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tricksters-captain · 4 years ago

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Benedict Bridgerton / Anthony Bridgerton Imagines - Best Man Wins Part 2

AN: Am I going to hurt myself with this fic? Yes.

(🎶🎶🎶) = Link to song

Overall Summary: Entering a society you thought you had left behind, you find yourself in a tricky triangle with two gentleman you never thought you’d fall for.

PART ONE HERE

This Chapter: The courting starts...

Pairing(s): Anthony Bridgerton x fem!Reader, Benedict Bridgerton x fem!Reader

Word Count: 2,752

Warnings: None

Dear readers, it was a surprise to see a face we’d long forgot about make her debut at last nights dashing ball at Danbury house.

Miss (Y/n) (Y/l/n) shook the social season within the first night by making her first appearance in almost 11 years. Word is that Lady (Y/l/n) remarried Lord Winslow and this has sparked her only daughters debut into society. After spending the previous 11 years off the coast of Kent, doing whatever it is widows do, Lady Winslow met Lord Winslow after a foolish incident left Lady Winslow in a ditch. Fortunate for her Lord Winslow passed by in his carriage and swept the widow off her feet.

However, Miss (Y/l/n)’s appearance wasn’t the only surprising event last night but the fact the young girl had secured the attention of not one but two Bridgerton Bachelors. Bear in mind that the youngest Bachelor, Colin Bridgerton, is currently off travelling Europe and so didn’t have the chance for his head to be turned by our fresh faced debutant.

Will Miss (Y/l/n) receive the pleasure of a call from the two well sought after gentleman? We will only find out over the coming days, dear readers.

“Mama?” You entered the breakfast room with Lady Whistledown’s paper in your hand.

Your mother was sat at the head of the table with a bowl of fresh fruit and a pot of tea.

Lord Winslow had been called out to his estate in the country for an emergency just as you had returned last night with your mother. He said he would only be gone a couple days but it had not even been 12 hours and your mother already looked lonely as ever.

You were lucky that Lord Winslow was a kind man. He really did love your mother and your mother loved him. Your mother had never loved your father, that you knew for certain and so it was wonderful to see your mother so happy with Lord Winslow.

You knew he didn’t particularly like you but he was a kind and fair man who had paid for all of your new clothes, shoes and settled you with a fair sum of a dowery.

“Mama, have you seen this?” You handed her the paper. “Lady Whistledown has dedicated a whole page just to us. She’s gone from reminding everyone of father’s scandal to how you met Lord Winslow and reporting of my arrival at the ball last night.”

Your mother picked up the paper and started to read it.

You sat beside her at the breakfast table and thanked the servants for bringing you over some hot oats. You sprinkled some fruit on top before pouring yourself an orange juice, all the while, your mother read.

“Of course she should mention the Bridgerton men. If you could catch one of them then I'd never have to worry about funds ever again.” Your mother put the paper down and took another sip of her tea.

“Mother, you have Lord Winslow who will always make sure you live comfortably. You don’t need me to go off and marry some Baron––”

“––But a viscount would be nice.” You mother quickly added.

“The Viscount Bridgerton is very well known for being a rake. I doubt he’ll be proposing anytime soon to anyone. I’m sure he only danced with me last night because his mother probably asked as she did recognise me.” You dismissed your mothers high hopes.

“Ah yes. Violet told me that she had invited you for tea. She invited me over, of course, but I’d rather not be too social this season with everyone asking questions about our situation before Lord Winslow.”

Your mother hadn’t worked before she met Lord Winslow. You brought in any extra funds by being a lady’s companion and your mother budgeted as she could the small amount of money her brother in law had given you both after the death of his brother/your father.

Your mother had never been the most friendly socialite of the ton even before your father’s death. More often than not she rejected invitations for tea or musicales and only showed up to the larger events the ton threw.

Your mother wasn’t particular friendly to anyone except Lord Winslow. Even you had a strange relationship.

Your mother was one of the eldest Mama’s amongst the girls your age. She had struggled to produce children for years and then eventually she stopped trying until one day on one anniversary she fell pregnant and it held.

She had prayed for a son to give your father an heir but she was blessed with you instead.

She had never been cruel or negligent but she never had that particular spark for maternal love.

Your father loved gambling more than he loved anyone or anything so paternal love was something you lacked during your childhood.

Nonetheless, you were glad your mother was happy now.

“There’s gifts for you in the drawing room before I forget to tell you.”

“Gifts?” You felt your heart flutter in excitement and before your mother could say anymore, you were already rushing to the drawing room.

You opened the door to see the room full of flowers.

Roses, hyacinths, camellias, carnations, peonies, sweet peas.... and more.

“My goodness.” You barely breathed the words as your hand shot to your mouth in delight.

“They’ve all come for you this morning, Miss.” Lottie, your lady’s maid, beamed at you.

“There’s so many.” You whispered to her with a bright smile.

“Lady Whistledown did name you the seasons incomparable, Miss!” Lottie reminded you. It was something you didn’t say aloud to your mother but Whistledown did write that after mentioning the Bridgerton brothers.

“May I be left to myself, Lottie, so I can read the notes.” You asked her politely to which she replied with a smile and a servants nod.

“I already told cook to prepare some biscuits but would you like anything else before I go?” Lottie asked.

“Biscuits?” You furrowed your eyebrows at the maid.

“For your callers.” Lottie blushed a little as she smiled at you.

“Callers! I’d forgotten! Oh Lottie, I need you to run upstairs and get my pearl earrings instead of these and I’d love some tea as well.” You had a sudden panic to want to look perfect. Lottie took the earrings you had taken out and bowed out of the room at your request.

You started around the room, smiling at each cheesy note from different suitors. Some you had danced with last night but most you hadn’t even spoken to.

You stopped when you spotted a beautiful bouquet of white roses with several pickings of wisteria.

‘You used to love the flowers at the front of the horse in spring time. I had to include them to remind you.

Yours, Benedict.’

You cradled the purple flower in your hand and breathed in the scent of the roses and wisteria.

You had no idea Benedict knew of that.

Lottie returned with your earrings and your tea.

“That’s a lovely bunch, Miss.” Lottie commented as you stood beside Benedict’s bouquet.

“Isn’t it?” You found yourself wishing to visit the house sooner than later but you knew you’d probably have callers and your trip would have to wait.

Your mother soon retired to the drawing room to act as chaperone as she expected callers sooner than later.

She scolded you for taking too long to read the notes on the flowers and soon you found yourself sat on the settee with a book of poetry and your embroidery beside you in case your mother looked up from her own stitch work.

It wasn’t long until the first caller arrived.

And then another.

And another.

Your whole morning was filled with short meetings of many suitors. More than you had expected.

The flower collection grew as more suitors came with their own bouquets rather than deliveries.

There was chocolates from Belgium and macaroons from France.

Your mother seemed happy with some of the more wealthy men and slightly less welcoming with the less fortunate. Her side glances to you said more than words ever could.

The morning all together was exhausting.... But no Bridgertons...

“Where are you off to?” Violet peered up from her cup of tea as she caught Anthony passing the door.

“Is it really any of your business mother?” Anthony questioned as he took several steps back so he was in the doorway. A bouquet of flowers hidden behind his back.

“If it’s off to see Miss (Y/l/n), I’d hold off.” Violet’s eyes met her sons and he could sense a fraction of worry there. “Your brother just left to do the same thing.”

“Benedict.” Anthony didn’t question whether it was Benedict but rather stated his name in a knowing voice.

“Miss (Y/l/n) may be new to society but she isn’t some play doll for the men of the ton to use and set aside like her mother had been.” Violet couldn’t help but feel an anger grow inside of her. She had cared for the girl when she was at a young age and she felt a sudden protectiveness grow over her now.

“I do not intend to corrupt her if that’s what you think, Mother.” Anthony said flatly. Slightly hurt that his mother had insinuated it.

“Then what do you intend to do? Marry her?” Violet’s question lingered in the air as Anthony clenched his jaw.

Anthony didn’t really know why he was going to call on the girl. Was he really. interested in courting her or did he just want to be near her for some reason?

“Good afternoon, Mother.” Anthony excused himself and left Bridgerton house.

He decided to walk so that he would miss Benedict by the time he’d arrive if he took the long route through the park. It was a sunny day after all.

“Mr Bridgerton to see Miss (Y/l/n).” The butler, Killian, had announced.

You rose from your seat and smiled politely as you watched Benedict enter behind him.

“Miss (Y/l/n).” Benedict took hold of your fingers and brushed a light kiss on top. “You look lovely this morning.”

“Thank you, Lord Bridgeton.” You greeted him back with a short curtsy. “I also must thank you for your bouquet!” You suddenly remember, walking over to them and lightly brushing your fingers under the wisteria.

“Mothers tip if I’m being honest.” Benedict told you as he held his hands behind his back.

You looked up at the man with bright eyes that he couldn’t help but look back into.

“Please tell Lady Bridgerton I will be round for tea as soon as possible.” You pushed down your excitement to remain as ladylike as you could.

“I’m sure Daphne will be glad to see you looking so well too.” Benedict let his eyes drop down your dress momentarily. You caught him doing so and felt your cheeks go pink under his gaze.

“I am looking forward to seeing my old playmate.” You spoke, hoping your voce wouldn't fail you and crack.

“I was hoping, Miss (Y/l/n), if you would do me the honour in promenading with me tomorrow morning through Hyde park?” Benedict inquired with hopeful eyes.

You looked back to your Mama who nodded in reply.

“Yes, that would be very agreeable.” You couldn’t help but let your smile grow when Benedict’s lips spread into one of his lopsided grins.

“I am looking forward to it.” Benedict took hold of your hand and pressed it to his lips once again.

However, this time, his lips lingered on the fabric of your glove. His eyes meeting yours as they did.

You hadn’t noticed you’d stopped breathing until the man lowered your hand.

“If you will excuse us, Mr Bridgerton but I have some business to take care of this afternoon so I’m afraid this call will have to come to a close until tomorrow.” Your mother stood and held her hand out towards the door.

“It’s been a pleasure, Lady Winslow. Miss (Y/l/n).” Benedict bid himself adieu leaving you and your mother alone.

“If anyone callers arrive then do not grant them access until I am back.” Your mother left the room, assumably to use the chamberpot with the amount of tea she’d been drinking that morning.

You wrapped your arms around yourself as you looked down at Benedict’s flowers once more.

You felt yourself yawn as you suddenly realised just how tired you were.

“Being the most desired girl in the ton can be exhausting, can’t it, Miss (Y/l/n)?” A familiar voice startled you as someone entered without being announced.

“Lord Bridgerton!” You clutched your chest as you caught your breath.

“Miss (Y/l/n).” Anthony smirked.

“How did you get in?” You asked, looking past him to where Killian should have been standing.

“Your butler answered the door and then there was a crashing noice and he pointed me to this door and so here I am.” He explained, opening his arms to show himself.

That’s when you noticed the bouquet. Not one. But two.

“Here, there are for you and your mother.” Anthony offered you the bouquet as he watched you spot them.

“We shouldn’t be here unchaperoned.” You suddenly felt panicked for some reason.

“The door is open. I’m sure your mama won’t be long.” Anthony took a deeper step into the room and place the bouquets on the table.

“They’re beautiful. Thank you.” You examined them from a careful distance.

“I believe I saw my brother leaving here from up the street.” Anthony told you as he placed his hands behind his back.

“Ah.” You nodded, “Yes, he was here but moments ago.”

Anthony cocked his eyebrow with an amused look on his face.

“We were just talking about your mother and your sister. Your mother has invited me for tea and I told Benedict to tell your mother that I’ll be round to see her as soon as I can.” You found yourself rambling.

“You are welcome in Bridgerton house any time.” Anthony extended the invitation as the Viscount.

“Thank you.” You nodded politely. “So what has brought you to visit me today?”

It was a stupid question but anything to fill the silence.

“Well after tonight, I rather felt like seeing you again.” Anthony rocked on his heels as he spoke, scrunching his face as if he’d just thought of it.

He was teasing you and you knew it.

“Is that so?” You tilted your head up slightly with a smile. “It’s not often, I hear, that Anthony Bridgerton visits any lady of respectability after spending the night with her.” The words had come out before you could stop them and Anthony found himself laughing as you tried not to blush.

“That is where you are wrong. I do not spend my nights with any respectable ladies.” Anthony knew you were playing a game. He would never had responded this way unless he wanted to push your buttons.

“Ah yes. Opera singers, actresses and such, isn’t it? At least that’s what I hear from Whistledown nowadays.” You thought yourself cheeky.

“So you believe everything Whistledown writes?” Anthony asked, stepping closer to you again.

“Everything she has written so far has been correct.” You defended your answer.

“From the look of this room, I fear she may be correct about one thing at least.”Anthony gestured to all the flowers.

“And that is?” You followed his gesture.

“That you are the seasons incomparable. Perhaps the incomparable of any season thus.” Anthony’s compliment made you catch your breath in your throat.

“Ah! Mr Bridgerton. I hope I hadn't left you waiting too long.” Your mother interrupted at just the right time.

“Unfortunately, Mrs Winslow, I must be off now. I only came by to give these to Miss (Y/l/n) and yourself.” Anthony picked up the bouquet and handed to your mother before allowing himself to approach you.

Your eyes met his as he handed you the flowers.

His finger touched your own as he passed the bouquet over and you broke eye contact to retreat slightly. Not that your mother had noticed.

“Good afternoon, Mr Bridgerton.” You said quickly.

“Good afternoon, Miss (y/l/n).” Anthony kissed your hand like he had before as has his brother.

And then he left.

(PART 3 HERE)

#benedict bridgerton #Benedict Bridgerton x reader #Benedict Bridgerton imagines #Anthony Bridgerton #Anthony Bridgerton x reader #Anthony Bridgerton imagines #Bridgerton imagines #Daphne Bridgerton #Colin Bridgerton #Jonathan bailey #luke thompson #imagines #series #reader insert

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iceeckos12 · 4 years ago

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what if... for the prompts... “you’re cold, come here” for gerrymartin... as a treat... (thank you please drink some water)

sorry i know it’s been a few days ;_; however i have been UNABLE to get pre s1 gerrymartin out of my head since you sent this ask

putting this beneath a read more since it got kind of long alskdjfskf;

Martin stood at the bus stop, wearing his beat-up old headphones, staring into the middle distance, still coming to terms with the fact that he’d had to drop out of school a few weeks ago. He felt as though he’d be digesting that one for a while, like missing a step on his way down the stairs and tripping over his own feet, over and over again.

He’d asked for more shifts at Tesco’s, but it didn’t matter whether or not they were approved. The bills kept coming in, the sums adding up higher and higher, to numbers that may as well have been astronomical for all he had in his bank account.

This wasn’t sustainable. But what could he do? He was only seventeen, he had no degree, no -

“Need a cigarette?”

Martin almost leapt out of his skin at the sudden interruption, too surprised to do anything other than look mutely over. If he hadn’t already been stunned into silence, the sight that greeted him would’ve done the job.

The teen was tall, a little disheveled; there was a mean looking scrape across one side of his face, like his head had been shoved into pavement. His hair was dyed pitch black, dirty blond roots peeking out around the roots. Eyes the color of the cold, grey ocean stared back at Martin, stealing his breath right out of his chest.

The silence stretched on, but the teen didn’t speak, or take back the proffered cigarette. He just waited, expectant, endlessly patient, the same way a lighthouse waits, lonely but resolute.

“I - “ The words choked and stuttered on their way out. “I...I don’t smoke.”

“Hm.” The teen shrugged and took the cigarette back, setting it loosely between his teeth. Martin watched the movement, mesmerized by the shine of his black lipstick. Then he added, almost as an afterthought, “You looked like you needed one.”

Martin let out a high, embarrassed laugh. “That obvious?”

He hummed in agreement, the sound coming out through a thick cloud of smoke. Suddenly Martin wished he’d accepted the cigarette, if only to see if he could capture the same feeling this teen seemed to exude in waves. The poet in him wanted to smooth that midnight black hair behind one ear and ask what’d happened to make him look so tiredly sad.

“That’s your bus,” the teen said, jerking his chin toward the incoming bus. “Wouldn’t want to miss it.”

Martin turned, then realized that yes, that was his bus. He paused, realizing that he’d never told the teen - but when he turned around, the stranger was gone, almost as though he’d never been there in the first place.

-0-

For years after, Martin wondered if he’d imagined the whole incident. A mysterious, handsome stranger offering him a cigarette at a bus stop before disappearing into the ether? That sort of thing didn’t happen outside of the movies.

Until he saw the man at the Magnus Institute.

The first time he saw him, he had to do a double take, sure he’d imagined it. But no, there was a familiar person with poorly dyed black hair sitting on the front steps of the Institute, blowing cigarette smoke into the sky. He was in all black, from his combat boots to the shiny obsidian of his lips.

Martin wasn’t sure how long he’d been staring at the man’s lips. Too long obviously, because when he looked up, he met cool, ocean grey.

The man quirked a dirty-blond eyebrow, a small, almost experimental smile twitching at the corner of his lips. Martin, mortified at having been caught looking, ducked his head and almost ran the rest of the way up the steps.

They ran into each other on and off after that. Martin sometimes saw him wandering around the Archives, coming in and out of Gertrude’s office regardless of the time. He always seemed to be able to tell when Martin was watching him; after a few seconds, he would perk up and turn around, smiling that small, experimental smile.

Martin started to accept that he had a massive crush on this gorgeous, unattainable stranger. He decided to get the fuck over himself and wave instead of running away like a coward, which made that experimental smile turn into a true, genuinely pleased one.

And it was....safe. Good. Martin admired from afar, enamored of the man’s tattoos, his grey eyes, the quiet tragedy he carried with him like a shroud.

Ironically, the first real conversation they ever had was at the bus stop in front of the Magnus Institute.

It was late, later than Martin usually went home. It was cold too, unusually so for the time of year, enough so that Martin was wearing his warmer jacket. He was lost in thought, staring far into the middle distance, composing a poem about Indian summers and unusual chills and the way weather balanced finely between them -

There was a click from somewhere behind him, a muttered curse. Another click, and then a low, relieved sigh. Martin frowned and turned around, because no, it couldn’t be -

But it was.

The man looked up as soon as he felt Martin’s eyes on him, his cigarette hanging loosely out of the side of his lips. He’d gotten a new set of piercings since the last time Martin’d seen him, two shiny studs in his bottom lip that made Martin’s mouth go dry.

“Hey,” the man said. He sounded exactly the way Martin remembered.

“Hi!” Martin squeaked, clutching his bag closer to him nervously. Oh god, oh god, the inspiration for half his poetry from the past few months was standing right in front of him. “Um - hi. Hello.”

The man’s grin widened, like he found Martin’s frantic stuttering endearing. “Hey.”

Fuck. He was doing this all wrong.

“I’m Martin,” Martin blurted. Almost went to shake the man’s hand but decided against it last second.

“Gerard,” Gerard said, the glowing tip of his cigarette dancing in the dark. “But you can call me Gerry.”

“Oh,” Martin said faintly, his heart fluttering too-fast in his chest. Then, just because he could, said, “Gerry.” Rolled the word around in his mouth, tasting how it felt against the back of his teeth. Decided he liked it. “Nice to meet you, Gerry.”

Gerry’s grin widened, his teeth very white under the curve of his painted black smile. There was a gap between his front teeth, and Martin felt almost dizzy with the knowledge of it. “And you.”

Then unexpectedly, he shivered so hard that his teeth clenched around his cigarette. It was only then that Martin realized that the man was only wearing a thin black jacket over his graphic t-shirt, and that he must be absolutely freezing.

Martin was acting before he could think it all the way through, rummaging through his bag and removing his scarf from its depths. It was a heavy, woolen thing that he’d knitted for his mother’s birthday but - she hadn’t wanted it, muttered something about it being too itchy.

“You’re cold,” Martin said absently, brandishing the scarf in front of him like a weapon. “Come here.”

Gerry stared at the scarf, his grey eyes stretched wide, then looked to Martin, then back to the scarf. Surprise didn’t sit quite right on his face, like it was an emotion he wasn’t used to wearing. “Um. I’m...that’s okay. You don’t have to...”

“Nonsense,” Martin said, ignoring the little voice in the back of his head that was gibbering mindlessly at his boldness. “You’re hardly dressed for the weather, and it’s not like I’m using it.”

Gerry opened his mouth - paused, a strange light entering his eyes. He looked at the scarf, and his surprise faded into a blank, neutral frown. Then, “That was cruel of her.”

Martin frowned. “What?”

“Okay,” Gerry said, and took the scarf from Martin. He stared at it for a moment, studying the simple pattern, before wrapping it around his neck. He looked warmer at least, and that made something in Martin’s stomach settle, relaxed the part of him that wanted nothing more than to nurture. “Thanks.”

“Sure,” Martin responded, still feeling a bit off-kilter by the strange comment, like Gerry had known what his mother had said to him and disapproved. “Anytime.”

They stood in silence for a couple more seconds, the atmosphere strangely charged with anticipation. There was something Martin was supposed to say here, something important, but he wasn’t sure what it was.

And then the bus came.

Martin stared at it for a second, disappointment a sour taste in his mouth. His window of opportunity was steadily closing, he could feel it, but he was lost, grasping at the tail end of something strange and unknowable.

“That’s your bus,” Gerry told him gently, and when Martin looked over, he was holding the scarf close to his neck.

“Will I see you again?” Martin asked in a sudden burst of confidence.

Gerry froze almost imperceptibly for a moment, but Martin had been learning to read body language ever since his father had left home. He looked away, that clear grey gaze focusing on the sidewalk in front of him, studying the cracks in the concrete. “If you like.”

“I’d like to,” Martin responded firmly, then deflated as his confidence faded and his uncertainty returned. “If you would.”

That small, experimental smile twitched the edges of Gerry’s lips again. Martin was suddenly struck by the fact that it didn’t sit quite right, as though it wasn’t an expression he was used to making. The thought was as endearing as the rest of him. His voice was unexpectedly low, unexpectedly shy, as he said, “I would.”

#gerrymartin #tma #my writing #iceeckos12 writes #local-eldritch-abomination #ask

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jaskiersvalley · 5 years ago

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I must say that i fucking love your writing ❤❤❤❤my heart melts by how much Jaskier cares and loves his wolves. Just, god, so wonderful! Thank you so much!

There is something so good about Jaskier looking after all his wolves, isn’t there? And I’ve been thinking about Kaer Morhen and how it’s a place where witchers go to rest over winter. What would happen if we turned that on its head? This goes against everything canon but...have I ever been known to stick to canon here?

Each winter, Geralt returned to Kaer Morhen while Jaskier went his own way. It was an arrangement that suited them both, even if Geralt left it until the very last moment before leaving. Really, Jaskier just put it down to his sparkling, magnetic personality that Geralt was finding difficult to give up. At least, that was what he thought until he suggested that they spend a winter together. There was nowhere Jaskier really had to be and he was curious to see the crumbling remains of Kaer Morhen. Geralt was so sparse with details of the place, if Jaskier wanted to write epics about it, he would need to see it for himself.

After some hesitation where Geralt actually looked cagey, Jaskier turned big, pleading eyes at him and got a nod of agreement. Excitement had Jaskier’s heart soaring. He was finally going to see the nesting ground of witchers, see them at their most relaxed and in company of family. They stocked up a cart with salted meats and dried fruits along with any other things Geralt deemed necessary.

The trek up to Kaer Morhen was long, exhausting and Jaskier hated every moment of it. He couldn’t fathom why it had to be so winding, narrow and dangerous. One false move and it would be a slow yet certain death. Arriving at the keep, there was no warm greeting, no reunion of family. The food wasn’t taken to a communal kitchen or pantry. Instead, Jaskier and Geralt hauled everything up to a sparse bedroom and piled into a corner.

Other witchers arrived too, silent and slinking in the shadows. Geralt nodded at them but didn’t speak much. The most interaction they had with each other was on the training grounds. It looked gruelling. Jaskier winced at the blows they delivered to each other, breaking skin, pummelling each other, only to have Vesemir tell them where they were weak and useless. Suddenly, Jaskier understood why Lambert rebelled against being a witcher, why he hated it so much. All through the years, Jaskier had believed that winter was when Geralt could relax, spend time with family and not be wary. But instead, he was pushed harder, made to train, fight against his brothers with desperate brutality. Food was scarce, what they managed to bring with them had to be what lasted for the winter.

Things came to a head when Jaskier found Eskel in the stables, whispering apologies to a goat for not having enough food for them all. He looked miserable, clutching the goat to his chest, knife set to the side and ready, It was heartbreaking, awful and Jaskier had had enough. He’d snapped then and dragged Eskel up to Geralt’s room and gave him some of his own food.

“What are you doing?” Vesemir had looked disapproving when he found out.

