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no-reply95 · 3 years ago

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I was scrolling through the Beatles topic on Twitter the other day and came across a tweet from Mark Lewisohn referring to a talk he’d given to the Fab4cast podcast on the Get Back sessions and Spring period of 1969. I assumed that it was a recent talk so I gave it a listen but the talk is actually from 2019.

I tend to find Lewisohn’s podcast interviews to be very interesting. He’s obviously got decades worth of Beatle knowledge stored up so you’re almost guaranteed to learn something new or hear an anecdote that you’ve never heard before but more than the factoids he’s accumulated over the years I find his interpretations of the band extremely telling.

The part of the conversation that really caught my attention was when the podcast hosts brought up the fact that John and Paul’s weddings were really close together and wondered if the two events were connected in any way, I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to say that this probably got the biggest reaction out of Lewisohn, the main points of the exchange are outlined below (time stamp 47:12)

Host: “Well also in this period there are two events, the marriages of John and Paul, within 8 days of each other… I read that John wanted to marry on the 14th, two days after Paul’s wedding but couldn’t do it because of legal issues, how much was his [marriage] a response to Paul’s marriage do you think?”

Lewisohn: “I’ve read that people say that it was but never heard John say that it was so there’s no validity to those claims they’re just people assuming that John didn’t want to be outdone by Paul… that’s the kind of writing that annoys me because it becomes part of the fact and it’s some writer thinking that’s what it probably was… Unless someone out there can find a Lennon quote in which he actually says it in which case I stand corrected and I’ll be very happy to do so”

There’s a lot going on in these quotes so I’m gonna break down my thoughts on this further:

The illusion of John’s honesty

What Lewisohn displays here is something I believe is pretty common within the Beatles’ authorship. I believe in Revolution In The Head Ian McDonald referred to John as “truth” and Paul as “beauty” and I think a lot of writers do tend to assign those attributes consistently to John and Paul. Reading (or listening) to the Lennon Remembers interview now, it’s hard to believe at one stage people took what John was saying as fact and never even questioned whether there were emotions or agenda behind what he was saying, despite the contradictions (“Me and Paul stopped writing together in 1962” vs “Me and Paul worked really closely together on Sgt. Pepper”) and because John was so charismatic and would speak openly in interviews and to people he knew about both the good and bad in his life I think people, and in this case Lewisohn, assume that John told us everything of note that happened in his life, which I don’t think is a realistic expectation of anyone, let alone someone as famous as John. I think it’s problematic to take John’s or anyone else’s words, especially when they’re said in public, as the gospel truth because everyone has an agenda and John was no different. I also think it’s unrealistic to believe that John would ever announce that the reason he and Yoko got married when they did was in any way connected to Paul, that would have sullied the sanctity of “John and Yoko TM”, I mean, how can you be the greatest love story ever if the reason you decided to get married was because your musical partner who you may have unresolved romantic feelings for got married? I don’t think John would publicly embarrass Yoko like that or risk undermining the strength of the brand he was trying to create with his new relationship by admitting that Paul’s marriage spurred them on. That Lewisohn is apparently holding out for a lost interview of John stating that Paul was involved in the timing of his marriage to Yoko just sounds pretty far fetched to me.

The timing of John’s wedding in relation to his and Yoko’s divorces

As discussed in this podcast, Paul and Linda got married (pretty unexpectedly I believe) on 12 March 1969 and John and Yoko got married 8 days later (and apparently they wanted it to be sooner) on 20 March 1969. Aside from the extremely close proximity of John and Paul’s weddings it should be noted that John’s divorce from Cynthia was finalised in November 1968 and Yoko’s from Tony Cox was finalised in January 1969.

So why am I bringing up John and Yoko’s divorces? Because it meant that they were free to marry each other from January 1969, there was no longer a legal issue preventing them and if John’s bursting out in song about it, you would assume that they would have started planning their wedding ASAP… but curiously they didn’t. How do we know John and Yoko weren’t planning a wedding before Paul married Linda? Because once Paul was married John and Yoko started scrambling to get married ASAP, suddenly there was a rush and need to be married that hadn’t existed before, John suddenly wanted to marry Yoko on a ferry but they couldn’t be married there, then John wanted to marry Yoko in Paris but they needed to be resident in Paris for a period of time before they could get married there so eventually they settled on Gibraltar as they could get married there at short notice. Clearly there was a sudden need for John and Yoko to get married that didn’t materialise until around March 1969, am I and countless other people (including Paul himself) crazy for assuming that Paul’s wedding impacted John’s sudden desperate need to be married? If it wasn’t Paul’s wedding, what was it?

Authorial interpretation and assumptions

I’m really fascinated by the visceral reaction Lewisohn had to just the suggestion that the timing of John and Yoko’s wedding was connected to Paul and Linda’s. For Lewisohn to state it annoys him was pretty shocking to me because, given what is publicly known about this period and the lack of any other logical reason for John and Yoko’s wedding to be so close to Paul’s and Linda’s, I don’t think it’s bad writing to point out the proximity and suggest that the timing was more than a coincidence.

Based on his reaction, you would assume that Lewisohn would be set against any form of interpretation where the principal in question hadn’t confirmed that the interpretation was in fact correct but that would be an incorrect assumption to make. Some of you may be aware of the Hornsey Road shows Mark Lewisohn was giving in 2019 around the 50th anniversary of Abbey Road. During these shows Lewisohn played a clip from the, now infamous, 4-4-4-2 meeting tape and gave a presentation on the Abbey Road period in the Beatles’ history. One of the points Lewisohn raised during the show was that during the sessions, after the car accident in Scotland, a bed was brought into the studio for Yoko so she (and sometimes John) could rest while work on the album progressed. According to Lewisohn, one morning they turned up to the studio and someone had removed one of the legs from the bed, leaving it with 3 legs *dramatic pause* which was him heavily hinting that he thought Paul broke Yoko’s bed on purpose and then bragged about it on the Ram album by including a song called 3 legs, I’m not going to go into the validity (or lack thereof) of this claim but I find it very interesting that Lewisohn was annoyed about authors suggesting that the timing of John and Yoko’s wedding was connected to Paul and Linda’s but he seems happy to publicly speculate that Paul was sabotaging Yoko’s bed in the studio based on the title of a song that he would release on Ram two years later and nothing else.

Is there any evidence that connects John’s wedding to Paul’s?

I’ve already outlined the suspiciousness of John and Yoko choosing to get married right after Paul, when they had been free to marry for weeks prior but is there any other evidence that either proves that the weddings were connected or is Lewisohn right to deem that suggestion as lacking in validity?

Interestingly there actually is unverified eyewitness testimony that does connect John and Paul’s weddings (something not mentioned by Lewisohn in this podcast). I believe there’s an anecdote from Les Anthony (John’s chauffeur at the time) about him driving John and Yoko around when news of Paul’s wedding suddenly came across the radio, to which John apparently said to Yoko that “we have to get married now”… I couldn’t track down the exact source for that story (if anyone knows the source please let me know) so I’m not sure how credible that anecdote is but, assuming it is accurate, then that would suggest a correlation between John and Paul’s weddings that Lewisohn is adamant doesn’t exist.

Why does this matter?

I do think that this podcast interview could be indicative of a few future concerns I personally have around the way the Beatles discourse will progress in the future. Firstly, this was only a podcast interview so it’s unlikely that when Lewisohn releases the final book in his trilogy that he’ll discuss the weddings in this manner (I.e. although he’s adamant the timing of John’s wedding had nothing to with Paul he failed to offer any sort of explanation regarding why John and Yoko were rushing to get married when they’d had weeks to prepare a wedding).

It’s a slight worry that Lewisohn seems to believe that John announced every single thing that happened in his life of note, especially concerning Paul and Yoko. If John had told us everything of interest about him, surely his Dakota diaries would be the basis of a Netflix series by now and not locked away in a vault (assuming they haven’t already been destroyed). To me, like several authors before him, Lewisohn seems to be mistaking John’s emotional honesty with factual honesty. It didn’t escape my attention that several clips of the Lennon Remembers interview were inserted into this podcast and Lewisohn quotes extensively from it in Tune In as well. There’s nothing wrong with using Lennon Remembers as a source but if you do use it you should be analysing the veracity of what was said as we know that John was in a torched earth mentality at that time and even he himself has said what he said in that interview wasn’t meant as a timeless manifesto. It’s a shame that given his ability of analyse sources Lewisohn has never (to my knowledge) critically analysed Lennon Remembers, given that other sources have been analysed this makes LR a strange omission.

Finally, Lewisohn does tend to make some good insights and does have the ability to read between the lines (I.e. him noting Paul’s tendency to say “we” when in most cases he means himself) but with John I do think he has a bit of a blindspot. Why Lewisohn is happy to speculate without evidence in some cases (3 legs) but he draws the line at the suggestion that John and Paul’s weddings being connected is anyone’s guess. If Lewisohn can turn his attention to reading between the lines with John and the other Beatles too and connecting the dots then we should get a Beatles biography that finally addresses a lot of the issues we cover on this site. However, if we take the approach of only using John and Yoko’s PR to understand the events that transpired before and after the band broke up then the story hasn’t moved much further than 1970 and given all that we know now I think that would be a huge shame.

#the beatles #john lennon #paul mccartney #john and paul #mark lewisohn #paul and linda #john and yoko #double wedding #beatles podcasts #given Lewisohn’:s status it’s crucial he doesn’t just dismiss things he doesn’t like as invalid #interpretation is fine as long as it’s correct #i have other podcast thoughts on a separate show #thoughts #long post

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curioussubjects · 4 years ago

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I feel bad discussing spn now that’s over but I’ve been wondering. Do you think dean actually meant it when he said “why does that something always seem to be you” (15.03)? Usually people blurt out what’s on their mind all of a sudden even if they didn’t mean to say it out loud. But it comes out because the person either thinks about it or actually believes it. Do you think at one point Dean truly blamed Cas for Mary? I mean, putting 15.09 aside of course.

Why do you feel bad discussing SPN now the show’s over, anon?? Don’t feel bad!

The short answer to your question, in my view, is that Dean was lashing out because of how his unaddressed trauma over Cas dying (cf. 7x01, purgatory, 12x23) gets entangled with him processing his grief over Mary and Jack. Everything is further exacerbated by Chuck’s villain reveal, and the events that lead to Rowena’s “death.” The longer answer to this question starts with acknowledging that feelings and trauma are complicated things that aren't always rational. And that's the crux of the matter for Dean in that moment he lashes out at Cas: he's not behaving rationally. We know Dean is angry, and historically doesn't handle anger well at all, but we also know, even without 15x09, that what Dean is really feeling is fear. In that moment, Dean is angry, and he's scared. If you watch the scene closely, too, you'll notice that Dean is still present enough to regret saying "why does that something always seem to be you" to Cas. He tenses up, he looks down and only looks up again in stubbornness defiance when Cas says he can't even look at him. Then Cas leaves, which has always been an issue for Dean. However warranted Cas's decision to leave was, it still hits Dean as rejection, too. All this is to say that the break up scene is extremely fraught, and Dean is the type of person who needs time to process events and emotions, and time to process is something he hasn't had since Mary disappeared.

So you ask: ok, cool, but what does all of that have to do with Cas dying, Liv? And here's where I say they have everything to do with Cas dying. I've talked about this before in tags and in other posts that I can't think of right now, but there are common occurrences in the events that have led to the more traumatic Cas deaths. If we think of Cas dying in 07x01, the context for that is as follows: Cas needs to solve a problem, he wants to ask Dean for help, but the desire to not burden him with it is greater, so Cas ends up handling the problem solo, which leads to disaster and also him dying. Or, well, apparently dying. But as far as Dean was concerned, Cas was dead, and he did struggle with it a lot during season 7. Now, fast-forward to s12 and the context of how Cas ends up dead then: Cas needs to solve a problem, part of him does want to cooperate with Sam and Dean to solve it, but he ultimately decides his desire to bring Dean a win, and to shield him and Sam from actions they'd suffer from are greater. Predictably, Cas ends up handling the problem solo, which leads to complications, and him being killed by Lucifer. Cas's death in 12x23 is significantly more traumatic to Dean than the one in 07x01 as season 13 starts with a grief arc that is devoted to Dean's suffering over Cas -- to the point that suffering overshadows even his grief over Mary. Granted, these are somewhat reductive summaries of the events of seasons 7 and 12, but the fact remains that those two deaths were remarkably similar as well as traumatic.

If you look at trauma theory in regards to literary analysis, you'll notice that a key element is repetition. The story of trauma is a story of echoes, which is partly why triggers are what they are for people who have PTSD. In particular, a situation doesn't need to be an exact replica in order to evoke a traumatic memory. A situation need only be similar enough to the traumatic event to cause a trauma response. Therefore, if we keep in mind that the events leading to 15x03 aren’t exact mirrors of 07x01 or 12x23, but too reminiscent for comfort, then Dean’s behavior toward Cas starts making a bit more sense -- not excused, but understandable. A quick summary of these similarities goes as follows: Cas notices there’s is something off with Jack because of his soul; he decides to investigate on his own to avoid worrying the Winchesters and also because of his own fear of losing his family. He only comes forward with what is happening after something potentially disastrous has happened (Mary’s death). Later, Cas deviates from the agreed plan to close the wound leading to hell, which leads to another disastrous consequence (Rowena’s death). What does this look like? Cas makes a decision to act on his own, and doesn’t tell Dean (or Sam) about it, something goes wrong, someone dies. Notably, here, moreover, is that Cas obviously doesn’t die, but he has paralleled Mary before (when he was dead in s13) and there’s an argument to be made that he would eventually parallel Rowena (with heaven), but that’s from a metanarrative perspective rather than Dean’s, and I digress.

Oh, It’s worth noting, too, that the way in which the arc starting with 14x18 and culminating in 15x03 presents a similar, but not quite, chain of events as those of previous seasons signals the intentionality of the trauma narrative.

But anyway, as we were: the resonance between the traumatic and triggering events, with the latter being traumatic in their own way, make Dean response in a way that is unfair for the situation at hand, but betray a deeper truth about Dean’s state of mind. Backtracking a little from 15x03, the first instance of Dean lashing out at Cas happens in 14x18 with the (heartbreaking) line: “Then you're dead to me.” At face value, those words are a condemnation of Cas and indicate a complete breakdown of the relationship, hinging on Jack having hurt/killed Mary. There is, however, another angle there, pain simmering beneath the surface, which makes more sense in its direction to Cas: the last time Jack, Mary, and Cas were involved in a tableaux like this, Cas died and Mary was gone. In what is an inversion of events, Mary is dead and Cas is...there, but as an echo of Jack’s birth, to say Cas is dead is a statement of fact: he did die, then. And as he was a parallel to Mary in the aftermath of Jack’s birth (and the rehashing of the John, Dean, Sam drama through Dean, Sam, and Jack), so is he a parallel to Mary here, except in circumstance. Both Mary and Cas had been after Jack. Mary happened to find him first, but Cas could’ve easily been the one to find him. Easily been the one who died. See the issue? This is obviously not to say that Dean’s grief and rage weren’t about Mary herself, but that the situations are entangled and murky.

Further entanglement and murkiness happen when Cas is forced to change the plan to seal the hell wound in 15x03. We all know, including Dean, that there was nothing Cas could’ve done instead of what he did. But besides the change of plans, there’s an undercurrent of anxiety of the wound closing before Cas makes it out. He does, of course, but that’s the what if, always. And to illustrate the possibility, Rowena sacrifices herself to close the wound. It’s not coincidence that the similarities here are tenuous considering the stress burden from everything that has happened since 14x18 has continued to grow with no respite.

The stage is set then for the confrontation that leads to Cas walking out of the bunker. Dean is clearly on edge, and Cas is in a particularly vulnerable and hopeless headspace:

CASTIEL: Sorry about Rowena. DEAN: You're sorry? Why didn't you just stick to the damn plan? CASTIEL: Belphegor was lying. DEAN: Belphegor's a demon. CASTIEL: He was using us. He wanted to eat every last soul to take over Hell, Earth, and every... DEAN: Yeah, and we would've figured it out... after. With Rowena. CASTIEL: The plan changed, Dean. Something went wrong. You know this. Something always goes wrong. DEAN: Yeah, why does that something always seem to be you?

The reason I went of this long journey to come back to this is so as to make clear that what Dean is talking about here isn’t about Rowena at all, and it’s not about Mary either. We know Dean didn’t really blame Cas for Mary, and that he didn’t blame him for Rowena, either. But do those bolded parts sound familiar?

CASTIEL: Listen. Raphael will kill us all. He'll turn the world into a graveyard. I had no choice.

DEAN: No, you had a choice. You just made the wrong one.

CASTIEL: You don't understand. It's complicated.

DEAN: No, actually, it's not, and you know that. Why else would you keep this whole thing a secret, huh, unless you knew that it was wrong? When crap like this comes around, we deal with it... Like we always have. What we don't do is we don't go out and make another deal with the Devil!

CASTIEL: It sounds so simple when you say it like that. Where were you when I needed to hear it?

DEAN: I was there. Where were you?

DEAN: You should've come to us for help, Cas.

How about:

DEAN: Cas, you can't – With everything that's going on, you can't just go dark like that. We didn't know what happened to you. We were worried. That's not okay. CASTIEL: Well, I didn't mean to add to your distress. I – Dean, I just keep failing. Again and again. When you were taken, I searched for months and I couldn't find you. And then Kelly escaped on my watch, and I couldn't find her. And I just wanted I needed to come back here with a win for you. For myself.

[...]

DEAN : We will find a better way. CASTIEL: You mean, we? DEAN : Yes, dumbass. We. You, me, and Sam, we're just better together. So now that you're back, let's go, Team Free Will. Let's get it done. CASTIEL: I'd like that. DEAN: Great.

“Then, you’re dead to me.” “...why does that something always seem to be you”

Because it’s Cas, and Cas being dead and gone. The tragedy of the divorce arc is that Cas ends up gone, too. However, this time, it’s Dean’s fault for not stopping him. Here, Dean’s fear of Cas dying leads to the anger that ultimately pushes him away. So, yeah, Dean meant what he said, but not in the way Cas took it. Not in the way it appeared as.

The other tragedy of Supernatural ending as it did is that Dean never got to heal from that trauma, he never got to confront Cas for it, either. Make no mistake, the empty deal is another spiral of Dean’s unaddressed trauma over Cas dying. The beats are the same, and the result is Cas, gone, and Dean, shattered. Sadly, we never got our final resolution, the climatic reunion that would mirror Dean’s prayer in purgatory and Cas’s confession in the dungeon. It’s a story left unfinished.

#destiel #dean winchester #deancas #supernatural #spn #spn meta #questions and answers #my writing #i keep saying the remaining huge piece of unaddressed trauma from dean is cas's death #remember that thing i keep repeating about dean's unaddressed trauma re: cas?#as you can see i do yell about this a whole lot #this thing got SO LONG ANON IM SORRY #ksjdhfkasjhfklasd #hopefully it's helpful?

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seeds-and-sins · 4 years ago

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The Other Side - Part One

Pairing: Jacob Seed x Reader, Eli Palmer x Reader

Rating: M (Language, Violence, Sexual Situations, Non-Consensual Interactions, Torture)

Description: You are the head of one of Eli's teams, and his sweetheart, then Jacob captures you.

- Part Two

- Part Three

- Final Part

War is never and will never be an easy road, especially when you are emotionally involved with the persons you fight beside. Brothers, sisters, friends, people you would do anything for, even die. That was the very case here, which made the decision of joining the Whitetail milita a double edged sword. On one end, you wanted to be near your friends so that you could protect them, but on the other end, being near them risked the possibility of failing them. You knew that failure, two tours in Iraq taught you about regret lived when someone you cared for died in the line of fire.

So, when Eli asked you to join his crew, you were hesitant at first. You knew about the fiasco that had been going on with the cult, you would be lying if you said you didn't have to fend off the cult members from time to time. You promised yourself you'd never give into to violence ever again, and you didn't. You willed yourself to stand free, away from those harmful thoughts and memories, away from alcohol and flashbacks. Eli's ask stood against everything you had worked towards, the progress you had made since returning from overseas about seven years back. He knew that, the both of you had surely talked about it across a campfire once before. You could see it in his eyes, the hint of guilt, the desperation of having you beside him. The two of you had been more than acquaintances, more than friends after his divorce, but less than partners. There was certainly always something lingering there. That was what made you say 'yes', that was what made you hurl yourself back into the pool of demons you had ridded yourself of. Him.

Three months in, after being a respective member of his main alpha team, you both made it official. This only seemed to make you more cautious about missions, about his safety, about the safety of the militia. It went both ways truly, but you never considered his feelings towards the matter as much as your own. This often led to arguments, loud shouting matches that never ended with a clear winner. The other militia members steered clear, sipped from their beer, conducted their surveillance ops, whatever kept them away from getting in between the two of you. One such argument took it to the next level, bordering damn near abusive at some point.

"I said, no! That's final!"

"Well, whatever you say I am still not going to listen to you! You aren't going out there!" In the past few weeks, Jacob had been getting more aggressive with his strategies, so much so, that it was starting to become too dangerous for Eli to leave the Den. Yet, for about a month Eli and you had developed a plan to cut off Jacob's weapons supplies. Such a convoy that took a path from John's region through the mountains and around to the Veteran's Center. It was a very complex, but heavily calculated plan, and you knew Eli was itching to be a part of it. Better you than him though.

"I'm in charge of this operation! Not you!"

"My point exactly, do you really think its a good idea to go out on a really important mission when Jacob wants your head on a silver platter?"

"The risks are the same now as they were then."

"Don't be ridiculous, Eli! You mean something to this cause!" You stepped around the map table and closed in on him, hands balled into fists, sweat on your brow.

"And you mean something to me." He muttered under his breath, those light brown pools not leaving your own, the tension in your shoulders dropped and you sighed. Almost instantly, the few standing members in the room began to clear out, even Tammy, who was Eli's strongest lieutenant left the room. You took a deep breath, stepped even closer to him, his head tilted down as he dropped his gaze.

"We knew what we were getting into when this started, El."

"If it was any other mission, I wouldn't mind, but this one is big." He finally raised his gaze, you grabbed his cheek and formed a sad smile on your lips, thumbs caressing gently at the scratchy skin above his beard.

"That's why I must go. I am the only one who knows this plan inside out and you are too valuable to lose."

"I hate it when you do this, (Y/N)."

"Do what?" He gripped your wrists with a sigh.

"Make it seem like I don't worry about losing you either." His eyes were like dark pools into another universe, and you wished for a moment that you could dive into them and be lost forever.

....

Thud!

The metal bowl hit the ground, slop spitting out from its edges and pulling its weight to sit on its side.

"There ya' go, sinner. Same as yesterday's." The peggie grunted, rot shining in his steely grin as he then trotted away from the cage, leaving you to your devices. You sighed, feeling the slop become more and more appetizing each day was starting to become a concern. No matter how hard you tried not to eat, there was no denying the hunger that consumed you. In comparison to those locked in the cages surrounding you, while they starved and screamed for your meals, the food was a luxury. Yet, you could not give Jacob the benefit of the doubt.

You eyed the tasteless grub, blotchy and red, with chunks of unknown substances stirred into its grime. It blended well with the dirt, that had turned soggy and muddy as the rain came and went. You prayed that that same rain would grace you, where it provided some shroud of comfort in this nothingless.

