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louiseleblancdiggory · 4 years ago

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Speedy one night stand

Ok, so this is an old scene that i never posted because I never thought it was good enough, but since I wanted to post smth before ‘Tis the Damn Season, here it goes! I’m sorry for any typos, it’s 3 am and I don’t have the patience to proof read rn. There are mentions of a car accident but I swear it is not a sad or angsty scene. It’s bad and not at all a believable situation, but I hope it’s ok enough to be mildly enjoyable!

Aelin was having a spectacular day.

She had woken up around six, laying near the hottest man to ever walk on this Earth. In the previous night, she had drank enough to practically guarantee her a bitch hangover, but apparently her beautiful, silver-haired stranger had fucked it right out of her. A few times.

Not so proudly, Aelin sneaked out of his house without making a single sound. Maybe she should have stayed, maybe asked for his name. But she was also almost sure she had given him her number yesterday, and so if he wanted to continue things, he could call her. If not… Well, it had been a fun night.

Understatement of the fucking century.

And thanks to her stranger, once she got home, Aelin felt energized and inspired enough to finally give the painting a try.

The painting had become Aelin’s nightmare for the past year and a half. She had the idea, had the ability, but didn’t know how to do it, how to tackle it. She tried a few times every few days, and left the room hating it more and more. The painting started to be a mock to her abilities— she would finish other works, beautiful works, and yet the messy canvas would always stare at her from the corner of the room.

Aelin was mainly a sculptor, not a painter, and so she didn’t even know why it bothered her so much but it did. Oh, it most certainly did.

For the past eighteen months, staring at that taunting canvas was like staring at yourself on the mirror for too long. The vision started to blur, and it didn’t look real, evoked a deep panic.

For the past eighteen months, Aelin hated that fucking painting.

And yet, when she got home earlier, all she could think is that she might be able to finish it. The painting was supposed to be of Oakwald, a beautiful forest that extended for the whole expanse of the west of Terrasen. She hadn’t been at home for so long now, and all she wanted was a painting of how she remembered the forest to be. She wanted to capture its light, its life. She wanted it to look exactly how it was in her memory, but the colors never seemed right. Her fondness of the memory was becoming stained with that stupid canvas.

All she needed was the right palette.

And he had walked in a bar and sat by her side yesterday.

Her stranger was the literal embodiment of her memory, so much so that for a split second, Aelin had thought she had gone officially insane. His silver-grey hair was the exact shade of the sky on the cloudy mornings when she and her dad would go for a walk. Eyes a combination of a few shades of green and small specks of brown that reminded her of how the trees were. His demeanor was cold, and yet Aelin found him somehow so welcoming— just like she felt back at Oakwald, back home.

Her stranger had given her the thing she had needed for the past eighteen months, even if he hadn’t given her even his name.

Aelin was staring proudly at the now finished painting when the phone rang. She was glad her roommate wasn’t at home to witness her staring at the painting for that long like a crazy person, and honestly hoped it was Lysandra calling to ask if she wanted to go out and grab something to eat.

Or maybe it’s your stranger.

Aelin forced herself to shove every single spark of hope down until they were nothing more than cinders. To be honest, Aelin knew that she probably wouldn’t get a call from him. It was his first day in town, they both had been drunk, and, even though the sex had been great, her stranger didn’t seem like the dating type.

At least not the dating type with a woman who left his house unannounced at six in the morning after leaving him with no note other than her number that could potentially be wrong since said woman was already tipsy when she gave it to him.

A fucking shame.

“Hey.” Aelin said, putting the phone to her ear as she looked for her car keys. She wanted to be in the elevator by the time the word “eat” left Lys’s mouth.

“Is this Aelin?” A female voice she had never heard in her life asked, uncertainty and hesitation lacing every word.

Aelin withdrew the phone from her ear and looked at the unknown number.

Aelin rarely gave her phone number to strangers, and lately it had only been to…

Oh fucking shit.

He had a girlfriend?

Fuck fuck fuck.

“Hum, yes?” Aelin sounded as uncertain as the girl. “I’m sorry, but who is this?”

Maybe it wasn’t what she thought. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe—

“Do you know a Rowan?”

Well.

“Maybe?” Aelin wanted to bang her head against a wall. Almost seven months without touching a guy, and the first one in her way back to the land of the social people had a girlfriend. At least she knew his name now. Rowan seemed fitting, matched his appearance somehow. “Silver hair, green eyes, looks really pissed even when he’s sleeping?”

Please say no.

“Oh, yes.” The woman said, sounding… relieved? “I’m doctor Towers, and—“

“Doctor?” Aelin blurted out, all anger and nervousness being substituted for confusion. “Doctor?”

“Yes. Well, actually an intern since I’m still halfway through my first year here and—“

“I swear I mean no offense, but I am a little confused.” Aelin interrupted her after she started mumbling. “You’re Rowan’s girlfriend?”

“No!” The woman shouted loud enough that Aelin had to take the phone from her ear. “Gods, no. I thought you were his girlfriend.”

A moment of silence passed through the two women.

“What the fuck?” Was everything Aelin managed to say. She cleared her throat, mind trying to catch up with what was happening. “Why would you think that?”

“You’re the only contact on his phone.”

“I am?”

“You are.”

“I am.”

“You are.”

“I— Why are you calling me?” Aelin shook her head, her grip on her keys strong enough that started to be painful. She didn’t know if this was some type of joke her friends were pulling on her, or if Rowan was just some sick asshole that was fucking with her now that he had her number but she sure as hell wasn’t enjoying the experience.

“Well, you see.” She cleared her throat, voice tone becoming more serious, more professional. “Rowan was admitted into the Torre’s hospital a few hours ago. He was involved in an accident, and all the emergency contacts we could find are not in town as of now. I know it is not protocol, and I’m breaking so many rules here, but I went through his phone to see if I could find a contact of someone who was around. We didn’t know if his injuries were serious or not, but…”

Doctor Towers didn’t finish the sentence, and dread mixing with some type of anxiety started rolling inside Aelin’s stomach. “But?”

She didn’t respond the question, instead changing the subject. “You’re the only contact, Miss Aelin.”

Aelin slowly sat down, the dead silence of the apartment mixing with the expectant silence from Doctor Towers. She didn’t know the guy, didn’t even know his name until two minutes ago, and yet the image of the painting in the other room kept flashing in her mind, the colors in the canvas mixing with the colors she saw on his face. “I— Is he alive?”

“Yes, yes. He’s in surgery, I believe.” The initial apprehension came back to the woman’s voice. “I don’t know, actually. Again, just an intern. People don’t tell me much here.”

“And I suppose hiding somewhere after stealing a patient’s phone isn’t the best way to pick up on any information they might be sharing in the halls right now.” Aelin said, some amusement for the girl showing through her voice. “Where are you? Storage room?”

“Coma patient room.” Doctor Towers laughed nervously. “I thought I was helping.”

“It’s fine.” Aelin said even though she didn’t feel it.

The line went silent once more, and after a minute, Aelin said. “Well, bye, I guess.”

“Wait.” The doctor’s apprehensive voice sounded again. “Couldn’t you… Can you still come? Even if you’re just his friend?”

Aelin sat frozen on her chair. “I’m not his friend.”

“Oh.” She sounded disappointed. “Ok. Sorry. Have a great night, Miss Aelin.”

Before Aelin could respond, the call was ended.

—————

The first thing Rowan noticed when he opened his eyes was that he was not at the rented apartment he and the rest of his friends had gotten for the summer.

The lights were too white and too artificial, the bed too uncomfortable to be the same one he had slept the previous night.

And there was also the fact it felt as if he had been thrown from the top of a building, broken every single bone in the impact and, somehow, survived.

He tried opening his eyes a little bit more and acute pain shot to his brain.

Unfortunately. Unfortunately survived.

Shit, maybe he was in hell.

“I don’t know if the struggle is amusing or pathetic.” A low and sultry voice sounded from the left corner of the room. “Maybe try not staring directly into the light and then try opening your eyes.”

Rowan turned his head to where the soft voice had come from, pain burning his neck with the movement but he found himself incapable of not looking at her direction. But the woman was right, and Rowan managed to open his eyes enough to see her seating in one of those uncomfortable hospital chairs, legs crossed in front of her and fingers laced on top of her stomach.

Rowan mentally scratched his last thought. If he had actually died, that certainly was tilting a lot more towards heaven than hell even with the killing pain.

“Fuck, I think I died.” Rowan blurted out.

“I’ll pretend you just compared me to an angel, not to the devil.” She said, getting up and walking in his direction. Despite her hurt tone, she was smiling as she approached his bed. “It’s the least you could do after you ruined my perfectly perfect day. I was having a blast, you know?”

Hell, heaven, or Earth— it honestly didn’t fucking matter because the pain was the same, but her voice seemed to soothe his muscled, make the pain secondary to the pleasure of listening to her voice.

“Yeah?” Rowan rasped out, hoping she would continue talking.

“Oh, yeah.” She sat by the edge of the bed, straightening his sheets. The light wasn’t so blinding anymore, and he could see every detail on her face.

Heaven. Definitely heaven.

“I’m an artist, you know. Sculptor mostly, but I’m a decent painter. There’s this painting I’ve been trying to get done for over a year now, and today I did not only make progress I liked, but I also finished it. I thought today was going to be a terrible day, you know? Yesterday I found out my flight back home had been canceled and I would only be able to get another one by the end of summer, so I went to a bar and planned on getting drunk. Today was a day for tears and hangovers.”

“But?” Rowan asked automatically, all too focused on the woman sitting next to him.

She smiled, raising a hand to brush his hair from his face, fingers intertwining with the shoulder-length knots he most certainly had after whatever it was that had happened. She seemed too focused on her hand gently undoing the knots, but thankfully kept talking. “But I met this guy, you know? Definitely not from here, accent gave it away immediately. Also not from where I am from. Just that made him interesting enough. And,” she turned her eyes to him, eyes glinting with mischief. “Very, very fucking hot. That definitely made him even more interesting.”

“What a guy.” Rowan could feel some of the life coming back to his body, and even managed to weakly match the grin she had on her face.

“Oh, yes, what a guy. Fucked the hangover and artistic block right out of me. A hero, if you will.” Her grin extended into a smile, and she shook her head. “So imagine how ruined my day was when I got a call saying my amazing bar guy had been in a car accident.”

Rowan let out a broken laugh, his ribs screaming in pain when he did so. “So irresponsible of him.”

She assented solemnly. “And there I was, hoping he would have called me to go out on a date. I’m not picky but hospital is a huge downgrade from mind blowing sex in his expensive apartment.”

Rowan laughed again, not even caring about the pain. “I’m sure the guy would have asked you if you hand’t left the expensive apartment at the crackass of dawn without telling him.”

“And instead of calling he let his car be smashed by a fucking truck to get my attention? Tsk, tsk, tsk… Maybe I didn’t dodge a bullet with this idiot.”

Rowan’s lips were taken by a grin. “Well it worked, didn’t it?”

“Next time try something a little less dramatic.” She said, eyes narrowing but Rowan could see how she was trying to contain a smile.

“The girl really seemed into dramatics tho. Gave it away last night when she—“

“Since I didn’t know your name until your doctor called me, Rowan, I’ll save you the embarrassment of asking mine.” She interrupted him, slender fingers going from his hair to the top of his lips. “I’m Aelin.”

“Aelin.” He said against the finger sushing him. “May I ask how you got here?”

She blushed a little, taking the finger from his mouth and straightening her spine. “I was the only contact in your list. They called me.”

