#obligatory navi piece. she is everything to me | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

vmficrecs · 4 years ago

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Every school has an obligatory psychotic jackass. He’s ours.

It has been one year since The Incident. In celebration of this beautiful, snarky, dynamic, passionate, beloved, smug, asshole, essential, etc., etc., character I have complied a lengthy (but by no means exhaustive) collection of some of my personal favorite fics focusing on Logan, or on his relationships, or fics that i just think do something neat in terms of Logan/his journey/his character. ❤️

Previously on vmficrecs:

dark_roast, “Fish Out of Water,” Mature, Post Season 1 AU

Logan opts to leave Neptune, and spend summer vacation with his grandparents.

Notes: This AU is essential reading if you love Logan. His characterization is nearly perfect, and the premise of the fic is endlessly engaging and smart.

wily_one24, “Sleep, Perchance...,” Mature, Pre-series AU

Logan thaws towards Veronica and sets out to save her.

Notes: I want to eat this fic. If you’ve never read it, read it-- it will linger endlessly inside of your brain in the best way possible. So many of the things Logan does or says in this fic exist in a very tangible and palpable manner for me, it’s that good. I think about it constantly.

ghostcat, “What We Have in Common,” Teen, Post Season 3 AU

Weevil Navarro, his incredibly poor choice of a research paper prepping locale and the close talking, finger waving jackass that interrupts and effectively hijacks his night. Set in 2010, three years after The Bitch is Back.

ghostcat, “A Trace of Meaning,” Teen, Pre-series

13 year-old Logan Echolls and 14 year-old Veronica Mars wait at the Kane Estate for their held-up sleepover hosts to show up.

theohara, “Rich Dirt,” Mature, Pre-series AU

And Logan wouldn’t let you have anything. He’d danced over to you and smirked in your face and twirled your plastic cup right out of your hand and cooed that just because your Daddy wasn’t sheriff anymore didn’t give you license to break the law, and he’d acted all shocked with his hand over his mouth and he’d laughed like breaking glass and nanced off with your drink.

anjou, “Into the Blue,” Mature, Post Season 1

It’s almost summer, and Logan is sinking into the blue.

flyingcarpet, “Mexicali Blues,” Mature, Post Season 3 AU

When he reaches the water he doesn’t hesitate, just keeps walking until he can duck his head under and start to swim away from shore, letting the salt and the waves wash away the residue that Neptune’s left on his skin.

absolutelyiris, “Truth for a Dream,” Teen, Future Fic (Pre-movie)

Fleet Week 2012. A reformed bad boy turned sailor and a former party girl turned career woman meet in a bar…

Notes: A LOGAN AND PARKER FRIENDSHIP FIC!!! pure fucking delight

absolutelyiris, “Come Around,” Mature, Future AU

A woman travels the world over in search of what she needs and returns home to find it.

Notes: I will talk about this fic until the day that I day, and then I will still talk about it. One of my absolute favorites. Pure gold Logan/Keith dynamic. I would 10/10 die for Razia. and, of course, the l/v is so damn good

TheLastGoodGolfish, “The Phenomenal Pixie, #1,” Teen, AU

Veronica is a masked avenger who stalks the streets of Neptune. Logan is the intrepid reporter who’s on the story.

Notes: PERFECT. PERFECT PERFECT PERFECT. also-- “That’s ridiculous. My favorite person is a sorority girl.” in my head, rent free, and i am forever indebted.

bryrosea, “Waste of Breath / A Quartz Contentment,” Mature, Post Season 2 to TDTL

Part one: Logan Echolls, the nine years, and the Navy. Part two: Veronica Mars, the nine years, and a new normal.

Notes: I am recommending specifically “Waste of Breath” for my boy, although Veronica’s piece is excellent as well.

always_winter, “Written Out,” Teen, Season 2 AU

Duncan has some residual guilt and Logan wants to be left out of the story.

always_winter, “White Combs and Sweet Honey,” Mature, Season 1

Even when Aaron is trying to be a good father, there’s still a lot he’s doing wrong.

Notes: This fic is so tender to me!!! A beautiful Logan and Aaron piece.

sadiekate, “Grand Canyon,” PG-13, Season 1 to Future AU

Three friends reminisce several years in the future, snarkily and pointlessly.

sinaddict, “Necrosis,” Explicit, Season 2 AU

Death in bits and pieces, denial as a religion… Or ‘normal’ in Neptune.

sowell, “Surviving the Wreck,” Explicit, Season 3 AU

Nothing’s ever simple with Veronica Mars. Weevil’s day at sea gets a little complicated.

Notes: THIS FUCKING FIC!!!! i love everything about it and especially at this moment in time, the part where logan gives weevil a blow job but weevil notes that somehow, in spite of this, logan retains the upper hand. this fic is world class and i am grateful everyday for it

theohara, “Broken Toys,” NC-17, Pre series AU

One glance across a street saves Lilly Kane’s life. It changes everything; it changes nothing.

Notes: This is the most heartbreaking Veronica Mars’ fanfic ever. I have such a deep love for it. It takes Lilly’s character and Logan/Veronica’s relationship to places I don’t ever think they would go and yet it works in this and it works so damn well. a truly devastating and beautiful au

fluffernutter8, “The Ninety Nine Percent,” Teen, Post Season 3 AU

Junior year of college, Logan gets some news that proves that no matter how hard he tries, life is just going to keep throwing him curve-balls. Post season 3, non movie canon compliant.

youcallitwinter, “gravity is gonna keep you tied down to this city,” Teen, Post Season 3 to TDTL

[your life in extended parenthesis] the lone neon nights and the ache of the ocean, and the fire that was starting to spark. From the love to the lightning and the lack of it.

Notes: please don't fall out of love with me, okay? don’t you dare give up on me. I DIE EVERY FUCKING TIME youcallitwinter is a force with all of her writings, but this one.......my god every single bit about it is fucking flawless

petpluto, “Of Scars & Consequences,” Teen, Post-series AU

Almost a decade in the future, Logan's still a little messed up. And Veronica's still a little closed off. They make it work.

julietbravo, “one brutal thing after another,” Teen, Pre-series to Season 1

These rich boys think they can get away with anything, don’t they.

querulousgawks, “there should be stars for great wars like ours,” Teen, AU

It’s gotta be some Alliance mind game, a holdover, the Operative’s last trick: Logan’s old secrets manifesting everywhere around them. Where are you, how are you doing this, he wants to scream, but he doesn’t know which ghost he’d be railing at.

SilverLining2k6, “Sometimes (You Can’t Make It On Your Own),” Teen, Season 1 AU

Silly Duncan stopped taking his meds. Now, one dead Fitzpatrick later, Logan and Veronica need to get him out of town. Too bad they hate each other.

SilverLining2k6, “Control,” Teen, Pre-series AU

Don’t you mess with a little girl’s dreams. ‘Cause she’s liable to grow up mean. Pre-series. Oneshot. - A twisted little tale of hate and revenge.

Notes: CONTROL!!!!! I love Control so much, it’s one of the first fics I ever read for the fandom and one of the finest. The Logan that exists in this is sooo good and his relationship with Veronica is deeply flawed & wonderful. M is in the process of writing a remix to Control (more in-depth emotion) and I for one am foaming at the fucking mouth every day about it.

nevertothethird, “Reunions,” Teen, Post Series AU

Sometimes it just takes a little longer to get things right. Two high school reunions and a birthday party should do the trick.

youcallitwinter, “you give love a bad name,” Teen, Season 2 AU

“Hey, did you guys know there was a sensitive poet-type hiding behind this hard exoskeleton of expensive alcohol and bitter cynicism?” In which Logan Echolls is, well, Logan Echolls.

scandalpants, “Something to Remember,” Mature, Post Series AU

Facing a separation, Logan and Veronica spend their last night together exchanging gifts.

Notes: I am always in a goddamn state about this fic. Logan jacking off in front of Veronica at her request? Yes, thank you please. thank you so much

leurocrystal, “Take Your Time,” Teen, Post Season 2

Keith doesn’t know how to look at or touch his daughter for the first time in his life.

petpluto, “We Are Nowhere, And It’s Now,” Mature, Series AU

“You know there is another way of looking at this, Logan. If you’d still been together, you might be dead too." Logan and Lilly both die on October 3rd. But for Veronica, it’s not like they’re gone. And she still works to solve their murders.

absolutelyiris, “Delay,” Teen, Post TTDL

Logan reflects on his first Christmas with Veronica after a ten year separation, as well as how his life has changed with her absence.

