie, organised by the Camogie Association of Ireland, and ladies’ Gaelic football, organised by the Ladies’ Gaelic Football Association. While women’s versions are not organised by the GAA (with the exception of handball, where men’s and women’s handball competitions are both organised by the GAA Handball organisation), they are closely associated with it.”

Some to unpack there. What’s Gaelic football? It’s basically rugby. (The rules are probably way different, but this is a music blog, so don’t judge.) And hurling? Rugby with a small ball and sticks that look like sporty pizza paddles. (Again, don’t judge.) Gaelic handball? Racquetball, except you use your hands and you’re outside, not in some bougie health club from the ’80s. Finally, rounders? It’s actually alot like baseball. Pretty cool.

Why were the Dead there? A 9/2/71 piece in the Village Voice by Carman Moore, now archived on the Grateful Dead Sources blog, said that Gotham promoter Howard Stein, a Bill Graham competitor who booked the Dead to play at the Cap Theater in Port Chester, NY and the Academy of Music in NYC, had turned “the drab little Riverdale soccer field … into a summer rock mini-festival.” (Check out the poster above.) Moore’s writing has an early-70s sizzle, and he refers to his colleague, now-legendary rock scribe Robert Christgau. Here’s an excerpt:

“Last week’s Grateful Dead concert up at Gaelic Park was a usual Dead session, meaning that the band-to-fan-to-band electro-chemical process for which rock music is famed was on like high mass at Easter. Although I think I know most of the time what they are doing musically (Christgau will like this notion); I don’t quite understand them electro-chemically. Like the New York Knicks of two seasons ago, they can do excellent things together though they are not a group of deathless superstars. Garcia gets his songs across, but he can’t sing, and Bob Weir’s voice rises to about average…maybe better when he gets to screaming and the music sweeps him along. I still find it difficult to recognize the Dead songs that aren’t “Truckin'” or “St. Stephen” one from the other. I am not one of their fans, but seem to be one of their admirers. Their music speaks in a special language to their live listeners, and that language has the vocabulary of everybody else, but a convoluted syntax all its own. The note sequences are not completely dependent upon musical factors but are also dictated by how involved the band feels and also upon what kind of heat the audience is giving off. I’m trying to get to some essences of this thing.

The drama of a Dead concert revolves around the fact that wherever the band plays they know that a certain number (several tons) of their partisans will be there and that their crowd knows the Dead potential to excite them, but they also know that the Dead may not get into gear until the crowd begins to apply some heat, and so forth. Both parties also know that the concert will be long enough and informal enough for anything to happen on either side of the footlights, and so audiences improvise (smoke, go to the hot dog stand, kiss and snuggle, cheer, dance, listen like star-struck fools) just like their musician friends on stage (who play light and funny for awhile, retire backstage awhile, stand around, or get lost in a piece and turn on the heavy jets). Like good lovers, the Grateful Dead know the secrets of good foreplay, taking your time, surprising the partner for awhile, and then just reacting for a spell.”

The timing of the show seems odd. The band was on the East Coast in July, but began August back in Cali – LA, SD, Berkeley – before a three-night run at Chicago’s historic Auditorium Theater. Then they trekked back to NYC. Our resident Deaditor ECM explains that aspect: “This show was supposed to be played the day before the Yale Bowl concert on July 30, but some issues with the equipment trucks and/or weather prevented it from happening from the scheduled date. There are a few stories on the web about people who didn’t get the message (no twitter back then!) and dropped some acid only to show up to an empty stadium. Haha!”

Moore said that the show reminded him of “a high school stadium I used to know – low stands, unfulfilled infield grass, mud holes here and there, beer sold at one end in some quantity.” He continued:

“The formal shape of the concert was a general crescendo, light at the beginning and heavy-groovy at the end – not a shooting-star, call-the-law finale, just a heightened physical-emotional climate…the goods delivered as promised…sort of like good preaching in a church known to be a happy place. I did not enjoy their country-westernish opening tunes; maybe they didn’t either, because the pieces were awfully short. But by the three-quarter mark they had involved themselves, the crowd, and me too.

First they got the rhythm engaged and finally, courtesy of Jerry Garcia’s lead and interplays with Lesh and Weir, they went into the soloing and jamming which are the real magic music territory of this band. Much is made of the Dead soloists, but it became clear to me by last Thursday that bassist Phil Lesh plus those two drummers create the atmosphere that makes the Dead thing possible. The drummers were exceptionally understated, but Lesh kept bopping and thrumming away, heavily at all times, until his patterns were consistently getting the other players off. In the middle of “St. Stephen” there was a special coming together: Lesh had found a nice ambiguous but compelling set of licks; Garcia eased into a solo; Weir strummed a cross-time lick over all of it; it built; it quieted; Garcia started to play strange classical kind of lines; the drums dropped out; the audience got quiet; nothing at all could be predicted for a minute or so; then Lesh began to grope his way out with two chords and rhythms which began to regularize; audience began to jump and then to clap; guitars began to straighten out; the band came home to the cheers of the fans. Good music-making. The listener goes home without a little tune to whistle, but he hears music. As if they were finishing off some personal solos based over the last riffs heard, the fans went out of Gaelic Park without a thousand encores and without a lot of fuss on the streets outside.

It’s all very interesting, surprising, and I guess mystifying as before. All I know is that the Dead, or their fans, or the combination of both lure you into planning to return when they’re all assembled and back in town again.”

Apparently, there was some grief about bootlegs at this show. The GD Sources blog has a post that archives a 10/6/71 piece by the excellently-handled Basho Katzenjammer (Basho, the 17th Century Japanese haiku master; Katzenjammer, the German word for hangover) that gripes about an army of 200# “muscle freaks” at the direction of tour manager Sam Cutler liberating a handful of tapes from 100# weakling Johnny Lee. It’s a truly fun read. An excerpt:

“The biggest piece of shit spewing from Cutler’s mouth is about the reasons the Dead have for being so pissed off: they don’t like the quality (remember Garcia’s line in “I Got No Chance of Losin”? He says, “I’m only in it for the gold.” Yeah, music has a way of being more honest than the artist intends it to be at times…) The “quality”? Anyone who has bought a bootleg recently will know and agree that the bootleg stereo album called “Grateful Dead” is one of the best underground products yet. The tape was taken from a concert the group did at Winterland, on the coast a few months back. Yeah, Garcia fucks up a bit on “Casey Jones,” and Pigpen’s ego may have been deflated a bit by his voice coming over poorly on “Good Loving” but that was a concert. You do a concert and you stand by your performance, good or bad. That’s show business.

This effete artistic bullshit doesn’t matter anyway … When you’re out to get all the money you can out of your gigs, like the Dead seem to be (like all the groups seem to be) you might be accused of being a bit piggish; when you use strong-arm shit to insure that you get every last penny that you deserve — by making Amerikan standards — you are a Pig. Jerry Garcia, is that you?

Nobody buys that anti-bootleg shit about the artistic integrity of the artist in saying what goes out. One, you stand by your performance; two, even if you don’t want to, Jerry, somewhat, and say “all your private property is fair game for your brothers (especially when they sell records of concerts that don’t compete with coming releases) and your brother (who’s gonna continue to dig you as we live off your comets we’re gonna keep ripping you off because it is possible. As simple as that.” If you and Cutler and Stein continue your shit, though, we’ll just have to sing the song the same old way, you guys being put in the position of being the same old reactionary establishment that we’re all ripping off. It’s all around. You break your back playing gigs for ten years and suddenly success is staring you in the face. Bread: lots and lots of bread. You turn your back on your poor, ripping ’em off roots and start to tighten up. You’re in the biggest rip-off industry around, but no one cares as long as they’re having fun.

Money. That’s the whole story, isn’t it? If these were other times, in another land under a different set of rules maybe you could justifiably complain about the people who want to give your recorded performances out free because you didn’t screen them and pick out the sections you didn’t like and do them over for the cat, ’cause no one charges for their music, and because the means of production belong to the people, and they can turn out all the good sounds they can, and you have a natural right to screen all releases. But we’re here. Now. You guys are making millions — or soon will be. Money is power, especially as the concept of money is crumbling nation-wide and power freaks like Stein are cornering the market on it. The channels that the green-power the Dead bring in travel aren’t the healthiest for the generations of revolution to come. Stein is one of these hopeful images of a freak with a chance to change things positively gone sour, who uses all his power to consolidate his power; who’ll go to any extremes to insure the natural expansion of that power. Fuck him. Fuck you.”

Speak, Basho! Quaint that the beef about bootlegs back then was sound quality, rather than copyright. Stuff got figured out at some point, I think. Like when Bobby shut down the LMA, lmao.

Ed featured part of this show in the 2016 edition of his epcot 31 Days of Dead project. Here are his listening notes, which are typically spot-on (and better than than the not-quite-on-the-bus commentary from Mr. Moore):

“Less than three weeks after Pigpen’s definitive performance of Hard To Handle at the Hollywood Palladium (8/6/71), the Grateful Dead play the final date of their summer tour in 1971 at Gaelic Park in the Bronx. It will be Pig’s last show until December and the last time the band will ever perform in their original quintet configuration of Jerry, Phil, Pig, Billy and Bobby. By September, Keith will be rehearsing with the band to assume a full-time role on the keys. Perhaps anticipating his absence, Pigpen leads the band through 6 of his songs including the rarely-played Empty Pages and the last Hard To Handle. It is also one of the last performances of Saint Stephen, until the band revived it in 1976 with a major facelift, never to be played the same way again. When you consider these historical milestones along with the departure of Mickey Hart and the closings of the legendary Fillmore East and West earlier in the year it makes you realize that this concert carried a little more weight than anyone could have ever foreseen at the time. It truly was the end of a chapter in the life of the Grateful Dead. As you listen to each song you can’t help but feel a certain degree of nostalgia.

For me, the hidden gem of the show is the outstanding version of Uncle Johns Band. Jerry’s first guitar solo is an absolute joy to hear. His notes sing with irresistible melody and happy sunshine which perfectly capture the nostalgia of those carefree early years. If you listen closely you can hear Pigpen playing the wood claves.”

Speaking of Pig, this show features the second and final performance of Empty Pages. The NYS Music blog, which has a nice write-up of this show, describes it as a McKernan original that “pairs his traditional crooning style with a slow blues jam that’s nicely peppered with fiery guitar licks from Garcia. It’s a true rarity and a shame that the band wouldn’t be able to further develop this one.”

youtube

I feel like this was a try-hard post. It might be tl;dr, idk. Here’s the true goodness…

Transport to the Charlie Miller remaster of the soundboard recording HERE.

More soon.

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#IFTTT #WordPress

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sunkisseddaffodils · 4 years ago

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Johnlock Office workers AU where they work at the same same wedding planner business and Mike and Lestrade are trying to set them up by making them work on the same wedding but to make sure everything runs smoothly, Mike and Lestrade make them “act out” the wedding ceremony

Pairing: sherlock x john

Genre: fluff

Note: You can submit a request for a Sherlock fic by clicking on my profile <3

‘Matchmakers: Office Workers AU’

It was a quiet morning in the office of ‘Mycroft’s and Co. Wedding Organiser’s’, just before the workday had begun. Mycroft and Lestrade, who were very happily married, arrived ten minutes before 9:00 and set up their things in the main office. Lestrade looked at Mycroft, growing concerned as he could see that his husband was deep in thought as he was setting up for the day. Five minutes later and the workers came pouring in, clearly already wanting to head back home. Mycroft was checking through the list of the day’s clients when Greg tapped on his antique wooden desk.

‘Hiya sweetie, I know when you’re up to something and your face is plastered with guilt. So for christ’s sake, what are you up too?’

Mycroft was about to let him in on the plan when his brother, Sherlock and his flatmate, John, came barging in the office quarrelling loudly with each other. They continued to bicker as they slammed their stuff down on their desks, causing everyone to look over at them.

‘This is your fault, Sherlock!’

Sherlock looked appalled at John’s remark

‘What do you mean it’s my fault?’

‘You know full well, why’, John spat out.

Then he sighed in exasperation.

‘We wouldn’t have been this late to work if you didn’t spend five hundred hours in the bathroom’

Sherlock instantly had a rebuttal

‘We wouldn’t have been late if perhaps you could be bothered to wake up at the right time, ’

They proceeded to row like this for a further few minutes.

Meanwhile, back in the main office, Lestrade was ready to go sort them out when Mycroft pulled him back:

‘Greg, darling, I’ve got a plan to set up Sherlock and John, ’

Lestrade was uncertain about whether his husband was thinking straight.

‘Um honey, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, they’re arguing like an old married couple right now, ’

Mycroft looked pleased with himself as he responded:

‘Exactly! They’re pretty much a married couple already. They go everywhere together, they work together and they live together. All we need to do is to get them to realise their feelings for each other’

Lestrade realised there was not much he could do when Mycroft was scheming, but he made one last attempt to get him to see the issue in his plan.

‘Firstly, what do you mean ‘we’? Secondly, how the bloody hell are we gonna do that?’

Mycroft gestured for Lestrade to follow him and led him to Sherlock’s and John’s workspace. They had finally stopped squabbling to read their schedule for the day. Mycroft coughed to announce his arrival. The two looked up and immediately gulped when they realised they were about to get scolded for their late arrival.

‘Morning, boys. First, I’m just gonna ignore the fact that you two were late because we have a really big client today that we need to plan the perfect wedding for’

They both nodded in reply.