You committed to timing the guards on duty, understanding the cycles of prisoners as they underwent the seven days of hell that Jacob would put them through. You hadn't yet quite figured out how to get out of the cage itself, being so in the open, with an overall lack of materials, made the process difficult. It didn't help that as they days went by, one, two, three days so far, your thoughts had become more difficult to manage. Sleep was unattainable with the screams and the grime and the consistent playing of 'Only You' at the exact time every day.

Jacob would stop by at his conveinience, you hadn't been here long enough to see him make a habit of it. He would pass through while making critiques on the work his men had been doing. He'd stop and stare for a moment, meet your solid glare with his own and then continue on. It had become no question that he knew who you were and your significance. You hoped that Eli wouldn't break under the threats you were certain that Jacob had been pushing on him. Jacob had yet to conduct any torture on you. Upon first meeting him, it wasn't difficult to distinguish who he was among the fleet of peggie scum that stood around him.

The mission was obviously a failure, an ambush occurred, one of the Whitetails had been a traitor. You were so close to escaping before a peggie had managed to trail you down to the Henbane, knocking you unconscious. You were dragged into the prison-like walls of the veterans center, awakened by the shrill of terror echoing from the cages and the raw barks of crazed wolves. It was then that Jacob revealed himself to you. He said so little, but with his eyes you could see something stirring.

"Put her in one of the cages, I will deal with her later."

"Yes, sir." He never quite dealt with you though, although you wondered many times if he ever would. It didn't matter how. You would never speak a word to him, your love for Eli was too unconditional and strong and fierce. His authority resonated with you and you made note of it as one of Jacob's defining characteristics. He was like Eli's mirror, they would be friends if it was any other universe. For this, everytime that Jacob passed through, you conduct a thorough analysis. You would go back to Eli with all the information he would need. Not only on the compound, but on the enemy.

"Not hungry again I see?" You lifted your gaze from the bowl, so lost in your thoughts. You hadn't noticed that Jacob was coming around for his daily rounds. You hid your surprise at the fact that he was actually speaking to you today. "Is the food not to your liking?" His voice was so even, but strained, with his every breath, she could see his struggle. On the surface he was a strong man, inside he had his illnesses hidden. "I hope you don't mistake my kindness for weakness..." One of his men swiftly hurled the metal door open, grabbing the bowl and scooping its messy contents back in. "If you can't respect such kindness, then you don't deserve it." The peggie pulled away and returned the door to its locked and sturdy position. It was silent, but Jacob had remained posted at the bars of the cage, arms crossed, eyes focused. "I have decided what to do with you, wouldn't you like to know?" Those last few words were almost mocking you and taunting your existence. You could play games to, if that was what Jacob wanted from you for the time being.

"Kind of disappointed you didn't know to begin with..." You snorted and shook your head. "I thought you'd at least be somewhat prepared for this kind of situation."

"Oh, you aren't all that special. Maybe this cage has made you a bit cocky."

"Its not hard, especially when you're the person I have to look at all day." Jacob kept that composed expression, but you could tell the banter was getting to him. You felt you hadn't moved in days, but the effort to stand was well worth it. You grunted as you struggled to bring yourself to your feet, legs shaking slightly under you weight, and your head spun as you stepped forward. "Now, you might as well kill me, Seed. I am not saying a word." You inhaled sharply as you reached out for the bar not to far in front of Jacob, giving him your best smile.

"I already know everything I need to. The question is whether you are worth it or not." You smiled even further, feeling like you had won. For Eli. You knew Eli wouldn't dare risk the entirety of this militia and this operation and idea, for you. No matter how much love was worth, it wasn't worth hundreds of lives and the loss of freedom. The both of you had had this discussion before, however briefly and however painful it was to admit. The risks were a burden that hovered over the relationships, but the payoff always was worth the risks.

"I can promise you I am not. Eli knows the drill and I know my mission. I am better off dead than alive."

"Oh, you must be mistaken..." Your eyebrows furrowed and you couldn't help but swallow, your throat so dry that the sting lingered for a brief moment. Jacob's lips quirked up slightly and he stepped closer to the cage, as cool and as in authority as he was when you met him. Something was wrong. "Eli doesn't know I have you, and he never will." Your lips parted, the confusion deepened, further into your soul. "In fact, he thinks I've killed you already, isn't that somethin'?" You shook your head vigorously, not quite understanding-

"But then why am I here?! Why keep me alive?" You were the one that had become frantic, panicked, you lost your composure. Thoughts rustled through your head, all of which you couldn't control in this state, with this anxiety, and exhaustion, and hunger that coursed through you. Jacob shrugged, then so casually spun on his heel and started walking. "Wait! Stop!! I am talking to you!" You braced yourself against the bars, as tears streamed down you cheeks. Your greatest fear and you couldn't do anything about it. "Why?! Stop!" Jacob disappeared into a metal door of the veteran's center, its resounding slam emanated among the never ending chorus of screaming and crying from nearby cages.

You knew why: If Jacob couldn't get Eli to react with you alive, he would have to get Eli to react to you dead. And based on Jacob's smug glimmer, it was working.

Return to Prompts

#jacob seed #reader #farcry 5 #jacob seed x reader #eli x reader #white tail militia #eli palmer #the deputy #the seed family #joseph seed #john seed #faith seed #only you

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ijustwant2write · 5 years ago

Text

Not Your Girl Anymore-Tommy Shelby x Reader

(GIF credit to @hvproductions)

Tags: @amirahiddleston @bloodorangemoonlight @captivatedbycillianmurphy

Requested by @jaspersthebomb: 'Hey could you do one where her and tommy are still together after the war but drifting apart and then he dumps her for grace and she finds out that she’s pregnant with Tommy’s kid and you can decide how it ends'

Characters: Tommy Shelby x Reader

Meanings: (Y/N) =Your name

(Y/L/N)=Your last name

Warnings: Swearing, arguing, divorce, cheating, smut, alcohol abuse, fluff

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

I sighed as I dried up another plate, tempted to throw it at the wall, but settled on placing it back in the cupboard. He still wasn't back, though I didn't understand why I was still surprised by that. I couldn't remember the last time he was home at a normal time, or when he had a good enough excuse. I would have been fine with him dealing with business if he didn't treat me like a piece of shit.

I glanced at the kettle, telling myself that I should really have a cup of tea. But why should I abide to society's rules when Tommy certainly wasn't. I went for the good whiskey, Tommy's favourite, pouring myself a glass, then another once I swigged it back. The bottle was soon becoming empty when Tommy decided to come home. I turned around in the chair, watching as he ignored me and made his way up the stairs.

"So you won't even stop to say hello anymore?" I slurred, not caring how drunk I sounded.

He cleared his throat."I'm not going to speak to you whilst you're like this."

"Well when will you talk to me?" I stumbled towards the stairs, l leaning against the bannister."Is this what it takes to get your attention?"

He stopped halfway up the stairs, leaning his head back as he groaned."Right, come on."

Just as I thought he was going to take care of me, he grabbed me by my elbow, practically dragging me up the stairs. I complained as I tried to not trip. This just confirmed it for me. If I wasn't drunk, I wouldn't have fought this, I would have kept quiet, maybe made a snappy remark; but seeing as I was drunk, words slipped out before I could even think about them.

"Ever since the fucking war, you've hated me." I whined, a lump forming in my throat.

He didn't respond.

"I know you saw a lot, I know you went through so many terrible things. But why do you hate me? What did I do to make this marriage fall apart?"

"You're drunk, you won't remember this in the morning." Tommy huffed, laying me down on the bed.

"I will. I always remember when you upset me."

Tommy said nothing, leaving the room. I did remember what he said to me, I remembered everything since he came back to me. I called him my hero. Such a brave man who fought for his country. Now all I had was a corrupt, mean man in my house... his house.

Another week had gone, meaning another week of having to pretend I didn't have a husband. I had time to really think about what I wanted, where I wanted this relationship to go. I married a different man before the war, but that's what every woman was saying. Part of me felt terrible for being mad at him, Tommy (like a majority of men) hadn't spoke of what happened, which was understandable, but I had wanted him to say something to me, something that showed me he was still human. Though I never got it.

Once again, Tommy came home late in the evening. I was surprised when he stopped by the kitchen, actually coming to see me. Neither of us said anything, Tommy breaking the silence by clearing his throat.

"How have you been?" he started.

"How have I been? We've hardly spoken all week and that's what you say to me?"

"Well, just as you said, I've been neglectful."

"You've just made a statement but it has driven this conversation no where."

He lit a cigarette."That's all I seem to do nowadays. Never been good at conversation."

"You were with me." I mumbled.

He grunted as a response.

"Those were the days, eh?"

He moved towards me, inhaling his cigeratte before exhaling near my face. I didn't move away."You really miss them, don't you?"

"Miss my husband being present in my life? Yes, funny that."

The corner of his lip twitched."You haven't lost your temper."

"Someone had to stay put."

"Don't fight me."

"That's all we're doing anyway Tommy."

He got closer, his body now against mine, so close I could smell the usual scent of whiskey and cigarettes on him. I took the cigarette, taking a drag myself before putting it out in a cold cup of tea.

"Have we really changed that much?"

"You shouldn't have to ask that question."

His eyes cast down to his hands, which were currently unbuttoning my blouse. Although there was an urge in me that wanted him to stop, to prove that he was an awful husband, there was an even bigger part of me longing for his touch after being starved of attention for so long. I looked over his face, still taken back by how blue his eyes were. The trance was broke as he pushed my blouse off me, leaning in to kiss me hard. My hands instantly wrapped around his neck, gripping the bottom of his hair. There was a horrible, twisting knot forming in my stomach, and it wasn't lust or a build up of pleasure, it was the wonder of would this be our last intimate moment together? Could this be testing whether our love was still alive for each other?

I yelped as his hands ruffled up my skirt, and I quickly unbuckled his trousers, going to reach down when Tommy pushed me harshly into the coutertop. Ignoring that pain in my back, I moaned as he quickly entered me, his pace already fast and rough. Gripping onto his shoulders, I tried to keep myself steady. But what I thought would give me hope, fill me with pleasure, was the exact opposite. He wasn't making love to me. He was just fucking me like some whore he got from the streets.

I really tried to enjoy it, to feel something, or at least pretend he was having sex with me because he loved me; but as soon as it had began, it was over. He let out a deep moan, short of breath as he thrusted into me one last time. As he got his breath back, my face was emotionless, the arms that once tightly held onto him now limp, no longer wanting to be near him. I refrained from making a nice as he pulled out of me, shamelessly pulling down my skirt. But what made me freeze was how he simply did up his trousers and walked away. I had had enough.

Picking up a plate, I threw it with all my might at him, missing his head by a fraction."Fuck you Thomas Shelby!"

That had been the last time I saw Tommy. Well, lived with him at least. I couldn't stand to be in the house any longer, even if he never showed up. However, it was hard to get around Small Heath without someone even mentioning him. I stayed with a friend of mine, Fran, who thankfully took me in. She too didn't give a shit about Tommy.

"Come on then," I huffed as Fran kept pushing around the food on her plate,"tell me."

Her eyes darted up to mine, almost as if I scared her."What?"

"He was with her again today, wasn't he?"

She hesitated."Yes. She's working at the Garrison still."

"Not even divorced and he's still going after her."

"You're not upset?"

"I'm upset that he doesn't have the respect to come and tell me he's in love with her. I would go and tell him I want a divorce, but I still think I would punch him in the face."

"I don't see the problem with that."

We laughed."I don't want to be the bitch of a wife. I want it done properly so he can't hold anything against me."

"What if I punched him?"

"You can take that risk. He is still leader of the Peaky Blinders."

"Never stopped me before."

The next morning, I got up early, though I hadn't actually had a choice in that. I had awoken to the sick feeling in my stomach that had been there for the past two weeks. Fran somehow hadn't heard me throwing up whatever was left in my stomach, but that worked to my advantage. It was obvious I was pregnant, but I shocked myself when I felt no fear. It may have been Tommy's child, but it wouldn't have the life he would intend for it. I had always wanted children, Tommy used to until he came back from war. He wasn't against it, he just never had time to even think of it. Although it seemed like bad timing for me, I was still having this child, raising them incredibly; and by God I was going to be an amazing mother. Besides, he had a new woman to think about, even if he didn't have the decency to tell me.

Once I was ready, dressed in my smartest clothes, makeup and hair fully done, I headed downstairs, grabbing my briefcase and headed to the betting shop. There was only one way I was going to get through to Tommy. As I entered the shop, heads turned, wondering why the Mrs was here and where she had been this whole time.

"(Y/N), thought you'd dissappeared on us." Arthur joked, sticking his head out of his office.

"And yet, no one came searching for me."

He stumbled with his words."W-well, you know-"

"Don't worry Arthur, I wasn't expecting anyone to do that. And just so you know, you and John have always been good to me. I'll miss you."

"Miss us? What do you mean?"

I didn't answer as I kept on walking towards Tommy's office, knocking before entering. He was sat at his desk, Polly on the other side.

"Oh, you're both here. That saves us some time." I sadisticly smiled.

"(Y/N), what are you doing here?" Tommy asked, not rising from his chair.

I walked towards the desk, placing my briefcase down on it."I've come to discuss business."

"And what business would that be?"

"Hello Pol, sorry I haven't been round in a while."

Polly smirked at me, knowing what game I was playing.

"Look Tommy, we both know that our marriage is non existent at this point. However, a spanner has been thrown into the works." I began to unbutton my coat, knowing that I wasn't showing, but sure of what effect it would have on Polly.

"Holy shit." She exclaimed, standing up and grabbing my boob as if it was a normal thing."You're fucking pregnant."

That caught Tommy's attention. His eyes had widened, and he was staring at my stomach.

"That's why I'm here today. I understand that you and Grace Burgess are involved with each other. That doesn't bother me, our marriage is obviously over."

No response.

I opened the briefcase."I had a friend write this up. You can look it over. It's a contract stating what you'll give me after we get divorced."

Polly scoffed as she sat back down, leaning back in her chair. I handed Tommy the contract, but when he didn't take it, I let it drop in front of him. He didn't even glance at it.

"I haven't mentioned about you seeing that child."

"You're keeping it?"

"The fact that you just said that makes me think you shouldn't even be allowed to see them."

"And what else is stated in this contract?"

"That property we have outside of London, in the countryside, that is to be put in my name."

"You what?"

"I was the one that wanted it. You bought it as a gift. The least you can do is give your child a place to live."

He rubbed his eyes, sighing deeply.

"And when we write up our divorce papers, this will all be included, especially the child support."

"You've really thought about this, haven't you?"

"Yes, you know I'm not an idiot Tommy. Although you've hurt me, I'm willing for there not to be any bad blood between us. If you meet these requirements, I believe we can have some sort of peace between us."

"You've been to too many family meetings." Polly commented, looking through the papers herself.

"So, Tommy, what do you say?"

"If a divorce is what you wish, you shall have it. But I do want to know one thing. Why all of this? Why the theatrics of a contract?"

"Because I thought this was the only way to get you to understand? You haven't been speaking to me recently, might as well make it a business proposition. I'll leave you to think it through, but we need to meet with solicitors. The sooner we get this done, the sooner it'll all be over."

I left as soon as the last word left my lips. As I shut the door behind me, I let out a huge breath, only just realising how fast my heart was beating. Hastily leaving, I had stepped out of the door when Polly called me.

"Pol, I really don't want to speak about this-"

"Are you sure you want to do this? Do it like that I mean."

"I've never been more sure in my life. I can finally be happy, raise this one as a happy mum."

"You'll be a great mum."

"Can you help me with one last thing?"

"What is it?"

"Boy or girl?"

We both smiled at each other, me impatiently waiting for an answer. She felt my boob, thinking for a moment when her smile reappeared.

"Girl."

I squealed."I've always wanted a girl. Thank you Pol, for everything."

"Don't be getting soppy on me now, girl."

"It won't be goodbye forever you know, when I'm gone. My daughter will know of her aunt Polly."

"She fucking better."

As I left, I felt a new sensation. My head was lighter, I felt like I could breathe better. It was as if I was a new woman. And I was going to be. No longer would I be Mrs Shelby. I would be (Y/N) (Y/L/N), venturing out on her own and raising her daughter, without the cruel world that was Small Heath. She wouldn't be known as Tommy Shelby's daughter either. It was just my little girl and me, on our own, but we had each other.

#Thomas Shelby #thomas shelby one shot #thomas shelby x reader #thomas shelby imagine #thomas shelby imagines #thomas shelby #Tommy shelby #tommy shelby #tommy shelby one shot #tommy shelby x reader #tommy shelby imagines #tommy shelby imagine #Peaky blinders #peaky blinders imagines #peaky blinders imagine #bbc peaky blinders #peaky blinders fanfic #peaky blinder fanfic #peaky blinders

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shmegmilton · 4 years ago

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Can you explain how Aaron and Alexander stopped being friends and started fighting?

They were never really ‘friends.’ I assume you got that idea from the play, but I have no idea why the play tried to push that narrative. Civil? Sure, but that was necessary. New York was less than 50,000 people at the time, and they were both accomplished lawyers & statesmen who had to work and interact with each other on a daily basis. Politics is politics, look at how people are acting right now during our election.

As for your question, it’s a long line of policy & personal disagreements, mostly. They were on opposite sides of the aisle on pretty much everything. Lots of small things, but a lot of big, BIG things.

Burr was (ironically) kind of a pacifist; he kept mostly to himself, didn’t really speak much publicly & didn’t necessarily go out of his way to confront people unless he’s been pushed long enough (everyone ‘snaps’ at some point, y’know?)

But that’s why the ‘Burr is an evil mastermind’ myth is so pervasive today. Burr just… didn’t bother defending himself, or correcting anything, because he (mistakingly) had faith in the inherent goodness of people that someday people would see him for his true character. So for that reason, we don’t really have a good timeline from Burr’s perspective as to how he felt about Hamilton—but BOY howdy did Hamilton never shut up about Burr.

----

Trespass & Confiscation Acts (1782ish)

During the Revolution, the British confiscated the property of patriots that fled the city. New York did the same thing, & for a while it was this game of: ‘Oh, you’re gonna take my stuff? **draws a line in the dirt** Well, everything behind this line is mine now.” It was all very bad, and after the way Tories & Loyalists faced a lot of honestly very fucked up discrimination & forfeiture of their rights. Hamilton (like most Federalists) was pro-British, so he represented a lot of these people in court. I’m sure it wasn’t purely out of the goodness of his heart--most of his clients were loaded--but the sentiment is there. On the other hand, there are multiple records of Burr buying up property around this time, most likely confiscated Tory property, which he would usually flip or give away to people that he knew, so he was taking full advantage of this. Burr also, most likely, went head-to-head with Hamilton on a few of these cases, because Burr tended to work with the ‘common folk.’

French Revolution (1789ish to 1799ish) & Proclamation of Neutrality (1793)

Burr (like most Democratic-Republicans) was pro-French, so much so that he took in French refugees fleeing the Revolution into his home. He was very sympathetic to the cause.Hamilton was not. He basically saw it the same way that right-wing Conservatives see the Black Lives Matter movement is the best way I can explain it. He also hated it for the amount of immigrants that were now fleeing to the U.S.

Burr Gets Chosen For NY Senate (1791)

Key word: chosen. As in, he didn’t actually run. That wasn’t how politics worked back then. The Hamilton musical just fucking lied outright about that, let’s be clear. He also never switched parties. Ever. Back then you were nominated by the people who were already in government--usually by one of the powerful families like the Clintons or the Livingstons, or yada yada. So Burr didn’t actually do anything. He didn’t even really want the position either, if I recall. But back then if you were ‘called to serve,’ you were obligated to do it. Hamilton was furious either way because it meant that Burr was replacing his father-in-law, Phillip Schuyler, meaning that he wouldn’t have that extra ear in government that he wanted. Burr also had a lot of views that were considered ‘extreme’ at the time, like getting extra rights for women, immigrants & black people, but I have no idea what Hamilton thought of those individual policies other than he just didn’t like women, immigrants or black people.

1792 & 1796 Presidential Election

Burr wasn’t really that serious about either of these elections, I don’t think (in ’92 he wasn’t that well-known & barely got any support, but it’s worth noting the fact he was nominated to run at all was really impressive. He’s tied with William Jennings Bryan as being one of the youngest people to ever receive an electoral vote, at 36 years old.) In ’96 he faired a little better—he got 30 votes, which is nearly half of what you need to get the ticket nomination, also very impressive.Hamilton was super staunchly opposed to both of these runs, though, and did his typical Hamilton thing of openly campaigning about how the people shouldn’t vote for Burr, yada yada.

Jay Treaty (1794)

I highly suggest looking up supplemental information on this because it’s a bit complicated, but it was basically a treaty between us and Great Britain to reaffirm that we were going to continue to not mess with France, as well as a couple of other weird hang-ups. It was not popular, at all, especially with the Demo-Republicans. There is a specific instance (that is actually kind of insane) where Hamilton gave a public speech in defense of it, and the Democratic-Republicans in the crowd started pelting him & the other Federalists with rocks. Hamilton got SO mad that immediately challenged a man to a duel, and threatened to fight each of the Democratic-Republicans one-by-one.

Reynolds Affair (1797)

Burr had a personal relationship with Maria Reynolds; he was her divorce attorney in 1793/1794, helped her out financially, & successfully petitioned (+paid for) her daughter Susan to attend a boarding school. I believe they also stayed in his him with him during the divorce proceedings, but don’t quote me on that. He never said anything publicly that I could find, but Burr probably had a personal investment in the Reynolds Pamphlet, since it painted Maria in a really damaging light.

Alien & Sedition Acts (1798)

These were some of the most worst laws ever passed in the history of the country. Like, these were AWFUL. It not only limited immigration, but it limited the freedom of the press and freedom of speech (ESPECIALLY immigrants, my god.)

Burr was right on the front lines helping defend people in court, he actively opposed it & is probably the thing that propelled him into Jefferson’s orbit as a potential Vice President.

John Barker Church Duel (1797)

John Barker Church had accused Burr of taking bribes (which was unfounded & untrue) and they ended up dueling. JBC was the husband of Angelica Schuyler, Hamilton’s sister-in-law.

Neither was injured (though, JBC apparently put a hole in Burr’s coat), but it supposed infuriated Hamilton & his associates so much that they would send out fake letters “from Burr” challenging people to duels.

The Manhattan Company (1799)

Burr was getting sick of the difficulty he was having getting loans from the Federalist-run banks and decided to do something about it. There had been several seasonal epidemics of yellow fever—caused by mosquitos but, at the time, it was thought to be caused by improperly treated water, miasma (‘bad air’) or (if you asked Hamilton) stinky evil immigrant refuges who were fleeing France and Haiti. Burr saw this and spearheaded a campaign to get a proper water treatment plant, even getting Hamilton to help him. Through some really weird loophole that I don’t quite understand, Burr was somehow allowed to use the ‘surplus capital’ for banking, which essentially turned it into a bank. The actual water treatment portion of the company was plagued with problems due to improper management and things like that. We’ll never know his exact thought process on this (people normally assume it was malicious trickery because people are biased to hate Burr anyway) & I highly doubt that Burr knew the extent of the issues (he was on the Board of Directors, but so were a dozen others--INCLUDING John Barker Church) so I don’t entirely think it’s his fault, but the fact of the matter is that it most likely exacerbated the existing problems & indirectly led to more people getting sick/dying until they finally fixed the problems.I would say that it’s completely justifiable for Hamilton to be mad at Burr, but, as we established, Hamilton hated both poor people & immigrants (two groups most likely affected by this) so he wasn’t actually mad at him for the reason a… y’know, a normal person would be mad at him. He was mad at him because Burr destroyed the monopoly that Federalists had on banks, making it easier for Democratic-Republicans & others to get loans. He was literally mad at him for making the economy fair.

