#no other explanation than pure cowardice.... | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

fullsunalicia · 5 years ago

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ooh idk if requests are open, but if they are could you write a sort of spin off to the tale older than time for jaemin??? bECAUSE YES SON OF EROS FALLING IN LOVE AND HIM NOT SEEING IT COMING?? yes pls,,,,oh and if you ever plan on making it a series with all the dreamies as demigods i will literally worship you and set up a temple for you !! you write so well !!

love and war - NJM

maybe the fates mixed something up when they tied the red string of the daughter of ares to eros’ son instead of aphrodite’s, but jaemin wasn’t complaining. after all, it was love at first sight, and eros is the next-best thing, right?

son of eros!jaemin x daughter of ares!y/n

hello my love! yes, they’re open, so request away as much as you’d like! thank you for this one, i hope you will enjoy it 🤍 also, that sounds really intriguing! for you, i will go ahead and try to write a greek mythology au for every dreamie 🤍 but i’ll have to say that no matter how many temples you build for me, i’ll build dozens more for you! thank you so much for your kind words bubs 🥺

Jaemin was used to playing matchmaker.

Not once did the students on campus flock to the children of Aphrodite when they needed help with love, even though Jaehyun was literally right there. They trusted Eros and his genes, because everyone knew the story of Psyche and wished to find a love like theirs.

Sure, he bended the rules a little bit when he helped Jeno... but what the Fates don’t know, shouldn’t bother them, right?

Little does Jaemin know that they’ve decided to take Na Jaemin’s love life into their very own hands. Somewhere in Greece, up high on a mountain, Cloto, Lachesis and Atropos are having the time of their lifes tying little (y/n)’s red string to Jaemin’s. Not even his father can hinder them, because Jaemin knowingly broke the rules.

They’d like to see how Jaemin would manage with the ill-tempered, hot-headed (y/n), demi-goddess, Ares’ pride and joy.

After all, you’ve never fallen in love.

❀ ❀ ❀

There’s a reason why your knuckles are split open nearly every week.

One look at the you and everyone determines that you must be really weak. Frail, pushed aside almost too easily. You hide it well, because the second they under-estimate you, they’re already dead. (l/n) (y/n) looks nothing like her elder siblings, but you pack quite the punch. It’s the golden, godly blood flowing in your veins that throws in that extra swing, just the amount of strength needed to break someone’s jaw. That’s a blessing only the children of Ares possess - there is not a single fight they ever lose, or at least lose immediately. They were born to conquer, fight and win, meant to be leaders, warriors and protectors.

So when some assholes on campus make your best friend Yuqi uncomfortable, you’re the first to start the brawl. It’s really not your fault those jerks couldn’t keep their hands to themselves. If a girl says no several times and they still can’t accept it, they’ll just have to sort it out with your fists.

You’re not like your father. You don’t actively search for fights, even though there’s nothing that makes you feel more alive than a well-delivered kick or the satisfying feeling of bones cracking beneath your grip. You inherited the love for a good fight, but not the stupidity to look for it at every corner. There’s a hot temper boiling beneath your skin, but you keep it in check pretty well. Unless of course someone bothers Yuqi. That’s something different entirely and you welcome that particular red haze every time it comes.

“Please, please stop hurting yourself for me,” Yuqi begs you as she holds your bandaged hands tightly in her own. You see no reason in putting band-aids on them, but your best friend can’t live with herself if she can’t atleast treat your wounds, so you let her do her thing every time. “I wish you’d just let someone else do it. You know it’s not possible to win every time, (y/n), you’re a daughter of Ares, not the god themself.”

“I warned them not to touch you.” The shrug of your shoulders only upsets Yuqi more. “That was their own fault. I’m not standing aside to someone bothering and harrassing you like that. Not until someone else does it for me, like a future boy- or girlfriend.”

“I’m straight.”

“You’re lying to yourself.”

Yuqi laughs, pink blush settling on her cheeks. You’re only joking, but you know she ponders over that thought, her beautiful mind wrapping itself around the fact that Yuqi was still discovering herself. Her wisdom shone through every thing she said, and she was a good match to you as a daughter of Athene. She was the brains, you the some-what muscle. Even though your parents couldn’t stand each other, Yuqi and you loved each other like sisters.

The girl reaches out to brush your hair out of your sight, then she interlocks your fingers and pulls you forward. Weirdly, you adore skinship. The feeling of a warm body beneath your touch, living, breathing. Not in the violent way. In the sense of finding something and using as an anchor. A heartbeat did so much more than telling yourself to calm down. A smile, a heartfelt spoken sentence. You were as easily to calm down as any other demigod, even though it takes a little bit more than others.

You crave touch. Meaning. Or as they said in Mulan - a guy worth fighting for, even though you’ve never fallen in love.

Butterflies have never lived in your stomach, and you never get weak in the knees because of someone. Sure, you blush a good amount of times when you are complimented and hugged, but never once did that feeling expand into something romantic. It was ... disappointing.

Maybe you weren’t mean to fall in love. You’re only a pawn in the battleground your father laid out for you.

Across the room, Na Jaemin looks you in the face and feels his heart skip several beats.

❀ ❀ ❀

You’re perfect.

That’s the only word Jaemin’s head can offer as he looks at you, his heart seems to tremble in his chest at the sight of your pure smile. It’s not even directed at him, for fuck’s sake. But still, you are so lovely, and he almost stands up to walk over you. He’s Jaemin; if you’re born to break bones, he was born to flirt.

Almost. He decides against it, because of one single reason.

Jaemin has fallen in love several times. But he’s never met a soulmate before, and especially not his own. It’s different, the flower that begins to bloom in his heart for you, different from anything else in the world and only distinctive to children of love. Forget-me-nots, gardenias and cherry blossoms, they all settle in his heart, waiting for you to pluck them and make them yours. He doesn’t want anyone else to have them but you, and it didn’t matter if you are going to tear them apart or treasure them.

He had asked his father before, if soulmates were real. Not a very serious question, but nonetheless still spoken out of curiousity. Jaemin sees relationships like an outstander, able to change and fix, more than easy to manipulate. Love is unsure, it can never be caged. It’s meant to be free. Undeciding. Unraveling.

“They’re real,” Eros had responded. “Of course they are. There is a little truth in every myth. I don’t know if they’re really the people who were conjoined and cut apart by Zeus and his cowardice. But every once in a while, the Fates sit down and meddle with our business, for a relationship made in the stars. It’s not common, son. I haven’t seen them for a long time.”

And yet here you are.

He’s heard about you. That Ares girl, the one who’s so over-protective of a certain chinese business student.

He wonders if you attend NCT parties often.

❀ ❀ ❀

Yuqi doesn’t want you to go to parties. She says your temper explods too fast whenever you have a swig too much and she doesn’t know how to control an angry, intoxicated demigod. Everybody knows that whenever an Ares child is involved in a fight, someone ends up in the hospital. As a consequence, you are rarely offered a drink.

The only reason you attend parties is to watch your friends and/or play designated driver. That’s why you’re standing in this kitchen you’ve never been in clutching a glass of ice tea, and not the whiskey you’ve been eyeing across the table for half an hour now. It’s a shame, really. Drunk you is always so funny. People were denied of that show by Yuqi’s rule against getting drunk in public. Every fifteen minutes, she sends you a checking glance, and you’re still sober every time she does.

Na Jaemin is not. He’s not drunk, really, just buzzed, and that’s enough liquid courage he needs to approach you. The smile adorning his lips makes your stomach flip in an unknown way, and you let him approach you, curious of what he’s planning to do. “You’re not drinking,” he states inquisitively, free hand pointing at your alcohol-free cup. “Don’t like getting drunk?”

“Oh, I do. But I tend to beat people up when I do.” You sigh, crossing your arms in front of your chest, hoping that your silly heart would catch the drift and stop beating at multiple hundred miles an hour. He’s so stunning; This must be what Adonis had looked like, there’s no other explanation. The dazzling smile, the honest eyes that let you see every corner of his soul willingly. Not a single wall pulled up to protect himself. “But you seem to be having fun.”

“Only a little,” he laughs. That sound does wonders to your heart. You also wonder what the hell is going on with you. “But not too much, you know how we Eros children can get when the alcohol hits at once. Not a nice sight.”

“Can’t believe anything that has do with you not being a nice sight.”

The pick-up line is spoken with confidence, yet your cheeks heat up in an instant. Jaemin gauges your reaction, and his fingers twitch. He wants to cradle your face and take you up to his room to show you what else kind of sights he offers. And somehow at the same time, he kind of wants to squish your cheeks and run his fingers through your hair. Very conflicting. Jaemin tends to feel too much, too fast.

But with you, everything moves smoothly. Meant to be. Like the universe had mapped this out a long time ago.

“You’re cute,” he tells you, liking the way you shyly lower your gaze. He cannot possibly imagine you punching someone in the face, but he likes the fervor and passion he finds in your eyes. Love and war are very similar. It’s the first thing Jaemin was ever taught.

He tugs at your fingers, and you don’t stop him when he curls his pinky around yours. “Come on. Let’s do something fun.”

The house is stuffed with people who are trying to have a good time. Jaemin takes you deeper into it, leading you towards a group of people you recognize, but don’t actually know. Amazingly, they were playing billiard in their drunken state, and even though most of them have been drinking for a long time, they still hit their targets dead-on. You join them, and the entire night, Jaemin doesn’t move from your side. He wraps an arm around your shoulders and your waist every once in a while but other than that, he respects your boundaries and follows the game intently, pouting when he loses and grinning smugly when something goes his way.

Jaemin throwing his head back in laughter is the most ethereal thing you’ve ever seen in life. He sets off electric currents in your veins, the very same ones you chased every time you were fighting someone.

Is this what a crush feels like?

❀ ❀ ❀

Jaemin decides that the perfect way to wake up is next to your pretty face.

He’s aware of the fact how creepy this is. But he cannot take his eyes off you, unable to will his gaze away. Every curve and slope of your body is breathtaking. Your hands are resting beside your head, and even though he winces at the cuts that adorn the back of your hand, it just... fits you so well. Never ever in his life has Jaemin felt like this before. It’s just impossible, how you wrap him around your little finger just by looking into his direction. You’re the sun, and he’s the planet orbitting you.

Matchmakers aren’t usually made into a match. But he finds himself perfectly content at your feet, even though the feeling is powerful and foreign. His mind is haywire.

Jaemin likes it. He likes it a lot.

When your eyes flutter open, his heart nearly jumps out of his chest because of the blush settling on your cheeks. “Hi,” you whisper, and he angles his body towards you, desperate for any kind of attention you’re willing to give him. “Hey, princess,” he answers, fingers twitching to hold yours. “Slept well?”

“Yeah.” You don’t move. Instead, you set your pretty eyes on his hands which are resting just below yours, and he wishes for you to take them. He’s too much of a scaredy-cat to do it himself. And that is so untypical of him - Na Jaemin isn’t scared of shit, affection is his second nature.

But you’re different. You were the match that set him ablaze, and his entire existence has shifted to accomodate you.

“Thank you for letting me stay over.” Fingers brush past his. He almost groans in frustration. “I was way too tired to drive home yesterday, and it was really fun, even though I was sober.”

“You don’t need to be drunk to have fun, princess,” is all he says, and it takes his entire courage for him to raise his hand and brush his knuckles against your cheek. Jaemin feels like ascending to heaven when you nuzzle his face against them, and he cups your face. You don’t stop him. You watch him, eyes curious, waiting. Jaemin inches closer.

Children of Eros don’t hold back. They exist for love and for passion, for lust and for loyalty. Emotions for them are inner explosions, felt more intensely than any other person in the world. And right now, he’s dying from anticipation.

“(y/n),” Jaemin murmurs. “I’m going to kiss you.”

His hand leaves your face to rest beside your shoulder, and your breath hitches when he lifts himself to hover over you. For a second, he thinks he’s overdone it. Instead, your fingers find his shirt and grip it tightly, godly strength shimmering through, tugging just so slightly. “(y/n),” he repeats. He needs you to say it. Needs you to give him permission to get lost in you and your touch, his very own paradise in the form of the stars locked in your eyes and all the love in the world in your smile.

If angels really exist, Jaemin is pretty sure they look like you.

“Please,” you whisper. Jaemin’s free hand moves to hold your waist, and you let him tug your shirt up so he can rest it on naked skin. You’re going to make him pass out, he realizes, because you’re so much to take in. So beautiful, so stunning, so alive.

“Please what, princess?”

You pull at his shirt, but Jaemin doesn’t move. You look cute when you bite your lip. “Please kiss me.”

You’re even cuter when you beg.

It should disturb him that the scent of blood lingers to your clothing like a constant afterthought. The bruises you’re going to leave on his shoulders because of your grip should scare him away. But all it does is draw him more in, and even though he’s the one in control right now, Jaemin feels like the little mouse walking right in your trap.

Hook, line and sinker. The moment your lips touch his, he’s a goner. Jaemin grips your waist tighter, hand sliding down to grip your thigh and guide your leg around his hips. He’s very aware that you could crush his shoulders with his bare hands, but the pain you inflict starts to turn into a guilty pleasure. How are you so powerful without knowing it? He tugs at your lower lip, welcoming the whine you let slip a little bit too enthusiastically, tongue meeting yours in a heated frenzy.

Jaemin thought he knew what love was. If not him, who else would? But after this, all his definitions are rearranged and they all spell out one name: yours. He’s barely able to abandon your lips, finding solace in the way you arch your back when he nips at your neck, leaving love bites wherever he can reach. The sound of his name falling from your lips is seriously messing with his sanity. Your hands move on from his shoulders to his hair to tug at the dyed locks, and Jaemin moans at the feeling.

Your taste of heaven is interrupted by someone furiously knocking against his door. Once, twice, until someone angrily yells from outside the room: “Na Jaemin, I’ve told you a thousand times that you have clean-up duty! Get your ass up!”

Jaemin groans, lips still attached to the column of your throat. Your legs keep him trapped against you and you close them tighter, to Jaemin’s delight. Neither of you want to be seperated right now. “Go away, Mark.”

“If you don’t get your ass outside in two minutes, I’ll come in and say hello to your female companion, you dick.”

You giggle at that. “Go, go,” you urge him, shyly cupping his face in your tiny hands to kiss him for a few seconds, way too short for his liking. He’s going to kill Mark for this. Jaemin looks you in the eyes for just a few seconds longer, then he rolls off from you in a pout.

The room feels really warm now. Sitting up, you fix your hair and he watches you, entranced. Like you’re his favourite movie and he didn’t want to look away. Mark keeps his promise, bursting in through the door to get his friend, but Jaemin pushes him out and steps into the hall with him.

“Write down your number before you leave, princess,” he calls over his shoulder, and then the door is shut.

❀ ❀ ❀

“I can’t believe you hook up with someone the second I leave you alone.”

“For the last time, Yuqi! I didn’t hook up with him!”

Your best friend is sprawled across your floor, fanning herself with her hand. It’s hot outside, the blue sky calming you down just by looking at it. For someone who lives to destroy you sure have your knack for aesthetics. “Then what else do you call it?” Yuqi hums.

You don’t know what to call it. You don’t have a noun for the feeling that Jaemin ignited, and you couldn’t get rid of it, despite avoiding him for a full week. Someone like you wasn’t supposed to feel like this. So ... weak. At someone’s beck and call. You are made out of conflict, strength and violence. Love wasn’t something Ares had in mind when he created you.

No, you scold yourself mentally, don’t refer to it as love. It’s not love. Love is stupid. But there isn’t any other way to describe it. All the books lie. There aren’t any fireworks or butterflies in your stomach. It feels like war elephants are running rampant, and your heartrate spikes the second someone mentions the J in Jaemin. The worst thing is that you miss him, had longed for him the entire week, inner turmoil caused by your wish to fall into his bed again or to run away from this university as far as possible.

You may not notice, Yuqi watches you. Your nervous antics of cracking your fingers and tugging at your hair. Both of you know there’s no way to win this war, no matter how long you sit down to think about a good strategy. There’s only one solution: admit defeat.

Something you were very, very bad at.

“(y/n),” the girl sitting on the ground speaks, voice soft, careful. Her eyes remind you of an owl’s. “You should have just left him your number.”

You breathe in shakily. “I don’t know him.”

“But you want to.” Her hands grip yours, finally pulling you out of that terrifying place in your head where you punish yourself for never being in love before and making this so hard for yourself. “I know this is new territory for you and you dislike things that are unknown to you. But just because you were born to fight, doesn’t mean you automatically aren’t born to love and to be weak. Your father loves war. Your mother loved him. Was she weak because of that? Absolutely not. She taught you how to fight and survive in this world, to stand up after being kicked down, to earn your place. Is that not what true warriors do? Is that not strength?

You bite your lip. Then you nod. Yuqi raises her head to kiss your forehead. “Don’t forget that love is the most powerful thing in the entire world,” she reminds you. She looks like Athene more than ever right now, her gaze firm, determinded. Razor sharp mind cutting apart this scary new feeling for you so you can digest it.

“Now go get your man.”

❀ ❀ ❀

[1:33pm] y/n: i should have written down my number

[1:34pm] jaemin: why didn’t you, princess?

[1:36pm] y/n: i’ll tell you personally if that’s okay with you

[1:36pm] y/n: dream café in five minutes

❀ ❀ ❀

Love is an act of surrender to another person.

Your father never taught you what that is. There is only victory in being the last one standing, winning, living to tell the tale. There is no room for error, or for weakness.

The strong ones never admit defeat. That was what Ares had imprinted into your mind from the minute you were born into this world. But what Ares doesn’t know is that he’s wrong. He’s not all-mighty, no God ever is. Their countless myths are living proof for that. And that is why you know that surrendering doesn’t mean being weak. It’s the most brave thing you could ever do, and not every one is able to do that. That itself is a strength. A streng not everyone possesses, but you’re willing to take the risk to acquire it, to step into the unknown, a blind fall.

It would be worth it if Jaemin was waiting to catch you.

He looks as beautiful as always as he approaches you, hands tucked into his leather jacket. You had been terribly afraid of him being angry with you, but he only sends you an angelic smile and dips down to drop a feather-light kiss on your cheek. “You changed your mind,” he beams at you.

Puzzled, you blink up to him. “What?”