‘The mayor and his fiancé have called to enquire about us planning their wedding so we need to get this right. This could mean a big boost in our clientele’

Lestrade watched in confusion, really not knowing what the hell his husband was planning. Sherlock jumped in asking:

‘So you want me to clear my schedule and plan it then?

John rolled his eyes.

‘Excuse me, I think what your brother is saying is that I’m actually the one best for this job so I should clear my schedule for the day.’

Sherlock sneered at his flatmate as Mycroft began to reply

‘Not quite. I need both of you to work on it.’

Both of them jumped up in refusal.

‘Boys, calm down. This is a really big client so we need twice the manpower. I’ve sent you guys the email for the case, so get on with it’

Mycroft and Lestrade ran back to their office before they could get any more excuses.

The pair slumped back in their chairs, accepting their fate. Sherlock was slightly suspicious of his brother, he could sense he was acting strange. Since when did he get two people to work on cases? However, he brushed that aside and then both of them checked and scanned the email of the client’s names, email address and phone number. Instantly, they knew what they had to do. They hated to admit it, but they worked well together as a pair. Sherlock shouted over to John

‘I’ll call the mayor and see what he wants’

Before he could finish John cut in

‘And I’ll call the fiancé’.

Both of them spent the next half hour on the phone, collating information on the perfect wedding for the couple. After they finished, Sherlock got a whiteboard from the storage cupboard, rolling it into their work area to write down important details.

At the same time, they said

‘They want a traditional wedding’

Sherlock looked surprised.

‘Very good deductions, John.’

He continued to speak and started to write on the board.

‘I think we should look for stately homes, preferably within London as they don’t want to travel for too long’

John responded in agreement adding:

‘Definitely, we should also search for an old church in the same vicinity and the manor needs to be able to fit 100 guests.’

Sherlock also added:

‘I think they should have a classic, three-course, sit down meal’

‘Yes! And a pink and white floral arrangement on the tables’

They continued on like this, discussing their ideas, scribbling on the board everything they needed to complete. Sherlock googled stately home’s while John rang several catering companies. Sherlock discovered the prettiest stately home and signalled for John to come see. He rolled over on his desk chair to his colleague. The venue was a 17th-century Georgian mansion with an accompanying rose garden called Fenton House. The latter’s eyes widened in awe.

‘Bloody hell, it’s gorgeous. I wouldn’t mind getting married there myself’

Sherlock looked at John sadly at that comment.

John carried on.

‘And they can have the reception in the mansion and then have the photography session in the gardens.’

Sherlock and John worked late into the night, wholly engrossed in what they were doing. The time had just gone eight o’clock when Mycroft and Lestrade were packing up, ready to head home. As they were taking off, they noticed that Sherlock and John were still in the office. Lestrade noted to Mycroft:

‘Even though they both get on each other nerves, you can’t ignore the fact they both passionate about what they do. Maybe you’re right, Mikey, they’re perfect for each other’.

Mycroft kissed Greg on the cheek and they went home. The next few weeks were spent finalising details, and they had eventually completed the full schedule for the mayor’s wedding. First, the bride was to be taken to a charming old chapel in the west of London by horse and carriage where they would have their ceremony. A violinist would perform an elegant, romantic melody, written by Sherlock, as the bride walks up the aisle. After the couple is wed, they both travel to the Georgian estate by horse and carriage. When they arrive, they will have the photography session in the botanical rose garden. Then they would head into the manor where, in the ballroom, it would be spread with round tables with pink roses atop of them as the centrepieces. There would be the main table for the bride, groom, and their family. The other half of the ballroom would be left clear with only a white grand piano where the pianist accompanied with more violinists would play as the couple would have their first dance.

Sherlock sent the full details to the couple by email. Not too long afterwards Sherlock and John received a call confirming that they were delighted with Sherlock and John’s plan. A few months flew by and it was the day of the rehearsal for the wedding. Accordingly, the pair of them had to go look over and make sure all was in place for the wedding next week. Sherlock and John left their flat and headed to the church by cab. During the cab ride, John jokingly mentioned to Sherlock:

‘I kinda wish that I was having their wedding. It’s perfect’

Sherlock laughed.

‘Well, of course, it is, we were the one’s who planned it’.

John turned serious for a moment asking:

‘Sherlock, do you ever wanna get married?’

Sherlock was taken aback slightly as he never really had these conversations with John.

‘I don’t know, John. Maybe if it was with the right person’

‘Have you met that person yet?’, John boldly asked.

Before Sherlock could answer, they had reached the church. Sherlock was massively relieved. Lestrade for some reason was already there and ran up to them. Sherlock was puzzled as to why he was there but had no chance to think about it when he asked:

‘Sorry to do have to do this but the clients have requested that you rehearse the wedding ceremony for them’

Sherlock and John’s jaws dropped in shock.

‘Why on earth would they want us to do that?’, Sherlock proclaimed.

‘Umm, shouldn’t they be the ones to rehearse their wedding seeing as it is their wedding?’, John added.

Lestrade was sweating nervously but stated:

‘Look, mate, if that’s what the client wants, that’s what they’re getting. Maybe they just want to see their ceremony from an outsider’s perspective.’

Lestrade walked away to let them get ready for the rehearsal, ringing up his husband his mobile.

‘Good news, babes, they bought it, they’re gonna rehearse the wedding’.

Back at the church, Sherlock and John were getting ready for the rehearsal when the mayor and his fiancé came to greet them. The bride to be held up two black-tie suits and said:

‘Thanks so much for doing this. You don’t know how much this means. We got two suits prepared so we can really immerse ourselves in the wedding’.

Sherlock took the suits, smiling.

‘No problem, we want this to be perfect for you.’

They got dressed in separate rooms and John headed outside the church while Sherlock was the one was going to wait at the altar. Two minutes before the rehearsal was starting and suddenly John was feeling particularly anxious. Why was he feeling this way? It wasn’t like he was literally getting married to Sherlock. The same concerns were running through Sherlock’s head. The violinist commenced playing the exquisite melody and John began walking up the aisle. Sherlock’s heart skipped a beat when he saw his best friend on his way up to the altar. He looked so dapper in that tuxedo, and his blue eyes complimented the flower on his suit jacket so well. John glanced to Sherlock at the altar and he blushed. He had to concede it that his looks were impeccable and how he had always secretly wished to ruffle his curly hair. John reached the altar where he took Sherlock's hands. It seemed like the right thing to do at that moment. The mayor and his bride to be were in the front row of pews to observe the rehearsal. The priest then began the service:

‘Dearly beloved and honoured guests. We are gathered here today to join Thomas and Julie in the union of marriage.’

The priest continued:

‘This contract is not to be entered into lightly, but thoughtfully and seriously, and with a deep realization of its obligations and responsibilities’.

‘The bride and groom have each prepared vows which they will read now’.

There was a pause when Sherlock and John didn’t know whether they should do that part or not. Everyone was looking at them expectantly, clearly wanting them too.

John wiped his brow as he came up with his vows.

‘I have known you Sher- I mean Julie, for a long time and I mean it when I say this. Even though you may get on my nerves, I couldn’t think of anyone else I’d rather spend the rest of my days with.’

Sherlock’s heart was beating like crazy.

‘Thomas, you make me laugh, you make me think differently and you make me a better person. I wanna grow old with you.’

The priest saw that they were finished and continued:

‘Thomas, do you take Julie to be your wife? Do you promise to love, honour, cherish, and protect her, forsaking all others, and holding only unto her forevermore?’

Sherlock confirmed ‘I do’.

The priest now turned to John

‘Julie, do you take Thomas to be your husband?’

John also confirmed ‘I do’.

When they had finished, the mayor, Thomas, and his fiancé, Julie, walked up to them thanking them for the rehearsal, commenting on how magical it looked. After the church rehearsal, they rode to the stately home in a stunned silence. Both kept thinking if there was any truth in the words they said to each other. Could it really be they were both in love each this whole time? They feared finding out the answer. At the manor, they taste tested the dinner and the cake, and then they had finished the rehearsal. Thomas and Julie thanked them for their help and left to go home. The pianist and violinists were still practising the songs, so Sherlock pulled John onto the empty dance floor and said jokingly.

‘Well we have practised everything else, so might as well do the slow dance’

John giggled saying ‘why the hell not’

Sherlock gently placed his hands on John’s slim waist. John rested his head on Sherlock’s shoulder. Slowly, they began to twirl around. As they were spinning, Sherlock whispered into John’s ear.

‘Did you really mean what you said back in the church?’

John responded quietly.

‘Yes’

Sherlock stopped in his tracks.

‘I meant what I said too. So are you saying we should give this a shot?’

John replied.

‘I really think we should’.

Sherlock embraced John, giving him a gentle peck on the lips. The next week, the pair of them came into work and they couldn’t help but giving each little kisses and hugs throughout the day. Lestrade noticed, his mouth agape and he shouted to Mycroft.

‘Oh my god, your plan really worked!’

Mycroft chuckled

‘Of course, it did, I’m a genius’.

#Sherlock Holmes #sherlock #sherlock x john #john watson #sherlock BBC #sherlock and john #sherlock/john #sherlock fic #johnlock #johnlock fic #bbc sherlock #sherlock x #sherlock x you #sherlock x y/n #sherlock reader insert

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sylvanfreckles · 3 years ago

Text

Between the Dragon and His Wrath

(yes it's finally here)

Rating: T Major warnings: graphic violence, mention of miscarriages and stillbirths in chapter three (the tags are for the entire fic) Fandom: Supernatural

Summary:

Great is the Daughter of Heaven, whose hand is a net and whose embrace is death.

When Castiel investigates a series of omens, he finds himself at the center of a deadly plot to free an ancient entity from the darkest plane of Hell. As his time runs short and the enemy’s power grows, Sam and Dean must race to save him before he becomes the final sacrifice to unleash chaos on an unwary world.

. . .

Chapter One: The Angel of Thursday

. . .

“I'm serious, Cas, you just gotta ask. I'll ditch this gig and come help you.”

“You're already three hundred miles away,” Castiel replied. His phone sat on the dashboard in front of him, his call with Dean on speakerphone so his hands were free to page through what little evidence he'd managed to collect. He was tracking down some fairly unusual omens—missing persons, strange carvings or graffiti in other languages—and Dean, typically, was trying to interfere.

“I'll speed.”

“The sheriff said he'd be here in ten minutes.”

“Just tell him to wait for me.”

“Dean...”

“Look, Cas, it's just.... All these weird scribbles? Sammy can't crack them either, and if the two of you can't figure it out there must be something bad going down, right?”

“They're dirty limericks that have been badly translated into several ancient languages,” Castiel replied. He picked up two of the photographs from the case file and held them up to study. “I deciphered them late last night.”

“Ooh, how dirty?”

“Dean.” Castiel set the photos on the seat beside him and glared at the phone. He refused to admit it had been his phone call with Claire, of all things, that had gotten him on the right track. He'd expressed frustration that a piece of jumbled 3rd century Greek verse seemed to reference the island of Nantucket, which had been known by a much different name until the 17th century. Claire had given a dirty laugh and, to his growing concern, recited an obscene limerick about a man from Nantucket.

It had fit, with some inconsistencies due to translation errors. He would never admit to Dean that he'd spent most of the night with photos of the other graffiti sites in one hand and his phone in the other, scrolling through a database of dirty limericks to finish the translations.

C'mon, man,”Dean said, his voice dropping to a more serious pitch. “This case, it just...Sam thinks we need to go into deep cover and we might be out of touch for a couple days. Maybe you should head home? Wait for us?”

“I'll be fine.” Despite his irritation, Castiel couldn't help but smile. Dean hated any of them taking a case alone, no matter how small it seemed. “Sheriff Kent just wanted to show me the latest site himself, it's probably more of the same.” More filthy poetry. Castiel had often admired humanity's achievements in the arts...but he was beginning to wish mankind had never invented the limerick. The Neanderthals would never have done something so crass.

“Be careful. You find something big you just get out of there, all right? We'll handle it together.”

Castiel rolled his eyes and looked out the window as the crunch of tires on gravel heralded the sheriff's arrival. “I have to go.”

“Promise me, Cas!”

With a huff of exasperation, he picked up his phone and stared down at Dean's name. “Good-bye, Dean.”

His friend's shout of protest was cut off when Castiel ended the call. Of course he would back off if this looked like more than he could handle. Despite what the Winchesters seemed to think, Castiel was well aware of his own limitations. Particularly with Heaven so low on power.

Shuffling the papers back into their folder, he climbed out of his truck to greet the man walking toward him from the sheriff's car. “Agent Anthony?” the man held out his hand in greeting and squinted at the badge Castiel was holding up for him. “I'm Sheriff Kent, I spoke to you on the phone? Thanks for coming all the way out here.”

Castiel grasped the sheriff's outstretched hand and tucked the wallet back into his jacket pocket. “Well, I was in the neighborhood.”

Kent snorted. “I doubt that. Not unless you're here for fishing and hunting permits.” The sheriff was a tall, rugged, sandy-haired man with the deep tan of someone who spent most of his time outdoors. “I told you, there's nothing much out here. You should've let me send you the reports instead of wasting your time,” he continued, turning to lead the way down the trail that lead to a little-used boat ramp.

“You know how it is,” Castiel replied, thinking of Sam's advice on pretending to be a law enforcement agent. “The boss wants me to be thorough.”

The sheriff glanced back at him, eyebrows raised, gaze traveling from Castiel's face down to his shoes. “Uh-huh. It's right over here.”