New to vmficrecs:

Christmas in Arkham Author: dark_roast Pairing: Logan Rating: Teen Genre: Hurt/Comfort, A Really Good Hug Setting: Season 2 Spoilers: 2.09, “My Mother, the Fiend” Chapters: 1 Word Count: 10128 Status: Complete Summary: Sequel to Fish Out of Water. Logan spends christmas with his grandparents. Notes: This is, full stop, my favorite Veronica Mars fanfiction ever. I am so protective of this fic that part of me doesn’t even want to give it a formal place on the blog, which is ridiculous because I’m sure plenty of people have already read it and obviously it’s so good that I want people to read it but....this belongs to me, somehow, like I feel like it’s mine that’s how much I love it. ANYWAY possessiveness aside-- Every word, every sentence, every punctuation mark in this fic is perfect, devastating insight into Logan’s character. Absolutely beautiful and wonderful and every other good thing.

The Teeth by the Shoulder Author: ghostcat Pairing: Fab Four, Logan/Lilly, Veronica/Duncan Rating: Teen Genre: Friendship, Angst Setting: Pre-series Spoilers: 1.01, “Pilot” Chapters: 3 Word Count: 17273 Status: Complete Summary: Two couples, two friendships. The Fab Four in three Octobers. Notes: WE’VE NEVER FUCKING RECOMMENDED THE TEETH BY THE SHOULDER BEFORE?????? HOW IS THAT EVEN POSSIBLE OH MY GOD jesus this is one of the greatest fanfictions ever written. three pre-series explorations into the fab four friendship and it is impossibly good. i am especially in love with the logan/lilly in this fic (the first chapter!!!!) and as always special care is given to exploring the logan + veronica dynamic. the third chapter will break your fucking heart so bad in the best way

Seven Times Logan Echolls Went to Jail Author: sowell Pairing: Logan/Veronica, Veronica/Piz Rating: Teen Genre: Angst, Romance, Logan Echolls is a Little Shit Setting: (Post) Season 3 AU Spoilers: 3.12, “There’s Got to Be a Morning After Pill” and 3.16, “Un-American Graffiti” Chapters: 1 Word Count: 6701 Status: Complete Summary: Who thinks Logan behind bars is sexy? I do, I do! // Logan goes to jail and calls Veronica to bail him out. Again and again and again and again. Notes: WE HAVEN’T DONE THIS BEFORE EITHER???? oh my god!! I remember finding this one a few months before the movie came out and i would just lay in bed in the dark and re-read it endlessly. and then i left it alone for a few years and when i went back to it holy shit it undid me all over again. perfect logan and veronica relationship. p e r f e c t!!! i firmly believe this is exactly what shape their relationship would’ve taken if veronica hadn’t cut and run

Love is Just a Four-letter Word Author: bigboobedcanuck Pairing: Logan/Veronica, Keith, Weevil Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort Setting: Future AU Spoilers: 1.12, “Clash of the Tritons” Chapters: 1 Word Count: 1753 Status: Complete Summary: Set a few years down the road from high school. Logan hits rock bottom. Keith and Veronica help him back up. Notes: Lynn’s body turns up and it is fucking DEVASTATING. A short piece that’s told from Keith’s POV (anyone who knows me knows how much of a sucker I am for Keith + Logan interaction) and holy hell Logan is so good in it and I think about it all the fucking time

Serendipity Author: TheLastGoodGoldfish Pairing: Logan/Veronica, Veronica/Piz, Carrie, Gia, Stu Cobbler, Ensemble Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Detective-ing Setting: Post Season 3 Spoilers: 3.20, “The Bitch is Back” and The Movie Chapters: 4 (out of a planned 6, fingers crossed!!!) Word Count: 59763 Status: Complete Summary: During her sophomore year at Hearst, Veronica takes on your run-of-the-mill blackmail case: the clients hate her, the evidence is impossible to destroy, and her ex turns out to be a bit of a distraction, but Veronica is a sucker for a damsel-in-distress. Even if the damsel is an intoxicated, pissed off Carrie Bishop. Notes: I AM HIGH PITCHED SCREAMING. Transplanting the movie plot to this timeframe works tremendously and TLGG’s execution is fucking perfect. Carrie is a powerhouse in this fic and god, Logan is such a honey it in which is why it is being recc’d for him. Him practically letting Carrie move in with him and doing his damnedest to protect Carrie and Gia (much to Veronica’s chagrin) is so, so important to me and I love him so much.

The Phenomenal Pixie - Interlude #1 - “Bugs” Author: TheLastGoodGoldfish Pairing: Logan/Veronica, OC’s Genre: Humor, Fluff, Logan and Veronica Are Smarter Than You Setting: AU (Season 3) Spoilers: uhhh n/a Chapters: 1 Word Count: 5072 Status: Complete Summary: Dating a superhero poses a unique set of challenges. Notes: Tiny sequel to The Phenomenal Pixie which you absolutely must read first (and is recommended above) because it’s a fucking delight. Logan is incredible in this fic and I would die for him, like always. The part where Steve can sense Logan is thinking about punching him in the face-- a million chefs kisses.

The Medusa Jewel Author: TheLastGoodGoldfish Pairing: Logan/Veronica Genre: Established Relationship Bliss, Fluff Setting: MKAT Spoilers: MKAT Chapters: 1 Word Count: 5336 Status: Complete Summary: Logan and Veronica's new neighbor is a writer. Notes: is my TLGG obsession shining through? good because it fucking should be. The Logan/Veronica in this relationship is so sweet and perfect and is 100% my reality and i would like to bathe in this fic and live in it forever as is my right.

Drowning Together Author: bryrosea Pairing: Logan/Veronica Genre: Romance, Hurt/Comfort Setting: Season 3 Spoilers: 3.07, “Of Vice and Men” Chapters: 1 Word Count: 897 Status: Complete Summary: AU of the confrontation scene from 3x07: Of Vice and Men (Logan and Veronica both need a hug) Notes: Absolute wonderful insight and even some reconciliation into a canonical season three fight. Logan calming down while Veronica falls apart as they hug is so important to me.

Interrupt Us Author: bryrosea Pairing: Logan/Veronica Genre: Romance, Hijinks, They Want To Fuck So Bad Setting: Post TDTL Spoilers: through TDTL Chapters: 1 Word Count: 17223 Status: Complete Summary: Logan Echolls is home from deployment. Time to cue the sweeping movie montage, right? Notes: Logan and Veronica try to have sex everywhere and it is my life force. The car scene when they get pulled over and Logan instinctively hiding under Veronica’s desk....god i love everyone in this bar

Ready to Go Author: Amberina Pairing: Logan/Duncan; Veronica Genre: Friendship, Romance, Angst Setting: Post Season 1 Spoilers: not obvious but 1.22, “Leave it to Beaver” Chapters: 1 Word Count: 6346 Status: Complete Summary: "Let's leave. Let's go. What's left in Neptune for us anyway?" (AKA Duncan, Logan and Veronica have wacky adventures on the road! Also angst.) Notes: Logan getting hissy and storming off from the car while Duncan and Veronica just watch him and then calling a taxi once he’s out of their sight is PEAK logan. I love boyfriends, even if they’re angst-ing in this, and they big time are.

Nashville On My Mind Author: hjcallipygian Pairing: Logan, Veronica, Duncan Genre: Friendship, Hijinks Setting: Post Season 1 AU Spoilers: 1.22, “Leave it to Beaver” Chapters: 1 Word Count: 1659 Status: Complete Summary: Every year, they take a road trip together. This year, it's to Nashville, Tennessee. Notes: i just spent forty minutes trying to find this fic to the point where i was genuinely concerned i had hallucinated it. it’s so fucking good. a sequel/prequel of sorts to grand canyon by sadiekate (recc’d in the previously section). logan is a mess and by god do i love him

Six Times Logan Echolls Got Wet Author: bryrosea, CarolineShea, ghostcat, kmd0107, marshmallowtasha, SilverLining2k6 Pairing: Logan/Veronica Rating: Teen Genre: Romance, Friendship, Hijinks Setting: Everywhere Spoilers: All series to MKAT Chapters: 6 Word Count: 11568 Status: Complete Summary: aka: The Wet Henley ChroniclesSix stories in which we probably give Logan Echolls pneumonia, inspired by the movie's infamous wet henley. Set variously across the series and post-MKAT. Notes: each chapter is written by a different author, they’re all good but bryrosea’s chapter and silvery’s chapter are my favorites. set during the summer between season 1 & 2 and post season three respectively they do such a great job dealing with the fractious and tumultuous nature of Logan/Veronica’s relationship at the time and i love it so much