“Your job.” Jaskier was livid, fury made him fearless. “You call this home? This isn’t family. This is a survival camp of the worst kind. You’re turning them on each other.”

He didn’t know what response he’d expected, Vesemir was a witcher and older than Jaskier could hope to live in the span of three lifetimes. Yet when the old witcher snarled, he didn’t back down.

“What would you have them do? Go soft over winter? Have them spoilt rotten so they don’t want to leave in the new season? Or if they do, they’ll be slow and reliant on others? No, they need to remember that the Path is a better place for them. This is how they get back out there each year.”

It was the most ridiculous logic Jaskier had ever heard. To make a winter so bad, witchers want to stay on the Path was disgusting. He sneered and glared at Vesemir.

“These aren’t the 900s, we live in modern times now. And I will not stand for your tyranny and bullying.”

Their altercation had been watched quietly by Eskel but also drew in Geralt and Lambert who were hovering behind Vesemir. Jaskier stared him down. “I’ll prove it. You just watch.”

With some help, he got Geralt and his stash of food down into the kitchen. Eskel brought his meagre pile down too, muttering shamefully about not having enough coin for more. However, Lambert lingered, hesitant.

“What do you want to trade?”

“No trade.” Jaskier shook his head. “We’re in this together. Everyone brings what they can, you’re brothers, not enemy.”

That evening, Lambert still hadn’t brought his stash down but Jaskier still served him a bowl of watery stew he had managed to put together from what was in the pantry. There was even a bowl left by Vesemir’s door. The next morning, Lambert’s stash had been added to the pantry.

Training was another battleground between Vesemir and Jaskier. They stood either side of the court, announcing they were both offering training. Strangely, Lambert was the first to head for Jaskier and it was just the two of them that morning, loyalty and fear making Eskel and Geralt stick with Vesemir.

Three days later, Geralt, head down, shuffled to Jaskier’s end of the training grounds and he sat down next to Lambert. As far as he could see, there had been no physical training or anything strenuous Lambert had been forced to do. It might change but he wanted a moment of peace, even if it was half a morning. Instead, he got offered a warm fur to settle in and Jaskier tried to draw him and Lambert into idle conversation.

After lunch, like a beaten dog, Eskel slunk closer. In the distance, Vesemir stood rigid, glaring. Jaskier looked up and set his book of poetry aside.

“Vesemir!” He shouted as the lone witcher turned to leave. Breaking into a run, Jaskier rounded on him and, without any preamble, pulled him into a hug. “It’s okay. You did what you thought you had to. Let me help though.”

It was one of the most miserable winters Jaskier had ever had. Despite careful rationing and pooling of resources, it was still a tough time. By the end of it, he could see the witchers were eager to leave, to get out of Kaer Morhen. Even with his care and gentle approach, the keep held too many bad memories, too many bad habits.

“Next winter, don’t come here. Come to Lettenhove. All of you.” It was a generous offer but the witchers obviously didn’t know just what he was offering. One by one, they agreed except for Vesemir. “You too, Ves,” Jaskier clarified. “Come and let me show you a winter you’re worthy of.”

The year passed, the witchers let loose from Kaer Morhen and dispersing without so much as a look over their shoulders. Spring melded into summer which bled into autumn. As winter approached, Jaskier made arrangements, had rooms prepared for potential visitors and returned home with Geralt in tow.

First at the door was Lambert, looking gaunt and exhausted. The year had obviously not been kind to him, his coin pouch looked light and that was without any supplies he needed to buy for the winter. He was shown to a room and Jaskier found him staring at the soft bed, not daring to touch it.

“You sure that’s for me?”

Jaskier simply helped take his armour off and pushed him into the bed, tucking him in. He would have laughed at the way Lambert looked so bewildered by the gentleness if his heart hadn’t been too busy breaking over the same thing.

Next, Eskel arrived, goat in tow. He was given a room of his own and Jaskier smiled when he was presented with a book of poetry as thanks for his hospitality. It was one he’d mentioned back at Kear Morhen as having never been able to get hold of. Chances were, it had cost Eskel a pretty penny.

When Vesemir knocked on the door, he looked deeply uncomfortable, as if expecting the whole thing to be a trap or to be turned away. He had a cart piled up with food for the season already. Jaskier showed him to his room without batting an eyelash.

Winter was so much better. The witchers still trained but there wasn’t the edge of desperation to their fights. Sometimes it was downright playful, Lambert clinging to Eskel and refusing to be thrown while Geralt pelted them with snowballs. There were other changes too. Slowly, the witchers softened. That wasn’t to say they lost their muscles, they still trained, kept sharp but there was a layer that Jaskier fondly referred to as ‘puppy fat’ on them. They weren’t locked away in a crumbling, cold keep and struggling to survive for another year. Instead, they were thriving.

While Eskel never strayed beyond the boundaries of the home, Lambert was out frequently. The one time he came home dejected because someone made a snide comment about how a witcher should be left out in the cold wilderness to freeze, Jaskier had gone out, a cheap lute in hand. He came back without said lute but the next day there were rumours Lambert heard of how the Viscount hand smashed a lute over someone’s head. After that, nobody dared question the appearance of witchers in the town. It was a well known fact that they were guests of Jaskier and were to be treated as such.

Vesemir’s last walls came crumbling down when, over dinner, rather than snapping and snarling at each other, the other witchers chattered away happily and Lambert laughed. It wasn’t the bitter, hollow bark of before. Instead, he leaned into Eskel with easy familiarity and giggled. Finally, Vesemir understood and he had no idea what to do with the regret and shame that witchers allegedly never felt. And yet, despite everything, a solid warmth settled on his left. Jaskier looked up at him with a smile. Someone settled on his other side and Eskel offered a soft shoulder nudge. It was Geralt who boxed him in from behind, hands on Vesemir’s shoulders and squeezing.

“You’re alright, old man,” Lambert said. “You did your best and what you thought was right.”

Come spring, the witchers were all raring to go, healthy, healed and ready to return to the path. They knew they had their roles and destiny to fulfil, wouldn’t even consider shirking their duties. However, now they had more of a reason to survive rather than sheer spite and not knowing how to die. Instead, they knew that, come winter, they would have a family once again.

#geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #eskel #lambert #vesemir #witcher wolf pack #tldr: winter is not a nice time to be a witcher

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fedtothenight · 4 years ago

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this competition asked to write a short story in the dystopian genre and my entry's below - don't rb!

the sweetest fruit

The boy gasped, straining against the padded frame of the jeep just as the vehicle slowly came to a halt. ‘Look!’ he shouted, pointing at a spot about a hundred feet from the group. ‘Look, Mum! That’s so cool!’

Half-instinctively, his mother had already grabbed a fistful of his tank-top, ready to yank him back. She had spent the entirety of the trip sitting as still as possible, facing forward, eyes stubbornly fixed on the self-cooling top of the car in a pointless effort to fight her motion sickness: her patience was already wearing very thin without her eight-year-old personal safety hazard trying to get himself killed.

‘Ethan, for the love of God,’ she snapped. ‘I already told you to stop leaning over the frame! Do you realise how dangerous that is?’

‘No, Mum, you’ve got to look!’

‘Emma, darling,’ her husband whispered, a gentle hand on her shoulder. ‘You should really look at this. It’s magnificent.’

Whatever it was, even her fifteen-year-old daughter - who had spent the last thirty minutes texting her friends back home without so much as a glance at the scenery - was jaw-slacked, so she slowly got up on her wobbly knees and peered over her shoulders.

In the shadow of a tree, protected from the sweltering heat, two lions were feasting on a zebra. Perhaps belatedly, as it’d taken her a second to drink the sight in, she realised that the poor thing was still alive: writhing as blood, red and hot and pulsing, gushed out from where the bigger lion - the male - had bitten into its back.

The smaller one, the female, soundlessly sank its teeth into the dying animal’s neck, and the latter gave one last weak kick, finally falling limp. When the lioness stood again, it was almost impossible, from this distance, to see her eyes amidst the bloodied mess on her face.

‘Oh, my God, Matt,’ Emma said. ‘This is beautiful. Nature truly is beautiful.’

‘You don’t really get to see this kind of show anywhere else today,’ their guide said from the driver’s seat. He sounded proud, as if he’d hunted and fed the zebra to the lions himself.

Alberto wasn’t wrong, Emma reasoned. Given that they were parked in the middle of the privately-owned biggest North American savanna, he - or rather, his employer - was the one effectively feeding the lions. Like feeding mice to cats. She glanced at her children, glad they could have a window on a reality that was long gone. To think it would have taken a trip around the world to watch this spectacle - imagine the motion sickness then! If only, she considered wistfully, there could be a way of replicating glaciers just as accurately.

‘Honestly, it seems a bit unfair that they get to eat real meat,’ Ethan said at the dinner table a few hours later. He was picking at his plate, moving the fried grasshoppers they’d been served for dinner around, but not really eating any. ‘While we are stuck with insects and microprotein or whatever.’

Emma pinched the bridge of her nose. She was tired and sunburnt, her sensitive pale skin suffering under the blistering sun of the region, so different from the temperate weather back home North. She had a splitting headache, too. She was, yet again, at the so-called end of her tether. ‘Ethan…’

‘You should be glad you get to eat at all,’ her daughter said at the same time. ‘There’s a reason it’s illegal to eat meat. These animals are here for show, anyway. They were originally from Africa.’

‘Shut up, Becca,’ Ethan mumbled. ‘Everybody knows there are no animals in Africa. There’s nothing there.’

Becca’s cheeks were tinted pink, eyebrows furrowed. ‘Of course there were animals. There were animals everywhere before the Climate Crunch.’

‘Both of you, stop it,’ Matt interjected. ‘Ethan, your sister is right. You should be grateful that we are here in the first place. That said…’ He leant forward, voice down to a whisper: ‘I have a surprise for you. Or, well, Richard has a surprise for us. When he arrives tomorrow, he’ll bring us real meat. Bovine meat.’

‘But it’s illegal,’ said Becca.

‘It’s technically illegal,’ Matt acknowledged. ‘It’s not if you know how to get some and no one from Animal Conservation finds out. Do you think our president only eats insects? Please, Becca. Use that big brain of yours.’

‘Yes,’ Ethan snickered. ‘Use your brain, Becca.’

‘That is too generous,’ Emma said. ‘Inviting us here in the first place was, when even he hasn’t gotten here yet. Now this. I wouldn’t know how to repay him.’

Truly, all she felt was jealousy. Her guts twisted with the sheer force of it. Yes, she had known that Richard was comfortable. The gated, heavily guarded estate spanned for thousands of acres, comprised the 5000sqt villa they were staying at (five bedrooms, seven bathrooms, a cinema, marble floors and solar panels on the rooftop), an indoor swimming pool inspired by vintage photos of Amalfi, two indoor tennis courts, and the savanna they’d explored earlier in the day. ‘The biggest conservation area in North America since they repurposed the Midwest,’ he’d bragged in a video call, two weeks before. ‘You will love it. The holiday you deserve. Make yourselves at home.’

But meat? He could get meat?

Matt’s family had designed DeNuketify, which was basically the only effective way of purifying ocean water from whatever nuclear waste Japan kept spewing so that it could be used and, most importantly, drunk. They had managed to flee the continent with the last handful of greencards about the time her family did, too, taking their precious Queen’s accent with them to found Nova London. She was the governor of Nova London now, for God’s sake. The bloody queen herself was long dead but she was alive, and yet, yet - they had never had meat.

‘We don’t have to, Emma,’ Matt said. ‘We just need to remember how lucky we are to enjoy this meal, this house, this holiday. Look at that,’ and he nodded towards the TV screen again. ‘Actually, Alexa!, volume up!, I think the Italians have finally surrendered.’

The war correspondent’s voice grew louder. She - they, Emma reminded herself: Becca always told her not to assume anyone’s gender - was wearing a dust mask and reading from a bundle of documents. ‘The last military hospital in the island of Palermo was destroyed four days ago by a Canadian airstrike,’ they were saying. ‘The rebels surrendered soon after, followed by the group of extremists in the Nebrodi island. Etna had already surrendered last year.’

‘It’s important to remember that these actions were necessary to finally put a rest on the instability of the region,’ they added. ‘Canada will fund a complete restoration of the Southern archipelago. The remaining civilians will be provided with a shelter and then, when the time comes, a suitable job. Nova Italia will be the sixteenth Canadian state, the fourth offshore. There are also hopes to extract petroleum from the seabed of the sunken city of Gela.’

‘Watch them make it into a holiday hotspot,’ Matt commented. ‘The weather is still nice there.’

‘Ooh, I heard about this.’ Becca picked her phone back up and started furiously typing away. ‘There’s this journal entry soldiers found over there, under the rubble, that’s gone viral. It was translated into English. Wait, I’ll pull it up. Alexa, volume down.’

‘I’m not sure I want to hear it,’ Emma said, uneasy. ‘We’re on holiday. Should we not watch a movie? Something funny?’

Becca waved her away, as if she was an annoying fly. ‘It’ll be good practice for my drama class.’

Matt didn’t help—he simply shrugged, half-apologetic, as if to say: Let her do her thing.

Becca made a show of clearing her throat, too, before she started reading from her phone—her high voice now grave, studied, as if she were speaking to a larger audience: ‘I wonder what peas taste like.’

Right then, the scene on screen changed to footage of what looked like a destroyed village, something out of an apocalyptic movie. Emma found herself unable to look away.

‘Nonna used to say that her own great-grandmother grew them in her garden. Figs, too,’ Becca read. ‘They say they were the sweetest fruit.’

Emma wondered if this journal was actually written by a child or a teenager. It didn’t sound like an adult at all. She couldn’t help but picture a girl, a brunette, not much older than Becca, perhaps a rebel, or a trainee nurse on the sweet cusp of adulthood, holding this journal of hers, or perhaps a gun. It violently reminded her that her own daughter, too, would have to serve her time in the Forces in three years.

On screen, the Canadian soldiers walked among the ruins, zigzagging between torn up clothes and discarded weapons, surely looking for surviving rebels under the rubbles.

‘Isn’t it silly that we can hear the fighters overhead and that all I can do is think about food?’ said Becca. ‘I wish we could also eat figs and be happy.’

On screen, the camera zoomed in on a long-forgotten man's shoe, some crumpled photographs, on a pile of bodies in black bin bags.

‘Grandma - I miss her - left me a poetry book, too, from T.S. Eliot. I hope the book is with me when I die, so I can give it back to her when we meet again, afterwards. So I can tell her that T.S. Eliot was wrong.’

On screen, one of the soldiers approached and showed a little trinket to the camera: a bloody, heart-shaped locket that must’ve once been golden, hiding the miniature pictures of two brunette children that would never have a name.

‘That’s enough,’ Emma said. She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. ‘Stop reading.’

‘The world may have not ended with a bang, but it didn’t end with a whimper, either: the world didn’t end at all. Sometimes,’ Becca finished reading, ‘I wish it had.’

‘What a load of rubbish,’ Matt scoffed. ‘Everyone should feel lucky to be alive. I bet this journal is a fake. Alexa, turn the TV off.’

As the screen faded to black, Ethan finally popped a grasshopper in his mouth. ‘I can’t wait to have meat tomorrow.’

#my writing #honestly dystopia is not a genre i'm interested in #lol #this was lazy and i wrote it in one morning while i was hungover on negroni

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alottanothing · 5 years ago

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Left to Ruin: Chapter Five

Summary: Ahkemenrah and his sister struggle to come to terms with their arranged marriage. The pharaoh meets with suitors to become his second wife; he finds it hard, however, to give them his heart when he remembers someone else who has already claimed it.

Previous Chapters

Word Count: 7009

Warnings:This one gets a wee bit spicy, not completely smut, but it’s heavily implied.

Tag List: @xmxisxforxmaybe, @r-ahh-mi, @theultraviolencefan, @hah0106, @rami-malek-trash, @diasimar, @sherlollydramoine, @flipper-kisses, @ivy-miranda-2390, @txmel, @sunkissedmikky, @concentratedsassandcandy, @babyalienfairy (Let me know if I missed you, or if you would like to be added to the tag list)

A/N: Oh man this chapter’s a long one, but, it might be one of my favorites. Shout out to those of you who have been liking, rebloging and commenting! I’m a gooey mess of warmth when is read what stuck out, so thank you all a million times. Y’all are rock stars. ❤️❤️Again, as a disclaimer, I am not an ancient Egyptian expert and google only knows so much. So yeah, I took so historical liberties while writing this to make my life easier, but tried to keep it as “authentic” as possible. As another helpful note, Ahk is 23 by the end of this chapter and Set 18.

Much like his responsibilities as ruler of the great empire of Egypt, maintaining the charade of a blossoming marriage became easier with every passing day. Ahkmenrah and Setshepsut’s fondness and their genuine love of one another helped to sell the narrative they wanted to. During the day they were busy tending to matters for their respective roles, only coming together for meals. Their nights, however, were always spent together in the privacy of the pharaoh’s bed-chamber, doing whatever they pleased in their few hours free of responsibility.

Most nights they played game after game of Senet, and most of those nights Ahkmenrah let his little sister win just to see that childlike joy spread over her face. Before long though, it was Set who was letting him win much to the pharaoh’s frustration. Even so, Ahk could think of nothing he cherished more than the laughs they shared.

Other nights they would sit on the balcony or lean on the rail looking out over the city as they passed the hours with conversation much like the night they married. Setshepsut loved Ahkmenrah’s stories about his time away from the capital. Even after she heard them a dozen times, she still listened with wonderment in her eyes, and Ahk was only too happy to regale her with as much detail as he could pull from his memory.

Some nights, hardly a word would pass between them, and they would spend the hours with a lonely silence that reminded them of the chains they wore. Ahkmenrah would distract himself from the obvious tension with matters of the realm, busying himself with a hundred tasks scribbled out on stacks of papyrus. Setshepsut would tuck her self far away, in a corner or on the balcony to read histories or poetry without saying so much as a hello or a good-bye, before returning to her own chamber to be free of the strain duty was putting on their kinship.

Ahkmenrah hated those nights when the weight of what they weren’t doing hung so heavily upon them that the mere sight of the other curled a frown on their face. He preferred the nights of game playing or storytelling, when he could make out the glimmer of life in her eyes. There was still so much of his sister that was a child, especially those first two years of their marriage. Ahkmenrah wanted to preserve the child who was still clinging to her, not destroy it. He forfeited his own childhood by choice of accepting the crown; Setshepsut was not given the same choice.

For those first few years, his attempts were successful at encouraging the wonderment of her youth—teaching her about their nation's cultures, histories, and fables. As time progressed, however, wisdom began poking through the ever-fading veil of her childhood, giving way to the wisdom and spirit of a young woman Ahkmenrah greatly admired. Their conversations began to shift to subjects far deeper than tales of places he had seen. They spoke of life and of dreams; dreams they both knew were out of reach for people in their position. Still, under the stars on the balcony, Ahkmenrah cherished every word they shared no matter how bitter, or sweet.

Setshepsut entered the pharaoh's chambers one night, three years into their phony marriage, carrying with her a mien that piqued Ahk’s interest in a way that made him feel abruptly ill at ease. He greeted her as he always did, with a smile and a light kiss to her cheek, and her curious demeanor became more evident the closer he was to her. Ahkmenrah’s smile faded slightly feeling the peculiar vibe and elected the stack of papyrus he’d been looking over could wait until later.

He held Set an arm's length away, his hands planted gently on her shoulders as he searched her expression for a hint as to what was causing his spirited sister such unease.

“What’s wrong?”

Set swallowed nervously and sighed.

“Set?” Ahk tested, drawing her attention back to him when it began to stray.

“I have something I must tell you—a secret. And I hope that you will help me keep it.”

She said nothing more and walked hastily out to the balcony, leaning against the wide edge of the stone railing to better gaze out over the city. Ahk followed, curiosity and fear fueling his movements. A thousand things flashed into his mind as to what it could be his sister needed to tell him, each slightly more concerning than the last. And by the time he placed himself beside her, he was out of breath, with his heart racing.

“You can tell me anything, you know that,” Ahkmenrah assured her, wishing she would hurry up and end his internal suffering.

“There’s a soldier called Satauhotep. He’s very kind…”

Suddenly, the nervousness on her features lessened, turning into something deeply wistful. A soft smile curled onto her lips and pink tinted her cheeks. She was very obviously infatuated and was scared he might be mad at her on account.

“We’ve sort of been meeting in private—he kissed me once. But I promise nothing more than that.” Set said, some of that concern casting a veil over her smitten features.

He should have warned her, should have told her how dangerous it was for her and a soldier—or anyone—to be caught together. But Ahkmenrah decided not to be angry: foolish as that might have been.

The wife of the pharaoh was to remain loyal to no other man, even if their union hardly classified as a marriage in their minds. To others, they were king and queen, and a queen could be punished for acting so adulterous.

When he smiled, the apprehension vanished from Setshepsut’s face, and her usual spirit quickly surged through her. A part of Ahk feared that fire inside of her would die if she remained stagnantly tethered to him—so he smiled and decided not to be angry.

“This is blessed news. I will gladly keep this secret for you.”

“Really?” Set almost looked surprised.

“Of course,” Ahk promised.

It wasn’t lost to him that, for her, their marriage was more akin to a life sentence of servitude. Ahkmenrah didn’t want to think about what would become of his sister if she was denied happiness her entire life. As pharaoh, he could take any number of wives to sate his own desires, but Setshepsut? Set could only ever have him, and he was not who she wanted.

“I am truly happy you have found someone, Set. But please be careful,” Ahk warned. “Even as pharaoh, I don’t know if I can protect you both should you get caught.”

“I know,” Setshepsut said softly, meeting his eyes. “Satau does too. He just—he makes me happy. I can’t really explain it beyond that.”

Her gaze turned back out over the city, that familiar guise of infatuation settling firmly across her features. As he looked at her in that stricken state of affection, Ahkmenrah couldn’t help but be envious of the love his sister had found. What followed, however, was a strong yank of sorrow pulling at his heartstrings that stirred memories and a grief he hadn’t thought of in years.

“What are you thinking about?” Set said, catching her brother’s suddenly wistful expression.

“Nouke…” Ahkmenrah whispered, and just saying her name caused his heart to hammer and to break all at once as he realized he had almost let her slip from his memory.

***

The king and queen’s perfect pantomime held strong for five years before anyone thought to question the legitimacy of their marriage. Surprisingly, Setshepsut’s infatuation with Satauhotep had broken up the monotony their routine had fallen into. Set was happier, and Ahk was happier because she was happier. The three of them could have gone on for many more years that way, but Ahk was called to an early council meeting one afternoon that chose to hinder their comfortable ritual.

The pharaoh was smart enough to know why his advisors summoned him midday to discuss important ‘family matters', and to some extent; it was odd that the council—and his father—had taken so long to bring up the issue concerning heirs. Or lack thereof, rather. And while he knew such a time would come; Ahk found he was ill-prepared to answer the questions his councilors threw at him.

“It’s not for a lack of trying,” Ahkmenrah lied.

Until then, he’d remained vague, which made his father’s glower grow significantly. The pharaoh felt horrible for lying, but that was the best way to keep their charade from seeing the light. He knew the importance of leaving behind heirs to ensure the longevity of the family bloodline. He respected that principle and would abide by it as long as Setshepsut had no part in it.

“Perhaps the queen cannot bear children,” one of the advisors suggested.

Ahkmenrah sat in his chair, listening idly to the men at his table bicker about possible reasons why the king and queen had no children. It was almost comical that none of them even considered the truth.

Finally, Merenkahre silenced them all with the raising of his hand and turned his intense eyes to his son.

“Whatever the reason is; I think it is time our pharaoh takes a second wife. If the queen will not give him children, then another will.”

Ahkmenrah sat up straighter, considerably more interested in the council meeting after hearing his father’s suggestion. His smile was difficult to keep reserved, and his stomach tingled excitedly with a hopefulness that he couldn't quite place.

“Would that be satisfactory to the king?” Meren asked, a single brow hooked high on his forehead.

“Very satisfactory,” Ahkmenrah agreed. “However, I want to choose my bride this time.”

“Yes, my thoughts as well,” his father concurred quickly, as though he already prepared for Ahk to demand such an ultimatum. “You will choose from an audience of suitors the council has deemed appropriate for you.”

A frown threatened to twist onto Ahkmenrah’s features, suddenly feeling that pleasant tingle in his stomach shift to irritation.

“Appropriate?”

“Yes, my king,” Merenkahre assured him. “Ladies who are deserving of you, and will bring you, sons and daughters.”

Trained servants to open their legs for me, is more like it, Ahk thought trying to stifle his sneer.