The area was little more than a single dock, a boat ramp, and a covered picnic pavilion with three picnic tables. The driveway that lead from the main road to the ramp itself had been barricaded due to the investigation, though the sheriff explained that most people parked along the road and took the trail down unless they were hauling a boat.

Yellow caution tape was wrapped around two of the picnic tables in the pavilion, marking out a rough square about six feet across. Castiel shuffled under the tape while Kent held it up, then knelt down next to the markings etched into the concrete slab that made up the floor of the pavilion.

“Just gibberish,” Kent said dismissively, leaning back on one of the tables. “Coupla kids getting into occult stuff, trying to summon Cthulhu or something. Happens all the time.”

“That wouldn't explain the missing persons' reports.”

Kent let out a harsh sigh. “It's a small town, Agent. Kid runs away, mom freaks out and files a report, we catch 'em two weeks later down in Reno turning tricks for bus fare back home. It happens.”

Castiel looked up at the sheriff, eyes narrowed at the man's callousness. “None of these have returned.”

The sandy-haired man spread his arms out with an unconcerned shrug. “Maybe they got lucky.”

He ignored the sheriff's biting tone and turned back to the symbols etched into the concrete. They hadn't been scratched in very deeply, and despite the shelter of the picnic structure some of the text had already crumbled away in the recent rains, but there was enough for him to realize this was something completely different from what had been found at the other sites.

“It's Sumerian,” he announced after a few moments. That was the oldest language he'd found so far, which could mean this site was more important than the others.

“You mean it's actual letters?” Kent's voice went up in astonishment.

“More like pictographs,” Castiel replied. “Symbols representing words and ideas.” He leaned in closer and rested his hand on the concrete, wishing he could have gotten here even a few days earlier. The entire engraving was unfamiliar to him, which meant this was either copied from a lost text he'd never seen before...or something new.

Whatever it was, it wasn't another limerick.

“Great...woman...of heaven,” he muttered, tracing over the symbols. “This might be the symbol for the underworld, but it's not quite correct, see?” he turned to gesture to the sheriff, forgetting for a moment that it wasn't one of his friends behind him, and Kent just shrugged.

“You can read that chicken scratching?”

Castiel ignored the comment and stared down at the symbols again. “It could mean...queen of heaven?”

“The hell you talking about?”

He stood up, brushing his hands off and scanning the empty marina around them. “Possibly a reference to Inanna, but that doesn't make sense.” At Kent's confused stare he continued. “Inanna was a goddess of fertility and war. You couldn't summon her with a ritual like this.”

Kent was staring at him, expression unreadable. “What kind of agent are you, anyway?”

“I have to make a call,” Castiel said and brushed past Kent to climb back up the trail to the road. This was more than simple demonic activity—this was someone trying to summon a goddess.

It was time to call for backup.

“You're wrong you know,” Kent called after him. “It's not 'queen of heaven'...it's 'daughter'.”

Castiel spun around, only to see that the sheriff had vanished. He held himself still, listening for any sign of movement, then turned to hurry up the trail back to the truck.

The hint of sulfur in the air was his only warning, and Castiel threw himself to the ground as something big launched itself at him out of the trees that lined the trail. His angel blade was already in his hand as he rolled to his feet, brought up to guard against the massive arm that was swinging down on him. Even guarding, the creature's attack sent him staggering and he took a couple of quick steps back to dodge out of the way of another blow.

The creature on the path gave a bellowing cry and charged at him. He had little more than an impression of a bull-like head, mouth open to reveal rows of jagged teeth, crowned with curling ram's horns. The thing was taller even than Sam, and at least three times as broad, but for all its size it was monstrously fast and was inside the angel's guard before he had time to react. Castiel made a desperate swipe at the creature's arm but his blade merely skidded across the thing's toughened hide before it was knocked out of his grip.

Castiel reacted instinctively and managed to turn away from a blow that would have caved his ribcage in, though it glanced off his side with enough force to drop him to his knees, breathless. He rolled as a huge, cloven-hoofed foot came down toward him and tried to use the momentum to kick both feet up into the creature's groin. The creature bellowed again, more in fury than pain, and Castiel was unable to dodge the clawed hand that seized him by the leg and flung him into a young maple tree at the edge of the path. The tree's core gave with an audible crack and he slumped to the ground, his breath a shuddering rasp in his chest and his vision graying at the edges from the pain.

The monster was charging again. Castiel tried to roll to his feet, but cried out as pain exploded across his back as the creature caught him and raked its claws from his shoulders to his hips. The wounds burned as though infected with hellfire, and he was unable to defend himself as another clawed hand caught at his shoulder and flipped him onto his back.

He could feel dirt and debris being ground into his open wounds as the creature leaned down over him, one massive hand planted against Castiel's chest. The stench from the beast's mouth was nearly unbearable—sulfur and rotten meat and decay—as it leaned closer, throat rumbling as though in laughter.

Castiel could see his angel blade, just barely out of reach. With his left hand he pulled and twisted at the creature's wrist and with his right he grasped for the sword, fingertips just brushing against the rounded pommel. The monster noticed his movements after a moment and grabbed his free arm, wrenching it around until his shoulder was nearly pulled out of the socket. The creature's nails dug into the flesh of his forearm as his arm was bent back at an awkward angle until his elbow was practically screaming in protest.

In a last, desperate move he summoned his Grace in his left hand, pulling it away from healing his wounds to deliver a smiting blow that would burn this abomination out of its own body. He felt his eyes flare with light as Heavenly power surged through his body...then the creature was letting out a cry of fury and ragged claws were carving lines of agony across Castiel's eyes.

He screamed, the tentative hold on his Grace breaking apart as the Heavenly power evaporated, his focus broken in the sudden, blinding pain. The monster was immediately back on him, alternating savage claws with hammer-like blows. His stomach, legs, battered chest...even his ruined eyes, nothing was safe from the fiend's wrath. The creature bellowed, as though in triumph, and hoisted Castiel off the ground and over its head. He was vaguely aware that he was spinning, flying, falling...then he was flung down and struck something solid and knew no more.

…

Awareness crept back in slowly. Castiel didn't know how much time had passed but his injuries had begun to heal, if only slightly. The wounds from the creature's claws were like burning lines that were drawing the heat away from the rest of his body, leaving him weakened and chilled. His back was a flare of agony, but his eyes had fared even worse. His left eye was swollen shut, and his right eye wasn't much better. He managed to pry it open just enough to catch a glimpse of the space around him, but his vision swum and he was forced to blink several times to clear the tears that welled up in his damaged eye.

He seemed to be in a small partition inside a larger space. An old horse stall, perhaps, in one of the old barns he'd seen on journey up from the bunker. The walls were wooden, but on three sides the slats were spaced far apart enough that he could see the larger room beyond. The air was thick with the smell of blood and straw and the sickly-sweet odor of mice, and light streamed in through gaps in the ceiling and between the boards that covered the windows.

Castiel could hear someone moving outside the stall—feet shuffling through the straw, hints of a tune being hummed, the unmistakable sound of a blade dragging through flesh. He tried to roll to his stomach to get his hands under him, intent on standing up to get a look at his captor, but flinched back with a hiss of pain when his hand came into contact with the dirty straw beneath him. It was mixed with broken glass so that any attempt at movement would cut his body even further.

It was then that he noticed his shoes were missing, and that his captor had stripped him down to just his shirt and slacks. The thin fabric did little good to protect him from the glass, and even trying to settle back down the same way he'd been lying when he woke up was causing the shards beneath him to bite at his clothing and exposed skin.

The air around him was suddenly far too still and quiet.

The humming had stopped.

“I'm a little surprised to see you alive,” Kent announced. He was at the door to the stall, arms looped through the vertical bars of the door and fingers laced together. His sleeves were rolled up, though that did nothing to disguise the splashes of dark blood on his shirt. “Ozzy's little friends don't usually last more than one playdate.”

Castiel gingerly swept the glass and straw away from in front of him, clearing enough of a patch so he could push himself up to his knees. He was in no shape for a fight, but he could at least maneuver to a more defensible position. “What do you want with me?” His voice was gravely with pain, but he'd managed to keep any tremor out of it.

“Just to answer a few questions,” the sheriff—fake sheriff—sounded a little too cheerful at the prospect. “Who are you, what are you, why are you here...that sort of thing.”

He stared up at the man wordlessly. “I told you over the phone,” he began, but Kent interrupted.

“Cheap suit,” the fake sheriff announced. “Fake FBI badge. Now that could make you a journalist or a blogger, you'd be surprised what crawls up out of the woodwork for a case like this. But you could read an actual Sumerian invocation, so I'm thinking hunter.”

Kent leaned in closer, dark eyes focusing on Castiel's face. “Then you survive Ozzy. You should have bled out there on the trail, but here you are. So I'll ask again.”

There was a pulse of power in the air and Kent's eyes flared purple. “What are you?”

Castiel met the witch's gaze, mouth set in a stern line. He let the silence stretch on, eyes never wavering. His head was clearing as his Grace worked to mend the damage to his body. It would likely still be hours, if not a full day, before he recovered enough to attempt an escape but at least the pain was more bearable.

Kent broke the silence first. He grimaced and pushed himself back from the bars to call over his shoulder. “Ozzy! Bring our guest out here for me, would you?”

There was a heavy thud of footsteps in the barn beyond Kent's shadowed form, and Castiel forced himself to scramble to his feet with his back to the wall. The glass cut into his bare skin but he ignored it, focusing on finding some way to defend himself as the stall's slatted door was thrust to one side and the hulking beast that had attacked him on the trail loomed before him.

“Have you ever seen a Gallu?” Kent asked, almost conversationally, as the creature pushed its way in through the door. “They used to drag souls down to the lower planes of Hell for their masters. Luckily Oswald here is loyal to me.”

The Gallu was at least seven feet tall and four feet across. As Castiel had seen before, its head was almost bull-like, with the exception of numerous sharp teeth bristling out of its mouth. Huge, curling, ram-like horns crowned its head on either side, connected by a heavy brow that overshadowed small, dark eyes. The arms were long and muscular, ending in hands tipped with cruel, jagged claws. It walked on cloven hooves the size of a buffalo's, its legs bent back against themselves like a satyr's and covered with coarse hair that feathered out in ragged strands over its hooves. It could almost have been mistaken for a Minotaur, except for the lack of any semblance of humanity in its form and presence.

Gallu were part of a lower order of demons, lacking true sentience but brutally efficient at chasing down any soul that dared escape the confines of Hell. Crowley had supposedly trapped them all in one of the lower planes, preferring to govern Hell through bureaucracy rather than cruelty, but somehow this one had escaped. Or been summoned.

Castiel braced his hands against the wall, eyes flickering from the Gallu to the open doorway behind it. In his current state he was no match for the creature's speed and power in a direct confrontation, but if he could get around it he had a chance to escape. Its movement would be limited in the building and the Gallu had been made to track humans, not angels.

It struck, its speed just as lethal as it had been on the trail. Castiel tried to dodge to one side but the Gallu wrapped one massive hand around his left arm and pulled him forward. His feet slipped out from under him and he collapsed to his knees, his other hand flying out to break his fall. Broken glass tore at his slacks to dig into the flesh beneath, scraped across his palm until his hand was slick with blood.

He was pulled forward before he had time to regain his feet, the Gallu dragging him across the broken glass to the door of the stall. Castiel gave up trying to stand and aimed blows with his free hand at the creature's wrist. The Gallu growled in annoyance and hauled at Castiel's arm, pulling the angel off his feet and swinging him into the open barn beyond the stall. Before he could get his bearings the creature backhanded him hard enough to make white sparks explode in his vision, the force of the blow wrenching at his shoulder and elbow as he was knocked to the floor.

“Just hold him here,” Kent was saying. The Gallu yanked Castiel up by the arm and dragged him inexorably toward a long table in the center of the barn's open space. A partially-dissected corpse took up one end of the table, with lumps of organic matter filling a half dozen wooden bowls and a basin below the table rippling with partially-congealed blood.

Castiel was spun around and slammed shoulder-first onto the surface of the table. The Gallu placed one massive hand on his chest to hold him in place, the other wrapped around his wrist to stretch his arm out for examination. He couldn't see much of the corpse past the creature's bulk, but he'd seen the colorful ribbons braided into the blond hair.

In the files he'd gathered, one of the missing persons had last been seen with her hair decorated with ribbons in her school's colors. They hadn't just been runaways...Kent had been taking them.

“Shall we?” Kent said brightly. He had a short knife in his hand, the blade flecked with rust. Without another word he dragged it across Castiel's arm, tearing sleeve and flesh as he went. The witch studied the wound for a moment with a frown before reaching for a different knife and cutting Castiel's arm with that one as well. This one was silver, and Kent carefully watched for a reaction before setting the knife down with a puzzled frown.

“Next should be holy water, but I never touch the stuff,” he commented. “I supposed we could start with a few discovery runes, but if you're not reacting to iron and silver...”

His voice trailed off as he looked over the long table, then he smirked at Castiel and reached for another item. His angel blade.

“Tell me you're not the kind of guy who goes around carrying the one weapon that can hurt you,” Kent said teasingly. When Castiel refused to answer he pressed the tip of the angel blade to the inside of Castiel's elbow and dragged it down toward his wrist.

Castiel screamed. The bulb in the battery-operated lantern that hung over the table exploded, and Kent took a step back in shock.

He twisted, trying to free himself, but the Gallu's hold was relentless. Kent staggered forward, dropping the angel blade to rest the tips of his fingers on Castiel's wound, which was glowing with the faint sheen of Grace.