1800 Election & 1804 NY Governor Election

These two are self-explanatory, I think, and I’ve already been writing way too long, lol. My hand hurts.

#Aaron Burr #Alexander Hamilton #Hamilton #AmRev #History #American Revolution #Long Post #Anecdotes #THIS TOOK SO LOOOOONG

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carewyncromwell · 4 years ago

Photo

“Everybody's been there, everybody's been stared down By the enemy, Fallen for the fear and done some disappearing -- Bow down to the mighty... But don't run...stop holding your tongue! Maybe there's a way out of the cage where you live; Maybe one of these days you can let the light in... Show me how big your brave is! Say what you wanna say and let the words fall out! Honestly...I wanna see you be brave With what you want to say and let the words fall out Honestly...I wanna see you be brave!”

~“Brave,” by Sara Bareilles

x~x~x~x

For my next installment in my Valentine’s Day series where I focus on each of my MC’s with someone that they care about, I’m going to do something different again for my MC Anastasia “Ana” Read and focus on her relationship with her beloved stepfather, Bradley Pinkstone!

After Ana’s mother Bonnie divorced her father John Read, Bonnie -- being the sort of person who’s unable to be on her own -- dated several other men in rapid succession. Unfortunately none of those men were much in the mood to “share” their new girlfriend with her daughter from a previous marriage. Not only was Ana a constant reminder of Bonnie’s relationship with “the ex,” but she also was a socially awkward, chubby little girl who would cause weird “accidents” whenever her mother’s boyfriends were over. Ana would claim she never meant to do anything wrong (and honestly, how could she have done those things anyway, one might think -- no one can make a glass shatter from the other side of the room), but she nonetheless took the blame onto her shoulders and, in response to those boyfriends’ active dislike for or avoidance of her, soon learned to hide away in her room whenever they came over. After all, none of them came to see her, and none of them wanted to -- so it was probably best that she just stay out of the way. And she thought things would be the exact same way when her mother met and fell in love with Bradley Pinkstone.

Ana had heard plenty about her mother’s new fiance before meeting him, but it was only after she received her Hogwarts letter that Bonnie -- looking oddly nervous -- told her that Bradley would be coming over to have dinner with them. Ana dreaded the prospect: she just knew something was going to go wrong. All of the weird things that had happened to her mother’s old boyfriends had to have been her fault, after all -- what if she messed everything up for her mum again, just like she always did? And sure enough, not long after the bright-eyed, curly-haired man in the obnoxious yellow-diamond-patterned pants named Bradley Pinkstone had entered their flat and walked over to Ana as if to offer her a handshake, part of the floor disappeared out from under him, making him trip right into a side table and send several knick-knacks crashing to the floor. Distraught and ashamed, Ana bolted out of the room and up the stairs, even as Bonnie tried to call her back. Ana slammed the door of her room, locking it behind her, and then huddled up in a miserable ball on her bed, dead-set on never coming out again.

You can imagine Ana’s surprise, therefore, when her bedroom door swung open, unlocked, to reveal Bradley Pinkstone standing there, a small smile on his face.

“Hey,” he greeted gently.

Ana flinched, but didn’t answer. What could she even say? Should she apologize? How could she, without explaining that what had happened was her fault? Witches and wizards weren’t supposed to talk about their magic, right?

Noting the girl’s nerves, Bradley entered the room, quietly closing the door behind him, and slowly migrated over toward her bed in the same manner one might approach a scared animal.

“That...wasn’t my smoothest introduction, was it?” he said with a chuckle. “I’ve fallen flat on my face plenty of times figuratively, but never literally.”

Ana hugged her knees close to her chest. She hated him standing over her -- it made her feel even smaller and more pathetic than she already did.

Bradley tilted his head to the side and considered Ana for a moment, his expression becoming more serious.

“...I know it wasn’t your fault, Anastasia.”

Ana looked up at him, startled.

“Those sorts of things happen, when you’re feeling an intense emotion,” said Bradley sympathetically, “and what you did was easily undone. The floor’s been put right, everything on the side table’s fixed...even my pride will recover eventually.”

He gave a bright white grin.

Ana stared at him, very confused, as she absently let go of her knees. The way he was talking was so matter-of-fact, so nonplussed. It was...well, bizarre.

Bradley raised an eyebrow, his dark eyes twinkling.

“Would you like to know a secret?” he asked.

Ana’s throat was too tight to speak, but she gave a small nod.

Bradley reached into the back pocket of his yellow-diamond-patterned pants and slid out a long stick made of ebony wood with an intricately carved, gold-encrusted hilt for her to see.

It was a wand.

Ana’s gray eyes grew very, very wide.

“You...?”

Bradley tucked his wand back into his pocket with a white smile. “Yep -- I’m one too.”

Ana was stunned. Her mother’s fiance...was a wizard? So he...he knew everything? About the Wizarding World, about Hogwarts, about...how to do magic? ...Was that what he meant, by everything being fixed? He’d been able to undo what she did with magic?!

Her posture was still slightly guarded as Bradley lowered himself down onto the bed next to her.

“This is why your mother and I decided it was time we meet, before the school year begins,” he explained. “I hadn’t known you had magic when I met your mother...I couldn’t tell her about me being a wizard, thanks to the Statute of Secrecy, so I had to act as if I was non-magical myself. Admittedly I don’t like to use magic as much as many wizards do. There are many non-magical methods that work just as well if not better than magical ones. And there are many advancements people who don’t use magic have made that witches and wizards are still woefully ignorant of.”

He gave Ana a small wry smile.

“But...well, Bonnie would talk about you sometimes on our dates, and some of the things she said...well, it reminded me of Jasper and Preston, when they first started showing signs of magic. My sons,” he added, upon seeing Ana’s confused expression. “They’re both quite a bit older than you...but they went to Hogwarts too. Preston just graduated, actually. I’m sure Jasper and he will be really happy to tell you all about Hogwarts. And after you and Bonnie move in, I can always help you with some spells over the summer. Normally you shouldn’t do magic outside of school, of course, but the Ministry won’t punish you if you’re in a house that’s already filled with magical signatures...”

Ana could hardly believe what she was hearing. Of all the people in the world her mother could’ve decided to date, she’d somehow managed to meet a wizard? Not only that...but he actually wanted to help her with her magic?

“...Why...”

Bradley raised his eyebrows. “Hm?”

“...Why do you care?”

Bradley blinked in surprise. Ana knew her question had come out more harshly than she meant, so she tried to backpedal slightly.

“I mean...thank you -- for putting right what I did, but...I’m not your kid. You don’t even know me. I mean...”

She bit her lip and looked down at her hands in her lap.Everything she said kept coming out sounding rude, despite her best efforts.

Bradley, however, didn’t look the least bit offended or hurt. Instead his eyes looked a bit sad.

“You’re right,” he said quietly. “I don’t know you. But, for what it’s worth...I think I’d like to.”

Ana looked up at Bradley, whose face had grown a bit more gentle.

“Let me tell you something, Anastasia -- I’ve lost a lot of people in my life...many people I loved dearly. I even lost my mother when I was about your age. It hasn’t been easy to bounce back from any of that...but one thing I have learned is the value of loving the people in your life, as best you can. We Pinkstones...aren’t the most popular in the Wizarding World, for our stance on magical and non-magical integration...so family is very important to us. And if your mother and I are going to be married, then you will be my family. And that means I’ll do everything I can to love and protect you -- because that’s what family should be.”

He tapped his heart with his fist lightly.

“I know I’m not your father, nor do I ever want to replace him -- but I’d love to learn more about you from you, rather than just from your mother. As nice as it is to hear about how bright and imaginative you are...I’d love to see that for myself.”

Ana stared at Bradley for a long, long moment. Her gray eyes were still guarded and faintly nervous, rather like a stray cat hesitating before letting someone pet them for the first time. Then, after a very long silence, she nodded mutely. Bradley smiled.

“To start with...what are these books here you’ve got lined up on the bottom shelf?” he asked curiously. “They’re perfectly organized by number...I assume they’re volumes of something?”

Ana nodded.

“They’re manga,” she mumbled. “Japanese comic books.”

Bradley’s eyes lit up. “Really? May I?”

Ana nodded again, and he bent down to slide one of them from the shelf and look at the cover, which depicted a blond, blue-eyed girl with a blue-skirted white jumpsuit, a red-ribbon choker, and round red barrettes in her hair buns.

“‘Pretty Guardian Sailor Moon,’“ he read off the front cover.

He glanced from Ana to the book and back and his smile grew brighter and larger still.

“...Ahh, so that’s why you’re wearing a red ribbon around your neck -- you’re dressed as this character today!”

Ana looked down at her lap, her cheeks flushing as she smoothed out the wrinkles in her blue skirt self-consciously. “Mm-hmm.”

“That’s brilliant,” said Bradley brightly. “Oh, Jasper is going to be thrilled -- he’s quite a fashion icon himself. He’s into the ‘Gothic Victorian subculture’ -- from what I understand, it’s a fashion movement that celebrates both period clothing from the late 1800′s and early 1900′s, as well as the darker Gothic aesthetic. Jasper has quite a collection of top hats and waist coats.”

Ana perked up slightly. “...So your son likes to dress up too?”

“Yes,“ said Bradley. “He comes by it honestly, really -- I don’t know if your mother told you, but my sons and I work in a theater, in Stratford-Upon-Avon. Jasper’s the most ‘stage-oriented’ out of the three of us: he works as an actor and stage-combat choreographer. Meanwhile my younger son, Preston, works in our tech department -- he’s a master of special effects. Though that’s partially because he likes to cheat and make some of the stage magic a bit more literal than it probably should be.”

Despite a mild attempt at disapproval, he was smiling mischievously. Ana felt her shoulders loosening a bit.

“What do you do?” she asked.

“I’m a stage manager,” said Bradley, “so I do a little bit of everything. Casting. Marketing. Settling disputes. Putting right what goes wrong.”

Ana shifted over slightly to better face him. “I guess with magic...doing that’s a bit easier, huh?”

“Sometimes,” said Bradley. “But magic isn’t always like how people who don’t use magic depict it, in stories. There are limits to what magic can do -- just as there are limits to what people who don’t use magic can do. Magic is just like any other talent you might have, in the end...like fencing, or mechanics...”

“Or writing?” asked Ana.

Bradley grinned. “Absolutely. It’s something you have to practice at and constantly refine, in order to be good at it...but once you have mastered it, you can be capable of amazing things. Once that happens, though, you then have a responsibility to use those talents for the benefit of others.”

Ana’s gray eyes were very bright as she nodded in agreement.

“‘You become responsible forever for what you’ve tamed,’” she said softly. “‘You’re responsible for your rose.’”

Bradley quirked an eyebrow in interest. “Which book is that from?”

“The Little Prince.”

“I’ve yet to read that one. Would you recommend it?”

Ana bit her lip in amusement. “Well, it’s a children’s book...but the man who wrote it ended up writing it after escaping France, when the Nazis took over. I have a biography about him.”

She got down on her hands and knees to reach into the corner of one of her other bookcases, take a white-covered paperback off the shelf, and hand it to Bradley. He took it and turned it over to read the summary on the back.

“‘From a master biographer, the life story of the daring French aviator who became one of the twentieth century's most beloved authors,’” he read aloud.

Bradley’s grin grew a bit broader. “I must say, you have quite an extensive library. Might we exchange book recommendations, once I’ve finished with this one?”

Ana’s face at long last burst into a smile too and she nodded eagerly.

“Yeah.”

#hpma #magic awakened #anastasia read #bradley pinkstone #jasper pinkstone #preston pinkstone #my art #my writing #YAY FIRST TIME DRAWING BRADLEY #bradley is the best dad ever okay??#I love him so much #daveed diggs is his face claim by the way #ana's skirt is really high-waisted because her mother has coached her to wear them that way #as when she wears them at her natural waist she looks like (in bonnie's words) 'a sack of potatoes tied in two' because of her tummy #bonnie does have her subconscious weightist tendencies >>;#but yeah ana's wear a red ribbon a white shirt and blue skirt and her bright red sneakers to try to channel sailor moon #she's also wearing her favorite sailor moon crescent moon earrings too <3 #she's disneybounding before disneybounding is a thing hahahaha #she thought channeling one of her heroes would make her feel braver #once ana and bonnie become part of the pinkstone clan bradley preston and jasper all start calling anastasia 'anya'#and of course all three of them adore her like she was their flesh and blood #and she loves them back just as much!#just like I love my stepmother and stepbrother <3

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magicalthoughtsendinterriblefics · 4 years ago

Text

Baghdad gone wrong - Request

Request: @green-spotlight I was wondering if you could do a Sherlock x wife! reader one? Where, instead of Mary jumping in front of Sherlock, Reader does, but she survives

Word count: No idea, but it’s long.

Warnings: (Y/N) gets shot.

A/N: HI! Long time no see. I know I always say I’ll come back and then I disappear but it’s just because I need a job and I have to look for it and bla bla bla. Anyway, here it is. This one is fresh, it’s the first fics I’ve written in months (the past ones were kept in my drafts) so I hope you like it and I hope I’m not too rusty for this.

Enjoy!

The London aquarium was quite a flabbergasting experience to anyone who visited. The big tanks filled with different fish, the blue illumination, and the distinctive smell of chlorine made it a rather peaceful place to meditate.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the Aquarium will be closing in five minutes. Please make your way to the exit. Thank you.” The voice from the tannoy announced.

Sherlock ignored it and kept going onward along the blue-lit corridors, through the glass tunnels, up until an area with benches for people to sit. There, a lonely woman sat tranquilly.

“Your office said I’d find you here,” he said.

“This was always my favourite spot for agents to meet,” the woman replied. “We’re like them; ghostly, living in the shadows.”

She finally looked at him.

“Predatory,” Sherlock granted.

“Well, it depends which side you’re on.” She turned away to look into the shark thank again. “Also, we have to keep moving or we die.”

“Nice location for the final act. Couldn’t have chosen it better myself. But then I never could resist a touch of the dramatic.” Sherlock cocked his eyebrow, rejoicing in his own skin.

“I just come here to look at the fish,” the secretary said.

How dull she was, how boring. Sherlock was starting to get sick just by the mere existence of that woman. It was obvious to him what was going on, and yet there was no one else to show it off to. Where were his companions? He had texted them not longer than five minutes ago the exact location and they weren’t there just yet.

“I knew this would happen one day,” the secretary continued. She stood up and took a few steps closer to the tank. “It’s like that old story,” she said. She turned to face him.

She was small, just small. She was not a beautiful woman and evidently never had been, she was poorly-dressed, and her whole body expressed how small she was and felt.

It was no wonder to Sherlock why she had done it. She was a nobody, always had been and always would be. She worked for a powerful, beautiful woman who was a constant reminder of how insignificant she was. Of course, she had done it.

“I am a very busy man. Would you mind cutting to the chase?” Sherlock insisted. A rush inside of him needed the whole thing to end quickly.

“You’re very sure of yourself, aren’t you?”

“With good reason,” Sherlock said precisely. “Unlike you,” he thought.

“There was once a merchant in fa famous market in Baghdad…” The woman started.

Sherlock closed his eyes and lowered his head. It was that bloody story again. What was it with people liking it? Perhaps it was the fact that nobody wants to be entirely responsible for their acts and decide to call them upon fate, or just that dumb believing of superior power. In any case, Sherlock was sick of it.

“I really have never liked this story” he sentenced.

“I’m just like the merchant in the story. I thought I could outrun the inevitable. I’ve always been looking over my shoulder; always expecting to see the grim figure of…”

“Death.” A third voice completed.

(Y/N).

The rush inside Sherlock increased its intensity. She wasn’t supposed to be there, John and Mary were but not her.

She entered the room and stopped a couple of feet away from Sherlock’s side.

“Hello, love,” Sherlock greeted without looking at her.

“Hey,” she greeted back.

“John?”

“On his way,” (Y/N) replied.

“Mary?”

“On her way.” Sherlock shrugged and attempted no to look scattered. She was not supposed to be there. “Who am I looking at?”

“Let me introduce Amo.”

(Y/N) opened her eyes widely. She knew all about that time, Mary had told her just before escaping to try and fix things.

“I can’t say I’m impressed,” (Y/N) said. Sherlock chuckled at the thought of how obvious it was, feeling good that his partner had caught it too. “So you were Amo? You were that voice on the phone?”

“Using AGRA as her private assassination unit,” Sherlock completed.

“Why did you betray them?” (Y/N) grunted. She could be too emotional sometimes. “Do you know what you caused? The people you hurt? Do you know how that ended? WHY DID YOU BETRAY THEM?”

“Why does anyone do anything?” The secretary asked, knowing well what she had done. She didn’t seem to regret a single thing.

(Y/N) was fuming, Sherlock could hear her breathing and was getting ready to stop her in case she tried to punch the secretary.

“Let me guess,” he said in an attempt to control the room. “Selling secrets?”

“Well, it would be churlish to refuse,” the secretary admitted and Sherlock couldn’t blame her. “Worked very well for a few years. I bought a nice cottage in Cornwall on the back of it. But the ambassador in Tbilisi found out. I thought I’d had it.” She looked towards (Y/N) before returning her gaze to Sherlock. “Then she was taken hostage in that coup,” she laughed. “I couldn’t believe my luck! That bought me a little time.”

“But then you found out your boss had sent AGRA in,” Sherlock stated. He finally had an audience to show off with.

“Very handy,” the woman replied in a bitter tone. “They were always such reliable killers.”

“What you didn’t know, (Y/N), was that this one also tipped off the hostage-takers,” Sherlock explained to (Y/N). “Actually,” he said, “I don’t think Mary knows that either.”

The secretary sat back down and rested her handbag on her lap.

“Lady Smallwood gave the order, but I sent another one to the terrorists with a nice little clue about her code name should anyone have an enquiring mind.” She was proud of her doings. “Seemed to do the trick!”

“And you thought your troubles were over.” (Y/N) was furious.

“I was tired; tired of the mess of it all,” she sighed. “I just wanted some peace, some clarity.”

(Y/N) was about to go on and punch the light out of her, but Sherlock stopped her before she had even given two steps forward.

“The hostages were killed, AGRA too…” She looked across to (Y/N), “or so I thought. My secret was safe. But apparently not. Just a little peace. That’s all your friend wanted too, wasn’t it? A family, home. Really, I understand.”

(Y/N) glanced across to Sherlock, but his gaze was fixed on the secretary who lifted her handbag as if in preparation to stand, and rests one hand on the open top of it.

“So just let me get out of here, right? Let me just walk away. I’ll vanish. I’ll go forever. What d’you say?”

“After what you did?!” (Y/N) roared furiously. She once again started walking towards the woman.

“(Y/N), no!” Sherlock yelled. That’s why he didn’t take her to her cases.

In a fluid moment, the secretary stood up, pulling a pistol from her handbag and aiming it at (Y/N), who stopped and backed away.

(Y/N) considered her options for a second before obliging. “Okay.” She moved back to stand at the other side of Sherlock.

The secretary stopped pointing with her pistol and looked at it as if it was a toy.

“I was never a field agent. I always thought I’d be rather good.”

(Y/N) scoffed. She was upset and she knew they were wasting their time by trying to reason with her. She never understood why Sherlock insisted on talking to the criminals first.

“Well, you handled the operation in Tbilisi very well,” Sherlock complimented and (Y/N) rolled her eyes.

“Thanks.”

“For a secretary.”

(Y/N) and the secretary looked at him with wide eyes.

“What?” The woman frowned.

“Can’t have been easy all those years, sitting in the back, keeping your mouth shut when you knew you were cleverer than most of the people in the room,” he blurted out.

“I didn’t do this out of jealousy!” She defended herself.

“No?” Sherlock smirked. “Same old drudge, day in day out, never getting out there where all the excitement was. Just back to your little flat on Wigmore Street.”

The secretary gaped.

“They’ve taken up the pavement outside the Post Office there. The local clay on your shoes is very distinctive.”

The woman looked down to her dusty shoes. She looked like a rag, no wonder why he thought she was jealous.

“Yes, your little flat.”

“How do you know?”

Sherlock was ready for a quickfire session to kill time and show off to the woman he married. He cocked his head and smirked as if he had already won.

“Well, on your salary it would have to be modest and you spent all the money on that cottage, didn’t you? And what are you? Widowed or divorced?” He focused in on a plain gold band on the index finger of her left hand. “Wedding ring’s at least thirty years old and you’ve moved it to another finger. That means you’re sentimentally attached to it but you’re not still married. I favour widowed, given the number of cats you shared your life with.”

(Y/N) watched the woman closely. She knew that look, that void of fear, that confidence. The woman wasn’t shaking, nor she was feeling vulnerable. No, she was starting to burn in anger. She was a crazy woman who thought she was better than anyone else, of course, she would burn if anyone told her she was anything less than that.

She hadn’t done it out of jealousy, she had done it because she could.

“Sherlock…” (Y/N) warned.

“Two Burmese and a tortoiseshell, judging by the cat hairs on your cardigan,” Sherlock continued. “A divorcee’s more likely to look for a new partner; a widow to fill the void left by her dead husband.”

“Sherlock, don’t,” (Y/N) insisted with a louder tone.

But instead of listening, Sherlock rose his voice ad he got fully into his stride. “Pets do that, or so I’m told, and there’s clearly no-one new in your life, otherwise you wouldn’t be spending your Friday nights in an aquarium. That probably accounts for the drinking problem too: the slight tremor in your hand… The red wine stain ghosting your top lip. So yes. I say jealousy was your motive after all - to prove how good you are...”

The secretary turned to gaze at the entrance as Mycroft walked in.

“... To make up for the inadequacies of your little life.”

The secretary was still looking at the entrance. Inspector Lestrade came in followed by three uniformed police officers.

“Well, Mrs Norbury. I must admit this is unexpected,” Mycroft said, hiding away his true feelings.

“Vivian Norbury, who outsmarted them all,” Sherlock slurred, dripping in sarcasm. “All except Sherlock Holmes.”

He took a step forward, holding out his left hand. (Y/N) and the police officers behind her also stepped forward.

“There’s no way out,” he whispered.

“So it would seem,” Mrs Norbury smiled. “You’ve seen right through me, Mr Holmes.”

“It’s what I do.”

She tilted her head to one side. “Maybe I can still surprise you.”

Swiftly, she brought up the gun and aimed it at Sherlock. Everyone got defensive instantly.

“C’mon,” Lestrade pointed at her, “be sensible.”

Sherlock held his hands out to the side. Mrs Norbury shook her head.

“No, I don’t think so.”

She fired. The bullet headed towards Sherlock who stood there unmoving. (Y/N), who had no doubt anticipated that this was going to happen, hurled herself sideways in front of him and the bullet impacted her lower chest. Blood sprayed outward and immediately there was a large bloodstain on her shirt. Crying out, she fell to the floor against a nearby bench.

“Surprise,” Mrs Norbury said, filled with spite.

(Y/N) rolled over to slump against the back of the bench, gasping in pain. As two of the police officers hurried over to Mrs Norbury to disarm her, Sherlock stared at (Y/N) in shock, then dropped to his knees to press his gloved hand against the wound. She looked up at him, her eyes wide, and whimpered.

“Everything’s fine. It’s gonna be okay,” he whispered. “Get an ambulance!” He commanded, looking round to Mycroft.

“You are such a cock,” (Y/N) whimpered.

“I know,” Sherlock smiled sadly. “But now, dare I say it, it’s not about me.”