He wasn’t interested in women who lacked their own dreams and desires; most noble ladies he had met were no more than trained animals. They wanted nothing other than to please their powerful husband and give him sons. He wanted someone who loved him; and shared like-minded thoughts. Someone spirited and adventurous. But Ahkmenrah wasn’t allowed to be so greedy. Marriage for a pharaoh was a political stratagem and nothing more. What his mother and father had was unique for a king and queen. Every century or so, the stars aligned and two souls were allowed to join outside the normal order as Merenkahre and Shepseheret had done. Ahkmenrah was too late for that chance.

“I suppose there is no sense in trying to change your mind on that?” Ahkmenrah probed.

Merenkahre remained resolute, “It’s what’s best for Egypt.”

A bereft sigh escaped the pharaoh’s lips, and he folded.

“So be it.” Ahk stood and looked to his father. “I’ll leave the remainder of this council meeting in your capable hand's father. I need the rest of the evening to think.”

All the men at the table hurried to their feet and bowed as he left saying nothing more. He spent an hour walking in a loop through the palace halls, brooding while trying to find a silver lining in the latest obstacle laid before him. By the time he made it back to his bedchambers, both his feet and his mind were sore from their work out.

Setshepsut was already inside, lounging on a padded bench, boredly eating from a platter of fresh fruit. She threw him a smile as a greeting but nothing more. Despite her relationship with the soldier Satauhotep letting a little bit of steam out of the metaphorical pot of their marriage, the routine often still felt tiresome. Both of them would have loved to be free to do anything other than faking it.

“You’re back from council early,” she fished, as she continued snacking.

Ahkmenrah’s lips pressed into a hard line as he thought back to the discussions he’d endured while he shrugged out of his golden robes and left them in a pile near the edge of his bed. He removed his crown as well, heedlessly tossing it onto the cushion of where he slept and sauntered over to join his sister on the bench.

She offered him the platter of fruits and Ahk absently picked a date to nosh on.

“The council and father are on to us,” he sighed.

“Five years and no children? I suspect they should be.” Setshepsut shrugged. “So what has the council decided should be done about the issue?”

“I am to take another wife—father is arranging suitors for me to meet with,”

The expression on Setshepsut’s face changed from one of mild indifference to a sort of happy sadness that Ahk had not expected to find when he looked at her.

“What are you thinking?”

A rueful smile ghosted onto her lips, and she half shrugged.

“Nothing—I’m just glad…”

“Glad?” Ahk’s brows knit together.

“Yeah,” she looked at him, her big dark eyes meeting his with ample compassion. “I’m glad that you may finally find some happiness.”

Ahkmenrah looked at her adoringly. He knew her well enough to read between the lines: she was happy he may have a chance to find love, but sad she could not pursue the love she had found.

“I’m happy with you, Set,” Ahk assured her, not knowing what else to say.

“I know, me too.” More sorrow darkened her expression. “But you and I will never be completely happy this way.”

Another piece of that little girl he’d grown up with vanished in that moment causing a poignant tug on Ahkmenrah’s heart strings. She was too wise for her own good.

Ahkmenrah sighed and said nothing more, giving his sister a soft kiss to her cheek before going to distract himself with his endless stacks of papyrus’.

***

It took Merenkahre all of two days to gather an audience of suitable women for Ahkmenrah to choose from. He came to the pharaoh’s bed-chamber early that morning with a taut smile on his lips, wearing an air of pride that could almost rival the one Kahmunrah carried every day without reason.

Ahk dismissed the servants who had been helping him into his usual raiment with a wave and finished the task himself.

“There are five beautiful young ladies awaiting your approval in the throne room,” Merenkahre told him.

“I commend you for making such quick work of this issue, father,” Ahk stated, unsure if his own tone was genuine or sardonic.

Meren always pursued a task with the utmost devotion and haste. However, Ahkmenrah felt that the matter of choosing potential brides should have been executed a little slower. Nevertheless, Ahk swallowed his own irritation and threw on as genuine a smile as he could muster—if only to please his father.

“So when am I to meet them?”

“As soon as you are ready, my son,” Merenkahre said.

“Perfect.” Ahkmenrah finished dressing by placing his crown upon his head and followed his father to the throne room to meet the brides chosen for him, one of with whom he would have to spend the rest of his life with.

The pharaoh took his rightful place on the golden throne, situating himself comfortably but also as regally as he could manage. His father stood beside him and gave the order to bring the king his prospective brides.

They were all beautiful—his father was correct to tell him so. The women before him glittered like gemstones, draped in finery that almost eclipsed his own. Each one was brought before him, introduced like a product for purchase (a rather off-putting notion for the pharaoh) and primly stepped aside for the next one to be ushered in.

Three of them were daughters of respected noble families Ahk knew to be of Waset. Another was the niece of one of his councilors, and the last, who was vaguely familiar to him. Nensala was from Men-nefer, and the youngest daughter of Sefkh: the man who hosted him and his father all those years ago in his city. He recalled her kindness and how much she reminded him of Setshepsut; Ahkmenrah was glad to see at least one familiar face before him.

“I am heartened by your beauty, and your presence, my ladies,” Ahkmenrah stated, taking on his best official-sounding bravado. “I invite you to share my home for the next few weeks, so that I may get to know each of you before I make my decision.”

Ahk instructed his servants to ready chambers for each of them.

“Please, take this evening to get settled. I will call upon you in the coming days.”

The women all graced him with gleaming smiles and bowed as they were escorted out of the throne room and to their own chambers.

Over the course of two weeks, Ahkmenrah upheld his end of the bargain he and his father had come to and devoted as much of his time as he could to acquainting himself with the ladies chosen to be his bride. He was hopeful in the beginning—longing to harness merely a sliver of potential love, but little by little that hope waned. The pharaoh tried to find a connection between each of them he courted, but despite all the kindling, nothing sparked. It was as he feared: each of them wanted nothing more than to serve him. They lacked dreams and wisdom that made people so unique.

After a week of nothing but wholehearted attempts to find a woman who he would be glad to name as his wife, with nothing to show for it but exhaustion of mind and soul, Ahkmenrah chose to take one evening for himself. His chambers were quiet and blessedly free of suitors who shared no more in common with him then the plants in the gardens.

He was laying across his bed, eyes locked with the tall ceiling, swimming through his own thoughts when Setshepsut came to visit.

“Hello,” he said in a dark monotone that matched the heaviness in his heart.

She laid beside her brother when he motioned for her to join by patting the empty space next to him. Her eyes stayed fixated at the hieroglyphs etched onto the ceiling as well, for a long time. Ahk felt some of the tension begin to ebb with the quiet company of his sister, once again grateful that it was Setshepsut he was bound to.

“What’s wrong with them?” Set finally asked.

Ahkmenrah only shrugged.

“Well surely there must be something wrong with them--they are all so beautiful.” Setshepsut teased, elbowing his side gently.

Ahk, however, sighed and frowned, not in the mood for her wit.

“That is the problem. They have beauty alone.”

Set was quiet a moment, then turned on her side, propping her head on her elbow.

“Don’t most men only want pretty wives?”

A slow smile crept onto his lips in spite of his sour mood, and he rolled his eyes.

“Forgive me for holding such high standards. I happen to have been raised around a slew of women who were both beautiful and smart. Is it too selfish of me to want both of my wives to be this way?”

They both began to chuckle. Heartened, genuine laughs that the two of them had not shared in a long time, bringing tears to their eyes and a dull ache in their muscles from how hard they’d let go. For a moment, the entire world was made up of only the two of them, and it was a welcomed feeling to be free of reality, even if only for a few seconds.

When the laughter settled, and gentle smiles were all that remained of their fit of giggles, Ahk’s mind began to wander into those almost forgotten times when the golden shackles he wore held a longer chain. Memories stirred of his childhood, and the one person who he was sad no longer was a part of his life.

“I wonder what happened to Nouke after she and her family left?” he thought aloud before he could stop himself.

Nearly a decade had passed since he last saw his friend from the garden. He hoped she was still just as spirited as he remembered.

“I imagine she’s somewhere happily married, with a handful of children who love her…” he mused with a sad smile.

He could feel Set’s eyes upon his face, but Ahk’s stayed transfixed in the space above him, his mind still drawing images of Nouke and the family she may have.

“Ahkmen?” Setshepsut said a while later in a voice only an octave above a whisper.

“Hhmm?”

“Do you think the reason you find it so difficult to give your heart to one of these girls is because you gave it away a long time ago...to Nouke?”

Finally, Ahkmenrah’s eyes tore away from the ceiling, blown wide with realization as he gazed at his sister. She knew him better than he knew himself.

Set smiled at the look of shock on her brother's face and returned to her previous position of staring at the ceiling.

“You mustn’t lose hope that you will never find love again. Don’t waste the freedom that you hold, and I lack. Please.”

Despite the deep-rooted sadness in her tone, Ahkmenrah still found hope lingering just beneath the surface of her features. Seeing him freely court others was beginning to dampen her spirit; it hurt her that she couldn’t do the same with the man she loved without fear. Set did well to mask that ache though.

Ahk turned his eyes back to the ceiling and slid his hand to hold hers—a comfort both knew to show their understanding.

“I will have Satauhotep added to your personal guard. That way, the two of you may be seen together without cause for suspicion. It’s not a lot--”

Set squeezed his fingers, and cut him off, “It’s enough.”

***

After two weeks, only one suitor remained, Nensala, although, in the pharaoh’s mind, he had already dismissed her as he had the others. There was, however, an intriguing allure to her for Ahkmenrah that none of the other brides had. She was the only one whom he had known previously. Nensala was eleven the last time he saw her the night before an assassin sought to take his life while he slept.

When he met her in the courtyard, her beauty threw a veil over the little girl in his memories; she was a vision in the dulling light of the afternoon. Her skin was delicate against his when she took the arm he offered, and her smile was almost a song as she leaned against his side. It would have been easy to get lost in her physical beauty, but Ahkmenrah was determined to find a bride whose soul matched his own.

He led her on a leisure stroll throughout his palace and its grounds as he had all the others, doing his best to keep his mind away from Nouke. In fact, he'd found it hard not to dwell on his friend from the garden ever since his mind allowed her to settle into the forefront of his memory. Ahkmenrah’s heart yearned for her, yearned to be present in her enchanting spirit that he adored in his youth. It was she whom he had compared all of his potential brides to, and none of them could fill the hole her absence had left inside him.

“Forgive me, my king. But you seem distracted.” Nensala’s voice was soft when she spoke.

Ahkmenrah blinked back to reality, finding they had wandered into the West Garden, and a mirthless chuckle escaped his pursed lips.

“Fitting,” he quipped, glancing around as if to look for his friend he knew wouldn’t be there.

Nensala’s eyes followed his, her forehead creasing with puzzlement as she turned back to look at him.

“What is?”

A poignant ache tightened in his stomach taking in the empty garden and the silent histories hidden there. He wanted to speak of his friend, their adventures; to reminisce freely, but that would not be kingly.

“I spent a lot of my youth in this garden,” Ahk mused. “With my friend Nouke.”

“Nouke?” “She was a servant girl—we were inseparable."

A gentle smile lit up Nensala’s face, and she took his hand and led him to the edge of the fountain. She urged him to sit beside her on its wide edge, and spoke.

“Tell me about her.”

A grin unfurled slowly on his face, only too happy to speak of his friend. He told her of all the games they would play, all the scorching afternoons they spent splashing in the waters of the fountain. The pharaoh spoke of everything except the secret passage they used to venture along the Nile; those memories were sacred to him, kept safely locked away in his heart.

“What happened to her?”

A frown twisted the nostalgic smile off of Ahkmenrah’s face, and he shrugged.

“Her family left our services. By the time I returned from my travels across Egypt, she was gone. I haven’t seen her since.”

“That’s sad,” Nensala murmured, with a genuine ruefulness.

“Mmm,” Ahkmenrah hummed, his mind lost again in thoughts of Nouke. “I think that’s why I have had such trouble finding another bride…”

“None of us are her…” Nensala finished for him, and for the first time, he truly looked at her.

Her sorrow for him was palpable, and it made his heart feel warm.

“I can understand that,” she said, taking his hand in hers. “There was this boy who came to visit my city years ago; he was so kind, and handsome—with a head full of dreams. My father has had a terrible time trying to find me a husband because no man he has ever brought me has been him.”

Suddenly, Ahkmenrah’s heart was aching for her and for himself. Did she truly see him? See past the golden raiment? She’d been the only one so far to even kindle something more than mediocre conversation.

“What happened to him?” Ahk asked, truly curious.

She grinned, and the sparkle in her stormy eyes made his heart race.

“He returned to the capital and became pharaoh, taking his sister for a wife.”

Before her words had time to register she scooted closer and leaned to kiss him softly—a test to gauge his reaction. Although his mind was still overrun with thoughts of Nouke, Ahkmenrah found his eyes closing, returning Nensala’s chaste kiss; all of those latent desires bursting with rapid heat.

It was the first time that he’d been touched since his marriage. There had been many who had caught his eye during a feast or festival he'd hosted; ladies he wanted nothing more than to make his for a night as he’d done countless times before gaining a queen. However, Ahk felt it too unfair—perhaps even cruel—to act so heedlessly on his desires when Setshepsut could not. Over the years those urges had grown numb until Nensala made him realize just how touch starved he truly was.

When she pulled away, there was a slight pinkish hue tinting her cheeks, and she let her eyes fall from his in mild embarrassment.

“Forgive me, my king, for my forwardness.”

He placed a finger under her chin and tilted her head until her eyes met his own. Lust was spreading like fire inside of him; a gnawing desperation for the need to touch and to be touched clouding all rational thoughts in his mind. A frown began to turn Nensala’s features, a result of his gawking silence, but before she could look away, Ahkmenrah claimed her mouth with a ravenous desire.

His tongue quickly flicked along her lips, stealing a taste, that caused her to open for him with a sigh—her own yearning an echo of his own. Ahk’s hands framed her face, urging her to close the gap between them, not wanting her mouth to leave his until he’d had his fill.

They were both gasping when they broke away, and he found her eyes twinkling with wonderment. Her fingers trailed along his jaw, drawing him to her mouth again and Ahk met her halfway. There was a desperation in the way their lips danced, passion too, or perhaps it was simply lust. Nevertheless, Ahkmenrah was consumed. She whimpered a bereft cry when he broke their kiss again, but he took Nensala by the hand and whisked her away to the privacy of his bed-chamber.

Ahkmenrah was glad to find his room empty—Setshepsut nowhere to be seen. For a fleeting moment, a pang of guilt wrestled his lust hazed mind, thinking about his sister and the actions their marriage forbid only she from doing. However, he didn’t dwell on it; he needed to feel something. He only hoped Setshepsut would understand.

Nensala’s eyes took in the grandeur of the pharaoh’s chamber with wonderment and a smile and when her eyes found his bed, she glanced back at him with a coy smirk.

“My king?” she asked, and he answered with a nod of consent.

She approached him slowly, and he watched, hanging on her every movement, taking in just how thin the linen of her gown was. Delicate hands removed his crown, weaving through his hair and when she pulled his bottom lip between her teeth, licking the sensitive skin, heat pooled in his groin.

His guilt was at war with his desire; and his desire was winning. Ahk’s eyes slid shut at the surge of pleasure her every touch invoked. Deft fingers snaked down his back, spurring a wave of goosebumps over his flesh, as she worked to loosen the fastenings of his wesekh, laying kisses to his jaw as she did. The jeweled collar fell heedlessly between them to the ground, his golden robes slipping from his shoulders in a heap alongside it.

Before Nensala’s hands could finish their downward trajectory, Ahkmenrah grabed her wrists and pulls away from her kisses. At that moment, the pharaoh considered ordering her to leave him so he could retain his silent vow of abstinence a while longer, but his will betrayed him.

With a wordless instruction, he nodded towards his bed. That same, impish smirk unfurled on her lips as she turned to do as her king commanded and perched herself on its edge. Without ceremony, Ahkmenrah removed the rest of his garments, leaving all of them a forgotten pile on the floor.

Her eyes never strayed from his as he trod across the room, stopping to loom over her. The intensity in her eyes matched the burning in his core and when she stood, Nensala pushed the straps of her dress from her shoulders, allowing it to fall in a whisper from her body. Ahk pulled her against him, his fingertips pressing possessively into the soft flesh of her hips, reveling in the feel of her breasts against his chest. That sudden friction sparked a moan from deep within both. When Ahkmenrah kissed her again, it was fervent and powerful, the kiss of a virile king and Nensala surrendered herself to him, allowing her pharaoh to chase away all of his desires begging to be set free.

For the first time in a long time, Ahkmenrah felt a sense of peace come over him—no matter how minuscule it was. It was as though his spirit was anew and the air that filled his lungs was inherently more soothing. Losing himself in another person allowed him to find the pieces of him that had been missing for longer than he cared to remember. In his heart, he still missed his friend, but perhaps he’d found room to learn to love the woman in his bed.

He called for his servants to bring them a tray of fresh fruits and breads to share as they lounged in cheerful company telling stories. Nen spoke of her family back home—her older sisters and their husbands, her brothers and their wives, and all of her nieces and nephews. In return Ahk spoke of his own family. He couldn’t help but find her presence wholly inviting, and yet his mind never failed to trail back to his friend from the garden.

In an attempt to deter the thoughts of Nouke, Ahkmenrah finally mustered the courage to ask the one question that none of his other potential brides could answer correctly: what was it she wanted out of life, what dreams did she have?

Nensala thought for a moment, her lighthearted expression growing pensive as she really considered her answer.

“There are many places I would love to see—the pyramids. They’ve always intrigued me; the stories there. They’re but a half day’s journey from Men-nefer, but I’ve never gone. And the way you spoke of the Mediterranean? I’d love to see those blue waters.”

Ahk listened to her avidly as a hopefulness began to take root in his bones. All he wanted was to share his life with someone who he could love, who harnessed the same sense of adventure and adoration for making the most of every day. However, the wistful expression on Nensala’s face fell when she sighed.

“What I want doesn’t matter, though. What does is your happiness, my king.”

Her words were like a knife to him. All of that hope vanished, and he felt knots tighten in his stomach.

“I could make you happy,” she smirked, not taking notice of his suddenly cold expression. “I have already, haven’t I?”

Defeat quickly washed away all the pieces of him he’d thought he’d recovered in her company. She was like all the rest—he was merely a prize that she was ready to bow and succumb to. She held no conviction of her own or integrity. Nensala was trained like all the other brides had been.

“Yes,” he said finally, fighting hard to keep from frowning.

Their conversation lulled soon after, and Ahkmenrah demanded she left, offering no reason. Nensala didn’t question him—more evidence of his fear. He walked her to his door and thanked her for her company, laying a kiss to her cheek and bid her goodnight.

***

Be it from his own guilt, or the simple want to do something nice for his sister; Ahkmenrah arranged for Satauhotep to join them for a private dinner soon after all the suitors were gone. The modest soiree provided a much-needed distraction from everything that was making the pharaoh’s life significantly less enchanting. His father was unpleased that he ordered his potential brides to leave, he missed Nouke more than he ever had before, and he needed a break from it all.

Set was overjoyed with the idea of a dinner together. Satauhotep however, looked understandably alarmed to find the pharaoh seated at the table they were to share in the secluded dining chamber.

He quickly relinquished Setshepsut’s hand and fell to his knees, muttering a firm, “My king!”, as he did.

“There is no need for such formality here,” Ahkmenrah said with a smirk. “You may rise.”

Setshepsut helped him stand, and that same look of alarm was on his face when he met the pharaoh’s gaze.

“May I speak freely, my king?” Satauhotep swallowed nervously.

“Of course, I would have it no other way.”

The soldier's eyes drifted between Setshepsut and his king, and he swallowed again before he spoke.

“What is the meaning of this invitation?”

Ahkmenrah smiled and looked at his sister.

“This is my gift to her. And I thought it time I finally met you.”

Satauhotep’s nervousness began to meld into panic, but Setshepsut took his hand to calm him.

“It’s okay, Satau. He knows—he’s known for a while,” she assured him, kissing his cheek.

Color slowly started to come back to the soldier’s features as his mind worked through what Setshepsut confessed, and he looked to Ahkmenrah for some form of reassurance.

“Set told me years ago the two of you met. I only apologize it’s taken me this long to have officially met you.”

A heavy line creased his forehead and surely a hundred questions flooded into his mind.

“W-why am I not being reprimanded? To court your queen—that’s punishable by death.”

“What my sister and I share is a contract, written on a scroll of papyrus by my father—it’s political and nothing more. We’ve been playing our roles for the public alone. Otherwise, our union has been inordinately platonic.”

Satauhotep blinked, confusion drifting over his face as visible as clouds in the sky.

“But I escort you to the pharaoh’s chambers each night—you don’t…?”

Set chuckled, “We play Senet for hours—Ahkmen’s terrible.”

“I taught you how to play Senet,” Ahkmenrah quipped throwing a soured look to his sister.

“You’re still terrible.” She shrugged.

The pharaoh rolled his eyes as he smirked.

“I never told you any of this because it was easiest to keep it between Ahkmen and myself,” Set told him.

“And if you vow not to tell a soul that Set and I are putting on a ruse,” Ahk said. “I promise that I will keep your relationship with my sister a secret.”

For the first time, Satauhotep’s features broke into a smile, and he accepted, pulling Set in for a deep kiss that filled Ahk’s heart with a bubbling warmth to witness.

The rest of the evening progressed calmly and the pharaoh let himself fade into the background, allowing his sister and her lover some real time so their love could blossom. Watching them together overwhelmed him with both joy and sadness. Their affection for one another enveloped the other in a tangible glow that was brighter than all the lamps and torches combined. A thousand words of poetry drifted between them in the quiet of their intimate glances.

Ahkmenrah found himself turning away just to give them a moment of the privacy they longed to have; it pained him they could not act on what they shared. His actions with Nensala were brought on by unsated lust and greed, on his end, and hers; there was no love there. After seeing what it was his sister was aching to have, Ahkmenrah hated himself even more for giving in.

When Ahkmenrah excused himself, Set gave him a questioning look, but he assured her that no one would bother them, as long as they stayed in that chamber. He bid them both goodnight and returned to his own chamber feeling profoundly tired—worn thin by the cards life had dealt him.

Ahkmenrah wasn’t sure how late it was, or how long after he’d excused himself from dinner when Setshepsut came into his chamber, a vision of love and practically floating across the floor. He welcomed her tight hug gladly, tired of looking out over the city with longing as he thought.

“Thank you, so much, Ahkmen.” She spoke against his chest as she gripped him tighter with her appreciation.

Ahkmenrah hugged her back just as tightly, relishing in the sweetness of her words and the tone that accompanied them.

“Will you sit with me a second? I need to speak to you.”

Concern darkened her carefree demeanor, and she sat next to him on the bench against the balcony railing. Her worry only lessened when Ahkmenrah cast her a gentle smile and took her hands in his.

“I approve wholeheartedly of Satauhotep. He’s kind and strong—the kind of man who can love and protect you in ways that I am unable to.”

Setshepsut grinned and squeezed his fingers.

“I’ve decided; I will find a bride, soon. That way, I can release you from this marriage—you and Satauhotep can be together without fear.”

After watching his sister and her lover, Ahkmenrah realized that his own happiness mattered little to him, and he’d come to accept his time to truly be happy had come and gone in his youth. Kings had to make sacrifices. And if he could grant Setshepsut a life of happiness with someone she loved by making another sacrifice, Ahkmenrah knew he could live the remainder of his days content with the knowledge she was with someone she wanted. Perhaps in time, he could learn to sacrifice even more and learn to love someone like Nensala--someone cut off from the importance of dreams, who strove only to serve him and nothing more. Ahkmenrah dreaded when that day would come, but a part of him knew it would be inevitable. A king needed his queen…

Set lunged forward and wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him into another hug as she thanked him more profusely than she had before. There were tears of joy in her eyes when she pulled away, she wiped at them sloppily and gauged him with a new concern, easily reading the heartache on his features.

“You should find her.”

“Who?” He knew already, but still he asked.

“Nouke. It’s possible she could be longing for you somewhere out there as well.”

Setshepsut gave his hands a squeeze again, and Ahkmenrah felt the threat of tears prickle his eyes, but his were not ones of joy.

“Nouke knew a long time ago our paths would always be split: the pharaoh, and the servant…”

Set kissed the back of his hand sweetly, in an act he knew meant she didn’t want him to give up so easily.

“It’s not so strange—the queen and the soldier. Unlikely, but titles don’t define us. You are both more and less than a pharaoh, as she is both more and less than a servant. Mostly, we're all just flesh.”

She left him with another chaste kiss to his cheek, and to ponder her wisdom, which is exactly what he did.