“I don't believe it,” Kent whispered, bringing his fingers up to press Castiel's blood to his lips. “You're an angel.” For a few long minutes Kent stared at the glowing wound in Castiel's arm, almost in reverence, while the Gallu leaned more of his weight against the angel's chest.

Kent suddenly took a step back and brushed his hands off on his thighs. “I'd better get moving. We'll need more supplies to keep an angel here, and I should call the girls. Better keep our guest entertained, Ozzy.” The Gallu gave a satisfied rumble as Kent strode away, but paused when the witch called over his shoulder. “And keep him quiet!”

Castiel tried one last lunge for his angel blade but the Gallu was faster. It twisted its fist in the front of Castiel's shirt and whirled around to fling him out into the open floor of the barn. The angel rolled and tried to push himself up to his feet, only to be knocked back down under the creature's onslaught. Ruthless claws tore at the flesh of his back, tearing open the half-healed wounds from the earlier attack. He tried to fight but he was easily flipped over and then the Gallu's hand was on his neck, squeezing until the bones creaked and his throat closed.

The Gallu lifted him by the throat and slammed him back down so his head bounced off the floor of the barn. And again, the grip on his neck tightening with every gasp of pain Castiel managed to choke out. He flailed useless at the hand on his throat as his wounded body grew weaker, the new slashes across his back burning fever-bright as they leeched the heat from the rest of his body.

Clawed fingers caressed his face, almost gently, tracing the jagged cuts the Gallu had left earlier that day. His left eye was still swollen shut, and the vision in his right was beginning to swirl and fade as his injuries multiplied.

Castiel tried to scream as pain erupted across his face, but could barely get a breath past the monster's grip on his throat. The Gallu was dragging its claws along the wounds it had left early, reopening the ones that had begun heal and tearing them even deeper.

He coughed, tasted blood in his mouth, and let the pain send him spiraling back into darkness as the Gallu dug into his wounds a second time.

. . .

There we go! Chapter one of seven!

You know how it goes! Likes and comments feed the muse and the muse makes the whump.

Okay, love you, bye!

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robdelicious · 5 years ago

Text

How Robert Pattinson And Willem Dafoe Made It To The Lighthouse

Out of a swirling fog emerges the prow of a boat, knifing through a foaming sea. Two figures, shadows in the murk, stand silhouetted on the foredeck, confronting the horizon, their backs to us. Presently an island swims into view. No more than a crag, really: lonely, battered, forbidding. Then a lighthouse can be made out, blinking in the gloom.

Now we see the men head-on, a striking dual portrait in high contrast black and white: a double exposure. They are wearing sailors’ caps, greatcoats, and hefting wooden trunks. One is younger, taller, moustachioed. The other, more deeply crevassed, sports a wild beard, out of which pokes a small wooden pipe, like Popeye’s. Theirs are, by any standards, remarkable faces, extreme faces, unyielding as rock yet sculpted with great delicacy, skin stretched tight over jutting bones: sharp noses, strong jaws, deep set eyes. And, oh, the cheekbones! And would you look at all those teeth?

Before anything else — before they are handsome faces, or expressive faces, or famous faces (they are all of those things) — these are photogenic faces. On first inspection they appear impassive, almost blank. And yet an air of foreboding is struck. The older man’s features are fixed in a roguish grimace. The younger man is wary, tense. These might be the faces of a father and son, or brothers separated by decades: hard, thin, stern faces, built for hard, thin, stern lives. Lives filled with mean disappointments, festering resentments, blood feuds. Here are men who have seen trouble before and will see it again. Maybe they’re looking for trouble. Maybe they’ve found it. Is this a dual portrait — or the portrait of a duel?

Whatever has thrown these men together in this place — fate, karma, the thirst for adventure, the desire for escape (in the case of the characters, but perhaps the actors, too?) or (in the case of the actors specifically) the need to stretch oneself artistically, or to challenge oneself physically, or the reputation of the director, or a really good script, or all of these things — one senses they are aware already, as they square up to the stinging reality of their circumstances, that they may have got more than they bargained for. What we can be sure of from the off: there will be weather. There will be conflict. And there will be acting.

The film is The Lighthouse, the second feature film from the 36-year-old American writer-director Robert Eggers, who made a stir with his debut, The Witch. Eggers, who is based in Brooklyn but grew up in rural New Hampshire, is a man possessed of a rare and creepy gothic sensibility. The Witch was an arthouse horror film, a twisted fairytale with the insidious power of a nightmare. It concerned a family of 17th-century puritans banished to the woods of New England, and it involved possessed children, birds pecking at human flesh, and an unholy bond with a goat. It cost $4m to make and earned that money back 10 times over, making Eggers not just a critical darling, but a coming man in commercial cinema.

For The Lighthouse, Eggers is reunited with A24, among other production companies, and with much of his crew from The Witch, including his director of photography, Jarin Blaschke, and composer Mark Korven, who between them do as much as anyone to set the eerie mood. His co-writer is his brother, Max Eggers. The actors were new to him.

Those faces that I have been at pains to describe, then, belong to Robert Pattinson and Willem Dafoe. They play lighthouse keepers on a wind-slapped, rain-lashed rock off the Atlantic coast of North America. The year is 1890. Pattinson is, or appears to be, Ephraim Winslow, the taciturn apprentice. “I ain’t much for talkin’,” he says early on — a statement, like so many in this film of shifting and unfixed identities, that turns out to be not entirely true.

Dafoe is Winslow’s irascible, peg-legged senior partner, Thomas Wake, an experienced “wickie” and a cruel taskmaster, obsessively enraptured by the beacon he tends. “The light is mine!” he declares, mad-eyed. Wake consigns Winslow to the bowels of the building, where the younger man stokes the fire and swabs the floors and nurtures his grievances, while indulging in some quite epic, mermaid-focussed masturbation. Winslow and Wake are to spend four weeks alone on the island before they are to be relieved. But when a storm blows in, the odd couple are stranded — maybe, or maybe not, because a violent act on Winslow’s part has brought down a curse upon them. Slowly, and then in spasms of ultraviolence, they unravel.

The Lighthouse is a twisted buddy movie, a surreal black comedy, a psychological thriller set at the hysterical pitch of Grand Guignol. It was filmed in the spring of 2018 on sound stages in the city of Halifax, Nova Scotia, on Canada’s Atlantic coast, and on location on the tiny fishing community of Cape Forchu, nearby. (“People tend to spend up to 45 minutes here,” Google Maps tells us of Cape Forchu. This fact might, or might not, amuse the filmmakers who spent weeks there, battling Biblical conditions. “It snowed in May,” notes Dafoe.)

With the exception of the Moldovan model Valeriia Karaman, who makes a number of brief, though memorable, appearances in her debut film, Pattinson and Dafoe are the only members of the cast, and their seesawing power struggle is the film’s entire focus, with point of view switching sides like a sail boat’s boom in a storm. Its success or failure rests heavily on their shoulders.

Pattinson and Dafoe are big stars, both. They are also men from different generations, different backgrounds, different countries and traditions. The Lighthouse was not an easy film to make for a number of reasons — the remote location, the raging weather — but not the least of the filmmakers’ challenges were the contrasting approaches of the two actors.

“They really did have incredible chemistry on screen,” director Eggers tells me on the phone, “but it was chemistry through tension. I know there’s been discussion about their different acting techniques and the trying conditions on set…” He pauses. “That couldn’t have been better for the movie.”

If you happened to be out and about in Halifax, in the early spring of 2018, you may have noticed a slender young loner stalking the streets day after day, muttering to himself. Noticed him, and felt concern for his emotional wellbeing. Had you followed him, and listened closely, you might have heard the same words repeated over and over again, in a gravel-voiced near-grunt: “Woyt poyn, woyt poyn, woyt poyn…” Come again? “Woyt poyn, woyt poyn...”

“White pine,” the slender young man enunciates into my voice recorder, 18 months on, in the accent of a nicely brought-up southwest London boy, rather than a 19th-century working man from a highly specific part of Maine. White pine — I’m sorry, woyt poyn — is one of the trees which his character lists when telling his colleague of his past misadventures as a lumberjack. Pattinson developed the accent with the help of a dialect coach and by speaking to a contemporary Maine lobster fisherman on the phone. “It’s one of those accents where if you say one syllable wrong it’s suddenly Jamaican, or something,” he says. “So it took ages.”

Pattinson arrived early in Halifax, before his director and co-star, to psych himself into the role of the saturnine Ephraim. Having approached Eggers after seeing The Witch, in the hope that they might at some point work together, Pattinson had declined the director’s first suggestion, for a part in a more conventional, mainstream film that the director was then developing.

“He said he was only interested in doing weird things,” Eggers says. “So when The Lighthouse came around I said that if he doesn’t find this weird enough, I guess we’ll never work together.”

It’s true, Pattinson says, that at that time, in 2016, he “wanted to do the weirdest stuff in the world.” (Mission accomplished, Rob!) Still, he spent a good deal of time agonising over whether or not to take the role in The Lighthouse. “I remember reading it and I thought it was very funny, but I was also thinking, ‘I don’t understand how the tone would work?’”

When Dafoe signed on, Pattinson was excited. “I knew Willem could bring that kind of anarchic energy,” he says, “but I really didn’t know how I would do it at all.” Dafoe, he says, in one of his many moments of self-effacement, “has one of those faces where he can literally sit in any room in the world, doing almost nothing, and it’s fascinating to watch. Whereas I sort of blend in with the chair I’m sitting on.”

Before filming began, the pair spent a week in rehearsals. Pattinson dislikes rehearsing, preferring to do his experimenting on camera. “It was very, very frustrating,” he says. “I just couldn’t achieve what they wanted me to achieve in that room. Robert [Eggers] was getting furious with me because I was just sitting there, completely monotone the whole time. He could not stand it.” Pattinson tells the story with no rancour whatsoever. He knows it sounds funny, but it wasn’t at the time. “I just don’t know how to perform it until we’re performing it. By the end of the week, I’m thinking, ‘I’m going to get fired before we’ve even started’. I definitely feel like, with the rehearsal period, we were quite angry with each other by the end of it. Literally, we’d finish for the day, I’d fucking slam out the door and go home.

“I knew that there was diminishing expectations of me throughout the week of rehearsals,” he says. “I definitely became an underdog. They’re like, ‘Wow, this was a big mistake. He’s really shit.’”

Pattinson and I talk on a sweltering August morning, in the comfort of a private members’ club in west London, near the flat he’s rented for the summer on Airbnb. (He’s in town to shoot Christopher Nolan’s new sci-fi spectacular, Tenet, about which he is permitted to tell us, with fulsome apologies, precisely nothing.) Rather than swigging kerosene and chaining tobacco, as in the film, he orders a banana smoothie, and when he’s finished that, an apple juice. Occasionally he sucks on a Juul.

Pattinson is 33. He grew up in affluent Barnes, the son of a dealer in vintage cars and a model booker. More or less untrained — unless you count some teenage am-dram — at 19 he was cast as Cedric Diggory, the hero’s doomed frenemy, in Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. But his Hollywood breakthrough arrived in 2008. Twilight was a teen B-movie, but it became a pop cult phenomenon, spawning four sequels of diminishing charm, making an otherworldly $3.3bn worldwide and creating megastars of its leads, Pattinson, who played a sexy vampire, and Kristen Stewart, who became his girlfriend on screen and IRL, as they say, before, in an unseemly frenzy of prurient salivating, she became his ex-girlfriend.

While for some he may always be the pallid tween heartthrob, in the six years since the final instalment of Twilight, Pattinson has worked hard to reinvent himself. His post Young Adult years have been cussedly uncommercial and impressively adventurous. In that period, Pattinson has worked with some of cinema’s most fêted directors: David Cronenberg, Anton Corbijn, James Gray, Werner Herzog, the Safdie brothers. Most recently, he was an intergalactic castaway in High Life, an enjoyable, if bonkers, dystopian sci-fi from the French director Claire Denis.

“Even in the Twilight years I never said, ‘Oh, he’s just a pretty boy,’” says Robert Eggers. “I always thought there was something interesting about him. I could tell that he wanted to be a great actor. And in the past years it’s been very clear that he is.”

The attraction of more avant garde or outré material, Pattinson says, is it allows him to let rip in a way he never could in real life. Pattinson compares the experience of acting in a film like The Lighthouse with joyriding. “A lot of the movies I’ve done recently, you literally feel as if you’ve stolen a car and you’re kind of careening through stuff.” (Such are the fantasies, perhaps, of a boy who grew up with a father who imported American sports cars for a living.)

In person, Pattinson is a mild-mannered English actor, albeit a slightly eccentric one. On set, however, “because you’re playing a mad person, it means you can sort of be mad the whole time. Well, not the whole time, but for like an hour before the scene.”

What does he mean by being mad? “You can literally just be sitting on the floor growling and licking up puddles of mud.”

This sounds figurative. He really means it. On The Lighthouse, in the scenes in which his character is meant to be drunk on kerosene (there are quite a few of them), he was “basically unconscious the whole time. It was crazy. I spent so much time making myself throw up. Pissing my pants. It’s the most revolting thing. I don’t know, maybe it’s really annoying.”

It’s hard not to speculate that yes, it might be really annoying. “There’s a scene,” Pattinson remembers, “where Willem’s kind of sleeping on me and we’re really, really drunk and I felt like we’re completely lost in the scene and I’m sitting there trying to make myself gag and Robert [Eggers] told me off because Willem’s looking at him going: ‘If he throws up on me, I’m leaving the set.’ I had absolutely no idea this whole drama was unfolding.”