“What do I do now, detective?”

Sherlock started checking her frantically just as John ran in. Without asking any questions, he checked her too and laid her down on the floor.

“It’s all right,” Sherlock kept saying, “it’s all right.”

“You can do better than that,” (Y/N) groaned and John kept track of her vitals.

“Like what?”

“Like what about you shut up next time?” Sherlock chuckled and nodded.

“Noted,” he said. “Anything else?”

“If I don’t die…” She started and Sherlock interrupted her.

“Which you won’t.”

“IF I DON’T DIE,” she insisted, “I want you to be more loving towards me.”

“What?” Sherlock frowned and John laughed. “No.”

“Oh, oh, I think I’m losing her,” John joked, “(Y/N), stay with us!”

“Okay, fine,” Sherlock agreed. “But only when we’re alone.”

“That’s not how it works,” John coughed.

“It is how it works!” Sherlock cried.

“It’s not!” Mary laughed and kneeled down next to (Y/N), helping John to keep her stable while the ambulance arrived.

“You two are too nosey,” Sherlock mumbled.

“Loving, you must be loving at all times or I’m going to die,” (Y/N) repeated. She was falling unconscious, so John and Mary urged Sherlock to keep her awake for just a couple of minutes now.

“Okay, what else?” Sherlock asked, “What else, (Y/N)?”

“Breakfast… in bed…” She mumbled.

“I already do that!”

“For me… breakfast in bed… for me,” (Y/N) insisted.

“You are such a cock” John mocked Sherlock.

“Yes, I’ve been told that twice in the last minute.”

Mary laughed and so the paramedics got there.

When (Y/N) woke up, she was surrounded by people. Mrs Hudson, Molly, John, Mary, and obviously Sherlock.

“We’re so glad you’re awake.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Look at you!”

All of them, talking to her nonstop. She only nodded and smiled, not knowing who to reply to first.

Her room was filled with flowers and balloons, and the dim light of midday snuck through the window, making it warm and cosy. She didn’t feel a thing because she was doped, but she faintly knew (by what she could catch hearing at least) that she had gone to surgery.

“I’m glad you’re awake and fine,” Sherlock said after everyone shut up.

“That’s all?” She complained.

John hit Sherlock slightly. The detective rolled his eyes and pulled out little cardboard cards from his pocket. He cleared his throat and started reading in a painfully monotone voice.

“My love, I am delighted for your recovery and I can’t wait for you to come back home to me. I’ve missed having you in my arms, smelling your hair in the morning, and just looking at your… bright, beautiful eyes every day. You are my soulmate, and the thought of losing you was so painful I knew right then and there that I… Nevermind that part, it’s bullshit,” he skipped three cards while everyone else either rolled their eyes or chuckled at him. “You are the love of my life… My best friends… Kiss, kiss, kiss… Er… The message is clear I think.”

“That’s all?” (Y/N) asked again.

Yes, she had technically forced him to date her, and then to marry her, and she had kind of manipulated him to promise her to be more loving, so she couldn’t really complain if he didn’t get it right the first twenty times, but she was the one laying on a hospital bed because he couldn’t get his head out of his own arse!

Sherlock exhaled heavily and looked around. Curious and impatient eyes were all over him, making feel terribly uncomfortable.

“The thought of losing you is unbearable, I was very anxious during your surgery and have been like that up until now that you’ve woken up,” he admitted.

“He also spent the night right here,” Mrs Hudson added. (Y/N) then noticed an unused blanket by the visitor’s sofa.

“Thank you, Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock groaned and gave (Y/N) a cheeky look. “I’m not good with words, but do know that I’d be damned if you, my wife, died.”

“How romantic!” (Y/N) smirked sarcastically. Sherlock eyed her, knowing she was just messing with him.

“I love you, I truly do.”

“And I love you,” (Y/N) said.

Sherlock then walked closer to her and kissed her softly on the lips. “Don’t ever follow me on a case, please.”

“I can’t promise you that.”

“Then don’t jump in front of me if I get shot.”

“Better you stop being a massive cock, ey?”

“I can’t promise that.” Sherlock smiled.

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kreekey · 4 years ago

Note

what's your opinion on the Yoko Julien stuff? Like how she treated him after John died

I have no definitive judgement of it, to be honest. Julian (and Cynthia) would’ve, ideally, been treated with the utmost kindness after John’s death, and their relationship with Yoko would’ve been better. That was not the case. However, Yoko also experienced great trauma after witnessing her husband’s death, and her relationship with John’s first family was not very close. @withthebeatlesgirls smade an excellent post on this here: X. I agree with a lot of what they say, and the screenshots from Sean’s Twitter are telling.

I recently found a Reddit comment on this subject that I found interesting, please read all. Credit to /u/texum for the fantastic write-up. (Link to original thread).

Oh, neat, a bunch of hearsay that's been proven wrong.

>Yoko made Julian, John's first born son, buy back his letters from his deceased father.

This isn't true. First of all, they weren't letters, they were postcards. As Julian wrote in his book Beatles Memorabilia: The Julian Lennon Collection:

>"I had to buy all the postcards back. It's more than likely that when we [he and his mother] moved house stuff got lost or somebody would steal something."

He lost them in a move in England with his mother, some collector got them, and Julian bought them back at auction. John and Yoko never had them--the book reproduces photos of all the postcards and you can clearly see the UK postmarks on all of them. They're all dated 1971 or after, and John never set foot in the UK after that, and neither did Yoko until years after John died.

But at the same auction Julian bought these postcards, he also bought a sheet of recording notes for the song "Hey Jude" that had once been in the possession of Yoko. The recording notes are also reproduced in the same Memorabilia book. These notes had been in a suitcase of memorabilia owned by Mal Evans which Mal's book publisher had lost after Mal died. They turned up in the New York book publisher's basement about 15 years later, and the publisher gave them to Yoko to return to Mal's family, which she did. Mal's family then sold all the memorabilia at auction, and Julian bought those "Hey Jude" notes. Later interviewers conflated the two events, and Julian didn't bother to set the record straight, but if you notice Julian's wording in those interviews, he always carefully sidesteps the accusation that he actually bought the postcards from Yoko. He just says he's been using his father's money to buy his father's things back at auction.

If you think about it for two seconds, it's never made any sense: how would John have postcards he sent to Julian if Julian lived in the UK and John lived in the US? The answer is, he didn't. Julian received them, lost them, and then ended up buying them back from a collector at auction.

>John's will left nothing to Cynthia and Julian, and Yoko...fights him in court for years

First of all, why would Cynthia be part of John's will? Who puts an estranged ex-wife in their will? She already got a divorce settlement and was receiving alimony. Though she had got pretty screwed in that settlement, that's not Yoko's fault, and no second wife I've ever heard of has ever forked over money to a first wife who already took a part of their husband's earnings.

But secondly, this isn't actually true. Julian was included in John's estate. It's just that John didn't leave much of a will. It was basically a boilerplate, "If I die, my wife gets everything" except that John had set up a trust fund for Julian and Sean to start withdrawing from when they each turned 21. Julian John had started by contributing $100K per year for Julian, and then when Sean was born, he upped it to $250K per year to be split between the two of them.

But John died early, and had only been contributing to this trust fund since his divorce from Cynthia, so only about 10 or 11 years. There's was only a couple million dollars in it, and it was supposed to be split between the two sons.

Julian sued on the basis he would have got much more than that if John had lived, and he was trying to take as much as he could get. As far as Yoko was concerned, anything taken by Julian was taken away from Sean, so it took them about a decade to settle the lawsuit. In the end, Julian walked away with about $20-25 million, which was about 10% of the value of the estate at the time of John's death. He was also the sole heir to whatever value of John's estate had already been given to Cynthia through the divorce (which was considerably less, but again, that's not Yoko's fault, that's Cynthia's lawyer's).

Another really interesting comment from the same user, very much related. (Link to thread)

What did Yoko do to Julian? Julian wrote in his book Beatles Memorabilia: The Julian Lennon Collection that the postcards he bought at auction were ones he likely lost, or else were stolen, during a move from one house to another while living with his mother in the UK. The four postcards are reproduced in that book, and three of the four are also reproduced in Hunter Davies's book The John Lennon Letters. All are postmarked as received in the UK. The earliest of the four is from late 1971, where John sent his new address and phone number in New York to Julian. Meaning, those postcards were never in the possession of John or Yoko once they were sent to Julian in the UK, since John and Yoko never stepped foot in the UK between John's move to New York and his death.

There were some interviews in the late 1990s where interviewers said that Julian had to buy these postcards from Yoko, but if you actually listen to Julian's responses, he's always careful to avoid accusing Yoko directly, instead saying something more general about how Yoko never gave him anything for free and he was now using his dad's money to buy stuff he received from his dad. (Well, by his own admission later, he should have kept better track of the postcards.)

In Davies's book The John Lennon Letters, there is a letter that John sent to his cousin Liela in Scotland that details some of the drama. While Liela's letter to John isn't in the book, John is responding to her letter discussing some failed get-together between Julian and John's sister Julia. It seems that Julia wanted to visit Julian, and John had made some arrangements for it to happen, but when Julia arrived on the arranged date, Cynthia said that Julian wasn't there and turned Julia away (who had driven several hours to make the trip). John goes on to say in the letter that this was part par for the course, and he suspects Cynthia was keeping him and Julian from talking. John made weekly phone calls to Julian, and when John was separated from Yoko, these calls went right through. Julian and Cynthia even came to the US to visit once for an extended vacation. But as soon as John was back with Yoko, Julian never seemed to be there whenever John called, and John suspected Cynthia wasn't relaying his messages to Julian that he'd called. In the series of letters between John and Liela, it seems that Julian had an open invitation to come visit in New York any time he wanted to (John couldn't leave for most of the period due to visa issues) but there were only a handful of actual visits between 1971-80. John believed Cynthia was deliberately distancing Julian from him.

That's not to say John was a good dad. He hadn't been a good dad before the divorce and he did move to a different continent. But Yoko wasn't the issue. It seemed to be rather run of the mill arguments between the divorced parents, John and Cynthia.

The only other "bad" thing Yoko has ever been accused of regarding Julian is the lawsuit over John's estate. But again, this isn't really Yoko's fault. John died without any estate planning, just a boilerplate will that said his wife gets everything. He had started a trust fund for Julian and Sean, but at the time he died, it had a couple million dollars in it, or thereabouts, to be split between the two sons. Julian sued to get more, and there was surely some settlement offered along the way, but any smart lawyer is going to try to get as much money for their client as possible. It eventually was settled, but it took ten years. The amount was undisclosed, but the rumor is that Julian got around $20 million, which was around 10% of the value of the estate at the time of John's death. Maybe that's "unfair", but keep in mind also that John had already given a large chunk of his estate to Cynthia during their divorce, so Julian was heir to that, too. (Though Cynthia did get pretty screwed in that divorce - but again, that has nothing to do with Yoko, and everything to do with John and Cynthia's divorce lawyers.)

Overall, though, Yoko never really did anything in particular to Julian. Julian may have been upset about some money issues, but again, that's due to John's shortsightedness more than anything. Yoko and Julian never had much of a relationship from 1971 on, when Julian was still only eight years old, because there wasn't much visiting going on. And the reason for the lack of visits doesn't seem to be attributable to Yoko.

Unfortunately, there’s been a lot of misinformation or conflation about Julian and Yoko’s relationship. Sorry I quoted a whole bunch, but this user put it better than I ever could and actually made me aware that I held a bunch of assumptions that were actually incorrect about how Yoko and Julian's relationship functioned.

Here, Julian states that he’s forgiven Yoko:

youtube

I would assume that Julian and Yoko had time to reconcile and if he’s forgiven her, then fans should respect that and I think their relationship has bettered. And I think that if he had forgiven her, there must be a reason. Fans may not know the exact details why Julian forgave her, but there is no obligation and I’m just happy to hear that peace has been given a chance, using that same cliche from the video haha.

I do not think Yoko’s relationship with Julian makes her an evil person, though, not at all. I earnestly think she tried to do her best, but after seeing her husband's death, it changed her for a while. But her actions regarding Julian are sometimes twisted to make her sound like a deliberate villain, which I disagree with.

#julian lennon #yoko ono #the beatles #support yoko #the beatles fandom #long post #quote #John Lennon #anon #asks

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summerpogue · 4 years ago

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Paradise on Earth / Part One

first post on the new blog!! I’ve got a love for JJ Maybank that cannot be satiated, thus the birth of this blog and series! No idea how many parts it’s gonna be, TBD on that. Send me your OBX requests!! & let me know if you want to be put on the taglist for this! not yet edited

Word Count: 1,600+

Warnings: drinking, weed, cursing....... typical obx shit

gif credit: @maequil

Crickets chirped in the distance as Y/N shuffled through the darkness, hands digging in her backpack for keys as she took deep breaths, trying to quell the flush on her cheeks and thump of her heart. The parking lot was empty, spare the sleek rental car she now stood in front of and her heart sank as her eyes pulled away from the contents of her bag to the rather sad looking deflated tire. “This is not fucking happening,” she sighed, eyes now glancing at her watch and another sigh left her lips as the delicate golden hands told her that her father was fast asleep by now.

Her eyes fluttered shut as she heard a familiar voice behind her and she internally groaned, “you just don’t wanna leave, do you?” She turned to see the same blond-haired, blue-eyed boy that told her the club had closed not even ten minutes ago. She’d muttered embarrassed apologies, and darted away from those baby blues as fast as she could, and she couldn’t help but chuckle at his comment and herself. He’d changed, no longer wearing a uniform; a distressed tee and cut-off jeans hung loosely on his frame and she couldn’t help but think he looked better this way, more comfortable and himself. She noticed a near-perfectly rolled joint between his lips as he crossed the distance between them.

“It seems that way, doesn’t it?” She glanced at her wheel and back at him, “I’m guessing Uber’s not a thing out here.”

He snorted, “no it’s not, Kook like you doesn’t have a chauffeur?” She narrowed her eyes and snatched the joint from his lips, pulling a Zippo from her back pocket before lighting it.

“What’s a Kook?” She exhaled a puff of smoke and handed it back to the boy and she felt her cheeks flush again as their eyes met.

“Kooks are those who live on Figure 8, i.e you.” He gestured to the car beside them, “Pogues live on the Cut, i.e me.” He gestured to himself. He passed her the joint and nudged her shoulder, urging her to walk with him and despite the distant voice in her mind warning her of stranger danger, she chose to follow. “How long have you lived here?”

“Barely two weeks,” she took a drag, “I’m still pretty much living out of boxes. So, I take it you don’t really like Kooks.” She said, a small smile on her lips as she passed him the joint.

“Most of ‘em. I’m pretty sure they think Pogues were bred to work for them.” He let out a breathy laugh as he exhaled smoke, “I gotta say, you don’t really…” he gestured towards her, “look like you belong here.” She glanced down at herself and let out a laugh. The well-worn Jimi Hendrix shirt tucked into high-waisted shorts, frayed with hand-embroidered flowers definitely didn’t scream high-society like the club to their left.

“I don’t think I do, I’ve lived in Los Angeles most of my life. Mom got me in the divorce, but in a rather unceremonious turn of events I’m now one-half orphaned and teen homelessness is generally frowned upon so…” she stretched her arms outward, “Outer Banks it is.” His eyes softened and she sighed, “don’t do that. We’re strangers, you don’t have to give me pity eyes.”

He cleared his throat and shook his head, “no pity eyes here, darlin’.” He slowed as they approached a scrappy looking bike and she looked up at him with wide eyes, “it’s not like your spaceship, but it’ll get you home if you’d like?” He asked a little awkwardly as he lightly leaned against it and passed the joint back to her.

“The spaceship’s not mine, my dad rented it for me. My car is still in LA, just waiting for it to get shipped out. I wanted to drive, but I was worried Poppy might not make it all the way cross-country.”

“Poppy?”

“My car, ‘64 beetle, same exact color as Himalayan blue poppies, she’s seen better days but… she’s my baby.” She passed him the joint and watched as he took the last hit and snuffed it out on the bottom of his boot. He went to toss it on the ground but she stopped him, taking it and stuffing it in her back pocket, “environment and all,” she said softly, “it’s not the spaceship, it’s better.” She nodded her head at the bike, “I’d love a ride home, thank you for asking. It’s really generous of you.”

“No sweat darlin’,” he grabbed the helmet off the side and handed it to her, “but on second thought… would you wanna come hang with me and my friends? Meet some more Pogues before the Kooks have a chance to brainwash you?”

She laughed, “I think that sounds perfect.” She watched as he sat on the bike, and she stuck her hand out, “I’m Y/N, by the way.”

His hand wrapped around hers, warm and firm, and shook lightly, “JJ.” She clipped the helmet on as she swung her leg over the bike, situating herself behind him. The bike roared to life beneath them, and she cautiously wrapped her arms around his waist. His hand reached back and tapped her knee as if to ask, ‘you ready?’, and she nodded against his shoulder.

The wind against her cheeks was sharp and biting, and she had to stop herself from smiling as the cold whips of air chilled her teeth. It wasn’t her first time on the back of a bike, nor would it be her last and she couldn’t help but be impressed by JJ’s skill. She’d been the slightest bit nervous this would end with them in a ditch, but she was proven wrong. She felt safe. They turned down a drive; warm light, and laughter beckoning from a few hundred yards away as JJ slowed and eventually came to a stop next to a beat-up VW bus. She hopped off the back and JJ couldn’t help but watch as she shook her hair out after taking the helmet off.

“I’ve brought fresh meat!” JJ said as he bounded up the porch steps, Y/N following behind with a sheepish smile. “Y/N, meet John B, Kie, and Pope, guys meet Y/N.” He said, pointing out each person as he grabbed two beers from a cooler and she smiled and bumped John B’s fist when he held it out, doing the same with the other two before JJ motioned for her to join him on the couch.

“I hope it’s okay I’m crashing, JJ took pity on the new girl.”

“Are you kidding? I’m glad to have another girl around for once.” Kie said, clinking her bottle against Y/N’s with a smile. The conversation swelled and Y/N was surprised at how seamlessly she fit into the group, and as one beer turned to two, and three she felt more at home here than she had anywhere in her life.

“Alright, it’s new girl interrogation time,” John B said, leaning forward in his chair and clasping his hands as he got serious, and she let out a laugh as Kie just rolled her eyes.

“I’m ready, ask me anything.” She leaned back against the couch, her body turned slightly towards JJ as she did so, her attention on John B as she waited for him to form a question.

“What did your dad do to achieve Kook status?”

“He’s a tech guy, had some bright idea a couple years ago that he sold to a company for way too much money, and now he just consults remotely when he feels like it. He grew up here, so when my parents split and he lost all their friends to her, I guess he decided it was time to come home. I’ve only been out here a couple times, I didn’t mean to choose sides in the divorce but… it just happens.” She shrugged, taking another sip of her beer. “What else?” Her leg stretched out, nudging John B’s knee before she pulled it back under herself.

“Lemme think…”

“What’s LA like?” Pope interjected.

“Amazing, most of the time. It’s such a diverse city, no matter who you are or what you’re into there’s a welcoming community for you, but it definitely has its downsides as well. City life isn’t for everyone.”

“You miss it?” Kie asked.

“I don’t think I’ve been away long enough to truly miss it yet. Home is wherever you feel safe, where you can be yourself, it’s not really one specific location. I think any homesickness I feel is more me just missing my mom.”

“Well, you’ve got a home in us.” Pope said, “I hope I’m not jumping the gun here but… I think we just found our newest Pogue.”

“Hear, hear,” Kie said.

“I feel like I’m being initiated into a cult,” Y/N giggled.

“Oh, you are.” John B smiled, “shall we go over Pogue rules?”

“First, and of the utmost importance, no secrets amongst Pogues,” Kie said.

“Once a Pogue, always a Pogue. There’s nothing you can’t say here.” JJ said and Y/N nodded, a slight smile on her lips.

“Two, no Pogue on Pogue macking,” Pope said, “it doesn’t stop JJ from hitting on Kie, and it certainly won’t stop him from hitting on you but… friends stay in the friend-zone.”

“No Pogue on Pogue macking, got it.” She said, sneaking a glance at JJ.

“Three… is there- is there a third?” Pope asked before shaking his head, “there’s no third.”

“But, our mission this summer is to have a good time, all the time. You in?” John B said, raising his bottle to hers, eyebrows raised and a smirk on his lips.

The clink of their bottles pierced the air, “hell yeah I’m in.”

next part

#outer banks #obx #jj maybank #jj maybank x reader #jj x reader #pope heyward #pope heyward x reader #john b #john b x reader #kie #kie carrera #kiara carrera

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llucy-san · 4 years ago

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Powerful

CHAPTER 8 A3O

“Objection, Your honour!” Hayley cut short her opponent in his riotous monolog after hoisting herself from her seat.

“The defendant is simply flailing with more unsubstantiated proofs.” She fumbled with perfectly written records while her eyes kept gazing at the judge of the case.

“Unsubstantiated facts?!” Mr Hamilton's attorney, who had long been an admirable counsel, scoffed at young challenger, yet Hayley carried on.

“My client is the rightful owner of both the real estates, the apartment on Hampton Street here in Atlanta and also an old villa in Malibu.” She rounded slowly her desk and proceeded toward the judge.

“I would like to add legally verified certificates regarding possessions proceedings during the marriage where only the claimant is registered as the owner.” Hayley looked over her shoulder but still addressing to the judge, “i.e. Mrs Hamilton.”

Judge Jenkins ran her eyes over the document and nodded. “Mr Murphy, do you have any more questions for Mrs Hamilton?”

“No your honour.” The counsellor replied with his ears down like a dog who was denied his favourite toy.

“And you, counsellor Moore?” Judge summoned once her eyes settled at a young woman who was acting perfectly during the course of the trial.

“Yes, I do your honour.”

“In that case, the witness is all yours.” She fluttered her hand and took a seat and continued watching the act while scripting more of her notes.

A soft smile blossomed on Hayley's lips as she set off, step by step, to the jury sitting on her right-side whilst aiming her questions to her client.

“Mrs Hamilton, do you remember when you bought both of uttered properties?”

Claire smiled cheerfully at the same time as she hoisted her head higher. “YES, I do. It was a few months after we got married. We both agree to leave both residences written in my name because Mason wasn't involved in such things before."

“And did Mr Hamilton bestow any financial part to the estates?” Hayley pushed further, her goal of wiping her opponent in this duel was slowly heading where she wanted.

“No. The only thing Mr Hamilton ever did,” Claire fixated at her future ex-husband, who was sitting hushed in a hot chair next to his public prosecutor, “was him dragging any whores he saw from streets straight into my house!

“Madam appellant!” The judge rumbled. “Weigh your words!”

“My apologise.” Claire cleared her throat and fixed her dress after calming down. “I meant women with whom he took. . .pleasures in my property.”

“Objection!” Mr Mason's lawyer barked. “Mrs Hamilton has no evidence that my client has ever been unfaithful to her.”

Hayley peered at Malcolm, wanting to cut him short for a second time with his pathetic defence, however, Claire couldn't hold her anger any longer.

“I have not?! Oh, I do have. Tons and tons of evidence of my husband's betrayal! And one of those proves is sitting right here in this courtroom!”

The judge instructed Hayley to carry on with her questioning after planting the wrathful lawyer back on his seat and hushing the racket in the courtroom with her judge mallet.

“Mrs Hamilton, has the defendant, Mr Hamilton, ever been involved in the renovation?” Hayley pointed briefly at the said man, sitting in a well-dressed suit. From first glimpse an attractive-looking man but it was easy to read from his eyes the apprehensiveness of each Hayley’s blow. All this time he's been twitching in his seat like a restless child who wants to go out.