Next Chapter-> Chapter Six: Divided

#Ahkmenrah #Ahkmenrah x Original Character #Ahkmenrah Fanfiction #NATM #NATM Fanfiction #Rami Malek Character #Rami Malek Character Fanfiction #Rami Malek Fanfiction #Rami Malek #Left to Ruin

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haleyyyybug · 4 years ago

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Christmas has pagan roots, just accept it

So I saw a post saying Christmas wasn't a pagan holiday. It actually was so I'm going to do the best of my abilities at the moment to show everyone a little history this Christmas in the form of a lot of quotes because I don't have a ton of spoons to write a whole research paper. I actually grew up in a Christian home. Although, I am no longer associated with Christianity; I am an Omnist. Religion wise, I am a unitarian universalist. I also practice witchcraft as an eclectic witch.

A note: I will be using BCE/CE vs BC/AD as year markers. There is no difference in dating, just in the terms. For example, 1403 AD and 1403 CE are the same date as are 4000BC and 4000BCE.

To begin, I think a lot of people are misunderstanding what a pagan is. Coming from the Merriam-Webster website, a pagan/heathen is:

"Pagan is derived from the Late Latin paganus, which was used at the end of the Roman Empire to name those who practiced a religion other than Christianity, Judaism, or Islam. Early Christians often used the term to refer to non-Christians who worshiped multiple deities. In Latin, paganus originally meant “country dweller” or “civilian;” it is believed that the word’s religious meanings developed either from the enduring non-Christian religious practices of those who lived far from the Roman cities where Christianity was more quickly adopted, or from the fact that early Christians referred to themselves as “soldiers of Christ,” making nonbelievers “civilians.”

The definition and etymology of heathen overlap with those of pagan: both words denote “an unconverted member of a people or nation that does not acknowledge the God of the Bible,” and heathen, like pagan, is believed to have come from the term for a country inhabitant, or in this case, a "heath dweller."

Both words have developed broader and pejorative meanings over time, with pagan being used to mean “an irreligious or hedonistic person” and heathen “uncivilized” or “strange,” but their original meanings are still in use."

Link: https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/pagan#note-1

This shows that pagans are literally just people who don't practice Christanity, Islam, or Judaism, which are religions that focus on the Hebrew god. This covers a very broad amount of people of various religions from around the world.

Christianity was formed around the 1st century (or 1 CE), and was imposed by Emperor Constantine in 345 CE. Judaism was formed about 4-5,000 years ago (9th to 5th century BCE), making it the oldest monotheistic religion. Islam was founded in the 7th century, around 570 CE, making it the youngest monotheistic religion.

Greek mythology is hard to date because it is believed to have stemmed from centuries of oral tradition. It is likely that Greek myths evolved from stories told in the Minoan civilization of Crete, which lasted from about 3000 to 1100 BCE. Greek mythology also predates Roman mythology by over 1,000 years. The Roman leaders basically copied the Greek religion.

Norse mythological was shared by Northern Germanic tribes of the 9th century CE. These stories were passed down by poetry until the 11th–18th centuries when the Eddas and other medieval texts were written.

Hinduism was founded roughly around the 15th – 5th century BCE. An Indo-Iranian religion known as Zoroastrianism is said to date back to the 2nd millennium BCE (10th to 5th century BCE). It was extremely influential over the development of the Abrahamic tradition as well. Jainism was founded around 8th to 2nd century BCE.

This is just a couple of religions within certain areas, but it was for the sake of a point. Even though Judaism is the oldest monotheistic religion, and the oldest of the religions that worship the Abrahamic god, there are religions that predate it, and even influence it.

Now we will move onto when Christmas is celebrated. Christmas is supposed to celebrate the birth of Christ. However, it is not likely that he was born in the winter time. There was a pagan holiday that was celebrated on what we now call Christmas, however.

"It just so happens that on the twenty-fifth of December in the Roman Empire there was a pagan holiday that was linked to mystery religions; the pagans celebrated their festival on December 25. The Christians didn’t want to participate in that, and so they said, “While everybody else is celebrating this pagan thing, we’re going to have our own celebration. We’re going to celebrate the thing that’s most important in our lives, the incarnation of God, the birth of Jesus Christ. So this is going to be a time of joyous festivities, of celebration and worship of our God and King.”"

This is coming from a Christian site: https://www.ligonier.org/blog/celebration-christmas-pagan-ritual/

"The precise origin of assigning December 25 as the birth date of Jesus is unclear. The New Testament provides no clues in this regard. December 25 was first identified as the date of Jesus’ birth by Sextus Julius Africanus in 221 and later became the universally accepted date. One widespread explanation of the origin of this date is that December 25 was the Christianizing of the dies solis invicti nati (“day of the birth of the unconquered sun”), a popular holiday in the Roman Empire that celebrated the winter solstice as a symbol of the resurgence of the sun, the casting away of winter and the heralding of the rebirth of spring and summer. Indeed, after December 25 had become widely accepted as the date of Jesus’ birth, Christian writers frequently made the connection between the rebirth of the sun and the birth of the Son. One of the difficulties with this view is that it suggests a nonchalant willingness on the part of the Christian church to appropriate a pagan festival when the early church was so intent on distinguishing itself categorically from pagan beliefs and practices."

Link: https://www.britannica.com/topic/Christmas

In fact, from the same source as the last, celebrating birthdays was originally a pagan thing:

"In particular, during the first two centuries of Christianity there was strong opposition to recognizing birthdays of martyrs or, for that matter, of Jesus. Numerous Church Fathers offered sarcastic comments about the pagan custom of celebrating birthdays when, in fact, saints and martyrs should be honoured on the days of their martyrdom—their true “birthdays,” from the church’s perspective."

It is also important to note, many pagans (especially witches) celebrate the solstices. The winter solstice happens to occur very close to Christmas, usually December 21st or 22nd. It is known as Yule.

The Christmas tree also has several pagan origins:

"The history of Christmas trees goes back to the symbolic use of evergreens in ancient Egypt and Rome and continues with the German tradition of candlelit Christmas trees first brought to America in the 1800s. Discover the history of the Christmas tree, from the earliest winter solstice celebrations to Queen Victoria’s decorating habits and the annual lighting of the Rockefeller Center tree in New York City.

Long before the advent of Christianity, plants and trees that remained green all year had a special meaning for people in the winter. Just as people today decorate their homes during the festive season with pine, spruce, and fir trees, ancient peoples hung evergreen boughs over their doors and windows. In many countries it was believed that evergreens would keep away witches, ghosts, evil spirits, and illness.

In the Northern hemisphere, the shortest day and longest night of the year falls on December 21 or December 22 and is called the winter solstice. Many ancient people believed that the sun was a god and that winter came every year because the sun god had become sick and weak. They celebrated the solstice because it meant that at last the sun god would begin to get well. Evergreen boughs reminded them of all the green plants that would grow again when the sun god was strong and summer would return.

The ancient Egyptians worshipped a god called Ra, who had the head of a hawk and wore the sun as a blazing disk in his crown. At the solstice, when Ra began to recover from his illness, the Egyptians filled their homes with green palm rushes, which symbolized for them the triumph of life over death.

Early Romans marked the solstice with a feast called Saturnalia in honor of Saturn, the god of agriculture. The Romans knew that the solstice meant that soon, farms and orchards would be green and fruitful. To mark the occasion, they decorated their homes and temples with evergreen boughs.

In Northern Europe the mysterious Druids, the priests of the ancient Celts, also decorated their temples with evergreen boughs as a symbol of everlasting life. The fierce Vikings in Scandinavia thought that evergreens were the special plant of the sun god, Balder."

This is from this site: https://www.history.com/topics/christmas/history-of-christmas-trees

Santa Claus is also linked to pagan traditions:

"Santa Claus is primarily linked to St. Nicholas, the Greek bishop of Myra, a Roman town in Turkey. St. Nicholas lived during the third and fourth centuries. He defended Christianity while followers were being persecuted. He was imprisoned for many years until Constantine came to power and made Christianity the dominant religion in the Roman empire....

St. Nicholas is commonly linked to Odin, the ruler of Asgard, one of the major gods in Germanic mythology who was depicted as a white-bearded man with magical powers. However, Odin’s ties to Santa Claus may be more pronounced. The winter solstice, also known as Yule, was a time when Odin led a hunting party, known as the Wild Hunt, in the sky with an eight-legged horse named Sleipnir. The 13th century Poetic Edda said the mythical horse could leap great distances -- a trait reindeer possess. Children would leave their boots by the chimney filled with carrots and hay to feed Sleipnir. Legend has it that whenever Odin flew by he would leave gifts by their boots.

After Christianity took hold, this practice was later adopted in relation to St. Nicholas. Children would leave their shoes on the windowsill or bedroom door on the evening of Dec. 5 for the saint to reward them with nuts, fruits and sweets.

Frau Holda is the Germanic goddess of winter. In German folk legends, she is depicted as a beautiful blonde who is the protector of children’s souls. Like Odin, she would fly through the night and give gifts to children, as Beliefnet noted. In some depictions, Holda is dressed in red and uses chimneys to deliver gifts. Some Germanic traditions involve leaving food and milk for Holda Dec. 24, known as Mother Night."

Link: https://www.google.com/amp/s/www.ibtimes.com/santa-claus-pagan-origins-5-influences-behind-father-christmas-1736863%3famp=1

There are also different versions of "Santa", some are actually meant to scare children:

"Sinterklaas is Dutch legend, based on St. Nicholas. On the Feast of St. Nicholas, Dec. 6, Sinterklaas – a bishop wearing a red cape – rides into town on a white horse and takes notes on which children have been naughty or nice in his big red book.

Zwarte Piet, or Black Peter, is the (highly controversial) assistant to Sinterklaas. Depicted as a small man wearing blackface and traditional Moorish dresses, he assists Sinterklaas by handing out candy to children who have been good throughout the year, and spanking naughty children with a broomstick.

Father Christmas was the earliest personificaton of Christmas. Dating back to the 15th century, Father Christmas has been bringing joy to all humans, not just children, mostly through throwing giant feasts.

The Yule Goat is Father Christmas's version of a reindeer. The legend of the goat began in ancient Slavic times, when Yule festivals were thrown to please the gods of fertilty and good harvest. Often, the goats would carry in offerings of straw and grain. Now, they are often depicted carrying Father Christmas.

Belsnickel is one of the scarier legends, stemming from German and Pennsylvania Dutch folklore. Said to look like an old fur-trader, wearing a mask and having a long tongue, he carries a long stick with which to beat naughty children, as well as pockets full of sweets for those that were nice.

Krampus is by far the scariest of the legends. Popular in Eastern European lore, Krampus is described as being half goat, half demon, with giant curled horns on his head, and a long tongue. He follows St. Nicholas around berating naughty children, and drinking schnapps, a customary offering for him."

Link for everything above: https://allthatsinteresting.com/santa-claus-legends#17

Yule logs were apart of Yule, again, a pagan holiday :

"The custom of burning the Yule Log goes back to, and before, medieval times. It was originally a Nordic tradition. Yule is the name of the old Winter Solstice festivals in Scandinavia and other parts of northern Europe, such as Germany.

The Yule Log was originally an entire tree, that was carefully chosen and brought into the house with great ceremony. The largest end of the log would be placed into the fire hearth while the rest of the tree stuck out into the room! The log would be lit from the remains of the previous year's log which had been carefully stored away and slowly fed into the fire through the Twelve Days of Christmas. It was considered important that the re-lighting process was carried out by someone with clean hands."

Carols were also pagan, and apart of Yule:

"Carols were first sung in Europe thousands of years ago, but these were not Christmas Carols. They were pagan songs, sung at the Winter Solstice celebrations as people danced round stone circles. The Winter Solstice is the shortest day of the year, usually taking place around 22nd December."

Yep, Holly, Mistletoe, and Ivy too:

"Holly, Ivy and other greenery such as Mistletoe were originally used in pre-Christian times to help celebrate the Winter Solstice Festival and ward off evil spirits and to celebrate new growth.

When Christianity came into Western Europe, some people wanted to keep the greenery, to give it Christian meanings but also to ban the use of it to decorate homes. The UK and Germany were the main countries to keep the use of the greenery as decorations."

More on Mistletoe:

"Mistletoe is a plant that grows on range of trees including willow, apple and oak trees. The tradition of hanging it in the house supposedly goes back to the times of the ancient Druids; however, there's little evidence that this happened. It is also meant to possess mystical powers which bring good luck to the household and wards off evil spirits. It was also used as a sign of love and friendship in Norse mythology.

When the first Christians came to Western Europe, some tried to ban the use of Mistletoe as a decoration in Churches, becuase of some of the old stories about it, but many still continued to use it! York Minster Church in the UK used to hold a special Mistletoe Service in the winter, where wrong doers in the city of York could come and be pardoned."

Link for all the above quotes: https://www.whychristmas.com/customs/

"Christmas bells" are actually pagan bells:

"Ringing of bells can be traced back to pagan winter celebrations. During those times, noisemakers were used to scare away evil spirits in the night. Among those early noisemakers were bells."

Link: http://www.holidayinsights.com/xmas/bells.htm

TL;DR:

Christmas is its own holiday, yes, but almost every aspect of it has pagan origins. It is wrong to not acknowledge this fact because it furthers the idea that Christmas, and ultimately, Christianity, is superior. There is no war on Christmas, just people tired of hearing that Christmas is the only right way to celebrate. I literally just googled things and found answers. It's not that hard to look for things, you just don't want to.

If anyone else would like to add something or correct me, go ahead! However, I will not respond to people who aren't civil or refuse to see the other side of things and that they might be wrong. Thank you, have a great day! Happy holidays ♥️♥️♥️

#Christmas #Personal #Pagan #Witch #I wanted to rant but I've spent a lot of energy already #It just irritates me that people ignore all this and act like Christmas is the only right holiday #Colonizers istg #Feminismandmedia

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dreaming-about-fanfictions · 5 years ago

Text

Red - Jaskier x Reader

Summary: The fear of losing the person who means the world to you and a wedding that comes out of it.

Request by: a lovely anon <3 “Can you write a romantic Jaskier x female reader story, where him and the reader get married?” I hope you enjoy it, anon! I put (just a little) drama in there but tried to keep if mainly romantic. Thank you so much for the request, I had a lot of fun writing it!

A/N: You guys gave me so much positive feedback on my last Witcher story so here comes the next! Hope you enjoy it!

Words: 1733 Pairing: Jaskier x Reader Warnings: mention of blood, a little angst and a lot of fluff

“You could have died!” Jaskier paced back and forth, a strained expression on his face. “I could have been in the midst of funeral preparations right now! I could be choosing your tombstone right this moment because of your stubbornness and your apparent lack of survival instincts!”

“Could have, would have,” you mumbled, not looking up at him. Instead you wiped your blade on your cloak. It was ruined anyway, you noticed. Torn apart, covered in dirt and blood – there was no way you’d be able to save it. Damn. This was the second one this week. A heavy sigh left your lips before you got up with a groan. Your whole body was hurting and you felt exhausted, craving a hot bath and something to eat.

“Are you making fun of me?” Jaskier snapped. “Or are you not taking this seriously? Honestly, Y/N, I don’t what’s worse!”

Truth be told, you had never seen him so angry. His arms were flailing around from gesticulating wildly and his face was a deeper shade of red than your favorite kind of wine. However, after being on the hunt for over a day, you had no interest in fighting with him. You wanted to get home.

“And now you’re ignoring me!” Jaskier scoffed. “Geralt!” He turned around to the Witcher who was standing a few feet away, examining Roach for injuries. “Y/N is ignoring me!”

“Can’t blame her,” was the dry reply.

You wanted to smile at that comment but guessed that it wouldn’t be very constructive in the current situation. “Look, Jaskier,” you began. “I’m sorry. I really am. I didn’t mean to scare you but you know I can take care of myself.”

Jaskier crossed his arms in front of his chest. “This has nothing to do with taking care of yourself, Y/N. You jumped from a damn tree to land right in their nest while these monsters fed on a bear!”

He was right. It was a dangerous and any other person would probably be dead right about now. However, you weren’t any other person. You were a skilled fighter who knew what she was doing and when to back down from a battle. After all, this wasn’t the first time you accompanied the Witcher on a hunt.

The first time you saw Jaskier and Geralt was less than two years ago when they came to your village, badly wounded and searching for a healer. Your family took care of them, tending to their bruises and cuts and it didn’t take long for you to develop a soft spot for the funny bard who kept cracking jokes even when he was feverish and in pain. Twenty days later and you bargained with the two men to take you with them on their journey. You craved more than a simple life in the small village where their arrival was the most exciting thing in years. While Jaskier was hesitant but secretly loved the idea of keeping you around, Geralt was strictly opposed to it. Well, you followed them anyways and one dead monster later that you saved them from while they were sound asleep made him change his mind. “You can apparently hold a sword, so don’t expect me to come to your rescue if something goes wrong,” Geralt had said grimly later that night. “Handle it yourself.”

The bard and you were inseparable since then, falling in love with each other hard and fast. A life without him seemed like a life not worth living anymore. So it pained you to see how your actions hurt him. You reached forward to take his hands. “Jaskier, I find none of this amusing and I take your concerns were serios,” you assured him. “I can see how this must have been terrifying for you. I’m sorry.”

“Then why do you keep fighting them? Every time you leave with Geralt, I’m scared it’ll be the last time I see you alive,” he sounded more vulnerable now than ever.

A soft smile appeared on your face. “You know why.” After you leaned in to give him a soothing kiss, you whispered: “I love you. I love you so much, Jaskier. I promise you won’t lose my by the hand or paw or claw of any monster.”

“You can’t promise me that, Y/N,” he stated. Yet the tension in his composure gave way and he put his arms around your back.

“I’ll do my best then,” you replied and let him embrace you completely. Being in his arms like this made you feel like home. It was true, Jaskier was your home now. Everything you ever wanted and more. You considered yourself lucky beyond words to be with a man as wonderful as him.

“I love you,” he whispered. “And you ruined my night.”

“What?” You blinked in confusion and looked at him. His left eyebrow was raised and you couldn’t tell if he was being serious or not. You had thought, the fight was over.

“I said you ruined my night,” Jaskier repeated himself and pouted a little. “My night and my day. I had so much planned for us. For you.”

“Planned? Why?” Was today important? His birthday maybe? No, that was still months away. You tilted your head slightly, furrowing your brows while desperately trying to remember why today was important.

Suddenly Jaskier let go of you and took a step back. His eyes were focused on the ground as he nervously cleared his throat. “I don’t believe there’ll be a better time. Who knows what monster is lurking behind the next tree.”

At this point, you were thoroughly baffled. “Jas-“

“Y/N,” he cut you off and began rummaging through the pockets of his jacket. When he found the item he was apparently looking for, he paused again. And then he slowly got down on knee.

Oh.

Nervously, Jaskier cleared his throat he second time. When he began speaking, his voice was shaking just a little. „Y/N, I fell in love with you about two seconds after I first laid eyes on you and even though some people –,” he glared in Geralts direction, “– insisted that it was only the fever talking, I knew it wasn’t.”

You looked down and finally realized what laid in the palm of his hand. The most stunning ring on this continent if not the world with a dark red gemstone, reflecting the last sunrays of the day. You swallowed hard.

“I wrote a song for this exact moment,” Jaskier continued and let out a chuckle. “Now, I don’t believe that any lyric, any poetry, can express how I feel for you. Y/N …”

You kept your gaze focused on the man kneeling in front of. Tears dwelled up in your eyes and it took every ounce of willpower in your body to hold them back.

“Y/N, will you marry me and take me as your husband?”

***

The moments after the proposal were a blur. You flung your arms around him while saying “yes” and “of course” and “I love you” over and over. He grinned from ear to ear, pure happiness radiating from him. You kissed. It was a long and passionate kiss and you probably would have stayed there, in the woods, for hours if it weren’t for the tired and slightly-annoyed Witcher standing near you.

“Congratulations, but are you done?”

The both of you broke the kiss and laughed at this question.

“I’m hungry,” Geralt added dryly, ignoring your reaction. However, when you looked at him, you could have sworn you caught him smiling a little.

***

The engagement was shorter than expected. Way shorter. To be specific – it lasted for exactly three hours. Jaskier was right, you thought, why wait any longer? In this world, death was lurking behind every corner. So the two of you decided upon arriving in the small village that you wanted to get married right this evening.

Geralt made the request to at least take a bath beforehand and have something to bite. You agreed with him considering your clothes were still ripped and smelling like blood and intestines.

“No, Jaskier,” you whispered and playfully pushed him back. The two of you stood in front of your room.

“You’re a tease,” your fiancé replied and pulled you in for another kiss. You happily obliged and sighed when he slightly parted his lips. Jaskier pressed himself against your body and you let out a sharp breath when you felt something very hard through the thin fabric of his pants. “Tell me again how you don’t want me to come inside your room,” he mumbled with a husky voice.

“We’re getting married in an hour …”

“So?”

You chuckled. “Have you noticed the way I look?” You gripped him by his collar, softly planting kisses down his neck.

“You’re tormenting me, woman,” he groaned, closing his eyes. A shiver ran down your spine. Oh, how you wanted him to come inside ...

Without another word you swiftly looked back up and planted a last wistful kiss on his lips before quickly disappearing inside your room, locking it from the inside.

“Well,” you heard Jaskier say from the other side of the door. “That is mean.”

“Save it for the wedding night,” you chuckled.

“Oh, I will, darling. Believe me.”

***

One hour later you were standing in front of Jaskier, wearing a bright smile on your face. Your dark red dress matched the beautiful engagement ring on your left hand perfectly. Torches burning brightly around you lit up the night and the smell of wildflowers was still lingering in the air.

The ceremony took place on the outskirts of the village on a small field. It was short and sweet and perfect. To your surprise, Jaskier had found someone to officiate the wedding even at this ungodly hour. There were no guests present, except of course Geralt who – for the first time in quite a while – couldn’t stop smiling. He was happy for the two of you.

Two years ago, you had been living on a farm with your family. A woman who didn’t seem to fit in anywhere until a Witcher and his bard stumbled onto your fields. Today you were looking at your best friend, your greatest love, your soulmate as you promised each other love and a future together. Oh, how the times had changed.

***

My Masterlist

Tag list: @just-antiyou , @sarah-midnight

If you want to be added to my tag list, message me! <3

#the witcher fanfiction #the witcher imagine #the witcher #jaskier x y/n #jaskier x reader #jaskier imagine #jaskier fanfiction #astrids fics

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fairydust-stuff · 4 years ago

Text

Banana Fish Buffy the vampire Slayer crossover Special! Instead of Fox ,Dino hires a different predator to bring him Ash a decision him and everyone involved quickly come to regret.

Angelus walks into Lee Manor whistling still covered in blood he’s wearing a green neck scarf. the hushed voices of the two teenage boys seated on the sofa fade to silence.

“ Now you boys wouldn’t happen to be plotting would you, I wouldn't want to wake up tied to the bed with someone holding lighter fluid over me. Though it was a good effort, Yue. Even you did just exceed at pissing me off” Angelus added cheerfully.

“ You know what they say, third times the charm” Yut Lung’s tone is deceptively pleasant. “ I’m guessing by your new accessory Papa Dino is no more”

“ The old man was so annoying, Capture Ash Lynx blah blah blah I understand being obsessed with a blond superhero but if your not good at breaking people hand the whip to someone who knows how to use it,” Angelus said with annoyance. “ Don’t get me wrong some of his ideas were good but the execution D minus for effort.”

They’ve been holding each other he can smell it on them how adorable he’s glad he decided to keep Sing around after all. The two of them are much more fun as a set.

“ Shit you‘re in a good mood that’s never good” Sing looks uneasy.

Angelus plants himself between the two of them and stretches himself out one hand by each of their shoulders. “ Go to channel eight” this is directed at Sing The fourteen-year-old picks up the remote and flips the tv on.

Yut Lung has already started on the wine like a good little sixteen-year-old alcoholic. Angelus has contemplated getting rid of every bottle in the mansion just to see him go through withdrawal symptoms but has decided it’s not worth the risk of the kid possibly dying. Besides he’s got a million other ways to make him suffer. “ The Christen killer seems to have struck again the body of a blond eighteen-year-old boy crucified and turned upside down as a clear mockery of the Christen Faith”

Yut Lung scoffs “ What does this have to do with anything?”

“ Keep watching Yuey,” Angelus says in a cheerful voice.

“ the boy has been identified as Ash Lynx former gang leader”

Angelus looks over Sing’s face pales and Yut Lung’s face is clouded disbelief. The vampire shuts the tv off. “ Guess who finally bagged a Lynx” he gloats.

“ No, he’s not really dead…..he’s just playing a trick” Yut Lung mumbles standing up “ That’s just some random boy you picked up off the streets”

Angelus fixes a look of false sympathy on his face “ No I’m afraid it’s not” He grabs Yut Lung’s elbow and turns him so he’s forced to meet his eyes. “ Cinderella is never going to the ball again” then he pulls out one green eye from his pocket.

The head of the Lee family crumples to the floor a high-pitched anguished sound emerges from his throat. Angelus drinks the sight in deeply its hard to get a satisfying reaction from the kid. So when he hits that sweet spot it is euphoric.