“Lost my phone in the airport yesterday and had to buy a new one. Still doesn’t explain why you’re here.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, small nose frowning. “You’re very talkative for someone who could barely open his eyes a few minutes ago.”

“Am I?” Rowan said, hoping to push some of her buttons. Consciousness had been coming back slowly, and Rowan certainly remembered every single detail. Remembered being pissed by losing his phone, impatient because he would have to wait two more days for his friends to arrive.

Remembered all the pissy and impatience leaving his body once he sat on the bar by the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. She had been quick-mouthed, with no filter, and absolutely hypnotizing. She wasn’t just fucking beautiful, but also funny, smart, and had the ability to make him forget every single thing that was making him irritated.

And the rest of the night… It was a shame Rowan was bedridden, he certainly wouldn’t mind reenacting last night again.

And again. And again.

And again.

Rowan had wondered earlier if she had been that amazing because he was drunk. The answer was obviously no.

Aelin pursed her lips, red coloring her cheeks. She cleared her throat, rolling her eyes. “The doctor guilty tripped me.”

“Yeah?” Rowan knew he was smiling like an idiot.

“She said you were in surgery and she didn’t know how serious.” Aelin finally looked him straight in the eyes, and Rowan noticed how beautiful hers were. “No one deserves to have no one in this situation. She said your friends were out of town, and the girl sounded desperate enough that it sounded as if you were fucking died. Again, no one deserves to die alone. Specially someone this good in bed.”

It took Rowan a second to understand everything she had just said. When the last sentence finally registered on his brain, Rowan laughed. Aelin shook her head, a small smile appearing again.

“Also, you’re the first guy I slept with in seven months. Letting you die alone seemed like bad luck.”

“I am honored you put so much consideration into coming to stay with me.”

“Shut it.”

“If it makes you feel less embarrassed—“

“I’m not embarrassed.”

“I would have come too. Make sure my best fuck wasn’t dead.”

“Awn, best fuck? You’ll make me tear up like this, Ro. So romantic.” Aelin pretended to clean fake tears the moment the doctor in darker scrubs and a few on lighter ones entered the room.

“Good to see you awake, Mr Whitethorn.” The man smiled at him, checking his charts. “It’s always good to see wives crying of happiness rather than sadness around here.”

“Of course.” Rowan agreed, turning to Aelin and raising an eyebrow.

“They wouldn’t let me stay if I wasn’t family.” She whispered low enough so that only Rowan would hear. Her face slowly broke into a grin, and she winked at him before turning to the doctor. “So he’ll be fine, right, doctor?”

Rowan had to bite his cheeks from laughing at how obviously fake she sounded, but no one other than him noticed. “Yes, yes. Other than a fracture to his right wrist, your husband is completely fine. Some bruising and soreness that painkillers can help, but nothing major. You two are free to enjoy your vacations when he’s discharged tomorrow.”

“Oh, great.” Rowan said, nodding seriously. “My wife here has just informed me that a hospital is no adequate place for a first date.”

All the people in the room laughed, thinking Rowan meant their first date in Antica.

Not their first date ever.

“I’ll leave you two. Anything you need, ask a nurse and they will page me.” The doctor in darker scrubs said, leaving the room with all the ones in lighter scrubs following.

“Where do you live?” Rowan asked the moment the doctor was out.

Aelin turned to him, fingers going back to his silver hair. “Have been living here for the past two years in an art internship. Going back to Orynth, Terrasen by the end of the summer.” She curled a strand around her finger before looking to his face. “You?”

“Have been and will continue to be a very happy resident of Orynth.” Rowan said, a smirk appearing on his lips. “Definitely happier after the summer.”

“Haven’t even asked me out and you’re already thinking about the end of the summer.” Aelin shook her head and clicked her tongue even though she was smiling. “No surprise you got into a car accident, so speedy.”

His smirk grew into a smile. “My dear wife, would you like to go on a date with me?”

She narrowed her eyes, taking her sweet, sweet time to answer. “I’ll think about it.”

“And, seeing how the doctor talked about all my grave injuries—“

“Grave.” She snorted.

“Do I get kisses to feel better?” Rowan’s tone was full of mockery and some laughter.

“If I kiss every place you’re hurting after being hit by a fucking truck, I think we’d be here for a long while.”

“You didn’t complain yesterday.”

Aelin half laughed, half snorted. Rolling her eyes, she bent forward, and even though she was trying very hard not to, Rowan could see the start of a smile just before she pressed her lips against his. They were sweeter and softer than he remembered, and despite the pain on his arms and specially on his right wrist, Rowan raised his hands and put them in her golden strawberry hair.

“One more thing.” He said against her mouth.

“Has anyone ever told you that you ask for too much?” Aelin said impatiently.

“As our situation is already as fucking weird as it’s gonna get—“

“You don’t say!” Aelin said, voice dripping with so much fake surprise Rowan couldn’t stop but smirk up at her.

“As our situation is already as fucking weird as it’s gonna get,” he repeated forcefully, eyes narrowing at her as her smile widened. “Tomorrow, when my friends arrive.”

“Yes?”

“Can you please still pretend you’re my wife?”

Aelin stared at him blankly for a moment before letting out a full, lovely laugh. The bed shook with her laughter, and Rowan joined her— a little weakly due to the pain, but joined her nonetheless. She bent down to kiss him again, nodding as she did so. “Of course. What type of person would I be if I didn’t help such injured person find some happiness in their lives?”

Rowan kissed her back, fingers playing with her hair. “So this means you’ll go out with me?”

“We’ll see.”

@in-love-with-caramel-macchiato @jlinez @courtofjurdan @aelinfeyreeleven945tbln @ladywitchling @lexflame @sleeping-and-books @annejulianneh111 @perseusannabeth @linshryver @mu-si-ca-l @camilamartinezdunne @dank-queen7 @minaidss @starborn-faerie-queen @booksofthemoon @loveofbooksandwine @jesstargaryenqueen @bluejaberry @multifandommessblog @yesdreamblog @superspiritfestival @ireallyshouldsleeprn @woollycat22 @julemmaes @claralady @abookishfreak @faerie-queen-fireheart @morganofthewildfire @queen-of-glass @heirofthenightcourt @booksbqueen @heirofthrnightcourt004 @fromthelibraryofemilyj @rowaelinismyotp

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streamlinepainttx · 2 years ago

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resowrites · 2 years ago

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That Which Remains - Chapter Ten (finale)

Summary: Lt. Ne-Lahn has joined the Enterprise as an OR, an Officer capable of working in multiple sections of the ship. However Ne-Lahn is from the planet Valaar, a mysterious world whose position near Klingon space means the Federation are eager to establish diplomatic relations. Captain Pike has been tasked with gathering information on Ne-Lahn and Valaar, but what will he and the Enterprise discover upon being drawn further into the mystery?

Characters: Captain Christopher Pike, Strange New Worlds crew, OC!Ne-Lahn

Warnings: Occasional adult/dark themes, occasional threat of violence/danger, technical/space jargon, angsty, eventual LGBTQ+ themes including homophobia, sparse on fluff, lightly beta’d.

WC: 3519

My work must not be copied, reposted, or translated elsewhere. Likes, follows, reblogs and comments are thoroughly welcome and appreciated! No copyright infringement intended, gifs/pics not my own. I hope you all enjoy and thanks for visiting!

Chapter Ten:

Captain's log: Stardate 1591.8, We believe Lt. Ne-Lahn has successfully landed planetside, not having registered the destruction of her ship. She's been away for several hours now and we await her check in via subspace transmitter. The Lieutenant's task is to gather any and all information on the strange goings on in the Betazine system. It isn't clear under what conditions she's been received, we have to hope that the Valaarians are treating her well and not holding her ex-citizenship against her. The Lieutenant must rendezvous with the ship in eight hours. If we don't hear from her by then, Enterprise will be forced to hail the planet and perhaps then our negotiations will begin in earnest.

"Captain, I'm picking up a distress beacon from the planet…" Captain Uhura swung around in her chair and almost caused the Captain to jump out of his.

"Are you sure Cadet? We're not going to approach orbit and contact the planet unless absolutely necessary." The Captain eyed her seriously, not realising that Number One had turned towards him, concern etched all over her face.

"Captain if the Lieutenant's in trouble we can't delay… we don't know what they're doing to her down there." Captain Pike sighed, knowing that for Number One at least, the outcome of this mission had a far more personal significance.

"Alright helm, bring us in, warp two on the double." Helm quickly responded as Captain Pike sat back and began wracking his brains. Without the Lieutenant by his side, he had to make sure that any first contact went as smoothly as possible. He quickly jabbed the comm panel on his chair. "Bridge to Xenoanthropology, send up Lt. Kirk as quick as you can." It didn't take long for him to come rushing through the turbolift doors and towards the Captain.

"You wished to see me, sir?" He was slightly out of breath and had run so fast that he had to straighten up his uniform.

"Lt. Ne-Lahn's mission has gone awry, we've got to establish contact and try and get her back. I need you here to help assist communications." The Lieutenant couldn't help the smile that spread across his face. He was sorry for Lt. Ne-Lahn's predicament, but he was undeniably excited at the prospect of first contact, very few Xenoanthropologists had such opportunities.

"Approaching Valaar sir, ETA three minutes." Ensign Painter called out from the helm, disturbing the two men from their conversation.

"Standard orbit Ensign Painter, Cadet Uhura? Prepare the following message and transmit it on my signal. This is Captain Pike of the starship Enterprise, we seek your help in locating one of our officers. Her ship went off course during an ion storm and scanners suggest she may have made her way planetside. Enterprise would greatly appreciate it if you could assist in locating her." The Cadet dutifully recorded the message and awaited further instruction.

"Captain, they're scanning us!" Cadet Uhura could see the buttons on her console flash on and off.

"Send message Cadet. Status report helm?" Number One chose to answer him this time.

"Maintaining orbit. They've definitely noticed our presence, their planetary shields have already snapped on." Captain Pike didn't like what he was hearing, theirs wasn't the behaviour of a welcoming committee.

"Sir, they've responded!" Cadet Uhura was glad, if very surprised, that she had a message to relay to the Captain.

"On audio Cadet." Both he and Lieutenant Kirk listened closely, the content of the reply would be the best indicator of how their mission would progress.

"High Commission to Captain Pike, your officer has escaped our custody. We shall return her to you once she has been found." It was a short but sufficiently ominous message.

"What do they mean custody? Was she being held prisoner?" Number One managed to vocalise the confusion of everyone on the Bridge. Captain Pike tried another tactic.

"Captain Pike to High Command. We appreciate your reply and if you lower your shields, we can beam down and locate her directly. In doing so, we can leave this vicinity much faster." Captain Pike waived his hand signalling the end of the message. It was another ten minutes before Valaar responded, clearly they wished to weigh the risks of allowing an unknown individual down to the planet surface.

"High Command has considered your request. In the interest of resolving this matter quickly, we will allow Captain Pike entry to High Command. However, we do not allow weapons and if this is a trap Enterprise, be forewarned that such actions will not go unpunished." The Captain had no choice but to accept their offer, he knew Lt. Ne-Lahn wouldn't have contacted the Enterprise unless it was an emergency. However, he didn't relish the thought of having no means of self defence, all he could hope was that weapons wouldn't be unnecessary in the extraction of the Lieutenant.