All eyes were on the ashen blond woman, placed in the witness chair. A brief hush filled the courtroom as the witness bend forward over the microphone to draw attention to her reply as she sank her eyes into her future ex-husband. “Not even a dollar.”

“Objection,” Malcolm roared as he rose from his hot seat yet again. The pure determination coloured his face, the will power to win this duel at all costs. “Both spouses acquire property during the marriage, regardless of who and how much money they contributed. Maybe counsellor Moore should go back to school and clarify the basics of the law again.”

“Counsellor Moore, where are you going with your question?” The judge pulled her thick-framed glasses to the bridge of her nose, tilting her head to the side.

“My goal is, your honour, to show that Mrs Hamilton's family was the landlord of these properties before she married Mr Hamilton. Thus, the property to which Mr Hamilton claims as a share in the divorce isn't his but still the property of the Mitchell family. The only thing he's entitled to is a car and a few valuables he received as a gift.”

The mutter of various voices voting for and against filled the courtroom resembling a nest full of bees. Judge Jenkin's law mallet, however, silenced the buzz time again. “Silence in the courtroom!” She cried out. “Counsellor Moore, you have some more questions for Mrs Hamilton?”

“Not your honour.”

Judge Jenkins nodded. “I can hereby declare the evidence closed. I ask the jury to announce their final evaluation.”

Everyone in the courtroom rose up whilst the Judge rose from her throne and uttered her final words aloud.

Claire couldn't wipe off her huge smile of her face after the words she'd longed for so long. FREE. She's finally free, and she hasn't lost anything her ex-husband tried so hard to take over. The ashen blond woman thanked Hayley briefly for excellent job, but before she left, she added that if she needed a lawyer in the future, Hayley would be the one she was looking for.

“Congratulations, miss.” Hayley turned toward the cold, ironic voice. “It's not every day you see something like this. . .” The man paused, looking for the right words to define Hayley's performance, staring at his without doubt thousand-dollar shoes before lifting them back into her olive eyes. “You know, a greenhorn like you.”

The brunette smiled gently at the corner of her lips at the lawyer, holding out his hand to her. “I would hardly call it "luck" rather thoroughly processed case but thank you.” She shook her rival's hand gently, gazing into his cold and calculating brown eyes.

“And why do you think I’m. . .” The man didn't even let her finish as he expressed his amusement. “Oh, please sweetheart, I would definitely remember such a pretty face like yours and I've been here a while.” His voice carried undertone that Hayley didn't like with every passing second, his gaze made her trivial, but she tried to hide her discontent behind a veil of self-confidence.

“Anyhow.” The man cleared his throat and rolled his shoulders, fixing his elegant, tailored jacket. “You were lucky today, but next time you won't be.” Hayley furrowed at this but the self-assured lawyer carried on with his monolog. “Let's just say the life of a young lawyer in a big city like Atlanta is very. . . difficult to assert themselves. But you.” He took a step closer, his elbow planted on his briefcase on the table and his face cocked closer to hers to emphasize his next words. “Oh, I'm sure John will arrange that for you.” His peppermint breath puffed on her cheeks as his blond hair fell to his eyes. “You know what they say, sometimes everyone needs to let go of steam and occupied themselves with something else.”

“Excuse me?!” Hayley knit her brow. The nerve of him.

But before Malcolm could utter another word, he was interrupted by a voice pleasant to ears as well as a hand on his shoulder pulling the defeated defender back a few steps. Nearly dropping him to the floor.

“All right, mate, that's enough. Leave the lady alone and go about your business.”

Kyle filled the gap between Hayley and Malcolm. Her knight in shining armour was a head taller than Malcolm, and it always raised respect. Not only at school but also outside. No one dared stand up to Kyle Peters because they knew it wouldn't end well for them, not to mention that the Petersons were respected family in Atlanta.

Men of Malcolm Murphy calibre, charismatic, wealthy and thriving may be known in the law community as well as in the Atlanta's elite, but he's certainly not stupid and he knows when to back off. With a quick move, he straightened his jacket o'er, playful smile played on his arrogant lips pretending as if nothing had happened.

“Everything's fine, there's no need to make a fuss, boy. I was just giving advice to this lady; however, I still have places to be.” He reached for his briefcase and straightened up. “Give my regards to John.”

Kyle didn't take his eyes off the man until he disappeared behind the corner of the courtroom. After turning his face to Hayley's, he flashed his boyish smile, a smile that made all the girls buckle to their knees.

“Hi.”

“Hi.” Hayley repeated, a tender smile blossomed on her face after their lips met in a chaste kiss. His fingers wrapped around her loose brown lock and brush it behind her ear. “Nicely done, baby boo,” His lips grazed hers in the softest of touches, “you were amazing.”

“Thank you.”

Kyle knit his brow and raised his head a little higher, enveloping her in a strong embrace. “For what?”

Hayley beamed at his behaviour; she leaned forward into his warm embrace to steady herself, her hands slid from his shoulders to his chest while gazing up at his stunning sky like eyes. “Oh, what would I do without my knight in shining armour?” She mused out loud making Kyle chuckled with shake with his head.

“Anytime.” Kyle breathed, kissing Hayley again, practically pulling her into his lap and kissing her hard.

~×~

A city full of hustle and attainment has immersed in night time liberty and entertainment. The clubs glimmered with hues, club music flowed from every corner and the dance floor was teeming with bodies.

“You kidding, right?” Nadia pooh-poohed after finishing off the rest of her champagne - the rest of the champagne bottle to be exact. The same bottle they opened to cheer Hayley's victory. “Did you at least kick his ass?” The redhead stared between her two friends waiting for them to answer her.

Hayley giggled at the rim of her bubbly drink. “No, we didn’t, but-” her lips were pressed together in a tight line to keep from grinning.

“BUZZ-KILL!!” Nadia groaned as she slumped back into her fauteuil and threw her hands in the air, looking down from the VIP salon to the dance floor full of colours and the bodies flocking into one rhythm. The bartenders worked at lightning speed from opening of her bar. One order followed another. The Blue Note is Nadia’s pride and joy. Once she had gotten enough resources, which did not take long, she built her dream bar. The whole bar had industrial look that matched perfectly with the warehouse district. The redhead took another draw of breath into her lungs and peeked at a couple of her longest and best friends, sitting across from her and whispering sweet nonsense like teenage lovebirds. She laid her head in her hand propped against armrest of her easy chair, a gentle smile played on her lips.

“Aren't you two an adorable pair?”

Both Kyle’s and Hayley’s eyes shifted to Nadia, who was watching them with her big smile that didn't bode well, a smile that meant she was up to something, or planning it.

“Okay,” Hayley sighed, ready for what Nadia has to say. “What’s that look for, Nad?”

The redhead grinned like a Cheshire cat as she peeled away from her seat, leaning her hands on her thighs. “I know I’m a strong independent woman, but right now, I could use a little help. I know shocker!” She repositioned in her armchair. “So, I wonder if you could, in that mooshie-gooshie Kyle loving heart,” there was a slight drawl in her voice as she dragged her index finger along the rim of the glass, arrange me meeting with Prince Charming?”

Hayley’s eyes widened and Kyle let out humouring laugh. “A What? Prince Charming?”

“Why?”

Nadia smirked, amused by the way Hayley’s eyes widened at the mention of her boss. “Well. . . You know. . .”

The brunet wrinkled her nose. “Okay, I’m too sober for this.” Hayley leapt from her seat and crossed Kyle's legs. She made a small turn on her heels and set her eyes on her associates. “What else do you want me to bring?”

“Bring something harder, we'll have the night of our lives tonight!” Her best friend yelled over the pulsing music, the alcohol already coursing through her veins, but she still wasn't drunk enough. Hayley nod and leaned over Kyle. She placed her palms flat on his wide shoulders and kissed him lightly on the cheek. “AND what should I bring you?” Her lips brushed across his lobe; her hands glided down his chest in an obvious tease.

“I'll have what you're having, Bam-bam.” Kyle leaned closer and pressed his lips against hers in sweet peck on the lips.

“Okay, I'll be right back.” She kissed him again and straightened up. “Just keep an eye on her for me.”

The club was packed. Again. The red top and black tight leather pants that Nadia had borrowed her felt like a poor choice of clothing, however, her wingman/partner in crime promised her that this outfit was essential for tonight. Walking to the direction of the nearest bar was hard work, but after a moment of pushing and shoving through several layers of people, she finally got to the bar and scanned it through an open gap between people’s heads until she found a bartender and made a hand-order on the house. Having a nightclub owner as a friend pays off.

“Busted!!”

Upon hearing the well-known voice, Hayley’s heart skipped a beat the moment she spun her head toward the source. There he stood; her boss, the colourful strobe lighting strikes of club lights were bouncing off his exquisitely carved face as he stood a good six feet before her, a glass of liquor already in hand. This time, however, wasn’t dressed in one of his posh suits but simple Henley shirt, a pair of dark jeans, an expensive-looking leather jacket appearing particularly divine. His chestnut hair, always slicked back, was now falling into his face, the ends were turning into small curls. Her olive eyes hungrily took in the sight of him, feeling the pull in her chest every time she saw this man. AND there it was again. SHOCKER! The longer he was around, the more she had this feeling.

“John.” Hayley breathed. The nostalgia was settling in and she began to feel a lump in her throat that she failed to clear.

"Hey, Miss avoiding me for three days." His velvet voice was smooth as ever and beat over the pulsating music that seemed to be dying into the background. His enticing cologne filled her common sense and her heartbeat a mile a minute.

“What. . .?” She stopped dead; her brain kept spilling nonsense; her mind didn't want to cooperate with her in what way she wanted to. Not to mention the alcohol still running through her system. “No. I wasn't.” She shook her head, avoiding his gaze. “I wasn't avoiding you.” SHE WAS!!

John arched an amused brow. “Yes you were.” His pearly white teeth showed in one of his charismatic smiles as his eyes gazed over his shoulder. “Darling, I've hardly seen you at the firm these past few days.” He angled his head to one side to make his point. “You've been avoiding me.” He stated.

Hayley blushed, returning to the task at hand. Drinks. Where the hell is that bartender who's got her order?

“I. . .” Hayley couldn't form a single sentence, it’s like this was the only monosyllabic word she could manage. Why does this have to happen around him?

John’s eyes trailed over her; taking in every inch of her person. She could see the hunger clouding his eyes, as he became distracted by the dress she had on.

“I heard about your success today.” Thank God sighed Hayley. Change of the topic. With a gentle nod, she spun back to the bar, where she finally caught sight of the bartender with her drinks. She planted her hands, palms flat on the wooden surface of a bar that was already wet with alcohol and other liquid stuff. Ugh.

“Yeah, it went okay.” She admitted, trying her luck to look him in the eyes but failed, utterly, those eyes and that confident smile are taking her breath away. He's like a hunter who doesn't take his eyes off his prey, and she’s the PREY.

“Claire was over the moon.” John took sip from his drink and turned his whole attention toward Hayley.” Oh, My Lord, Help Me! Hayley mused, taking a lungful breath into her lungs. “She called me as soon as the trial was over and said, and now I quote: “that girl was unstoppable. Everyone in the room was overwhelmed by her performance and even shamed that idiotic lawyer my fucking ex hired.”

Hayley smiled then, her cheeks red, scattered with some kind of dust. A smile he thought he might die to earn again.

“She really said that?” She searched John’s eyes, not realizing how close he was to her. He gave her thoughtful hum before hoisting his drink close to his lips and finished it with a final gulp. The glass banged against the surface of the bar and he straightened.

“Well,” he muttered to himself before seeking for the bartender in the sea of lights, calling him for another round. “Tell me what should I order you. We have to drink your victory somehow, don't we?” Hayley's body tensed at the feeling of his hand rubbing soothingly her back as he whispered his words in her ear.

“I don’t, uh-“ Hayley managed to spill, she wasn’t that much drunk, yet, this was the everything she could string together. It seemed her mouth and her brain weren’t on the same page tonight.

“Nuh-uh, love, no, isn’t answer for me.” His hot breath hit Hayley’s skin as he leaned in close to her ear, his lips brushed against her ear creating rather an intimate step, chills went down her spine.

Swallowing nervously and hoping John hadn’t noticed her irregular heartbeat. She shot him a genuine smile as she brought her eyes up at him. “Yeah,” she replied, her cheeks flushed in embarrassment, or maybe it was the alcohol? She seemed like she wanted to say something, and then backtracked. Her eyes snapped to the source of the new sound before stepping away.

“Gotcha!” Victoria Chase - tall, gorgeous blonde in killer heels, always perpetually flawless with her clothes and makeup whom Hayley can hardly compare with threw her arms around her partner in a bear hug and pressed drunken kiss against his cheek.

The blond eyed Hayley up and down, trying to focus on who is in front of her, an impressed expression mixed with the shock widened at Victoria’s face moment later at Hayley and her outfit.

“Hayley?” She asked in awe. “My goodness, look at you.”

The brunet quickly looked down at what she was wearing. Hang on. Did she just compliment her outfit? She brought her eyes back up and beamed up at Victoria. “Do you like it?”

“I love it!” Victoria smirked into John ear, snuggling to the crook of his neck.

“Thanks.” Hayley muttered before trailing off. She then suddenly remembered why she came here in the first place. “Perhaps you’d care to join us at our table?” Hayley asked, pointing up to the balcony above. She assumed it would be rude not to invite them.

“Marvellous!” Victoria chirped; her gaze flicked from VIP loggia back to Hayley. “Lead the way.”

“Good.” Hayley muttered, hesitantly turning toward the bar and taking the drinks. She yelled back a short thanks to the bartender though she doubted he heard her. She turned to look at the gorgeous pair, John hadn’t moved his eyes off Hayley, and she had the feeling that he was five steps ahead of her on a game she didn’t know she was playing. And as for Victoria, she was grinning like the Cheshire cat.

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@fromathelastoveritaserum @dieguzguz @ja-crispea @nightwingshero @pd3 @v3ryvelvet @tommymillers @tomexraider @faithchel @risenlucifer @deathvalleyqueen @starsandskies @f0xyboxes @xbaebsae @goodboiboomer-fc5 @smithandrogers @shelliechen @strafethesesinners

#powerful #hayley moore #kyle peters #nadia philips #john duncan #victoria chase #my writting #fc5 writting #pre-cult universe #fc5 #fc5 fanfic #fc5 fanfiction

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scientistowengottlieb-newtkelly · 4 years ago

Note

Thoughts and feelings about Pacific Rim 2?

you sure you wanna open up that particular can of worms?

movie review time! be warned i'm not in a good mood as i am shaking in pain, however this review would have been scathing regardless. and none of this is to say pacific rim is perfect, it's not, but... aye, i have no words for the world of difference there. oh wait! i do:

so. first and foremost, i hate it. as both a movie and a sequel. did i find it entertaining? yes, mildly, so i suppose it did its job, however the only thing that keeps me watching it is because, simply, it's part of the pacific rim franchise whether we like it or not. therefore, i squeeze as much salvageable content from it as i can, such as how one might analyze the precursors, how we are to view hermann and newt as characters pre-, during, and post-uprising, what we are to expect from drifting (though this one i take with a grain of salt, there is a whole other rant preserved for the joke of an attempt to develop that shit within the movie)

one of my biggest issues with pacific rim is really simple: it plays out like DeKnight did not watch the first fucking movie or was scrolling through twitter while doing it and decided he'd make a cash grab since the first one was relatively popular. "haha the kaiju were going for mount fuji the whole time!!" bitch no they weren't!!! why the fuck did they end up anywhere near sydney, australia, then!!! why did they turn tail on places like manila and san fran instead of heading straight for japan!!! WHY DID THE ONE THAT WAS IN JAPAN NOT SUCCEED, THERE'S NO WAY WITH THOSE MARK 1 JAEGERS THEY'D HAVE BEEN ABLE TO REASONABLY FIGURE OUT THEIR PLAN AND WHERE THEY WERE GOING IN TIME TO STOP THEM!!! newt literally lays out what they are doing in the first movie and they completely ignored that!!! not to mention, if the destruction from elements found in mount fuji would have been enough to terraform the earth, WHY DIDN'T THEY JUST FUCKING DO THAT WHEN THEY WERE SUPPOSEDLY ON EARTH AGES AGO??? THERE WERE VOLCANOES WITH THOSE SAME ELEMENTS BEFORE RIGHT NOW, VOLCANOES ARE NOT A RELATIVELY NEW THING EARTH CREATED SUDDENLY AND I WOULD IMAGINE NEITHER ARE THOSE ELEMENTS!!! IT MAKES NO SENSE!!! and.... okay the fucking drones. how did those bitches make breaches??? we know the breach is some result of precursor/kaiju technology, apparently they know the breach's atomic structure as hermann said in the first movie, but how tf some kaiju organs and tech from earth only is ALL it takes to open a breach... illudes and confuses me... why were no more breaches made by the precursors once they realized how long and how many resources it was taking to kill the humans off??? if it's??? shit they could do with simple earth materials + their own biology??? they could have ended things much faster??? shit just doesn't add up, idk, that was Vague and Annoyed Me

and the jaegers.... were....... strange? the fight scenes were so underwhelming, i could count on one hand the number of maneuvers—NOT SCENES, MANEUVERS—i thought were badass and moved well. their fighting was confusing and paced really weird and some of the moves they pulled... don't... work like that... like some of those scenes were just hand-to-hand combat but in big robot form and they didn't sit right with me at all.

and the characters......... oh my word, the characters. look: i love jake pentecost with all of my heart and soul and john boyega's beautiful acting just barely saves the movie from its poor writing. i do love him as a character. but can someone explain to me why in the world they thought it was a good idea to make the only black guy a black market thief/runner, deep-record criminal with daddy and authority issues, and who they dare try to play off as some kind of lazy??? they made him every stereotype they could and said "yeah let's go with that". i'm- aaaaaaaaaaaaaa and what was with the child soldiers??? ROBOCOPS?????? mako....... character assassination at its worst........ my baby......... but the movie was paced so GOD DAMN POORLY I GOT BORED AND LITERALLY MISSED HER DYING THE FIRST TIME I WATCHED IT. and i couldn't tell you the names of half of those poor damn kids, i really couldn't. and can i also say they killed off one of the only two darker skinned kids?? like y'all???? the other darker skinned kids (one of the children i can't remember the names of because it was uttered ONCE in the entire movie or some shit) didn't even GET characterization. my whole heart goes out to her and those other underdeveloped fucks. speaking of...... i am ashamed about jules. from the movie that brought us the mako mori test, they threw in a girl simply for the sake of some shitty, awkward, and unexplained love triangle between jake and White Angst without much else to put to her name. she deserved better. amara was... a decent shot, but very hit or miss because of the writing. i, personally, am very neutral about her leaning towards liking her, but i know people who swing love and who swing hate. liwen was like,,,, they tried really hard to make her unlikable at the beginning because "oh no, she must be the villain! GOTTEM plot twist!!!" and then suddenly she's no longer. threatening everyone except newt. idk i feel like they leaned to heavily one way and i got whiplash when she's actually another but there was nothing to... portray that. at all. i do like her character, and that says a lot because they got me to sympathize with a capitalist without actually regretting it later, but there could/should have been More there. she was powerful, though, in multiple different aspects, and we saw that from her CONSISTENTLY and i 😳🥵👀💕 mako mori test pass for her

now, let's talk about hermann (and by extention, newton, however he'll be getting a section all his own the rat bastard). that man is one of the single instances of decent cross-movie characterization i saw in the whole god damn film. the idea that he takes on newton's roles, that he is more outspoken for himself, that he is just slightly more unhinged after his drift with newton: THAT is on point. he's himself, you can see it, you still know that he's hermann with ever step, but there's something that has shifted in him in those 10 years and it's good without being too much. the "i still get nightmares" scene, the way he presents himself, that scene gives me chills because god bless burn gorman and his acting ability. every face and intonation of his voice is just wonderful and i think his performance was great for what he was given. king shit.

the biggest disappointment of my life came in the form of a kaiju vest wearing bitch at work. at his corporate job. as a boss. for a tech company that undermines all of his and, frankly, hermann's work over their lifetimes. 10 years older and exaggerated to the teeth. newton "move you fascist" geiszler. let me preface this by stating for all to see that i do not hate the idea of newton being the villain. story wise it was a bold move and there was something possible there. BUT THE IMPLICATION THAT ONE OF THE MOST OBVIOUSLY NEURODIVERGENT CHARACTERS IN THE WHOLE FUCKING FRANCHISE, ESPECIALLY GIVEN THAT HE HAS BEEN CHARACTERIZED AS HAVING A "BORDERLINE MANIC PERSONALITY" AKA HAVING ONE OF THE MOST DEMONIZED MENTAL ILLNESSES OUT THERE, ENDS UP ACTING AS THE GOD DAMN VILLAIN OF THE STORY IS A HOT GARBAGE TAKE WHEN YOU FACTOR IN THINGS LIKE POOR WRITING NOT MAKING IT CLEAR WHETHER OR NOT NEWTON IS EVEN IN CONTROL OF HIS OWN FACULTIES AND THE VAGUENESS OF "WILL HE BE 'REDEEMED' OR NOT" BEING UP IN THE AIR LIKELY NEVER TO BE CANONICALLY FUCKING ANSWERED BECAUSE BECKHAM AND DEKNIGHT SHAT OUT A MOVIE THAT BOMBED IN THE BOX OFFICE. we aren't even gonna TALK about the fact that this bitch got AWAY with it despite not even acting in a remotely stable way comparable to himself in the first movie in the 10 years he supposedly dropped off the map from all of his friends because, clearly, hermann hadn't seen him or he wouldn't be so excited with a picture of the two of them on his desk, nor would he have to tell newton about his idea for rocket thrusters with kaiju blood fuel because he would have simply written to him about it. for some strange reason people see his ass show up decked out in a suit he wouldn't even wear for Stacker Fucking Pentecost and a behavior of "Haha Gotta Listen To The Boss" and think "ah, yes, well, time changes a person. THIS BITCH HAS APPARENTLY BEEN LIKE THIS THE WHOLE TIME, YOU THINK HE GOT A JOB WITH LIWEN LOOKING AND ACTING LIKE HE DID BEFORE AND THERE WAS A SHIFT OVER TIME? NO, HE HAD TO HAVE CHANGED IN A SPLIT DECISION AND LIED ABOUT HIMSELF THROUGH HIS TEETH AND NO ONE CONTACTED HIM, OR WAS WORRIED ABOUT HIM, OR DECIDEDLY THOUGHT "YOU KNOW, HE MAY BE EMBOLDENED THAT HE SAVED THE WORLD, BUT I THINK SOMETHING LIKE THAT WOULD HAVE THE EXACT OPPOSITE EFFECT ON HIM AND HE WOULD DO HIS BEST TO AMPLIFY HIS CURRENT STANDING TRAITS. LISTENING TO AND KISSING THE BOOT OF AUTHORITY FIGURES? DIVORCING HIMSELF FROM HIS WORK WITH KAIJU XENOBIOLOGY THAT EVEN HERMANN PICKED UP? TO BECOME THE THING HE HATES? AND FOR WHAT? MONEY? FAME? BITCH WHO ARE YOU?" unreasonable. ridiculous attempt to do this just for a plot twist that was underwhelming at best. i've decided to stick to the fan theory that he was not in control 99% of the time but literally that movie causes such a hellfire path to appear in my wake as i think about it because i know people who don't take it like that and think newt wants what's happening because "haha horny kaiju man" and i wish to scream at the top of my lungs because this is exactly WHY you CANNOT spare ANY EXPENSE to the GOOD, PROPER, INTRICATE directing and writing of a character who is neurodivergent and also ONE OF THE CENTERS OF NOT JUST THE MOVIE YOU'RE WRITING, BUT THE FUCKING MOVIE AFTER THAT. i could go on but i sincerely don't fucking want to, despite how long i've been waiting for someone to willingly hear me out on all of this. all i'll say is if by some miracle they are greenlit for a third film and deknight's working on it and i see ANY sign of a bury your gays end for newt, i'm going to commit the first hate crime against a cishet white male.

to end, the only valid kaiju in that movie was the mega-kaiju, i don't remember the appearance or the names of the three that got through the breaches but the mega-kaiju could kill me and i'd die happy 🥰 beautiful design, that scale comparison when it came face to face with newt? amazing, chills, *chef's kiss* there are exactly two things i liked about uprising and that bitch is one of them.

sorry if this isn't what you wanted, but as i said i am in a bit of a bad mood and have been curled up in bed trying not to think that i'm dying and i've repressed all of this for a couple months now and very few people have actually heard PORTIONS of my frustration so. here it is.