“ Kill me” it’s not even screamed just a weak plea for mercy from a severely depressed teenage boy.

“ Nah! you don’t get to die” Angelus tilts his chin up so he’s looking up at him like some sort of God. Its fitting Angelus does control his fate. “ I don’t get why your so eager to go, you’d just burn in Hell for an eternity” truthfully Angelus isn’t sure of that considering the Chinese have a different belief system someone up there might decide reincarnation is more fitting for this wreck of a boy which would undo all his hard work. Now to deliver the finishing blow “ Like, Ash is”

Yut Lung runs out of the room chocking back sobs with anyone else Angelus would think he broke them but the boy had surprised him before. Even posing Blanca’s dead body in a reenactment of Judas’s suicide and offering his actual bloody heart to Yut Lung hadn’t been the devastating blow he thought it would be. Sure the kid was upset judging by his attempted seduce and burn him alive attempt but Angelus had aimed for curl up and whimper, not revenge.

“Just leave him alone you shit!” Sing lost his temper

“I normally don’t finish other’s art projects but his face is poetry and that body is an unfinished canvas. I’m going to craft the sloppy mess they left behind into something agonizingly beautiful” Angelus gloats “ A little side project while I wait to start working on my passion project”

“ Who’s your passion project” Sing asks

Ah, Sing hitting on what truly matters, Angelus thinks with some fondness. “Let’s have some fun, you're going to introduce me to Ash’s group,” the vampire says instead.

“ What the hell makes you think I’d do that?” Sing demands

Angelus just turns and walks up the stairs and up to the bedroom.” Oh Yuey come out and play!” he says in a sing-song voice Sing shot out dragon fang honestly what a ridiculously childish name, Angelus dodged his weapon with a laugh. He can hear Yut lung’s sharp breaths on the other side of the door before he opens it the kids hugging his knees in the middle of that big bed. Hair half out of his braid. Angelus stalks over and runs a hand over the boy’s leg feeling a slight tremble. Angelus contemplates Does he want to feel him up just to show he can or leave burns on the tender skin of those legs?

“ Haven’t you tormented me enough?” it's almost a whisper

“ Hey blame Sing, for choosing Eiji over you again”

“ You bastard! That’s not what’s happening!” Sing protested he’s caught up and he lands a punch on Angelus the vampire blocks and tosses him to the floor. Angulus slides a hand into his pocket. “ I’ll do it, I’ll do it just leave him alone!” the younger boy pleads.

“Really, Sing I had the lighter ready and everything. He’s so fickle” Angelus complained to Yut Lung “ Ah well we’ll play another day” he promises. The vampire blows the boy on the bed a kiss as he leaves with Sing he turns to Yut Lung’s bodyguards “ Watch him make sure he doesn’t die” they nod their human faces vamping out…

“I kinda miss how he was before, trying not to be clingy while wanting to grab onto me, so desperate” Angelus smirks. The two of them are standing on the New York subway.

“ You love the sound of your own voice” Sing observes.

“I was trapped by that nauseating soul, for years. It had me rescuing puppies, puppies! I used to nail those to people’s doors. Think Yut Lung would be upset if I nailed a dog to his door?” Angelus asked “ You are asking me for ways to torment my leader?” Sing demanded incredulously “ Oh right you have a crush don’t you” Angelus laughed. “ I keep forgetting that cause of the whole betrayal thing” “ He was the one working with Dino my cousin’s murderer” Sing argued

“ You think Yue wasn’t plotting against him?” Angelus chuckled “ Maybe that’s why I like you two. Years of do-gooder pep rallies and the constant we help the helpless rah rah rah. And your all hell with it! Your still both gooey in the middle but I’m going to fix that” he promises, vamping out and advancing on one of the homeless people near the back. He had after all missed breakfast.

Sing was looking rather pale by the time he got off the subway Angelus fixed his leather jacket “ I look good right, no blood on the mouth?” he asked “ Now remember only good things or I’ll be paying your pretty cousin Nadia a visit. Maybe I’ll grab of a few your guys as a midday snack” ...

“ We don’t talk to the police” they’ve been incredibly unhelpful,” says the handsome blond man before him who must be Max Lobo. He looks haggard and worn Angelus is pleased with how big an effect his actions have had on the group.

“ I’m a private detective” Angelus pulls out one of the Angel Investigations business cards he’d stolen. “ Sing told me you might need some help catching this mad artist”

“ You mean sicko with a god complex” Ibe retorts.

Sing laughs, he'll pay for that later Angelus thinks. He’s about to draw on some of his Angel speeches the soul makes him act like such a….His thoughts are frozen at the sight of a baby faced nineteen years old with an athletic build and big eyes. This must be Ash’s, Eiji the one he was sorry for not being able to protect. “ I’m sorry, I’m not usually up this late” his voice is hoarse and his eyes are red-rimmed.

“ This is detective Angel he’s a friend of Sing’s,” Ibe says. “ Oh, I’ll make you some tea,” The boy says quickly hurrying to the kitchen and starting up the pot. “ Its the least, I can do for a friend of Sings”

“ Some tea would be nice” Angelus comments. Eiji prepares tea for all three of them.

“ My condolences about your lover” the vampire lies.

“ Thank you, Ash had his flaws but...he didn’t deserve” Eiji pauses

“ I want to bring this man to justice but I need your help. Can you describe everything you saw that night every detail?” Angelus says in a smooth professional voice.

Eiji recites in a dull tone how he found Ash’s body its secretly quite fun for Angelus pretending he was unclear and asking for him to repeat himself, demanding more gory details.

“ that’s enough Ibe,” says harshly noting Eiji’s face.

“ Its necessary for the investigation” Angelus replies “ Its best to pry while every detail is fresh in his mind” he wants to laugh at how easily Eiji defends him as he continues tugging at the fraying threads of the boy’s grief. After the questioning Angelus leaves them the card and promises to keep in touch.

Eiji is sickeningly good, putting his feels on the backburner for the sake of others. He reeks of insecurity and doubt and despite his grief, there’s still a sparkle of naive hope in him. Also, something tells him the boys never been touched, considering Ash’s hang-ups about sex. Angelus normally finds these things not so appealing in boys but there’s such a girlish feel to this boy despite his athleticism that Angelus finds himself wanting to ruin and consume him. The way he would Drucilla or Buffy and the way the gangs in New York latch onto him like lost puppies. Angelus likes the idea of snuffing out the little light they’ve found in the dark world they live in. “ Wait here, Sing I’ve got to get something from the store”...

“ You shouldn’t get too attached to that” Sing comments as Yut Lung snuggles the kitten on his lap. the boy’s laughing at the little licks from the sandpaper tongue Angelus scoops up the kitten which cries out in terror and snaps its little neck. “ Why did you?” the boy yells

“ Present for your enemy Eiji” Angelus commented. “ But it didn’t have anything to do with it!” Yut Lung argues “ Neither did your brother’s children” Angelus returned. “It’s fun to kill defenseless things that can’t fight back right Yue?” he taunts stroking the dead kitten…

Angelus shoves Yut Lung down and receives a dark look “ Your not still mad about the little furball” he taunts. The boy remains silent

“ I’m sure you’ll add it to your list of things to avenge. Angelus runs his tongue along the boy’s wrist contemplatively. “ That’s the problem with you Eastern type everything has to be avenged or its dishonor” the vampire mocks brushing the boy’s neck lightly with his mouth.

“ If your smart you’ll kill me now” Yut Lung warns.

“ But your so cute and helpless” Angelus lifts the quipo slowly and runs his tongue along Yut Lung’s thigh he vamps out and bites down a cry escapes the boy under him. He licks the blood savoring the taste god its been too long. Yut Lung’s silent hatred makes it sweeter. Then the phone rings “ Yes!” he snaps “ Angel I….m... sorry….for…” the shaky voice on the other end is music to his ears. “ Eji what’s wrong?” he fakes concern “ Someone nailed a...a kitten to my door” the Japanese boy managed to get out.

“ Where are you” Angelus clamps a hand on Yut Lung’s ankle just missing as the boy rolls off the bed and makes a break for it. “ I’m staying with a friend,” Eiji says. “ Alright, I’ll be there first thing tomorrow night at eight” Angelus slams down the phone. “ So you're in the mood to play tonight are you Yuey?” the vampire walks into the hall scenting the air “ Alright, let's play hide and seek” he starts walking the halls “ 1, 2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9” he stops in front of the bathroom door the scent of blood and fear so strong he can almost taste it “ 10” he whisks the door open only to get shoved backward by a long-haired boy into a bathtub of holy water!...

It took Angelous a whole day to heal with the damage a whole day. He had to reschedule with his masterpiece and by that time Yut Lung was long gone. How the hell he managed to slip by his former vampiric bodyguards the former Scourge of Europe had no clue. Sing seemed to have not come back as well which meant those two had planned this. Angelus bet his little boyfriend smuggled him the holy water. When he got his hands on them both ...

“ So you think it’s the same guy who killed your boyfriend?” Angelus asked

“ What other fucker could it be!” Eiji snapped “ Sorry”

“It’s ok you’ve had a bad night. Eiji, I get the impression you're not telling me everything. Do you others to get hurt because you failed to cooperate?” Angelus asked

“ Papa Dino, he didn’t like Ash. We think he may have hired someone to get rid of all of us” Eiji interjects.

Yes me, Angelus thinks to himself not that it went well for the Godfather wannabe or his cohorts. “ Is there anyone else who may wish you harm?” Angelus asked “ Yut Lung Lee,” Eiji says.

“ Isn’t Hau Lee the current head of the Lee clan?” Angelus asked with phony surprise

“ They have a secret seventh brother” Eiji makes a face.

“ I take it your not fond of him” So the feud goes both ways.

“ Even so he’s been silent for weeks” Eiji comments “ And what happened last night. He’s cruel but even he wouldn’t do something like that” Angelus asks a few more questions “ Dam is it nine already” he commented.

“ How about I make you some dinner? It's the least I can do” Eiji offers.

“ You are not looking to break any stereotypes ” Angelus teased.

“ I can still spit in your meal” Eiji jokes. While dining on fish and vegetables the two converse.

“ So what you do besides catch scary serial killers?” Eiji asked “ I like ballet, I draw, I read, love the classics” Angelus admits. “ You” though he already knows photography and pole vaulting. He’s done his research or rather Yut Lung did and was always ready to complain about Eiji Okumura.

Eiji’s face crumples and he starts crying right there on the table. Angelus pulls him into a hug “ Thank….you…..I’m sorry...i” Eiji breaks off. “ Ash, he also loved the classics ”

“ its, fine let it all out’ The vampire soothing I can't believe I’m saying this cheesy crap, you better be worth it Angelus thought. “ I understand what you’re going through…..I lost my whole family to a killer” Yes, me I ripped their throats out.

Eiji’s horrified expression makes Angelus struggle to control himself. “ I’m so sorry, is that why you became a detective?” Eiji asked

“ I’m not a good person Eiji, I’ve done terrible things to deal with my grief” Angelus channels the soul and broods.

“ You're not a bad person,” Eiji tells him softly but with conviction. “ You should stay away from me” Angelus gets up and leaves the house smirking when he’s out of view…

The vampire sits across from the round-faced Japanese boy. The boy has circles under his eyes and the expression on his face resembles that of a lost puppy rather than that of a human. After weeks of ghosting him, dodging his calls Angelus has pulled I don’t want to but now I’m going to tell you the absolute truth ruse. He agreed to meet with Eiji to clear things up and damn he should win an Oscar.

In the meantime, he’s been trying to find his slippery teenage duo. He knows Yut Lung has safe houses all over New York due to his family’s activities well-stocked with weapons, medical and most likely staff furthermore absolutely no invitation inside. Last time he had the advantage of being invited in while attending a meeting with Golzine. Yut Lung had been low key furious when he found out about the vampire thing and how Dino had knowingly let one into his home. He can’t even use Sings guys because they appear to have disappeared as well.

“ First mafia and trafficking now demons! The worlds turning darker every time I turn around” there’s bitterness in his young voice. “ And without Ash….” he gulps and tears start to pour from his eyes. “ I’m so….r...r..y i” “ He meant a lot to you it's understandable you miss him” Angelus takes his hand “ And I’m going to help find whoever killed Ash” he vowed. “ For now I hear the gooseberry pie is to die for”

Eiji opens his mouth but the two of them are interrupted by two Asian men wheeling in a dinner cart. They were young clean-cut and wearing waiter uniforms. “ Order of flaymonyong?” one of them asked “ I’m sorry you have the wrong table, we haven’t even ordered yet,” Eiji says. One of the men reaches for the silver dish lid the vampire feels annoyed “ Look he said you had the wrong table so why…….”

The guys whisked the lid off to reveal a flamethrower. Eiji knocks the vampire out of the way the blast just misses them. The other waiters rush forward also Chinese he notices. Two of them tackle Eiji pinning him to the ground he trashes and bucks. The guy with the flamethrower fires it up again but this time the vampire is ready throwing his shoulder against the fragile human as hard as possible. The sound of something snapping makes him grin. The other Chinese men advance the vampire beckons them forward. “ So how much were you Bruce Lee wannabees paid to die?” he taunts

Two of them pull out their super soaker guns and aim holy water! Angelus snarls with rage and pain his shoulder sizzling. “ Angel, Eiji’s managed to get free and takes the other blasts for him getting utterly soaked. The vampire reaches past him for the hand which he crashes then grabbing the pained man uses him to smack into the other guy knocking them both down. Then he swipes a knife from the table and does three quick slices and two neck snaps. “ Why doesn’t that bastard leave me alone? Ash is gone! What does he want?” Eiji yells “ Go in the kitchen and call Ibe and Max to come and get you” The vampire orders. “ I’m going to make sure that’s all of them” he added. Eiji opens his mouth “ Go!” Angelus snarls. Once Eiji is gone the vampire pulls one of the dead men’s cell phones out of his pocket. He calms and puts Eijji in a taxi promising to continue this tomorrow...

The phone starts ringing, just as he arrives outside his fancy new apartment.

“ Gao?” a soft-spoken young voice comes through.

“ Hello, Angel investigations home of the no fun do-gooders” The vampire smirks.

The sharp exhale on the other end was worth it “ You survived” the boy says calmly. Angelus hears Sings outraged cry in the background.

“ Yut Lung Lee, I’m not gay but that voice of yours does things to me,” the vampire said obnoxiously. “ The rest of you isn’t too far from my fantasies either”

“ Funny, you appear in my fantasies most often as a charred corpse or a stain on the street” Yut Lung said with false sweetness. “ That bastard better keep you out of his fantasies!” Sing again. “ Yue, I’m glad you called” the vampire exclaims “ I need some of your venom spewing cynicism” he pauses “ Three hours with the Japanese boy scout. I swear, I saved Ash from picket fence purgatory!” he complained “You don’t get to say his name, Angelus!” Yut Lung spat

“ Go back to LA to Sunny whatever or even go pillage in the Caribbean Islands. Leave Ash’s Japanese boy alone and leave New York, this is your last warning” Yut Lung’s voice is cold.

Angelus laughs “ Your so obsessed with him you’d try to protect someone you can't stand because he’s the last piece of Ash you have left. God you're delightfully pathetic” “ Maybe but I will average Ash Lynx” Yut Lungs tone is ice “ Yuey you got damseled by the New York underworld's favorite hostage.” the vampire said with contempt. “ By all means take your best shot, I love a good Comedy.” “ How are your burns?” Yut Lung taunts

“ I’ll let you know as I’m slowly taking my revenge,” Angelus says smoothly.

“ You think you can do anything to me that hasn’t already been done,” Yut Lung says sardonically.

“It’s not the act, its all in the performance.” He pauses “I could trail burns down those wanton thighs of yours or maybe I’ll be nice enough to respect the ancient Chinese tradition of footbinding. I like the idea of mutilating those pretty feet of yours.”

Then he hung up and reaches for a pile of rough sketches he’d been working on. “ Your leading man is dead so your mine for the taking, the both of you” he pauses “ First which one of your friends do I kill next” he closes his eyes and selects one of his pictures. Then he hears footsteps turning around he sees a dark-haired woman. “ Hello, Dru” Angelus grinned. “ Do it, Daddy! Make the envious Moon weep until he no longer glows. He’ll taste of fresh lemons and pomegranates” Drucilla says excitedly.

“ Oh i’ll get to our succulent femmefatale eventually now I’m focused on another. Now let’s see who I can nab for dinner” his face vamps out...

“ Another dead end,” Eiji says looking exhausted The two of them combing through the crime photos. It’s not his finest work Angelus admits but he’s still proud of it. Then there’s a knock on the door Angel opens to reveal a man with red hair. “ Charlie?” Eiji says then the color drains from his face at the man’s expression “ No no not anymore I can’t take it!” he insists. “ I’m sorry Eiji,” Charlie says...

“ He always believed in me he used to say I could be a little more selfish,” Eiji says in a dry whisper. “ I was never the type to go for things but Ibe always…..how many more”

The boy doesn’t talk much after that during their outing which suits Angelus fine he’s not after the boy for his stimulating conversation skills. The excuse was he wanted to cheer Eiji up but honestly, its because Drucilla told him “the Moon was angry and stick and straw houses would fall” So Angelus is not surprised to see his house blown to rubble in a fiery explosion nor is he surprised to see three of Yut Lung’s men armed with stakes in case his vampire healing spared him said fiery death. They were here to finish the job. They took one look at healthy alive smiling Angelus and ran for it, unfortunately, he’s with Eiji so he can't rip off their limbs and mail them back to their leaders.

Eiji looks at him after a long thoughtful moment of silence“ I’m sorry you got dragged into this, I’m dropping the case” “ What?” Angelus demanded “It’s too dangerous for you to be around me, here’s some money for a hotel I’m sorry!” Eiji leaves. Dam it that brat ruined his plans Angelus is furious. He’s interrupted by humming he turns to see Drucilla “ Shhhh Miss Edith Daddy is very cross” the vampire chides her doll. “ Come on Dru let's grab a bite in Chinatown ” Angelus vamps out…

Angelus gets a call from Eiji two days later “ Angel, Yut Lung contacted me he says he’s got evidence on who killed Ash. He wants to meet in Central Park”

Angelus grins “ You think it's a trap?” Well, it is but not for Eiji. The little whore is using himself as bait, but if Angelus plays his cards right then he should be able to grab Yut Lung and use him as a hostage to get an invite from Sing. Of course, there’s still Eiji to worry about. Then Angelus comes up with a solution.

“ I need you to come with me just in case, please” Eiji pleads.

“ Of course” Angelus hangs up the phone and turns to Drucilla “ What do you say Dru ready to go to the park?”...

“ You made it,” Yut Lung says standing there.

If Eiji is soft cuddles in the morning Yut Lung is the dirty polaroid stashed secretly in a man’s drawer Angelus muses. Ash may not have been drawn to him like Eiji but the vampire bets he still a small hold on the boy. Yut Lung is all dressed up when they meet him makeup applied, hair done up its like he wants to be taken. It's like he’s living breathing art even his movements are fluid, every step a light tease.

Still, Angelus is going to bind those feet, the air of challenge in those delicate movements gets under his skin.

“ I was worried I’d have to draw you a map” a taunt on those red lips.

“ No tricks Yut Lung where’s the evidence?” Eiji asks

“ Right here” Yut Lung takes out a gun and puts bullet after bullet into Angelus. The vampire crazed with pain doesn’t realize he’s backing up into a tree until he hits it a familiar sharp object sails towards him and the vampire finds himself wrapped up in strings a familiar sharp object penetrating his stomach. Sing swings down from the branches.

“ You think you got me, oh Dru!” he calls the vampiress bursts from her four hours ago hiding spot and grabs Yut Lung pressing her nails to his throat. “ Aaand he doesn’t make it to first base” Angelus taunts. " Though he has been around the field a few times"

“Another one!” Sing exclaims

“ Sing kill him!” Yut Lung ordered.

Drucilla smiled “ Shhhh you used to be a dolly made of sugar to hide the taste of arsenic when you kissed the lizards. You burned the wicked Dragons. Even though you were too late to save the princess before they made her all red.”

Yut Lung gapes at her “ How do you know?”

Drucilla strokes his hair softly and for a moment she seems almost lucid“ My mummy is dead too, daddy name with his teeth like needles. The wolf came to the door but he dressed in the skin of a priest.” she laughs “ We’ll make you all red too. You don’t have to smile when Daddy makes you part you’re legs. We’ll be brides together, I'll carry you under the stars” She promises.

“ Like hell, you will!” Sing exclaimed

Drucilla looks at him and laughs “ Hades and Persephone will ride off with the Moon. The mountain Lion crushed beneath their feet.” she taunts.

“ Isn’t she wonderful? this is Drucilla my masterpiece” Angelus brags.

“ You mean she used to be human” Sing said in horror.

“ And sane and pure and oh so good. She was going to be a nun and declare her vows to God” Angelus said mockingly.

“ You hurt her, you broke her, you took her dam sanity” Yut Lung looks like he wants to rip the vampires’ eyes out with his bare nails.

“ I was going to do the same to you both” Angelus croons.

“ I won’t let that happen,” says Eiji pointing a gun at Drucilla.

“ Daddy who is this?” Drucilla asked in confusion

“ Just Eiji he was the other one I was focused on” Angelus wants to get on with things. “ I can’t see you ” Then Drucilla had a look of realization and lunges for Eiji. the boy fires a gun straight through her head which doesn’t kill her but causes her to scream. Sing moves and shoves a stake through her heart.

“ Not supposed to be here …..” then she turns to dust.

Angelus feels her loss not the loss of a man for his lover but an artist for his greatest work. Angelus breaks through Sing’s flimsy strings furiously. Yut Lung attacks Angelus pins his wrists “ Tonight doesn’t seem to be working out for you Yuey maybe if I give you a rousing cheer!” then he groans as a bullet pieces his chest. Yut Lung slips a needle under his skin and Angelus feels his body flop to the ground.

Then he sees the smoking gun. “ Eiji how could you, I thought we were friends” Eiji flashes him, his middle finger.

“ Congratulations you finally caught on after what a month” Angelus sneered.

“ Why couldn’t you have paralyzed his mouth too Yue?” Sing groans

“ He needed to have some awareness, for personal satisfaction,” Yut Lung says. “ I’ve contacted the Council we have a few minutes”

“ Even when taking out someone for the safety of the community you can’t stop being a sadistic bastard” Eiji complained.

“ He was going to give me locus feet” Yut Lung argued.

“ You fucking bastard!” Sing raged.

“ I’m going to do even more until those feet are completely useless” Angelus vows.

Both Sing and Yut Lung shiver. “ I’ll teach Sing all the wonderful things I learned in Tibet”

“ How could I have thought you were here to help me?” Eiji says with disgust

“Because Eiji if there was a first place for the biggest idiot you’d win the grand prize. I’d rather be back in Hell then continue to hang out with you” Angelus informs him.

“ Why did you?” Eiji asked

“ Because I wanted to taint, and corrupt you in every way,” the vampire says. “ I wanted you spread out on my sheets but you were so hung up on Ash, you friend-zoned me, me!” “ Clearly a bad choice on his part,” said Yut Lung sarcastically

“ You killed Ibe and Ash as a part of some sick game to hurt me” Eiji spat.

“ You were going to be my comeback piece,” Angelus said.

“ This pretentious fuck thinks he’s an artist,” said Sing with an eye roll.

“ So what did finally light a red dot in your empty noggin?” Angelus taunted

“ Yut Lung I realized he wasn’t trying to kill me but you. He wouldn’t do that unless. I went to Max and we did some investigating of our own. Three people saw you the night of Ibe’s murder with red hands. They were just too scared. I contacted Sing and Yut Lung and the three of us made this plan” Eiji said.

“ Enough talk” Yut Lung says with a nod

Sing goes up the tree to retrieve something.

“ You think the Watchers council can hold me?” Angelus laughs

“ They won’t have a chance to try” Yut Lung pulls out a stake and Sing comes back with a Jar. “ You want to do the honors Eiji chan, he wronged you the most” Angelus doesn’t register until seconds before Eiji holds the stake over his heart “ This is for Ash and everyone you ever raped, tortured or killed” Yut Lung holds the jar under him and Eiji drives the stake deep...

Angelus looks at the familiar fiery cubicle “ You know you guys could have redecorated since last I was here” the door opens and a familiar blond boy with green eyes walks through the door.

“ Are you a demonic projection or the real thing?” Angelus asked

Bastard!” a punch sails directly into his gut.

“ Hi, Ash got the guys upstairs really give you a reprieve to torment me.?” Angelus asked curiously “ I’m flattered”

“ This is my torment every sick thing I did for Dino I have to do for them. He’s a fan of my dam work!” Ash sounds beyond self-loathing

“ Yep definitely in Hell! I work my undead ass off sticking it God and humanity in general only to get passed over for some seventeen-year-old hack!” Angelus complained, “ So what Whips, chains, crabs ?”