In some ways, Pattinson concedes, all this acting out is a reaction to his terrifying early super-fame. He speaks of himself in the second person when talking about it. “For a long time you’re very self-conscious in the street. You’re hiding a lot, so [on set] you have an excuse to be wild. It’s like being an adrenaline junkie. And also, when you don’t know how to do something, why not just run headfirst into a wall? See what happens. I haven’t got any other ideas.”

On The Lighthouse, he spun in circles before each take, to make himself off-balance. He placed a stone in one of his shoes, to increase the already considerable physical hardship. He can see — from my disbelieving laughter, apart from anything else — that all this strikes non-actors as funny, even preposterous. It may be that it sounds this way to some actors, too.

The most famous story (possibly apocryphal) of an encounter between an adherent of the Method — in which actors don’t so much pretend to be someone else as try to temporarily become them — and a more traditional, outside-in actor, who puts on costume and makes believe, is Laurence Olivier’s withering put-down of Dustin Hoffman, when they were working together on John Schlesinger’s Marathon Man. At some point, Hoffman, a graduate of the Actors Studio, confided in the great English Shakespearean that, in order to bring the correct verisimilitude to a scene in which his character has not slept for three consecutive nights, he had forced himself to stay awake for the same period. “My dear boy,” Olivier is said to have smoothly replied, “why don’t you just try acting?”

Eggers says that any suggestion of that kind of relationship between Dafoe and Pattinson is wide of the mark. “The idea that Dafoe is outside-in and Rob is this method actor, that’s not the case. I think maybe they lean the tiniest bit into those directions but they’re both combinations of things.”

ESQUIRE: https://www.esquire.com/uk/culture/a29300396/robert-pattinson-willem-dafoe-interview/

#Robert Pattinson #Rob Pattinson #Esquire #The Lighthouse

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aion-rsa · 4 years ago

Text

The Teleprompter Interview: Katy Wix ‘My First Screen Crush was King Kong’

https://ift.tt/33I5zd9

“Anchors, rigging, shackles,” lists Katy Wix down the phone, “poop deck, wheelhouse, three sheets to the wind…” The comedian and writer has had a productive year. Filming wrapped on Ghosts series two just as UK lockdown began. Since then, she’s finished one book – Delicacy: A Memoir – due out next April, is pitching another, writing a TV show, and thanks to a new-found obsession with Netflix yacht-based reality show Below Deck, has also managed to acquire an enviable grasp of nautical terminology.

Wix is an established UK comic actor, with credits across the board, starting with cult hit Time Trumpet and going mainstream as witless, lovable Daisy in BBC mega-sitcom Not Going Out. She’s currently part of Channel 4’s Stath Lets Flats, the hottest comedy around, fresh from multiple Bafta wins. She plays Fergie in royal satire The Windsors, and was among the comedian-contestants in series nine of Taskmaster. In BBC One sitcom Ghosts, Wix plays Mary, a 17th century yokel burned as a witch and now part of the motley group haunting a modern-day stately home. Mary’s distinctive west country accent “just came out”, says Wix. “It’s an insult really, because I can’t claim to do that accent well. It’s sort of a stock noise. The more I do it, the more I think it sounds like Nanny from Count Duckula. Ducky!”

Ghosts series two, which lands as a boxset on BBC iPlayer on Monday September 21st , will give fans more about Mary’s background, says Wix. “I think people will really love it, and then there’ll be another series next year, depending on the big C. Not cancer. The other big C.”

From superyachts to Alan Partridge, The Day Today to Ghostwatch, Anna from This Life to formative sexual fantasies about prehistoric apes… here’s the Katy Wix Teleprompter interview.

Your parents were quite arty, working in dance companies and the theatre. Did your childhood allow for much TV watching?

Oh my god, yes! My routine was: come home from school, watch the tail-end of Fifteen to One, and when I was really young, repeats of The Oprah Winfrey Show. Then it would be The Broom Cupboard, something like Round the Twist, then the sound of the Six O’Clock News and turning over to The Simpsons. I still do it now, if I’m at home and it’s five to six, I’m going to watch The Simpsons, it’s a tradition.

Welsh telly was slightly different to the rest of the country. We have S4C rather than Channel 4. I remember going through the TV listings and seeing what was on normal Channel 4, like The Word, then I’d look at Welsh Channel 4 and it would just be something boring in Welsh at the same time.

Was there a TV show that inspired you to start acting and comedy?

The one I remember the most is Abigail’s Party. Seeing Alison Steadman’s performance made me want to do character acting. It was just a phenomenal, convincing, detailed performance. Years later, I wrote a radio sitcom that she was in. It was one of those absurd moments where you just have to leave your body and look down on yourself to be able to handle it.

That must happen a lot, you’ve been part of a lot of great comedy casts…

What got me into comedy was Brass Eye and The Day Today. When I was about 15, that’s what changed my brain. It was the first time I’d seen adults being silly and coming up with absurd situations that were my sense of humour. Before that, comedy on TV would always feel like just something your parents would watch but this really felt like it was for us, for me and my friends. It was the same with The Office.

And then you were in This Time with Alan Partridge with Steve Coogan last year.

I was in sixth form when Knowing Me, Knowing You came out and I had it on VHS. Watching people like Rebecca Front and Doon Mackichan… anytime Alan had a guest on the sofa, the level of detail and all the reactions and the tiny little social awkward moments, that made me think I want to do that type of performing. So then, when I got to be in the last Partridge, it was mad. It was phenomenal to be that near to the character and all his tiny micro-expressions. Even the colour of his socks – this weird salmon pink – that was so perfect. Tim [Key] was there as well and we’re old pals, so that made it feel more like, well if Tim can deal with it. But I think even Tim now says he still has times where he has to go into the loo and give himself a moment.

Who or what was your first TV love?

This will sound like a joke, but I swear to God it’s true. It was a running joke in our family that my first crush when I was about four, was King Kong [laughs]. My mum used to tease me about it all the time. It was the combination of brute strength and these massive, soulful, pained eyes – which I still look for in men – that absolutely got me. It was an erotic connection for me. When I look back on it in a Freudian way, it feels like a really obvious, very heterosexual image for a little girl to have, because I wanted to be that woman in the nightie in his massive hairy hand.

Unusual, yes, but then a lot of people our age cite the fox in the Robin Hood Disney film as their first screen crush.

I do get that. I do get that. What was it about that fox?

He’s rakish. And politically, he was sound too – rob from the rich, give to the poor.

You’re right. And he was really confident too.

Growing up, which TV character did you idolise?

There are two, a younger one and a slightly later one. When I was 11 or 12, I wanted to be a fashion designer. I would draw outfits all the time in my school books and I had the Usborne Book of Fashion Design and spend hours on it. So I wanted to be Hilary Banks from The Fresh Prince of Bel Air because she just had incredible fashion. She always got boys and she was really cool and confident and wore amazing clothes. She was everything I wanted to be.

Then a little bit later, maybe sixth form or in my early 20s. I wanted to be Anna from This Life, so much and I kind of still do. Because she was tall and really cool and had dark hair and a lot of attitude and wore black a lot and smoked a lot and didn’t give a shit. That was my vibe at university.

Is there a TV character you’d like to be now?

Probably still Anna?

Which TV show gave you nightmares?

The massive one for me, when I was about 11 or 12: Ghostwatch. I went to a friend’s house to watch it and I remember being a bit like ‘yeah right’ watching it, and then when I got home that night, I just cried. I was in the bath, hysterical and my mum had to come in and calm me down. It was horrendous.

Everyone totally swallowed it at the time, because we were less TV-savvy in 1992. I remember they had a phone-in and someone called in to say ‘There’s a shape in the curtains’, which really fucked me up. The whole Pipes thing. I remember being in my bedroom and seeing a shape of an old man in the curtain all the time. I’ve got really vague memories of Craig Charles being in a park, saying that someone had killed a Labrador. I was thinking about watching it again. I actually don’t know if I dare.

50 best British comedy TV shows on Netflix UK, BBC iPlayer, Amazon Prime, NOW TV, Britbox, All4, UKTV Play

By Louisa Mellor

Not Going Out: the top 10 episodes

By Philip Lickley

When did you last cry watching television?

Last night. Have you ever seen the show Below Deck? I’m obsessed with it. I’m not massively into reality TV but it’s an American reality show all filmed on superyachts that rich people charter. It’s almost like a perfect sitcom family – you have a different captain every time and the deckhands and then the interior, who do the hotel stuff, and then you have the chef, who’s always a temperamental big personality and then each episode has a different group of insanely rich, usually quite horrible, sexist people with loads of money who get really drunk, that’s the premise. It’s non-stop drama. You’re just watching people fall off boats and have arguments.

How did it make you cry?

In this episode, there was a girl who’d been really quiet and grumpy and everyone was slagging her off, and then she revealed that she’d got a text that morning saying her estranged father had died, so that’s what set me off. It’s got me through lockdown, it’s so addictive.

When did you last laugh out loud watching television?

Below Deck, same episode!

All human life is there!

I think it was someone’s malapropism, that’s my favourite thing about reality TV, the way people talk in a kind of Stath-like way and get it wrong.

What was the last TV show you recommended to a friend?

Below Deck! [Laughs] I’ve just got Lolly [Adefope] onto it, and Adam Drake – he’s a comedian in a sketch show called Goose and does Capital, a podcast with Liam Williams – he’s now devoted. One of my best mates was bemoaning that her boyfriend’s not into reality TV, but boys can watch Below Deck too. It’s got loads of boat stuff in it. Chains and anchors. I’m learning all these terms, like shackles, poop deck, wheelhouse, three sheets to the wind… That’s where the expression ‘in my wheelhouse’ comes from. Three sheets to the wind means you’re sailing off course.

Which TV show would you bring back from the dead?

Changing Rooms.

Good call.

I also loved The Late Review. I really loved that.

What’s a TV show you wish more people would watch?

Do you know Iyanla Vanzant? She started off on The Oprah Winfrey Show – I love Oprah so much – and she’s a TV therapist/healer/spiritual. She’s got a show you can only get on American TV called Iyanla: Fix My Life. She just speaks so much wisdom. She spends a week with people who are really traumatised and it’s their healing journey. It’s so moving, it’s so profound. She’s doing incredible work for the human race.

She did an amazing show called, I think, ‘The Myth of the Angry Black Woman’ with a house full of women of colour who all got to talk about this trope that they were angry and how they felt unable to speak without being silenced. She did a show that was rehabilitating people that had come out of prison and women that had been sex workers all their loves, just amazing.

Which current TV show do you never miss an episode of?

In lockdown, what kept me going was I May Destroy you, obviously, Below Deck, obviously. I also became obsessed with the Japanese Big Brother Terrace House, but it just got pulled because there was a suicide. It was so, so awful. I read an article saying the producers didn’t behave well, so I feel like I can’t like it any more. I love Succession too. I started watching this show on Netflix called Intervention and got totally obsessed with it. Again, it’s maybe ethically a bit dubious. It’s American, obviously, and they’ll film an addict who’s in a really desperate state and then the family kind of trick them, or persuade them to go into a room and then the intervention therapist is there and they’re like ‘Guess what, you’re going to rehab now!’ Anything that’s got human suffering, and then a redemption story in it, I’ll watch.

Given the power, which TV show would you commission?

I think about this a lot – what if I had a channel? I’d commission the sketch group Sheeps to make tons of series. That’s Liam Williams, Al Roberts and Daran Johnson, and so far they’ve only done live shows, but I would commission them for hours of TV. Colin Hoult doing his character Anna Mann, I’d commission hours of that. Everyone involved in Stath Lets Flats, I’d just say ‘Turn up, pitch and we’ll make it’. There’s a documentary from the 70s that I adore, that I would like to show again, which is John Berger’s Ways of Seeing. It’s one of the most beautiful, gentle documentaries. I feel like that should be on TV. And just whatever Gemma Collins is doing, commission that.

Also, you know in the 90s, late at night you’d get some weird, bizarre performance art happening on BBC Two? I miss that. The sort of stuff that was on after The Word. And then finally, maybe just all of Peep Show again?

What’s the most fun you’ve had making television?

Ghosts is where I probably laugh the most because of Lolly [Adefope]. We make each other laugh all the time. When me and Anna [Crilly] did our sketch show on Channel 4, it was incredible. It was stressful but exciting. It was such a nice atmosphere to be with all these gorgeous people that you find funny.

Stath Lets Flats is like that, because we’re all genuine mates. When people take comedy so seriously I really love it. I love that attention to detail. Jamie [Demetriou] and everyone involved really cares. There’s no ‘that’ll do’ attitude, everyone wants it to be the best it can be. Why not treat comedy as a science that you have to absolutely get right?

cnx.cmd.push(function() { cnx({ playerId: "106e33c0-3911-473c-b599-b1426db57530", }).render("0270c398a82f44f49c23c16122516796"); });

Ghosts series two starts on Monday the 21st of September on BBC One at 8.30pm. All six episodes will be available to stream on BBC iPlayer from then.

Delicacy: A Memoir by Katy Wix, published by Headline, is available to pre-order now.