#rowboat speaks #i'm gonna go puke now #or just. fall asleep on the bathroom floor or something.#pacific rim #pacific rim uprising

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nerianasims · 4 years ago

Text

Billboard #1s 1978

Under the cut.

Player – “Baby Come Back” -- January 14, 1978

Apparently I'm positively disposed to what's called "yacht rock"? I'd have called it 30-something dinner party rock. Anyway, apparently this is an example. Like all of that genre, this doesn't feel deeply emotional even when the words are. "I was wrong, and I just can't live without you." It's basically calm, and I'd even call it kinda groovy. It's not slow though. It's not going to change the world, but it's good background music for a party among people who have to get home before the babysitter needs to leave.

The Bee Gees – “Stayin’ Alive” -- February 4, 1978

I don't like the movie Saturday Night Fever at all. And I don't like its biggest breakout song either. The lyrics -- who cares, the lyrics are an excuse for Barry Gibb's falsetto to pierce your brain. I was going to clubs during the short disco revival of the 90s and I don't remember this song being played much.

Andy Gibb – “(Love Is) Thicker Than Water” -- March 4, 1978

This guy was a teen idol. I didn't understand the popularity of the teen idols when I was a teenager either. To me, they almost always have the sex appeal of a potato. As for this song, musically it sounds like a TV theme, and the lyric "love is thicker than water" gives me the giggles.

The Bee Gees -- "Night Fever" -- March 18, 1978

Barry Gibb's falsetto. Nope. The lyrics make this technically a love song, but they don't matter, this song exists to be danced to. Badly.

Yvonne Elliman -- "If I Can't Have You" -- May 13, 1978

This was written by Barry Gibb. Obviously I don't like it, though thankfully Yvonne Elliman's voice is fine. It's about how if she can't have you, she doesn't want anybody else. She sings in a kind of weird breathy way. And, as it's a Barry Gibb song, the second half of the song consists of the chorus repeating 50 times with some boring instrumental stuff.

Wings -- "With A Little Luck" -- May 20, 1978

That's quite the synth blast. Some of the lyrics are nice: "There's no end to what we can do together." But others are terrible: "The willow turns his back on inclement weather" and "with a little luck" repeated at least two dozen times. The message seems to be that you should pretend difficulties aren't there and just chant a bunch or something. But willows don't turn their "backs" on the wind. They bend with it, and that's how they avoid breaking. So this song's message makes no sense and it is musically boring except for the first couple bars.

Johnny Mathis and Deniece Williams -- "Too Much, Too Little, Too Late" -- June 3, 1978

Musically this sounds like a parody of the late 70s. It's weirdly peppy and sounds like a commercial jingle, but it's about breaking up. My brain keeps trying to mash these things together and returning a divide by zero error. These two paired up again later to sing the "Family Ties" theme, which is actually a better song, and I'm not saying the "Family Ties" theme is great.

John Travolta and Olivia Newton-John -- "You're the One That I Want" -- June 10, 1978

I confess: I like Grease. The musical, not the substance. Yes, it's nostalgia-bait, and it's goofy as hell in many ways. And yet I can't resist it. I also like this song. It's been picked over and analyzed to death, about how Sandy's changing for Danny how awful blah blah blah. Well, he was wandering around in a letter sweater before this song, planning to become a square for her. Then Sandy sings at him "You'd better shape up," and he ends up following her around in public on his knees. Sandy wouldn't have wanted Danny in the first place, and become friends with the Pink Ladies, if there weren't a "bad girl" in her screaming to get out. What can I say -- I identify. Also this song is catchy and fun, Olivia Newton-John is excellent at acting a song, John Travolta was excellent at cheese, and they had great chemistry.

Andy Gibb -- "Shadow Dancing" -- June 17, 1978

Andy Gibb died young because massive amounts of cocaine and alcohol wrecked his heart, so I feel bad about disliking all his songs. But feeling bad about his short life doesn't mean I feel good about his music. This was written by Barry Gibb, so of course I want nothing to do with it. Also Andy Gibb's voice is incredibly weak. The lyrics are about sex, whatever, I don't care because musically this song is pretty appalling to me.

The Rolling Stones -- "Miss You" -- August 5, 1978

It's interesting hearing Mick Jagger try to weaken his voice to sound like other male singers of the time. This is disco. With a rock edge, because it's the Stones, but still... disco. Specifically, Bee Gees-inspired disco. Including the falsetto interludes. Nope nope nope, I do not accept this from The Rolling Stones.

The Commodores -- "Three Times A Lady" -- August 12, 1978

I can't hear this song without hearing Buckwheat. So um. Lionel Richie is the lead singer here, and I don't like any Lionel Richie song I have ever heard, and this is a Lionel Richie song. Eddie Murphy's version as Buckwheat is better.

Franki Valli -- "Grease" -- August 26, 1978

Grease, the musical, is a not-really-guilty pleasure of mine. "Grease", the song, isn't. It's the worst song on the track. It's about nothing, it sounds 70s and not even 70s pretending to be 50s, and it's Franki Valli. Thankfully he doesn't do falsetto, but I still find his voice unpleasant. Also the song has almost nothing to do with the musical.

A Taste of Honey -- "Boogie Oogie Oogie" -- September 9, 1978

Disco, but disco with actual oomph, unlike anything that came anywhere near Barry Gibb. It's one of those dance songs commanding you to dance, and it works. It's got an interesting, and existent, bassline. Hazel Payne's voice is good. The song changes up a bit musically throughout. It's excellent, even if "boogie" sounds a little silly these days.

The Exiles -- "Kiss You All Over" -- September 30, 1978

I said "ew" when I saw this song on the list and I stand by that. There's a lot worse, certainly. I can't even pinpoint exactly why I feel "ew" about this song. The sentiment is fine. The music is fine. It's not a song where the guy demands something of the woman he's singing to without thinking of her feelings. I dunno. It's probably fine. Maybe it's the whole "fine" thing that makes me feel somewhat creeped out. It should be a sexy song and it's just not.

Nick Gilder -- "Hot Child in the City" -- October 28, 1978

This guy looks like Tom Petty. But he's no Tom Petty. The song's about a teenage sex worker, so uh, there's that. The singer doesn't sound too upset about it, but he doesn't sound too anything about it. This song should have some kind of grit one way or another, but it doesn't. It's nothing. And that's particularly bad when it's such a heavy topic.

Anne Murray -- "You Needed Me" -- November 4, 1978

Anne Murray has a beautiful voice. This song is about having been at the absolute bottom, then someone comes along and loves you, which is a great sentiment. But it should soar and never does. It lacks a chorus, and it needs a big blowout of a chorus. As-is, it feels unfinished and unsatisfying.

Donna Summer -- "MacArthur Park" -- November 11, 1978

Donna Summer is an amazing singer. But wtf is this. "Someone left the cake out in the rain" sung with incredible sorrow is just odd. And then it goes disco, because of course, but -- what? Show me someone's master's thesis on this and maybe I'll understand the song. As it is I am simply confused.

Barbra Streisand and Neil Diamond -- "You Don't Bring Me Flowers" -- December 2, 1978

One singer whose singing I despise, and another singer whom I forget exists when I'm not reminded of him. Looking up the lyrics after trying to listen to the song for about 20 seconds, they're lamenting about a failing relationship. With the reasons apparently being "you don't bring me flowers/ you don't sing me love songs." Yeah, uh, if you want the same exact kind of romantic effort put into a long-term relationship as was there in the beginning, you will be disappointed. She doesn't bring you flowers, but what about that dinner she cooked? He doesn't sing you love songs, but how about the fact that he does the dishes and puts the kids to bed? No wonder divorce rates were so high in the 70s. Yep, I hate it.

Chic -- "Le Freak" -- December 9, 1978

This one was played a lot at the clubs I went to in the 90s. It's a good funky dance song with a memorable bassline.

BEST OF 1978: "Boogie Oogie Oogie" by A Taste of Honey. WORST OF 1978: "You Don't Bring Me Flowers" by Barbra Streisand and Neil Diamond, but also anything with Barry Gibb's fingerprints on it.

#billboard number ones

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hg80summer-blog · 4 years ago

Text

Untitled or (The flute of Azathoth)

(This story is conceived and finished during the Fall of 2018)

Newspapers as a dying medium had struggled for a while by now, and the descent into the complete and utter abyss of extinction seemed to be accelerating in a jaw-dropping velocity. There was no wonder why her press was struggling financially, every newspaper outlet was, hers was just more severe. She was now standing in the line, waiting for her coffee, and that bastard of a teenager standing in front of her was texting on his phone while blasting loud and obnoxious music out of that headset around his neck, which kinda defeats the purpose of a headset. She was beyond annoyed, of course.

“Kid.”

The kid raised his head up, saw this middle aged red-haired woman standing right in front of him.

“What?”

“Would you mind turning off the music.” She said, tried to be as kind as possible, “This is a coffee shop, not a public park, nor it is the subway, though you really shouldn’t be doing this kind of stuff in those places either.”

The kid turned off the music, visibly fuming, but didn’t say a word.

She smiled. Proud of her own work, of talking a kid out of his annoying and selfish behavior. The line before her had shrunk, and now finally after a 20 mins long wait, which for sure would be the reason that she would be late for work again today, it was her turn to order the coffee.

The guy behind the counter was visually disgusting. Obviously of his teenage, pimples and blemishes were all over his cheeks, two bloodshot eyes suggested an intense binge the night before, or the influences of pots. Droopy nose, dull gazes, and a messily worn uniform, all permeated the sense of purposelessness and a faineant. She chuckled to herself, found that description of the cashier formed by her own head to be extremely amusing.

“Miss!” The teen was almost shouting at that point. “What can I help you with today?”

“Um...” She came back from her daze, “A cup of coffee will do. Lots of cream lots of sugar.”

As she held the hot coffee with both of her hands to help combat the chilling weather of the recent days, the front door was pushed open and a gust of breeze rushed into the store. Then the door just stayed open, and the cold air just kept pestering her scarfed neck. Finally, after a few moments of tolerance, she turned her head to see who was so irresponsible to not even close the door on their way in.

It was a sickly obese man sitting in a wheelchair, trying to get through the narrow doorway of the coffee store. The staff came to his help, but his scooter was just way too big to fit in. His oily face was filled with anger and the expression of dissatisfaction and discontent, his floppy arms were flying in the air, and his mouth was uttering the voice of complaint. Those who had suffered greater for a better cause, and now there is this fat guy standing in front of the coffee place wailing at the waiter because the door was too small for him and his enormous scooter. She tittered at the concept, took another sip of the coffee.

They didn’t put enough cream in it. It was bitter.

* * *

“So. Are you free tomorrow?”

She raised her head.

“Hilbert.” She sighed.

“Are you that disappointed to see me?” The man languidly leaning on the glass panel of her cubicle was wearing a grey sweater, and always had been wearing a grey sweater. Ever since the first day she met him, he was wearing a grey sweater. He pushed his glasses up with the back of his hand, “What are you working on right now?”

“Editing the report of that one ghetto.”

“How is it.”

“It’s um… it’s alright.”

“It’s interesting. It’s not… great?”

“Well, you know.” She turned her gaze back onto the screen.

“Listen, you care for a drink?”

The blue light illuminated her face, drenched her expressionless features with a somber tone. The cubicles of their publishing house were all so small and squishy, and dark as well for some reason, the light just couldn’t reach here it seemed. She often compared this place to that torture chamber in Edgar Allen Poe’s short story, where a pendulum axe was hanging above the stomach of the tortured inmate, and as time run off it would slowly descent and brings the inevitable doom to the poor soul, presenting the most gruesome death to any spectator too sick to not turn their eyes away. Weren’t they the readers? The idea popped up in her head just as her gaze locked on the statistics provided in the article that she was editing. The article was riddled with grammatical errors and faulty statistics, to the point of near incoherence. The writer of the piece was this overweight old fart, who practically lived in the publishing house since he owned no property whatsoever besides all his stationeries, the old fashioned typewriter of his and a seldom working printer, along with all those borderline trash hoarded in his own dorm room. He divorced a decade ago, lost his house to his wife, estranged with his son and daughter, and had been diagnosed to be severely diabetic. Though he had one thing to be proud of -- being the oldest employee of this publishing house, working here for at least twenty-something years. She found that funny, very funny. The old fart had lost all his abilities to write an adequate article for the press, but the house would never fire him just because he was the most senior member of them all. The reader was the sick one. She realized. When the reader read that short story, they were the one expecting the axe to cut the man in two, and even though in that story of Poe’s, the man escaped, but if theoretically the axe did come down and the man did got split into two parts, the reader would not turn away from the gore, because they yearned for it.

“I presumed you don’t have anything to do this afternoon.”

“No.” She then realized he was still there. “I am free.”

“Care for a drink in my place?”

“How is your work?”

“It’s um… it’s alright. I need to review a play before I could go any further though, so that is bummer.”

“Tea?” She pulled out her draw, “Got some bags here. I could get you a cup if you want.”

“No thanks… listen…”

“Ey.” The receptionist, April, walked to her cubicle, with a commanding tone of voice and an everlasting despise on her face, “Someone was at the door. He said he came to see you.”

Obsequious sycophant, the harlot blew our boss under the desk. But it was rather a pleasant surprise. She had no relatives around this state, let alone with this city, nor did she have any friends laying around, so someone coming to visit her during work was actually a change of pace that she was not expecting.

“He said his name was John.”

The bench in the front door bore quite a bit of history actually. This press house was fairly old after all, but before its time, the building was actually a police station for the local towns. The bench was there for those who were arrested to have a rest before being dragged into whatever room that was needed for them to be dragged into. Unlike those things, the bench remained.

“I got you some tea.” She said.

He took the cup with the coaster, took a sip, and an expression of disgust emerged on his face.

“You never liked my tea, uh?” She said. “You never liked it, not even for a day.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You said that quite often, actually.” She sat down on the other end of the bench, “How is ma?”

He frowned at the question, took another sip of the tea. It was bitter. She knew it. She made it that way, and she wanted to say she made it that way unconsciously, but it really was not that convincing, not even to herself.

“She was feeling better.” He said. “She is feeling better.”

“Like how? Has she gone back home yet?”

“She is feeling better.”

“Is she still in the hospital?”

“You should be asking her that instead of me.”

“What do you mean I should be asking her?” She said, unintentionally raising and heating up her voice.

“I mean you should go ask her how she is.” He said, then he took a huge gulp of the tea, swallowing it with a painful and totally not exaggerated countenance.

“You do not like the tea. I see.”

“I did not say that.”

“You did.” Anger brewed within her, and slowly but surely she was edging on the cliff of an outburst. “You hate my tea. You always had. Now stop jumping all over the place. I know how much of a busy gentleman you are, and coming to visit me was merely the byproduct of a trip or something. How is ma doing? Answer me!”

“DON’T YOU TALK TO ME LIKE THAT!” He suddenly yelled out, almost spilling the rest of the tea, “I AM YOUR BROTHER!” Acerbate, his eyes bloodshot, and veins walled off his forehead like the defense lines from the battle of Stalingrad. He composed himself in mere seconds though, then made a deep breath, “Do not raise your voice at me.” He said, trying to be as calm as possible.

Silence dawned.

She stared out the front door. The long cold breeze blew through the empty but littered street. The press house located at the unheeded corner of the city, so of course vacancy and dead silences were the prevalent frequenter. The winter was longer than before, and harsher. The blanket in her house couldn’t even provide enough warmth for her to fall asleep without being bedeviled by nightmares and long dreams, which was why she was planning to go shopping for a quilt this afternoon to get her through the winter.

“Have you cleared the payment of your house?” He suddenly asked.

“Yes.” She said, still gazing at the street.

“So you own a house now.”

“An apartment, to be exact.”

“How is it?”

“It’s um… it’s alright.”

“It’s interesting. It’s not… great?”

She turned her gaze at him, and didn't answer.

A short pause. He looked at his watch, “Shoot, gonna go. The plane is flying in two.” He stood up. “Thanks for the tea.”

“You are welcome.”

He walked out of the building with festinate steps.

She picked up the cup he left behind, not a drop of tea was left behind.

As she was walking back to her office, or cubicle, she was stopped by the receptionist sitting at the front desk, once again.

“Ron wants to see you. Like right now.”

She definitely swallows. She thought to herself.

“Thanks, April.” She said with a smile on her face. “I am going, right now.”

When she came back from her boss’s office, she saw Hilbert was still standing around her cubicle.

“Why are you still here?”

“Tea break. Where else can I go in this dreadful place.”

Truly it is a dreadful place. Not just this place. The city in general. What a hell hole. What an absolute hellhole. A place where gun shooting can happen so regularly it became one of the mundane. A place where sunlight was toxic and rains were acidic, umbrellas became a necessity on every day of the year. A place where morality is nothing but a piece of shredded newspaper flying across the empty blocks, so the homeless people will stab those who offer alms and helping hand, and bosses will force their female, or male who give a rat crap, force their female employees to suck their phallic one, and fat people would roam around the street while someone else starve to their lurid death. This place is dreadful. Truly dreadful. She could feel her spine split open from the middle, and raised into the sky like the skeleton of the birds' wings, so she could crash through the window of their press and leave this place once and for all.

“It’s alright.” She said, sat back down in her cubicle, and started to pack things up. “I need to finish my work now, you should get going as well.”

“Yeah… yeah… of course.” He said. After a small pause, he turned and about to leave.

“Hey. Hilbert.” She stopped him.

“Yes?”

“Where are we gonna meet for the drinks this afternoon?”

* * *

His house was as dilapidated as ever, with its shoddy door frame and chintzy carpets, molded corners and peeled off ceilings. Just like before.

"Is Bourbons on rocks okay with you?" He pulled out some glasswares and a bottle of Bourbons, cheap.

"I am alright. I don't drink no more."

He was pouring the liquor, and her words paused him, "When did that happen?"

"Happened a long time ago."

He resumed pouring a glass, clearly for himself, "Well, what can I help you with then?"

"A cup of hot coffee will be alright."

"Sugar and cream."

"Yeah."

The backyard still had that one tree in the middle. It had shed all its leaves, and what remained of it was only a wizen skeletal contour of its former self. There was a working table right underneath it, clearly, a birdhouse was in the making.

"Dickinson kept bugging me about this birdhouse. Really don't know where the obsession for birds came from." He said, walked up to the table. "It's almost finished by now."

"I can give a hand." She really did not want to, but the fact that he brought up Dickinson and the birdhouse kinda made it no longer a viable option.

"That would be so nice of you."

The squirrel on the street looked anemic, lack of food source might have already taken a toll on it. What a pathetic sight. It just oozed with dreariness, which made it quite fitting for this place. This abhorrent city, abhorrent place, where the winter is so goddamn long.

“Someone is getting laid off, let me tell you that.” He said, cutting down the pine board as he was speaking. “Someone is gone, that is all I know. The house was not profitable, they had to kick someone off. For sure wouldn’t be that geezer sitting in the back of the office all the time being as unproductive as possible. Bunch of schmucks, am I right?”

She didn’t answer. She simply helped him attach the board onto the tree with some deck screws, then she just stood aside, watching him nailing down every single one of those holes.

“I need to visit ma.” She uttered.

“Oh? You planning to take out the rest of your yearly vacation leave already?” He said, “You know there is still Christmas.”

“I don’t need to take out anything.”

Just as he finished cutting the corner of the birdhouse floor, he realized. “Oh my lord…” He moaned, then he drank all the remaining Bourbon in the glass in one gulp, “What have they done? How could they…”

“I need to visit ma.” She interrupted him, calmly, “Would you be so kind and drive me to the airport this Sunday?”

“Sure, when are you gonna be back?”

She handed him a bunch of finishing nails, “Nail them.”

He did. Then he just stood there, looking at her. She remained unmoved, stared back at him with a gaze just as bleak as ever. “Are you serious?” He asked.

She handed him the last bit of nails.

“You are for real. Are you just gonna leave all these behinds?”

“Like what? What will I be leaving behind, Hilbert.” She raised her voice ever so slightly, and the tone of anger would not go unnoticed.

He still seemed determined to convince her, but after a ponder or two, he stayed silent. He couldn’t even come up with an excuse. The sheer incompetence of it bemused her.

There was no proper answer besides silence, so he nailed down the floorboard with the rest of the nails.

“Would you hand me the roof?”

She did. He put the roof to the side with some more deck screws.

The birdhouse was finished. They stepped back a little, observing their work.

“Well, you would at least be leaving something behind now.” He said, tittered.

She found that humorous. She truly did, but she didn’t laugh, not even a chuckle.

On their way out, Hilbert invited her to dinner, and a play. It was the play he was supposed to do a review on, and it would be performed in the local theatre on Thursday night. He said he got two tickets from the press, but he had no one to go with, so he was thinking of selling that ticket to earn some extra cash. Now that she was leaving, he wanted this to be to their farewell event. As she was imaging burning the theatre down, she accepted the offer.

The play’s name was John.

* * *

She walked out of the theatre with a face of complete shock. It was a mind contorting catharsis. She felt sick, so she bent down and tried to puke out whatever the dirt and smut that was in her, but she hadn't eaten anything since yesterday, so she gagged on dirty airs, and choked on her own cold dark pride. Now she felt better, and her eyesight was now expanded for at least thirty degrees more than normal. Limbs felt duplicated, like many copies of them were behind each and every single move she made, shadowing her actual limbs with poor imitations. The play resonated. She could feel the play, and the storyline was giving her romantic kisses on her cheek along with the winter wind like she was being loved in the most intimate way that was possible. Making love. The play had made love with her.

She stood straight. The street was clean, people were walking out of the theatre, discussing the masterpiece they just saw.

Hilbert was standing next to her.

“Wow.” He said, seemed to be dazed by what he just saw.

“Indeed.” She answered. “I felt kinda sick.”

“Oh… I am so sorry.”

“In a good way.”

“Oh. It’s… alright.”

It's not alright, it’s great! She screamed in her heart.

“You need to head home then if you are feeling sick.”

“I will. Thanks for the play and dinner.”

“You are welcome. You have a way back right?”

“Yeah… buses.”