A Little Dysfunctionality Goes A Long Way Author: fluffernutter8 Pairing: Logan/Veronica Rating: Teen Genre: ANGST with a side of fucking ANGST, happy ending but jesus Setting: Post Season 3 AU Spoilers: 1.22, “Leave it to Beaver” Chapters: 1 Word Count: 2878 Status: Complete Summary: Despite their history, Logan and Veronica might be somewhere on the brink of normal. A few years post season 3. Notes: i just read this for the first time 07/13/20 at 9:08pm because when i asked shelby for her favorite logan fics she included this one. i am fucking dead now and-- there’s nothing else to say about it. i’m just fucking dead. for YEARS i have said that nobody with the username fluffernutter8 should be able to write shit this goddamn emotional and yet, time and time again, i find myself here fuckign wrecked and furious about it

these are just ghosts that broke my heart before i met you Author: theviolonist Pairing: Logan, Veronica, Carrie, Dick Rating: Teen Genre: Introspection, Angst, I Love Logan Setting: Pre Movie & Movie Spoilers: Movie Chapters: 1 Word Count: 1326 Status: Complete Summary: In the army they say, don't think of the target as a person, otherwise you won't have the guts to pull the trigger. Notes: fuck, you guys. this one is so beautiful. an exploration into logan’s grief and him trying to move on and it cuts like a damn knife because he can never really do it but fuck he wants to so bad and [lucas scott voice] that’s gotta mean something, right? truly so so wonderful

Fugue Author: vaeran Pairing: Logan/Veronica, Logan/Lilly, Dick Rating: Teen Genre: Angst, hopeful ending Setting: Post Season 1 Spoilers: 1.22, “Leave it to Beaver” Chapters: 1 Word Count: 4137 Status: Complete Summary: It's something he refuses to let go because it defines who he is and what he has become. Notes: deviates from the PCHer confrontation on the bridge, which means logan takes a little longer to come around to reconciliation with veronica. it’s perfect and i particularly love the logan/lilly in this, he’s hurt but still so impossibly and eternally in love with her

One Flew Over the Echolls Nest Author: Wynn Pairing: Logan/Veronica, Duncan Rating: Teen Genre: Angst, Friendship Setting: Post Season 1 AU Spoilers: 1.22, “Leave it to Beaver” Chapters: 1 Word Count: 1507 Status: Complete Summary: Open wide and see what's inside. A bridge and a bed and Veronica. Logan finds himself in a mental institution after the events of "Leave it to Beaver." Veronica, Duncan, and Logan's psychiatrist attempt to help. Notes: so sad and so good!!! the part where Logan’s psychiatrist asks him when the last time he was happy was fucking wrecks me everytime!!

Free at last Author: querulousgawks Pairing: Logan, Weevil, Aaron Rating: Teen Genre: Frenemies, They Are Boyfriends Setting: Season 2 Spoilers: 2.09, “My Mother, the Fiend” Chapters: 1 Word Count: 1242 Status: Complete Summary: Logan and Weevil and fire go a long way back. A flashback scene interrupts their Season 2 meeting in the Neptune Grand. Notes: I LOVE EVERY SINGLE THING ABOUT THIS SO GOD DAMN MUCH

The Right Shade of Red Author: ghostcat Pairing: Trina, Logan, Aaron Rating: Teen Genre: ANGST Setting: Pre-series Spoilers: 1.15, “Ruskie Business” Chapters: 1 Word Count: 883 Status: Complete Summary: Trina finds her jerky little brother hiding in her closet and does the unexpected thing. (Or, A time Logan trusted Trina) Notes: If you want 883 words to be able to make you feel like you’ve been hit by a truck this is the fic for you! I love the Echolls family dynamics so much, and this one is excellent.

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vixxiedust · 5 years ago

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The Scholar’s Love Ch. 1

Genre: Romance, Drama, Alternate universe

Pairing: KenxOC

Warning: none

Summary:

“Don`t you want to find a good husband and get married?” he raised an eyebrow, “Someone noble, handsome, valiant, brave, courageous…”

I narrowed my eyes. Was he trying to describe himself? My sister would probably gush over a man like him but I wasn`t really familiar with men. I never paid much attention to them and as expected I spent most of my life away from them because propriety demanded that.

“My parents will choose a husband when the time comes,” I answered flatly.

One.

I straightened myself in my blue robes trying to look taller and more authoritative. I knew that it was useless since I hardly looked the part but I could see the girl in front of me trembling with fear and it wasn`t a pretty sight. I wondered why she was so scared, none of us were going to be slaughtered, none of us was a criminal. It was Acceptance day, a day of glory for all of us. Maybe she felt small and visible because there were only twenty of us. Our line was practically non-existent compared to the men`s one. One hundred of them, advancing towards the Palace in steady strong pace expecting to have a bright future as officials, to help governing our country of Nava.

All of us wore navy blue robes with a tiny white dragon embroidered on our chest. Those who`d be elevated in rank later would switch to a bigger silver dragon but the gold embroidery was reserved only for the royal family. The robes made for the future female officials were slightly wider, made to resemble a dress but other than that the uniform wasn`t so different. The difference lied in the fact that most of us would probably never make it beyond librarians or historians. But had I been born fifty years ago I`d have only dreamed about being accepted here. I`d have remained the daughter of a third rank scholar doomed only to marry and produce kids.

I threw a glance at the male line. Some of the young men there were ogling at us. Probably not me since I rarely looked agreeable and consciously kept my face as stern as possible but there were some very beautiful daughters of scholars around me. The girl in front of me was blushing furiously from what I could see.

“Raise your head,” I whispered to her and tried to steady her when she swayed startled by my voice, “They won`t dare to say anything to you if you don`t look scared.”

She drew a weak shaky breath and tried to look at me while walking. Unlike me she was wearing makeup. She was beautiful; her hair lighter than mine and braided in the obligatory way for female officials.

“But it`s scary.”

“It`s not,” I said reassuringly, “We are going to serve His Majesty and our country. You can`t be a mess. You represent yourself, your family and the monarchy.”

She nodded hastily, and then she straightened her body a little.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

I patted the side of her arm and continued our solemn march towards the gates. Then we stopped at the parade ground in front of the House of Justice and Valor. There was the male part of the Royal family. I couldn`t see them well because I was too far behind but I could make out the ceremonial robes of our King, the Crown prince and his two brothers. On both sides there were the Ministers in robes of brilliant azure blue.

I heard the ceremonial drums and fell to my knees along with everyone around me. Suddenly I felt so small, like a tiny ant in the sea of more ants, pressing my forehead to the cold ground. I wondered how my sister was doing.

She was probably very excited for her own Acceptance day. I tried to think of her to seek some comfort and feel less alone. She wasn`t far away from here and she was probably now bowing to the Queen and the Princess in front of the House of Elegance and Virtue. I knew that she used to dream of this day for years. She always wanted to be a lady-in-waiting, and then part of the harem, a glorious concubine dressed in silk and precious stones. She wouldn`t stop dancing when our robes arrived three days ago. This is when we knew that we were approved. For me it was countless of nights of studying and writing and for her ruthlessly cultivating her beauty and talents. And in the end it all paid off. Now we needed to make our family proud, each of us in her own way.

“Future officials,” the booming voice of the King reached my ears and I quickly directed my thoughts towards the current task, “Today you begin a journey towards self-cultivating to serve your country and its citizen. From now on you shall dedicate your lives to this purpose and the this purpose alone because the nation needs you. We have the army to protect it but we also have you to help me govern it well.”

King Jiyeong, I thought, the second King of the Dragon Dynasty. My father used to describe him as a trustworthy ruler, one who never let things out of control, who looked into the details. And probably rightfully so. His dynasty was young to our ancient kingdom, his ancestors fought with King Yalta from the Crow Dynasty to get to where they were today. They had to set new customs, new rituals, new fashion, everything to erase the previous rulers and their ways.

The Kingdom of Nava was founded by too many tribes and each of them had different beliefs. It wasn`t easy to unify all of them even after centuries of settling on the same piece of land.

I sighed and returned my attention to the Kings`s speech.

“Follow the laws and keep the order. Strive for perfection and bring glory to Nava.”

There was a moment of silence so that we make sure that the King had nothing more to say. Then all of us bellowed:

“Glory to the one true king!”

I finally rose from the ground. I did what I could to rub my sore knees and looking at the other officials around me I wasn`t the only one.

We didn`t have much time to tend to our poor joints though because we were herded by people in brown robes towards three massive stone tables. I saw the long lists spreading like bed sheets. Somewhere there was my name and its assigned position. We weren`t supposed to start with any important position but it also depended on the ranks of our families. Having a third rank was neither good, nor bad, just in the middle. What was worse was the fact that I was a woman.