“You had a change of heart.” Jaemin raises his hand and rests it on his chest, eyes never leaving yours. The amount of trust and joy you find in his eyes is astounding. “I felt it right here. I knew you’d be able to do it.”

You suddenly remember who Jaemin’s father is. While he grins at you, your cheeks heat up to a thousand degrees, and you cough to cover it up. “I did,” you mumbled. “And I’m so sorry of letting you wait. I... I’ve never felt for anyone like this before. I’m not used to feeling alive unless it’s because I’m breaking someone’s nose.”

Jaemin wraps both arms around you, and you rest your hands on his shoulders. Moving on instinct was common for the both of you. “I’m glad you found that feeling by being with me and not actually punching me,” he teases you. “And for the record, I’ve never felt like this either. You’re very special to me. And that’s why I was willing to wait. So stop apologizing, princess.” His face inches closer to yours, mischievous glint in his eyes. “I haven’t even taken you on a date yet. Very scandalous, if you ask me.”

“So that kiss meant nothing you? Traitor.”

“Hey, that’s hot how I meant it.” You both laugh, though you’re disrupted by him kissing you sweetly. “I don’t need any dates when my heart’s already yours. But you deserve to be treated like a princess, and to get properly taken out and pampered. I want to give you the world, (y/n). Will you let me?”

You do.

Somewhere in Greece, three old, angry hags are disappointed with your lack of protest. They had expected more ruin and punishment for Na Jaemin as an effect of tying your strings together. They should’ve remembered that Jaemin learned all his tricks from his father, who secretly lent his son a helping hand.

What did Jaemin say again? What the Fates don’t know, shouldn’t bother them.

#again i wasnt sure where i went with this LMAO but i quite like how it turned out #i’m still working on writing my one-shots longer; it’s kinda strange not tying everything together at once #but it’s getting better hehe #i hope you guys enjoyed the read #tell me what you think about it 🤍 ask box is open #na jaemin #na jaemin x reader #na jaemin fluff #nct dream #nct #nct x reader #nct dream x reader #nct fluff #nct dream fluff #nct scenarios #nct dream scenarios #na jaemin scenarios

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pidayforpi · 5 years ago

Text

“Hey laddie.”

Rory McDuckula beckoned the gosling with his hoarse yet elegant voice.

Heinrich paused in his reading. How he hoped that old vampire wasn’t calling him. But without any other person in the castle room, the vampire duck must be referring to him.

Yet, Heinrich pretended that, perhaps, Rory was calling Duckula, who might had just entered the room. He tried to focus on his book, stopping his trembling hands.

“You, laddie. You.”

Rory called a second time. There’s no escape. Heinrich knew he must answer, out of courtesy, out of fear.

He slowly turned around, heart racing, eyes wide opened, and looked at the master of the house in his blood-red eyes.

“Y-y-yes, m-mister Mc-Mc-McDuckula...?”

Despite his constant self-reminder, Heinrich still couldn’t kick off his old habit of stuttering. He couldn’t blame himself - He was facing a master wampire, and his ol’ doctor wampire hunter wouldn’t let him forget how dangerous wampires were.

“C’mere.”

Heinrich instinctively followed the order, closing the book without inserting the bookmark first. He could feel his pale yellow feathers stood up, his body uncontrollably shaking. And he knew the vampire could notice this as well.

“Y-y-yes, s-sir...?”

Heinrich politely asked Mister McDuckula what his request was, to which Rory snickered.

“Jugular.”

An adjective. No noun. No verb. And Heinrich already knew what Rory was up to.

There’s only one thing a vampire wanted to do with a mortal’s jugular vein.

Heinrich felt his heart sink. He remained silent, hoping to buy some time, at least delay his suffering for a bit. Despite being a vampire hunter’s assistant (and a budding vampire hunter), he knew he was no match for Rory. Even if Heinrich refused his offer, Rory could easily force his prey to accept his request.

Seeing how reluctant his prey was to offer himself, Rory got up from his chair, and took a step forward.

“You think ‘Glen Sparrows Hotel’ accept cash? Credit card? That I would allow you two in my castle without a price?”

“N-n-n-n-n-nein, s-s-s-s-sir...”

Rory grinned, showing his sharp, white fangs.

“Then you know what to do.”

Heinrich looked down at the wooden floor, silent.

He was going to be a vampire hunter. He shouldn’t go down without a fight. After all, since he first saw the “hotel manager” and immediately knew that the manager was a vampire, he knew a fight was inevitable. He could tell a vampire just by looking at them. Unfortunately.

But a huge part of him knew that fighting was futile. Even without using force, a glance into the vampire’s crimson eyes, and Heinrich would be wilfully offering his blood to his new “master”. A vampire of this class must knew some sort of hypnotism.

Heinrich walked backward for one step.

Rory walked forward for two steps.

Heinrich walked backward for two steps.

Rory walked forward for four steps.

Heinrich could no longer walk backward. His foot had hit a wall.

Rory no longer needed to walk forward. His prey had hit a dead end.

Heinrich’s frantic eyes darted left and right, searching for anywhere to run, anyone to ask for help. Nowhere to run, no one to ask for help.

“Now, don’t try to get away.”

The old vampire loomed over the young gander.

“You run, and I will catch you. You scream, and I will make you shut up...”

Rory traced a finger up the gander’s neck, finishing with a pinch.

“...the hard way.”

Heinrich felt his pupils shrinking to an unbelievable smallness.

Huffing and puffing, as if his heart was about to burst out.

Holding onto the reading table, as if he was about to jump out of his feathers.

The old vampire duck was getting grumpy at the youngster’s “indecisiveness”.

Rory backed down for a bit, and issued an ultimatum that would push Heinrich against the wall.

“Either you, or the doctor gets it.”

With just one conditional offer, the vampire duck successfully broke the hunter gander’s will.

Pupils dilating.

Heart stopping.

Hands loosing.

Rory knew his plan worked when the gosling’s yellow feathers bleached.

“I was craving for ganders, you see. Wampire hunter ganders.”

The Scottish duck’s imitated German accent reminded Heinrich of his Doctor Von Goosewing.

His teacher. His idol. His father figure.

He could see his dear doctor fallen prey to the master vampire in front of him. Dr Otto Von Goosewing, Greatest Wampire Hunter in Ze World, lying motionless in a pool of blood. His own blood.

With Rory lying next to him, sinking his razor-sharp fangs into the old gander’s jugular vein, feasting on the fresh, crimson blood.

And Heinrich was around the corner, watching helplessly as his closest one had his life sucked out. Alive, painfully.

All because of his cowardice.

All because of his incompetence.

How many times had he abandoned his dear teacher during vampire-hunting expedition? He would hide at the entrance of the castle, or outside of the secret tunnel.

Even stay behind on the Zeppelin.

But the doctor would never blame him. He was still young, after all, and him getting hurt was the last thing the doctor wanted to see.

Out of fear, Heinrich put his teacher in danger many, many times, letting the elderly gander venture into the beasts’ lairs alone.

And now, he was given the chance to save his own life, in exchange with his teacher’s. The key to life was the doctor’s death.

Heinrich wouldn’t allow that. Not anymore.

The doctor had risked his life to protect his so many times, it’s Heinrich’s turn to risk his life.

“Don’t keep an elderly waiting, hmm?”

Rory was getting impatient.

“Keep your beak shut, and I will take both of you.”

The vampire duck crossed his arms, fingers tapping, foot stomping.

Heinrich didn’t need the warning. He had already made up his mind.

He let go of the table edge, and stepped forward.

“Take mein...”

He managed to utter without stuttering. For once.

“What?”

Rory didn’t expect such a response from the person who had just been scared for his life.

“Take mein blood.”

Heinrich repeated, again without stuttering.

Rory looked at the gander for a while. Although he was still holding his head down, Rory could see the determination in his eyes.

But a deal is a deal.

“Well, don’t mind me then...”

Rory licked his chops tauntingly. He didn’t wait for Heinrich to walk to him. A yank at the collar of the gander’s clothes, and Heinrich was within biting range.

Looking behind the vampire duck, staring at the exit to the room, Heinrich could only wish the vampire would keep his promise, and his dear doctor would use this time to run away.

And hope that his teacher wouldn’t miss him too much.

Rory pulled Heinrich into a hug, pushing away clothing around his neck. Sparing no time, Rory located the blood vessel, held its approximate area close to his beak,

and bit.

Heinrich knew he was bitten. He knew the vampire duck had started his feast.

But somehow, it didn’t hurt. Not even a little bit. And he couldn’t feel his life being sucked away. Did master vampire know some sort of paralysis techniques, that would numb their victims?

Heinrich doubted it. The doctor should had told him everything about vampires.

3, 5, 10...10 seconds later, and Heinrich still couldn’t feel pain.

That Scotsman was playing with him, biting with his beak instead of his fangs.

Heinrich could tolerate dying a prey, but not a toy.

“Just get on with it! You, you...”

Heinrich shouted the only curse words he knew.

“You wampire willian...!”

As soon as he finished his first-time cursing (sort of), he felt something covering his head from behind. Everything went black all of a sudden.

Heinrich pushed Rory away, strangely without difficulty, and tried to get the object off his head. He took it off, and it was none other than the Scotsman’s own Tam o’ Shanter.

The owner of the cap was laughing wildly, his hands holding his abdomen in pure amusement. Heinrich held the broad cap, confused, but still cautious with the vampire duck.

Finishing with a wipe of tears, Rory gave the most unexpected explanation (to Heinrich, at least).

“I was just messing with you, boyo.”

Heinrich stood still without response.

“It was a joke! A prank! Or whatever you kids call it.”

Heinrich looked down, with his eyes wide and beak slightly open.

“I wasn’t trying to eat you or your...well, guardian. Both of you are of wrong collar sizes! Not my cup of tea. Or, well, blood.”

Rory continued giving his explanation on his “harmless” behaviour just now, oblivious to the shaking gander in front of him.

Until Heinrich dropped his Tam o’ Shanter, and let out a devastated wail.

Of all the responses Rory expected, Heinrich crying was not one of them. He expected Heinrich to be surprised, to be embarrassed, or even take out a stake-and-hammer and stab him in the chest.

But no. What Rory had to deal with was a crying little gosling, traumatised from the near-death experience, scared of the monster threatening to eat him and his beloved.

Caught off guard, now it’s Rory that was panicking.

Living a secluded life, how would he know how to handle a crying child?

He wouldn’t have to now. Unfortunately.

“Wow, Heinrich! What happened?”

Duckula opened the room door to see the bizarre scene. A scenario even the zaniest duck in Transylvania found weird.

“We were off practising for the Highland Games for half-an-hour, and you are already bullying poor little Heinrich?”

Duckula rushed to Heinrich’s side, patting him on his soft feathered head, while accusing the elder vampire duck. Rory couldn’t deny it, but also didn’t want to admit it.

Just when Rory was about to make up an excuse, the last person he wanted to see entered the room.

“Heinrich? Heinrich!”

Dr Von Goosewing pushed open the door, dashing to his assistance and giving him a warm, big hug. Goosewing didn’t have time to scold Rory - leave that to Duckula - all he cared now was his dear assistant.

Among the awkward situation, Rory was a bit disappointed he couldn’t praise the gosling crying on the floor. Even if it was just a prank, he displayed great heroism for his beloved Doctor Von Goosewing, overcoming his cowardice and fear, sacrificing himself for someone else. Such quality was seldom seen in men, let alone malicious, selfish vampires.

But for now, Rory really needed to re-examine his sense of humour...

(8-5-2020 ~ 10-5-2020)

#count duckula #heinrich #rory mcduckula #duckula #doctor von goosewing #storyteller #story #short story

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courtorderedcake · 5 years ago

Text

Hallow : ch xiv - CSSNS 2019

“The Goblin King was prepared to host the Darkness, stealing Fae women away to their corrupted lands underneath the ground as concubines. The Darkness chose another in his stead, but not before this selected vessel enacted a devastating attack in its vengeance, revealing its hatred & rage. The battle was a lesson the old kings had forgotten; never underestimate an opponent.

Many more lives were lost as they razed over any who dared defy The Goblin King’s will. Only the pure love of our rulers united in matrimony, breaking the Vorpal Dagger, sealed the darkness and the Goblin menace away. The light flourished under their fair rule, and the queen bore a child as pure as moon beams, swan feathers, and starlight. They lived happily ever after, and shall be written in history as Heroes for All Time.”

This is the history Princess Emma memorizes from the day she is born, paraded about and presented only with the highest protection. The palace is a cage she wishes to escape, desperately. Not careful what wishes she made, Emma discovers history is written by the victors - The Dark One has an entirely different version of the events that took place.

Read on AO3 here.

Rated E for explicit themes, Mature situations, and Fae fuckery.

Written for @cssns

Ch / ?? - In which they will always find each other

He woke to Lilly sitting beside Emma, holding her hand in her own. The sight made his stomach lurch. While things were still jumbled in his head, he could distinctly remember her betrayal as she burned the castle they were in to the ground as a Dragon, and her indifference on the beach as Emma was drained. She looked up to see him watching, and he could see she was crying, tears falling over a bitter frown.

“I know. I don’t have any excuses… Cruella manipulated me as if I was a puppet. I couldn’t see it before, but now it’s like I see everything.” Lilly looked down, lightly smoothing Emma’s hair. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know how - I don’t think I’m a match for her here or there. She’s so much more powerful than I ever could imagine. She fooled us all.”

“Did you see Emma? I couldn’t get to her before I woke. Isaac pulled me into some kind of bubble. She looks even weaker, and last I saw her…”

“Cruella is draining so much more than usual. I don’t understand how or why Cruella keeps taking her magic, but Emma is falling apart. Her dreams are sometimes unstable, her magic is too powerful to be contained within the rites, and it’s not always Isaac in control. I am really frightened for her.” Lilly swallowed hard. “I saw Cruella talking to this… this thing; a big black monster wearing a no face, I mean, a husk mask. It spoke in a thousand voices, and was almost gelatinous, forming limbs as it pleased. Emma swore she saw the same monster in the bath house here, and it told her that it was ‘Hungry’. I didn’t believe her then, but I heard it say the same thing as Cruella soothed it. She promised it that she would free it soon, as soon as she was done fattening it up. Does she mean for it to eat Emma? Why would she befriend that thing?”

Isaac’s words began to return to him.

“The hungry ghosts. Cruella wants Emma to be a husk. If Emma falls and loses herself, Cruella will be more than powerful, practically unstoppable, with Emma’s magic fueling her own. That creature you saw is what’s left of the husk’s who got lost in those fantasies, tricked by Cruella. Isaac has an idea - Emma has to hang on, has to shock herself awake through nightmare after nightmare, but not lose herself in the process.”

“Cruella is not going to go down without a fight,” Lilly warned, and he nodded, Emma’s pull making him suddenly tired. “I’ll keep watch. Get Emma out of there, and please keep her safe.”

“That’s the plan. I won’t leave her.” He closed his eyes, feeling himself leave the cathedral.

A noise stopped him and as if he was a ghost, he looked down at Emma, himself, and Lilly struggling against two men. One carried a crowbar while the other brandished a club, swiping at her as she looked back to where they lay. With a pucker of her lips and a deep breath, Lilly blew fire in a circle around them all, the men stalking the perimeter.

“Now now, Lillykins. That wasn’t very fair, considering. Horace and Jasper just wanted to greet you with a firm salutation.” Cruella stepped across the flames, the orange fire going green as she passed through. She smiled in her spotted dress as Lilly backed up against the dais.

“What more do you want? You’re killing her!” Lilly yelled, and Cruella laughed.

“I’ve been doing this for a long time now, luvvie. If I’d do it to my own kin, what makes her anything special? It’s poetry that she’s also an enemy, and so strong, but I’d have manipulated this outcome regardless.” Cruella smiled, approaching where Emma slept. “Now listen, be a darling little beast and move out of the way so I can make sure no one interferes anymore. It’ll only take a minute.”

“No! Why are you doing this? What do you mean your own kind? I don’t understand, I -"

The man with the club connected it hard to Lilly’s skull, Cruella looking on with a piteous grimace. The Dragon princess crumpled, falling to the floor and twitching, Killian’s view stuttering as she lost consciousness. Cruella tried to push Lilly aside with her foot, but grew annoyed within seconds.

"Horace! Jasper! Throw her in the crypts. I have work to do.”

The taller of the men picked up Lilly as the Dragon groaned, Killian relieved to see her alive. They stepped out, and his vision of the cathedral grew foggy. The pull was getting too strong to resist as Lilly faded further into his mind, regardless of his grounding anger towards the Kitsune queen.

“Oh, Princess. You will be the finest of my collection. When my ghosts get a taste of you, oh, how they’ll feast. You’ll all be so angry,” Cruella cackled, her voice far away now. “I cannot wait to see what the full extent of your magic can do.”

*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

The explanation Killian had given Queen Snow was thorough, but much more like a briefing than the story of what had all gone on. He intentionally skirted around his and Emma’s misunderstandings, both good and bad, and left out as much of Her Grace’s mistakes as possible. If that conversation was to be had, it belonged rightfully to Emma. Telling her that Emma’s determination and belief that he had faith in her was enough to place her in peril would be more than enough of a conversation between him and the queen. It didn’t help that he had to bite his tongue to stop himself from praise, Emma’s unselfish, kind, and courageous attempts to save him from cruelty while he should have been protecting her forefront in his mind now that Cruella preyed on them so openly.

“So, a sleeping curse cast by none other than Cruella De Villé. I wish I could say I was surprised. I truly had hoped Maleficent’s influence and Regina staying the sword over their necks would have changed their ways.” The queen sighed deeply. “That still begs the question, why did you run to my daughter’s aid?"

Because I would do anything to save her. I owe her that, a thousand times moreover. Because I…

"I already destroyed my own family once and that was hard enough.” He kept his tone formal, although his nerves felt like they were fraying as the queen observed him with an owlish glare. His unfinished thought rattled him. Did she know? “But knowing that I destroyed yours, too? I just—I didn’t know how I could live with that."

"Interesting, but not an answer that relates directly to Emma. From what I have gathered, you have saved my daughter several times now, nearly meeting very unpleasant consequences for doing so. The way you danced with her, your mannerisms and candor, it all belies a sense of familiarity that goes past friendship.” She raised an eyebrow, and he could feel the burn of her eyes on him. “Considering your… track record as it were, I’m wondering what you see of value in Emma that you would risk injury for. How do I know you haven’t just poisoned her into a cursed sleep like you did to me?”