“I will see you around…”

She lolloped along the street for a bit, then she called a cap. Dragging herself onto the car became a harsh and relentless mission, but she did succeed at it. The taxi driver was this benign old man, with a green cap and a grey sweater on. He asked her if she was alright because she looked pale and sick. His face was furrowed beyond belief, but his voice was so mellow and chummy, and his expression so elder and kind. Befuddled by the nice old man, she told him the destination and closed her eyes shut pretending to be asleep. When the taxi got to her house, and as her feet were stepping out of her car, the driver gave her his blessing by telling her to have a good one, even though it was already two in the morning.

She got home, poured herself a glass of whiskey, and laid down her bed staring right at the ceiling. The alcohol ran through her throat like a double-decker bus operated by an inebriated Scottish man, and they burnt. She felt enlightened. The play she just saw sang songs within her head, and her mind became its backup singer. She had never felt so understood, no one had ever given her this feeling of absolute empathy, like the one who wrote this play actually knew her personally and knew her entire life up until this point. She gave a standing ovation when the curtain was drawn, and even now when she was already on her bed in her own soon to be former house, she still wanted to give the play another standing ovation. The script of the play had literally zero paid off, but the sense of loss and bloatedness and purposelessness and loneliness of life it had provided literally synchronized with her most inner emotions, like two magnets left near each other would just crash into each other with full forces, or two teens in their nonage with their unhinged hormones sucking each other’s face off in their embrace, or that one meteoroid leaped into earth during the extinction of dinosaurs.

She was drunk. She knew that, because she could see her own pallid volitant soul gyrated to the ceiling, ululating the sound of liberation. It flew all over the place, every corner of the room, and even tripped over the glass which still had some remaining whiskey in it. Elated by its presence, she cackled, then burst out in braying laughter. She would continue to lay on her bed, downing glasses after glasses of whiskey, and laugh and cry herself into sleep. She would do that because, for the first time of her life, she felt understood.

* * *

April looked just as beautiful as ever, with all the makeup and ludicrously expensive headgears. She was so young, and the blossoming youth could be seen from her ample bosom and ripe torso. She still got such a bright future ahead of her. She thought, so she walked up to the front desk. April saw her walking towards her, and gave her a giant PR smile. She smiled back, and thanked her for all the help she offered all these years.

As she cleaned out all of her belongings and cleared out her cubicle, sentimentality flooded her mind. She would miss this job, no matter how bad it may be from time to time, maybe she would miss this city as well. This job, this press house, was the epitome of a good chunk of her life, pleasant or not. Life was just too floaty and vacuous for one to insist it to be something enjoyable. All the bitterness she had gone through in this less than six feet square cubicle, now only amounts to a faint, lingering sweetness aloft her tongue. She smiled at the past, put the last of her possession, a Japanese peace Lily, into the cardboard box.

She was about to turn off the computer, and leave this house for one last time, but then she decided to read the newest draft of their newspaper, to see her final contribution to this press house. The last of her presence in this place that represented so much for her.

There was her work. The report about a slump near this area, written by that well-respected senior, edited by her.

Then she scrolled down a bit. Another article emerged.

The Cynical Banality -- A Critique of John

by Hilbert Johnson

The latest trend among the circle of artsy, pretentious writers had slipped further into the depth of inanity it seems. The newest sensation, John, by Annie Baker, was truly the greatest piece of theatre work I have ever seen, due to how revealing it is, that through simply watching the play we can truly and intimately feel the cynicism of those writers and how little respect they held for both writing and the art form of theatre.

The play followed a vacation of a damaged couple, and through piles amongst piles of useless dialogues and set up, we got to an ending that is so shocking, the only proper emotional response I can contribute is a simple sigh and a “meh” if I was having a good day. This is probably the most time-wasting theatre experience I have ever been through, and with my whole heart and with all my respect to anything holy above, I mustered all of my strength just to not walk out in the mid-act, and after the play had ended, I wish I could scorn myself for holding up the integrity of being an audience, because clearly, the creator of the thing has no intention of holding up anything.

Anton Chekhov’s principle of firing a gun in the third act if the gun was presented in the first act, had been defenestrated in the most violent way that is possible. The number of guns this play had thrown out was truly mind-boggling, and of course, none of them even made a spark by the end of the play, let alone firing any of it. The amount of subverted expectations become mere statistical numbers by the second act, and none of them can induce any emotional response besides simple ennui. Set up led to nothing, and half of the stuff the script had offered was useless beyond belief. The story threw out countless dots to encourage the readers to connect them by themselves, but by the end none of them had any pay-off and audiences and readers just left wondering why they wasted their time with it. It was like if there is this breadcrumbs trail in the forest, it is interesting so you follow it, and the trails just lead you to more forest, and more forest, and finally the end of the trail is just more forest and nothing else. It is an infuriating experience.

Besides the problem of having no paid off, the story was also clogged with useless assets that have no use whatsoever. To demonstrate the point, there is this entire scene in the play dedicated to a reading of the work from HP Lovecraft, The Call of Cthulhu, with no particular reasons and contributed nothing to the story. Why Lovecraft? Why not Edgar Allen Poe? Why The Call of Cthulhu, why not The Shunned House? No one would know the answer to those questions, because it doesn’t matter. It is like the writer just put some useless trash in between the actual story, just so it is different than the “normal” and “mundane” stories of the others. The play felt wider than an ocean but shallower than a piss creak, but somehow those high tier critiques now consider that quality of one that is a compliment. Maybe I am too stupid to realize the symbolism these informations, but isn’t it equally problematic when your play had nothing but symbolism?

Which leads me here. Not only the content I must criticize, but I also need to criticize the mentality of it as well. Critics say the play had perfectly captured the nature of human life, and the loneliness it had offered, praised it to be one of the best plays that year had to offer. How the play subverted the expectations of the audiences, bringing them to an emotional rollercoaster. How the play successfully captured human’s inner nihilism.

If such a story and writing concept were executed in a short story, I would not even have said a thing. But to put it in such a drag out script, was truly an insult. The play felt like it was written to subvert the audience’s expectation, for the sake of subverting the audience's expectation. It was breaking the golden rules of storytelling, for the sake of breaking the gold rules of storytelling. It was being special, for the sake of being special. It has this immunity of criticism since whenever anyone points out the flaws within the story of the storytelling techniques, it could be brushed under the rug by simply saying it was the intention of the script so it could mimic the meaninglessness of real life. It failed at every level of providing a joyful or anything remotely close to an enjoyable experience for the audience, then turned its head and said it was doing so intentionally. It felt like a work created by the most high-end writer, just so he or she could break more new ground and receive more praise from all of her also high-end colleagues, the top five percent of the population. But this play was also genius enough to pander to the bottom five percent of the population, by presenting nihilism as its topmost quality. According to anecdote, when the play premiered at Paris, viewed by normal theatre-goers, all of them walked out in protest, but when the play was put on the San Francisco Prison, all of the prisoners gave it a stand-up ovation for how close and real the play had represented life itself.

How benevolent of an idea. In that case, whenever criticisms was brought up, this anecdote would just be the last nail of the coffin for the critique. Who you would want to side with, the poor and oppressed prisoners from San Francisco, or the smug, overprivileged theatre-goers from Paris? Case closed.

Truly cynical. To make a play so intentionally abhorrent for any normal viewer, and so pandering to those who are the most vulnerable along with those who are on the very top. It is truly disgusting to see the current mentality of creating art had regressed to a point where a Pulitzer Award-winning writer would write something like this, just to poke and enrage the normal viewers, then slap them across the face and scorn them for not understanding true hardship of human life, and being a privileged arse.

Art is based on real life, and above it. Imitating real life with art in this fashion, truly could only be described as pathetic.

If I am being as cynical as the writer, I would answer the previously asked question like this:

Who actually, wholeheartedly, wants to side, or go along with the prisoners in San Francisco, rather than those so-called fancy theatre attendees from Paris. Sure, everyone would say they would go for the prisoners, and condemn how privileged those theatre-goers are, but are we honest to ourselves? Between the Id, ego, and superego, which part of us is speaking when we said we would side with the prisoners?

I don’t want to be so cynical, I truly don’t. But when faced with a play created for the top five percent and the bottom five percent of the population and no one else, created to break all the established rules for the sake of breaking established rules instead of breaking traditions because it would help the storytelling or the style of the work, created not to express a message to or provide any entertainment to the public but rather to scorn and educate them for being one of the mundane, created to be as artsy as possible and as high end as possible, I don’t really know the way to keep my cynicism in check. I am just a mundane guy, who went to a theatre expecting something, anything that is not a cynical piece of esoteric mock, and before I can do anything about it, my money and my time were wasted into the thin air in return of absolutely nothing.

I still haven’t mentioned how western-centric this play is, how any other culture that values practicalism and collectivism instead of romanticism and individualism of the westerners would despise this play with their most core value, and how racially insensitive it is for it to be exclusively enjoyed and judged by western audiences, but I have had enough. If I keep talking about this thing, the seed of migraine in my head will be out of control.

This is true cynicism.

It has some terrific writing techniques, and the restraint and subtlety of the writing were all beautiful, but it can’t amount to all the other issues I have with the script, not even close.

I gave it a strong two to a light three, out of ten.

John, by Annie Baker, 3/10

By Hilbert Johnson

* * *

Look at this fat bastard. Oily and greasy, how in all the bloody but holy hell can he get a job? She thought to herself, as the waiter standing in front of her was waiting for her to order something. What a waste of resources. Truly morality had got itself into some sort of unremitting horror, just so this creature can serve in an overpriced airport cafe.

“Nothing. Thanks.” She said.

“What you two want for drinks then?” The waiter asked, clearly empty-minded at this moment.

“Uh I would want some sweet tea, and for the lady here, a cup of hot coffee, lots…”

“Black.”

Hilbert paused for a second. “Make it black then.”

The waiter walked off, and a cup of sweet tea and coffee were put on the table.

“So that’s it.” Hilbert said, taking a sip of the sweet tea, “No way to convince you.”

“You do not have to. Nor is there a necessity for you to do so.” She said, took a sip of the coffee.

Bitter.

“How about the apartment? You just clear your debt for it.”

“Sell it. Or rent it. You don’t have to worry.”

“You sure you don’t want to eat anything before you got on the plane?”

“No. I am fine. You can get something to eat if you want.”

“No.”

“Then we can just have a drink can’t we?”

Pause. Silence. Just the noise of her sipping her coffee.

“I want to apologize.” He finally spoke.

“Not necessary.” She then followed it up with: “For what?”

“I am so sorry about that play that night. It was truly not my intention… I don’t know better.”

“It was a pleasant night.”

“It was truly awful to waste our time like that. I don’t know what the play was about. I should’ve done some more research on it before inviting you…”

“I am actually kind of hungry.” She suddenly uttered. She waved for the waiter, this time the waiter was no longer fat and ugly, but still possessed the same uninvested attitude and disgusting demeanor for a waiter to have. “May I have a slice of the cheesecake, the plain one.”

“Yea, and what the good sir wants?”

“Huh… refill my tea.”

The cheesecake tasted like anesthetic, and it was also bitter.

“I just want you to know, I did not intend for the play to be that... indescribable.”

“It is alright.” She said, finishing the cheesecake with her fork.

“So uh… this will probably be the last time we have a meal together, in a very long time.”

“You want some cheesecake as well?”

“No… thanks.”

“The play was very good.”

“You really don’t have to say that… I felt guilty enough as it is…”

“My plane is almost here.”

“I will walk you to the…”

“You still have work, Hilbert. Thanks for all these years.”

“For sure.”

“Take care.”

“Yea.”

She left, leaving him alone, sitting in the airport cafe.

The cup of black coffee she ordered was not finished.

* * *

The old man laying on the bed looking unfamiliar and strange, elder as well, like some kind of eldritch monster. The bed was made with a clean white sheet, and the flowers next to the bed were all withered and shriveled. The Filipino nurse came in and took those flowers out of the vase, and replaced it with fresh white lilies. That corner of the room looked so clean compared to the rest like it was just created out of thin air minutes ago, like no one had ever walked into that corner of the room ever before. She walked around the room, confused, walked back to the front desk. The receptionist there looked like even more of a whore than April, which was quite an achievement considering the environment they were now in was not the most casual place for one to be working in, she was expecting some kind of professionalism at the very least. The nurse pushed her away because she was blocking the hallway, she stepped back a little, asked the receptionist, who was also a nurse.

The receptionist spent forever going through her computer, then she pulled out a bunch of paperwork and asked her to sign.

She was confused, she asked her the question again. The nurse stared back at her with the most intense gaze like she had just accused her of murder.

Murder.

Like an unclogged sink, she now realized why.

* * *

Rustling leaves and moaning sky, darkening the land with argentine clouds, screaming winds and blinding rainstorm. Somehow the moving company was still working even under such harsh conditions. Laborers and workers carried out those old familiar pieces of furniture and threw them onto the truck with the most apathetic attitude one could have ever have, but who could blame them, not a single person would be glad to work amidst an incoming storm, but uncultured man do uncultured job, who could blame anyone for it? She walked past those people, walked directly into the house. One of the workers stopped her, said the house was under construction and unrelated personnel should stay away, she said I am more related to this house than I would ever want to admit to myself and the police would be on their way if you keep blocking my way. The worker, of course, stepped back.

He was sitting on one of the wooden antique chairs of theirs, in the middle of a practically empty living room, seemed like the movers were doing their job quite efficiently. He was reading a book. Atlas shrugged. What a surprise. Men love it. They goddamn love it. Hilbert once read that book as well, and he wouldn’t shut up about it for the next three months. Truly one has to treat themselves with godhood to think of themselves worthy of the position of Atlas where he could have just shrugged away all of his weight. She had never read the book.

He rose his head and saw her standing at the door, with a black bedraggled umbrella on her hand.

“Holy moly! Why are you here?”

“Why did you lie to me?”

“When are you back? You should have told me about it.”

“Why did you not tell me?”

“Why would you be here anyway? I really didn’t expect you to come.”

“Answer me.”

“You want some tea?”

“John.” She was gnashing. “Answer me.”

“There is still some coffee lying around.”

A short silence.

“A cup of coffee would be nice.”

“I don’t have much sugar though, and I think those creams have certainly expired…”

“Black.”

There were two wooden antique chairs in the living room now, and a small wooden teapoy between the two. A cup of coffee and a cup of sweet tea were placed on the teapoy, along with the book Atlas shrugged.

“When was ma gone?”

“Two weeks ago.” He took a sip of the tea. “Ah… perfect for a rainy day like this. A cup of hot sweet tea.”

“Why did you not tell me?”

“Do you know ma was extremely proud of us?”

She didn’t answer.

“Of course you don’t. Why would you? She kept telling me not to bother you. She didn’t want to bother you. She said to me, don’t bother her because her job working for that international trading company must be straining.”

“Why did you not tell me?”

“She said not to bother you.”

“What?” Truly enraged, she was progressively getting angrier as the conversation continued, “You didn’t tell me ma is gone, because she told you not to bother me?”

“Well, she didn’t want to bother you! You have a busy job.”

“So you didn’t tell me my mom is dead!? When exactly did she die again?”

“Uh… the funeral was this Monday…”

“Funeral? What funeral?”

“Funeral for ma. Everyone was there…”

“And you didn’t tell me my ma is dead! And you didn’t tell me about the funeral?”

“She said not to bother you… I listened to her.”

“What are you, mad?” She stood up in rage. “You didn’t tell me my mom is goddamn dead because she told you not to bother me?”

“Yes exactly!” He was vexed as well, for some reason, he was clearly in the wrong here so god knows what could possibly be fueling his fury. “Exactly, I didn’t tell you ma is dead because she told me not to! And by god! It took some amount of repetition to get this across that thick goddamn skull of yours!”

“We met on Tuesdays! We talked in the press house! And even then you still lied right to my face!”

“I didn’t lie to you. She told me not to bother…”

“You lied to me! You sultry little squid piss lied! You told me…”

“I DIDN’T LIE TO YOU! SHE WAS FEELING BETTER! SHE IN ALL HELL GODDAMN WAS!”

The scream was ugly, intense, and truly horrifying. Every other screams before this one shivered in its presence.

“I couldn’t drink tea no more.” He sat back down. “They all tasted bitter.”

“Me neither. I couldn’t drink coffee, because sugar and cream just make it more bitter…” She sat back down also.

Silence. The storm outside bellowed.

“I enjoyed some theatre art recently.” He suddenly voiced. “Have you heard of a play called ‘John’?”

Just when she was about to answer, a mover walked in.

“Sir, the furniture is all loaded on the truck now.”

“Sure, have a break, wait till the storm blows over.”

The worker gave her a gaze, then walked out of the house.

What a fat piece of trash. She thought.

The End

#short story #literature #theatre #play script

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devil-in-those-eyes · 5 years ago

Text

Professional-Roger Taylor

Two in one day! I just finished this and I couldn't wait until tomorrow to share with you guys, I’m kind of maybe in love with this and I REALLY hope you guys enjoy it.

A/N: No smut, this is Roger!Dad imagine, but him being a dad is barely mentioned in this. It’s also long, so I apologize but I hope its worth it for you guys.

This is also intended for you to imagine just Roger or Ben as Roger! I personally imagined Ben as Roger, but then again I am currently in love with Ben so *shrugs shoulders*

Roger promised you that you wouldn’t be watching Tayla that long, he promised an hour, two at the most. But here you were, going on four hours and nearing the time you were supposed to be meeting the band at the recording studio.

You loved Tayla, she was a sweet two year old girl, it was her father that pissed you off. For the last three years, since the boys walked away from EMI Records and got picked up at their new recording label, you had been the band’s manager along side Paul. Jim ‘Miami’ Beach hired you when he realized that Paul was slowly becoming Freddie’s personal assistant and he needed someone that had a level head and would get all the work done.

You were supposed to be running errands, getting their latest concert venue booked in Northern London and getting the recording studio ready, but instead Roger showed up at your doorstep with his two year old daughter and promised to be back soon. He didn’t even bother asking if you could do it, just shoved his blonde and blue eyed daughter towards you and kissed you both on the cheek. You were their manager, not a freaking nanny or personal assistant and that’s what you were starting to feel like to Roger.

You understood that he was going through a tough time, you felt bad for him as he navigated his way through a messy divorce but it wasn’t like he didn’t bring it on himself. He had a wife and child, and he constantly stepped out on that wife. He loved Tayla with his whole being, but being a Rockstar was a full time job and so was being a dad. He was struggling and you made the mistake of promising a drunk Roger that if he needed someone, you were there. You should’ve specified that you meant if he needed to talk that you were there. Not being his nanny. He had been doing this to you more and more, and never told you where he was going, he would just drop Tayla off like he forgot you had a different job and would leave for hours on end.

With an hour and fifteen to get your errands done, errands that normally take you most of the day, you got back to your home after dropping Tayla off at your sisters, promising to pick her up after the boys finished recording, and changed into something more presentable. You were cursing Roger, angry not even the word that described how you felt towards him at that exact moment, when you ripped your front door open and he stood there in black jeans and a red t-shirt, sunglasses resting on the bridge of your nose.

“Where’s Tay?” he asked, searching your legs as if his little girl was hiding behind you.

“At my sister’s,” you answered, “since you decided that I was your nanny and not a manager.”

“You brought her to Y/S/N?” he asked you, sounding appalled by what you did. In the last four years you had known Roger, Brian, John and Freddie, they had only met your sister once when it was at your birthday party. You came from a conservative family, who thought Rock and Roll belonged to the devil, so your sister get along with the boys but she was a good person and loved you so you knew Tayla was in good hands for the evening.

“What else was I supposed to do?” you asked, turning around after locking your front door. “I couldn’t just bring her to Nicolette. You told me an hour, Rog, where the hell were you?”

Roger opened his mouth, probably to give you an excuse because he never actually told you what he was up too, but you held up your hand to silence him. “You know what? I don’t even care.” You answered. “Roger… what the fuck do you think I am to you?”

Confused by your answer he tilted his head to the side and answered hesitantly, “My manager?”

“No,” you shook your head. “I am the bands manager, not your personal assistant you can do this too. I am not Paul, you can’t reel me in and do this to me.”

You watched as anger filled his eyes. Roger never liked being told he was wrong, or in the middle of doing wrong and you found this out when you confronted him about cheating on his now ex-wife. He told you not to stick your nose where it doesn’t belong and to watch yourself. You readied yourself for another one of those moments as his lips parted and words started rolling off his tongue like heavy venom. “Yes, the bands manager, I am apart of said band. You do things for me.”

Another wave of anger rolled over you just before you exploded. “I am not some personal assistant here to clean up your messes, Roger! Your two year old is watching her parents divorce, she needs you!”

His blue eyes darkened as they glared down at you, “Are you calling me a shit father?”

“I would never call you such a thing,” you sneered. “But I will not risk this job because you want to use me as a personal toy.”

Roger’s jaw clenched as he looked away from you and hung his hands on his hips.

“This is the last time you will drop Tayla off to me and disappear for nearly five hours. I have a job to do, and being a nanny is not in my job description.” You told him, an underlying threat in your words told him you would raise hell on his head if he continued to dump shit on you. You glanced at the watch on your wrist, “Now, I have just over an hour to do my job and get the studio ready for you and your band, what you want to do during that hour is out of my control.”

You pushed past Roger and heard him mumble piss off in a dark, humorless scoff of a laugh. It hurt in your chest to hear him say that and you had half a mind to turn around and ask him to say it louder, but you weren’t his mum and you didn’t need to scold him as such.

The tension in the studio was enough to suffocate you and everyone inside of it. You had managed to get most of everything you needed to get done and got to the studio before Jim and the rest of the band, but you had to settle for finishing the things you didn’t get done today, tomorrow and you hated doing that. You were always on time, you always got things done and the fact that it was all half-assed gave you anxiety.

You chewed on your thumb nail as Deaky stood in the booth, recording a baseline for their latest song. Jim was showing you paperwork, stuff you would need for tomorrow when you went to check out a venue for the boys to play a pop-up show, when you felt Roger’s eyes bore into the back of your head. It wasn’t the first time you and Roger exchanged words, but it was the first time neither of you crawled back to each other. Normally the words were exchanged and by the next time you two saw each other he would joke about something stupid and that was his way of apologizing. His way of apologizing was making you laugh.

It wasn’t that you didn’t care for Roger because you cared a great deal for the pretty blonde drummer, but Jim made it very clear when he hired you that as soon as your manager status turned personal that you were gone. He didn’t need two Pauls and this was the first time you actually enjoyed waking up every day and doing your job. You didn’t want to risk it.

“Understand, Y/N?” Jim asked and you nodded, taking the papers from him and closing the folder before slipping it in your black purse that had your whole life inside of it.

You avoided looking at Roger, but he was making it hard and every time one of his band mates spoke to him, you couldn’t help that his angry tone from your earlier argument carried over into the session at the studio. Like right now, Brian was asking him something and Roger replied, or rather snapped, at Brian and your head whipped around to look at him.

Your sudden movement and look of pure disgust at his tone caught Roger’s eye and he looked at you. A muscle in his jaw twitched, “Something I can help you with, love?”

The way he said the last word, was almost in a derogatory way, as if he were speaking down to you and it tasted like poison on his lips. You faced him and crossed your arms over your chest, “Yes, actually. Mind loosing the drama queen attitude so we can get through the night?”

If Roger clenched his jaw any harder, it would have popped out of place.

Brian whistled at the two of you before walking away. You threw one last nasty glare at Roger and facing back to the booth, finding Freddie watching the two of you behind dark sunglasses while Deaky was pleasantly unaware of what had just happened between the two of you.