“ Time to explain why you fucked up” Ash smirked. “ Drucilla never saw Eiji”

“ Come on your telling me your damsel was the difference between me winning or dying him?” Angelus exclaimed incredulously

“ Yut Lung was a mixed bag among the powers that be. Half the people upstairs wanted to put him on Hell’s legislator and be done with it especially after the Lee family slaughter. The other half debated he deserved a chance. In the end, it was love that saved him, Lang Lui his mom caught word and advocated on her little boy's behalf. She’s quite the pistole over on the other side and was smart enough to drum up enough favors for this day” Ash laughed.

“ We got it wrong Angelus, Eiji wasn’t meant to be saved he was meant to guide and protect others.”

Angelus processes this “ Those goodie two shoes used me!” he raged

“ Yut Lung and Eiji hated each other. Worse Sing was left torn between them. You were the nudge all three of them needed to become a united front. It was what the powers hoped for.” Ash grins “ There going to save so many people and its all because of you”

Angelus feels utterly horrified.

“ And it gets better you see Angelus just because you choose evil doesn’t mean good was done with you. You had more chances than any of us and you blew them!” Ash spits

“ I have no soul,” Angelus said in a well duh voice.

“ Neither did Darla or Spike heck Drucilla could've gotten redemption maybe if you hadn’t used her one last time. You robbed that girl of so much! Even with a soul, You were never serious about helping anyone; it was always about Buffy or the Shanshu prophecy or appeasing your own guilt. That’s why when you lost that guilt it was fucking party time” Ash hissed.

“ Are you torturing me or yourself?” Angelus mocks

“ I’m just getting to the good part,” the blond says sweetly “ See every act of evil you did brought out some good”

“How?” Angelus demands

“It’s funny you did so much good as a murderous psychopath because the face of your inhumanity brought out the compassion, kindness, strength of those who didn’t even know they had it” Ash finished.

“ Oh god no please no more just no more!” Angelus’s mind is reeling all that work, all that planning.

“ And guess what? we have an eternity to go over all of the ripples you created in the lives of others while souled and not. I’m talking about every sinner and saint and all of the good they did throughout their lives and how they influenced others. Welcome back to Hell you piece of shit. I’m the new management. I'm here to make sure your stay is as unpleasant as possible. So today lets start with all the nice laws that got passed because of you and Darla’s rampages!” Ash says in a cutesy voice.

Angelus lets out a wail of anguished despair that echoes throughout all of hell. The end

#banana fish #buffy the vampire slayer #Eiji Okumura #ash lynx #sing soo ling #yut lung lee #asheiji #yuesing #angelus #drucillia #Angelus/Eiji one sided #Angelus/Yut Lung implications #yut lung/sing #Yut/Sing/Eiji team up #angelus needs to kill instead of tormenting

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ninetalees · 5 years ago

Text

Sufferance

(noun) the absence of objection rather than genuine approval; toleration.

7 years after the events of Sword/Shield, Gym Leader Bede comes to Postwick to conduct some research in the Slumbering Weald; Hop is his unwilling companion.

Warnings for: Eventual Hop x Bede (cheeryfairyshipping) and eventual M-rated content.

Chapter 1

Hop couldn't concentrate today.

It might have been the pleasant spring sun, filtering in through the window and bouncing off the laminated pages he was pursuing, compelling him to turn his attention to the window. The heat and the amusing scene of the frolicking Wooloo in the fields did a fine job of keeping his attention on anything but his work.

It also might have been the anticipation. Every now and then his gaze flickered to the clock on the wall. Gloria had a match today - only an exhibition one - but Hop always exulted in the prospect of watching her live. It was now 12:45 - the matches were due to start at 1 - he would take his lunch then and sit out in the grass in front of the lab to watch on his laptop.

He got up from his chair and shielded his eyes to peer at Sonia rifling through the shelves on the balcony above. Her back was to him and her humming as she concentrated was a soothing and familiar melody. It was hard to believe it had been 7 years since he had started working with her; they had fallen into a comfortable synchronicity so quickly there had barely been an adjustment period, and it was very early on in their professional relationship that Hop had felt he had been there forever.

"Sonia?" he called. Sonia's red ponytail bobbed as she snapped to attention, and she stood to come and peer over the railing at him.

"Hey Hop," she replied with a smile. "Everything alright?"

Hop grinned back. "Grand." He stuffed his hands in his pockets. "I was just letting you know I'm gonna take lunch in a few? Gloria has a tournament starting at 1 and I don't want to miss it - if I'm not there to take a call at the end and discuss every single detail she'll go spare." His grin widened at the memory of once having missed a tournament because himself and Sonia were out in the Wild Area on a work project. There was no signal out there, and Hop had forgotten to tell Gloria he would be away (of course he had the tournament recording for his return.) He had come back to Wedgehurst with 5 missed calls, several texts, and a disgruntled selfie asking whether he had died.

"Oh, wonderful! She has matches today?" Sonia threw up her hands in jubilation; to Hop's immense relief, she was not holding a book. "I would love to watch, too. It's been ages since I've settled in to watch a tournament and Nessa is always griping I never get round to watching any of her matches." Her smile became coy. "What do you say to taking an extended break and watching on a laptop in the garden? I can make some ice tea."

Hop nodded enthusiastically. "Sounds like a plan! I'll get the stream up and running." Sonia, to many people's surprise, had never had to be strict with Hop. Despite his reputation for impulsiveness and general air of chaos, he was focused and determined about things he had a passion for. Studiousness and discipline were two traits integral to a successful Pokémon Professor and not ones Hop was famed for, but he had proved himself with his diligence from the start. Hop did not always follow a straight line from A to B, but even with his many stops and detours along the way he almost always managed to produce work to a high standard. But Sonia had known this long before the day she had asked him to come on board as her assistant.

Hop grabbed his laptop from the gleaming countertop and made his way outside with a skip in his step, pausing only to pet Yamper who had weaved excitedly between his legs. It was difficult not to be in a good mood: the sun was shining, work was not too busy for him to steal some downtime, and he was about to settle in for an afternoon of quality battles. Even if he did not do so much of it himself anymore, his interest had not been quelled in the slightest. Watching Gloria on the field was poetry in motion, and a fantastic learning opportunity – watching her direct her partners was a fully immersive lesson in how to draw out Pokémon’s full potential via flawless strategy and iron-clad bonds of trust. Hop set the laptop down on the garden table out back and opened the umbrella before settling down to bring up the livestream of the tournament. Sonia emerged a couple of minutes later, balancing a tray carrying a jug of peach ice tea and two glasses. Yamper trotted after her obediently, careful to avoid getting in the way. Once she had set the tray down and taken her seat, Yamper leapt into her lap as Sonia laughingly scratched behind her ears. “Learned your lesson after years of close calls involving mugs of tea, eh?” she cooed, and Yamper barked happily while Hop chuckled. “You’re not the only one, Yamper. Only recently, despite years of having being told, have I discovered the true perils of running indoors, especially in a tea-laden Sonia’s vicinity.”

They both laughed, then, and Sonia poured the ice tea as Hop hit play. The announcer’s voice crackled and boomed over the laptop speakers, and Hop felt the familiar adrenalin rush course through him as the camera panned over the pitch. There were not many big names in the tournament today – just Gloria, Nessa and some random challengers. Gloria would make short work of them all, Hop had no doubt. Although he didn’t dare comment as such in front of Sonia.

First up were two of the random challengers – young woman and an older gentleman. Hop and Sonia mostly chatted among themselves for the span of that battle, Yamper interjecting occasionally to demand one of the treats hidden in Sonia’s pockets. Hop watched from the corner of his eye as the young woman’s Manectric decimated the opponent’s Blastoise with a wicked Thunderbolt. “Solid,” he remarked, and Sonia looked up from checking her phone. “Mhmm,” she replied, sipping some ice tea. “Who’s up next?”

“Gloria and a challenger.” As he spoke, Hop had gotten out his own phone to shoot Gloria a quick ‘good luck’ text – not that she would need it, or even see it until the tournament was over. But, still – he wanted her to know he was thinking of her.

Gloria strolled out on the pitch as her number, 37, flashed up on the huge monitor behind her. Despite an occasional wave and smile to the roaring crowd her gaze was set ahead, eyes gleaming with steely determination. It had been 7 years since she had taken Leon’s place as Champion, but Hop had never quite gotten over the scale of the difference between them as battlers, both in style and presence on the pitch. Leon had been so flashy, posing and swishing his cape and blowing kisses, hamming it to the max. Gloria, regardless of who her opponent was, always stepped up with an air of aloofness to the crowd, her attention solely on the match before her. Hop always wondered if Rose’s presence and lack thereof during Gloria's reign had anything to do with that, but Leon never brought him up. So Hop never asked.

He was pulled away from his thoughts by Sonia clapping excitedly as Gloria let out Saber, her Haxorus, to face her opponent’s Beartic. The camera panned over the man’s face for a moment and Hop noted the traces of a smug smile on his face. From the perspective of an untrained eye, it might look as though he had an advantage from a type matchup perspective. But Hop knew better – Gloria would make short work of him and not have to withdraw a single Pokémon.

Indeed, Saber demolished the Beartic with a single, well-aimed Close Combat move and the rest of the match flew by in a similar fashion. Hop couldn’t help but smile at Sonia’s rapt attention, her eyes fixed on the screen as she petted Yamper absentmindedly. It was easy to forget that Sonia had once been a fine battler, a rival even to Leon – Hop always meant to ask her if she ever missed it.

Gloria withdrew Saber and bowed with a flourish as the match ended. She crossed the field to shake her crestfallen opponent’s hand, and that was the last they saw before the pitch darkened again in preparation for the next battle. Sonia leaned back as the ad break started, her eyes shining. “My gosh, that was thrilling!” she remarked. “I really do need to try and watch these more often – that poor fellow couldn’t get a move in edgeways!”

“That’s Gloria,” replied Hop happily. He took a gulp of ice tea, as though it had just been him out working up a sweat. “She’s in a league of her own. The more I watch her, the more vindicated I feel in not being able to match her in battle – can definitely see her holding the title even longer than Leon did!” There was a smile on his face as he spoke, but Sonia’s gaze became slightly pitying. “Don’t say that.” She cast her eyes down to Yamper, who was now dozing. “About yourself, I mean. Being good with Pokémon isn’t all about battling.”

Hop fought the urge to scowl. “I know that.” Even after all this time, people seemed so delicate around in him relation to Gloria and her success. Gloria was his best friend, and he had let go the dream of defeating Leon and becoming Champion a long time ago. He knew Sonia didn’t appreciate when he was self-deprecating – because, she said, she valued his input and effort so much here with her. But it annoyed Hop that people seemed to think they would hurt his feelings if they joked about it with him: he wanted so badly to be rid of that legacy of being second-best to Gloria in the Gym Challenge. He walked a different path, now, one less glitzy but fulfilling and important all the same. They were silent as the show returned and the commentator announced Nessa and another challenger were up to bat. Hop’s temporary irritation dissipated as he watched Sonia zap to attention. Nessa was her best friend – Hop suspected she might be more. As he spent most of his days with Sonia, he was privy to details of her life that many others were not: even then, he wasn’t completely sure. But he knew what he saw. He observed them together whenever Nessa came to visit, or whenever Sonia returned from hanging out with her. She always spent the rest of the evening with cheeks flushed with happiness, texting constantly. It was nice to see.

Nessa defeated the challenger with ease, and before long it was the final.

Any air of disquiet that might have remained between them dissipated entirely when the commentator announced it would be Nessa and Gloria facing off in the final round. Hop leaned forward in his chair, near vibrating with excitement. Sonia, too, was tensed eagerly as both combatants waved to the camera with the assured ease of those used to the eyes of the world being upon them. They crossed to the centre of the pitch to shake hands, keeping in line with the finalists’ tradition, then turned to take their places as the commentator announced the match was about to begin.

As Hop had predicted, it didn’t take long. Nessa was a fine trainer indeed, but still, like all of them, was nowhere near Gloria’s level. Gloria was well-prepared with her Bolthund, Lassie, and took down Nessa’s team with one well-aimed electric attack after another. Lassie moved as though she were an extension of Gloria herself, striking with precision in time with each of Gloria’s commands. Sonia raised a hand to cover her mouth as Nessa’s dynamaxed Drednaw came down in an explosion of light, and Gloria and Lassie celebrated in its wake.

“Ohhh,” the sound escaped Sonia in a long exhale. “Poor Nessa.” She shook her head. “I suppose we can’t be surprised though really, can we?” She chuckled. “Wow. I really enjoyed that! Be sure to wrangle me in next time there’s another tournament on. Nessa would be incredibly chuffed if I got into watching her matches more.”

“Would be my pleasure,” Hop replied cheerily. It had been fun to watch with Sonia – perhaps a few more matches and she would open up about her past rivalry with Leon. He would have loved to see her measured, cerebral approach applied on the battlefield. He stood, fingering his phone in his pocket, and Sonia grinned at him. “Off to make a call?” she asked.

“If you don’t mind.” His eyes drifted to watch the screen go dark as the commentator was signing off. “Need to get to unpacking what we’ve just seen, the usual.”

Sonia nodded and stood with her slumbering Yamper clasped to her chest. “Of course.” She turned back towards the back door that was, thankfully, slightly ajar. “Send my best!”

“Always do,” Hop shot back, already turning to dial. He strolled over to the back wall and leaned over it, arm dangling over the side. Gloria answered on the second ring, breathless and slightly echoey in the changing room. “Hop!” she cried. “Thanks for the text!”

Hop laughed quietly. “You’re welcome. Not like you needed it.” He turned his eyes towards the sky. “Great match! The last one especially – Nessa’s going to have to employ more than a half-ground type as her wildcard to get anywhere near you.”

“Ah, she’s amazing.” Hop could picture clearly the self-effacing wave of her hand. “It’s always a pleasure to battle her. All the leaders have their own quirks and eccentricities – the fun is in figuring them out and how to get round them.”

Hop nodded. “Yeah,” he said, when he realised she couldn’t see that. “Like a puzzle. You’d think I’d have been better at it.” They both laughed, and Hop felt himself relax. It was so easy with her.

“Anyway,” she continued. “We’ll be getting in at around 8:30 – you’ll be there to meet us, won’t you?”

Hop froze. “Meet you? Where? Who’s we?” he asked.

There was a long pause at the other end of the line. “Um, myself and Bede? At the station?” She ventured at last. “We’ll be in Postwick tonight?”

“I’m sorry, what?” Hop took the phone away from his ear to speak directly into the microphone on the top. “What are you on about?”

“Oh wow.” Gloria cleared her throat. “Uh, okay – I figured you already knew, because Bede got onto Sonia first? But he’s coming to our neck of the woods to do some study about Fairy-types in the Slumbering Weald for a month or so, and he asked Sonia to help out with resources and stuff? He got in touch a couple of weeks ago.”

Hop was stunned into silence for a long moment, head spinning. Bede, here? In Postwick – in the Slumbering Weald himself and Gloria held so dear? His relationship with the fellow was complicated; they had managed to leave the past behind them to the extent that Hop didn’t pull a face at the mere sight of him anymore. Bede and Gloria were close friends – or as close as one could be to Bede – and so Hop often ended up spending more time with him than he ever would have of his own volition by association. Hop could manage that; could manage having a drink with him in a group of three or four and not going for the jugular when he said something arrogant or disparaging. He didn’t know if he could manage weeks with him one-on-one, watching him traipse around his hometown and poking into the secrets of the Slumbering Weald.

“Hop?” he was startled back to reality by Gloria, sounding a little concerned now. “I’m really sorry I didn’t tell you, like I said it’s something I assumed Sonia would have mentioned and it just never came up. He’s staying with my mum – we have a spare room and she’s always delighted to have company, so it’s not like he’ll be hanging around Wedgehurst in the evenings or anything.” Luckily, Hop no longer lived with his mother in Postwick; while he worked only just up the road from his childhood home, at 21 and with a full-time job it seemed about time he found a place of his own. He rented a one-bedroom apartment above the now-closed boutique in Wedgehurst. The previous owner had been the little old lady who had also run the shop; when she had grown too frail to live alone she had moved out to live with her daughter in Motostoke. The family had been happy to rent her previous lodgings to Hop at a reasonable price, him being a local they had known for years. The apartment was small, with only two rooms - a living room-cum-kitchen and a bedroom - and somewhat old-fashioned, with a deep red shag carpet and wooden panelling in the front room, but Hop loved the place. He had made it his own, with his faded Pokémon League posters on the walls and Wooloo-patterned bedding on the rickety single bed. It was home.

“Hop?” Gloria asked again, and Hop shook his head. He could be professional about this – if Bede was coming to study the Slumbering Weald, this was work for him. As long as they didn’t stray too far outside that scope they would be alright. He could do it, for Gloria and for Sonia.

“Sorry, sorry Gloria,” he replied at last, pressing a hand to his forehead. “It’s fine. Was just a bit taken by surprise, that’s all.” He sighed. “Look, I can’t say I’m thrilled at the prospect but it’s my job to be civil and help him out, isn’t it? Would be a pretty pants professor if I refused to lend a hand to someone in furthering their knowledge just because they got on my tits a bit, wouldn’t I?” His smile returned as he spoke. Honestly, Bede’s topic of study sounded pretty interesting; he was sure they would have plenty to discuss around it and would have no reason resort to petty squabbling as long as they both remembered why they were there.

“Oh, Hop, thank you.” He could picture her shoulders sagging with relief. “You are the best professor ever.”

“Professor’s assistant, at least for now,” he corrected with a small laugh. “You don’t need to thank me, Gloria. I’ll behave myself provided Bede does too.”

“Oh, stop it. Of course he will. He’s a nice guy, you should give him more of a chance.” Hop opened his mouth, his lips forming the shape of a snarled retort, only to sigh instead. No point getting off on the wrong foot with this. “Sure,” he responded at last. “Anyway, what’s the plan tonight?”

“Well, we’ll be getting into Wedgehurst at around 8:30,” Gloria replied. “Then I said I would cook dinner at my place? Mum is away until tomorrow – using a package deal I got as a thank you for an endorsement from the Rose Hotel – so I’m going to crash at home with Bede and then head out early in the morning. He’s going to get up with me and head out to the lab to meet with you and Sonia to discuss what he wants to do.” She paused, allowing that to sink in. “Sorry I can’t stick around longer. Busy, busy.”

“Nah, sure what would you be doing? I get it.” He had to smile at her apologetic tone – he knew if she could stay and supervise to ensure they made an effort to get along, she absolutely would. Hop knew she would love if he and Bede were to become friends – perhaps this was fate.

“Anyway,” Gloria broke the silence, obviously aware Hop had drifted into his own thoughts again. “See you tonight?”

“Yeah,” Hop replied. “See you tonight.”

***

The sun was just beginning to set when Hop headed out to the station. It was always a breathtaking sight, the rolling hills of Wedgehurst and Postwick dark blotches against the majesty of the glowing pink-orange sky. Hop paused to observe it, hands jammed in his pockets. He shivered against the cool evening breeze, rocking back on his heels. Just down the hill he could see the neon lights of the station glowing ominously. He pulled out his phone to check the time – 20:24. No point being late, he would only be delaying the inevitable and invoking Gloria’s wrath; the station was literally a 3 minute walk from his home, he had no excuse. He had even gotten off from work early – he suspected Sonia felt guilty for forgetting that his former nemesis would be around town for a few weeks starting tomorrow. She had been so flustered when he had told her. She had been so busy when he had called, she’d said, and once the conversation had finished her promise had gone right out of head. Hop had been magnanimous: he had had time to accept that it was happening and there was nothing that could be done. He was determined to be mature about the whole thing; Sonia, he suspected, was far more grateful he hadn’t made a fuss than she had let on.

As he made his way down the cobblestone street, he could see the lights of the train approaching in the distance. He was struck with the picture of Gloria and Bede sitting opposite one another, chatting and showing each other stupid shite on their phones, the same way himself and Gloria had so very long ago on that first trip to Motostoke. He ground his teeth together, annoyed at the prick of jealousy that accompanied that image. Don’t be stupid. Bede’s friendship with Gloria would never be as deep as the bond Hop and her shared. Getting territorial would not prove a warm welcome.

He headed into the swinging gates at the entrance just at the train pulled up to the platform. The station was fairly empty, as always, save for the handful of people waiting in the reception area. Passengers trickled out, into the arms of loved ones or hurrying on their respective ways. Hop strained until he caught sight of a flash of white-blond. He barely had time to register it as Bede before Gloria was in his line of vision, waving wildly before careening into his arms.

“Hey Gloria,” he greeted, wrapping his arms around her. The moment was so supremely normal that for a second he forgot completely about the bizarre situation he was in and just enjoyed holding his best friend.

That couldn’t last, however, and eventually he had to release her and step back regard Bede lingering behind her. Even when not bound to his gym uniform, he tended towards pink – Opal’s legacy, Hop supposed. Tonight he donned a rose-coloured jumper and pale blue jeans, his long, white-blond hair brushed back into a loose ponytail. The single diamond earring he wore, dangling on a golden chain, glimmered in the fluorescent lighting of the station interior. Hop realised with a jolt he hadn’t even begun to consider how stark and strange Bede would appear against the pastel greens and greys of his hometown. He was surreal, like an accidental splotch of electric pink on a careless artist’s quaint countryside watercolour.

“Hop.” Bede moved forward, his hand extended in greeting. Hop shook himself from his reverie to grasp it, careful to meet Bede’s eyes and ignore Gloria’s stern look.

“Hiya, Bede,” he replied, shaking his hand before returning his own to his pockets. “Good… good to see you.”

“Likewise.” Bede’s lip curled. Hop was sure he could see the insincerity behind that statement in his eyes and was highly amused by the prospect of annoying him for weeks on end. He had to bite back a snide retort. Give him a chance. Like he hadn’t given him ample chances already – it had been 7 years, and Hop was still unable to warm to him. That had to mean something. They stood for a moment, sizing each other up, before Gloria took Bede’s arm and gestured towards the doorway with her free hand.

“Come on you two,” she insisted, tugging on Bede’s sleeve. “I don’t know about you Bede, but I’m beat. Let’s get some food on and settle in.”

Bede smiled angelically back at her. “Sounds heavenly.” Hop supressed the urge to roll his eyes at that contrived posh accent and dug his hands deeper into his pockets to trail after them towards Postwick.

It was going to be a long month.

***

A/N: Still reeling I actually started this, so out of the game with fanfiction it’s unbelievable, haha. Last time I was posting it was on fanfiction.net and author’s notes were still a thing. Anyways – not sure how far into this I’ll get, but will do my best! Updates will be sporadic because I work full-time and am somewhat rusty with fanfiction and writing in general – but I do adore these characters. Will upload to AO3 (believe that’s where the cool kids hang out nowadays) once I am approved for an account.

And yes, the Poké-nicknames are the same ones I use in-game, hehe.

Enjoy! Feedback appreciated.

#cheeryfairyshipping #hop x bede #rival hop #bede #pokemon swsh #pokemon #my writing #Emma talks

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iandeleonwrites · 4 years ago

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Ian’s Case: A Personal Statement for Grad School Admission

Personal Statement, Ian Deleón

“He felt something strike his chest, and that his body was being thrown swiftly through the air, on and on, immeasurably far and fast, while his limbs were gently relaxed.”

It was more than a decade ago when I first read those words. Written by the American author Willa Cather, Paul’s Case: A Study in Temperament has always felt to me like an intimate account of my own life penned by a woman one hundred years in the past.

That is a feeling which makes me proud; that my personal whims, fears, and desires, could find their echo long ago in a story about a young man and his pursuit of a meaningful life. Because of it, I felt a pleasing sense of historicity at a time when I was struggling so much with my own.

I grew up in Miami Beach. Literally not more than a block away from water for most of my life. My father had emigrated from Cuba with his family in 1980. My mother had come on a work visa from Brazil a few years later. They met on the beach, had an affair, and I came into the world in May of 1987.

My life was marked with in betweenness from the very beginning. My parents’ relationship did not last long, so I grew up traveling between houses. I had two families. I was American, but I was also Cuban and Brazilian. I even have a Brazilian passport. I spoke three languages fluently, but I couldn’t dance salsa or samba. I felt at home with the working class immigrants and people of color in my neighborhoods, but I often had to work hard to prove I wasn’t just some gringo with a knack for foreign tongues.