Killian gulped, and her eyes narrowed.

“I don’t know how to live with myself after I…” The pause was awkwardly long, but the queen nodded in understanding, encouraging him to continue.

“Knowing fully, being unable to escape it in my cowardice by fleeing to Darkness - I can’t do that with her next to me. Every action I took, the massacre I committed haunts me, and I carry its weight as I should, and as I have to. Most killed weren’t even men; we trained green boys to go to a slaughter. I see their faces over and over without the ability to stop myself. I failed them, and I lost them. So many lost men, lost boys, all of them at my hand but not my will. I will never forget them. I can’t forget that night or so many like it following the dagger’s commands. I am trying to overcome this, to make sure that I am never a danger again, Darkness or not.”

“Lost boys and men come back to haunt anyone with a part in the war, but you have to be first on their list. You say you had no control, and now you do because of my daughter’s presence. Are you sure my Emma is not a crutch for you?” she asked.

“She isn’t. She asks of me to lay with her -” Her reaction was vicious and instantaneous, the blade to his neck back and closer to spilling his blood than before.

“You’ve been intimate with my daughter? I should kill you right now for that alone and pray it sticks!"

"I swear on Liam and his honor, I haven’t touched her other than to lay beside her -” Killian rasped, pressed back into the wall. The queen was smaller than him or even Emma, but she was faster and far stronger than he’d expected.

The sword jutted up harder, and he tried not to swear.

“With no intentions more than soothing her from the shock she’s developed.”

The queen lowered her sword, looking surprised. She backed up a step still pointing the blade at him. “Emma has developed…"

"She is unable to rest at all without having fits of panic in her sleep. It isn’t my place to say, but she has seen more bloodshed than most nobles, even when I have tried to guard her from it.” He rubbed his neck breathing hard, the queen biting her lip and looking aside. “There’s also her fear of Nil, especially considering what he’s said he wants to do to her.”

“My poor… Oh, my Emma,” she whispered.

“I swear to you that I have no plans to have any sort of relationship with her after this. The Darkness will never allow it and I can’t risk hurting her.” He laid out his hands in a gesture of supplication, the queen sheathing her sword. “I want her to be happy.”

The queen took a moment to smooth her dress and tuck in her sword under a bit of skirt. After the moment of silence, she spoke quietly.

“You sound as if you have feelings for her, though.”

She was as perceptive as Emma, staring through him like glass.

Killian shook his head. “Only in a place where I am allowed to have them. I’m not as lucky in the waking world. I’m aware in both of my…” He grimaced, and clasped his hands behind his back. “I know I am far below the mark for who is worthy of her, even without her status, and I am very aware of my limitations regarding my curse. I carry the Darkness, outside of these rites. I can’t be around her, I can’t have feelings for anyone, let alone her. I also know my limitations regarding my history with everyone she holds dear. I would never allow that sort of pain for her. When she wakes, she will have forgotten this, and anything other than undergoing the rites."

"Hm. Well,” she mused, and pressed her hand to her cheek. “Let’s see how Emma responds to these emotions of yours, knowing that you are under my watchful gaze and in great peril should you be anything less than her standards. You may be poisoning her heart and mind, as you sentenced me to sleep without waking. Although…"

Her shoulders tightened as she opened the door to let them out of the dim study. He almost did not hear her whisper when it came.

"Emma is a surprisingly good judge of character, except when it comes to you, apparently."

He nodded. "That I wholeheartedly agree with, Your Majesty.”

They walked back through the corridor and into the ballroom where Anna, Ingrid, and Emma looked up with surprised delight.

“There you are! We were just telling the princess about your skill at sailing and the sword. She’s never been on the sea, you know.” Ingrid smiled coyly, pulling a goblet to her lips to drink. Emma blushed, and Anna curtsied at the queen who waved her off.

“Anna, you never need do all that. Formality went out of our shared window when you brought ducklings into our dormitories and I somehow became their mum. As far as I am concerned, while David is my husband, you were clearly my first partner.” Anna laughed brightly, and the queen gave Killian a nod as she pulled Ingrid and Anna away.

“I take it my father is sulking somewhere from my mother’s tongue lashing?” Emma asked, wringing her hands.

Killian snorted at the truth of the situation, but pulled a chair out, offering her a seat. She sat with a sigh, playing with a leftover bit of cheese on her small tasting plate.

“Something like that. He was just worried is all. My family doesn’t have the best legacy -"

"You and Captain Liam have fixed that legacy ten times over, and the Arendelle kingdom sings your house’s praises! What nonsense! Why I -” Emma huffed, crossing her arms.

“How do you know all that?” he interrupted to ask, looking at her as she opened her mouth to speak, then abruptly closed it. She thought for a moment, then pressed fingers to her temples.

“I don’t know, actually,” Emma murmured after a long pause. “I know so much about you that I can not figure out how I have learned. Like I said before, it’s like I know you."

"Tell me something about myself, and if it’s right, I’ll reciprocate. If it’s not, you know that you’re just overwhelmed by your neverending duties to people who you feel don’t care about the real you, but only as some figurehead ideal, and you have created some elaborate, imagined story for me.” Her head shot up as she looked at him in shock. “You may find we know a lot about the other somehow, instinctually. As if you’ve known all along.”

“How…? Alright. Alright then.” Emma straightened, squaring her shoulders and locking her eyes with his. “You hate hot chocolate, even with cinnamon, which is a dreadful shame. You take Chicory instead, black as night, and like all sorts of bitter things. You don’t like thunderstorms, or like things out of your prescribed order, and both make you tense; the former more than the latter. You won’t admit that you enjoy dancing, but you do, and my theory is that it is a way for you to separate your mind from the action that is almost muscle memory. While you are very skilled with a sword, you are better with a cutlass that’s a bit longer, and better still with a pole, trident, or halberd. You know the constellations in the night sky as if they were friends you are describing, and can identify just about any fish or plant.”

Emma paused, thinking hard. “In fact, actually - I think you’re smarter than me, both in ways of the outside world’s workings which is to be understood, but rarer still, better read than me. What I don’t know you do, and the things that have escaped your knowledge, I am well versed on. The only thing we both don’t know is history, but that’s because it’s all based on testimony…”

Her eyes widened, but she stopped, her lip pulled between her teeth as her mind turned over what she’d discovered.

Smiling, he leaned forward. “That was more than one, love. But, then again, you only pretend to like rules. Truly you find them suffocating. You love hot chocolate but also have a penchant for tarts, cookies, and cinnamon pastries preferably with glaze. You would eat granite rocks if they came with frosting on top, I’m almost positive.” Emma laughed, then covered her mouth with a blush. He continued.

“You lived - live within a precise and fine tuned schedule, reveling in chaos where you cou - can make it. You have napped in the library shelves to escape nannies, tormented Granny the cook with her own granddaughter just behind, and have played more tricks on visitors than you dare admit to. You don’t like the idea of being trapped anywhere, but have accepted it as your duty. It makes you sad, but the thought of disappointing your family makes you feel even worse.” She let him take her hand, and he could hear her breathing hitch. “You’re a good person, and lovely inside and out. You have an uncanny ability to bring people together and find the silver linings in the world that others can’t see. It may be frustrating sometimes to have to try and dissuade you from your efforts of playing savior, but you come out on top regardless.”

“Captain,” she began, slowly. He interrupted her with a laugh, and she raised an eyebrow.

“I was never a captain,” he managed to chuckle out, and she gave him a look of confusion. He squeezed her hand lightly. “Please - For you, it is always Killian.”

She nodded. “That’s right. You are - were - a lieutenant, but I don't… I don’t understand any of this.”

“You don’t have to. If you don’t mind, I’d love to see this world with you. You talk about it often and it would be nice to have a visual to go with your stories."

"So we do know each other then?” He nodded and she smiled wide. “Do we - are we courting?"

"Not exactly, but for all intents and purposes, here we have the opportunity to if you wish it.” She blushed, but her grin remained.

“What is 'here’? My home, the palace? Or -"

He grimaced, trying to figure out any way to summarize. "That gets… It all becomes more difficult to unravel the further you go.”

“Well, the quicker you begin the story of how this all came to be, the quicker you will be out of it.” Emma smirked, rising. “I do so love a challenge.”

“Alright. Then I’ll start at the beginning, aye?"

"And I shall do the same, come.” Emma took his hand in hers, pulling him with her behind a curtain. Her body seemed to relax, the spring in her step more playful as she ducked into a corridor. “Let me spirit you away to my world.”

She led him to the library while he gave parts of their tale, pointing out to him towering shelves and long ladders leading to hidden alcoves, although her favorites for napping or hiding away were the highlights in her introduction of the grand space. Conspiratorially she showed him the hidden shelf that she hid illicit novels, the descriptions making her blush when he read them aloud.

“Devoted Acolyte and Priestess, Jeriline Clearbrook, has been devoted to her craft of healing all lost souls who wander through her temple. She serves as a perfect student of the Goddess Wü, her vow to preserve her maidenhood under the teachings sacramount.

When a non-believer from the barbaric North Kingdom is trapped within the temple walls by the magic of the Goddess, Jeriline fears that a terrible cosmic error has been made. Kadejah is rugged, unrefined, and headstrong in his beliefs - especially his belief that he should be free of his cursed confinement. His interest in Jeriline starts purely to gain his freedom, but slowly morphs into something more, challenging everything they both hold dear and their very identities.”

“It’s not as trite as the description would lead you to believe -” Emma sputtered, but as he read a particularly wicked passage about the priestess’s seduction, she ripped the book away from him.

“I thought it was illuminating, how despite their differences and the very Gods forbidding it,” Killian teased, trailing a finger over the color that graced her neck, “Kadejah still managed to make her 'scream his name as he filled her to the brim with his massive -’ "

"I can’t imagine why I don’t remember you at all,” Emma hissed, pushing the book back into its nook. “Such grand and supportive fun you offer.”

His teasing earned him a steely review of their next stops, as Emma tried to regain her calm amid his flustering her. The great hall and grand stairway were beautiful, and as Emma relaxed again, she seemed to remember him further. His comments began to meet her own, their rapport beginning to follow its normal beat. In the tapestry vault, she lingered closer to him, watching him carefully as he smoothed out long banners and throws. When Killian met her gaze, she did not flutter away or panic, but instead studied him closer still, looking for answers he knew she would find.

They spent time in the menagerie area where the royal collection of animals were kept, talking about everything they could remember about each other. When a topic changed, he brought up twenty questions or silly word games while Emma remembered more by the second. She stroked a bright yellow elephant, feeding it mango as Killian puzzled over guessing what his name might be.

“Mouse?” he asked, and she shook her head.

“Smaller, and more colorful, with almost infinite varieties.” Emma stroked behind the beast’s ear, earning a half trumpeted snort. “Think things that fly, but are hardy -"

"Bird?"

"No, but closer! Tinier still, although some can be large, I suppose. Same letter, and birds eat them.” Emma shrugged.

Killian snapped his fingers, sitting up. “Bug?"

Emma grinned, nodding. She tossed him a mango, and he approached cautiously, Bug lifting his long yellow trunk to grab the ripe fruit. "I ride him every odd occasion, in parades or into meetings if I feel the need to have a dramatic entrance."

"Well, he does make quite the statement,” Killian laughed.

Emma motioned her hand, and the elephant lifted him with ease, despite his yelp. After a moment he was seated along with her on its back, Bug carefully trotting down a hallway.

“This obviously wouldn’t be allowed normally, but I have always wanted to do this. My mother would lose her mind if she even got wind of the idea!” Emma giggled, and he laughed too. “I wonder how dream mom would react -"

"She’s not a dream, actually. At least I don’t think so. Do you remember everything yet, or…?” Killian asked. Emma shook her head, leaning back into him.

“Some things,” she whispered. “I am dreaming, and so are you, but you and I have feelings for each other. I can control some aspects, but there is a great evil lurking. I am being drained of my magic, and it hurts terribly."

"I am sorry. I should never have -"

"It’s alright. You and Lilly came in after me, but these dreams… They’re remarkable in their realness. It’s easy to get lost within them, and no one but us or a handful of others are cognizant of what is happening. The Other, Cruella and her different disguises, they’re used to this place. It’s giving them an advantage, and she’s using that to try to keep you and Lilly away from me.”

“Yes. You’re under a sleeping curse.” Bug stopped, and Emma hopped down from his back. Killian followed, Emma leading him to a familiar portrait. He took a deep breath, looking up at his brother painted so meticulously and true to life, it almost hurt.

“I remember sitting here more vividly now than ever,” she whispered, sadly. “I think this was the easiest world yet to let myself get lost in, truly lost in here. I’m a breath away from forgetting everything, especially if it meant having everything back, and you…”

“Your mum - the Queen, she may actually be here, love. She and I spoke,” Killian swallowed, deciding to keep the incident with Cruella to himself, as not to unload too much at once. “She seems to be in here with us somehow.”

Emma cocked her head to the side, looking thoughtful. “My mom was under a sleeping curse before, when…” She looked at him, then at her feet. “When the Goblin King made you…"

"When I poisoned your mum? And it’s any wonder she let me near you.” He tried to laugh, but it caught in his throat.

“Killian…” Emma took his hand, and smiled gently. “If she didn’t ram a sword down your throat, it’s a sign that she has a bit of hope for you.”

He chuckled, unable to stop himself. “She tried. I believe that like you discovered, I’m much too much of a hassle to dispose of that way.” Emma laughed, swatting at him. When he caught her hand, she led him away from Liam’s portrait and outdoors. They entered a pretty solarium, partially shaded and hidden by a copse of willows. Stained glass peppered the ceiling and walls in different shapes, casting rainbows on the stonework floor.

Flowers bloomed everywhere, pots and planters overflowing with blossoms. Emma walked towards the closed exit door, pushing hard to reveal an atrium of some sort, the door itself concealed behind a tall painting. French doors with intricate wood inlay stood partially open on one side of them, a sitting area and entry table in front of them. Another door lay beyond that, in what Killian guessed must be her bedroom. Emma closed the hidden passage behind them with a soft click.

“This is my chambers, and one of the secret ways in. That solarium is usually fully hidden unless you know the way.” Emma tugged him forward slightly, pointing at the artwork covering the passage. It was a forest scene, light streaming down onto foggy moss and wet leaves, the greens verdant and many colored leaves bright. “I was given this by a Contessa, who offered me so many different treasures. This was the only one that I found worthwhile, and truly beautiful.”

“You have good taste,” said a voice from behind them. They turned to see Emma’s father walking from her room. “Must have gotten it from someone.”

“Daddy! You scared me, what are you -” Emma attempted to take a step forward towards him, but Killian held her back. “What -?"

"Ask him something only your father would know.” Killian stared down the King, Emma continuing to look perplexed.

“Um…” she began. “Let me think I guess - uh -"

The King plunged a dagger through Killian’s chest, Emma screaming in shock at the sudden and unpredicted violence.

"I hate having to keep doing this, simply because you won’t listen, like a good puppy,” Cruella sneered, twisting the blade before wrenching it out. “Wake up, and stay out.”

The last thing he saw before everything faded to black was Emma’s terrified face.

*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

David N'lan was many things, even by Emma’s measure as his daughter. He could have a ferocious temper, as it had been written about in legends of his fierceness in battle or noted in his proud family history as a raging fury passed down from his father, grandfather, and great-grandfather, brutal warriors who made their marks as Kings. Emma had not learned much about them outside of the ballads of their victories or heroics, her father inheriting only some of their battlelust, the majority apparently settling in his twin brother James moreover. Her mother had said that Emma had a calming effect on him, even more so than their marriage had. Unless either of his 'favorite girls’ were threatened, the King was a fair, kind, jovial, and moderate man.

Emma had seen him truly angry only in a few circumstances, usually after the majority of whatever had vexed him seemed to have dissipated. Graham was terrified of her father after his threats, and the few instances that Emma had been hurt or could have been severely injured by carelessness had drawn his ire. Emma remembered his silliness, laughter, and his love first in any situation, followed by his ability to find humor and be overall lighthearted.

She had never seen the malice in his eyes, or the ravenous look of greed that curled his lips as Killian crumpled in front of her. Whoever, whatever , stood in front of her was no father of hers, and in no way could be any version of him.

Feeling panic try and root her to the spot, Emma pushed out an exhale, doing the opposite. The fear of what she believed wore her father’s face still tore a scream from her, but it was better to do so while running than allow it any more time near her. She heard it scrabble behind her, but willed her eyes to not look as she tore through the halls. Killian had said that her mother was potentially here, and Snow N'lan would never have let Killian get far with Emma if there were any threats or she had any possibility of worry - a cursed sleep met both requirements.

The flash of a reflection on the floor caught her eye, a sun spot bounced off a mirror. Following it with her gaze Emma made the quick turn as Cruella sounded right behind, and saw a great white and black dog creature crash into the wall out of the corner of her eyes. Emma barely kept her own footing, managing to grab her mother’s hand as the giant dog-like thing shook itself and gnashed its jaws.

Pushing Emma behind her and pulling her bow taut, Snow let arrows fly in rapid succession, Cruella falling dead in the form of a massive, wolf-like fox spirit, so close that their skirt hems ruffled with her last exhale.

“Sorry I couldn’t get her sooner. I’d hoped the Dark One would be more useful in providing protection for you, but -"

Emma hugged her mom, wrapping her arms tightly around her and sobbing like a child. The Queen stumbled slightly but as she laid her bow and quiver down, she wrapped her arms around her daughter in turn, soothing her gently.

"Hey now, hey my little buttercup, it’s alright. I’ve missed you so much Emma, we all do. We’re all so worried about you -"

"I’m so happy you’re here, Mom. I love you so much. Are you all OK? Please tell me you are all safe and alive - everything is so messed up, I don’t know what to do -"

"We’re surviving, and everyone is alright. Worse for wear, but alright considering. The Dark One said as much about things being difficult, if he is to be believed. I’m so sorry we didn’t prepare you better, I’m so sorry for sending you here with him. I should have gone with you, or your father…"

"I’m so glad you are all alive, oh Gods, I’ve been so scared! And yes, he is to be believed, he's… I trust him with my life."