I was grouped together with girl in front of me. She looked a lot calmer now, as if the worst part was over when in fact it had only just began. It was up to us now to show what we were really capable of.

We waited patiently and it didn`t take much time before it was her turn.

“Name,” the man at the table demanded without even raising his eyes.

“Adra An,” she mumbled, her voice trembling once again.

“Library,” the man said, “Next.”

“Nala Ae.”

He threw a quick glance at me. Maybe he had heard of my father.

“Library. Next.”

I knew I couldn`t expect much but I still felt disappointed. Adra was there waiting for me. She looked relieved.

“We`re together,” she chimed happily clinging to my sleeve.

I wish I could return the smile. The Grand Library was the standard starting point for most female officials. Men usually got assigned to different departments at the ministries. I sighed deeply at the thought of spending my time with dusty books rather than people.

“Well, let`s go,” I did my best to look enthusiastic and headed towards the group of officials who were supposed to work there as well.

“It`s not that bad,” Adra tried to comfort me, “Many others never had the chance to come to the Palace in the first place.”

I nodded. After all she was right.

---

I slowly went down the polished wooden ladder after returning a couple of atlases to their rightful places. Then I scanned my desk where a dozen more lied stacked neatly.

Three days had passed since Acceptance day and things were going as expected. Boring. It was boring. Mornings were nice since we had lectures with renowned scholars but afternoons dragged on and on at least here in the library. It was something I had to endure for now. Later when gaining more experience I could submit a memorial to the King and eventually attract his attention. I had a long way ahead of me though. No one came with brilliant ideas three days into their new duties, so in order to outshine hundreds of intelligent men in His Majesty`s court I had to study diligently for years.

I had this dream of attending court like a proper high rank official but in the history of this dynasty there had been only one woman who was able to achieve that and she lived during the reign of the previous king. I knew my chances were low.

I grabbed a few maps and checked if they were rolled properly. And since they were I headed to the shelf dedicated to topographic maps.

It wasn`t that bad, I tried to soothe myself, I liked the smell of books. The other officials here were nice and helpful. We slept in good rooms and all of us, the new ones, had our own small court. It was quiet most of the time so I could focus on my studies and work. I couldn`t complain really.

I carefully placed the maps on the shelf and headed back to my desk. To my surprise there was someone standing there. I could only see his back but he was tall and lean and was tracing an open map with his finger.

I slowly approached the stranger and sensing a movement behind him he spun his body to face me. I stopped dead in my tracks. He was a young man with soft pillowy lips, full eyebrows and dark eyes. His robes were the color of honey and despite being sewn to be only informal attire, they were adorned with elaborate embellishments such as branches and leaves. He was what most people would categorize as charming I suppose. And noble. He was definitely noble. Probably part of the extended royal family.

I curtsied awkwardly partly because I never cared to learn these things properly. My mother used to scold me a lot for that.

“May I help you?” I asked.

He didn`t bow in return which confirmed that he was indeed way higher in the hierarchy than me. Instead he looked at me from head to toe and his eyes lit playfully. I wasn`t ugly but I also wasn`t the prettiest girl out there, so it baffled me.

“You`re new,” he stated and to my horror he casually sat on top of my desk.

I felt the urge to pull the open map away from him before it crinkles but I had to contain it somehow because I couldn`t afford to face the consequences of pushing a nobleman from his seat of choice. So I just swallowed hard and nodded.

“Which house?” he puffed his full lips.

“Ae,” I almost hissed at him. I needed him to remove his bottom from the map as quickly as possible but he didn`t seem in the mood to budge, “Do you need me to help you with something?”

“Ah, I was just looking for a map but that`s not important now,” he waved dismissively and continued mumbling to himself, ”Ae… Ae… Ah, could it be that your father is Ying Ae.”

My father has been active in court lately, so no wonder that his name was familiar to the young man.

“The very same, my lord,” I answered and grabbed the map from the desk.

He almost tumbled down trying to dodge it but I wasn`t going to care at this point. But he didn`t seem to mind it at all actually because he let out a giggle.

I rolled the map carefully and walked to its respective shelf. I heard his steps behind me. He wasn`t going to let meoff so easily.

“It must be pretty boring to work here.”

“It`s only temporarily, my lord, everyone should start their career from somewhere,” I placed the map.

“Oh, an ambitious lady!” he exclaimed. I couldn`t shake off the feeling that he was toying with me.

He leaned on the shelf casually towering over me. His body omitted a sweet musky smell.

“Don`t you want to find a good husband and get married?” he raised an eyebrow, “Someone noble, handsome, valiant, brave, courageous…”

“My parents will choose a husband when the time comes,” I answered flatly.

Many female officials never married. At least those without a proper backing. They basically led a life of a nun till the day they died. I tried to push this thought out of my mind.

“So you don`t want to choose for yourself?”

He bent a little so that his face was inches away from mine. The fragrance which came from him intensified.

I wasn`t someone who blushed easily but his closeness made me uncomfortable. Partly because I was taught my entire life that men and women go separately except if they are married. His frivolous behavior was too much for me. Yet I spent a minute studying his eyes. They were deep dark brown like bottomless pits which devoured light.

“Everyone with an able body and bearable personality would do,” I answered at last and took a step back to break the spell between us, “As long as my marriage does not interfere with my job as an official, I am fine with anything.”

He bit his lower lip to suppress his laughter.

“Every girl dreams of her future husband,” he said confidently, “Even those who take the official exams.”

I shook my head.

“I never did.”

He stared in me and I could see that he was very skeptical about it.

“Maybe you haven`t met the right man… until now.”

I blinked a couple of times. Was I mistaken or his voice sounded almost seductively?

For the first time in my life I met someone who`d openly say indecent things. I have heard that some of the members in the royal family were spoiled rotten and good for nothing but I imagined they would indulge in such behavior in the privacy of their own manors. Or brothels.

“I can assure you, my lord, that I have YET to meet such man.”

He clasped the fabric of his robes right above his heart dramatically.

“Ah, that hurts so much,” he whined, ”But the future lies ahead and I have just planted the seed of love in your heart.”

The seed of love? I wanted to say something clever to him, something to insult him in a subtle but my mind was blank. All I felt was indignation which threatened to make me faint. Luckily I wasn`t that frail.

Who was that man after all? He never introduced himself in the first place.

“We shall meet again, my lady,” he said finally making his exit, “I`ll come to keep you company some other time.”

I was ready to gladly send him off when something flashed in front of my eyes.

“My lord!” I called after him.

He stopped and looked at me. But my eyes were fixed on his chest. It has been there the entire time, hidden between the embroidered leaves in plain sight.

“I could do without your company, my lord,” I said with all the courage I managed to muster. Because, gods, I needed it considering who stood before me.

He smiled and disappeared down the staircase.

A tiny golden dragon in between the leaves. A tiny golden dragon on his chest. He wasn`t just part of the extended royal family. He was from the royal family.

The entire time I had been talking to a prince.

#vixx fanfic #ken fanfiction #jaehwan fanfic #jaehwan fanfiction #imma back in the game with my rusty writing skills cause quarantine #gotta battle depression and anxiety somehow #it`s not my best work but also i haven`t written anything ages soooo #vixx #jaehwan