[A quick note on Paul’s Case––If it happens that the reader is not familiar with the short story, let me briefly summarize it here: A disenchanted youth in turn of the century Pittsburgh feels increasingly alienated from his schoolmates, his teachers and his family. His only comfort is his position as an usher at Carnegie Hall, where he loses himself in the glamour of the art life. Having no drive or desire to become an artist, however, the dandy Paul makes a spur of the moment criminal decision and elopes to New York City. There, he is able to live out his fantasies in a financial masquerade for about a week’s time, until the authorities back home finger him for monetary theft. Learning that his father is en route to the city to collect him, Paul travels to the countryside and flings himself in front of a speeding train, musing about the elegant brevity of winter flowers.]

When I first encountered Cather’s short story I was blown away by the parallels I saw between my own life and Paul’s. In 2005, fresh out of high school, I was living mostly with my father as my mother had relocated to faraway West Palm Beach. I was an usher at the local concert hall, a job I cherished enough to volunteer my time for free. I became entranced by the world of classical music, opera, theater, and spectacle––often showing up for work early and roaming the performance spaces, probing high and low like some kind of millenial phantom.

In school, however, I had no direction, no plan. I had good enough grades, but no real motivation, and worst of all, I thought, no discernible talent. I probably resented my father for not being cultured enough to teach me about music, theater, and the arts. No one in my family had ever even been to a museum, or sat before a chamber orchestra. And it didn’t seem to matter to them either, they could somehow live blissfully without it.

Well I couldn’t. I began to mimic the fervor with which Paul immersed himself in that world, while also exhibiting the same panic at the thought of not being able to sustain my treasured experiences without a marketable contribution to them. But here is where Paul and I take divergent paths.

I was attending the Miami Dade Honors College, breezing my way towards an associate’s degree. I took classes in Oceanography, Sociology, Creative Writing, Acting and African Drumming. I was experimenting and falling in love with everything.

But it was my Creative Writing professor, Michael Hettich, who really encouraged the development of my nascent writing talent. Up until that point my ideas only found their expression through class assignments, particularly book reports and essays on historical events. My sister had always felt I had a way with words, but I just attributed this to growing up in a multicultural environment amongst a diversity of native languages.

As a result of that encouragement I began to write poetry, little songs and treatments for film ideas based on the short stories we were talking about in class. Somehow, thanks to those lines of poetry and a few amateur photographic self portraits, I was admitted to the Massachusetts College of Art & Design for my BFA program.

There, I attended classes in Printmaking, Paper Making, Performance Art, Video Editing, and Glass Blowing. I was immersed in culture, attending lectures and workshops, adding new words to my vocabulary: “New Media” and “gestalt”. I saw my first snowfall. I had the dubious honor of appearing at once not Hispanic and yet different enough. I was overwhelmed. I felt increasingly disenchanted and out of place in New England, yet my work flourished and grew stronger.

It was during this time that I developed a passion for live performance and engagement with an audience. I also worked with multi-channel video and sculptural installations. Always, I commented on my family history, grappling with it, the emigrations and immigrations. I even returned to those early short stories from Miami Dade, one time doing an interpretive movement piece based on The Yellow Wallpaper. Most often I talked about my father. He was even in a few of my projects. He was a good sport, though we still had the occasional heated political disagreement. We never held any grudges, and made up again rather quickly. It would always be that way, intense periods of warming and cooling. A tropical temperament, I suppose.

I continued to take film-related classes in Boston, but my interests gradually became highly abstracted, subtle, and decidedly avant-garde. I had no desire to work in a coherently narrative medium. This would eventually change, but for now, I let my ambitions and aspirations take me where they would.

I returned home to Miami for a spell after graduation. I traveled the world for five months after that. I moved back to Boston for another couple of years, because it was comfortable I suppose, though I was fed up with the weather.

Finally, I wound up in NYC. Classic story: I followed a charming young woman, another performance artist as luck would have it, a writer too, and a bit of an outsider. We were quickly engaged and on the first anniversary of our meet cute we were married on a gorgeous piece of land in upstate new york, owned by an older performance-loving couple from the city. Piece of land doesn’t quite do it justice, we’re talking massive tracts, hidden acres of forest, sudden lakes, fertile fields, and precocious wildlife. As they say in the movies, it really is all about location, location, location.

Nearly all of our significant personal and professional achievements in the subsequent years have centered around this bucolic homestead. After meeting, courting, researching and eventually getting married there, we soon decided we would stage our most ambitious project to date in this magical space––we would shoot...a movie.

We hit upon the curious story of an eighteenth century woman in England called Mary Toft. Dear Mary became famous for a months-long ruse that involved her supposed birthing of rabbits, and sometimes cats. The small town hoax ballooned into a national controversy when it was eventually exposed by some of the king’s physicians. My wife and I were completely enthralled by this story and its contemporary implications. Was Mary wholly complicit in the mischievous acts, or was she herself a sort of duped victim...of systematic abuse at the hands of her family, her husband, her country?

We soon found a way to adapt and give this tale a modern twist that recast Mary as a woman of color alone in the woods navigating a host of creepy men, a miscarriage, and a supernatural rabbit.

Over the course of nine months, our idea gestated and began taking the form of a short film screenplay. This was something neither of us had done or been adequately trained to do before. But we knew we wanted it to be special, it was our passion project. We knew we didn’t want it to look amateurish––we were too old for that. So we took out a loan, hired an amazing camera crew, and in three consecutive days in the summer of 2017 we filmed our story, Velvet Cry. It was the most difficult thing either of us had undertaken...including planning our nuptial ceremony around our difficult families.

It was an incredible experience––intoxicating––also quite maddening and stressful. But it was all worth it. Because of our work schedules, it took us another year to finish post production on the film, but throughout that process, I knew I had found my calling. I would be a writer, and I would be a Director.

Perhaps I had been too afraid to dream the big dream before. Perhaps I had lacked the confidence, or simply, the life experience to tackle the complexity of human emotions, narratives, and interactions––but no longer. This is what I wanted to do and I had to find a way to get better at doing it.

In the intervening months, I have set myself on a course to develop my writing abilities as quickly as I could in anticipation of this application process. I know I have some latent talent, but it has been a long time since I’ve been in an academic setting, and in any case, I have never really attempted to craft drama on this scale before.

I’ve read many books, listened to countless interviews, attended online classes, and most importantly, written my heart out since relocating down the coast to the small college town of Gainesville in Central Florida with my wife in June of 2018. It was through a trip to her alma mater of Hollins University that we learned about the co-ed graduate program in screenwriting a few months ago. After all the debt I accrued in New England, I didn’t think I would ever go back to college, though I greatly enjoyed the experience. But what we learned about the program filled me with confidence and a desire to share in the wonderful legacy of this school that my wife is always gushing about.

Our Skype conversation with Tim Albaugh proved to be the deciding factor. I knew instantly that I wanted to be a part of anything that he was involved with, and I had the feeling that my ideas would truly be nurtured and harnessed into a craft––something tangible I could be proud of and use to propel my career.

I continue to mine my childhood and adolescence in Miami for critical stories and characters, situations that shed light on my own personal experience of life. I’ve found myself coming back to Paul’s Case. No longer caught up in the character’s stagnant, brooding longings for a grander life, I’m now able to revisit the story, appreciating the young man’s anxieties while evaluating how it all went so fatally wrong for Paul. There was no reason to despair, no cause for lost hope. I would take the necessary steps to become the artist I already know myself to be. The screenplay I am submitting as my writing sample is a new adaptation of this story, making Paul my own, and giving him a little bit of that South Florida flavor.

I will close by reiterating how I have visited Hollins, and heard many a positive review from the powerful women I know who have attended college there. As a graduate student, I know Hollins can help me to become a screenwriter, to become a filmmaker. This is the only graduate program to which I am applying––I have a very good feeling about all this.

I want to be a Hollins girl.

#college essay #paul's case #queer writing #hollins university

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newgen-writer · 4 years ago

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THERE IS MORE IN LIFE! The Untold Story Life produces many stories to tell as product of experiences from the world we live in. It is either a story of happiness manifested with joyfulness both in the heart and mind or an anguish cause over several failures and disappointment. It does a big difference and might be an intervening factor for longingness and suffering. People use any means of expressing it. They tend to express it by plainly sharing to their family and relatives. Others attempt to discuss their feelings and emotions among their peers and folks. However, those who are gifted with intrapersonal skills are fun of sharing their experiences in a form of writing as an outlet of their expression. The notion that I presented earlier is the grounding cause before I became popular in crafting literary pieces. With over 50 poems that I created were all product of disappointments and failures of unsuccessful love between a lover of mine who broke my heart from finding someone whose money could really satisfy her needs. It also contains a plea of rebuilding relationship but later was given uneven response from her. “Love Me Like I Do”, “Our First Love in Dark Shadow”, Till the End”, “No More Tears”, are some of those mentioned poems whose intense messages are simply a desire for a great love. These poems are structured in free verse, narrative and dramatic in nature. Aside from crafting poetry, I also had plenty of short stories which are reality-based concept and some other are product of perception and imagination. It comprises both fiction and non-fiction stories. The contents of the non-fiction stories are crafted based on the frugality of people, vices among senior citizens, lifestyles among teenagers and religious controversy. On the other hand, fictional stories mainly talk about perfect world where people are free of errors and no more pain and sufferings. In short it, signifies the opposite of reality. “When Dreams Collide “is one of the popular fictional stories that I ever wrote when I was still in college. It features a man with two dreams in a night. He dreamt of a dream that was not a dream. Mostly the contents of the stories were written in an average language where average people could read and understand solely. The characters on the stories are behind the real names of people involved in the real scene. In terms of fictional stories, the characters are mainly composed names. Some of these stories were drafty written beside the seashore and could be alone in a tree where birds are visible, and their voices could deeply help me think words in accordance with the concept. Others were written in my little quiet room where imagination generates oftentimes. At first, I was afraid of writing it since I doubt no one will read these due to the seriousness of topics but later, a vast number of readers had interest on it.” Before I got at this stage, I received negative comments and feedback from some critics on my writings. Personally, I told myself to stop crafting stories and find avenue where I am suited and effective. I diverted my attention to a new hobby of playing basketball. It has been 3 years when I stop writing due to the negative comments that I received from my readers. But my happiness would not be as deep as writing gives than playing basketball. I struggle myself like a leaf resisting from wind blows. My heart would say go back to writing but my mind goes to playing as scapegoat for criticisms. That argumentation lasted for about 4 months until I decided to go back to where I am started the passion of writing. By then, I make a reformation of my literary pieces. I added new structural composition based on the modern literary techniques to give new avenue for the readers and find pleasure reading on it. It was indeed an honor as writer and a language teacher. My heart really belongs to literature. Reading should be vitalized in our day to day living. As it says” Once you learn to read, you will be forever free.” – Frederick Douglass. There is more on reading. It opens your mind to know things better than yesterday. It would freely give us wisdom and joy. It will make a better person. As reader, do not stop reading. Let us possess eagerness in discovering things. Find joy in reading. You are in control of everything. There is more in life! In life, there were so many critics, even to the simplest form. One thing we should know is that these would help us shape our life to be better person. Never surrender and find avenue where you could find rest and free yourself from disappointments. Though trials may surround us, let us consider it as natural as it could be. It existed prior to our existence. Do not resist, be a rider in its flow standing firmly to the truth you hold. There is more in life! As a writer, consider yourself as developer. Always long for enrichment of your work. Whenever the world is so hard for us let us be soft and tender, flexible enough to undergo metamorphosis. Continue to be a writer in your own story. Remember, each story is worthy to tell. Let us endure and discover life to the fullest with vigor and enthusiasm. Let us continue to be a writer in our generation and a contributor to the preceding generation. There is more in life! I believe that in literature, we see our self through every reflection we made from our readings. It might be long or painful acceptance of the truth but in the end, it would be a honey. Enjoy life. Enjoy reading. There is more in life!

#Thereismoreinlife #Enjoy reading Enjoy writing

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milk-luvr-dot-com · 5 years ago

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“A New Assistant” - The Thick of It - Chapter 1

Summary: Cabinet reshuffle day, the shit has increased beyond belief, and Malcolm doesn't like change. Especially when his new assistant, Ivy Fisher, is just as coarse as he is.. and a tad hot.

Word Count: 5317

Rating: Mature (for adult situations, language)

Warnings: No Ao3 Warnings, Explicit Language, Homophobic language, fatphobic language, sexist language, ablest language

Categories: F/M, Gen

Tags: Falling in love, crushes, comedy, slow burn, explicit language, original female characters, AU - canon divergence, mutual pining, additional tags to be added

Chapter 2, Chapter 3

Ao3 Link and full work under the cut.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/24510592/chapters/59169388

Malcolm clapped, and turned around. "Come on, people! Let's get going here," he was shouting, "I've got a to-do list longer here than a fucking Leonard Cohen song!"

The woman, who Malcolm had never bothered to learn the name of, just another office coffee jockey offhandedly mentioned, "Don't you have a new assistant coming in today?"

"Oh, fuck," he pinched the bridge of his nose, "that's the other thing, shit."

Malcolm took a call, ducking into his office. "I've got this-this reshuffle going on, the Leamington Spa by-election coming up, and on top of it I've gotta tame a new fucking pet... yeah, they're giving me a new assistant. Yeah, could be a prostitute for all I care. I've got more on my plate than a spinster at a wedding... yeah, that wasn't a reference to your daughter, by the way, Andrew."

A knock came at the door of his office, and he lowered the phone, pressing a button to end the call. A woman stood there, dressed modestly, not wearing too much makeup. She was dark-haired, short, approaching middle-age. She had steely eyes, both in color and in meaning, that said "I take no shit 'round here!" She was, admittedly, attractive. She was holding a clipboard flat, with a disposable coffee cup balanced on top.

"Hello, I presume you're-" She spoke, with a cockney accent, strangely.

"Malcolm, Malcolm Tucker, you're the newcomer, yeah? Come on, walk and talk." He weakly, in a "dead fish" manner shook her hand, and then brushed past her.

She pressed her lips together, following him. Malcolm walked down the hall, and greeted a friend. "Doug, Doug, Dougie! Look at you, cock the size of Pink Panther's tail. Come have a kit-kat." He shook hands with the scrappy-looking fellow, then turned around.

"Um, I'm afraid I turned it down, Malcolm." Doug apprehensively explained.

The assistant became invisible, neutral.

Malcolm's eyes turned cold, and acute. "You know 90% of household dust is made of human skin? That's what you are. To me."

His phone rang, again, and he answered sharply, "Doug Hayes is a massive abortion. Again, not a reference to your daughter." He sat down in his chair. She stood at the door. "We need somebody to plug this DoSAC hole. Anybody. A fucking mammal with a head." Malcolm whooshed past her again, turning briefly to gesture her to follow.

Malcolm went out to summon someone else. Passing by, a man commented something between a catcall and a teasing gesture at them.

"Shut up!" the two of them both said, at the same time, which surprised both of them. They shared a moment of eye contact that could be a love letter in Yorkshire.

Malcolm returned back to his hell cave. She stood at the door. "Sam, Sam!" He flicked through pages provided for him. "Get me... Nicola Murray. Yeah."

He made eye contact with her, widening his eyes as if to imply the person he was talking to was a moron. "If she says no, well, I don't know, the only other candidate's my left bullock with a fucking smiley face drawn on it... Great. Yeah. Bye!" Malcolm pressed the end call button, once again.

He tossed his phone down on the desk, and rubbed his face. He looked over at her. "Well, come in, what, do I have to invite you exclusively like a vampire?"

She clandestinely rolled her eyes, "No."

"Right. Good. Have a seat."

She sat down. "What's your name?" Malcolm asked, finally, after about her being here for about 15 minutes.

"Ivy."

"Not your Tuesday night stripper name, your full name."

She furrowed her brow, "My name is Ivy. Ivy Amelia Fisher."

He sat up. "Jesus, what were you born on a commune? Are you a fairy tale character?"

"No, and not like yours is any better, Malcolm Tucker." Ivy said his name with such malice. "Go on, I bet your middle name is something daft, like, like..."

"Theodore."

"Yeah, like- wait hang on.." she began stifling a laugh, "is your middle name actually Theodore?"

"It was my granddad's name, look, I don't have time for this. Ivy, go on, set up shop in that corner over there. I've got too much to do today, and I don't need you prodding at me like a male dancer's fat cock at a latex fetish strip bar."

"Right." Ivy stood, and began clearing off piles of needing-to-be-shredded papers that should have been done months ago off of some teacher fold-out type desk. Malcolm got on the phone and began tearing into someone. Ivy started taking notes for insults she can use in the future.

Admittedly, from what Ivy had seen, she looked up to Malcolm. She'd heard about him before she got pigeonholed into it, just vaguely. After cleaning up the litter box for years from some fat cat in another department, she was sure she was ready for Malcolm. And she was, just not exactly in the way she'd expected. She'd been given a list of pointers from the main meat of DoSAC about dealing with him, which went straight in the trash. Ivy preferred learning from experience, anyway.

"Ivy?"

"What?" She looked up.

"What actually is your job?"

His genuinely curious demeanor threw her off completely, "Uh, I'm your assistant. I deal with the, er, horseshit. Making your job a bit easier. Paperwork, coffee runs, yelling at people. The like."

"Really?" Malcolm raised an eyebrow.

"Mhm, now can I finish my housekeeping, sir?" She turned.

"No, actually, you can't. Can you elaborate on the 'yelling at people' part?"

She sighed, and sat down in her creaky office chair. "I've been told, and I've observed, that you do a lot of yelling."

"Yes, I do, it's my favorite part of my day. It's my therapy."

"That's very sad," she pointed a pen at him, "but my job is to do the yelling you don't want do to. Mostly at the insane clown posse of DoSAC upstairs. But I'm sure I have plenty to learn from you, sir, about your sort of.. swearing slam poetry."

"Slam poetry?"

"Christ, have you got Tourette's, yes. You're known for your myriad of insults, especially at the department I was last at. Now let me finish, and maybe I'll yell for you, as a treat." Ivy slammed a stack of 'to shreds' into a bin.

Malcolm, for once, was challenged with the same energy he had. Jesus, she was as uncouth and colorful as he was. Maybe he needed to be put in his place, maybe that's what he was missing. It didn't help that with every insult thrown his way he'd grow more attracted to her. Her soft, curly, dark hair was tamed back only by her hair elastic, which must have been one strong as hell hair elastic, because she had a lot of hair. Her eyes, which were stoic at all times, seemed to be endless.

"Fuck are you staring at?" She interrupted his goo-goo eyes session with a cold remark.

"I'm staring at my fucking computer, now can I work without you accusing me of rape?"

"Jesus Christ, sir." She pinched the bridge of her nose.

Ivy had finished clearing her space, and was obsessively shredding things.

"That's fucking annoying." He remarked, about 5 minutes in.

"Would you prefer me to chew it up and shit it out on your keyboard tonight, sir? This is all your to-shreds, anyway."

"Yeah I would actually." He leaned back, looking at Ivy. "I've got a meeting after lunch with the new Secretary of State, Nicola Murray."

"...Alright?" She folded her hands together on her desk.

"You're coming with me. You can learn a thing or two. Please stay quiet, though."

"Mmm.. okay."

"In regards to lunch," he paused to sigh, "I'm going down to the Sainsbury's on the corner. Make sure the tazmanian shit devil doesn't come 'round and fuck everything up."

"Right."

He grabbed his shoulder bag by the office door. "D'you want anything?"

She looked up at him, squinting and thinking. "Er... yeah," Ivy pulled out her wallet, pulling out a few quid, and holding it up, "a Dr. Pepper."

He left, returning about 20 minutes later, setting a brown bag down on her desk, which startled her. He said nothing, collapsing in his desk chair.

"Thank you, sir." She unrolled the top of the bag.

"Huh?"

"Thanks." Ivy raised her eyebrows, reassuring what she said.

He made some vague Scottish agreement noise, digging into whatever he's eating. She looked inside the bag, which held her money that she gave to him and her pop. Ivy looked at him, then back down at the act of kindness. She decided against saying anything, since the environment was already thick with tension.

They finished eating. Ivy had her salad that she brought from home and her Dr. Pepper. Malcolm enjoyed his deli food. And then it was up to the circus for the pair of them.

"Is this the number 1 ladies' detective agency?" Malcolm and Ivy almost ran into Nicola's office. Glenn was in the middle of doing something stupid.

Nicola stood, "Malcolm Tucker! The real deal. Hello." They shook hands.

"The real deal! Good to see you. You're looking great." He gave his false friendly smile.

"And I'm guessing this is your new assistant...?" The taller of the two women questioned.

Ivy stuck out her hand for her to shake, "Ivy Fisher."

"Yes, exactly." She nodded, and took her hand.

Malcolm turned to the other two morons in the room, "Alright, Hinge and Bracket, time to go and hang up your lady-cocks."

Ivy slinked back a bit, and let Malcolm continue talking. "Nicola Murray! Here you are, Secretary of State for the Department of Social Affairs and Citizenship."

"Yep, I now have one of the longest job titles in Western politics. Thank God I don't have to wear a lapel badge."

Ivy looked out the glass and at 2 of the 3 stooges. One of them was mirroring the action Glenn was doing earlier. She smiled at them, not in a sympathetic or nice way, more just to laugh at them.

"It's a pity that we couldn't just make an abbreviation of it, you know, like PFI. Which I think stands for Pretty Fucking Imbarassing." Malcolm began, then continued, snidely, with "If you're a bit sloppy with the details. Which clearly your fucking husband is."

Ivy had started a list earlier of things that Malcolm said that she could later bring up in conversation. Either for purposes of teasing and berating or to have a psychology evaluation with. The list was a t-chart, which was directly on a piece of liner paper that Ivy kept at the back of the clipboard at all times. There wasn't much on there, aside from "Doug?" (which was regarding why Malcolm was yelling at Doug about household dust) on the side of psychological evaluation, and "PFI? Imbarassing?" which was on the haranguing side.

The woman in the flower print dress inhaled, and then began explaining, "Okay, look, James works for Albany, fine. He wasn't even working there when the contract was awarded-"

"Don't worry, that was just me-" Malcolm smiled again, beginning to laugh.

"Okay. Right. Fine."

"I mean, that's the sort of thing the press will throw at you." He glanced over to the other, shorter woman, as if he was speaking to both of them. "I mean, you step out of line, they'll be all over you. Like a pigeon on a chip. Is that your chair?"

Nicola looked at the prison jumpsuit colored chair. "Oh, God, yeah. It's cool, isn't it? It's got lumbar support." She slapped the back of it.

Ivy moved closer to Malcolm, sensing he was about to leave. "Bin it." He said starkly, grinning. "People don't like their politicians to be comfortable. They don't like you having expenses, they don't like you being paid, they'd rather you live in a fucking cave." She bit her lip, trying not to smile at Malcolm's words.

"Okay, fine, so what should I be sitting on? Should I just get an upturned KFC bucket?"

He grew agitated, lowering his brow. "Just a fucking normal chair. Right? Not a fucking massive vibrating throne."

"God, fine, I'll get a new chair." Nicola gave in, furrowing her brow.

"No, don't get a new chair, the press will go ape shit. 'New Secretary of State wasting money on chairs,' they'll kill you. Don't do anything until you've settled in. At least a week or two."

"Right, so you want me to bin this chair, and not buy a new one. Great. That KFC bucket is sounding like a good option now."

The room fell to a silence. Then Malcolm broke that silence, with "So, uh, you've got three kids, yeah?"

"Uh, I've got four. Yeah."

"Four?"

"Yeah! Katie's 16, she's the eldest. She's just left school."

"Not going to a college, to university?"

"Um, she's a bit of a rebel."

"What sort of a rebel? I mean, so what are we talking here, are we talking a pierced naval or holidays at Pakistani training camp?" Malcolm rested his face on his fist.

"It's.. It's chiefly heroin. Although she has cut down since getting pregnant by that Nigerian people-smuggler, because the track marks would have affected her porn career." Ivy and Malcolm both raised an eyebrow, in surprise.

Another woman, Terri, Ivy thought was her name, came in, silently. She startled Ivy. "I'm sorry to disturb. Um... Morning Malcolm. And morning..."

"Ivy Fisher."

"Right. Morning, Ivy. Just wanted to give you a few things here, that's change from the fruit salad. This is this morning's paper. Do excuse me." She left, and Malcolm had crossed his arms.

"I'm surprised that you haven't vetted me, I thought you'd know about the kids."

Malcolm looked around, "It's just that 'cause you were just sort of, you were a bit of a late-ish kind of appointment. That didn't quite give me the time to, you know, to fuck the Is and fist the Ts as Robert Robertson might say. And I had to spend a chunk of my morning, you know, catching Ivy here up to speed." He gestured to her.

"Right, I understand that. It's just that, it... really doesn't take that much time. To read someone's profile, that is.."

Ivy rolled her eyes, knowing and feeling exactly what Malcolm is feeling, and what he's about to unleash. "Well, I didn't have time, and I'm sorry about that. Okay? Fine. Okay, let's do it now. Okay. Mrs. Walton, what about these other kids? What ages are they?"

"They're 11, nine, and five."