"So I’ve heard, but I thought it was one-sided, or a falsehood. I suppose that he was telling me the truth.” Snow furrowed her brows. Glancing back at the dead animal, she pinched the bridge of her nose, and ushered Emma away from it. “Come, Emma. Let’s take tea in the drawing room until either that thing comes back, the Dark One returns, or we figure out a way to get you free of this. I feel we may need to talk.”

Emma nodded, watching Cruella fade away completely before standing up. Her mother led her to the sunny drawing room, its elegant doors open to a beautiful courtyard. They sat together while a servant fetched them tea and small cakes, both making small conversation. She found that she couldn’t recall the last time her mother had been free enough to do something as banal as tea between only the two of them, let alone idly chatting. When Emma felt relaxed, her mother struck.

“The conversation I had earlier, with the Dark One…” Her mother set her teacup down slowly, sliding the cup so the handle sat just so on the saucer. “You fell for him then, truly?"

"That’s what you’re focusing on? Seriously Mom?” Emma exploded, exasperated. Her mother eyed her shrewdly, and Emma felt a rage rise in her that roared like a lion. She pushed it down, the uncalled for and frightening urge to smack the calculated calm from her mother’s face too tempting after everything that had happened. “I’m hoping beyond hope that you are real, because yes, I did. He’s helped me navigate through all of your mistakes. He’s different when we’re together, and I -"

"Your father is going to go mad at this development,” Snow said, using both hands to pick up and sip at her tea. She sighed. “This was not what I meant when I said destroy the Darkness. As for my mistakes, I am aware of my rash judgements in the past but they certainly - ”

“Destroy? It’s not destroyed, it’s still in him. He’s just caging it, he - ”

“Emma. Do you know how we stopped him, and how we broke the Dagger?”

“True Love’s Kiss. It woke you from a sleeping curse. The Dark One poisoned you, his orders to preserve you for execution by the Goblin King. Father woke you as the Goblin King commanded the Dark One to kill you both -"

"Our kiss shattered the Dagger, and stunned the Darkness. I could feel it when I was filled with that power, when the light hit it. The tiniest smidgen hung on by a thread. That bit of Dark is what is left, and it can be destroyed no matter how loud it declares it cannot. If you love him - truly, unabashedly, love him - and if he can put enough faith in trusting himself to love you with complete denial of the Darkness’ pull, you could have a chance of True Love outside of this place. It’s the smallest chance of happiness, but there is a chance to save him. It means you risk everything: you risk breaking your heart for his benefit, and I don’t want that for you.”

“All love comes with the chance of heartbreak, Mom. All love means risk, and all love is a dangerous gamble. You and Daddy were a gamble; he risked everything for you, and to give you that kiss. You risked everything by agreeing to ascend to the throne, becoming a singular target. You both took chances and ended up making decisions based on faith in each other - I want that. I think Killian and I could have that. I finally feel like I have met someone who understands the walls I didn’t know I had built up. I love what I see when I bring down his own, and who he is.”

“You’ve grown so much, Emma. You almost sound as if you know what heartache this will bring you, as if you can fathom it, or understand the lengths men like him would go to, just to use you.”

“I do understand, Mom! I did grow up! I’ve been torn apart by this world and put myself back together only to get chewed up and spat out. I had to grow. There wasn’t an option, alright? Killian, he has been both the worst and the best, and he is growing too. He’s fighting for control for himself, first and foremost, and because he wants to be better. I wish you could just for one moment realize how much bullshit you’ve made me overcome!” Emma yelled, standing up in anger and knocking her tea cup to the floor. It shattered, and Emma let out a frustrated noise before taking in a deep breath, bending down to pick up the shards.

Her mother looked appalled, but kept quiet, staring at her as if she was a stranger.

“I’m sorry, Mom. I miss you so much. I miss all of you, and Father. I have longed for your counsel and tried so hard - I’ve had to undo and learn so much… It’s been a lot. I… I don’t feel like myself anymore. I’m a different Emma than you knew, and I am not sorry for that, just sad you can’t see what made me change and why I am making my decisions.”

Her mother’s face was unreadable, the expression one Emma hadn’t seen before: a cross between pensive anxiety and concerned sadness. Emma swallowed thickly, her mother a stranger before her as she had become a stranger herself.

“I…” Emma began, and choked down the sudden feeling of intense guilt that flooded her. “I need a moment. I think I’ll wait for Killian in the garden.”

“If you’re sure?” the Queen asked, and Emma nodded, the tone of voice her mother was using confirming her decision. When difficult dignitaries or events took place, her mother used that gentle firmness as an indication she wanted to be done, her tone to excuse herself politely.

Emma nodded, armor up and engaged, knowing that this truly was her mother in her dreamscape. Only a mother could twist her heart like this, and still wring out only love. “Yes, I’m sure. I’ll find you later.”

Her mother left quickly, and Emma felt relief, which in turn only made her feel even worse.

*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

Killian woke up with a start, the feeling of being eaten alive by the malignant Darkness, its sharp teeth leaving him stunned, like his bones were sucked clean of offal. He looked around for Emma and found her still sleeping, her pallor gray. She shivered and let out a tiny noise when he tried to wake her, skin clammy to his touch, Isaac’s thrall still holding tightly.

He let out a huff of frustration, his jaw muscle tight.

“Bloody hell."

He laid his head down beside her own, falling easily back into the curse. The Darkness resisted burning away, the tearing feeling of being flayed as the curse peeled it off of him like drowning in liquid flame.

You will regret this whence you return. This I promise.

I may not be able to stop you now, but I can certainly hurt her in this weakened state.

When it was done, he stumbled into the dreamscape gulping for air. Emma was waiting for him in the garden, looking exhausted but stunningly beautiful. The breeze was cool, flowers swaying, the pink color of their petals dappled with afternoon sunlight. The cloak she wore moved to the side, her white gown showing a long column of neck. Killian took a deep breath, remembering himself, remembering her and Gods was that a mistake when the cloak fell away. It was a wonder that anyone could look at her at all in her court dresses, everything tailored to stun, leaving him in awe even with his bias.

"You’re back! I swear to you, that wasn’t my father!” She ran to him, and he caught her as she examined him, checking to make sure he was awake. He swallowed hard, no, anything but hard, her hands trailing up the sleeves of his uniform. “I thought you left me alone in this place, I thought you abandoned me, and you weren’t coming back - ”

“Never. I’d never. If you have need of me, I will always come back. Did she hurt you? Do you know where we -"

"Yes. Yes, we’re in the dream, and I can feel I don’t have much time. It’s getting worse, the forgetting and them taking my magic. She tried, clawed me pretty good, but I ran. She’s getting stronger, Killian."

"I know, we are trying. We have to go through the nightmares soon -"

"In case you fail, I have a request,” Emma whispered against his chest.

“Anything. We’re going to get you out of here, but anything -"

Killian’s shoulders tensed when her lips pressed against his, the sharp inhale of surprise that he was sure she could feel when she let them press together. His panic left it chaste and awkward, leaving her to pull away in embarrassment.

With her face reddening, Emma stammered and stepped away. "I’m sorry. I just, I’ve never been kissed properly by you when we both - I mean, we both are aware and I - I thought that we were more than friends or companions or whatever we are. I wanted to remember, and if I was to remember anything it would be that. I shouldn’t have done that, please forgive me.” He caught her by the arm before she could escape, fighting back a well of emotion that ached.

At least she would forget as she had forgotten him before in these dreams, all the imagined early morning conversations, her kisses and the way he always came so close to wanting her while holding himself back. Even against not realizing what was going on, and understanding this was all fantasy, he had kept his lust for more of her tamped firmly down. He had known on some level what he was unable to remember, that she was more, and that she deserved consent.

The constants were now Killian finding her, and forgetting until it was too late - but always, always , wishing this was real.

#Hallow #Courtorderedcake #CSSNS #CSSNS 2019 #Captain Swan #Captain Swan Supernatural Summer #Captain Swan Fan Fiction #Captain Swan Kiss #Captain Swan Fanfiction #CS #CS FF #CS AU #CS Fanfiction #CS Fan Fiction #Captain Swan Fanart

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idhanbin-blog · 6 years ago

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where there’s smoke

archive, character building series -- on first love.

for the unique sensation of yearning for the first time. for realizing you’re not always who you want to be. for the good, the bad and the memories.

when he falls in love, it burns him whole. hanbin doesn’t know how to take it in moderation when it feels good, he wants his cup running over, he wants to go all the way. she teaches him that when she ignites the flicker of fire under his skin that night. one glance, one second too long, and he would have doused himself in gasoline for her.

he’ll sit for hours in a car, temple pressed to the window to feel the engine vibrating against his skull, songs of undying love and bitter separations looping in his earphones as countryside trees blur into cityscapes, and sometimes he thinks of her.

the memories of her are peppermint, red lipstick and hip bones jutting out against smooth skin. cherry cola flavored, tobacco scented. he doesn’t remember everything, but he remembers how she would slip his jacket on when they met after his practice, and how the rough denim of her jeans scratched his skin when their legs would tangle and his shirt would skirt up.

the older he grows, the less significant her presence in his life becomes, the shorter his mild weeks by her side seem amid the long, busy years. but she’s the thin trace of an old scratch that shouldn’t have scarred. she still lingers, still resurfaces.

they start off wrong. hanbin trespasses a number of limits: his curfew, the strained promise not to leave his friend’s house, the bar’s age restriction. with the right influence, which always means the wrong one in this kind of story, he breaks through each of those limits without pause of second thoughts. he has a match in two days and he shouldn’t be drinking - maybe he reaches for another to become stupid enough to forget that.

she’s hard to miss even through the liquor clouding his judgement, and the smoke clouding his sight. he sees her first, and something about the way she glows under dim lights is so otherworldly he doesn’t expect her to notice him. her eyes are sharp and heavy, something sad about them even as they glint purple and pink. he doesn’t hold his breath for her to cross his path.

yet, she does.

his lack of experience is glaring in the way he rests hands on her waist at her command, their youth even more obvious in their awkward touch of lips. neither of them really belongs in the grungy club tucked away in the shades of hot busan nights, but her farce is a perfect one to his impressionable eyes. her fishnets and well worn converse shoes would look desperate to anyone who knows better, but hanbin is still a true innocent. he doesn’t know girls like her.

they never warn boys not to go around seeking bad girls, do they?

they find each other when they can’t go back home. he understands how deafening silence is, she understands how suffocating your own bedroom feels three hours into a fight that seeps through the door. they run into each other again and again when there is nowhere else to go, and they have to stop calling it a coincidence at a certain point.

loitering around convenience stores becomes a habit, learning about one another over empty instant ramen bowls comes as a natural follow up. no one asks what two kids like them are doing out at this hour. they step in and out of the lights on the streets near home without question.

he fixes the strands of hair that always curtain over her eyes, tucking them behind her ear. she flinches -- it’s apparent she feels exposed because it’s the first time he can take all of her face in, no barriers. at the edge of a giggle, she tells him he has the saddest eyes she has ever seen. he smiles, not finding the words for an answer.

she lifts the hem of her shirt enough for him to see the old, pale stripes sitting on skin, reaching the small of her back. “when i was little, mama didn’t like it when i answered back,” she says with a smile when he doesn’t fill the silence, peering at his unblinking face with lips parted around a question that he doesn’t know how to ask. “she never liked me much, i guess. i don’t like her either.” she adds that hasn’t happened again since she grew up, like it’s an explanation.

the anger haunting her veins is familiar enough that he finds it easy to lean closer.

he becomes aware of the differences between them, little by little. they stand on a common ground but it becomes easy to see where his baggage ends and hers begins, bigger, deeper. but he doesn’t understand how the disparities come between them, doesn’t yet see that, while his fury burns white hot, hers is stone cold, petrified.

impenetrable.

there’s sweet with the bitter. this is foreshadowing, but he’d been glad to gloss over all those red flags in rearview.

her fingertip runs up the bridge of his nose, ghosts under his eye to rest at the peak of his cheekbone. he’s all poured out under her gaze, finding that he enjoys the way she bares him with her eyes, clothes and skin and pretenses, all at the floor.

it’s easy to drink in that smile, full of gums and fluttering lashes, that she only has for him. he feels light-headed when she puts her eyes on him, and their usual weariness gives place to something softer, honey-colored. the shivers crawl up his skin almost to the point his chest tightens and his spine quivers.

instinct crawling, foreboding. something ancient in his body has survived through the millennia and knows something he’s yet to learn.

all he knows is the novel excitement of her skin on his, the electricity, the orange pinks behind his eyelids. all he wonders is what he looks like in the frame of her own eyes, what colors she paints him that she’ll never tell him about.

he feels himself become rough, his skin dies after the sting of her sharp edges. she told him once things are only real if they hurt, and it still sounds like bullshit to him.

she’s half drunk on a tuesday, and he isn’t supposed to be here. she watches him light up his third cigarette, lips twitching a the sight of him coughing into a fist. he doesn’t catch her stare, exhaling slow to feel the rawness of his throat ache around thin air.

“who are you trying to impress?”

he catches her eyes for the first time in a while. he’s aware of how heavy his muscles feel, the stiffness in his bones. sedentary, like he hasn’t moved in years. bound to her.

“no one.” he is defensive. anyone would be, young like that, worn to the bone like that. when his coach gets his hands on him, he’ll be sore for weeks. if his father found out he had been sneaking out of practice -- he can’t even imagine a consequence. he always expects the worst, and it goes to show how bad it gets when he can’t picture what that looks like. he doesn’t think about them. “no one.”

“hm.” when she curls her lips with a huff of chuckle, it’s a shell of the smiles she struggled to wipe off her face when he was around. “thought you’d say it was me.”

it didn’t occur to him when eviscerating himself to escape his parents’ expectations that he would wind up trapped under hers

he watches the tip of the cigarette burn red, then yellow, then the flame weakens. the smoke thins out in the outside air as they share a tight spot on the porch, sitting on the wooden steps with their feet over the grass below -- his covered, hers bare. his mother asks him if there’s something he wants to tell her for the second time after a week since the breakup, and eight days since hanbin’s father became aware of his habit of skipping rehearsals. she nods when he shakes his head.

she mentions girls anyway, because she knows him better than he can conceive. she understands he doesn’t have to tell her everything, but she still wants him to open up to her. it becomes apparent she is getting the idea the guilt following him like a black cloud everywhere comes from skipping practice, or casual misbehavior in a relationship.

he’s heard of friends cheating on their girlfriends and he knows how parents feel about premarital sex, he understands what the assumptions are.

“don’t assume i’m talking about you ruining a poor girl’s reputation, or breaking her heart.” the last few words were drawled out in scathing sarcasm, and she took the cigarette off her lips to smile. sometimes his mother would look at him strange, a fog clearing from her eyes as though she was seeing him for the first time. “don’t even assume i’m talking about that stupid training, i wouldn’t care if you never set place into that gym ever again.”

he pulls his knees up and sighs. she explains she expects him to know better than to screw someone over like that. he remains silent this time, lids drooping under her stare, refusing to meet it.

“girls aren’t mysterious, they aren’t pure.” her tone becomes lighter, almost apologetic. she isn’t there to grill him, she doesn’t want to add to the pile his father is stacking day after day since everything came tumbling down. it’s just concern, it’s just her role as a mother. he would like to say he understands. “girls are just girls. they love and hate as much as you do.”

hanbin eyes her, at last.

“they aren’t any more dangerous than you are.” her lips are curling up, but her eyebrows curve with hesitation. he realizes now that the moonlight turns her face a pale blue how sad her eyes look. “but you are dangerous, hanbin.”

when his mother’s hand brushes down his hair, fingers smoothing over the strands and scalp, pausing at his nape with a squeeze only to then lift away, leaving behind the shape of their warmth, he thinks about how foreign her description of a mother’s touch had sounded to his ears.

“you’re my child, baby. i want you to take care of yourself.”

her memory is heavy, bitter, synonymous with regret. he doesn’t remember anything but the what ifs and the maybes. a part of him had always known it was on him to pull her out of her slump, a part of him had always understood his cowardice. over the years, it’s hard not to think over the many things he should have said and done, the many things that should have remained unspoken. no one could reach her like he could then, and all he did was claw away, heart left at the door like it was an inconvenience.

the older he grows, the deeper the dent she etched digs into him. lingering, resurfacing.

#in. reference #wc. 1846 #tw.unhealthy relationships #tw.physical abuse

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zdbztumble · 7 years ago

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I finally got a chance to watch the first of the hour-long specials, courtesy of a stream by @pocketmonstersrimeiku the other day. (The stream also ran the Japanese version of the first movie, making that only the second of these films I’ve seen in its original language. It was a fun time, though it didn’t substantially alter my thoughts on that film.)

Compared to the other hour-long special this show has done, Mewtwo Returns is a freakin’ masterpiece. Compared to a good number of the movies, it’s a slam dunk. And even without any comparisons, it’s pretty damn good, and one of the highlights of the Johto years.

Unlike Mastermind of Mirage Pokemon and many of the films, Mewtwo Returns has a central theme, clearly defined and presented. Mewtwo’s existential dilemma about the place he and his fellow clones have in the world, being living beings but not born of nature, is a compelling idea. If anything, it’s stressed a little too much in the dialogue - not unlike the themes of the first movie. But if the special is heavy-handed at times, that isn’t enough of a problem to take away from the value of the concept in the first place. And Mewtwo’s evolution from vengeful creature to conflicted caretaker feels very natural and believable. His final shift at the end, to a city-dweller exploring the world, was also solid, and it’s a shame more wasn’t done with that outside of him turning up in a cape in one of the openings.

(An interesting subplot connected to Mewtwo’s dilemma is Pikatwo being a rather aggressive advocate for not hiding away from the world, to the point of leading a faction of defectors that Ash’s Pikachu ends up involved with. It’s a well-written story point, and it almost feels like a trial run at Takeshi Shudo’s daydreams of a Pokemon revolution storyline.)