The Captain left Lt. Kirk to hurriedly take down notes on the first contact while he rushed to the transporter room. With any luck, within the next hour, his Lieutenant would be returned to him and this whole matter could be cleared up once and for all. He couldn't however silence the voice in the back of his head that knew this was wishful thinking. He looked up and closed his eyes as the beam of the transporter enveloped his body and triggered the familiar weightless sensation.

When the Captain materialised again, he found himself standing directly in front of three seated figures, amidst a large, echoing marble hall. Apart from flags bearing various insignia, the walls were mostly bare. Their white colour, combined with the blinding atmosphere outside, meant no additional light was needed. The hall felt cool and yet claustrophobic at the same time. The three figures, two women and one man were seated high above him on a dais. He didn't know whether he should move forward to have a better chance of hearing him. As it turns out, the acoustics of the room were just fine.

"Denemaht, you are here, how do you respond?" The Captain took this to be a standard greeting though he had no idea what a 'Denemaht' was.

"I'm Captain Christopher Pike, on behalf of the starship Enterprise and the United Federation of Planets, I extend to you my greetings and humble thanks for agreeing to welcome me so readily." Not bad, thought Captain Pike, though maybe he should have kept his reply short. It was always a worry that the universal translator in his communicator wouldn't be able to convey either side correctly, or even closely. He assumed the woman in the middle of the small group, who had now risen to her feet, was the leader. Although she didn't appear of significant age, her 'meditl' as Dr. M'Benga described the stripes on their face, ran down her neck and onto her chest.

"Captain Pike, I am High Commissioner Sa-Fhur. Allow me to be brief. We have no interest in engaging your company or assisting the Federation. We ask that you locate your officer so that she may be suitably punished." Captain Pike was disappointed that their communication had already gone sour. Perhaps it would have been better for Special Ambassador Fox to stick around after all.

"Would you mind explaining High Commissioner, just what my Lieutenant has done to warrant being punished? It is my understanding that she is an ex-citizen, therefore how is she still bound by your customs?" It was a risky move, but if they intended to harm his Lieutenant, or worse, then they at least had to be prepared to explain themselves.

"Captain, your Lieutenant was escorted from our port so that she might explain her presence to us directly. She chose to abscond for reasons we still do not know. As I'm sure you can appreciate Captain, we cannot allow visitors to our planet to disappear and do as they please." The Captain still had hopes of salvaging the discussion.

"I can assure you High Commissioner, my Lieutenant is bound by the strictest rules and regulations of our people. If she did abscond, it would have been for good reason. If you've noticed no unrest or sign of criminal activity since her arrival, you can safely assume it's because none has taken place." The Commissioner tilted her head slightly and the Captain didn't know if this was because the universal translator had struggled to adequately convey his response, or because she was unconvinced by what he had to say.

"Captain Pike we have no time for argument. Please locate your officer and have her transported here." Captain Pike could certainly agree there was little use in further discussion at this point. He flipped open his communicator and signalled the Enterprise.

"Captain Pike to transporter room, please locate and lock on to Lt. Ne-Lahn's signal and transport her to these coordinates. Pike out." He snapped the device shut and decided he may as well seek the information they needed himself. Who knows when he'd get another opportunity.

"High Commissioner, if you don't mind my saying so, Enterprise noticed some strange energy signatures upon entering the Betazine system. We're also eager to find out what recently happened to a supply ship that was passing by your planet. Do you have any information you could share with us?" Even from his vantage point, Captain Pike could see the High Commissioner's expression change for the worse.

"Our business is nothing to do with the Federation Captain. We have made it very clear we do not wish to join you or exchange information. However, in regards to your missing supply ship, there was one recently that requested assistance due to a systems malfunction. But by the time we locked onto its position, it blew up." The Captain doubted her account but smiled as he held his hands behind his back. That was one recommendation from Lt. Kirk he had managed to remember.

"With all due respect High Commissioner, the goings on in this galaxy is very much our business, whether it directly involves the Federation or not. Please understand that we can also offer assistance, and this is not conditional on you joining the Federation. If you're experiencing any trouble, let us help you." He spoke carefully and quietly, hoping that the less threatening he appeared, the more sincere his offer would appear. The High Commissioner had no chance to respond, at that moment the familiar hum of the transported signalled Lt. Ne-Lahns imminent arrival.

She materialised in a whirl of light beside the Captain. They barely had a chance to acknowledge each other before two guards appeared from either side behind the dais. They carried long wooden spears and gripped the Lieutenant roughly by both arms. She tried to struggle free but it was useless, even her massive strength was no match for two adult male Valaarians.

"Wait! Please, let's discuss this further. I can assure you High Commissioner, no good will come of you kidnapping one of my officers, of that I can assure you. You go on about wanting to remain separate, but you'll bring the whole of Starfleet down on yourselves if you don't release my Lieutenant immediately." The High Commissioner gave an approximation of pursed lips before raising her hand to signal that the Lieutenant be let go. However they didn't leave as expected, instead, they took their place by the dais, ready for when their assistance might be needed again.

"Thank you High Commissioner, I appreciate you listening to reason. You've not yet answered the questions I put to you, do I need to ask my Lieutenant for this information instead?" He eyed her warily, determined that one way or another, Valaar was finally going to answer for itself.

"I believe it is the Lieutenant who must answer our questions. Where were you after you escaped from our security?" The High Commissioner spoke to her far more coldly than she had Captain Pike. Clearly, they took a very dim view of their ex-citizens.

"I had to check on an old friend. Their parents are infirm and they've now told me they'll be taken away - either to be sold to the Klingons or to have their organs harvested. Which is it exactly High Commissioner?" Captain Pike could see both women's meditl colour with rage.

"How dare you address me so. We are quite aware of your association with Li-Vuhl. Our business has nothing to do with either you or the Federation. Valaar answers to no one." Captain Pike could see the Lieutenant look away nervously, he had no idea who Li-Vuhl was, but he had to choose his next words very carefully.

"Again, with respect High Commissioner, if your citizens are indeed being trafficked or subjected to violations of their individual rights, it is very much the Federation's business to intervene." He didn't like the smirk that appeared on the High Commissioner's face.

"And would you presume to interfere with the Klingons or their Romulan neighbours?" Lt. Ne-Lahn looked at him gravely, it was true that the Federation only had so much reach, Valaar had to be entitled to its own way of life.

"While it's certainly true that both the Klingons and Romulans exact a high price for their way of life, everything we know about your planet suggests you're a peaceful, progressive species who would not be sacrificing its own people without good reason. What exactly is the nature of your current crisis?" The High Commissioner sat down unexpectedly and sighed.

"Captain this matter is far more complicated than you or the Federation would expect. Several Kantar's (months) past, the Klingons contacted us to explain they were experiencing a plague that left large numbers of their people with acute organ failure. We felt it prudent to offer assistance so as to maintain peace with their race. But when two of our Hifyamn (doctors) didn't return, the Klingons then thanked us for sacrificing their lives for the sake of their research. It appears two of our organs are similar to those found in Klingons and can subsequently be transplanted. It was then that they threatened a full scale invasion so that they could harvest enough organs for their people…" Captain Pike and Lt. Ne-Lahn stood staring in horror.

"Why didn't you seek help? The Federation would have been with you in a matter of days, we would have helped protect you - fought for you if necessary." The High Commissioner simply shook her head.

"And risk all out war? Captain, we felt it was better to offer a compromise. If we could harvest the organs of our sickest, and oldest individuals, we could preserve our race without the Klingons needed to advance further…" The Captain interjected.

"For now… there is no compromise with the Klingons High Commissioner, how long were you expecting to hold them off?" The face of the High Commissioner contorted in anger.

"And what exactly were we supposed to do? We did not want to risk involving others in our conflict nor would we accept a full scale invasion. We can look after ourselves and will not be beholden to anyone Captain." He crossed his arms, growing increasingly annoyed with Valaarian obstinance.

"You would not be beholden to us High Commissioner, as I explained, the Federation will provide assistance irrespective of your decision to join us." The Captain could see the Lieutenant step forward out of the corner of his eye.

"Please High Commissioner. I know my opinion as an ex-citizen carries little weight but the Federation are who they say they are. You'll always be treated with respect and given the freedom to act how you see fit. You'll have none with the Klingons. Please let the Enterprise help you, this madness doesn't have to continue. Eventually, the public will realise what's happening, there are already rumours and they won't tolerate a Helnifik (government) who does nothing." The High Commissioner was silent for several moments. When she spoke up again, the defeat in her voice was clear.

"You're both free to return to your ship. We will take into consideration what you have said. Yelasan Denemaht (farewell stranger)." Captain Pike wondered whether he should have said anymore but he figured he'd given the Valaarians enough to consider.

"Captain Pike to Enterprise, two to beam up."

72 hours later.

Captain's log: Stardate 1603.9, it appears our mission to Valaar has been a relative success. They have agreed to accept our assistance in terminating the influence of the Klingons on their home world. The Federation has sent a message to the Klingon Empire making them aware that we intend to forcibly stop their operations if they don't quietly withdraw and the usual weekly visits from them planetside have already stopped. For now, they appear to have received the message. The Klingons gambled on Valaar's steadfast refusal to join any galactic committee. Although we've warned them that such occurrences will likely happen again in the future, for now, Valaar wishes to remain independent, which we wholeheartedly respect. The Lieutenant has suffered much since her time aboard the Enterprise, though I intend to recommend she receive a Citation for Conspicuous Gallantry. Without her, the Klingons could well have succeeded with their plans for a full scale invasion.

The door to the ready room chimed loudly. "Come…" Captain Pike threw his data slate to the side and smiled upon seeing Lt. Ne-Lahn enter the room dressed once again in the black and red of her OR uniform. He felt it suited her much better. "Well, Lieutenant… please take a seat." He smiled as he motioned to the chair in front of him. Lt. Ne-Lahn didn't know why he wished to speak with her, all she hoped is that it wouldn't take long. In another ten minutes, she was off duty and had another engagement. "I just wanted to take some time to talk to you now that we're back aboard… can I get you a drink?" The Lieutenant shook her head. "How are you feeling? I for one am glad things didn't get ugly down there… what's your assessment of how the meeting went?" He eyed her carefully as he sipped from his drink.

"I believe our discussions went as well as could be expected." Captain Pike waited for her to continue but when it was clear she had nothing more to say, he decided to be more direct.

"What did the High Commissioner mean when she said she was aware of your association with a Lo… Vuhr?" Lt. Ne-Lahn's mouth twitched slightly.

"Li-Vuhl… we were Comashet… uh, bound to each other, for a time." She swallowed, hoping this would be the extent of the Captain's interest in the matter. As ever, she was wrong.

"And is that what led to you being expelled from Valaar?" She couldn't quite understand why it even mattered at this point, she was not allowed back to Valaar and so for her, the matter was now over.

"No… but it could well have been. You must understand… Mevara… uh Li-Vuhl and I, would not have been permitted to remain together. My health issues would also have proved problematic. Valaar detests differences of any kind. Whether it can be helped or not…" She eyed him carefully as if requesting she not be made to expound any further.

"I… see, that must have been very difficult for you." It was nice of him to say so but it remained somewhat of an understatement. The Lieutenant cleared her throat.

"Captain… I'm not ashamed of who I am." He quickly cut in.

"Nor should you be…" She smiled, relieved that he was understanding.

"I didn't abandon her because I wanted to. But she wouldn't leave her family behind. She kept trying to contact me telepathically as they even threatened to take her parents away, though thankfully it seems they've now revoked their decision…" The Captain looked down into his glass, searching for the right words to use next.