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lotrobsession · 6 years ago

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Letter to Brigit By Viggo Mortensen I could not bring myself to take pictures of any of it, to take anything, although I did for a moment consider grabbing my camera to ensure that later on I’d have an image, some tangible visual record of the process of losing you. Maybe that momentary impulse came from fear that the emotional weight of participating in your last days as flesh-and-blood would eventually outweigh or alter the straight facts that photographs might hold. Fear that visuals so fresh right then, as I sat on one of the two plush green leather couches of the crematorium waiting room, would reshuffle themselves and gently blend together as merely tolerable sentimental recollection. It wouldn’t have been right, though, to shoot what only you and I should know. The camera stayed in the truck. ---- The kind man in charge of the ovens had just gone out into the noon blast of July in the San Fernando Valley to check on the progress of your burning. I’d followed but stopped thirty feet back as he’d asked me to. “You don’t really want to see—it’s something you probably wouldn’t want to see… The. … uh …,” he’d mumbled, faltering in a way that had won me over instantly. “You mean if she isn’t done yet?” I’d said, completing the thought for him. “Yes, exactly. The, uh… sometimes they’re not completely …” He’d paused, looking as pained as if he’d known you the way I had. “Her insides?” “Yes,” he’d blurted out with a slight squeak in his voice. “It isn’t pretty.” “No. I can imagine it wouldn’t be,” I’d said. “Not at all pretty.” He had stood there, putting on his fire-retardant gloves and his sunglasses, still looking at me as if needing to say something more. And I had waited. It’d already been a hell of a long morning, so I hadn’t been in any big hurry at that point. “I do this all the time, but I couldn’t personally, you know, do this.” I’d thought I understood more or less what he meant. “My uncle’s dog,” he’d continued, “I had to do that one, and it was very difficult. I could never do it again.” “I understand,” I’d said. “Very difficult.” “Yes, I’m sure.” He’d started backing sideways toward the oven. It was one of the three on the back lot that seemed to be in operation, as evidenced by the grey smoke rising from their steel-pipe smokestacks into the smoggy haze above us. As inappropriate as the thought might have been, I somehow couldn’t help but think of the much larger indoor ones I’d once seen in the Dachau concentration camp memorial. I’d felt a momentary urge to ask if these ovens had been manufactured in Europe, but it had passed. “Please stay back here while I check and see how she’s doing,” he’d then said. “OK,” I’d said. “And how do you check?” He’d stopped side stepping toward the oven. “I open the door and look.” “Oh. Yeah.” “She might not be done. She might not be ready.” “Yeah. OK. I’ll wait… ” “Plus, it’s real hot. About 1,500 degrees.” “I’ll wait here then.” “I’m so sorry,” he’d said, tugging down the bill of his navy-blue ball cap and turning toward the oven. He’d said “sorry” several times since I’d arrived, and he seemed to mean it. “Sorry for your loss. I am truly sorry.” After a minute spent carefully peeking through the slightly opened oven door, he’d closed it and walked back to me. “I’m sorry. She’s not done yet. Another ten or fifteen minutes.” “Should I go back inside to the waiting room, then?” “Yes. If you don’t mind. Sorry. I’ll let you know just before I get her so you can come and watch me do everything. Check, you know, to see if… see that… ” “Yeah, good. OK, thanks.” ---- A tall, well-groomed black poodle named Paris, as I’d overheard her being called when I’d first arrived at the crematorium office, had been staring at me for a while. From her position under a sort of anaemic-looking potted ficus by the doorway to the office, she was able to monitor all comings and goings. Suddenly, she rose and bolted straight for me, jumping up on the couch right next to me, barking excitedly. Her breath smelled like boiled carrots. Sort of sweet and not altogether unpleasant, but not something I craved at that moment. The receptionist called Paris, no doubt trying to keep the dog from further upsetting me, the grieving customer. Paris was not bothering me at all. I understood that she had been barking for attention, not out of aggression—probably bored out of her mind in this place where all other dogs were dead and burning or about to be. She hadn’t even barked that loudly, really, and her company was comforting in a life-goes-on-and-there-are-lots-of-nice-dogs-in-the-world-sort of way. Paris gave me one more quieter bark right in my left ear, licked my face and left me to see what the receptionist wanted. “I’m very sorry,” the receptionist said, as she led Paris into the back of the office area. “That’s OK,” I said. “She wasn’t bothering me. Female, right?” “Yes, she certainly is. I am sorry for your loss.” I know she meant it as well. Expressions of sympathy for the customer would to some degree have probably been obligatory for the crematorium personnel, but everyone did seem to be personally and genuinely concerned. People doing their utmost to run a decent family-owned business with kindness and compassion. The compulsion to record all of this got the better of me, finally, and I went out to the truck to look for my notebook. After a quick scramble through the papers, books, cameras and other assorted commuter debris on the back seat, I found the notebook. Although I had not had the time to take many pictures or to sit down and write much of anything lately, a camera and something to write in are always in the car, or in whatever bag I carry, just in case a moment special to me presents itself to be stolen. Resisting once more the temptation to take the camera, I grabbed the notebook and a pen and returned to the waiting room to begin writing this. Kind strangers have given me a few handsomely bound journals and notebooks over the years. Some, like this one, are bound in beautifully tanned and tooled leather. This one’s cover has a giant oak tree cut into it, with other old oaks on a distant ridge beyond it. The big pewter button used for tying the notebook closed with a leather thong is cast with an oak leaf and acorn detail. I am not much good at keeping a diary, or diligent about any sort of regular journal entries. My way to remember has usually been to write stories, poems or more often than not, to make photographs or drawings. I felt a little rusty and awkward writing in the waiting room under the quietly watchful eyes of the receptionist and Paris. Maybe it didn’t seem at all odd to them, my scribbling away. Probably what bothered me was my own sense of guilt over being inclined to record the events surrounding the processing of your body. Just a short time earlier I had been openly weeping while crossing the city in morning rush-hour traffic. I suppose we humans can be resilient—nearly as resilient as you were, Brigit—and as accepting of life’s unpredictably rough patches as most animals seem to be. Whatever the reason, I found I could not write fast enough in my attempt to describe the events of the day. “Do you want to come out while I clean this out?” the kind voice of the oven-minder asked softly, interrupting me in mid-sentence. I looked up and nodded. “Yes, please. I’ll … let me … let me just finish this sentence—this paragraph. I’ll be right there.” “Sure …” ---- “Do you write a lot?” he asked, as I followed him outside. “Used to.” “Nice-looking book you got there.” “Thanks. Yes, it is.” I closed it, marking my place with the pen, just as he stopped and turned to me. I was standing on the same spot I had been asked to watch from earlier. “Please stay right here. I’ll shut her down and get everything. You’ll be able to see everything happening, but it is very hot now, and also …” “Yes, ok I’ll wait here.” As I stood still in the by-now withering heat and watched him switch off the oven and open it, I suddenly realised that there had been no muzak, no music of any kind playing in the waiting room. That was a pleasant surprise and seemed remarkable to me. The tact involved in such a choice on their part told me that they really must care. The ovens were out behind the small, one-story building that holds the tidy crematorium office, some oversize freezers and the very pleasant air-conditioned waiting room. The property was surrounded by twenty-foot-high stacks of automobile carcasses, entire auto bodies and an enormous variety of neatly sorted bits and pieces—fenders, doors, hoods, seats, side mirrors, steering mechanisms, engine parts, dashboards, roofs, etc., arranged in row after row—apparently according to year, make and model. The sprawling salvage yard dwarfed the crematorium and its modest parking lot. Although there was no vegetation in sight, the colourful, encroaching heaps and rows of rendered vehicles almost looked like exotic organic growth, a sort of postmortem environment that seemed to me to perfectly complement the pet-burning business. The thick, lightly buzzing strands of heavy-duty power lines drooping as they crossed some thirty feet above us from one massive steel support to another only added to this entirely man-made, and remade, end-of-nature garden. Its perfume was a blend of acrid and oily-sweet, of melting rubber and asphalt, of taffy-thick black engine grease, of yellowing plastic and peeling paint sluggishly wafting upward and blending with the constant dead-fish reek of Los Angeles smog. ---- I had risen very early—or, rather, got out of bed early, as I hadn’t slept at all. Knowing it was today that I was scheduled to pick up your refrigerated corpse at our trustworthy local veterinary hospital and drive it out to this industrial hinterland for cremating had kept me from being able to rest. Probably I am able to write about this with a degree of detachment because your brother Henry and I have already gone through the worst of your final decay and death process together. We took you, our fifteen-year-old, completely lame and largely incontinent pal, to be “put down” three days ago. In the intervening time we had to wait for a slot at the crematorium to open up. I have been able to largely digest and assimilate the stronger surface emotions of your final morning. As much as I am and will continue to be haunted by your sweet, departing gaze when the brain-stopping serum was administered, time and the responsibilities resulting from your passing have more or less carried me away from that heartbreaking scene. I will always see your eyes slowly lose their gleam as I gently lay your head down. Will always remember your final generous gesture of rolling halfway over to let us rub your belly one last time before the doctor gave you the sedative. I’d arrived at the back door of the vet’s office feeling like I was complicit in some sort of underworld transaction. As had been the case all week, the morning sky was overcast, and the clammy grey marine layer had only added to the death business I was now part of. Two men in overalls had come out with what looked enough like a curled-up “you” shape inside a light-blue trash bag. As I had taken the thawing bundle and carefully laid it on the towel-covered passenger seat of the pickup truck, I had looked at the older of the two men. He’d nodded, seeming a bit uncomfortable, and then had turned and followed his colleague back inside the building without a backward glance or farewell. I had been very tired, a bit teary-eyed, and had not said a word myself. Probably not the most pleasant person for them to be around. I had gotten in the car and begun making my way to the 405 freeway. Moving slowly, stuck in the usual massive commuter caravan headed north toward the Sepulveda Pass, it had occurred to me that tomorrow would mark the 60th anniversary of the Hiroshima and Nagasaki atomic bomb drops. Then I had thought, not for the first time when passing the Sunset Boulevard exit, about O.J. Simpson’s bizarre televised journey in the famous white Ford Bronco. I had continued in that vein for a while, my mind becoming cluttered with a dizzying assortment of images involving unforgivable murders and other perversions of justice. The ideals of compassion had seemed distant, insignificant. I’d felt resigned, passively understanding that life moves forward just as traffic eventually does. Suddenly, the cars in front of me had slowed abruptly and I had braked hard, glad to see cars in my rear-view mirror doing the same. The bagged corpse had slid off the seat and onto the floor, and I’d tried to pull it back up with my right hand. It had been quite heavy, and I’d realised it would be a difficult and dangerous task to accomplish while driving, so I had made my way across two lanes of traffic and off onto the side of the freeway. As I had come round the front of the truck and opened the passenger-side door, I had decided I’d have a look at you to see if you were intact. I had straightened out the towel on the seat and lifted the bundle back onto it, then poked a hole in the plastic bag, now wet with condensation, where I could feel one of your frozen paws. Long black hair, long black nails. Not much like any of your paws. I had quickly felt for the body’s head, finding a stiff tongue projecting beyond clenched teeth, and then a collar around the neck. We had taken your collar off when you’d expired at the vet’s, and I knew that Henry was wearing it wrapped twice around his wrist as a bracelet today. This dog was not you. The absurdity of it all had hit me immediately as I had stood up and stared at the mass of moving cars through the poisonous-looking heat waves. The sadness of it had been suddenly overwhelming, as was the smell of initial decomposition, which I had not been aware of until that moment, like that of a dead deer that’s been hanging for a few hours from a tree. I had never really wanted to live in Los Angeles. Here I was, on yet another ridiculous errand, feeling vaguely like I was being punished for some past transgression, marking time and forced to make sense of an oddly evolving riddle. I had secured the corpse and made sure the towel was placed so as to keep the dead stranger from touching the seat or any part of the truck’s interior. Eventually, I’d got myself turned around and headed back to the vet’s, feeling sorry for this poor dog I did not know, and for its unwitting owner. En route, I had called the crematorium and informed them that I would be late for our oven appointment because I’d been given the wrong dog. They’d been very kind, had said I should get there when I could, and that they were very sorry. ---- Now the crematorium is about two miles behind me as I sit listlessly sipping coffee at a Mexican restaurant. This is as far as I have got, with my new cedar box containing your remaining bone fragments and ashes. I had asked the oven-minder to please not crush your bones if that was what he’d planned on doing. “Yes, normally we do very gently break down the bone matter so that it fits comfortably in the box or urn as the case might be. If you prefer, though … ” “Yes.” “…we can also not do it and just try and place her, the bone matter—the bag, that is—in the cedar box for you. If they’ll fit—if it will fit—that is.” “That’s ok, I can do it.” Earlier, out by the ovens, I had been allowed to scoop up all your burnt bits from the metal tray that the man had scraped the cooling, fragile ghost-shape of your skeleton onto. I had stopped several times to carefully examine some of your more distinguishable pieces. Vertebrae, hip parts and most beautiful of all, the rounded piece of bone that I instantly recognized as the top of your skull. We have petted that part of you so often. I can feel its shape even now, in memory, feel the bone through your smooth fur, feel your warmth and your happiness. All of it had gone into the plastic bag he now held. “Ok, sir. As you prefer.” I proceeded to gently rearrange the bag and its contents inside the box, and then placed your crematorium nametag and the receipt for services provided on top of your remains before closing the lid with its little brass clasp. “We would like you to consider the cedar box a gift from us due to the unfortunate mistake that was made this morning. We are very sorry about that.” “Oh. Well … thank you …” A woman who seemed to be the oven-minder’s boss, and perhaps the owner of the establishment, stood up and came around her desk to address me. “We are very sorry that … Brigit?… that Brigit got confused this morning.” I almost pointed out that you had not been confused at all, being quite dead, but I resisted the temptation, knowing what she meant. “It is very unusual that something unheard of like that would happen,” she continued. “Very unusual, and we are extremely sorry. If you prefer a larger box or don’t like cedar as a wood type… maybe an urn would be more to your liking?” I was truly moved by her words and the generous offer. “Is it Western red cedar?” I asked, for some reason unknown to me now—perhaps being at a loss for anything better to say by way of response. “You know, I am not real sure about that,” she replied, a bit thrown off by my question. “I certainly can try and find out for you, if you like?” “No, thanks. I was just wondering. Just curious, I guess.” “Would you like to replace the cedar?” “Replace? No. I like cedar. Smells good, looks good. Thank you.” I now felt like a complete idiot. “You don’t have to give me the box, though. Don’t have to give it… I’m happy to pay for it.” “We insist. It’s something we want to do for you.” “Thank you very much. Very kind of you.” “If Brigit doesn’t fit comfortably, not being completely dust and all… ” (“Comfortably?” Never mind… ) “No, that’s fine. She fits. I got her in there ok. And it’s a beautiful box. Thank you.” ---- “Me podría traer un poco de arroz con frijoles, por favor?” “Would you like anything else with that?” the waitress replied, in heavily Spanish-accented English. “Gracias, pero la verdad es que no tengo mucho hambre.” She looked at me calmly, and said “I’ll bring it right out. Warm up your coffee for you?” “Fijese: ahora que lo pienso creo que sí me gustaría una pequeña ensalada de lechuga y tomate… y cebolla, si hay.” “Ok,” she continued in English, “and will you like some dressing—vinaigrette, ranch, French, blue cheese, or oil and vinegar—for that?” Doesn’t happen often, but once in a while my gringo looks or perhaps my Argentine accent seem to be held against me like that. She glances at the cedar box resting on the table to the right of my place setting. I wonder if she has seen this sort of box before. The crematorium isn’t far, and maybe other people stop here now and then as I have, unable or unwilling to drive any further. Maybe they sometimes come here and get a little drunk, become indiscreet and open their boxes to look at what’s left of their animal friends. Maybe they cry and have to be consoled. I do not look at my box, just hold the waitress’ gaze when it returns to me. I’ve taken an initial dislike to her because she seems to refuse to speak Spanish with me, so I’m certainly not going to give her any more clues now. “Will that be all, sir?” she asks dryly. “Sí… y si me puede traer la cuenta con la comida—y un poco más de café—se lo agradecería.” She looks at me for a moment longer, then reluctantly mutters “Por supuesto, señor,” as she turns to go place my order.