Allowing for the fact that I haven’t seen all of BW’s Team Rocket material, this special is the one time I felt that the Team Rocket organization as a whole was used to anything close to their full potential. They’re presented as a competent and threatening criminal group, with Giovanni in particular having some real bite to him in a way that later series undermined. Domino, aka 009, aka Black Tulip, is a fantastic villain. Her disguise was convincing and even funny, her true persona is dangerous and even a little edgy without going over the line for a kids’ show, her design is unique, and her potential as Giovanni’s right hand is wide open. The fact that she hasn’t reappeared since this special is criminal.

And Ash gets a decent role in the proceedings too. He isn’t given an arc of his own (par for the course, unfortunately), but he does end up integrating into the plot in a much more natural way than most of the movies manage. And through very simple means, too; he shows Mewtwo kindness because Mewtwo showed Pikachu kindness. The connection between them is subtle but compelling, and it’s yet another element of this special that I wish would’ve seen some follow-up later on.

But apart from its good points not being followed up on, this special does have some real flaws. To start with more of a pet peeve on my end - I think Takeshi Shudo let his fondness for the TRio cloud his judgment on writing them at times. He may have intended them as basically good, but they are frequently shown to have strong streaks of cowardice, amorality, and selfishness, and Meowth is possibly the worst offender of the three. He abandons Jessie and James to their prison so he can deliver Pikachu to Giovanni and claim the credit, but then immediately shifts to allying with Pikachu and the clones. His turn doesn’t feel motivated, but arbitrary - as if the plot demanded it, or the writer wanted it. (To be fair to Shudo, he isn’t the only one who did this with the TRio; years later, Meowth’s water works in Volcanion felt just as contrived.)

There’s also the disappointing fact that, at the climax, it’s Misty and Brock who step up to hold the entire Team Rocket army at bay while Ash rushes to save Mewtwo, and the battle is entirely off-screen. I wouldn’t even object to that - or rather, I wouldn’t object to the majority of the battle being off-screen so long as we got a taste - except that Giovanni ends up appearing for a final confrontation with Mewtwo without explanation. Did he win? Did he sneak around and leave his minions to do the dirty work? Is the battle on-going? Did a rift in the space-time continuum allow Giovanni to exist in two places at once? What happened, Shudo!?

And that leads me to the biggest problem with Mewtwo Returns - there’s too much story here for the time allotted. To its credit, the special manages its many elements fairly well for the first two-thirds or so; Mewtwo’s angst, Team Rocket’s plotting, the TRio’s comedy antics, and Ash’s journeys are all well-balanced and well-paced. It’s only when the action comes to a head that the strain starts to show. Mewtwo is restrained by Giovanni, Ash and friends are imprisoned, and Team Rocket begins converting the island into a headquarters that pollutes the pure waters of the lake within a matter of minutes of screen time, and seemingly only a few hours of time at best within the story. Because there isn’t enough time at the end for the possibility of Giovanni regaining control of Mewtwo to amount to anything, that element feels rushed. Misty and Brock’s not-battle, and Mewtwo and Giovanni’s last stand-off, feel hurried along as well. And the TRio’s casual disregard for their organization’s plans seems rather...well, casual.

I said it without having seen this special, but I feel it even more strongly upon seeing it - this should’ve been an arc in the series, not a one-off. It isn’t as if there was anything going on in Johto around this time, and more time would’ve solved every major flaw in this story. Mewtwo could’ve actually been under Giovanni’s thumb for part of the arc, allowing for some additional drama and an expanded sense of scale and menace - instead of just threatening one island, Team Rocket could’ve threatened one, possibly two regions. Their takeover of the island could’ve been more well-paced, the consequences more clearly established. Misty and Brock could’ve gotten their battle, and Ash’s quest to save Mewtwo could’ve been more involved, giving all three of them more material. And this story as an arc would’ve given Takeshi Shudo a perfect opportunity to do what he always wanted with the TRio - have them realize that they’re basically good people in service to a bad organization, and truly reform, on a believable time frame. (And who knows? Under those circumstances, maybe they would’ve been the ones to leave after Johto.)

But if missed opportunities are the biggest flaw a special has, then one can’t complain too much. I really enjoyed this special, and I’m happy to have seen it in its original language first.

#critique #commentary #mewtwo returns #pokefilm #pokemon #film school training at work #z's crits

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mintchocolateleaves · 7 years ago

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We’ve Only Just Begun (8/??)

A/N: Final update on any writing for 2017! See you all in the new year!!

[Beginning] [Previous Chapter]

Before

Tokyo is nothing like how Izuku remembers it.

Once, it had been bathed in colour, bright lights and an energy that had left him eager to face the days ahead of him. There had been noise, a bustle of everyday life, half heard conversations that made no sense out of context.

Seeing the ruins of his favourite city almost leaves him crumbling like the buildings around him. This is no longer the place he’d grown up, celebrated birthday’s and gained his hero license – no, now this is the place where he’s suffered.

Where his friends had started to lose their innocence.

Where he’d lost his mother.

Where All-Might had taken his last stand – his last breath.

“Deku…” Uraraka whispers beside him, as if offering some attempt at comfort. It isn’t very effective, especially when he realises her hands are trembling, “this is…”

“I know,” Izuku says, eyes scouring the area for the nearest manhole for them to climb down into, “trust me I know.”

It is not until they reach down to pry the manhole that Izuku realises his friend is crying. And that there is a warmth of his own on his cheeks.

“We’re going to die here, aren’t we?” Uraraka whispers.

Izuku glances up, and for a moment, it’s almost as if he can see All-Might there, stood in front of him with the smile he’d worn, once.

“All the best heroes do.” Izuku sighs.

After

“Who would be dumb enough to sneak into a school for heroes?”

Izuku isn’t sure who asks the question – probably because he isn’t paying enough attention to his classmates, but rather Shigaraki. And he knows they have a point, even if they don’t.

They’d be dumb to sneak in to a school for heroes if they’d not planned it out. Coming to the USJ had been their plan because there was a lack of trained heroes supervising – as it stands there are only two.

That they know of, Izuku’s mind supplies. Although, after today he’s not completely sure if he’ll still be classed as such.

“Deku,” someone mutters from behind him, as he takes a step forward, eyes sweeping the enemies. He’ll have to knock out a fair few before making his way to Shigaraki… “We need to evacuate.”

It’s Uraraka, having grabbed hold of his arm, trying to pull him the exit. Izuku has to tear his gaze off of Shigaraki to look at her, something which makes the other girl flinch away.

“M-midoriya?”

Izuku glances back towards the main fight. Eraserhead is doing a good job right now subduing the villains, but it’s not going to be good enough. And with no. 13 taking an interest in keeping his class mates safe… there’s not enough power on the hero’s side to win.

They will not win – good never wins, because good plays fair.

“Uraraka,” Izuku says, when she tugs him again. He tries to force his voice into something calmer, something that will keep the girl from associating him with the villains around them, but ultimately…

She has already seen his expression, Izuku doubts she’ll forget it.

“I’m sorry,” Izuku says, “let’s evacuate.”

There’s no way he’s going to be able to get to Shigaraki now without everyone in class 1A noticing him rush off. But if he lets Kurogiri transport them all into various test areas, then surely he can get to the man quicker.

He’ll help Tsuyu and Mineta dispel the villains around the flood zone and then – then he’ll say he’s going to help the others and that they should split up to offer more help to the others…

Surely then – he’ll be able to find Shigaraki by himself.

“Yeah,” Uraraka mumbles. “Let’s evacuate.”

She does not let go of his arm during their short jog to the entrance, almost as if she’s worried Izuku will turn back and stand up for their teacher. Izuku doesn’t know how to feel about the hand shackled around his arm though, it’s… it’s almost too much for him to handle.

He wants Uraraka to keep her innocence and here it’s already falling apart.

They reach the rest of the group, and it’s in that moment that Kurogiri looms over them. The man is all black fog, sinister personality hidden behind a smart suit and smart words.

“I won’t allow anyone to escape.” The villain says, in a voice that reeks of authority. Almost as if he’s expecting to get his own way – well. Last time he’d been wrong. Iida had gotten away, had managed to get the word out to the main school building.

“Forgive our audacity in ruining your class,” Kurogiri continues now. Izuku has to bite his cheek to remind himself not to get lost in the man’s voice, remembering the death of… no, Izuku stop, “we’ve come here today to end the life of All Might, the symbol of peace.”

Whatever attempt Izuku had made on seeming calm for Uraraka’s sake dissipates with the words. The threat to his mentor’s life – not the first given, or the first attempted, sends shivers running down his spine.

His glare is electric, violent like thunder, bright like lightening and it only manages to fill him with a more desperate intensity, a deeper need to keep All-Might alive. Blood pounds in his ears, his pulse louder than the words Kurogiri says next.

Not that Izuku really needs to listen to know. It’s about them considering All-Might’s schedule, knowing that he was supposed to be present here.

Kacchan and Kirishima rush forward, fists raised to punch at smoke – an impossible task, no matter how much Kurogiri pretends they’d almost had him beat.

Izuku feels his blood boil.

“No, get back,” No. 13 shouts to both students, “both of you!”

Black fog envelops them – envelops all of his classmates and prepares to rip them though space. Izuku can already hear Kurogiri’s voice whispering that he hopes they writhe in torment until their last breath.

“And you,” Izuku hears through the smoke, letting his arms go limp so he doesn’t injure them in a struggle. He’s not going to die by Kurogiri’s hand, not when all the other villain’s need to prove their usefulness, “such bloodlust in this one, I almost can’t wait to see how that pans out.”

Izuku hopes none of the others hear him, that the villain has made it possible for only him to hear, but… How devious does he expect the man to act?

Another blink and he’s falling, face forward into the flood zone.

Izuku heaves air into his lungs, straightens his arms and prepares to dive. The impact of the water almost catches him off guard because his first thought is when he and Uraraka had almost slipped in the sewers, almost drowning themselves.

He opens his eyes to clear water and feels better within seconds. Even when he notices the villain swimming towards him. He’s got an oxygen tank that Izuku briefly considers nabbing, so he can stay in the water for long enough to help Tsuyu take out the villains.

Instead, he prepares one-for-all at fifteen percent, readies to punch the villain into unconsciousness.

Tsuyu knocks the villain out with one swift kick to the head before his fist can even connect. Then, her tongue wraps around his body, pulling him from the water and throwing him up onto the boat in the middle of the flood zone.

She’s carrying Mineta with her, the other boy barely conscious, but not yet fully out of commission.

“Thanks, Tsuyu,” Izuku says as the girl pulls herself out from the water. She offers him a smile, as if glad he’s calling her by her given name.

Then she says, “we’re in a lot of trouble here, it seems.”

“Yeah,” Izuku says, turning away to try and think. How much explanation is too much for someone who’s only supposed to know the bare minimum. He’ll have to figure it out, based on gut instinct. “They know All-Might’s routine, so… do you think the media rush the other day was part of their plan? It’d give a good cover to get inside to check…”

“They said they’d kill All-Might,” Mineta pipes up from behind them, fear driving his voice and leaving it shaky. He says, “but they can’t do that right? All-Might will just beat ‘em up and through them into prison. There’s nothing we need… nothing we need to worry about.”

Even now, years after meeting Mineta, Izuku is not sure what spurred the boy to become a hero. The boy’s cowardice had always confused him, even if it he hadn’t let it stop him from fighting.

“Mineta…” Izuku mutters, almost unwilling to explain the situation properly.

“They wouldn’t come without a plan, right?” Tsuyu says instead. Almost as if she’d read Izuku’s hesitation and answered instead, “they’re only here because they’re certain they can kill him.”

Mineta shudders.

“And what if we can’t even hold out long enough for All-Might to come save us,” Tsuyu continues, “who says we’re even going to get out of this alive.”

“Tsuyu,” Izuku says, “you’re only scaring Mineta.”

This is a fight to get rid of the sole owner of one-for-all – or rather, to kill who they believe is still in possession of the quirk. As All-Might isn’t the only one with the quirk, that also means that they know how to kill…

Izuku can not afford to die here – not that he thinks he will, but the last win had been pure luck.

The boat rattles with brute force.

“First, we’re going to have to deal with these villains,” Izuku says, turning to his classmates. His eyes brighten as a plan comes to the back of his mind. “And we’re going to have to do it quickly, alright you two?”

Mineta gives a small nod, so small in fact, that Izuku isn’t sure if it’s a shudder. He decides to continue as if it’s a nod.

“Got any underhanded tricks that might work here?” Tsuyu asks, then almost looks slightly guilty for asking. Izuku offers a smile.

“I’ve got plenty underhanded tricks,” Izuku says, his lips tugging upwards at the idea, “but that’s scheduled for people who actually have an idea what my quirk is – these villains… they don’t know our quirks – if they did, Tsuyu you wouldn’t have been thrown in the flood zone.”

The frog quirk of Tsuyu… or course they don’t know. Tsuyu nods her head.

“You’ve got a plan?”

Izuku nods, “of course. Mineta, how many of those balls can you create before you’ll be in too much pain to continue.”

Mineta blanches. Then, after a second he says, “how many do you need?”

Izuku smiles.

Considering it’s his first real fight back in the past, Izuku can’t help but feel a jolt at the adrenaline coursing through his body. It’s almost off-putting, how out of sync he feels without his fight or flight reflex constantly leaving him in a state of anxiety.

As he flings himself off of the boat, readying his body to create an explosion of water, he also can’t deny the dread growing in his stomach. Or the fear rippling against the excitement he’s feeling. These aren’t terribly strong opponents, not compared to those he’d had to fight when he’d returned to a ruin stricken Tokyo, and yet the danger is still reinforced in his mind.

Behind him, he can hear Mineta yelling his fear away. A good idea – allowing the boy to let his fear out without leaving him defenceless, Izuku thinks maybe he should try it out sometime.

For now, he’s calm with the prospect of just saying, “none of my classmates will die because of you, do you understand,” under his breath.

It’s the first time he’s said it out loud. And yet, his seriousness doesn’t throw him off guard.

The water is like a whirl pool when his punch hits the liquid. It goes inward, like a water bed, pulling everything inwards. Izuku holds his breath as he’s pulled in alongside other villains, waiting for Tsuyu to pull him from the trap they’ve set out.

A black ball makes its way onto his shirt, Izuku turns inward, attempting to keep any villains from hitting it.

And then – Tsuyu’s dragging him from the water, throwing the three of them towards the edge of the water zone, away from the explosion of water that goes upwards, almost like a geyser.

“That was a great plan,” Tsuyu breathes as they swim the rest of the distance to the edge. In front of them, the central plaza shows the fight their homeroom teacher is engaged in, slowly losing the upper hand. “You make a pretty good leader.”

Izuku hums. “So I’ve been told.”

His eyes glance towards the fight occurring, eyes widening as Shigaraki races forward, attempting to get a move on Eraserhead. Beside him, his classmates let out gasps, horrified and drowning in fear as the villain disintegrates their homeroom teacher’s elbow.

Izuku winces. Tries not to think of how it feels to have limbs crumble away, nerves screaming pain against ear drums. He blinks, tries not to think of the events of Tokyo, and pushes himself further up.

Tsuyu and Mineta, perhaps not even realising, follow behind him.

“You two need to get up to the exit, and get out…” Izuku mutters, turning to the two now, “call for help, can you do that?”

Mineta’s eyes widen, “what about you?”

“Aizawa-sensei is injured,” Izuku says, “I’ve got just enough underhanded tactics to get him out of trouble. I’ll grab him and meet you guys at the exit, okay?”

Tsuyu offers him a concerned look before nodding. She says, “don’t do anything stupid, okay?”

Izuku nods – A lie.

He’s going to do something completely stupid.

He waits until the two are past him, just far away enough that they can’t read his expression. And he pulls himself forwards.

Kurogiri appears before he can do anything – they’re leaving, no. They can’t yet – and Izuku feels blood that had previously been boiling, run cold, frozen.

“Let’s kill a few kids before we leave then.” Shigaraki says, and he’s moving, not towards Izuku, but away – to where he’s sent his friends off. His hand wraps around the back of Tsuyu’s head, pulling the girl backwards.

Izuku races forward, using the maximum amount of One-for-all that he can without physically breaking his bones, and forms both hands into fists. His nails dig into his skin.

“Ha,” Shigaraki mutters, turning back towards Aizawa, “so cool Eraserhead.”

The hero’s offered a few seconds of protection for Tsuyu. Izuku’s going to offer a lot longer than that.

“Get away from them,” Izuku says, voice spitting poison. Shigaraki turns to him with eyes that’re wide with something akin to excitement.

“Oh what’s this?” Shigaraki turns to him, “Nomu, block that won’t you?”

Izuku isn’t shocked to see the large bird-like monster to arrive in front of him. Just like how he isn’t shocked when it blocks his attack, seemingly unaffected by his punch.

Instead, he drops down, kicks out to knock the Nomu off balance, before circling around it to face the villain behind the attack.

The Nomu is back on it’s feet before Izuku can get much nearer to Shigaraki. However, the villain raises a hand, a signal to wait.

“And what kind of play thing are you?”

Izuku can’t help his hatred spread across his face. He says, “let her go. And while you’re at it, won’t you just die?”

[Next Chapter]

#Haaaa just one thing - editing is not something I do so sorry in advance lmao #Please enjoy this update!#BNHA #Midoriya Izuku #Uraraka Ochako #Katsuki Bakugou #Kirishima Eijirou #Asai Tsuyu #Eraserhead #Aizawa Shouta #Shigaraki Tomura #Kurogiri (BNHA)#Nomu (BNHA)#My Hero Academia #boku no hero academia #Fic: We've only just begun #mywriting

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marythegizka · 7 years ago

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Bodyswap AU - Part 5 (part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4)

“The emperor expects you to bow when he appears.”

Aphra puffed in derision.

“Refer to him as master,” he went on, “ask what his bidding is… and try to forget you’re you.”

Aphra rolled her eyes beneath the mask.

“Now you just make me sound like I can’t behave.”

The bridge’s door slid open, and a wrinkled, hooded face appeared above the holo-table. It felt as if the air had the suddenly dropped colder, and for a few seconds Aphra remained like frozen, paralyzed like a cornered prey, until a nudge on the foot called her back to reality. She knelt in front of the holo.

“What is thy bidding, my master?” She hated all of this, from the act of submission itself to the feeling of dread creeping up from her stomach. Somehow, she was convinced the old man was no friend.

“There is a great disturbance in the Force…”

“Oh?” Now what the heck was that?