"And is that why you were reluctant to talk about Valaar? You should know that we don't treat- we don't have the same attitudes here Lieutenant." Her smile quickly disappeared.

"Mostly that is true Captain, but prejudice remains in all corners of the galaxy." He chuckled at the observation.

"Well, you certainly have a point there. My only hope is that you'll continue to immerse yourself in Starfleet life… open yourself up to your crew members, they may just surprise you." Lt. Ne-Lahn looked confused.

"I believe I have been doing that sir…" Just then the ready room door chimed again and Number One didn't wait to be admitted.

"Ah… there you are! I've been looking everywhere for you Vihiya… are you ready to go?" She looked towards Captain Pike in the hope she hadn't just disturbed anything important. But Captain Pike just smiled at them both.

"Vihiya? So that's your first name…?" The Lieutenant blushed.

"Yes… it means that which remains constant and true." The Captain smiled even wider.

"How fitting." All three of them laughed and he waved his hand encouraging them both on their way.

A/N: Hi guys, as a huge Star Trek fan and a lover of the new Strange New World series, it’s my pleasure to present this new ten part story. This is the final chapter! I hope you all enjoyed the story and felt I captured something of the spirit of the show. Any feedback is appreciated and I hope you’ll continue to stick around and enjoy new stories in the future!

To be updated on when I post please follow @resowrites and turn on post notifications.

#star trek #strange new worlds #star trek snw #captain pike #spock snw

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quietepics · 4 years ago

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♡ · 　INTRO.　 * . II / ?.

it’s me again ! this time with my other baby , mina wang . she is a daughter of macaria , and very angsty . angsty lady with angsty problems . her intro will be in the same format as gigi’s , so let’s go !

THE BASICS

name: wang mina ( 王米娜 , according to google translate ) , born wang mingxia ( 王明霞 ) nickname(s): none , please give her one ! birthday: january 8th, 1998 ethnicity: asian ( chinese ) birthplace: shanghai , china gender identity: cis female sexuality: pansexual / panromantic powers: death precognition by touch mixtape: where’s my love? / syml , let me follow / son lux , x / chung ha , colorblind / counting crows , allerdale hall / fernando velázquez character inspiration: rogue ( x - men ) , the little mermaid ( hans christian andersen’s tales ) , edward scissorhands , ophelia ( hamlet ) , xion ( kingdom hearts )

THE MUSE ( warning: animal death )

mina wang never met her biological parents . according to the girl herself , her story begins at a random couple’s doorsteps , where the baby was left , wrapped around in silky black sheets, right inside a basket . a single note rested on top of the baby’s tummy ; it read “ when time comes , call this number ”, a phone number written right underneath the ominous words .

despite the instructions , they called the number right away . no one answered , yet the more minutes they spent with the baby , the more mingyu and chunhua wang found themselves starting to care for it . they’d been trying to conceive a child for quite a while now , so why not just raise this baby as their own ? the next day , the baby had her own birth certificate and name . mingxia wang .

the first couple of years of mingxia’s life were fairly smooth . the little girl was cherished and loved by her parents , and she returned the love they gave her tenfold . it was a little bit after the girl’s fifth birthday , however , that her life changed . one afternoon , while playing with the family dog , juni , the girl was able to foresee the canine’s death .

it was terrifying to say the least ; mingxia had no understanding of death, of what it meant, of what it was that she saw . what she did know was that one day , her beloved dog would stop moving , and she no longer would be able to caress his gentle fur --- as a matter of fact , it was by touching the very creature that such a vision came to her . it was after that day that mingxia started to avoid skin - to - skin contact at all cost , and eventually , physical touch as a whole .

to her own surprise , not to mention her parents’, juni’s death came no more than a week after that fateful day , and it was exactly as mingxia had described . the fact made the girl even more afraid ; had she killed her own dog without knowing ? would her own parents be next ? was this a curse of sorts ? fearing for their daughter’s health and life , mingyu and chunhua did all the research they could , only to find nothing --- until an idea came to them .

in the very back of a drawer in mingyu’s home office , the piece of paper mingxia had the night she was left at her parents’s doorstep was found . this time , however , someone answered the phone . the people of nemean lion heard the family’s tale , of their daughter and how frightened she was . one month later , mingxia hugged her parents farewell and left china to move in with the people of nl , where she started going by mina , a name similar to her own .

MISC.

mina acts a lot stronger than she truly is . you may think she’s a closed off wallflower upon first contact , but the truth is that she’s just a touch starved young woman who’s afraid of getting near people .

can usually be seen in various shades of red and black . she always covers her whole body , except for her face and hair .

she wanted to follow the medical track , yet never had the courage to , due to the nature of her powers . therefore , she’s in the standard track , and fancies herself a painter . her art is a mixture of stephen mackey and the romanticism movement .

possible connections: people who she tries to push away but are really insistent on befriending her, since its obvious she needs someone; someone who she had feelings for and returned her feelings but because mina is so afraid of getting close and touching people, she ended things before they even started, basically ghosted them (big what if vibes); someone who’s been in nl for almost as long as she, so they basically grew up together; a best friend who is always there for her; someone who just doesn’t get her / thinks she’s weird af; anything your heart desires !

#nlintro

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blackswaneuroparedux · 4 years ago

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Treat Your S(h)elf: A German Officer in Occupied Paris: The War Journals, 1941-1945 by Ernst Jünger (2019)

Keeping a journal: The short entries are often as dry as instant tea. Writing them down is like pouring hot water over them to release their aroma.

- Ernst Jünger, A German Officer in Occupied Paris: The War Journals, 1941-1945 (2019)

Paris is very much my home these days and so I enjoy reading about the history of this beautiful city. It is difficult to live in Paris today and conjure up much sense of the city in the early 1940s. It is indeed, as it is called throughout the world, the City of Light. But back in 1940 when France fell and Paris occupied until its liberation on 24 August 1944, it was a city in darkness. Like so much else that happened in France during World War II, the Nazi occupation of Paris was something entirely more complex and ambiguous than has generally been understood.

We tend to think of those four years as difficult but minimally destructive by comparison with the hell the Nazis wreaked elsewhere in the country. But as recent historians have shown the Nazi occupation was a terrible time for Paris, not just because the Nazis were there but because Paris itself was complicit in its own humiliation. As the historian Ronald Risbottom has shown in his compelling book, ‘When Paris went Dark’, “Even today, the French endeavour both to remember and to find ways to forget their country’s trials during World War II; their ambivalence stems from the cunning and original arrangement they devised with the Nazis, which was approved by Hitler and assented to by Philipe Petain, the recently appointed head of the Third Republic, that had ended the Battle of France in June of 1940. This treaty - known by all as the Armistice - had entangled France and the French in a web of cooperation, resistance, accommodation, and, later, of defensiveness, forgetfulness, and guilt from which they are still trying to escape.”

It is almost certainly a unique event in human history, one in which a ruthless and unscrupulous invader occupied a city known for its sophistication and liberality, declining to destroy it or even to exact physical damage on more than a minority of its citizens yet leaving it in a state of “embarrassment, self-abasement, guilt and a felt loss of masculine superiority that would mark the years of the Occupation. To this day, more than one visitor or foreigners living in Paris are struck by how sensitive Paris and Parisians remain about the role of the city and its citizens in its most humiliating moment of the twentieth century.

Indeed bringing up the subject with French friends, my French partner’s family, or even relatives (by marriage - such as a French aunt married to my Norwegian uncle or the French partners of my cousins here in France) is like walking on egg shells. It brings up too many distant ghosts for many families. Nearly every household has a story. It can be one of resistance or one of collaboration or (more likely) one of passive indifference and acceptance.

And yet I remain fascinated and intrigued partly because of historical interest and partly out of curiosity about the human condition under stress. In Britain - despite the trauma of daily bombardment from German bombers - the country was never invaded. And so whilst war brings out the best and worst in people, it was altogether a different experience to the one experienced by mainland European countries. I don’t think we British truly have understood of life was really like under occupation and the choices people are willingly or not made just to survive the war.

The history of Paris from 1940 to 1944 gives the lie to the old childhood taunt: Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me. The Germans for the most part spared Parisians sticks and stones (except, of course, Parisians who were Jewish), but the “names” they inflicted in the form of truncated freedoms, greatly reduced food and supplies, an unceasing fear of the unexpected and calamitous, and the simple fact of their inescapable, looming presence did deep damage of a different kind. It traumatised the city and its inhabitants in ways very little understood by others, especially Britain.

The carefully curated image of French resistance against the Nazis has been asked to serve critical functions in that nation’s collective memory. The manufactured myth served to postpone for a quarter of a century deeper analyses of how easily France had been beaten and how feckless had been the nation’s reaction to German authority, especially between 1940 and 1943. And yet the myth of a universal resistance was important to France’s idea of itself as a beacon for human liberty. It was also badly needed as an example of the courage one needed in the face of monstrous political ideologies.

There remained the ethical questions that would haunt France for decades: Which actions, exactly, constitute collaboration and which constitute resistance? It is still asking these questions over 70 years later. But behind such question lies a deeper and more haunting question of moral culpability that many are quick to throw responsibility - along with their own shame of inaction - onto others but not look inwards at their own guilt and passivity.

But what about the occupiers? What did they feel? Were the German Wehrmacht during the day simply tourists sitting in cafes, dining on gourmand food, buying silk stockings and the latest fashions for their wives back home and by night drinking and debauching on the cultural and seedy delights of Paris?

Moral culpability is a question that Ernst Jünger, the celebrated German author, never asks himself of his time as a German officer in Paris. But culpability is a question that looms large after reading the war journals of Ernst Jünger from 1941-1945, now published by Columbia University Press as A German Officer in Occupied Paris: The War Journals, 1941-1945. It should have been re-titled as a ‘A German writer pre-occupied by Parisian night life and his navel’.

Ernst Jünger (1895-1998) was what is sometimes called a “controversial” figure. A First World War hero who was wounded seven times, he was undoubtedly uncommonly brave. He also insisted that those who were less brave should play their part, forcing retreating soldiers to join his unit at gunpoint. His 1920 book Storm of Steel (In Stahlgewittern), recounting his war experiences and portraying war in a heroic light, made him famous. In the 1920s he became involved in anti-democratic right-wing groups like the paramilitary Freikorps and wrote for a number of nationalist journals. He remained aloof from the Nazis, however, and, while he boasted that he “hated democracy like the plague”, was more of a nationalist than a racist.

Jünger spent much of the Second as an officer stationed in Paris, where these war journals are an almost daily record of the views and impressions of a well-read literary figure, entomologist, and cultural critic, now available for the first time in English translation in A German Officer in Occupied Paris. Posted in white-collar positions in Paris with the German military during the 1940-1944 occupation.

Nazi Germany produced two wartime diaries of equal literary and historical significance but written from the most different perspectives conceivable: Victor Klemperer and Ernst Jünger. Victor Klemperer wrote furtively, in daily dread of transport to an extermination camp, a fate he was spared by the firebombing of Dresden. Ernst Jünger, by contrast, had what was once called a “good war.” As a bestselling German author, he drew cushy occupation duty in Paris, where he could hobnob with famous artists and writers, prowl antiquarian bookstores, and forage for the rare beetles he collected. Yet Klemperer and Jünger both found themselves anxiously sifting propaganda and hearsay to learn the truth about distant events on which their lives hung.

For English-speaking readers who do not know his work, A German Officer in Occupied Paris shows the many sides of this complex, elusive writer.