#viggo mortensen #brigit #letter to brigit #national dog day #dogs

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nbula-rising · 6 years ago

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#viggo mortensen #dogs #letter to brigit #national dog day

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prettysherlocksoldier · 7 years ago

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"Please, come with me" Johnlock style 💜💜💜

My dear friend @mssmithlove1 is sick today, so I took some extra special care with this one. Get well soon, frand!!💜💜

——————————————————————-

“Hold still.”

“But people are going in!”

“And you can too if you hold still!” Molly tugged at the completed knot of his tie, tightening it into his throat. “Oops,” she deadpanned, loosening it with a smile as he coughed. “There.” She centered the striped navy tie between his slate grey lapels, plucking a piece of lint from his white dress shirt. “I wouldn’t be embarrassed of you at all.”

“Cheers,” he grumbled, fishing his buzzing mobile out of his dark jeans, a casual counterpoint he hoped would make him look less desperate.

It was a text from Sherlock, three words that made his blood run cold even without understanding them

‘I’m so sorry!’

“What is it?” Molly asked, concerned at what he was sure was a rapidly paling complexion. “Has something happened?” She didn’t wait for an answer, stepping forward and bending her head to read the message on his screen. “An exclamation point? From Sherlock?” Her head gave a slow shake. “That can’t be good.”

“John Watson?”

John’s brown loafers squeaked in a spin on the tile, plastic wrap crinkling as he clutched the half dozen roses to his chest like a gentlewoman’s pearls.

The man standing there was unfamiliar, short and stocky, his hands wringing in front of him as a nervous smile puffed his portly features. “I’m Mr. Brogan. I’m part of the executive committee for the arts here at Imperial.”

John blinked, unsure why he was supposed to care, but proper manners compelled him to extend a hand. “John. But you knew that,” he muttered, bobbing the man’s hand in the air. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“Likewise,” Mr. Brogan replied. “I’m sorry to interrupt”—he waved a hand at Molly—“but Mrs. Holmes wanted to be sure you didn’t lose your seat.”