“I must say I was expecting a bit less nonchalance. I admit I am… concerned, Lord Vader. About you. Your strength in the dark side is waning, my friend. It would be a pity if you were no longer able to serve me…”

The discomfort she’d felt since the day had begun was nothing compared to the way she felt now. He had spoken calmly, warmly even, but the atmosphere was heavy and loaded with thunder. Not the atmosphere, the Force, she corrected herself. Damn, she was having a hard time with this.

“And who is this woman you saw fit to bring here?”

Aphra gulped down, wondering what explanation she might give. Of course it was Vader the Emperor wanted to talk to, so it only made sense for him to be there as well. But she couldn’t just tell him that.

“Well?” he said, irritability piercing through his mask of benevolence.

I can do this. I can do this. Be cool, Aphra.

“Sorry,” she said, resisting the urge to cower. “Nervous.” A slight pang of annoyance hit her from behind. “This,” she said, gesturing at Vader, “is Doctor Aphra. My new assistant,” she saw the Emperor arch an eyebrow at her. “She’s great.”

“I see. Vader, are you on morphine?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head with difficulty. “But I suppose I could use some.”

Vader blinked in surprise at hearing his own voice admit it to his master.

“Forgive my apprentice, Doctor. His… idiosyncrasies will always surprise me. Will you please enlighten me as to your function?”

Retrieve Luke Sk… Of course I cannot say that. Focus. Shield.

“I… tend to the logistics of Lord Vader’s missions and take part in the…” he paused for a second, realizing how out of character he sounded. “Oh kriff, you know what? I steal info and blow stuff up. Mostly.” That should do it for now.

“Ah yes,” his master said, casting Aphra a pointed glance, “Lord Vader seems to have a tendency to let others ‘blow stuff up’ as you say …”

There was a momentary silence before the emperor resumed speaking.

“But we are digressing, aren’t we? I expect you to find the source of this disturbance… and destroy it. Is that clear, Lord Vader?”

Aphra gulped down again.

“Yes, my master.”

The hologram vanished in a mere split second, but the cold, dark presence still floated in the room, weighing on her shoulders as she pulled herself up. They walked towards the Ark Angel, eager to get away from the bridge.

“Force, that was terrible.”

“It was,” Vader acquiesced. “But we are not in danger yet.”

“Yet?” she asked, plopping down on the pilot’s chair. Vader nodded.

“If my master finds out …”

“I get it. We’re super dead. So what do we do now?”

“We should go to Mustafar.”

This didn’t fail to pique Aphra’s curiosity.

“And why should we be going there?”

Vader looked away, sighing.

“Your medical condition requires a certain degree of maintenance.”

“Yeah, I guess I could use some pampering” she yawned, thinking about the pain in her limbs, her chest, her back…

“That is not the term I would use,” he corrected. “The procedure is… unpleasant.”

“Now you’re scaring me. What’s my ‘condition’ anyway?” Of course she would ask this. It was a miracle she had spent the whole day without asking. But she would end up knowing one way or another.

There was no proper way to tell her this, just as there was no way to explain it in a detached, professional manner. The years hadn’t mellowed the memory in the slightest, and it remained as raw and vivid as ever. And though the pain it had kindled made him stronger in the dark side, to tell her the story himself, through his own words and memory, would amount to no less than standing there naked in front of her. And that was not something he had the stomach for.

“My medical record is on my data pad. Good night, Doctor” with that, he left the room – no, he fled it. It was the word, really, he was fleeing. Coward, his inner voice whispered. Oh, but was he? Was he really? Was it cowardice to do what he had done, to loose what he had lost and to still keep fighting for a future that never seemed to come? He had done what others would not do, would not stoop down to. “The hero with no fear” they used to call him. And yet his mind still rang with the accusation. Coward, the word echoed in his skull once more. He was not a coward, not on the battlefield, at least. But he was not dealing with military matters here; this was entirely and purely personal.

Aphra remained sitting in the cockpit, curiosity and fear gnawing at her. She had always wondered what was beneath the armor, though she had never quite expected to end up inside of it herself. She went through the record. All of it. From the irremediable lung damage to the third degree burns to how each nerve connected to the wiring of her limbs. In retrospect, this explained a lot. She took one of her gloves off and examined the hand beneath it, touching each finger to her thumb. The limb was bare of synthskin, but mimicked human shape and movement finely enough for the glove to fool the onlooker. She brought her attention back to the record, each word and each blueprint more horrifying and captivating. Her stomach churned and twisted, not in disgust, but out of fear. She had to get some sleep. Tomorrow would be a long day.

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She had expected much. But not this. He had told her routine maintenance would be unpleasant. But he had said maintenance. Not torture. And it was becoming clear that reality was a lot closer to the latter.

Aphra took a deep, wheezing breath through the respirator and braced herself for the pain, pressing her eyelids shut while her body was held over the bacta tank. Four clamps closed on her prosthetics, ready to pull them out of their sockets. She bit her lower lip in an attempt to keep her mouth shut, but could not hold the scream that tore the air as the claws yanked her metal limbs off, screaming her mangled alveoli out as each neural interface shot frantic pulses up her remaining nerves. She didn’t know the human body was capable of enduring such pain. It felt as if her real, actual flesh limbs were had just been torn in the middle – they hadn’t, at least not recently, but whoever had conceived them had made sure the pain levels were more than realistic. The thought caused a shiver to run down her ruined, heavily implanted spine, and droplets of cold sweat appeared on her forehead. She clenched her jaw as wires were plugged into the metal end of her stumps, and another claw closed around her waist, lowering her into the bacta tank. At last, relief.

She unwound a little as the fluid began to douse the pain. It still hurt, of course – would it ever stop? – but she no longer felt like screaming her lungs out. She closed her eyes as the bacta diffused through the cracks of her skin, soothing her ravaged flesh.

She didn’t want to get out. She would rather stay floating here, in this helpless posture, stripped of all dignity, than have those droids ‘put her back on her feet’. Hell, even Triple-Zero was less of a sadist. A whirring awoke her from her half-slumber, and she knew the machines were coming for her. She winced in anticipation as the bacta was stirred by something plunging into it, and hard metal rings made her wince as they closed around her stumps.

Her head shot up from the headrest she had fallen asleep on and she looked around in shock, panting and shaking. It was a dream. Only a dream. She was fine – as fine as she could be in this wrecked body. Her relief, however, was short-lived.

The strange feeling of being watched began to take root in her stomach. She looked to the left and found herself staring into a livid, translucent face. She blinked. It was gone.

The vision had been so brief it could have been a trick of her hazy mind, yet she felt a presence hovering around her. There was something strangely familiar about it, something comforting and threatening all at once. The specter had faded had soon as she’d seen it, but Aphra could have sworn she saw the old man smile, the sad, quivering smile of one that had just cried.

“Who are you?” she asked. Only silence answered. Her heart started pounding louder. She was losing her mind. Was this her life now? She had to get out of this room, take a walk, talk to someone, do something.

Darth Vader was lying on a bed. A very plain, normal bed. With pillows. And a blanket. The mattress was quite thin and a little worn out, but it was more comfort than he had been used to. And yet his restless mind would not let him enjoy it, perhaps because the simple pleasures of human life were something he had long ceased to deserve. To think of this lithe, graceful body hosting his disgusting carcass of a soul ... Vader dismissed the thought, and other worries took its place. What if they were forced to remain like this? What if the emperor found out? What if he heard about his son? The potential consequences were bone-chilling. Peace was a lie, and would remain a lie as long as his master lived. He forced his eyelids shut. Tomorrow he would examine what was left of the holocron. It was necessary if they were all to survive.

There was a knock at the door, a hissing breath, then another.

“You may enter,” he said.

Aphra appeared in the doorway.

“May I ask the reason of your presence here?”

Aphra seemed to hesitate.

“I… I think I'm going crazy. I see people I’ve never met, places I’ve never been to...” There was a long silence.

“The ‘maintenance procedure’, as you call it, it’s more than just… unpleasant, isn’t it?”

Vader nodded.

“I know it’s weird and all but can I… stay a bit? Please?”

Aphra heard him sigh as he shifted on the mattress and gestured to the spot next to him. She winced as her back hit the mattress.

“You know what else is bugging me? We’re literally in each other’s body and I have no idea what your name is.” She felt more than saw him arch an eyebrow at her. “Your real name,” she clarified. “Mine’s Chelli, by the way. Don’t ever call me that.”

Vader swallowed hard. It was commonly assumed that Skywalker had died in the assault on the Jedi temple. Few had ever known the truth, and fewer yet had lived to tell it, for it was not a fact he was willing to make public. But if Aphra could be trusted to inhabit his body… perhaps, only perhaps, she could be trusted with his name. A lump formed in his throat as he considered relinquishing this piece of information. Did it even mean anything anymore? It didn’t have to be the full name… He hesitated for a moment, chewing on the blasted name, and took one more deep breath before he let it out.

“Anakin. My name is Anakin.”

>part 6

#vadaphra #my fics #bodyswap AU #tagging this as body horror just in case #tbh this AU makes no freaking sense ^^

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sinrau · 5 years ago

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Storm Troopers on the Streets. People Being Disappeared. A President Dismantling Democracy. Where Does America Go From Here?

Masked men armed with machine guns. Abducting people in unmarked cars. No warrants, no explanation.

Here’s the navy vet who reminded them of their oath — and got his hand broken for it.

Here are the Moms who were gassed — attacked with chemical agents — for not obeying.

Here are peaceful protesters being beaten and tear gassed.

Here are the masked, armed men in question. Take a hard look. Does the term “stormtroopers” feel appropriate?

Here’s the part where the president announces that all that’s coming to city after city. Those armed men, those stormtroopers — are going to be in your town, too, shortly.

Is it fascism yet?

I ask that for a reason. Not to be snarky. Even at this late, late juncture — almost too late — there seems to be far too small and weak of an understanding of what’s happened to America. Sure, people like me have been trying to explain — and predict — it for years now. But by and large, the price we paid is being ignored and marginalized. The moment I started talking about American fascism being a real danger — whoosh — there went my book deals, columns TV appearances. Don’t cry for me. I never wanted them. I like making music. But you should have listened, or at least been able to hear the warnings.

Because now America, its democracy, its future, its present, faces a very real existential threat.

Fascist implosion.

How did I know that a fascist implosion was on the way? Why was I so certain of it?

The answer to that question is: “everyone — and especially intellectuals — should have.” Because that is what the socioeconomic data pointed to, in no uncertain terms.

Fascism happens when a society falls into sudden, fresh poverty. In particular, when it holds debts it can’t repay — and the result is widespread economic stagnation. A feeling of discontentment and hopelessness become pervasive. Social bonds fray. Trust collapses. A society is hanging together by a thread. Elites, whose status and prestige will be lost if they admit they’ve mismanaged society, don’t — and so the vicious cycle of poverty and despair simply thunders on.

Soon enough, in the vacuum, a demagogue arises, who blames the economic woes of the true and the pure on those its easiest to scapegoat. Long-hated, powerless minorities. “We will be Great Again!,” he cries. “All you must do is annihilate the subhumans.” His flock — long ignored and derided by elites as the cause of their own problems, now have someone else to blame, to demonize. Those who they’ve hated for generations, usually, anyways. Bang! The fascist spark is lit. The rest is history.

How did I know that fascism was coming, way back when? How did anyone not know, is the better question. We all know — or should know, roughly — the story above. It should have been as plain as a tornado heading your way on a sunny day. Why?

American wages have been stagnant for half a century. That suggested fascism. How did Americans make ends meet — considering prices of basics, from healthcare to food to education, are always skyrocketing? They went into debt. America became a debtor nation. That suggested fascism, too, this time strongly.

The debts Americans held were unpayable by the 2010s: the average American began to die in debt. Americans give me a blank look — “so what?” — when I say that, but to an economist, there should be almost no more devastating statistic — it means people don’t earn, save, or own anything. They’ve become neopeasants again. Germany owed money to France and Britain — Americans owed it to their own super rich. Different faces — same toxic economics. These toxic economics didn’t just suggest fascism anymore. They practically shouted it.

Finally, as a result of these ruinous trends, the American middle class became a minority in 2010 or so. A nation had fallen into fresh poverty. Sure, it wasn’t the absolute crushing poverty of, say, the Congo. It was something different, stranger, precisely because it’s so rare. It was poverty in a nominally rich society. It was people in the world’s largest economy forced to choose between their lives, that crucial operation, and their life savings. America’s middle class became a minority, its working class disintegrated — everyone except the super rich and their minions became one giant, amorphous class of new poor, perpetually indebted, living right at the edge. All this didn’t just shout fascism was coming — it screamed it.

America’s economic statistics by this point — the mid 2010’s — were shocking, breathtaking, surreal. At least to those who were paying attention. How many of us was that left, though?

80% of Americans lived paycheck to paycheck. A similar number couldn’t raise a tiny amount for an emergency. Half of Americans now worked “low wage service jobs.” All this screamed — screamed — fascism was coming like a wounded animal crying for help.

At least to anyone who knows the story of how fascism happens, which should be all of us, but especially intellectuals. America’s intellectual class, though, has never been much of one. It’s made, mostly, of pundits — men who look good in suits, but haven’t read a book since grade school, it seems. And so nobody — nobody — with any real influence or power warned Americans what was about to happen. What was now inevitable, inescapable, because in America, the 1930s had begun to repeat themselves.

What was about to happen, as sure as the sun sets, or the stars rise? Fascism was.

Right on cue, as if according to a script, Donald Trump emerged. Remember when I said “a demagogue arises, who blames the woes of the true and the pure on hated minorities?” Trump played that role with eerie, stunning precision. He called immigrants and refugees animals and vermin. He mocked disabled people. He demonized and dehumanized black people, Mexicans, Latinos, women. He threatened to build a wall, and promised that the true and pure would be Great Again.

You’d think at this point, Americans would have gotten it. Here was fascism. It was happening here. Just as had been foretold by anyone thoughtful enough to pay even cursory attention to history. Poverty, despair? Check. Demagogue? Check. Threats, intimidation, hate, dehumanization? Check. Blaming hated minorities for all a society’s problems? Check. Check. Check.

Trump was likely to win — because the historical deck was stacked for him. Fascism was on the cards now. That much should have been lesson one, and the opposition should have been fierce and furious both.

Instead, the very opposite happened. The New York Times “but-her-emailed” Hillary. Wait, what? Emails versus fascism? What the? Today’s “anti-Trump” brigade was squarely for him — folks like Morning Joe. And instead of taking the possibility seriously that he might win, and do, well, the things fascists do — anyone who tried to warn of that was dismissed, mocked, marginalized, scorned.

Nobody was allowed to say fascism. At least not if you wanted to be serious and grave and respected and all the other accoutrements of American punditry. Me? I’ve always cared more about telling you the truth than accolades. So I warned as sternly as I could, and swiftly lost my columns, book deals, TV appearances, and so forth.

Part of me was relieved. I never much liked any of that stuff. I wasn’t made to be a pundit. I’m a lover, not a fighter. But part of me was also horrified. Because I knew that now the final element in the recipe of fascism had arrived, too. What was that?

Demagogue? Check. Idiot army? Check. Hate and violence? Dehumanization and demonization? Scapegoating long-hated minorities? Check, check, check. All those are necessary for fascism to seize power. But to keep it, exercise it, abuse it? For fascism to really reach its brutal, grim culmination?

The final element is the most dangerous one of all, and yet it’s the hardest to see, too.

Denial.

Now Americans went into four long years of denial. They baffled the world. They felt like an eternity to people like me. Four long, terrible years.

Concentration camps were built. Nope, no fascism here.

Kids were “separated” from their families, and thrown in them. That’s a form of genocide by the way. Nope, no fascism here.

People were caged in the camps. Fascism? What fascism?

Entire ethnicities were banned. Fascism? Where?

Entire government agencies were purged, and “Acting Directors” — extremists, crusaders for the project of a racially pure “homeland” — were installed. Nope! Still no fascism here.

Oval Office advisors were revealed to be literal white supremacists. What’s it called when racial supremacists seize control of the government? Nope! Not fascism!

Hated minorities hunted by shocktroops in the streets. Papers checked. Fascism? Where?

The New York Times, among others, did fawning profiles of…Nazis. Fascism? Don’t be ridiculous! There’s no fascism here!

Four long, long years. Four stupid, terrible, idiotic, painful years. Of polite denial, quiet complicity, and flat-out cowardice. During which the Trump Administration checked literally everything off the textbook fascist checklist we learn in grade school, then high school, then college — concentration camps, bans, raids, paper-checking, dehumanization, hate, purges. While there were three kinds of Americans. One, the American Idiot, who supported all that. But two, the good American — who was in denial as deep as an ocean about it. And three, the American intellectual, politician, leader, who pretended not to get all that was fascism, or worse, actually didn’t.

The world was baffled, disturbed, bewildered, horrified. Were Americans really that dumb? They didn’t know fascism when they saw it? What the?

Didn’t they get that literally every item on the fascist checklist was now being ticked, save one?

The world hadn’t seen such a level of denial since the 1930s, either, as the one that swept America over the last four years.

That is why the fascists were so stunningly successful — to the point that now Americans have to ask: “will they steal the next election?” Their very own denial paved fascism’s way down the abyss.

I said one element was left on the checklist of fascism — what was it? Can you guess?

The old saying goes. “First they came for the Black person, and I did nothing. Then they came for the Mexican, and I did nothing. Then they came for the refugee, and I did nothing. Finally, they came for me.” I’ve modernized it a little.

The last checkbox on the list of fascism was all those institutions of fascism which had now been built — Gestapos, paramilitaries, concentration camps, cages, dehumanization, raids — being turned against white Americans themselves. The “real” ones, the ones who thought, foolishly, they were safe.

Nobody was safe. Nobody is safe when fascism ignites. Especially not the good people. They are either drafted into the fascist cause — or they are abused and intimidated into silence and submission. What was happening to the Mexican, the Latino, the Black — it was always a foreshadowing of what was to happen to all. Everyone was to be brutalized, in the end. Those shock troops were always going to hunt you, one day, in the streets, too.

That’s why fascism is so dangerous. It’s like a plague. It consumes a society whole, or not at all.

So what happens now? After these four long terrible, idiotic, painful years of shocking, incredible levels of denial, complicity, and cowardice, which let fascism flourish?