The post The Teleprompter Interview: Katy Wix ‘My First Screen Crush was King Kong’ appeared first on Den of Geek.

from Den of Geek https://ift.tt/32GM7ya

#aion-rsa #Den of Geek

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jinxthequeergirl · 5 years ago

Text

Blind before

Crowely x angel! reader

Summary: maybe at some point while on earth with Aziraphale you fell in love with a human and maybe that just not who you where ment to be with

Requested by my lovely & anon: Could you do "YOU SAID TO BE HONEST STOP HITTING ME" with Crowley? -&

Warning:none? Its implied that you are on a date with a girl at one point but I dunno if that's anything major?

~~~~~~

"How do I look?" you asked your friends giving them a twirl.

Aziraphale smiled. "Oh you look perfect! I do hope he is a gentlemen."

You smiled and squeezed the angels arm. "Crowley?"

He rolled his head to the side to look at you. "Be honest."

Crowley stared at you soaking you in. He knew you hated dressing up. He remembered once back during the 17th century you had told him. "I do not dress up for anyone or anything." as you wore a similar outfit to Aziraphale.

But here you where in a pretty simple dress ready to met some Frenchmen you'd run into.

"Honestly?" You nodded and smiled at him hopefully. "Alright honestly I think it's a little much for a man you'll only see...what one time?"

You scowled. "Your awful you know that!" You punched him on the arm and headed to the door Aziraphale followed to see you off and punched him as well.

"YOU SAID TO BE HONEST STOP HITTING ME!"

But you didn't hear because the door had shut. "Was it something I said?" Crowley asked as Aziraphale walked back into the room .

"Crowley! What was that about?"

"She said be honest!" he hissed. And it was something about that. Maybe the way he said it. But Aziraphale noticed.

"Why don't you say something to her?"

"What?" Crowley looked up at his friend pulling his glasses of.

"You know what I mean. She adores you! Ever since...since the whole arc insident she's spoken to me non stop about you!"

Crowley rolled his eye's. "I'm serious! I remember she said. "That demon fellow sure was something else I do hope we run into him again soon."

"Angel please-"

"Crowley I've seen how you look at her you can't keep pining after her like this."

He sighed deeply knowing his friend was right.

So from then on Crowley did his best to get you to see how he felt with out telling you. It was simple little things. Taking you to lunches, suprising you with things he knew you wanted, doing almost anything for you. The demon was hopless.

"Honestly you'd think she would catch on! I don't do all this stuff for her just so she can go out with some other human! And after I've devivered the antichrist! This humans going to die in eleven years anyways! " Aziraphale looked at his friend who sat in the driver seat of the Bentley after droping you off.

"Ugh and who even is this guy!?

"Her name is Rachel I believe..."

"Ra..Rachel?"

"She is a beautiful young lady I can see why...." Aziraphale slowly drifted off when he saw crowleys grip on the steering wheel tighten.

"Crowley..." Crowley ignored the Angel and instead speed up.

"How long has-"

"A week."

Crowley looked at you heartbroken. "I think I should-" Crowley stopped Aziraphale from walking over to you.

"Why don't you give me a go..."

Aziraphale nodded. And Crowley slowly made his way to you. You where curled up in one of Aziraphale's chairs in the book shop staring out the window at the rain.

The thing about this one was you had known each other long enough that he actually proposed to you. But something happened somthing you refused to tell either of them.

"Y/n?"

You glanced over at him as he took a seat next to you. "Listen I know how much this one ment to you...and I can't even imagine what could have happened between you that could have made you feel like this....but I swear I don't think it will last forever."

He took one of your hands in his and gentley rubbed the back of it with his thumb.

You sat up a little bit and looked at him. "Oh God...he was right.." You quickly stood up pulling your hand from him.

"Y/n-"

"Uh thanks you Crowley i...I.."

You ran into the back room and slammed the door shut. "Y/n? What happened?"

"I...he...He broke it off because he said I was very obviously in love with someone else! And..and I thought that was crazy! But it's true! Oh God it's true! I've been in love for 6000 years!"

Aziraphale stared at you blankly. He opened his mouth and you hit him. "Why didn't you tell me! Your my best friend!"

"Wha..I thought you knew!"

You bit your lip and slid down the wall to the floor. "I'm in love with Crowley...does He know?"

"No he doesnt know you love him...but He loves you."

You looked up at him excitedly. "Then I need you for something!" Aziraphale raised an eyebrow and listend to you.

Crowley quickly threw the bookshop door open. "Angel what's wrong!? Where is she..." he trailed off and his panic expression was quickly replaced with a confused one.

You stood in the entrance dresses up nicely. Something you haven't done for anyone since France.

"Hey there demon." you grinned at him.

"What's this?"

"Well Roger broke the engament off because he said I was in love with someone else..." you made your way across the room to him and took his hands. "And you know what? He was right."

Before anything else could be said he leaned up and kissed him.

"I've been in love with you for 6000 years I've just been so blind before."

Crowley looked at you with pure adoration. "Care...care to go to dinner with me?"

"Of course. I don't dress up for just anyone." He smiled and took your hand leading you from the bookshop.

"Well I mean you dressed up for that Frenchman...."

"You know that's besides the point demon."

#good omens x reader #crowley x reader

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the-magnus-archives-archiver · 5 years ago

Text

Old Passages

Case: 0020406

Name: Harold Silvana Subject: Discoveries made during the renovation of the Reform Club, Pall Mall. Date: June 4th, 2002 Recorded by: Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London

I’m a builder. Sort of. I always find myself using the words ‘craftsman’ or ‘artisan’, but that’s mostly because of my client base. I specialise in renovation and alterations on listed buildings and those of historical or architectural significance. In simple terms it’s not much different to any other sort of construction work, except it takes about three times as long and costs ten times as much. That’s not to say I rip people off. You need to spend almost half the time just planning exactly how you’re going to tackle any given job, while preserving or recreating the original architecture as much as possible, and then you have to be incredibly careful when you’re doing the work. I’m quite serious when I say that if you’re not paying attention and keeping the alterations well-documented, you can get sued for millions over knocking out the wrong brick. Plus,the materials aren’t cheap. So yes, my services are expensive, but me and my team are worth every penny. And the sort of people I deal with, or should I say the sort of people whose personal assistants I deal with, can afford it.

I don’t have a company, per se. People hire me for me, and I have a small team I trust to help out with the work itself. They’re technically freelance contractors, but the pay’s good enough and, in London at least, there’s enough work that they’re happy to wait on my call.

I’ve found plenty of interesting things in this job. I suppose that’s not unexpected when you’re digging around old buildings. We got kicked off a job once when we found some bones under a very venerable country house that will remain nameless, as the owners contacted the British Museum, who couldn’t take over fast enough. There have also been a few jewellery pieces that found their way to other museums, and once we found a box of 17th century erotic poems that I think are currently languishing in the storerooms of the V&A museum. But I never found anything like what was under 100 Pall Mall.

We’d been called in to do some work on the basement and ground floor of the Reform Club. It wasn’t anything major. Some upkeep on a few of the historic pieces, replace a few of the earlier renovations.

The amount of actual work involved was minimal, but it was a Grade I listed building, so the amount of care we had to take stretched it into a week-long job. It didn’t help that we had to schedule around the fact that it’s still a very active social venue, so we could only actually come out of the basement when it wasn’t full of people too important to see builders. Grade I listing is a significant payday, though, so I certainly wasn’t going to rock the boat.

It was about two in the morning when the kid showed up. It was just me and Rachael Turley, who does most of our marble work, though we were mostly just doing surveying at that point. Alfred Bartlett was out getting coffee, though god knows where from at that time of night. We were mostly just kicking our heels really, since he’s the plumber and we needed his expertise. Now Alf has been in the business for nearly 40 years, and there wasn’t a thing he didn’t know about water or sewage systems, but we often joke that it’s pushed everything else out of his head. I think he must have forgotten to lock the door when he headed out, and that’s how the kid got in. That said, this was still the first week in March and it was pretty cold, so I’m surprised we didn’t notice the draught.

In the end I suppose it doesn’t matter. The fact is that Rachel and me had been sat there chatting for maybe five minutes when we noticed we weren’t alone. In the doorway leading back to the stairwell stood a thin figure. He looked to be in his late teens, I’d guess. He was dressed all in black, with heavy looking boots and a T-shirt with the logo of some band emblazoned on it, Megadon or Mastodon, or something like that. His hair was long and greasy, almost down to his shoulders, and looked to be dyed almost the same black as his clothes. He did not look like he was supposed to be skulking round the Reform Club, but I’d encountered more than one member whose rich children were going through a ‘rebellious period’, so couldn’t be entirely sure. I decided to be gentle in my initial enquiries and asked him if he was lost, told him this part of the basement was off-limits due to renovations.

The kid shook his head and asked if we’d found anything yet. Any of “Leitner’s pages”. Now this took me aback a bit. I wondered how long he’d been standing there, because Rachel and I had just been talking about the man. Jurgen Leitner was a businessman from Norway, I believe, who used to have offices in the ground floor of the building next to the Reform Club, 100 Pall Mall. I don’t know what his business was, but when I was first getting started, back in ‘87, we got a call from Mr. Leitner, requesting a consultation in his Pall Mall office. Back then it was just me and Rachel, and we mostly did stone restoration and alteration, so we assumed Mr. Leitner wanted our opinion on a property outside of London. Our reputation back then was not sufficient to get us access to any of the sort of Central London buildings we now work on.

When we first met Jurgen Leitner, he looked very much like I had imagined him. Portly, middle-aged, short blond hair in the middle of going grey, well-tailored business suit. His office surprised me, though, as it was almost completely bare, save for a desk and two chairs in front of it. There were no tables or bookshelves or filing cabinets or anything like that. He asked us to sit down, and though he spoke with a very faint accent, his English was perfect. We made small talk, but he seemed impatient, eager to talk about whatever it was he wanted us to do.

I asked him what the job was, and he stopped and looked at us closely. Then he said he simply wanted us to dig a hole. An unusual request, but not an unreasonable one, so I asked him where it whereabouts this was going to be. He rose, walked over to the corner and pointed at the floor. He said he needed a hole put through the floor. I thought there would have been a basement under there, and he said no, the building’s basement didn’t go under these rooms. He smiled an odd little smile as he said it, which put me a bit on edge.

Now, there was no way we could do a job like that without the building owner’s permission and I told Leitner this. He began to get shifty, then, and tried to tell us that he already had that permission. When we told him we’d need to confirm it with the commercial landlord, he got very defensive, told us that it was fine and he’d need to discuss it with some other contractors first. When we told him we’d just need to have a quick phone call with the owner, he started screaming that we didn’t understand what we were talking about, that he didn’t need to explain himself to the likes of us, and there were some things that were too important, too powerful to be owned. Then he just started yelling at us in Norwegian until we left. We didn’t bother contacting the owners of 100 Pall Mall in the end.

It was without a doubt the weirdest interview with a prospective client that we’d ever had, and being so close to the site of it had Rachel and I reminiscing when this teenage burnout turned up. I asked him if he’d been eavesdropping, and he shrugged, and again asked what we had found. I was just about done with this kid, and started to tell him that he was going to have to leave, when Rachel interrupted me and asked what there was to find. The kid laughed, as though he and Rachel were in on some private joke. “Can you smell it?” he said, and for a brief moment, I could smell something. Damp old stone and musty paper, just a faint whiff. It took me off guard, and I think that was why I just stood there as he walked past me and picked up the hammer. He strode over to one of the walls and, with a swing stronger than I would have thought possible from his age and skinny frame, he buried it into the wall. I heard a scream, high-pitched, but it definitely didn’t come from any of us.

This was enough to break me out of my stupor and I ran over and wrestled the hammer from the kid. He struggled and flailed, though he didn’t say anything. As I tried to calm him down, Rachel called over me, and I looked at where he’d hit the wall. In the centre of it was a neat hole; the other side was darkness. There shouldn’t have been anything behind the wall except foundation, but it didn’t look like this was a real basement wall. I let the kid go and walked over to get a closer look. Rachel started to examine it with her tools, before she confirmed what I’d already guessed – that it was a fake. It looked like someone had blocked off a passage, and then very carefully disguised it.

It was at this point Alf returned, and we had some considerable explaining to do. Through it all the kid, who said his name was Gerard, just sat their sullenly, listening to his CD player and waiting. When we asked him how he knew what was behind that wall he just shrugged, and told us that his mother knows all about this stuff. He didn’t elaborate as to what “this stuff” might have been.

We should have waited until morning and told the Reform Club staff what we’d found. We should have handed Gerard over to the police, but Alf was always too curious for his own good, and he suggested we have a look inside. Rachel and I half-heartedly tried to argue against it, but I think deep down we wanted to know just as much as he did. So in we went.

Knocking through the rest of the wall didn’t take long. It had been built to look like the rest of the basement, but hadn’t been constructed with the same skill. Ten minutes later our coffees lay forgotten on the floor and we stood before a passageway leading off into the musty darkness. A gentle breeze blew from this entrance, which didn’t make any sense at all. We had plenty of torches, as you often need them during night work, so we each took one large one and a smaller back-up in case the first had any problems. We tried to tell Gerard to stay outside, but I could see immediately that, short of tying him up, there was no way we were going to keep him out of there. Tying him up did feel like a step too far, so we settled for keeping a close eye on him as we went inside.

The passageway was cold, and the air thick with mildew, but the stone walls were in very good condition. Rachel said it looked to be from the mid-19th century, probably remains of the basement of the Carlton Club, which used to be located in what was now 100 Pall Mall. It was with a start I realised that she was right, based on where the corridor was going, we must have been underneath the building. Almost exactly where Jurgen Leitner had wanted us to dig almost fifteen years ago.