In the judicious and helpful foreword by San Francisco-based historian Elliot Neaman, who says. “Like a God in France, Jünger operated on the edge of politics in Paris, rather like a butterfly fluttering among the resistors and collaborators. He didn’t trust the generals, who had taken a personal oath to Hitler, to be able to carry out a coup.”

Jünger had visited the city prior to the war, was fluent in French, and now had the contacts and the time to become even more familiar with the French capital. During his stay in Paris he met painters such as Georges Braque and Pablo Picasso as well as literary figures including Louis-Ferdinand Céline and Jean Cocteau, all of whom figure in his Journals, which reflect a view of Paris that had become a tourism mecca during the late 19th and early 20th centuries.

To Jünger, Paris was “a capital, symbol and fortress of an ancient tradition of heightened life and unifying ideas, which nations especially lack nowadays” (30 May 1941). After wandering around the Place du Tertre, near the Sacré Cœur Cathedral in the Montmartre section of Paris, he wrote: “The city has become my second spiritual home and represents more and more strongly the essence of what I love and cherish about ancient culture” (18 September 1942). At the same time, Jünger was aware of the “shafts of glaring looks” with which he was sometimes viewed by locals as he wandered in uniform through the city’s streets and byways (18 August 1942, 89, and 29 September 1943).

A German Officer in Occupied Paris is divided into four parts: the “First Paris Journal,” his writings from 1941 through October 1942; “Notes from the Caucasus,” continuing his account through February 1943; the “Second Paris Journal,” covering the period from his return to Paris through the liberation of France in the late summer of 1944; and finally the “Kirchhorst Diaries,” his account of having been placed in charge of the local militia [Volkssturm] and his reflections on the bombings and imminent defeat of Germany.

The “First Paris Journal” reflects the comings and goings of a German officer and writer happy to rediscover Paris at a time when it seemed clear that Germany had won the war and would dominate France and perhaps Europe indefinitely. Closer physically to the fighting following his transfer to the East in October 1942, Jünger devoted greater attention to the fighting and the raw nature of the German-Soviet struggle in “Notes from the Caucasus.”

By the time he returned to Paris and began his “Second Paris Journal” in February 1943, the Germans had been defeated at Stalingrad and it had become increasingly evident that a titanic struggle loomed and that the Germans might well lose the war.

The final section, the “Kirchhorst Diaries,” is set against the backdrop of the Allied invasion of Germany, accompanied by intense bombing and the destruction of German cities and homes including Jünger’s own, and the seemingly countless numbers of civilian refugees seeking shelter and food. Through it all, Jünger continues his reading, including that of the Bible, his book collecting, and visits to antiquarian booksellers when possible, and his chats with various literary figures in Paris and, at times, in Germany.

Much of the material in the Journals is introspective, with Jünger addressing his innermost thoughts and dreams. Snakes also appear with some frequency in the Journals, for example, in the entry of 13 July 1943, where during a restless night because of air raid sirens in Paris, he recalls having dreamt of dark black snakes devouring more brightly colored ones. In the Journal entry, he linked snakes back to primal forces incarnating life and death, and good and evil. This connection, he noted, was the reason people fear the sight of a snake, “almost stronger than the sight of sexual organs, with which there is also a connection” (13 July 1943). Following a conversation with the “Doctoresse,” the name that Jünger used for Sophie Ravoux, with whom he was intimate and had an affair in Paris, he described his own manner of thinking as “atomistically by osmosis and filtration of the smallest particles of thoughts.” His thought process, he explained, ran not according to principles of cause and effect but rather at the “level” of the vowels of a sentence, on the molecular level; “This explains why I know people who couldn’t help becoming my friends, even through dreams” (22 January 1944). Addressing Eros and sexual organs, Jünger added that he wished to study the connections between language and physique. Colours also had spiritual values, “Just as green and red are part of white, higher entities are polarised in intellectual couples—as is the universe into blue and red”.

Jünger’s position as an army captain gave him a panorama of the war that left no room for heroes. Violence became a grim leveller that made ideologies interchangeable. Germans on the eastern front were reading On the Marble Cliffs as a condemnation of Soviet Russia rather than of Nazi Germany. Hitler had unleashed a dehumanising force on the world, one that made Russians, Germans, the French Resistance and Allied pilots all look the same, locked in an escalating cycle of cruelty. Jünger witnessed Allied planes strafing screaming children in the streets, releasing bombs timed to explode while presents were handed out on Christmas Eve. Accounts drifted in of Parisian friends, who had once tried to transcend national boundaries with him through measured discussion in the salons, being harassed as collaborators. His summary of this second war could have been a reverse of the first: ‘Inactivity brings men together, whereas battle separates them.’

The picture of Jünger’s political views that emerges in his Journals, however, is a highly chivalric and military elitist one in which a small number of bold idealists, for lack of a better term, struggle against demos and technocracy, democracy and technicians, who are destroying the soul of an older European society. Writing while back home in Kirchhorst on 6 November 1944, following the expulsion of the Germans from France and walking around viewing the destruction wrought by the Allied bombs in Germany, he observed: “As I walked, I thought about the cursory style of contemporary thinkers, the way they pronounce judgment on ideas and symbols that people have been working on and creating for millennia. In so doing they are unaware of their own place in the universe, and of that little bit of destructive work allocated to them by the world spirit.”

He went on to criticise “the old liberals, Dadaists, and free-thinkers, as they begin to moralise at the end of a life devoted to the destruction of the old guard and the undermining of order.” Jünger then referred to Dostoevsky’s novel The Demons, in which the sons of Stepan Trofimovich “are encouraged to scorn anything that had formerly been considered fundamental.” Having destroyed their father, these “young conservatives,” now sensing “the new elemental power” of “the demos,” are then dragged to their deaths. In the ensuing chaos, “only the nihilist retains his fearsome power.” Jünger mentions Hindenburg, and the destruction of the conservatives by the Nazis is clearly implied (6 November 1944).

In August 1943, he described his political views as a combination of Guelph (relating to the medieval supporters of the Pope against the Holy Roman Emperor), Prussian, Gross-Deutscher (in support of a Greater Germany including Austria), European, and citizen of the world “all at once.” As he put it, “My political core is like a clock with cog wheels that work against each other.” However, he added: “Yet, when I look at the face of the clock, I could imagine a noon when all these identities coincide” (1 August 1943).

While violence raged all around, Jünger continued his secret diary, for publication after the war. This ended for him when American tanks rumbled through his village in April 1945, Jünger proclaiming that the deeper the fall, the greater the ensuing rise. Jünger survived investigation in the immediate postwar period and went on to become a grand old man of German literature, with a considerable following at home and abroad. A year before his death he was – as the phrase goes – received into the Catholic church. Having lived through a violent century he expired in his bed in his 103rd year.

The war journals is a highly nuanced, albeit self-made, picture of a human being in the middle of World War II, who is a flirtatious fascist, yet who apparently seems to care for other human beings, regardless of their so-called social strata or race. Take for example this entry dated Paris, 28 July 1942, “The unfortunate pharmacist on the corner: his wife has been deported. Such benign individuals would not think of defending themselves, except with reasons. Even when they kill themselves, they are not choosing the lot of the free who have retreated into their last bastions, rather they seek the night as frightened children seek their mothers. It is appalling how blind even young people have become to the sufferings of the vulnerable; they have simply lost any feeling for it. They have become too weak for the chivalrous life. They have even lost the simple decency that prevents us from injuring the weak. The opposite is true: they take pride in it.”

Having said that, I found some of the contents repugnant as Jünger, a devout entomologist, easily writes about finding a new insect while fires are burning all around Paris in 1943. Indeed Jünger paints himself as the detached botanist-scholar, determined to survive and help the world recover in peacetime. For him, the best way to avoid being sucked into the vortex of violence was to disconnect from emotion and group mentalities: to feel nothing and be on no one’s side, only bearing witness. A detached eye in the storm.

His journal is a hedonistic carousel, as he frequented theatres, literary salons and Left bank bookstalls along the Seine, as well as having a meeting of artistic minds with Picasso, Braque and Cocteau. It’s possible to make your way through this collection and have a grand ole time, enjoying the moments when Jünger encounters celebrities like Picasso, or when Monet’s daughter-in-law gives him the key to the gardens at Giverny for his own private tour, or when he describes another gourmet meal with the well-heeled of Parisian society: “The salad was served on silver, the ice cream on a heavy gold service that had belonged to Sarah Bernhardt.” Jünger relishes his name-dropping and his contacts with the upper crust. He sees himself as one of the Übermenschen: “In this country the superior man lives like Odysseus, taunted by worthless usurpers in his own palace.”

The author himself gets lost in the fog of mystic self regard as all artistic writers are prone to do and confesses that in an entry labeled 26 Aug 1942: “At times I have difficulty distinguishing between my conscious and unconscious existence. I mean between that part of my life that has been knit together by dreams and the other.”

To read the diary in chronological order is to realise that Jünger’s submersion in art and literature was his way of preserving his humanity while serving the machinery of a lethally violent state. One way of doing this was through a voracious program of reading, chiefly literature and history, often reading two or three books at once. One is not surprised at the German and French reading but at the abundance of English writers, whom he read in the original—Melville, Joyce, Poe, Conrad, Kipling, Thomas Wolfe, Thornton Wilder, the Brontës, ad infinitum. The range is also remarkable. Jünger pivots from the 1772 fantasy Diable amoureux to a biography of the painter Turner to Crime and Punishment. And throughout the entire diary, one finds him reading the Bible, cover to cover, which he began shortly after his posting to Paris.

Over and over again I had to remind myself this is a diary. Diaries by definition have one eye on self serving posterity.

So it’s not surprising that Jünger would tweak reality to create this image of poetic detachment. With his constant stories of indulgence in Paris, the reader might assume he had no job while he was there. In fact he was censoring letters and newspapers, a cog in the Nazi machine he so despised. He omits anything that would make him appear a villain. An ongoing extramarital affair in Paris is barely hinted at. But neither does he try to look a hero, omitting how he passed on to Jews information of upcoming deportations, buying them time to escape.

Should he have continued to enjoy his life as a flâneur for so long? He had solid proof of what was going on, debriefed as he was on the mass shootings and death camps on the eastern front. Throughout his career he had railed against inertia, lauding men of action who sacrificed themselves for a just cause. And then such a cause presented itself. Jünger’s colleagues in Paris were involved in the Stauffenberg plot of 1944, and asked for his help. He was one of the most influential conservative voices in Germany at the time, one of the few that Hitler’s followers might have taken seriously. Yet he refused to commit himself during the chaos. Instead, Jünger waited for evil to destroy itself: a fireman who fought the blaze by waiting for the building to burn down. As usual, he inhabited a grey area.

Jünger remains a problematic figure of controversy, perhaps even emblematic of the aged old question how does one respond to brutish evil? There are no easy answers. Addressing the French who collaborated with Germany during the war Robert Paxton, a well regarded historian of Vichy France wrote, “Even Frenchmen of the best intentions, faced with the harsh alternative of doing one’s job, whose risks were moral and abstract, or practicing civil disobedience, whose risks were material and immediate, went on doing the job. The same may be said of the German occupiers. Many of them were “good Germans,” men of cultivation, confident that their country’s success outweighed a few moral blemishes, dutifully fulfilling some minor blameless function in a regime whose cumulative effect was brutish.”