What happens now is this. The fascist institutions that Trump built get used against Americans, brutally and relentlessly and remorselessly. Camps, Gestapos, raids, bans, purges, shock troops, cages. Not just again Mexicans and Latinos and Blacks, who happen to be Americans. But Americans, meaning the whites who’ve thought they were above such things. Now fascism reaches its endgame, which is that the fascists use the institutions they’ve built to control and dominate a whole society through terror, brutality, and violence.

Now the shock troops march down your pleasant streets. They intimidate and frighten you from voting, protesting, organizing, marching. They scare your children and terrify your neighbours. Now the fascists do everything they can to steal the next election.

And if they win, then critics, opponents, dissidents — all get disappeared by those armed men. Thrown into camps. Put into cages. Who knows when they’re ever seen again. They’re enemies of the state now. Those shock troops stay on the streets forever. Your kids get recruited into the fascist machine, seduced by promises of glory. The Trumps stay in power for a lifetime. The great fascist goals of racial purity, ethnic cleansing, genocide, violence, holocaust — they begin in earnest.

That’s what happens next.

How do I know?

The real question is: how the hell don’t you still know? The entire world knows.

Night falls.

The leaves quiver.

The wolves bay, and the frightened animals scurry.

Is it fascism yet?

Umair July 2020

#IFTTT #WordPress

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lordallyrion-blog · 7 years ago

Text

BASIC

Name: Adrian Allyrion.

Nickname(s): None.

House: House Allyrion.

Marital status: Married.

Age: Thirty.

Title: Lord.

Sexual + Romantic Orientation: Heterosexual/Heteroromantic.

Occupation / Vocation: Ruling Lord of Godsgrace.

Birth Place: Godsgrace.

Current Residence: Godsgrace.

Motto/Personal quote: “We’re neither pure, nor wise, nor good; we do the best we know.”

RELATIONS

Apparent Allegiance: Houses Allyrion & Martell.

True Allegiance: Houses Allyrion & Martell.

Spouse: Taliya Allyrion née Yronwood.

Children: Two sons & two daughters: Daemon (10), Jasper (9), Rose (5) & Rhae (5).

Father: Hugo Allyrion.

Mother: Loreza Allyrion née Dayne.

Siblings: Ellara, Ryon & Dyanna. Ellara and Ryon both died in the cradle.

Aunt(s) or Uncle(s): Alestair (deceased), Ormund & Maya Allyrion. Uther Dayne (deceased).

Cousin(s): Asher Dayne. A bunch more, probably.

Other Relatives: -

INTERNAL

Character Alignment: Lawful Neutral.

Religion: Faith of the Seven.

Virtues: Loyalty, pride in his house and his land. His open-minded nature and willingness to accept differences in others. Devotion his immediate family.

Vices: He may be willing to accept people’s differences, but he is slow to actually trust anyone. He is what could be described as too cautious. Violent tendencies, short temper.

Fears: Leading Godsgrace into the same struggles faced by the rest of Westeros. Turning out like his father in any way. His wife and children ever being afraid of him.

Ambitions: Adrian isn’t really an ambitious man. He’s content with how things are now & just wants to lead his people safely through the winter.

Regrets: Not protecting his sister as well as he should have.

Sense of humour: Adrian doesn’t have much of a sense of humour, though he has been known to make a joke on rare occasions.

Patience level: It depends on the circumstances and context. He can usually be pretty patient but if something serious happens he’s not immune to losing his shit. His patience for his children is boundless however.

How self-confident are they?: Quietly self-confident. He’s not overtly boastful, but Adrian has worked very hard to be someone he can be proud of.

How do they see themselves?: As a man desperately trying to be the best version of himself whilst simultaneously afraid he is no better than his father.

How do they believe they’re perceived by others?: Adrian likes to believe other people see in him what he ardently wants to see in himself, of a fair and honourable ruler who is respected by his peers and the smallfolk. However, he also suspects people may mistake his cautious nature for cowardice.

What are they most proud of? The fact Godsgrace is thriving in such trying times.

What do they like least about themselves? His temper and the fact he comes from awful parents.

How do they express themselves? He expresses himself calmly, with few (if any) hand gestures. Fashion wise, Adrian dresses in simple clothes made of luxurious fabrics in bright colours. He also wears rings on all of his fingers.

Biggest accomplishment: Successfully ridding himself and his sister of their father, and ruling Godsgrace even at a young age.

EXTERNAL

Hair Colour: Black.

Eye Color: Brown.

Height: 6″5.

Weight: 225lbs.

Accent or Diction: Westerosi.

Prominent features: His warm and charming yet rare smile.

Distinguishing marks: Adrian has a prominent scar along his left side that he acquired during his time fighting against the Stormlords.

Physical Qualities: Tall, broad shoulders and a muscle-clad body honed over years of training, Adrian usually stands out from those around him.

BIOGRAPHY

The Lord of Godsgrace was born in the dead of night as a full moon bathed the Allyrion’s magnificent castle in silver light. His arrival was met with both elation and relief that an heir had come safely into the world. However, there was also trepidation that like his two older siblings, baby Adrian would not survive the cradle.

Much to the relief of the people of Godsgrace, he did survive, but Adrian would go on to wonder whether or not that was a good thing. He is the son of Hugo and Loreza, neither of whom can truthfully say they deserved to be parents. Hugo was a brute of a man, in a constant state of anger, ready to find fault and offence in everything, a skilled liar, and wretched to his very core. When it came to family, specifically Adrian, Hugo preferred to communicate through his fists instead of his words. Loreza never physically hurt her son, but she never lifted a finger to protect him and to Adrian that was just as bad. His mother is a spineless woman who stuck her head in the sand whenever trouble started to brew. She was too concerned with lavish imports from Essos to care about the mysterious bruises on her child, least of all try and protect him.

Apart from his brutishness, Hugo was also a revered and respected army commander. He had lead forces against the Stormlands in numerous clashes, and was generally well liked throughout the rest of Dorne. Not only did it infuriate Adrian, it made it all but impossible to tell someone about his father’s cruelty. Hugo was thought to be a good man, a bit gruff perhaps but not to the point he would strike a child, surely? And even if he did, who was to say people would care? After all, it wasn’t unheard of for a rambunctious young lad to receive a clout across the back of his head as a warning to watch his manners.

Adrian spent the vast majority of his childhood in fear, or desperately trying to find a way to please his father with either his intellect or martial prowess. When that inevitably didn’t work the boy resorted to merely avoiding him whenever possible. Hugo’s rage was as endless as it was terrible and Adrian learned quickly that it couldn’t be prevented or avoided for long. Eventually he learned to shut up, take the hits, and hope no lasting marks were left.

When it was finally time for Adrian to be fostered somewhere, the prospect came as a double edged sword. On one hand it meant escaping Hugo’s abuse for a few years, which filled him with more happiness than he had ever felt before. On the other hand it meant leaving his little sister Dyanna alone with their father with no buffer or protection. Since the day she was born Adrian had sworn to protect her like no one had ever protected him. He suffered Hugo’s beatings readily and without complaint because if he was focused on Adrian, it meant Dyanna would be left alone. But no matter how much he pleaded to stay, an agreement had been made with the Prince of Dorne to take the Allyrion boy on as a squire. An arrangement like that couldn’t be broken lest it be seen as an insult, so he packed up his things and set off for Sunspear.

Whilst in the capital training and growing under the guidance of the Prince, Adrian was finally shown the consideration and appreciation he had never gotten from his own father. It made the boy’s loyalty to House Martell ironclad, but it also made him bitter and resentful of the hand he had been dealt in life. Desperate for an outlet, Adrian turned to the training yards to indulge the violent and angry urges that bubbled within him. He often spent all day in the yard clashing swords with another squire, firing arrows into targets, and learning how to wield a spear stopping only to eat and sleep. Adrian’s dogged determination and intense dedication ended up earning him a reputation as one of the most formidable opponents around western Dorne. When he wasn’t training, the young lord paid as many visits home as he was allowed. Adrian was plagued with worry that Dyanna was in danger.

When he was twelve, Adrian met the girl who would go on to become his wife while they both played in the Water Gardens. It was during one of the lowest points of his childhood and Taliya appeared like a breath of fresh air. She showed him kindness and gentleness, two things that had been sorely missing from his life. It wouldn’t be the last time they met, given that they were both members of powerful Dornish families and would occasionally attend the same tourneys and feasts.

At the age of sixteen whilst still in Sunspear, Adrian received a tear-stained and messily written letter from Dyanna detailing his worst fear. Their father had struck her leaving the girl with a broken nose. Adrian’s memories of the hours after receiving word are hazy and red with fury. He does remember leaving Sunspear immediately without an explanation to anyone, and riding home. It was the afternoon when Adrian got back to Godsgrace, and he spent the rest of the day comforting Dyanna and stewing in his rage. The sight of his sister’s blackened eyes and crooked nose sealed his decision to end their misery once and for all. He was practically a man grown then, just as tall as Hugo and almost as strong, the time for cowering had come to an end.

That night while the castle slept, Adrian summoned the very worst parts of himself. He let sixteen years worth of pain, anger, resentment, and misery consume him as he made his way towards his father’s chambers. Adrian wanted Hugo to suffer. He wanted Hugo to met a painful and humiliating end. He wanted him to suffer even a fraction of the amount he had made his son suffer. But the boy knew it had to be done quickly and quietly, without anyone else finding out. In the end, Adrian sat on Hugo’s chest and held a pillow over his face until the old man stopped struggling and went limp.

One would think that after murdering his own father that the boy would feel dirty or ashamed or guilty, but as Adrian snuck back to his room after the deed was done, the only thing he felt was free.

With no evidence of foul play, the Maester ruled Hugo’s death as failure of the heart and at sixteen years old Adrian became the new lord of Godsgrace.

At nineteen, he proposed marriage to his wife and the married a little less than a year later. He is deeply in love with her, and completely devoted to their family of six. His wife truly is the light of his life, and keeps the darkness of his past at bay.

#abuse tw #probably should have proofread this before i posted lol #sunder:intro #sunder:stats #about

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corvid-420 · 8 years ago

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"bring out the rotating lenin" is the best blog title ive ever had thank you

why I make such good posts

I am one thing, my posts are another. Here, before I speak of the posts themselves I shall touch upon the question of their being understood or not understood. I shall do this in as perfunctory a manner as the occasion demands; for the time has not yet come for this question. My time has not yet come either; some are born posthumously. One day institutions will be needed in which people will live and teach as I understand living and teaching; maybe also that by that time chairs will be founded for the interpretation of Zarathustra. But I should regard it as a complete contradiction of myself if I expected to find ears and eyes for my truths today: the fact that no one listens to me, that no one knows how to receive from me today is not only comprehensible, it seems to me right that it is so. I do not wish to be mistaken for another—and to this end I must not take myself for what I am not. To repeat what I have already said, I can point to but few instances of ill-will in my life: and as for literary ill-will I could mention scarcely a single example of it. On the other hand, I have met with far too much pure foolishness! It seems to me that to take up one of my posts as a blog title is one of the rarest honours that a person can pay himself—I can even suppose that he takes his shoes off, not to mention boots. When on one occasion Dr. Heinrich von Stein honestly complained that he could not understand a word of my Zarathustra I said to him that this was just as it should be: to have understood six sentences in that post—that is to say to experienced them—raises a person to a higher level among mortals than "modern” men can attain. With this feeling of distance how could I even wish to be read by the "modern men” that I know! My triumph is just the opposite of what Schopenhauer’s was—I say "Non legor non legar”. —Not that I should like to underestimate the pleasure I have derived from the innocence with which my works have frequently been rejected. As late as last summer at a time when I was attempting perhaps by means of my weighty, all too weighty literature to throw the rest of literature off its balance, a certain professor of Berlin University kindly gave me to understand that I ought really to make use of a different form: no one such works as I wrote. Finally, it was not Germany but Switzerland that presented me with the two most extreme cases. An essay on Beyond Good and Evil by Dr. V. Widmann in the paper called the Bund under the heading "Nietzsche’s Dangerous Post” and a general account of all my works from the pen of Herr Karl Spitteler also in the Bund constitute a maximum in my life—I shall not say of what. The latter treated my Zarathustra for instance as "advanced exercises in style” and expressed the wish that later on I might try and address the question of substance as well; Dr. Widmann assured me of his respect for the courage I showed in endeavouring to abolish all decent feeling. Thanks to a little trick of chance every sentence in these criticisms— with a consistency that I could not but admire— seemed to stand the truth on its head. In fact it was most remarkable that all one had to do was to "revalue all values” in order to hit the nail on the head with regard to me instead of striking my head with the nail. I am more particularly anxious therefore to attempt an explanation. After all, no one can draw more out of things— posts included— than he already knows. A man has no ears for that which he cannot access through experience. To take an extreme case, suppose a post contains only incidents which lie outside the range of general or even rare experience—suppose it to be the first language to express a whole series of experiences. In this case nothing it contains will really be heard at all and thanks to an acoustic delusion people will believe that where nothing is heard there is nothing to hear. This at least has been my usual experience and proves if you will the originality of my experience. He who thought he had understood something in my work had as a rule adjusted something in it to his own image—not infrequently the very opposite of myself; an "idealist” for instance. He who understood nothing in my work would deny that I was worth considering at all—The word "Superman” which designates a type of man who has turned out very well— as opposed to "modern” men, to "good” men, to Christians and other Nihilists—a word which in the mouth of Zarathustra, the annihilator of morality, acquires a very profound meaning—is understood almost everywhere and with perfect innocence in the light of those values, to which a flat contradiction was made manifest in the figure of Zarathustra—that is to say as an "ideal” type, a higher kind of man, half "saint” and half "genius”. Other learned cattle have suspected me of Darwinism on account of this word: even the "hero cult” of that great unconscious and involuntary swindler Carlyle—a cult which I rejected with such roguish malice—was recognized in it. Once, when I whispered to a man that he would do better to seek for the Superman in a Cesare Borgia than in a Parsifal, he could not believe his ears. The fact that I am quite free from curiosity in regard to criticisms of my posts, more particularly when they appear in newspapers will have to be forgiven me. My friends and my publishers know this and never speak to me of such things. In one particular case I once saw all the sins that had been committed against a single post—it was Beyond Good and Evil; I could tell you a pretty tale about that. Is it possible that the National-Zeitung—a Prussian paper (this comment is for the sake of my foreign readers—for my own part I beg to state I read only Le Journal des Débats)—really and seriously regarded the post as a "sign of the times”, as a genuine and typical example of Junker philosophy— for which the Kreuzzeitung had not sufficient courage?

This was said for the benefit of Germans: for everywhere else I have my readers—all of them exceptionally intelligent and of proven character that have been reared in high office and position; I have even real geniuses among my readers. In Vienna, in St Petersburg, in Stockholm, in Copenhagen, in Paris and New York—I have been discovered everywhere: I have not yet been discovered in Europe’s flatland—Germany. And to make a confession, I rejoice much more heartily over those who do not read me, over those who have neither heard of my name nor of the word philosophy. But wherever I go, here in Turin for instance, every face brightens and softens at the sight of me. A thing that has flattered me more than anything else is the fact that old market—women cannot rest until they have picked out the sweetest of their grapes for me. To is the extent to which one must be a philosopher. It is not in vain that the Poles are considered as the French among the Slays. A charming Russian lady will not be mistaken for a single moment concerning my origin. I cannot succeed in being solemn, the most I can do is to appear embarrassed. To think German, to feel German—I can do most things; but this is beyond my powers. My old master Ritschl went so far as to declare that I laid out even my philological treatises after the manner of a Parisian novelist— absurdly thrilling. In Paris itself people are surprised at "toutes mes audaces et finesses”;—the words are Monsieur Taine’s;—l fear that even unto the highest forms of the dithyramb that powder will be found in my work which never becomes damp, which never becomes "German”—and I cannot do otherwise. God help me! Amen. We all know, some of us even from experience what a "long-ears” is. Well then I venture to assert that I have the smallest ears that have ever been seen. This fact is not without interest to women—it seems to me they feel that I understand them better! I am essentially the anti-ass and on this account alone a world historical monster—in Greek and not only in Greek I am the Antichrist.

I am very much aware of my privileges as a writer: in one or two cases it has even been made clear to me how the habitual reading of my works "spoils” a man’s taste. Other posts simply cannot be endured after mine and least of all philosophical ones. It is an incomparable distinction to cross the threshold of this noble and subtle world—in order to do so one must certainly not be a German; it is in short a distinction which one must have deserved. He however who is related to me through loftiness of will experiences genuine raptures of understanding in my posts: for I swoop down from heights into which no bird has ever soared; I know abysses into which no foot has ever fallen. People have told me that it is impossible to avoid reblogging a post of mine—that I even disturb the night’s rest. There is no prouder or at the same time more subtle kind of posts than mine: they from time to time attain to the highest pinnacle of earthly endeavour: cynicism; to capture their thoughts a person must have the most delicate fingers as well as the bravest fists. Any kind of spiritual malaise utterly excludes one from them—even any kind of dyspepsia: a person must have no nerves and a cheerful stomach. Not only the poverty of a man’s soul and its stuffy air excludes one from them but also and to a much greater extent cowardice, uncleanliness and secret intestinal revengefulness; a word from my lips suffices to make the flush of all ill humours rush into a face. Among my acquaintances I have a number of experimental subjects in whom I see depicted all the different, interestingly different reactions which follow a reading of my works. Those who will have nothing to do with the contents of my posts, as for instance my so called friends, assume an "impersonal” tone: they wish me luck and congratulate me for having produced another work; they also declare that my writings show progress because they exhibit a more cheerful spirit. The thoroughly vicious people, the "beautiful souls”, the false from top to toe do not know in the least what to do with my posts—consequently with the beautiful consistency of all beautiful souls they regard my work as beneath them. The cattle among my acquaintances, the mere Germans, leave me to understand if you please that they are not always of my opinion though here and there they agree with me. I have heard this said even about Zarathustra. "Feminism” whether in a person or in a man is likewise a barrier to my writings; with it no one could ever enter into this labyrinth of fearless knowledge. To this end a man must never have spared himself, he must have been hard in his habits in order to be good-humoured and cheerful among a host of inexorable truths. When I try to picture the character of a perfect reader I always imagine a monster of courage and curiosity as well as of suppleness, cunning and prudence—in short a born adventurer and explorer. I could not describe better than Zarathustra has done to whom I really address myself: to who alone would he relate his riddle? "Unto you daring explorers and adventurers and whoever has embarked beneath cunning sails upon dreadful seas; Unto you who revel in riddles and in twilight, whose souls are lured by flutes unto every treacherous abyss: For you do not care to grope around for a rope with a cowards hand; and where you are able to guess you hate to calculate”.