We walked for some time, longer than I would have expected, given how big I remembered the building above us being. Alf kept asking Rachel if the corridor was getting narrower, and every time, she would dutifully measure the width and inform him that, no, it was exactly five feet wide. I couldn’t blame him, really, I’ve never had any sort of claustrophobia, but I was finding it hard, at points to catch my breath, to dismiss the feeling that the walls were pressing on me. Gerard walked on ahead, seemingly unbothered by the place.

We came to crossroads. Or, more precisely, a star. The chamber was small, round and featureless, but there were doorways leading out in a circle. I counted thirteen, not including the one we had come in from. Looking down some of them made me feel oddly queasy. There was one that, for all the world, it felt like I was going to fall into it. Another was so dark that our torches didn’t seem to reach more than a few feet inside. In the centre, there was a datestone. It read: “Robert Smirke, 1835. Balance and fear”.

I don’t know how much you know about famous London architects, but Robert Smirke was one of the foremost proponents of the Gothic Revival in the early 19th century. His work was some of the first to use concrete and cast iron, and often described as ‘theatrical’, a description that makes a lot of sense when you look at the grand columns of the British Museum – his most famous building. Later, I would look up a list of his buildings and discover that he had indeed built the Carlton Club building in that exact spot. It had been destroyed in the Second World War, during the Blitz, and the club itself had moved premises, but it looked like the underground foundations, or whatever this place was, had not been damaged.

We stood there for some time as I explained this to the others. It took some time to do so as, with the exception of Gerard, I got the impression that none of us were in any hurry to go down the other tunnels. A deep apprehension eemed to have settled itself in the pit of my stomach; everyone else also seemed to feel it. Then, without warning, Gerard started running full pelt into one of the passages. I’m not sure which one it was of the thirteen. I called for him to come back, but got no reply and Alf took off after him, running into the darkness and quickly turning a corner. Rachel and I looked at each other for a few seconds, but we both knew what we needed to be doing. I followed Alf into the passage, while she headed back down to the entrance to get help.

This tunnel wasn’t as dark as some of the others, but it was damper, and the walls seemed oddly slimy. After a few yards, the stone became so slick that I found it hard to keep my footing and I fell. I put my hand onto the floor to push myself up, and it came away faintly tinged with red. I heard Alf cry out from further down the corridor. He sounded utterly terrified, and I started on towards him again. I saw lights from up ahead, and was about to call out when Gerard came running back out of the darkness.

He was clutching a book in his hands, and clearly wasn’t paying attention to where he was going. He barrelled right into me, knocking me to the floor again. He was only a skinny kid, but he was so strong, and kept his footing, disappearing back into the darkness, towards the entrance. As he passed, I heard a small clattering sound, as though something were falling behind him. I reached out slowly, to try and raise myself off the ground, and felt something small and oddly smooth lying there. I shined my light on it, and saw a small bone. From a bird, I think, or maybe a rat. I looked around and there were a few more scattered about the corridor.

I’d fallen harder this time, and had managed to hurt my knee quite badly. I managed as just about able to limp to the end of the corridor, and there I found a small, round room. Against the walls were old bookshelves, decayed and empty, save for a few mouldering pages. They were stained and rotten, and one of them looked like it had a mummified hand laying on it. In front of it, in almost the centre of the room, lay Alf. He was dead. I couldn’t see any injuries on him. He didn’t even seem hurt. But looking at how still he lay there, the terrified, awful expression frozen on his face, there was no chance he was alive. On his motionless chest, and around the base of the bookshelf, I saw more of those tiny bones.

That’s where my memory begins to blur. I know I made it back to the basement of the Reform Club, where Rachel was waiting with the police. But I think I got some of the wrong passageways first. I have the vaguest memories: flashes of a pile of paper, completely covered in cobweb; a figure stood in the darkness, a stranger I didn’t know but was sure meant me harm; my skin burning, hot, choking on smoke down there in the dark.

When I was out, I was questioned by the police, who followed Rachel in to retrieve Alf’s body and were successful, though they came back out pale and shaking. There was no sign of Gerard, nor had Rachel seen him. I was then questioned again by the staff of the Reform Club, who instructed us in no uncertain terms to rebuild the wall and finish our original job. We were given to understand that the police were handling the matter, and if we pursued it closer then we would not be getting any further work from members of the club. As this covers almost everybody who can afford our services, we complied. It makes me feel sick, though, like we’re just abandoning Alf, dishonouring his memory. It’s not even like he had any family to miss him, it just feels wrong. I guess, maybe, that’s why I’m talking to you. Do try to keep my name out of it if you follow it up though, okay?

Archivist Notes:

On the one hand, this statement represents a complete dead end, as no-one involved is both able and willing to talk to us. Over the last three months Sasha has attempted to contact Mr. Silvana, Rachel Turley, the management of the Reform Club and any of the police officers involved. All of them flatly deny any of this ever took place. Alfred Bartlett’s death was listed as a heart attack suffered during routine maintenance work, and none of the coroner’s reports provide any details out of the ordinary. The “kid”, who I think it is reasonable to assume is none other than Gerard Keay, remains just as impossible to contact as he ever was. From an evidence standpoint, this case is a complete bust.

However, too many of the names and features match with other statements for me to dismiss it, not to mention the fact that business records do list Jurgen Leitner as having hired out an office on the ground floor of 100 Pall Mall between 1985 and 1994. He was apparently one of the premier worldwide dealers in rare and antique books at the time, with items selling for the sort of sums where an office in Pall Mall doesn’t raise any eyebrows. If this strange basement is really there, then perhaps his choice of location was not simply a display of status. Clearly some of his books were there, and I can’t help but wonder whether that was where they were found, or just where they were stored.

The other major point of interest is the fact that this complex appears to have been designed by Robert Smirke. You should have seen Tim’s face when I told him. Architecture is one of his specialist areas, and he has always talked of Smirke as one that fascinates him. How did he phrase it? “A master of subtle stability.” From a professional standpoint, it also interests him that Smirke’s buildings have higher percentages of reported paranormal sightings than any other architect of similar profile. He hasn’t been able to find much out about the Carlton Club specifically, at least not anything relevant to this statement. In his later years, following Smirke’s official retirement in 1845, there were all sorts of rumours about his interests and religious preferences. If there was a scandalous sect or bizarre cult, his name would always be seen mentioned among those meeting with them. He also started putting his name forward to design churches, despite his claimed retirement. He was never taken up on these offers. Interesting, but fundamentally not that useful for the case in hand, especially since we have been unable to get permission to physically investigate whether this place even exists. It seems we’ve reached something of a dead end. No pun intended.

[End recor— Urgh! Goddamn it!

[SOUND OF METAL CANISTER BEING KNOCKED]

Martin!

[DOOR OPENS]

Martin, where did you put the rest of the extinguishers? Martin!

[SOUND DISAPPEARS INTO DISTANCE] [SILENCE, FOLLOWED BY HEAVY FOOTFALLS]

Martin: John, did you call fo—

Breekon: ‘scuse us.

Hope: Looking for the Archivist.

Martin: I’m sorry, are you two meant—

Breekon: Won’t take up your time.

Hope: Just got a delivery.

Martin: Look, you really can’t actually—

Breekon: Package for Jonathan Sims.

Hope: Says right here.

Martin: Well, I don’t really know where he—

Hope: We’ll just leave it with you.

Breekon: Be sure he gets it.

Martin: Okay, I will, but you really have to actually—

Breekon: ‘course. Much obliged.

Hope: Stay safe.

Martin: ...I’ll try?

Breekon: Your recorder’s on, by the way.

Hope: Might want to change that.

Martin: Oh... so it is. Thanks.

Breekon: No problem.

Hope: At all.

[HEAVY FOOTSTEPS RECEDE] ]

#the magnus archives #magnus archives #MAG #MAG35 #MAG 35 #OldPassages #Old Passages #Statement #Robert Smirke #Gerard Keay

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softjeon · 6 years ago

Text

Love Bite | Character Sheet

↳ This Character Sheet holds background Info on all the Characters of the story ‘Love Bite’ written by @cassiavioletblue & @softjeon

Chapters: 1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 / 7 / 8 / 9 / 10 / 11 / 12 / 13 / 14 / Final Total Words: 126.568k ↳ AO3

In the following notes you can find every info that we used/gathered before and over the course of writing the story ‘Love Bite’ and therefore holds more information about the characters and potential story lines that we didn’t write out or just hinted at in the main story. You can find the gifset trailer to the story here.

Vampires:

their bodies are warm and with a beating heart as long as they are well fed; the less human blood they drink the lower the beating gets

they cant feed off of other vampires, biting is only for sexual purposes or hurting someone

silver = allergic reactions

abilities: enhance speed, healing on their own (only when they are well fed or else it takes time), heightened senses, hypnotization

draw strength from the moonlight

vampire blood is like a poison for humans that make them euphoric and go into a erratic state so they don’t feel the pain. Their saliva has biochemical compounds that suppresses the pain the victim would normally feel when bitten, instead it makes the victim feel relaxed (and if they are exposed to it for longer the victim gets euphoric)

They can be seen in mirrors (as the myth “vampires don’t reflect” comes from a time in which mirrors still had silver in them. Nowadays that’s not a problem anymore)

they can live about a week without blood, before they start to starve, after a month without blood they dry up and die eventually (the only exception is when they rest; they can fall into a energy saving mode like Yoongi does when he wants to sleep for a century or two)

can walk in the sun, it only weakens them if they haven’t drunk enough so it dries them up faster; they can get headaches from it

don’t care about garlic or crosses, it’s a lie to make humans believe that vampires could be easily detected, just like the myths that they only hunt at night.

every vampire has some kind of useful ability, but only a few have rare one’s like Namjoon who can transform himself into a bat

they can will their teeth to protrude, but it's also an involuntary reaction when they get into dangerous situations, get frightened, hungry or really aroused etc.

Underground!vampires:

think that humans should be cattle/ slaves to the vampires

are mostly “new generation” vampires (in the story they are represented by MonstaX)

want to live out in the open because their belief is that vampires are from higher race and shouldn’t have to hide from humans, but reign over them.

want to overthrow Hoseok; since he wants to live hidden and with little damage to humanity; even though Hoseok uses humans as food as well

Namjoon:

got turned in the 17th century

he was left alone after he had been turned, his maker had never been around so he could never create a bond between himself and his maker vampire. It made it harder for him to understand what was going on, so he followed his instincts and his hunger, leaving him to become a ‘monster’ as Namjoon describes it himself until Yoongi found him and took him in. Yoongi became something like his second-maker. He taught him about the rules, the king and the hierarchy of vampires but Namjoon’s came up with his morals all by myself (Yoongi will refuse to have anything to do with something disgusting as drinking from blood bags).

became head of department in Hoseok’s company;

likes routine and everything in order

has a lot of strength, with which he accidentally destroys things from time to time, so everyone in the office thinks he has aggressive outbursts and is afraid of him

can transform himself into a bat, but loses his clothes each time, so he wouldn't use it too often only if he flies home or is in danger (only very few vampires in the world can do this, because you need absolute control of yourself)

hates hypnotizing people (and is actually bad at it) because he thinks that humans should not be treated like lesser beings and that them and vampires can live alongside each other

holds on tightly to his morals and beliefs; believes that humans should have the right to refuse to not be a ‘blood bag’ and should willingly accept the offer if it’s made by a vampire. He definitely annoyed Hoseok many times before and presented him with new rules and ways of living alongside of the humans. As much as Hoseok is annoyed by it, he considered a few to make it easier for them to live in the new century. He cherishes his friend and his great mind and thinking

has secretly wished for a companion for years now; someone that wants to really stay by his side despite him being a vampire

Jimin:

got transferred at his own request into the city and began working for Namjoon’s department

has no family left, but finds a good friend in student!intern!Tae

is scared easily, though when he gets really angry and frustrated not even Namjoon likes to fight with him

in his mid!twenties

he always worked in economics

is a loner; he only has Taehyung and even when he still lived on the countryside he mostly kept to himself and his ex-boyfriend

Vampire!Jimin:

Namjoon will tell everyone that Jimin is the most beautiful vampire he has ever seen

Namjoon is his companion and maker

his ability: manipulate emotions of others

will want Namjoon to dethrone Hoseok one day, so the vampires will finally have a good, caring leader

he never leaves Namjoon’s side

drinks off of other humans that allow him to take their blood (sometimes even Jungkook, if Taegi allows it) after discussing the pro’s and con’s with Namjoon for days

Taehyung:

goofy, happy, supportive

loves to go out and have fun, but also to stay in with Jimin and drink wine to just chat about “Mr. Kim’s best features”

he sometimes forces Jimin to go out with him, so “the older” can “get some”

one night when they were both too drunk and too horny they ended up having sex; but it was giggly, clumsy and not very satisfying and both promised to never talk about it again and definitely not repeat it. It says a lot about their friendship that it didn’t get awkward between them afterwards - and this is why Taehyung knows how it feels like to kiss Jimin.

Vampire!Taehyung:

he swore he fell in love with Yoongi the second he saw him, though Yoongi tries to tell him it was only the bond reacting

always wants to do human stuff, too and therefore gets into sticky situations that Yoongi needs to get him out of like trying to do a picnic with the humans but ends up throwing it all up

very needy and clingy when it comes to Yoongi but in a quieter way; he loves holding his hand

though he is a young vampire and thirsting for blood more than others, he is really good at controlling himself when it comes down to human!Jimin

his ability: can run so fast that others are moving in slow motion to him

Hoseok:

he was “born” as a vampire in ancient egypt

the oldest vampire to date

owns basically the whole city since he has business with all leading companies and some politicians (that he hypnotized)

he makes the rules and the vampires follow him since he’s the oldest