Was Jünger one of those they called a ‘good German’? Eating sole and duck at the famous Tour d’Argent restaurant, while gazing down at the hungry civilians in the buildings below was the choice Jünger made. In his 4 Just 1942 diary entry he wrote, “upon the grey sea of roofs at their feet, beneath which the starving eke out their living. In times like this - eating well and much - brings a feeling of power”.

We are always told to speak truth to power. Before we can speak one must think. But thinking truth to power is never enough in itself unless one acts out truth to power. Words without action is nothing. So the question one has to ask even as one reads from the detached safety of distance and time: how would one act in his shoes or indeed a Frenchman’s shoes?

More than anything, the diary raises, for me at least, the question of moral culpability. It’s impossible to tell what Jünger was really thinking, and so perhaps one tantalising aspect of these war journals is psychological more than anything else. All this stuff is swirling around his life but we hear about the harmless social fluff for the most part. For example, he notes “In Charleville, I was a witness at a military tribunal. I used the opportunity to buy books, like novels by Gide and various works by Rimbaud.” I wanted to hear about the tribunal, but alas, it vanished into Jünger’s damn book buying.

And yet if you judge Jünger by his diary entries alone then it would be very easy to find him guilty. But diaries conceal as much as they reveal. For all the criticism that Jünger has served up a self-serving exculpatory diary, the truth is that he leaves his most selfless acts unmentioned. It is known that he gave advance warning to Jews facing deportation: The writer Joseph Breitbach was one, as he subsequently confirmed, and Walter Benjamin was possibly another.

None of this, for obvious reason, could be committed to paper, nor could the names of Adolf Hitler or any of his henchmen. Instead, their appearances are marked by Jünger’s felicitous code names. Joseph Goebbels, the Nazi chief propagandist, is “Grandgoschier,” a character from Rabelais’s Gargantua and Pantagruel meaning “Big Throat.” SS Chief Heinrich Himmler is “Schinderhannes,” the name of a notorious German highwayman but also a pun on horse knacker. And Hermann Goering is simply “Head Forester,” citing the most fatuous of his many official titles.

Jünger thought a great deal about the mystic and symbolic power of sounds, and he reserved his most apposite pseudonym for Hitler, “Kniébolo,” a name that is at once menacing and absurd. It suggests a kneeling demon (Diabolos), a leitmotif of the diary as Jünger became ever more convinced of Hitler’s essentially Satanic character- in the literal biblical sense.

So grey areas get more grey when we either try to step back and be detached to render a verdict on Jünger or if we step into his shoes to get inside his head. This is the limitation of a secret and coded diary, no matter how scrupulously written and how fascinating they are to read. Diaries are written for oneself or an imagined other; they play on the satisfactions of monologue. Letters are shaped by the contingencies of distance and time between writer and recipient; they become over time scattered in various places and must be "collected" to form a single body of writing.

Diaries are shaped by moments of inspiration but also by habit; they are woven together by a single voice and usually are contained between covers. Diarists play with the tension between concealing and revealing, between "telling all" and speaking obliquely or keeping silent. Like letter writing, diarists inscribe the risks and pleasures of expression and trust. The diary is an uncertain genre uneasily balanced between literary and historic writing. The diary belongs to the woman where history and literature overlap. So it’s easy to conclude that we will always have ambiguity and tension between these two polar opposites.

After 1945, Jünger again withdrew into private life, but continued to publish. Seclusion encouraged attention. His reputation grew. Scholarly editions appeared. In three last decades, doubters aside, he enjoyed growing recognition, travelled the world, deepened his knowledge of nature and voiced concern about human damage to the planet. Jünger poured out books late into his nineties. By then he had swept Germany’s top literary prizes and been visited in his Swabian retreat by the statesmen of Europe, including Helmut Kohl and François Mitterrand.

Jünger’s experience of life did little to dent his loathing of liberalism and democracy. On a country walk along a bomb-pitted road near his home late in 1944, Jünger indulges a moment of conservative relish, telling himself that it is liberals who are to blame for all that has befallen. How wonderful it is, he writes sarcastically, “to watch the drama of the old liberals, Dadaists and freethinkers, as they begin to moralise at the end of a life devoted completely to the destruction of the old guard and the undermining of order”. “Blame the liberals!” was the reactionary’s charge at birth (there is a profound difference between true conservatism and the extreme reactionary). It hobbled the Weimar Republic and bedevils politics today. Politically, he had learnt nothing. Today Western Europe society is eating itself inwards through the corrosive influence of the woke-ness of cultural Marxism and the conservative now finds himself/herself in the sweetly ironic position of defending the tenets of true liberalism.

For English-speaking readers who do not know his work, A German Officer in Occupied Paris shows the many sides of this complex, elusive writer. These diaries are invaluable about the man and his times. Jünger is nowadays probably less read than read about. So these war journals are to be welcomed and to be read with great interest.

For some these journal entries alone will still provide material to debate the moral choices made - and evaded - by Jünger. To critics, Jünger participated too much and judged too little. To defenders, he was indeed on the hard right, but no fascist and, besides, his prose was what mattered, not his politics. Not to pity Jünger’s personal travails would be defective. Not to respond to his prose would be deaf. But all of us can ponder Jean Cocteau’s final verdict, who liked Jünger and considered him a friend but whose aloofness troubled him: “Some people had dirty hands, some had clean hands, but Jünger had no hands.” Jünger may have washed his hands of his time in Paris but the hand of history forever tapping on his shoulder is less forgiving.

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bngtanah · 4 years ago

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The Difference Between Boys & Girls | o7

summary: Sam & Erin are university students who share a cheap one bedroom apartment above a shitty takeaway restaurant. Due to the limited space, they’ve grown accustomed to sharing just about everything, including the occasional kiss.

pairing: Jung Hoseok (Samuel Park) feat. Park Jimin (Brian Yi) x Named OC characters: meet the cast.

genre: angst, smut, fluff word count: 3k chapters: o1| o2| o3| o4| o5| o6| o7| o8| o9| 10| 11| 12| 13| 14 warning: boyfriend!hoseok, jealous!hoseok, painter!jimin, friends to lovers trope, college au, angst, sexual themes, slow burn, arguing, pining

a/n: this ones a bit short, sorry!

Sammy stopped waiting for Erin to return long after the sun had set and the plates of food he'd set out for both of them grew cold and inedible. His intentions for the night were simple; treat Erin to a highly deserved meal prepared by someone who was not him, commend her for how hard she had been working lately in order to do as well as she could on her few remaining final exam and somehow during the night offhandedly mention the fact that he was in love with her and probably has been since the first time they met. Just to gauge her reaction. It was a simple plan that didn't require any extra factors to be accomplished but it definitely did require Erin to be present, which she was not.

A frown turned down the corners of Samuel's lips and created an expression that was rarely seen on his naturally bright and cheery face. With one final glance down at his cell phone that had been quiet all night, Sam huffed and pushed himself back from the coffee table then stood up. It was well after 12 and Erin hadn't called, texted or left any indication of where she might have been and what was taking her so long to come back home. He thought about calling her as he blew out the single candle that was placed in the middle of the coffee table, Samuel argued with himself the entire time he put away the extra food and ultimately decided that he shouldn't. He was worried about her but that didn't really give him ample reason to treat her like a child breaking curfew, especially since he had a vague idea of where could be at this hour.

Samuel knew that Erin wasn't exactly a party-going socialite so she couldn't have been out dancing; if she was staying late at the library or work she would have texted him or left a note for him somewhere when she came home. He had also taken note of the aftermath of clothing and makeup left behind by hurricane Erin all over her room which meant she went someplace where she wanted to look her best and there was only one reason Erin really dressed up these days.

Brian.

The image of that orange-haired punk putting his hands on Erin made Sammy grit his teeth and fling his body back against the couch. He was letting his imagination get the better of him but just thought of anyone but him comforting Erin after a long day at work, touching her or anything else made Samuel's blood boil. His feelings were irrational and childish and even if Samuel recognised that it wouldn't have stopped the anger that found root in his heart or the ache that pinged him after he allowed his agitation to settle down.

Erin was no longer just his.

She was content in finding happiness elsewhere and Samuel had to find a way to accept that. They were getting older and even though he would have loved to, Sam supposed they couldn't continue to simply play house for the rest of their lives. Eventually, they had to grow up and maybe that meant growing apart too.

Brian was normally a late riser. It was never unusual for him to still be in a deep sleep well after 12 in the afternoon but today was different. Today he was up with the sun and the scent of lingering arousal and a familiar gentle aroma of woman’s perfume filled his nose. The first thing he felt was something against his face, warm, soft brown and ticklish. A yawn forced his jaw to go slack as the sunlight shone through the window, brightening up his bedroom. A nest of brown hair rested below his nose, belonging to the naked feminine body that was cuddled up against him.

He swept a few strands of her hair away from Erin's slumbering face as a small, tender smile crept upon his lips. Her current expression was in such contrast to the one she was wearing just a few hours ago when she crying out with pleasure beneath him. Now she was so quiet. So calm. Brian wasn't sure which one he liked better. He pressed a kiss on her earlobe, then traveled down to her neck and brushed his lips gently against her skin until she stirred slightly and turned to her side, muttering something that sounded like 'Quit playing Sammy', but Brian couldn't be sure.

He ignored the doubt and peeled himself away from Erin's body, the cold air of his loft attacking his body the second he was no longer covered by the plush comforters. Brian pulled a pair of joggers on his lower body and decided that he might as well pick up the rest of the clothing that had randomly landed around the floor of his bedroom while he was at it. In a careful and lazy manner he retrieved most of Erin's clothes and placed them on the edge of the bed near where she lay, he grinned again when Erin rolled onto her back and spread her arms out at her side. Her jacket was in his hand and he was about to place on the bed with the rest of her clothes but something fell out of the pocket and gave him pause.

Brian knew the easy thing to do would have been to put the folded up sheet of paper back into the jacket pocket since it wasn't his and he didn't really have a reason to read it, but he was curious and figured it was probably just some leftover fax from work that Erin had forgotten to send out. It wouldn't hurt to read it.

So Brian unfolded the sheet of paper and instead of seeing figures and numbers or a schedule of some sort like he expected Brian found himself reading a handwritten note from Erin's roommate. There was nothing scandalous written, and it definitely seemed like a friendly gesture between friends but something about the way Samuel wrote 'Love, Sammy' with a silly little heart in place of the 'o' and the general tone of the note rubbed Brian the wrong way. It was all just so.... intimate. An innocent kind of intimacy but still an intimacy that Brain often didn't feel when he was alone with Erin. The paper crumpled in Brian's fist and he shoved it back into the pocket where it fell from and tossed the jacket onto the bed before swiftly moving out of the room.

It took another few minutes for Erin to wake up and realise that she was alone in bed in a bedroom that did not belong to her. The initial panic within her subsided when she remembered that she was still in Brian's loft and her arms stretched far above her head as she sat up and glanced around the empty room. Everything looked so different bathed in sunlight but Erin didn't allow herself to linger for too long, she was out of bed and dressed in a matter of seconds and quickly went to search for her boyfriend.

Erin smiled widely when she caught sight of him in the kitchen fumbling around with something she couldn't see. She wrapped her arms around his waist from behind and buried her face into the space between his shoulder blades, pressing her plush lips against his warm bare skin.

"You let me wake up alone, rude" She giggled and hardly noticed the way he tensed up when her lips made contact with his body.

"Sorry," Brian muttered in response but didn't turn around.

Erin was slightly put off by his curt response and her eyes squinted downward for a moment but she pushed on regardless, concluding that Brian just may not have been a morning person.