John’s mouth fell open, uncertain where to even start with that mindfuck of a sentence. “Mrs. …Holmes?”

Mr. Brogan nodded brightly, oblivious to John’s internal monologue of terrified screaming. “They’re up front. Please”—he turned toward the door, waving an arm in beckoning—“come with me.”

John stared, eyes shifting between his jovial smile and the door up ahead, heart drumming a death march in his ears.

Molly’s hands clamped down around his free one, giving a comforting squeeze as he turned. “I’ll catch up with you after,” she assured, and then pulled away, heading toward the door and abandoning him in his hour of need.

He swallowed, looking back to Mr. Brogan’s expectant expression. “Okay,” he squeaked, battling to keep his breathing even as Mr. Brogan guided him into the auditorium.

His hand twitched at his side, and he shoved it in his pocket, the opposite fingers tightening around the small bouquet, ridged remnants of thorns digging into his sweaty palms. He scanned the front few rows as they approached, but the lights on the stage turned everyone into silhouettes, making it impossible to prepare himself until Mr. Brogan stopped in front of a woman in the exact center of the front row.

She looked…normal, a simple floral dress flowing down from a black jacket, her hands folded over a red clutch in her lap. Her hair was on the whiter end of grey, pulled back with a large silver clip to leave her fringe wisping over her forehead, her soft features seeming every bit the opposite of Sherlock’s sharp lines and shadows, but then she lifted her chin, the piercing blue gaze that settled on him all too familiar.

“There you are! Thank you, Clark,” she said as she rose, the man accepting his dismissal with a nod. “So sorry to spring this on you, dear, but I simply couldn’t go another minute without meeting you. Sherlock’s been so secretive.”

John chuckled, shaking his head. “No problem at all, Mrs. Holmes. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you too.” He took a subtle deep breath and extended a hand. “I’m John. John Watson.”

“Oh, none of that,” Mrs. Holmes fussed, swatting his arm aside and pulling him into a hug, John’s arms barely recovering from shock enough to lift around her back before she was fluttering away again. “And call me Violet, please. Mrs. Holmes was my mother-in-law.” She flashed a conspiratorial grimace, and then stepped back, gesturing to the man who had risen behind her. “This is my husband, Siger.”

The man was tall and slim, more similar to Sherlock’s frame than his mother’s, but had warm brown eyes and a face wrinkled from years of laughter. He was wearing dark trousers and a loose burgundy cardigan, his simple checked shirt fastened with a grey bowtie at the collar, more the picture of a history professor than the austere authoritarian John had imagined.

“Mr. Holmes,” he said, inclining his chin, the man reaching forward to envelop his hand in a warm grip. “It’s good to meet you.”

“You as well, John, you as well,” he replied, rattling John’s hand with more strength than one would give him credit for. “Sherlock’s told us so much about you. You know, I was captain of my university rugby team too.”

“Really?” John asked, relieved to have such easy common ground, but Mrs. Holmes cut in before Siger’s opening mouth could continue.

“Now, now, dear, there’ll be plenty of time to bore him with your glory days later.”

Mr. Holmes smiled, dipping John a nod and retaking his seat as Violet looped her arm through John’s free one, guiding him to the last in their party.

“And you’ve met Mike, of course.”

“Mycroft, mother; you wrote it on the birth certificate and everything.”

“Actually, that was your father,” she explained, tipping her head at the man. “I was high as a kite!”

“Mother,” Mycroft snapped, standing up and tugging at his already impeccable suit jacket. “Jonathan,” he greeted with a nod, and John sighed, rolling his eyes before he could stop himself.

“It really is just John,” he muttered, though it hadn’t done any good the first two times he’d been forced to endure Mycroft’s company. “On my birth certificate and everything.”

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed. “I know,” he said, a note of menace to it, and John frowned, tipping his head and scanning between the man’s eyes.

“How would you-”

“Don’t let Mike scare you, dear,” Violet interjected, patting him on the arm. “He’s always running his little background checks. Should’ve seen his face when he found out I’d been arrested for protesting.” She rolled her eyes, gaze landing on the flowers at John’s side. “Oh, what an unusual rose!” she chirped, opening a hand in question, and John obliged, passing her the bouquet. “I used to have a bush like this, I think. I grow them, you see. Roses.” She flicked up a smile, gently brushing her fingers over the striped scarlet and cream petals. “Don’t suppose you remember the name.”

“Abracadabra,” John supplied, taking the blooms back, the name and general oddity of their appearance the only reason he hadn’t felt ridiculous getting flowers at all.

She snapped her fingers. “That’s what it was! And such a thoughtful gesture! Don’t you think, dear?”

“Yes, quite,” Mr. Holmes answered, smiling up at them, and John found himself embarrassed for the first time in their company, grateful as the lights in the auditorium flashed, urging them to their seats.

“Ooo, it’s starting!” She bounced against his arm, shuffling them back to their chairs. “He’s been doing these shows since he could walk and I still get so excited.”

John chuckled, settling into the vacant spot beside her. “My sister did piano for a while,” he remarked, watching the stage as the last of the audience filed into place. “It was…less exciting.”

Violet laughed, snapping open her clutch and pulling out two caramels wrapped in crinkling dark plastic. “People tend to shush me if I open these in the middle,” she said, handing him one with a wink, and John smiled, hastily shoving the wrapper in his pocket and popping the candy into his mouth as Violet distributed her wares through the group.

Mycroft declined.

“So,” she said, the caramel a small bump in her cheek as she spoke, “have you ever seen any ballet before?”

“I-I’ve seen Sherlock practice a few times,” he admitted, wondering if he should, but he didn’t suppose Sherlock’s mother would guess at his more…intimate motivations for hanging about the studio after class, “but never a proper show.”

“Oh, well, even this isn’t a proper show,” she scoffed, waving a hand at the stage. “Sherlock is wonderful, of course—not that I need to tell you that—but you never get the full experience with these showcases.”

John nodded, sure that was true. “My sister went to see The Nutcracker last Christmas with her fiancée, Clara,” he said without thinking, though he supposed he would know by now if any of the Holmeses were harboring homophobic tendencies. “She didn’t like it, but Clara said it was amazing.”

“It is, it is,” Violet emphatically agreed, nodding so vigorously, she blurred. “The Nutcracker and Swan Lake are must-sees. I also quite liked Sleeping Beauty, but that might be the Disney princess in me.”

John shrugged. “I think there’s a little Disney princess in all of us.”

“Too right,” she replied, and then chuckled, curling a hand over his forearm with a small gasp as the lights dimmed. “Here we go!” she squealed, wriggling in her seat, and John smiled, settling back in his chair and lifting his arm to the armrest when it became clear Violet wasn’t intending to let go.

They chatted through the duller portions of the program—Violet supplying surprisingly riveting gossip about some of the dancers’ parents she knew from her various societies—and sat silent through others, a tissue appearing from her red purse when Sherlock’s group concluded, Violet dabbing her eyes and muttering something about being silly John assured her wasn’t true.

When the applause was over—obligatory and otherwise—they all filed out into the lobby, small groups gathering here and there as dancers slowly appeared from backstage to join their families. Molly found him a few minutes later, waving from a distance to get his attention before giving him a double thumbs-up and making her exit, her save-me services no longer required. They were halfway through breaking down what could possibly be going on in one of the abstract paintings on display when a very ruffled Sherlock appeared, struggling with his half-on jacket as he elbowed his way through the crowd.

“Mother!” he hissed, coming to rest at John’s shoulder. “You told me you’d wait until after!”

“I said no such thing,” Violet replied, lifting her chin in a stubborn gesture John was very familiar with, “and, besides, we had a wonderful time. I don’t know what you were so worried about. We’re not that embarrassing.”

Sherlock drew in a breath, pinching the bridge of his nose like his head might explode otherwise, and then blinked, brow creasing as he frowned at the flowers in John’s hand. “Are those for me?” he asked with all his usual grace, pointing down at them, and John laughed, shaking his head and lifting the roses to his chest.

“Might be,” he smirked, “but Mycroft’s been quite the charmer tonight as well. Don’t suppose you’d be up for splitting them?”

Mycroft huffed, Violet giggling while Mr. Holmes smiled in a well-accustomed way, Sherlock looking between them like he’d just seen a ghost throw up.

“What- What is happening?”