feeds off Jin and Jin only

his ability: hypnotizing people and vampires alike, controlling them so completely that he can make them feel the pain at his will instead of the pleasure of the poison; he is the only vampire who can hypnotize vampires

thinks humans are weak, but loves Jin with all of his heart

he is very strict with his rules, so no vampire gets exposed

can come off as cruel (maybe….just a little bit)

Jin:

He stumbled across Hoseok one night when he was out in the night. He was never scared of Hoseok, nor did he knew that he was the vampire king at first when he came with him

he dislikes the human world and is happy being surrounded by people who respect him because he’s the king's personal favorite

has bite marks all over his body - and loves it

Jin will be turned by Hoseok later in his life, when he decides he has “reached his peak in his beauty” so that he wants to stay forever like this with his love

Yoongi:

sleeps a lot and only wakes up to feed in between; he says this century is too boring for him and only when he meets Taehyung he has a reason to stay awake

one of the oldest (Hoseok > Yoongi > Namjoon)

his ability: manipulating memories of humans

he’s very possessive over Taehyung the moment Hoseok grants him ownership of the human

normally he likes to be a sub with young vampires, letting them ride out their neediness but with Taehyung he wants to dominate the younger completely.

His protectiveness awakes and something is different about this one, which he only later realizes is because he lost his heart to Tae instantly

Tae: “He doesn’t say it and he didn’t really ask me out like that but I think he’s my boyfriend!” Yoongi: *grumbles*

Jungkook:

student, who lives a bit out of town because he couldn’t afford himself an expensive apartment in the city and somehow the houses by the hill are so cheap and beautiful at the same time, leaving him wondering why no one is living there or wants to buy it

innocent bun stumbling all doe-eyed into the danger without knowing what he was getting himself into

loves his banana milk and would do anything for it, even if it means getting bitten by vampires and at the same time wouldn’t get the “I want to bite you” hint even if Taehyung spells it out for him

the only human that was allowed to leave the mansion again, when normally humans that stumble upon them will never be released again

Jungkook definitely comes back, because the curiosity will get the better of him

might be their human friend/pet/lover ...depending on who you ask in the future ;)

Headcanons/ What might be happening next…:

Namjoon and Jimin will take the time, after the younger has gotten used to his new life, to travel around the world

Jimin is the only vampire who is really allowed to tease and call Hoseok names and the king doesn’t take actions since Hoseok won’t ever harm Jimin again as he keeps his promises to Namjoon

Namjoon will show Jimin all of the places he loved and where he was born (as a human)

they will always have one of the strongest bonds that anyone has ever seen and even when usually the ‘newborn’ bond fades out, their bond stays strong and makes them more aware of each other - which Namjoon loves, since he still has the urge to protect Jimin at all costs; their love will be eternal

Yoongi and Taehyung take in Jungkook and “take care of him”

Jungkook loves his vampire friends

One day Namjoon will stumble into the kitchen seeing Jungkook sipping on his banana milk, seated on Yoongi’s lap who only grins at the other with blood dripping down his chin, while Taehyung takes a sip from Jungkook’s delicious thighs. He will only shake his head and turn around again. “You really don’t want to go in there right now.” (Namjoon to Jimin)

Jin and Hoseok will retire one day to go back to egypt; normally Yoongi would be next in line but the other refuses so Namjoon is up for debate

Thank you for reading the story and becoming a part of it with all of your lovely comments and messages. They always keep us motivated and going and we can’t wait to share new stories with you guys. We’re currently working hard on something new and then there’s still ‘Devils Hand’ where the last chapter will be posted next week. Thank you for everything!💕💕💕

- Cat (@cassiavioletblue) & Jey (@softjeon)

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theirmajestiespens · 5 years ago

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(unfinished project, updates as we post new chapters update 11 Jan ‘20: Chapter I t/m III posted) #JMR: A RIDE TO HELL 76 Commando, Royal Marines Special Operations. Team E.O.A. (Echo Omega Alpha) HMS Dragon Coast Horn of Africa (Bereeda, Somalia) A RIDE TO HELL I. She stared at him, her own husband, what did he just said? Did she even understood his words or was her English failing after so many years that she was unable to make her own conclusion? “Sir…” she asked nearly in a whisper when she saw her own teammates shake their heads, she knew that she would get the same explanation as before and it would hit them again just like before. They sat at the AIC while the ship was just outside the coast of Horn of Africa, again. Dragon’s Royal Marines had to bring the peace between multiple groups, again. But this time without the backup of Dragon. “CRSM d’Este.” The Admiral stated while he looked at his wife, he saw the fear in her eyes, in all of their eyes and to be honest, he felt it too. Leaving their Marines on their own wasn’t something he was quite happy to do, but higher command ordered Dragon to move on to the next mission while the E.O.A. would make sure that this problem was to be solved only to be picked up again in four weeks. “This is from higher command, I wish I could say no, but then I bring all of us on this ship in jeopardy.” She knew he was right and she knew he couldn’t do anything against it, how badly he wanted it. A soft cough filled the room when the screen showed that they’ve reached ‘port’, which in real life wasn’t more than a hidden spot for the ship to moor. Everybody stared at it, knowing this would their goodbyes for a long time, there was never a chance that either of the two would be done within a month. “Gear up.” Was everything she said and everybody nodded before walking out, formalities didn’t matter anymore. As everybody had left, Mary looked at James who, suddenly looked about 10 years older due what he just had to tell them. “We’re going to be fine.” She whispered when she stepped a bit closer and they would be fine, it was their job, they got the training, they’ve done it before, many, many times. “It’s not about you being fine.” His voice sounded raw and even more deeper than it normally was. The Admiral bit his lip, trying to control his own emotions, this was why you don’t go on deployment with family. “I can’t give you backup if you need it, i can’t get you out of there if everything goes wrong and that just terrifies me.” He admitted and it showed that he had changed from once being the fearless Lord High Admiral in the 17th Century to someone who actually cared about his own wellbeing and those of others. He couldn’t lose her, he wouldn’t lose her, there was nothing in his being that would accept that fate. She looked up at him, seeing her life partner, her commanding officer, the Admiral suddenly as a vulnerable man, something she had seen before, but never at sea. “James.” She whispered, knowing their time was about to run out and she had to gear up and walk off ship for at least four weeks. “Nothing will go wrong, we will be managing it, I will be managing it.” Coming quickly to the conclusion that she was the one in charge of the entire Marine team, she shrugged that thought away. “I promise, we will be okay.” They both knew that they couldn’t promise that to each other and yet they said it each time one of them went of deployment, there was no foreseeing of the future to be a 100% sure they’d be fine, there was no guarantee that they would see each other, or the children, ever again. But strangely that thought kept them going, those simple words of “I’ll be okay.”. He didn’t speak, he listened to her words and he knew he had the best Marine team in the world, they worked perfectly together, with each other and with Dragon, but something he couldn’t put his finger on, a strange feeling in his gut that told him to be careful. Sometimes wishing he had still the same mindset as he had back in the days, fighting or dying, when it came to Navy Battles, but maybe he shouldn’t never gotten married then. Pulling her close, he forgot about formalities now, he forgot about the difference of their ranks, he never was ‘allowed’ to be with Mary as long as she served under his command, but strangely nobody actually cared when they did. Not the crew, not the First Sea Lord, not his/their Commanding Officer from then. Maybe it was history repeating itself, allowing things to happen. Cupping her cheeks, he softly kissed her before letting go again, then they just looked at each other trying to find the words but their hearts already had spoken and the final words he said before she really had to get ready were just a simple “Gear up, Marine.” Which, on her call, made her chuckle and she replied with a formal, yet informal “Aye, Sir.” Walking out of AIC towards the armoury to grab her stuff, she let out a long sigh, she knew what was about to happen, everybody knew, everybody knew they had to trust each other more than a hundred per cent and more than with ‘just’ their lives. Walking in, seeing her team gearing up, she knew that they’d be fine, but she also knew that this would be a ride to hell. II. “Ready to engage.” He heard her voice through the com and he let out a silent sigh. “Captain, ready when you are.” And he heard Victor mumble something towards his bridge crew. “Sir, ready in 5, CRSM, stand-by.” James confirmed Victor’s answer and he just leaned back in his chair in AIC, seeing the ship coming closing to land on the radar system, there was nothing he could do, even there was a lot he wanted to do. “Echo Omega Alpha ready to dispatch.” Mary said with a voice that nobody really could describe, it was a voice of fear, anger but mostly, a voice of being ready to roll into action, James had to be honest, that voice scared him, every single time he heard it, it always ended with them being engaged in a dangerous operation and each time, they nearly lost their lives. What made her keep doing this was something he didn’t know, was something he couldn’t understand, but it was something also that lived inside himself.

“E.O.A. Good luck.” Were his last words before the Marines set foot on African soil and they had to sail out again. Hearing a confirming “Fair Winds, Dragon” in reply to his words, he choked up, closed the com line and looked at the some of the crew in AIC, who looked at him questioning. “We are going to back up to Yemen, NATO asked our help in protecting the interests.” And before anyone could even ask him, he added. “Our Marine team will be fine, they are the most trained people on this planet.” They were, but it was difficult to believe it, because everybody knew the situation in Somalia. Some of the crew nodded, while others started whispering with each other, the Admiral was aware that if he would make one slip considering going to back for them, it was the end of his career and the trust the crew had in him.

Seeing the ship sail out of their small hidden spot (for as small as it could’ve hid a Navy Vessel), Mary focused on her breathing as she nearly got herself into a panic attack, most of the times the ship sailed out they just stopped a couple of miles before the coast to give them support when needed, but now they disappeared out their sight. Turning around to her team, the 7 Marines looked at her, awaiting her command. “Right, let’s get to base camp and meet up with the 68 Commando.” Looking at her Flag Sergeant, he confirmed her idea by a simple nod, even he rather be picked up by their comrades to be quicker at the place of arrival, it was about an hour walk, through the village, filled with members of the different groups. “Change into local clothing.” Mary ordered the team when she walked to one of the hidden boxes in the sand where their colleagues had hidden clothing for them, opening the boxes she picked out some clothing and changed herself. While the others did the same, she looked around to see if there was no-one around to make their first steps a hard one. As the coast of Somalia disappeared and Dragon was entering the Yemen water’s, the Admiral immediately regretted ever agreeing on going on this deployment, the struggle they had to get access by the Yemen government was a promise that this would be a long and hard fight, knowing that the Russians were near as well, as well the Yemen’s Navy was following their movements precisely. “It’s almost terrifying.” He heard his Captain say when they noticed one of the Yemen’s Navy ships on their tail, it suddenly became a tensing situation, forgetting everything of that morning, James connected the com to the all-round system and ordered everyone to their stations. “All Hands to Action Stations. I repeat; All Hands to Action Stations.” Geared up in their anti-flash gear the entire Dragon was ready for when it went wrong and the entire AIC was filled with people who had multiple functions, but everybody had to listen to the one in Command and James his skills were about to be tested. III. Making their way up to the base camp of the U.S. Armed Forces, the team did enjoy the beautiful views that Somalia had to offer, even knowing that at any minute there might be breaking out a war at the place they were walking, the Marines didn’t stopped admiring the views and telling each other jokes about earlier deployments. The 76 Commando was a fairly new task force, even though the entire Commando was filled with 20 of the best Royal Marines the United Kingdom ever had to offer, it was still new to work with each other and mainly to trust one another with everything you had. Mary had been one of the 6 women that joined the Royal Marines in the past 30 years and she was only one of the 3 women left that were still in active service, she was the only one in this Commando Task Force. She didn’t hate it, she just had to struggle with some of the men who had trouble listening to a woman who’s been a higher rank and thus in command, the beginning was hard and difficult and she begged James many times to have her admitted to his Navy crew, to have her transferred to the Navy, but he refused, just like how he refused to claim the Duchy of Modena back in the 1690’s, she hated him for that, but to be honest, she was glad he did push her to keep on going. His eyes did hurt from the green bright lines on the radar system and the sound of the beep was stuck in his head, the past hours all he, they, did was just staring at the screens to see if anything would happen near them or even better, against them. Somewhere inside him he had the need to go into a heavy Naval battle, it would give him the adrenaline kick he longed for, the kick he loved, but it would also give them a chance to end up dead. But then, he needed to stay alive, he needed to get her back. Resting his head in his hands, James let out a sigh while rubbing his eyes, maybe it was time to actually start wearing his glasses. “Sir, I’ve got some coffee for ya.” The Midshipman stood next to him and the smell of the black caffeinated drank did him good. “Bless you, mate.” He took gratefully the hot mug, it wasn’t allowed to drink near the systems, but since the ship was on a straight course he took that risk. “Get something to eat, we’re not done yet.” He ordered his personnel in the AIC, the night was going to be long, very long. Mary had regretted every decision she made up to this moment, the moment when they walked through the town on their way to the U.S. camp and the people knew, they knew but they kept quiet because if someone made a sound that sounded like “Americans”, even though they were the British, they would fight their way through the city and they will lose that fight. When a man walked towards them, the CRSM quickly looked at her FL.SGT. who warned the others, their orders were clear; keep the peace, but when they got shot, they shoot back. She rested her hand on the handgun she kept in her pocket, it was a quick way out, maybe not the most smartest way, but at least she would’ve be able to protect herself for a second. Stopping when the man slowed his phase, Mary looked towards Jack again, her Flag Sergeant, who answered her look with a simple eyebrow raise and stepping aside to let that man pass if he had the desire for that. Holding in her breath, the group watched the man fully stop in front of them, or better said, in the middle of them.

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