"So um, I was thinking that since I have my final final in a few hours and I can't really stay for too long today maybe we could meet up this afternoon? You promised to take me back that speakeasy pub last month and we still haven't been back."

Brian shrugged and gave Erin a halfhearted 'maybe' in response but when he stopped washing dishes and moved from the sink to the refrigerator like she wasn't even holding him his actions left her confused and honestly a little hurt. She didn't understand why he was acting like his, especially after last night.

"Are you okay Brian?" She asked gently, still hovering around the sink.

"I'm fine" he replied with his head hidden behind the door of the fridge.

Erin shuffled on the heels of her feet and bit down on her lip, he definitely didn't sound fine.

"Are you sure because you seem a little...upset? Is this about last night? Do you think we're moving too fast or something?" Erin paused and laced her fingers together "Do you regret sleeping with me?"

Her last question made Brian shut the door and look directly at her for the first time that morning, his expression soft and apologetic.

"What? No, of course I don't" he said in a whisper as he reached forward to pull her against his chest.

"Then why are you acting so weird?"

Brian pressed his lips together and rested his cheek against Erin's temple.

"It's silly..."

"I still wanna hear it"

"...fine. I found something this morning that made me a little upset that's all"

"Upset? With me?" Erin asked and pulled her head back to look up at her boyfriend.

"Yeah. I came across the little note that your roommate left you when I was picking up your clothes and I didn't like it."

"Wait a minute, you were snooping through my pockets while I slept? Do distrust me that much?"

Erin completely detached herself from Brian's body and put an ample amount of space between them. She could understand if he was upset about something that actually warranted a reaction but there was nothing written there to explain this kind of reaction.

"I wasn't snooping, it fell out!"

"That doesn't matter who are you to be rifling through my personal effects? That note wasn't addressed to you so you had no business reading it, and what the hell could have made you so damn vexed? Is no one else allowed to hope I have a good day but you?"

Brian exhaled deeply and girded his hips, he was doing his best to keep a level head but with Erin's voice raising slightly the more she spoke it was becoming harder for him to remain docile.

"It's not what was written on the paper but the tone of it all that bothered me."

"Because you can judge tone just by reading something?"

"No, but I can judge it based on past experience, I've seen the way he looks at you when you're not paying attention Erin. You've said that there's nothing going on between you two I not so convinced of that. I mean we can barely get through one date without you mentioning his name at least five times, trust me I've counted."

Erin gasped, her fingers raking through the front of her hair as she turned away from him for a few moments before turning back to face him with her features shrouded in anger.

"Are you fucking kidding me? If this has been bothering you for so long why are you just now bringing it up, you've had so many opportunities to ask me about this?"

"I didn't think it would be a problem before now, and look I don't want to keep bringing this up but can you honestly tell me that he doesn't feel anything for you? I'm not saying he's got to be in love with you but you can't live with someone and not-"

"Of course, we love each other!" Erin bellowed before Brian had a chance to finish his sentence, her gaze wild with anger as she stepped toward Brian who looked startled.

"We've known each other for over half the duration of our lives, we have shared every major moment in life since middle school. I know that Sammy loves me with every part of him that is capable of giving love but there is a difference between loving someone and being in love with them. He's not in love with me." Erin noticed the slight tremble in her voice when she spoke, the part of her that still wished Sammy felt some other way was still alive and ached when the reality of her words hit her.

"I-i'm sorry, I shouldn't have overreacted..." Brian stuttered and attempted to reach for her shoulder but Erin side stepped him and shook her head.

"I'm going to be late for my test."

It's well into the afternoon when Erin finally returns to her apartment and finds Sammy bundled up on his pullout bed watching something on Netflix that she didn't recognize. Silently she kicked off her shoes, dropped her bag and made a beeline straight for her roommate, forcing her way into his lap which made him sit up rigidly and peer down at her.

"Can you hold me?" were her only words and Samuel was quick to oblige her by wrapping his arms tightly around her body and holding Erin tight to his chest. He recognized the pained expression on her face and knew that she would probably need a minute before she felt like telling him what was wrong. So they both sat in a comfortable silence, the background noise from the television filling the void until Samuel finally looked down at Erin and ticked up one of his eyebrows.

"What's wrong, noona?"

Erin took a deep breath and relayed her entire day to Sam, the fight with Brian, her race to her university, the fact that she nearly missed her opportunity to take her final exam and the fact that she was so distracted from her argument with Brian she may have bombed her final. She was on the verge of tears by the time she was done speaking but Samuel calmed her in a way that only he could by pressing his soft lips against her temple and gently stroking the length of her hair, muttering gentle compliments against her skin the entire time.

"I am 100% sure you didn't fail that final, I've heard you reciting literary nonsense in your sleep for the past two weeks. Even if you were distracted there's no way you could have failed."

Erin pouted, she was glad for the reassurance but her gut was telling her otherwise.

"And about your fight with...your boyfriend,"

Erin clamped up the moment he mentioned the fight. In her haste to tell him what was bothering her she had completely forgotten to censor herself, she didn't mean to mention that he was the cause of their fight.

"You know he's wrong, right? I mean I love you, you know I do but...I-....you're family it'd be weird to think of you in any other way." Sammy managed to crack a playful smile even though he was dead inside, those words pained him to say more than he thought but he couldn't bring himself to say anything else. He didn't want to sway her heart, not like this when she was vulnerable and troubled. Erin sniffled and nodded quickly, pretending to be relieved when he said the exact opposite of what she wanted to hear.

"That's what I told him," She said softly and pulled back from and made and effort to get off his lap, "Sorry for bombarding you like this, I just needed a hug." Erin chuckled and stood to her feet.

"I'll always be here to give you one" Sam replied and then neither of them spoke for a few seconds, staring each other down and holding their gaze like they both wanted to say something but in the end no one spoke up and Erin found herself awkwardly waving and walking away.

She slumped to the ground the second she closed the door behind her and Erin buried head between her knees, she had been trying to hold in the tears since Samuel held her but hearing him admit what she already feared was the final straw to break the dam of her tears. What started as a gentle stream soon evolved into a silent sob as Erin pressed her head backwards against the door in a shallow attempt to stop herself from violently weeping like a teenager. She already had suspicions that Sammy didn't feel the same way so why did this hurt so much? A part of her wanted to go back out to the living room, grab her roommate by the collar of his thin white t-shirt and explain to him that she believed that they were soul mates and they belonged together she didn't care if he saw it or not. But what would that prove? It would shake the foundations of their friendship and Erin wasn't so sure their relationship could handle such a blow.

Instead of mustering up courage Erin dragged her body towards her bed and pushed herself underneath the mess of clothes and blankets, hoping that tomorrow would be a better day.

#btsnoonanet #houseofddaeng #j hope fanfic #jimin fanfic #bts fic #bts scenarios #bngtanah #dbbg

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magicienviq-blog · 5 years ago

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How To Find Great Local Magicians for Kids Birthday Parties, Company Events, or Exclusive Events

How to discover a great regional magician for your party or event:If you're planning a birthdayparty, a wedding, a wedding, or really any sort of neighborhood event or celebration to adults or kids, below are some suggestions from a professional (that is me!) On how to obtain the right magician. This article also applies to locating any sort of local entertainers like clowns, bands, jugglers, face painters - you name it.

Clearly, first you need to discover some magicians in your region to choose from. You could get a recommendation from a friend, and that can be a great start. Remember that nearly every magician out there (even the lousy boring undependable ones) have some individuals that will recommend them. Why do they indicate someone poor? Well, it can be because they do not know any better - that they might not have noticed a excellent neighborhood magician to talk about with. Also, just because someone is good does not mean they are the ideal magician for your party. Whatever the case, do not stop with only a recommendation, check the guy out carefully and make sure he specializes in the sort of magic that is perfect for your event (more on this later).

OK, after recommendations, you have 2 options. You're able to find and hire a magician directly, or you'll be able to go through some form of entertainment agency. There are typically local agencies locally (unless you're in a little town) that book magicians in addition to a major range of entertainers for any occasion (I used to have a business like this rear in Ohio).

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There are also national online agencies that have thousands of entertainers available for parties anywhere in the nation, even for children's birthday parties.If that you locate a fantastic regional service, they have a tendency to be somewhat familiar with a lot of the local entertainers and can provide you more personalized help and tips than you could receive from a national online agency. Not all local brokers are great, however. Some are only out to make a quick buck and aren't so picky about who they ship out.

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Occasionally local brokers book good individuals, but sometimes they have trouble finding good individuals who are available whenever they want them. Sometimes the better local entertainers do not need to work for brokers because the brokers might not have the ability to cover them and still make a nice commission. At times the local individuals get lots of work on their own so why bother with a broker. Therefore, agents can work out nicely, but take a look at the agency carefully.Now, for online agencies: a few are just a list service and don't get involved with the reservation process in any way. All of these let you type out entertainers by town so you can find someone near.

They may simply offer some names and contact information, but a few show images, demo videos, links to the performer site, and also have space for many paragraphs of info given by the entertainer. Some show ratings and comments from customers who obtained the entertainer via their services. With the majority of these national sites, the actors aren't screened for quality - anyone may be listed.

Some do display for caliber magicians as best they are considering they have not seen the majority of the actors in person. Generally there isn't any personalized assistance from the agency; they serve more as an internet phone book. You will come across these agencies with no attempt - just search for magicians on an internet search engine - those agency listings will be blended in with your regional outcomes. A couple of examples are Gigmasters, Gigsalad along with Partypop.Online phone books (yp.com, Dexknows.com. Etc) is a great means to discover entertainers directly in addition to find local entertainment booking agencies. There should be at least 2 or 3 good online"phone books" that have somewhat complete local listings.

Dexknows and Yellowbook are a couple examples, however the choice of internet directories varies according to your location. Again, a number of them are much better and more complete using local listings. Frequently the one which is known as the"official" one to the main phone company is the most effective - but not always. Just do a Google search for internet phone books. Categories to check under include Magicians, Entertainers-family and business, Party Planners, Entertainment services, etc.. Google itself does something like an internet mobile, and you'll frequently see these results if you do an area search for a business.And of class the sources that a slew of people visit are Google, Bing, Yahoo, etc.. To use these and find the biggest variety of local magicians, perform several searches, each search using a different set of phrases or words. Be quite specific with a few of the search phrases for greater outcomes.

As an example, don't simply form in magicians, attempt"birthday magicians West Chester PA" or"close-up magicians for corporate events Chester County PA" etc.. You are going to get different results based on how you hunt. You'll discover different sites for magicians in addition to a few of those online and local services I talked about. Not all great magicians have sites, hard to think I understand. And a few websites don't appear till you dig through several pages of search results. Additionally, there are those paid ads put up from the magicians - they've advertisements for very great people occasionally (on Google that they appear on the perfect side and sometimes the top).

Anyway, as soon as you find some folks, then you should narrow it down according to their specialization. By way of example, some magicians (such as myself) concentrate in local children's events and parties, so make certain that you read their websites carefully so that you do not waste your time calling magicians which aren't best for your occasion. Some concentrate on expensive illusion shows for large events, some only do close-up walk-around fashion magical, some do not do children birthdays. Some do a mix of all, but may not acknowledge they're bad whatsoever (though some are good at everything). Some are pricey and worth it, some are costly and not worth it. Some will charge a very fair rate and give you a much better display than you anticipated. Most importantly, get the magician which seems to concentrate in everything you want if possible.