You didn’t find any sort of comfort and peace until Freddie and Brian kicked Roger into the booth and he sat behind his drum set. He was clearly taking his anger out on bashing into his drum set, probably imagining it was your pretty head, and you couldn’t look at him any longer. It bothered you the way both of you spoke to each other, it had never gotten that nasty between you and him. He was overdramatic and put a new meaning to drama queen, you two were always able to take a few deep breaths and let go of it all.

“I take it you two had an argument.” Freddie spoke softly in your ear as you pretended to be preoccupied with the papers Jim had recently given you. You looked up at him as he settled his behind against the edge of the table, facing Roger in the booth. He nodded towards Roger, “it’s pretty clear, darling. He only ever gets like this behind his drums when you two have gone at it.”

Afraid Jim was nearby, you looked over your shoulder and found Jim too engrossed in a conversation with Deaky. You looked back at Freddie, finding him already watching you, and promised quietly with a smile, “It’s nothing, Fred. You know how moody Rog gets.”

Freddie smirked and hummed quietly, “I know how Rog gets when you’re involved.”

Your eyes narrowed with a soft shake of your head, “Fred, what are you going on about?”

His shoulders slouched and he breathed out, “Come on, use your pretty head, darling. It’s obvious he’s been after those legs of yours for the past four years.”

Your chin hit the floor with a soft gasp, “Freddie.”

He raised his eyebrows with a smirk. “I’m his best friend, Y/N, he tells me things.”

Fear gripped your heart as you heard Jim’s laugh and the producer telling Roger to run through the drums one more time. You whispered, “Freddie, please. This job…”

You didn’t know your hands were trembling until Freddie reached out and covered your hands with his large warm one. He gave you a reassuring look, “I wont tell anyone, Y/N. It’s why Rog never made a move on you, but I thought it might ease tensions if you knew.”

It didn’t ease tensions, it just made you want to keep even more distance between you and Roger. You weren’t blind to his flirting, the lingering touches and buying you food and coffee, but the flirting and lingering touches were Roger. You weren’t any different. You were a woman with boobs, ass and legs. And the buying you food and coffee was a friendly thing. You didn’t see how Roger could have had the hots for you the last four years when two and a half of those he was married with a newborn.

You had to clear the air. You two couldn’t move past this if you didn’t tell him that his little crush needed to end here before you got reassigned to some shit band that wasn’t even close to being Queen. When Roger finally came back into the studio, he was sweaty and sucking in quick breaths from having just bashed into is drums. It made it easier on you when Jim claimed he needed to make a call and left the studio. When you walked up to Roger, who was drinking water, you prayed he made this easy on you.

“Rog,” you murmured, leaning in close. “Can we go somewhere and talk?”

Roger lowered the water bottle and when he looked at you, you realized he had let go of the anger and looked at you with soft eyes. He gave a short nod and his fingertips brushed over your small wrist just as Paul spoke from a nearby corner, nursing the beer in is hands. “Careful, Y/N,” he cooed.

“Oh, piss off.” Roger grunted and ignored the looks you both were receiving from his bandmates and best friends, as he led the way out. You followed closely until he stopped a bit further down the hallway, he stopped at a quiet corner. “What is it, Y/N?”

You slumped against the corner and he stepped closely to you, closing off anyone that passed by you two. You tongue sneaked out and raced along your bottom lip before your teeth sank into it. Your stomach fluttered with nervous butterflies as Roger’s eyes drifted to your mouth and watched your teeth sink into it. “Two things,” you finally said in a quiet voice.

“Yes?” he murmured, his eyes flicking away from your mouth and into your eyes.

“I’m sorry for snapping at you this afternoon,” your words were breathy, as if his eyes were sucking the air right from your lungs. You didn’t know if it was you swallowing your pride in front of Roger, or if it was the sudden news about his attraction towards you, but either way you never acted like this around Roger and you knew he was seeing it all.

His heated eyes softened for a brief moment, “I am too. I hate arguing with you.”

You hated arguing with him too. You glanced down at your hands and toyed with the watch on your wrist, “Rog… any attraction you have towards me needs to end here.”

“Pardon?” he asked and you looked up at him and found him looking down at you in utter confusion.

You sighed, “Fred told me you’ve had this attraction for me for a while now.”

“He… what?” he echoed while you chewed on the inside your cheek.

You sighed, “Roger, you don’t understand how much this job means to me and Miami made me promise to keep things professional or I’d be out on my ass.”

Roger lifted his arm and touched it to the wall, completely caging you in. “I’d never let that happen,” he breathed out, his words dancing across your facial features.

“You were just married, the ink isn’t even dry,” you reminded him. “We would never work.”

Disappointment settled into his eyes and he touched his mouth to his bicep. You were desperate for him to see your side so you touched his stomach, feeling his muscles tighten. “Please,” you begged softly. “if I had known about this sooner, I wouldn’t let it go on this long.”

He looked back at you and licked the corner of his mouth, “you think I can just turn it off?”

No, you didn’t think so, but for you he had too. “Promise me, from now on just look at me as your manager.”

Something along the lines of mischief danced in his eyes as he purred, “Kind of hard when I’ve been imagining getting you under me for the last four years.”

Something dark and delicious flirted with the nerves inside your stomach but fear that he wasn’t listening to you flitted across your face. Roger sighed unhappily and dropped his hand from the wall and taking a centimeter step away from you, “Professional. For you, I’ll keep it professional.”

Relief washed over the fear and you thanked him. He nodded, forcing a smile on his pretty boy face, before you walked away from him and headed back into the studio. A weight lifted off your shoulders as Roger strolled back into the studio and you felt the tension instantly melt when everyone realized that you and Roger just worked out your problems.

You could focus happily on your work now that it was settled.

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cynnied-writes · 5 years ago

Text

Perfect Imperfections

○ paring: kralsei ( kris x ralsei )

○ genre/warnings: pure unadulterated fluff with a bit of angst

○ word count: 3.5k

→ summary: ralsei is coming to visit and, after days of deliberation, kris knows exactly where to bring him.

○ note: so this is the kralsei thing I said I was working on over on @cynnied-art. I hope you enjoy!

Kris’ hometown was a barren land of clinical depression and midlife crises. Filled to the brim with literally nothing to do.

And yes, they’ve checked.

All you can do is; eat at the diner, hang out in the school’s playground, stare at the lake for hours… Get a concussion? Soon realize that, in the grand scheme of the universe, nothing you do will ever matter? Oh, there’s also a pizza place that doesn’t technically even serve pizza.

This is the bad place if you were wondering.

For Kris, this was all common knowledge. They had known this since they were twelve. And yet here they were. Still sitting at their computer. Bathed in the pale, artificial glow of the screen at 5 am in the morning. Trying to find something, anything, to do. But, after wasting their finite time on the interwebz, a realization dawned on them. Their search was, in fact, fruitless.

They let out an extended groan. Slumping into their computer chair at the sight of the miles of empty space on Google Maps. This was hopeless. They lived in a tiny town. A tiny town in the middle of nowhere. With the closest city being three long hours away. And if they spent one more minute looking at a screen their eyes would die.

A softer sigh fell as they pushed away from the desk. Kris stretched as they stood up on wobbly legs. Their bones popping back into place. They exhaled dramatically. Ending the exaggerated motion slouched over like an exhausted Sim.

This was so lame. SO LAME!

Their boyfriend was coming tomorrow and they had nothing special planned. All because of their stupid, boring hometown. Sure, they could laze around on the monkey bars again. Share another milkshake at the diner? Or you know, contemplate the meaning of life for a couple of hours. For the second time. Ralsei wouldn’t mind. But that’s the reason for all the mounting stress.

He wouldn’t care. He’d be happy to spend time with them. The duo could be in the ninth ring of hell and he’d still say it was a pretty good date. He’ll never expect any more than their simple presence. He’s just so…

Perfect.

Too perfect.

And Kris wasn’t.

Their legs were too long. Hair’s too shaggy. Mannerisms too odd. Mind and soul too fucked up. The immediate willingness to eat moss off a dungeon floor kinda solidified that.

And, yet…

Ralsei still smiled at them with eyes filled with galaxies. Blushed whenever he caught them gazing. Said words that only held a genuine affection. Sang them the kinds of songs only Disney princesses sang to their true loves.

His words might stutter or his lyrics might be on the cheesy side but, man…

These trips to the surface he makes… to visit them? To visit a creepy, loner that could barely hold a conversation? In their mind, there was no other option. His visits had to be special.

Kris’ feet dragged across their bedroom floor. A hundred percent ready to crash into bed. They shuffled before a strand of light caught them by surprise. Not taking in that tomorrow was now today.

The bright beam stung as Kris ran to close the curtains. Their hands paused, though. Gripping the rough fabric, they peered through the gap between them.

Orange and pink hues blended in the early morning sky. Contrasting against the shadowed tree line, the sun slowly rose. Its rays stretching across the horizon.

Any hint of drowsiness they had slipped into the background. Their soul lost its usual burdensome weight at the sight. Memories from a time almost forgotten reemerged in Kris’ mind.

Sitting high up. So high, it felt like they were in another world. Looking off into the distance. The same orangish colours surrounded them. Cool breezes brought golden leaves with them. Warmth seeped from the knitted scarf around their neck. Warmth seeped from the loved ones who were near.

Everything was… perfect.

Oh.

In that moment, as they stared out of their window, enchanted by the sunrise, they knew.

They just knew. This was the view Ralsei deserved to see.The two teens snuck out of Kris’ home shy of twenty-four hours later.

The two teens snuck out of Kris’ home shy of twenty-four hours later.

With hands interlocked and fog all around them, they made their way across town. The sharpness of the air filled their noses. They kept their voices hushed and footsteps quick. Up above them the navy blue blanket of the night began to brighten. Slowly changing shades in the sky above.

Ralsei let a yawn escape him.

A few moments ago his steady had the honour of waking his tired form. Though the gesture was as old as time, a heroic knight waking a sleeping princess, this time it wasn’t with a kiss. His knight’s methods involved things like poking his side and harsh whispers. Not exactly fairy tale material but accuracy is a small price to pay.

Especially because he got to experience the wondrous things that are sleepovers. Sleeping in Kris’ room. Sleeping in Kris’ bed. Hogging all the blankets because they smell like sunshine. Kris didn’t seem to appreciate that last one. But, they also didn’t appreciate nice smelling sheets like he did.

Although, one caveat dampened the experience a bit. They had to forgo the “sleeping-in” part of a sleepover. No waking up to strands of light coming from the curtains. No smell of breakfast drifting from downstairs.

Nope, only waking up before the sun was even awake and sneaking through the streets. Like a couple of rapscallions.

Guess he still had much to learn.

Their feet finally crunched on fallen leaves as Kris brought him to the Flower King. Or rather, the side of it. His steady let go of his paw, using their spare hand to rummage through their inventory pockets.

Earlier in the day, Kris had waltzed into their father’s shop. Locked in loaded with a puppy-dog grin and years of unused “child of divorce” brownie points. They also maybe over-exaggerated their driving abilities a bit.

Okay, maybe a lot.

But, nonetheless, his truck would be back in its spot before 9 am and in the exact way he left it. As promised. Most likely. As long as they didn’t have to parallel park at any point.

With a startling beep, their father’s truck unlocked. The duo got in and tried to settle into their seats. Both a bit nervous about the endeavour. Kris more about the actual act of driving and Ralsei about the defiance.

He sank into the worn, leather seats as he began to worry. It was one of his oldest pastimes. His thoughts endlessly spinning worse and worse outcomes of his current situation.

This excursion couldn’t end well, right? There were a thousand different ways it could all go wrong.

Before he could spiral down any further, Ralsei jumped out of his thoughts as the old truck burst to life. The engine began to rumble. All the tiny lights and icons along the dash started flickering. While the soothing tones of John Denver drifted through the radio.

“Are you sure about this, Kris?”

They glanced up from adjusting the driver’s seat height to their size instead of their father’s. They tilted their head as a simple reply.

“Kriiiiiss.” He scolded, understanding their unspoken sentiment. It’s not like he didn’t know they were a teen of few words before they had started dating.

Continuing their silence, Kris’ head only tilted further. Resembling a ninety-degree angle instead of one belonging to a proper steady. Ralsei sighed, “You know what I mean. There’s no way your mother’s going to be okay with this.”

A shrug for a reply.

“How about we go for breakfast at the dinner from the second time I came? Those checkered things we had were pretty tasty. Waffles, right?”

A small grimace, this time.

“Or how about that strange P‘e’zza place? I’ve never had ice pizza before.”

“You’ve never had any kind of pizza before,” Kris said, their voice filled with confusion and disgust. So, now their words came out. Of course. They continued to mutter, “You’re first pizza isn’t gonna be a goddamn Ice P‘e’zza. Not while I’m still breathing.”

Ralsei flashed a small smile as he put his paws up in defence. Soft chuckles falling from his lips.

“It’s just…” He barely said before his sentence trailed off. Gaze turning to the sleeping world outside of his window. Kris reached over to take his paw and intertwined their fingers. Urging him to continue. “I don’t want to cause a fuss, Kris. I don’t want to… Your mother’s going to be so upset if she finds out. She’s going to punish you for an eternity. She’s going to—”

“Be ecstatic.” They said, drawing intricate circles into his fur. “I’m with ‘friends’, remember? She won’t mind.”

“That excuse isn’t going to work forever.”

Kris’ hand lingered with his as their head settled forwards. Staring off into the foggy woods. Easily drifting into deep thought.

Sure, it was a matter of when and not if their mother would ever figure out what was going on. No doubt. There was only so long she could believe whatever she wanted to believe. But, that day wasn’t today and thus that was a problem for future Kris, not them.

That kid’s fucked.

Themselves on the other hand? Present Kris? They had something spectacular to show their lonely prince. No strict rules or possible eternal damnation was going to stop them.

“Don’t worry, Rals.” They drawled as they took their prince’s fluffy face into their hands. “Future Kris’ got it handled.”

Now it was Ralsei’s turn to do the head tilting. His words coming out as jumbled as the thoughts in his head.

“Future Kri—What do you—? Futur—? Are you—?” He almost finished a single thought before Kris ducked under his hat and gently kissed his cheek.

They pulled back, flashed him a quick finger-gun-smirk combo, and put the truck into reverse. Letting out a chuckle as his love pulled up his scarf and down his hat. Hopelessly trying to cover his blush.

His steady was weird. A good kind of weird, though.

One that urged them to word for word recite the passage ‘Alas, Poor Yorick’ for no reason. The kind that allowed them to remember the rules to a satanic ritual but not the order of operations. A special kind of weird that caused them to resign to shackle themselves to a dungeon wall and eat floor moss.

They were all things he loved about them but, they were weird nonetheless.

Don’t get him wrong, he’s eternally grateful for Kris falling that day. He thanks the pillar of darkness every day. But, it’s just that any kind of kisses from them was so overwhelming. The simple act causing his cheeks to match his scarf’s hue. Though, he never complained because they also always calmed him like magic.

Why was being in love was so complicated?

Luckily, it was less complicated than driving. Of which the basic mechanics were entirely lost to him.

The truck jostled along the dirt road. Its headlights the illuminating the surrounding foggy woods as they went.

Kris’ knuckles had turned white a few miles back. Changing shades as they had turned off of paved streets and onto rougher terrain. Through their shaggy bangs, lidded eyes had never once deviated from the road. Perhaps they were being too cautious. Too wary. But, how could they not be? They were carrying the most precious cargo.

At just the thought of him, their eyes flicked to Ralsei curled up on his seat. Gaze settled outside his window. Intently watching the world rush by. Yawning every so often.

A small smile graced their face. They leaned back in their seat and released some of the tension in their fingers. Settling into a focused-yet-more-relaxed driving mode.

The road ahead got tighter as it began to curve. Letting them ‘round the side of one of Appalachia’s many mountains. Engine rumbling as they went. Luckily, for them, the truck had made this trip several times. Though they hadn’t been in the driver’s seat.

Glimpses of the past revealed themselves as their destination grew closer. A dozing Asriel sitting beside them. Eyes and head drooping as he fought back the dastardly enemy that was sleep. Their parents in the front seats, both humming along to the turned down the radio.

That’s when they saw it.

A nice patch of the mountainside overlooked valleys below. Tall, wild grass with flowers sprouting up in patches. They pulled up. Easing the truck to a full stop a couple meters from the optimal gazing spot.

Their whole body relaxed, finally. Head lolling back onto the headrest. Letting out a breath and closing their eyes. Knowing they made the trip here safely.

“We’re here?” Ralsei asked, yawning as his bones cracked while he stretched.

They threw him a lazy thumbs-up and clicked their tongue. Catching his yawn before holding out a hand, “Specs, please.”

His head and eyebrows cocked at their request. The urge to ask at least several questions rising in him. But, knowing Kris, they wouldn’t answer any of them.

With a sigh, he let the world turn blurry as he handed his glasses away. Soon after, scarred digits took a hold of his scarf, pulling it loose. Guiding it from his neck to cover his eyes. Before the world went dark as they tied a tight knot at the back.

Now, sound and touch were all he had to go on. Kris’ soft hum once they were finished tying. The clicks of their seat belts unbuckling and the whirring of them gliding back into place. A thunk as their door of the truck swung open. Another as his side opened.

Their hands guiding him out of the vehicle and over to an unknown spot. The dewy grass under his paws and roundness of the air. And finally, the familiar weight of his glasses returning.

He blinked once and then twice before his jaw dropped.

A golden world awaited him.

The sky he had fawned over weeks prior seemed so much more expansive. Stretching from the ends of the earth, blanketing everything around them in a warm hue. Streaks of orange, red, and yellow danced along it. Like a painter’s brush strokes. All independent at times. Before blending together to make the wondrous painting in front of him. Light, fluffy clouds lazily drifted across the background.

And in the center of it all?

A thing, once upon a time, he’d never thought he’d get to see.

The Lightners’ brightest star.

No, it was his too now.

Their brightest star. Their most prized possession rose from the horizon. Slowly but surely making its way to its throne in the heavens. Lighting up their little corner of the world. Not that he could quite remember it wasn’t just him and the celestial body. No, as he gazed upon the sun and a wave of serenity washed over him, it felt like there was no one else left on Earth.

Wait, there was someone else with them.

Ralsei pulled his sight away from his new friend to his real-life company. His silent knight.

Kris sat close beside. Their form bathed in the rays as they sprawled out in the tall grass. Golden light illuminating their whole body. Creating a god-like glow around them. At last, they seemed to be at peace. Then, as their head lolled back, their long bangs fell to either side. Revealing the gems they kept hidden from the world.

An occurrence rarer than any blue moon.

Maroon irises admired the painting before them. They were filled with something he couldn’t quite place. Contentment? Amazement? Nostalgia? Whatever it was, when their eyes drifted from the sunrise over to him, it was still there.

Oh…

Perhaps it was love.

He still had to come to terms with that fact. That somebody alive and sentient loved him. Somebody as wonderful as Kris loved a wreck like him. A tiny ball of nerves and anxiety. Terrified of falling too fast and too hard. Being too needy. Too much much of a bother. Being too… everything. And not being what Kris needed.

But,

They never seemed to mind.

They always were an attentive listener to all his rambling but, always knew the right time to stop him. Lest he enters a perpetually downward spiral.

They were one hundred percent willing to become the hero that he needed. Not questioning ludicrous, reality breaking implications for anything he told them.

And when they were ready, Kris would talk for hours.

About stories from when they were younger.

Barely believable conspiracy theories.

Loosely connected thoughts stringed together profoundly.

They were just so perfect.

And this, the sneaking out in the early morning, the quiet drive, and the sunset. It was all just so…

Perfect.

Kris reached out and laced their fingers together again. Pulling him out of his thoughts. Right on time as always. They gazed at him with, his throat tightened, love-filled eyes. Their usual neutral expression replaced with upturned lips and those softened gems.

Oh, darkness, don’t cry.

Don’t cry, Ralsei.

Don’t cry.

Don’t—

Dammit.

“Kris,” He choked out as tears began to well. They threatened to fall and ruin this perfect moment. Kris’ perfect moment for him. No, he had to pull himself together. “This is, this is. It’s…”

Yep, stuttering is a surefire sign of someone who’s totally not on the verge of a breakdown. So embarrassing. SO EMBARRASSING!

“Rals,” They began softly. Eyes squinting as they searched for the right words. “It’s… okay. Tears of joy, right? It’s okay. You’re okay.”

Not helping. Not helping at all.

“Oh, damn it all.” He cursed as he mustered up all the courage he had. Within the second, he bounded over to his steady. His beloved hat falling to the wayside as he wrapped his arms around them. Burrowing his nose into their neck. Inhaling their piney scent as he blurted out, “Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you!”

The two stayed like that for a while. Enjoying each other’s body heat and tight holds. But, all good things must come to an end. And this good thing ended once he pulled back. Quickly realizing their current position.

His arms rested linked on their shoulders as he sat in their lap. And with their hands settled on his hips, their bodies were close.

Super close.

Close enough for a… kiss?

Yes, Kris thought as their hand made its way up to his cheek. Close enough to stare into his galaxies for eyes. Close enough to breathe the same air. Close enough for his head to block out the morning sun. Creating a glowing halo around him.

Definitely close enough.

Also, definitely a perfect way to punctuate their date.

But, alas,

Mother Nature had another idea in mind.

“Was that a raindrop?” Ralsei blinked and shook the excess wetness off of his snout. He rose from their lap to scan the horizon. Brows furrowed as he adjusted his glasses, “But, there aren’t any clouds?”

Despite the obvious lack of cloud coverage, rain began to pour down on them.

Kris, reluctantly, got to their feet. Their fingers ran through their messy brown locks as they closed their eyes. At least they got their sunrise.

With a deep sigh, they called out to their love, “We… should get back. Sorry about this.”

“Why?” Their eyes shot open at his question. That’s when they saw him. Spinning around on the balls of his feet as his giggles resounded through the air. His arms swung and legs kicked as he jaunted around the field. “This is amazing! How weird is this! Raining while the sun’s still shining! I’ve never heard of this. What is this, Kris?”

Oh.

My.

God.

He wasn’t upset?

“Sun showers,” They answered like a ditz. Their mind still running wild. Trying to comprehend how he could be this happy about it raining on their perfect date. “They, uh, happen sometimes. You don’t want to go?”

“No! I love it!” Hat long forgotten, he ran up to them, eyes a glow. Hands outstretched until they intertwined with theirs. “Dance with me!”

It was less of a question and more of a demand, not that they minded though. With all his might, Ralsei swung them around the wild grass. Dancing something between the waltz and a folksy jig. Loudly humming out a familiar tune. Soon, their laughs joined his humming. Until both faded and only the gentle beats of the rain were left.

They were close once more.

Super close.

Now or never.

Kris straightened their back and cleared their throat before asking, “Do you, maybe, want to—”

“Yes.” He cut them off, a look of pure unadulterated love on his face.

And then, they did it.

They kissed.

It technically wasn't a perfect kiss. The rain continued to beat down. Their now soaked clothes uncomfortably clung to their bodies. His fur wasn’t as soft and fluffy as it usually was. It was more damp and kinda spiky. Their skin somehow felt sweaty and tight. But,

None of that mattered.

Nope. Not to them.

Somehow, like everything else about the two of them, it was perfect.

Perhaps, their imperfections were what’s perfect.

At least to them.

And in the end, isn’t that the only thing that matters?

The End!!

I hope you've enjoyed reading this. If you did, any kind of comment would be appreciated!

I've been working on it for a loooong time. Just glad it's all finished! Finally, I'm free!

#kris dreemurr #ralsei #deltarune #krisei #kralsei #fanfic #fluff #semi angsty #also lots of headcanons

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