“We’re going to dinner,” Violet answered, stepping forward and looping her arm through John’s once more, Sherlock’s eyes fixing on the contact and threatening to leap from his head. “You don’t mind riding with your father, do you, dear? John said he’d take me in his car. It’s been an age since I rode in a convertible!” She giggled, Sherlock doing a perfect impression of a marble statue except for his owlish blinking.

“I- I guess no-”

“Excellent!” Violet exclaimed, tightening her grip and marching John toward the doors. “We’ll meet you there. I assume we’ll get there first,” she added to John, and he bowed a solemn nod.

“Of course,” he swore, turning over his shoulder to grin at Sherlock’s slack-jawed expression. He bounced the flower stems into the palm of his hand, testing the trajectory with a few short swings, and then launched the bouquet over his shoulder, the roses arcing in the air before landing petal-up in Sherlock’s waiting hands.

Sherlock seemed a little more like himself, looking up from the bouquet with a quizzical expression, a corner of his mouth lifting when John winked.

“You know, son,” John heard Mr. Holmes say before they faded from earshot, “I think that means you’re next.”

#balletlock #rugby john #rugby!john #unilock #teenlock #johnlock #johnlock fanfic #johnlock fanfiction #johnlock ficlet #mssmithlove1 #dani answers

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theliterateape · 4 years ago

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I Like to Watch: The Rock (1996)

by Don Hall

With the slowly creeping reality that Hollywood isn’t making a lot of new movies just lately and having already watched fucking everything out there twice, the re-watching of those films you remember from decades prior to pandemic is exactly what streaming provides.

Back in the days of Chicago, at one of the many BUGHOUSE! shows, Joe Janes and Brian Sweeney debated on the topic “Michael Bay: Hack or Genius?” This is not to re-litigate that debate but I highly recommend you listen if you’re so inclined. It’s flat-out hysterical.

I’m not what you’d call the biggest fan of Bay’s oeuvre but when Bay is at his most Bayness, he can create some truly remarkable cinema.

The Transformers was a blast up until the Shia LaBouf character was aged out. Giant robots fighting over dominion of the Earth? That magically turn into vehicles created by humans? From outer space? C’mon!

The Bad Boys trilogy was an exercise in the chemistry between two incredibly charismatic actors with some of the most badass car chases and explosions known to film. Scorsese might have cornered the market on brilliant storytelling, amazing and creative camera work, and the best use of scoring in history but you aren’t gonna find a single Humvee chase in Cuba that destroys an entire five blocks of buildings while the leads trade comic quips throughout in Age of Innocence.

I loved The Island just because the whole thing was so completely ridiculous and fun.

Bruce Willis playing hardcore driller-dad to Ben Affleck? Billy Bob Thornton as a crippled NASA scientist? Steve Buscemi doing a callback to Dr. Strangelove? Strippers, outer space Evel Knievel, and blue-collar morons saving the planet? Huge destruction of Paris, Hong Kong, and Wall Street by asteroids? Few hunks of cheesecake laden with sugary strawberries and rich chocolate sauce covered in Reese’s Pieces chased by a Peanut Butter Chocolate shake couldn’t top Armageddon.

But the sheer out-of-body beauty and over-the-top ridiculousness of 1996’s Nicholas Cage/Sean Connery spectacle The Rock is the pinnacle of machismo Michael Bay genius.

I’m from the eighties. While not nostalgic for those myriad badass men kicking ass and making jokes about it films, I still grew up with them and can’t help but love them in some way. Explosions and cars and impossible accuracy with weapons that are huge and stupid are quintessentially juvenile joy. The tale that spins the hero saving the world (in whatever parameters the tale decides is “the world” — destroying a globally killing asteroid or saving 70,000 people or taking out the vicious bad guys) is all myth but they’re myths that posit that we sacks of meat and nerves have some control of the events that surround us.

There is a moral code in these things. Sure, lots of killing but in an almost Looney Tunes sort of video game death. Plenty of shit blowing up. Amid the controlled chaos is a code of good guys and bad guys. Extremely binary. Simple. Good guys do all the same things as bad guys do but for the right reasons. Good guys gun people down for love or freedom, they sacrifice themselves for a greater good even when it does not serve their best interests. Bad guys do it for filthy lucre. Bad guys kill for selfish reasons. Monetary gain.

The truth is that we humans are far more like Woody Allen (for the intellectual class) or the idiots from Dodgeball than John Rambo or John McClain. We are beset by complexity, bills, random injuries, and anxiety. Rarely are we challenged in that do or die scenario except for when we pay for it (no one is required to do the Tough Mudder or go skydiving). In the life of the real, there are no genuine action film bad guys or good guys. So we live vicariously by watching them.

In The Rock Ed Harris plays a general in the special forces whose motivation for stealing biochemical weapons and rockets, infiltrating and taking hostages at Alcatraz (by now a tourist attraction), and threatening to murder San Francisco is all about the military’s blatant covering up of covert deaths of American soldiers. His methods are that of a villain but his intentions are honorable.

Sean Connery is John Mason (a character that is no less James Bond if he had been captured in the sixties and imprisoned for 35 years). Mason is a criminal. An escape artist. An enemy of the state whose only motivation for the first half of the movie is get free and create a relationship with a daughter he had with a one-night stand because “she is the only evidence he ever lived.”

Then there is nineties Nick Cage. His character is named Stanley Goodspeed. Stanley Goodspeed. Despite his ability to drive a Lamborghini like an adrenaline junkie on meth and shoot with deadly accuracy when necessary, he is a nerd. A scientist. Awkward and goofy. Despite his girlfriend being super hot and, unlike any nerd in the history of geekdom, his propensity to sit shirtless on his couch, drinking wine and playing the guitar and looking good doing it, Goodspeed is a nerd because Bay tells us he is. And because he tells us he is repeatedly.

Throw in some extraordinary character actors and go to action stars — Michael Biehn, William Forsythe, David Morse, Tony Todd, John Spencer, John C. McGinley — and there’s enough goddamned testosterone in this thing to melt your fucking face.

Three scenes. Twenty minutes to set up General Hummel’s plan (with an incredible action sequence of him stealing the weapons and the obligatory fuck up that lets us see how horrifying the chemical is), Goodspeed’s nerd status combined with his almost godlike ability to handle the pressure of diffusing a bomb in a container while having poison gas shoot all around him, and Mason’s backstory as the British Intelligence guy captured and then the one guy in history to escape Alcatraz (the rock of the title).

From that point, every scene is a ridiculous, masterfully executed action sequence. Non-stop action. I remember reading a blurb about Neil Simon’s The Odd Couple on Broadway that boasted ”a laugh every six seconds. This film can boast a giant action boner every two minutes.

A haircut turns into hanging John Spencer from a clothesline over a building which turns into a massive car chase in San Francisco (like 30 cars are destroyed in this thing), which turns into the Navy Seals dropping out of a plane into the waters surrounding Alcatraz. Then we have Mason navigate the Galaxy Quest back entrance to Alcatraz (Best Moment: Connery opens the door and says, in all his Scottishness “Gentlemen, welcome to The Rock.”) followed by the bad guys slo-mo gunning down the good guys from an elevated position in a prison shower.

All the while one sits in amazement at the glorious weirdness of Nicholas Cage. I wonder what Harris and Connery thought about after each bizarre line reading of lines like:

"I’d take pleasure in guttin’ you, boy. I’d take pleasure in guttin’ you... boy.” What is wrong with these people, huh? Mason? Don’t you think there’s a lot of, uh, a lot of anger flowing around this island? Kind of a pubescent volatility? Don’t you think? A lotta angst, a lot of “I’m sixteen, I’m angry at my father” syndrome? I mean grow up! We’re stuck on an island with a bunch of violence-for-pleasure-seeking psycophatic marines, SHAME-ON-THEM!

and

“What do you say we cut the chit-chat, A-HOLE? You almost got me killed twice! And my jaw hurts like hell.”

and

”How, in the name of Zeus's butthole, did you get out of your cell?”

Once everyone is killed and then only two of the good guys left are Connery and Cage, we are treated to lots of showpieces — a gun battle that ends with a bad guy getting his head crushed by a hanging air conditioner, an improbable ride in metal hanging buckets, a show down between Hummel, now reluctant to actually kill 70,000 people and mercenaries he hired (see? Filthy lucre).

Of course, the two of the really bad guys get respectively shot in the chest with a rocket and one of the biochemical pearls shoved in his mouth and everyone wins.

Michael Bay might be a hack. He might be a genius. All I know is that The Rock is the Citizen Kane of a very specific genre of film and it will remain in my movie collection right next to Goodfellas, One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, Breathless, and Vertigo.

#I Like to Watch #The Rock

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