Some magicians, such as myself, also conduct balloon twisting, face painting, sport top, juggling, etc.. Multi-talented folks are able to be a terrific choice because they can keep the party going by doing several items (if you need ).Make certain you know precisely what they can do to you, make them be special so you may make the ideal choice. Furthermore, if you pay $125 for a birthday series, do not expect some massive elaborate show - there's a difference, they're not all the same and you are inclined to get what you pay for. Know exactly what to expect and be sensible. See their presentation videos should they have them. Watch reviews and comments on online phone books, etc..

Receive a contract if possible, with details of the show listed on it. Guarantee that the entertainer understands the specifics of your celebration, be sure they have good lighting, enough space, shaded place, a contact number for the evening of their event, etc.. Oh, and reserve as far in advance as you can - let me state this - book as far ahead as possible (several months or perhaps a year in advance if possible ). Do not procrastinate or your favorite person is likely not going to be available.

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cctapexhousepainters · 5 years ago

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noona-clock · 6 years ago

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First Impression - Part 2

Genre: Museum!AU

Pairing: Youngjae (Got7) x You

By Admin B

Part 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6

You loved your job. To be honest, you hadn’t expected to, but now you could safely say you really and truly did.

For about three years, you’d been a curator at the art museum. It hadn’t been part of your life plan, though you actually hadn’t even had a life plan to begin with. You were the kind of person to live totally in the present, living life practically day to day and going wherever the wind took you.

You’d only landed this job through a series of lucky - and sometimes slightly odd - happenstances and coincidences. After graduating from college with your Bachelor’s degree in Art, you’d been given the opportunity to intern at a museum back in your hometown. This led you to getting your Master’s in Museum Studies, and a curating job in a city hours away just kind of... landed in your lap. Not really, but things had worked out too well for you to refuse.

So here you were. Three years later, still loving life. Which was quite an accomplishment seeing how resistant (and, dare I say, downright scared) you were regarding anything long-term.

Maybe the reason you loved this job so much was that just about every day was different. You were never bored. Working in a museum was actually a lot more unpredictable than you’d imagined, especially as a curator. Opportunities for new exhibits almost constantly popped up, and you frequently traveled all over to do research and negotiate which artworks would be coming back with you. Plus, the immense pride you felt when an exhibit came together and looked spectacular was something you couldn’t quite explain.

This Renoir exhibit was most definitely the pinnacle of your career so far. You’d traveled to New York, San Francisco, Paris, and London to build this little collection, and if the ticket sales and patron comments were any indications... it was a huge success.

But it was only the second day after opening, so you didn’t want to count your chickens before they hatched.

You were currently out on the gallery floor, observing and wanting to see if maybe the paintings could be arranged better or if the walls were too close together. You wanted all of the visitors to enjoy themselves, but you also didn’t want them touching or even brushing up against any of the pieces.

Things seemed to be going all right, and you had just finished whispering to a security guard to keep an eye on the lady with the huge purse... when someone caught your eye.

You weren’t sure if he’d caught your eye because he’d just been looking at you or if it was simply because he was eye-catching. Either way, you now found yourself studying him.

The way his dark hair hung just so, exposing his forehead. It was shaggy but not messy, and you could so clearly (you weren’t sure why) imagine running your fingers through it. His eyes were curious and sparkling, his lips full and pensive. The way he was focused on the paintings and whatever he was writing made you want to pick his brain. What was he thinking? What was he writing?

And then you noticed he glanced at you. You quickly looked away, glad he wasn’t able to know your heart had started to beat just a little bit faster.

But... why? Why was it beating faster?

You saw people at the museum every single day. What was so special or different about him?

The security guard standing near you shifted his stance, and it was just enough movement to pull you out of your own head. You blinked quickly, your head jerking the tiniest bit.

Come on, you thought to yourself. No time to be daydreaming.

You were at work, after all, and you had to focus on the exhibit.

Not the really cute guy stealing glances at you.

When you left work that evening, you figured you would completely forget about whoever that guy was by the time you returned the next morning. You would go home, cook some dinner, watch some Netflix, do a face mask, get some sleep... and tomorrow morning, you would sit down at your desk and carry on with work as usual.

So, riddle me this.

It was tomorrow morning. Yesterday was officially behind you, and you were sitting in your comfortable office chair, replying to emails and still thinking about that guy. That dark-haired, wide-eyed, sweet-faced guy. You almost wished there was a plausible way to figure out his name, but you knew that was toeing the line of being a stalker.

Besides. If he enjoyed the exhibit as much as he seemed to, judging by all the notes he’d scribbled down, he would probably be back.

You let out a huff of a sigh, blowing your hair out of your face and attempting to blow thoughts of this mystery guy out of your head. You’d never let any guy distract you from your work before; you would most certainly not be starting today.

He was here again.

That really cute guy.

It was the third time in two weeks, so you really had to wonder if he was here to admire the Renoir exhibit or if he was here to admire… something else.

Or someone else?

Maybe it was because, despite your efforts, you had been thinking about him for the better part of those two weeks which made you hope he was in the same situation.

Because... you’d asked around. You hadn’t tried to look through the system for his name attached to a ticket, but you’d asked a couple security guards and tour guides if they’d noticed him. If he’d come any other times when you weren’t there.

One security guard, a buff, young man who secretly loved gossip, informed you he, too, had noticed the guy. But he’d only seen him here the three times, just like you had.

So. He only came during your shifts, as far as you knew. Interesting.

Whether or not that was a coincidence…

Well, you wanted to find out. You couldn’t keep your curiosity at bay any longer.

Even though talking to the museum patrons was nowhere to be found in your job description, you walked up to him and cleared your throat gently.

“Hi, can I help you with anything?” you asked, smiling politely.

He smiled back at you, though his smile was a lot brighter and more beaming than yours. It kind of made your heart skip a beat if you were being honest.

Damn, he’s got a perfect set of teeth.

“I actually have a lot of questions about the new exhibit,” he told you with a soft, somewhat timid laugh, breaking through your super random thought about his teeth.

“Oh?” you breathed. “Well… I’m the curator, I can tell you anything you need to know.”

“Really?” He looked surprised (and incredibly adorable), so you nodded.

“Really,” you smirked. And then you held your hand out and introduced yourself.

“Youngjae,” he replied as he shook your hand.

“Shall we?” You held your arm out, gesturing toward the rest of the exhibit.

The two of you began slowly strolling through the gallery, stopping at each piece for however long it took you to answer Youngjae’s questions. He had a lot, which was not surprising, but you easily supplied all the answers.

“You really know which questions to ask,” you pointed out as you stepped away from Dance at Bougival.

Youngjae smiled bashfully, a soft chuckle escaping his lips. “Well, I’m an art student.”

“Are you?” Oh, god, if he was an art student, he was much too young for you, damn it--

“I’m getting my Master’s in Art History,” he continued, much to your relief. Like, literally, you almost let out an audible sigh because thank the lord. A graduate student, not an undergraduate student. “I’m actually in my last semester, writing my thesis on Impressionism.”

“Aha,” you chuckled. “That would explain why you’re here.”

He nodded, and you could’ve sworn you saw his cheeks flush a little.

“You know,” you began, stopping in front of Dance in the City. “I have to admit. I’ve… noticed this isn’t your first time here.”

Youngjae blushed a little, his smile growing ever wider and even more bashful. “Yeah, I just – it’s for my thesis, and I wanted to –”

Everything about his expression and his body language (he was currently gently kicking the ground and slightly avoiding eye contact with you and drumming his fingers against his jeans) told you he hadn’t come here just for the art.

So you had to assume he’d felt that same strange, intangible pull you’d felt toward him.

“I’m not a tour guide or anything,” you interrupted. “But I know just about all there is to know about Renoir and a few other Impressionist painters. I would be happy to... maybe sit down and go through your thesis with you? If you’re having trouble with it.”

Youngjae’s head snapped up, his eyebrows raised halfway up his forehead as he looked at you with surprise. “You -- really?”

“Absolutely. I was a grad student once myself, not too long ago. And I’ve just spent the last couple months putting this exhibit together. My brain is in full-on Impressionism mode,” you told him with a chuckle. “I can give you my email?”

Because, to be quite honest, giving your phone number to a museum guest - and one you’d just met - was a little crazy. Right?

...Right?

You were probably overthinking the situation, but whatever.

“Oh -- oh, sure,” Youngjae nodded. He flipped to an empty page in his notebook, turning it toward you and handing you his pen.

You quickly jotted down your email, a soft smile pulling at your lips as you wondered if anything would even come of this. Maybe your assumption was totally off-base, and he really was just here for the art.

But he at least had your email address now. If you heard from him, great. If you didn’t, you would get over it. I mean, there was really nothing to get over at this point. You’d never been one to dwell on the past, anyway, so you were used to taking these small kinds of risks.

“You’re sure about this?” Youngjae asked when you gave him his pen back.

“Very. I love talking about art,” you assured him. “It would be selfish of me to keep all this knowledge to myself!”

A quiet laugh escaped Youngjae’s lips, and even though it was quiet, it was enough to melt your heart. You instantly wanted to hear him laugh fully. A loud, robust laugh. In fact, you wanted to make him laugh.

(You were almost second-guessing your own thoughts about being fine with him never contacting you...)

You were just about to start talking about Dance in the City, but you saw a flurry of movement out of the corner of your eye. Your brow furrowed as your gaze shifted, seeing your boss standing nearby and waving you over.

“Excuse me,” you murmured to Youngjae before slipping away and hurrying over.

“What are you doing?” your boss asked with a curious chuckle.

“Oh, I just -- he’s an art student, I was offering to help --” You realized he probably didn’t even really care, so you cut yourself off. “What’s going on?”

“Did you forget about lunch?”

...Yes. Yes, you had. You remembered now that your boss had announced a celebratory lunch for you and the staff members who’d helped you with the exhibit. He was taking you all to a nearby four-star restaurant, and you would surely get a little too tipsy from all the wine you’d drink. But if your boss was paying for it, could you really refuse?

You spared a glance back at Youngjae, but he was too busy studying the painting to notice your gaze on him.

I mean... you’d talked to him. You’d given him a way to contact you. Sure, you would like to continue talking to him, but there was no way you would choose a guy you’d just met over free lunch courtesy of your boss.

So you simply shifted your eyes back to your boss, smiled softly, and nodded.

“Lunch, of course. Lead the way, sir!”

You’d thought Youngjae hadn’t been paying attention when you’d glanced back at him. And he’d done a good job of looking like he was studying the painting.

But he’d been watching you out of the corner of his eye.

Not watching in a creepy way, of course. Just... watching. Waiting to see what was going to happen.

He was, as you can imagine, a bit disappointed when you left. He wasn’t expecting you to come and say good-bye to him or anything, but... still. He’d been having an excellent time asking you questions, actually getting to talk to you.

But he had your email, at least. And if you thought, for some reason, he wasn’t going to contact you... oh, how wrong you were.

Youngjae slid his backpack around so he could slip his notebook inside and enjoy the rest of the exhibit (though his mind was a bit distracted, thinking through the fairly long encounter he’d just had with the magnetic curator he’d been daydreaming about for days now).

About an hour later, Youngjae was making his way out of the museum. He’d skipped yet another French class for this, so he felt like he needed to go to his professor’s office and ask if there was any extra credit work he could do to make up for the time he’d missed.

When he passed the front desk, though, a sign caught his eye. Just like he had a couple of weeks ago when another sign caught his eye, he stopped walking, his foot lifted up in mid-air. He took some steps backward. He read the sign again.

Interns wanted. Apply here if interested.

Part 3

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