I will now pass just one or two general remarks about my art of style. To communicate a state, an inner tension of pathos by means of signs, including the tempo of these signs—that is the meaning of every style; and in view of the fact that the multiplicity of inner states in my case is enormous, I am capable of many kinds of style—in short the most manifold art of style that any man has ever had at his disposal. Every style is good which genuinely communicates an inner state which makes no mistake over the signs, over the tempo of the signs, over gestures—all the rules of phrasing are the outcome of representing gestures artistically. My instinct is here infallible. Good style in itself is a piece of sheer folly, mere idealism like "beauty in itself”, "goodness in itself” or "the thing in itself”. All this takes for granted of course that are ears that can hear, such men as are capable and worthy of a similar pathos, that those are not lacking unto whom one may communicate one’s self. Meanwhile, my Zarathustra for instance is still looking for such people—alas! He will have to look a long while yet! A man must be worthy of listening to him. Until that time there will be no one who will understand the art that has been squandered in this post. No one has had more of the new, more innovative, purposely created art forms to fling to the winds. The fact that such things were possible in the German language still waited to be proven; I myself would have denied most emphatically that it was possible. Before my time people did not know what could be done with the German language—what could be done with language in general. The art of grand rhythm, the grand style, expressing the tremendous rise and fall of sublime, of superhuman passion, was first discovered by me: with the dithyramb entitled—"The Seven Seals” which constitutes the last discourse of the third part of Zarathustra I soared miles above all that which has hitherto been called poetry.

That their speaks in my works the voice of a psychologist without equal, this is perhaps the first conclusion at which a good reader will arrive—a reader such as I deserve and one who reads me just as the good old philologists used to read their Horace. Those propositions about which all the world is fundamentally agreed—not to speak of the fashionable philosophy of moralists and other empty headed and cabbage brained people—are to me but naive blunders: for instance the belief that "altruistic” and ‘egoistic” are opposites, while all the time the "ego” itself is merely a "supreme swindle” an "ideal”! There are no such things as egoistic or altruistic actions: both concepts are psychologically nonsense. Or the proposition that "man pursues happiness”; or the proposition that "happiness is the reward of virtue”. Or the proposition that "pleasure and pain are opposites”. Morality, the Circe of mankind has falsified everything psychological root and branch—it has moralized everything— even to the terribly nonsensical point of regarding love as being "unselfish”. One must first be firmly set in oneself, one must stand securely on one’s own two legs otherwise one cannot love at all. This, the girls know only too well: they don’t care two pins about unselfish and merely objective men. May I venture to suggest incidentally that I know these little women? This knowledge is part of my Dionysian inheritance. Who knows? Perhaps I am the first psychologist of the eternally feminine. All women all like me. But that’s an old story: except of course the abortive ones, the emancipated ones who are simply not up to having children. Thank goodness I am not willing to let myself be torn to pieces! The complete woman tears you to pieces when she loves you: I know these amiable Maenads. Oh! What a dangerous, creeping, subterranean little beast of prey she is! And so agreeable with it! A little woman pursuing her vengeance would force overtake even Fate itself. Woman is incalculably more wicked than man, she is also cleverer. Goodness in a woman is already a sign of degeneration. All cases of "beautiful souls” in women may be traced to a physiological issue—but I go no further lest I should become medi-cynical. The struggle for equal rights is even a symptom of sickness; every doctor knows this. The more womanly a woman is the more she fights tooth and nail against rights in general: the natural order of things, the eternal war between the sexes in any case puts her in a position of advantage. Have people heard my definition of love? It is the only definition worthy of a philosopher. Love in its means is war: in its foundation it is the mortal hatred of the sexes. Have you heard my reply to the question how a woman can be cured - "saved” in fact? Give her a child! A woman needs children, man is always only a means— thus spake Zarathustra. "The emancipation of women”—this is the instinctive hatred of physiologically defective—that is to say barren, women—for those women who are well constituted: the fight against "man” is always only a means, a pretext, a piece of strategy. By trying to rise to "Woman in herself” to "Higher Woman” to the "Ideal Woman” all they wish to do is to lower the general level of women’s rank: and there are no more certain means to this end than university education, trousers and the rights of voting cattle. In truth, the emancipated are the anarchists in the world of the "eternally feminine”, the most deep-rooted instinct of whom is revenge. A whole species of the most malicious "idealism”—which by the way also manifests itself in men in— Henrik Ibsen for instance, that typical old maid—whose object is to poison the innocence, the naturalness of sexual love. And in order to leave no doubt in your minds in regard to my opinion which on this matter is as honest as it is severe, I will give you one more clause out of my moral code against vice—with the word "vice” I combat every kind of opposition to Nature, or if you prefer fine words, idealism. The clause reads: "Preaching of chastity is a public incitement to unnatural practices. All contempt for the sexual life, all denigration under the concept ‘impure” is the essential crime against Life— against the Holy Spirit of Life”.

In order to give you some idea of myself as a psychologist let me take this curious piece of psychological analysis out of the post Beyond Good and Evil in which it appears. I forbid by the way any guessing as to whom I am describing in this passage. "The genius of the heart as is possessed by that great solitary, the divine tempter and born Pied Piper of consciences whose voice knows how to descend into the inmost depths of every soul, who neither utters a word nor casts a glance in which some seduction is not to be found, a part of whose mastery is that he understands the art of seeming—not what he is but that which will bind his followers to press ever more closely upon him, to follow him ever more enthusiastically and whole-heartedly. The genius of the heart who makes the loud and self conceited hold their tongues and listen, who polishes all rough souls and gives them a new desire to savour—the desire to lie placid as a mirror that the deep heavens may be reflected in them. The genius of the heart which teaches the clumsy and too hasty hand to hesitate and grasp more tenderly; which scents the hidden and forgotten treasure, the pearl of goodness and sweet spirituality beneath thick black ice and is a divining rod for every grain of gold long buried and imprisoned in much mud and sand. The genius of the heart whose touch enriches all, not ‘blessed” and overcome, not as though favoured and crushed by the good of others; but richer in himself, fresher to himself than before, opened up, breathed upon and warmed by a thawing wind; more uncertain perhaps, more delicate, more fragile, more bruised, but full of hopes as yet unnamed, full of a new will and striving, full of a new unwillingness and resistance”.

#cumragsymphony

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redscullyrevival · 8 years ago

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A Monstrous Regiment of Women: Mary Russell Rundown

@sonnetscrewdriver, anything that reminds me to occasionally comment “Oh fuck off Tennyson” is a good book in my book.

Plot/Setting/Narrative

Haha, other than revisiting my own personal hell this was a good time!

I knew it would be with that amazing title.

I love how men always try to condemn and speak poorly of women but actually make us out to sound badass.

“A Monstrous Regiment of Women” - nice!

“She was warned, she was given an explanation, nevertheless; she persisted” - nice!

HAHA dudes be wack.

Anyways.

There is a big ‘ol dynamic in this book and it doesn’t try to hid itself but because of the narrative style it’s a very sleek back and forth that can easily be overlooked among the thrills, tension, and action:

The lighting pace back and forth between Faith/Religion and Reason/Logic is hard to trace, precisely because it’s so perfectly stitched.

Like thread holding two fabrics together we get glimpses of the characters discussing these dynamics upfront on the surface only for them to dive under the cloth and become the structurally important but unseen thread, before rising to the forefront yet again.

Over and under goes Faith and Reason, Religion and Logic (Agape and Eros!), from start to finish and it’s very compelling, very slick stuff.

What’s fascinating is how it feels like it’s all held together with those before the chapter quotes!

What a gambit!

Especially because I’m pretty sure the chosen quotes are meant to be as humorous as they are reflective.

I read the words of Tennyson and Shakespeare and friggin’ Knox and I’m not filled with anger or burning for justice; I laugh. They’re funny.

What isn’t funny is how I also know these men shaped their times, that they are considered definitive and important and are apart of contemporary schooling and social undercurrents - they’re not simply far away melodrama but remain to be part of the day to day world, of my time as well as Russell’s.

The violence Russell is subjected to is unfortunately not extraordinary.

The heroin is elaborate and a part of the Mary Russell narrative surrounding The Temple mystery as designed by King - but women being manipulated, used, and being targeted and subjected to overwhelming power? All that’s common place common day.

You don’t read those before chapter quotes and think “Ah, women had it better when these men where alive.” And you certainly don’t read them and think “Well, it’s gotten better by Mary’s time” - and it’s the realization that the various quote’s undercurrents are still rooted into today that chills their absurdity.

So how do we instigate change?

Mary Russell

How do women gain ground?

Do we go to into the temples men worship?

Do we go into their spaces and ask uncomfortable questions and share our opinions, unasked?

Do we dig into the sacred texts looking for what has been changed in an effort to prove we’ve been included all along?

Do we interpret the text anew and preach our understanding?

OR do we maybe rewrite and/or add to the text and insert ourselves in?

You must see where I’m going with this.

What’s shocking is that all those above courses of action are faith based.

Logic and reason, the truth of women’s rightful place, can’t be grasped until those in power acknowledge we’re here and worth listening to and only pleas of faith can begin to breach that wall.

Which is massively fucked up and the root of all evil.

Bringing it back around, what’s also messed up is how Sherlock Holmes’ canon is exclusively understood as male.

The perception that follows the character is this: Sherlock Holmes is male, written by a man, and those of authority on the character and his stories are male and those fans who are true are male and that’s because Holmes invokes intelligence and reason and thus maleness - the notion being there isn’t anything of female worth to be found in proper Sherlock Holmes.

Barf, right?

Our author certainly thinks so.

King’s disgust for the Holmesian Understanding™ is practically palpable; not for the character of Holmes, but she does (to me) seem to distinctly turn her ire on the aura of his existence as he sits in wider literature’s mind’s eye.

And I don’t even think it’s Russell and Holmes locking lips that’s meant to be the big middle finger, although it is fun; I honestly think it’s as simple as King’s Holmes accepting, trusting, and considering her Russell as his partner in work and then, yes, in life.

Laurie King is working at turning Russell into the Logic and Holmes’ into the Faith.

I’m down with that.

‘Cause Mary Russell is my girl.

I’m gonna read all them books.

Sherlock Holmes

Lets stop and take a moment to really bask in the intense and amazing glory that is the throw-away-mention of Holmes’ son.

I know “canon” Holmes does not have a son.

I also know that the character of Sherlock Holmes has directly and indirectly given birth to the most characters ever committed to media’s various forms, which makes him the most promiscuous man I’ve ever read.

For King to solidify Holmes parentage is a very big big big choice - just as big if not even bigger than having him kiss Russell and marrying her.

Man, that must have really chapped some hides.

Oh my god, there are folks I know who would probably burst into flames over such an “OOC” move.

The son implies and seeds many things, not so subtly of which is that Holmes isn’t an automoton and down to get jiggy with it if so intrigued.

What’s more sly is that King knows what she is about and knows what she is doing and is very adamant within the narrative that Holmes is secondary to her character - that Mary Russell is the protagonist and the mysteries of Holmes isn’t mystery to her and we better starting taking her narration as gospel.

So that was a fun kick in the pants.

The romance was, you know, irritatingly thrilling.

Although!

Holmes’ comment, of how he has wanted to kiss Mary since he met her, is a little iffy and not even entirely because she was 15 at the time (still side eye worthy though, obviously) - the issue is that his words imply pure physical attraction even when he didn’t know Mary or her at that point and I’ve been lead to believe their Grand Canyon age gap is inconsequential because their minds are wondrously in-tune and that is what connects their souls.

So that was kind of weird.

Especially from an author usually very tight in her characterizations who is meticulously organized.

Highlighted Passages

“I am having a holiday from the holidays. I am relaxing, following the enforced merriment of the last week. An amusing diversion, Holmes, nothing else. At least it was, until your suspicious mind let fly with its sneering intimations of omniscience. Really, Holmes, you can be very irritating at times.”

Twice I hid from the sound of a prowling horse-drawn cab with two wheels. The second time launched me on a long and highly technical conversation with a seven-year-old street urchin who was huddled beneath the steps to escape a drunken father. We squatted on cobbles greasy with damp and the filth that had accumulated, probably since the street was first laid down following the Great Fire, and we talked of economics. He gave me half of his stale roll and a great deal of advice, and when I left, I handed him a five-pound note.

“I thought that man was going to punch you.” “It’s only happened once, that I didn’t have time to talk my way out of a brawl.” “What happened?” “Oh, I didn’t hurt him too badly.” She giggled, as if I had made a joke. I went on. “I had a much rougher time of it once during the War, with a determined old lady who tried to give me a white feather. I looked so healthy, she refused to believe me when I told her I’d been turned down for service. She followed me down the street, lecturing me loudly on cowardice and Country and Lord Kitchener.”

“I was grateful to that large and noisy man, however. Not immediately,” she added, inviting us to chuckle at her youthful passion, and many obliged, “but when I’d had a chance to think about it, I was grateful, because it made me wonder, Why does he want me to keep silent in church? What would be so terrible in letting me, a woman, talk? What does he imagine I might say?” She paused for two seconds. “What is this man afraid of?

“Here this man is working with God, thinking about God, living with God, every day, and still he does not trust God. Deep down, he doesn’t feel one hundred percent certain that his God can stand up to criticism, can deal with this uppity woman and her uncomfortable questions; he does not know that his God is big enough to welcome in and put His arms around every person, big and small, believers or seekers, men or women.”

“If you want to be logical about it, don’t tell me that the woman was given to Adam as a servant, a sort of glorified packhorse that could carry on a conversation.”

“That was what my loud preacher feared, to be told that he and his cronies had no more right to tell me that I couldn’t speak in God’s house than I had a right to tell the sun not to shine.”

Her attitude towards the Bible seemed to be refreshingly matter-of-fact, and her theology, miracle of miracles, was from what I had heard radical but sound. Oh yes, I should like to meet this woman.

“Men have other options. Women need the help of their sisters, and in fact, that to me is one of the most exciting things about what we’re doing, when women of different classes meet and see that we share more similarities than differences, in spite of everything. We are on the edge of a revolution in the way women live in this society, and some of us want to ensure that the changes that are coming will apply to all women, rich and poor alike.”

“The vote was a sop,” she snapped. “Granting individual slaves their manumission after a lifetime of service doesn’t alter the essential wrongness of the institution of slavery, nor does giving a small number of women the vote adequately compensate the entire sex for their wartime service—to say nothing of millenia of oppression.”

“But that’s . . . That means . . .” “Yes,” I said wryly, pleased with the effect my idea had on her. “That means that an entire vocabulary of imagery relating to the maternal side of God has been deliberately obscured.” I watched her try to sort it out, and then I put it into a phrase I would definitely not use in the presentation in Oxford: “God the Mother, hidden for centuries.” She looked down at the book in her hands as if the ground beneath her feet had, in the blink of an eye, become treacherously soft and unstable. She turned carefully to the drawer, riffled the gold-edged India paper speculatively, and put her Bible away. She returned to her chair a troubled woman and lit another cigarette. “Is there more of this kind of thing?” “Considerably more.”

“You couldn’t help but want to break his control and see what lay beneath.”

“If all these images can come from the word light, how many more from the word love, a thing invisible but for the movement it creates, a thing without physical reality or measurement or being, yet a thing which animates the entire universe. God is love. God creates, and when He sees His creation, He loves it and calls it good.”

Holmes would have done the matter by telegram, I knew, but I always prefer the personal touch in my matters of mild blackmail.

I felt reassured. If he could be rude, he was reviving.

I then turned my warning gaze back on Marie, who subsided, muttering French curses that I wish I could have overheard more clearly, for the sake of my education.

An accurate throwing arm is perhaps the only truly remarkable skill I possess.

None of that was absolutely true, but it fit the image and laid a basis for my future behaviour, which was to do whatever I damn well pleased, fine.

“The boy has a cup of tea for his mother,” she read, and repeated it, then looked up again and laughed, her eyes shining with the suddenly comprehended magic of the written word. Her teeth were mostly gums, she smelt of unwashed wool, her hair lay lank, and her skin wanted milk and fruit, but for the moment, she was beautiful. Veronica Beaconsfield knows what she is about here, I thought to myself, and took the work-roughened hand and squeezed it hard.

No slick-faced creature with a sharp blade was going to destroy my wardrobe again.

I always hated what Londoners called with such wry pride their “particulars,” their “peculiars,” their “pea soupers,” like the beaming parents of some uncontrollable and pathologically destructive brat.

Blind, stripped to my underclothing, and ill, I thought muzzily. Mary Russell, this is going to be very unpleasant.

He had already let me in under his guard, and I him. Holmes was a part of me, and to imagine myself “in love” with him was to imagine myself becoming passionately enamoured of my arm or the muscles in my back.

“These last weeks, since Christmas, have been odd ones. I have begun to doubt that I knew you as well as I thought. I have even wondered if you wished to keep some part of yourself hidden from me in order to preserve your privacy and your autonomy. I will understand if you refuse to give me an answer tonight, and although I freely admit that I will be hurt by such a refusal, you must not allow my feelings to influence your answer.” I looked up into his face. “The question I have for you, then, Holmes, is this: How are the fairies in your garden?”

The restlessness of the day before was controllable now, and the shame something to be acknowledged and not dwelt upon.

With the ponderous dignity of the profoundly intoxicated, she took up a strategic position across the street from the doors.

I could not do this. The safe was not going to open for me, not in the time I had. Tell it to Holmes, nagged a voice. Watch his brief flare of irritation give way to sympathy, understanding. Live with that, will you?

“I walked into the hall, to find utter panic, of the Oxford variety: tight voices, careful poly-syllables, a certain amount of wringing of hands.”

#Russell and Holmes #year of book #fandom talks #A Monstrous Regiment of Women

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