Malcolm furrowed his brow, "11?"

"Mhm.."

"So that's uh, secondary school?"

"No, she's uh, still at primary, state primary. Lovely little school with terrible SATS results, but, you know, really good kind of broad demographic and steel band."

"So, she will be going to a secondary school, what, in September?"

"Yeah. Yeah, so um... I can see where this is going, um, it's not an issue."

"Great! Well, if it's not an issue I'll just fucking toddle off, then. I'll go and have a nice relaxing wee sleep under my duvet. Probably wouldn't even have to tug myself off 'cause I'm so fucking relaxed about that. 'Cause I know there is no fucking issue here. Right?"

"She's not going to the comprehensive, Malcolm. She's going to a local independent school."

Ivy sighed, and he put his hands on his hips. "Jesus H. fucking Corbett. Do you honestly think- do you honestly believe that as a minister, you can get away with that? You are saying that uh, all your local state schools, all the schools that this government has drastically improved, are knife-addled rape sheds, and that's not a big story? For fuck's sake.. sort it or abort it."

"Let's get this clear, my family is off-limits. Alright? This job is not going to get anywhere near my husband and my kids. It just doesn't."

"Of course it fucking does. As per the wee barcode and the serial number under your right armpit, you are now built and owned by the state. And you are under the spotlight 24 hours a day, darling! You know what you are? You're a fucking human dartboard. And Eric fucking Bristow's on the oche flinging a million darts made of human shit right at you. Can you take that? Can you?"

"Okay, you, the all-swearing eye. You didn't even know how many kids I had. You had to ask me. You!" Nicola pointed to Ivy, "did you even know my fucking name before we came in this office?"

Ivy grew cross, "of course I did, what fucking mongol can't remember Nicola Murray?"

"Hey! Don't bring Ivy into this!" Malcolm pointed in an accusatory manner at her.

"So who on Earth in the press is even going to know or care?"

He lowered his voice, "Do you remember The Big Breakfast? Remember that programme?"

"Yes!"

"Remember how Chris Evans started that, remember how it was a big success? And then they had that guy, Johnny Vaughn, remember him? Everybody loved him. Fuck knows why, but they loved him. Do you know what this is here? This, here, is fucking series 10 of The Big Breakfast." He gestured out into the DoSAC office area. "And do you know what you are? You're the fucking dinner lady that they have asked to come and present the show. The reason that I didn't know about you and your children is 'cause you were so low down on the list of candidates for this job, I didn't even have a chance to look into you. So low. Way, way, way, way, way, way, way low."

She sighed, and Malcolm continued with his incredulous self-esteem attacking tear. "You are now being scrutinized for what you wear, what you say. For your hair, your shoes, your fucking earring, your fucking cleavage, and your dress. Which, by the way, is way too loud."

"Too loud?"

"Yeah, I'm getting fucking tinnitus here! Look, your crooked husband I can make go away. But your crooked husband combined with you being worried about your underage daughter coming home up the duff from some truanting bastard, I cannot. She goes to the comp, okay?" Malcolm stood back again, and left in a hurry, with Ivy tailing behind.

They returned back to Malcolm's office. Ivy slapped her clipboard down, and Malcolm slapped his notebook down, both exhaling immensely and collapsing into their respective chairs.

"I hope you got some of that." He said.

Ivy looked up, then flipped through pages on her clipboard. "Uh-huh. The Big Breakfast, knife-addled rape sheds, obnoxious chair-"

"No, I mean, in regards to the press."

"Ah."

"Yeah, what I said applies to you, too now. Not as intensely as her, but certainly-"

"Watch my back?"

"Watch your back, yeah."

Ivy went back to filling out paperwork. There was a lot of it since her recent employment. Malcolm interrupted her, "have you got any kids?"

She didn't look up, but she raised an eyebrow. "No. You?"

"Nah. Never had time for a wife or kids."

"What, are you Paul the real estate novelist?" Ivy smiled, looking up.

He smiled, chuckling, "No." Ivy was taken back by seeing him unironically and genuinely laugh. He stared at her wedding finger, seeing it was empty. "And by the looks of it, you don't have a husband either."

She shook her head, "No..." Looking up, she continued, "Never really found the right one. I know, fucking cliche. Would rather grow balls and be castrated by a ceiling fan than hear anyone ever say that to me, but it's the truth." Ivy returned to her work, looking at her laptop. She turned her attention to a note that she had tacked onto the side. "Oh, cabinet meeting today," she announced to him.

"Yeah, let's hope Nicola will get her shit scooped out and handed to her there, put her in her place. I didn't like the insubordinate smug bitch." Malcolm leaned back in his chair.

"I didn't like her either, came after me for no fucking reason."

"Well, let's go over there and give her hell, for no fucking reason."

"We can do that?"

"I'll think of something to hassle her with on the way over. Come on, I'm bored anyway."

They both stepped out of the office and down and out. Malcolm spoke to some bloke on the way down.

"Hey, what's wrong with you, you look like you've shat a Lego garage or something."

"Jim Lane's daughter is standing as an independent in Leamington Spa."

Malcolm turned back around, putting emphasis on the first letter to come out of his mouth, "For fuck's sake... Fuck! This is going to split our vote."

"Jesus." Ivy quietly interjected.

"Do you think we're in trouble? Maybe we should have chosen her over Liam Bentley."

"No, she thinks just because her dead fat-arse dad was the MP that gives her the right to be our candidate. No, no no. This isn't tsarist Russia. It's not the fucking Dimblebys."

"What do we do?"

"We send everyone up there to support Liam Bentley, including the Prime Minister."

"You want to send Tom up there?"

"Yeah, fuck it, he'll be alright as long as he doesn't do the smile." The other bloke smiling awkwardly, mirroring what Tom would have done. "You hit the phones, right? I'll be with you in two shakes of a crying baby."

Ivy didn't know what was going on. To be honest that was the environment of the facility anyway. No one had their shit in a pile, no one had a purpose in life, they were just walking about in a mad trance at half the pace of an elderly snail, like a mad junkie in a Tesco's.

They reached their destination, and Malcolm began by haranguing Nicola about the outfit.

"Wow. Black widow."

"Malcolm. Ivy."

"Congratulations, first cabinet, heard you wowed them."

Nicola looked smug as ever. "The meeting's literally just finished, how would you know that?"

"Russian spies." Ivy made an imaginary rainbow over her head to be sarcastically spooky.

Malcolm smiled, "the PM texted me, he's very impressed. You could be nominated for best newcomer."

"Really?"

"No." Malcolm smiled again. So did Ivy.

The three made their way back up to Malcolm and Ivy's hell cave of torture and harassment. Ivy sat at her desk, working on paperwork again, but listening in.

"I see you've set up shop, Ivy."

"Yup. Had a shit ton to shred." She glared at Malcolm, who sat down.

"You knew Jim Lane, didn't you? The dead fucker. God rest him."

"Yeah, I did, a bit, back home. Very sad, all those weeks on life support... Nice chair." Nicola looked annoyed that Malcolm was allowed to have nice chairs, like a jealous arsehole of a kid on Christmas.

"Sad? What, lying on your back getting fed nutrient through a tube? It's my idea of a fucking holiday."

"Getting both a catheter and a colostomy bag also a part of that holiday, sir? You must be into some kinky shit." Ivy remarked.

"Shut up." He said lightly. "How'd you like to go to Leamington?"

"...When?"

"Today. It's never too soon to go to Leamington."

"I've just taken over a department, I have a hell of a-"

"You've been asked by the PM specifically to pop along to Leamington, and do some photo ops with Liam Bentley, supporting him. Yeah?"

"I don't really have any choice, do I?"

"If you wanna keep your job, no." Ivy interjected again.

“Of course you have a choice, you can decide exactly how you’re going to say yes. You can do it with a voice. Have fun with it.” Malcolm looked briefly over at Ivy, who began murmuring in a Mickey Mouse type voice.

Nicola sighed, “Yes. In my own voice.”

“I look forward to toasting your success.” He motioned for her to leave, and she did. “Have a lovely time in Leamington, yeah?” Nicola didn’t respond.

Malcolm pushed the door closed, sighing and collapsing back into his seat. “Jesus. Never easy. Never fucking easy.”

Ivy capped her pen, looking up at him stoically. Ivy thought he was mildly attractive too. In an unconventional way. She was excited to unravel the enigma surrounding him. This hard shell of a man, who smelled like clam chowder (maybe that’s the shell part, actually), who obviously has no friends. It was indeed sad. He was indeed, clearly sad, and maybe a tiny bit sexy. But, besides all this, she thought her first day was going well, so far. She was already paling around with Malcolm. She had learned a lot of new insults to hurl at people who were being dickheads.

“Do you think I should introduce myself to everyone upstairs? Formally, I mean?”

He had his face in his hands, but he looked up and blinked, then replied. “Uhh.. I don’t know, I mean, I think they’ll sort of find out. On their own. I don’t really like to tell them anything, it makes it more enjoyable when they find out about it on their own somehow. Like a chicken with it’s head cut off.”

“God, they’ll make up some daft little story sooner or later about how I’m either related to you somehow or that we’re fucking.” Ivy laughed. Malcolm chuckled along, noticing how pretty she was when she laughed.

The room and conversation fell to a lull. They continued to do paperwork, with breaks in between where Malcolm would berate someone on the phone.

“Oh, shit.” Malcolm was checking his watch when she looked up. “Nicola’s on in about 5 minutes.”

They both stood up at the same time and made their way to the DoSAC office space.

“Malcolm- oh, and…?” Glenn asked.

“Ivy Fisher.”

“Ivy. Right. Nicola will be there in a minute.”

The DoSAC group gathered around the crappy telly, waiting for Nicola to do her act, and try not to make a complete fool of herself. Olly was ducking around on the screen. Ivy and Malcolm leaned against a desk next to one another.

“She’s handling this very well, Malcolm.” Terri explained, as if Malcolm doesn’t have eyes of his fucking own. “Don’t you think?”

Malcolm was holding a print off of Liam Bentley’s campaign poster, examining it. He covered a part of it and whispered to Ivy, “I am bent.”

She snorted, “better not happen.”

He stepped up, “She’s looking a bit, uh.. A little bit edgy.”

Nicola had moved in front of the L, forming a perfect shot that said “I am bent.” Just as Malcolm had predicted. Chaos erupted in the office, people were shouting at Terri to get her to move. Ivy bit her lip, trying not to laugh.

Malcolm calmed Glenn down, and slinked back. Ivy was caught up watching the telly.

“Ivy! Come on.” He called after her. If Olly was here, he’d say something stupid, like “daddy’s calling.”

About halfway walking back to his office, Malcolm got another call. He absentmindedly walked back to the office area, which irritated Ivy to no end.

“Well you know what, Howard? She’s not bent, neither in the sense of being corrupted or being gay. And by the way, that’s an incredibly homophobic headline, you massive poof.” He shot a look at her, and then a different, more cross look at where he was going. “You’ve got egg on your face, Howard. You over-easy pissbag.”

“Oh, hey, Yoko Ono and the two remaining Beatles, piss off.”

“Right, any chance we could just skip over the usual abuse bit and move on to the part where we sort this all out?”

“Very low chance, but let’s see.” Ivy hugged her notebook.

“Yeah. Uh, you need to make a decision. Are you still going ahead with the private school? Because if you are, we need to draft a statement saying that your husband is leaving his job.”

Nicola looked at him in disbelief. “Are you taking the piss? You’re expecting me to choose between fucking up my daughter’s life or fucking up my husband’s life?”

Ivy nodded, and Malcolm said “Yeah.”

“So I just have to choose between them, like they’re on some fucking cosmic dessert trolley?”

“Listen, darling, I can’t fight on two fronts, you know? If the press run with both these stories you’re fucking dead.”

“You set this up, didn’t you?”

“What?”

“To put me in my place? Or get back at me for ignoring your advice? Or some other weird perceived slight that doesn’t in any way merit this massive fucking out-of-proportion Israeli-style response.” She yelled towards the end there.

“You don’t realize, I’m your fairy fucking godfather, right? I’m your fairy fucking godfather. And fuck it, she’s your fairy fucking godmother,” he gestured to Ivy, “fairy fucking godparents, but we haven’t got a magic wand that we can wave about, all we’ve got is a fucking Blackberry and a chiv. You’ve got a decision to make, make it. Talk to you later.”

It didn’t occur to Ivy until after they left that she was included in the conversation. Re-analyzing the words in her head, she realized he compared them to a married couple. Ivy smiled and brushed her hair back with her hand.

Nicola ran after them like some puppy dog. “Malcolm! Sorry, can we just carry on talking about that thing? Was it you who positioned me there?”

“God, why do you care?” Ivy said.

“You know what the first sign of madness is? Paranoia.” He pressed the lift button. “Have you seen that film, you know, A Beautiful Mind? The one with that, er.. Russell Crowe? The one with the maths guy who thinks that the CIA are working away in a shed at the bottom of his garden. That’s you.”

“No, I am not the mad one here. You are the mad one. You’re Russell Crowe.”

“No, no, no, no, no. You are Russell Crowe. And you need to fucking listen to me, Russell, you fucking antipodean fucking kangaroo-loving fruitcake. See, this poster stuff? That’s fucking small fry. That’s fucking whitebait, Russ, me old cobber.” Ivy and Malcolm walked into the elevator. “The really horrible stuff, that’s all still about to happen to you, right?”

Nicola looked hesitant at entering the lift. “You coming in?” Ivy invited her.

“Uh, no…”

They both raised an eyebrow at her. “I can’t- I don’t use lifts, I’m claustrophobic.”

Ivy held the “stay open” button on the lift. “What the fuck?”

“You’re what?” He had eyes the size of a baseball at this point.

“Not hugely, I can be in rooms, you’ve seen that, I just don’t do lifts, that’s all.”

He dramatically spun around, as if to measure the dimensions himself. “This lift is fucking huge! I mean this is bigger than some rooms, this is bigger than some people’s flats!”

“It’s about not being able to get out.”

“Oh, well, that’s great. That’s fucking great. That’s another thing right there. Not only have you got a fucking bent husband and a fucking daughter that gets taken to school on a fucking sedan chair, you’re also fucking mental!”

Malcolm continued to tear into her for the next minute and a half or so, comparing her to a myriad of things, most notably being a coffee machine. He looked at Ivy, who pressed the floor button finally.

“Jesus fucking Christ. That’s all I can say, is Jesus fucking Christ.” Ivy rested herself against the side of the lift, crossing her arms.

He rubbed his face, and then looked at her. “I know. Hey, by the way, you can jump in, now.”

“Hm?”

“I said you can jump in. I won’t get cross.”

“Other person might.”

“So? That’s half the job.” He grinned. “Making people cross.”

She smirked, looking at him. “And half the enjoyment, too.”

#the thick of it #malcolm tucker #peter capaldi #malcolm tucker x original female character(s)#pcap #jamie's fanfics #fanfic #fic #fanfiction

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everythingloveandanimated · 5 years ago

Text

Zutara Month 2020 Day 1- Flowers

The festival had begun. Fire lilies had been put into vases in windows, woven into wreathes hanging in windows and on doors. Some were woven into chains to wrap around the posts of the sales stalls.

Citizens wore them in crowns either around their forehead, or over their heads like half circle headbands. Some even had full crowns that went under their hair. Some wore a single flower on the front of the clothes or on their wrist like bracelet. To Katara’s delight, some blossoms had been made into hairpins, which she promptly bought.

“It looks better on the side of your head than behind your ear,” Zuko commented.

“I think we agreed on that last year.”

Through the afternoon, artists displayed their works. Poems, paintings, works of art using strips and bits of ripped paper recreating the image of the fire lily. A new display had shown stained glass work which drew in quite a crowd, Zuko and Katara included.

Poetry readings were open in the mid-afternoon. Like Katara remembered from her first festival last year, most them were love poems or poems about beauty that either included the fire lily, or alluded to its symbolize of fiery innocence and passion. She was thrilled, but not completely surprised when a young man read a poem that ended with a marriage proposal to his girlfriend. The proposal was happily accepted.

As the sun set the festival drew to a close. However the the Fire Lord and his girlfriend had a special surprise for the citizens gathered in the town center.

“Are you ready?” she asked.

“Yes.”

Normally this kind of routine wouldn’t be something Zuko would participate in, but Katara, Iroh, and Ursa convinced him to do something expressive to celebrate the festival.

They started at opposite ends of the circle outlined by the local guard and the gathered crowd.

As Katara pulled water from the large jars provided for her, Zuko produced a stream of fire from his fist and guided it to the center with his other hand.

Water met fire at the base.

A combined stream of twisting fire and water moved upwards from the base and created the gentle curve.

Water formed the shape of the petals, the filaments and the grass.

Cold red fire outlined the water and gave a wider shape to the rest of the petals.

Warmer yellow fire topped the filaments.

The Fire Lord and his girlfriend walked slowly in a circle rotating the flower to match their pace so everyone could see it.

The crowd “ooh”ed and “aah”ed at the bending art. Smiles of delight or open mouthed awe we’re on everyone’s faces

Zuko looked from the flower to his girlfriend. She found his eyes moments later and smiled.

“If we do this again, we have to arrange it so that we can kiss in the center.”

Their last circle drew to a close. The couple slowly stripped away each stage of the their flower. Fire from the anthers joined the fire from the petals, which joined to the central stream of fire.

The water petals thinned and returned to the center, the filaments shrank also returning to the central stream of water.

The base that symbolized the ground was drawn back to its native benders. The twisted stream was unwound and followed the base.

Amid the cheers from civilians and the applause form the guards, Katara returned the water to jars. Zuko drew his stream in a circle, dissipating it as he made the customary “flame” with his hands. Katara drew her hands into the flame and the couple bowed to each other.

She smiled at her boyfriend when they came up from their bow. She walked towards the center extending her hand out to him. He met her in the center and took her hand. She turned to the crowd and made the flame with her hands. Zuko caught on, did the same and they both bowed to the crowd. The crowd bowed back. Katara directed him to turn around so they could bow to the crowd behind them. When they rose, Zuko turned to her, placed his hands on her face and gently kissed her. She happily returned it.

“I know he likes to keep affection private and fire lilies represent passion, but that kiss would have better under the flower,” Katara thought. “I’ll have to bring that up if and when there’s a next time.”

Taking her hand and they exited the circle heading for the pair of guards. The crowd separated the let them through, the guards fell in step behind them.

The rest of the evening, chatter and praise of their routine filled the air. Several times they were respectfully stopped so the citizens could personally give their compliments.

A small family came up them, the younger son said “That was beautiful! Will you do it again next year?”

Katara and Zuko looked at each other. “We’ll have to see about next year,” Katara said. “I’m so glad to you enjoyed it!”

An elderly couple came up to them soon after.

“That was simply breath taking, my lord. In all my years I’ve never seen anything like that!” the woman said.

“Thank you, I’m glad you enjoyed it.” Zuko answered with a nod of his head. “It was actually Katara’s idea.”

“That was just the breath of fresh air we needed at this festival.” the old man added. “We were just talking about how everything’s been done when it comes to art and the lilies. We almost didn’t come. Thank you for giving us something new.” Her husband bowed to the young couple, his wife followed suit.

“You’re very welcome,” Zuko answered.

“It was our pleasure,” Katara added.

“Bless you both,” the woman said gently taking Katara’s hand. “She’s a keeper, Your Majesty.”

Zuko blushed as he took Katara hand. “Yes she is.”

A young man nearly knocked into them later. After a hurried, flustered, but respectful apology, Katara recognized him.

“Wait, aren’t the one who proposed to his girlfriend this afternoon?”

“I am. Though I have to say I really should have done it under that flower you two made. The joining of opposites to create something beautiful, that’s us in a lychee nutshell.”

“Thank you. Be careful where you walk, have a good night,” Zuko said dismissing him.

“Thank you, my lord. And I will!”

Zuko and Katara looked at each other. Their thoughts written on their faces.

Next time.

#zutara2020 #zutaramonth #fire lilies #fire lily #Zuko #Katara

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noona-clock · 6 years ago

Text

Working On It

Genre: Teacher!AU

Pairing: Brian (Day6) x You

By Admin B

Part 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, Oh, yeah, and I love you, Nothing’s Wrong

Why did it feel like you were the one in trouble?

Your heart was racing, your stomach in knots as you pulled on the front door to the school, heaving it open and slipping nervously inside. The receptionist smiled at you as you approached the desk, and you grabbed the pen attached to the clipboard so you could sign your name and your reason for visiting.

Parent-teacher conference.

Except -- it’s complicated. We’ll get to that later.

“Thank you,” you murmured as the receptionist handed you a visitor’s badge. After unpeeling the sticker and pressing it onto your shirt, you asked her where room 1219 is. You thanked her again before following the directions she’d just given you, letting out a soft sigh. The sound of your shoes echoed through the nearly empty hallways, and you wondered how many times you would have to come here. Was this a one-time thing? Or just the first of many?

The last time you’d been here was just last month when you’d come for registration; the school seemed a lot bigger now that there were hardly any people here. You passed a couple of teachers and a custodian, but there were no students or other parents to be found. By now, they were either home or at after-school sports practice.

Well, not all of them.

“Mr. Kang,” you whispered to yourself as you approached room 1219, reading the sign hanging above the door. “English.”

Oh, great. You’d always been terrible at English.

Not that this had anything to do with why you were here now, but still. Going to English had always made you nervous back when you were a student, and it was making you nervous all over again as you stepped in through the slightly open door.

“Hi,” you greeted nervously.

A young man stood up - the teacher, apparently - shooting you a small smile and gesturing for you to sit down next to a sullen, slouched over twelve-year-old boy.

“Hi, thank you for coming,” the man said as he reached out to shake your hand. “I’m Brian Kang, Samuel’s English teacher.”

“Y/N,” you replied, and you could hear your own nerves in your voice.

You slid into the chair next to Samuel, feeling him actively avoiding your gaze.

“I wanted to talk to you about...” Mr. Kang cleared his throat a bit awkwardly. “Samuel’s behavior in class has been very disruptive lately, and he hasn’t been turning in his work on time. The work he does turn in, it’s clear there’s been very little effort.”

Your heart sank.

You glanced over at the sulking pre-teen sitting next to you before shifting your gaze back to Mr. Kang.

“I’m so sorry,” you breathed. “He -- by ‘disruptive’ you mean...?”

“Mostly just not paying attention. Sometimes calling out, making unnecessary comments, shooting his trash like a basketball instead of getting up and throwing it away,” Mr. Kang shrugged. “Very typical teenage boy stuff. Just not appropriate while I’m trying to teach about poetry.”

“Poetry sucks,” Samuel muttered under his breath.

Your brow furrowed immediately, and you shot him a very disapproving look.

“Please tell me he’s not that disrespectful in class,” you pleaded, already feeling guilty.

Mr. Kang simply smiled. And it was a smile meant to soften the blow.

So... the answer was ‘yes.’

“I’m just very concerned,” he told you. “I can tell he’s a bright boy, he just --”

“We’re working on it,” you assured him.

At least, you were trying.

Or I guess I should say: at least, you were trying.

After a few more minutes of listening to everything Samuel was doing wrong, nodding quickly, apologizing, and trying not to sound as guilty as you felt, you shook Mr. Kang’s hand again.

“Thank you,” you told him with a wrinkled forehead. “Thank you for all that you do. I know teaching can be a pretty thankless job, so I just want you to know how much I appreciate everything. The kids do, too, of course, they’re just --”

“They’re twelve and thirteen years old,” he finished for you, his lips pulled into a slight smirk. “Don’t worry. I knew exactly what I was getting into when I started this job.”

A soft chuckle escaped your lips, and you thanked Mr. Kang one last time before putting a hand on Samuel’s shoulder. You squeezed it gently and murmured a ‘Come on, let’s go home.’

You couldn’t wait to have a talk with him about all of this...

The walk to your car was absolutely silent.

Obviously, you were trying to think of exactly what to say and how to properly punish him for acting out like that in class.

Samuel, on the other hand, was most definitely not thinking about any of this.

If you had to guess, he was probably thinking about his video game. Either that or the best way he could escape, run away, and never come back.

Once you’d unlocked the car, Samuel opened the passenger side door and flung his backpack into the backseat. He let out a groan as he plopped onto the seat, and you robotically took your spot behind the wheel, sticking the keys into the ignition.

“Sam,” you started, reaching back for your seat belt.

“I know,” he spat. “You’re disappointed in me. I’m a failure, I’m stupid, and you wish you weren’t stuck with me.”

Your brow furrowed deeply, and you immediately turned to look at him. “Sammy! That’s not true! You know I love you, and I’m not disappointed in you. I’m disappointed that you’re acting like that in class. It’s one thing to be disrespectful to me at home, but it’s a whole other thing to be disrespectful to your teachers. That can’t happen anymore!”

“Or you’ll do what? Ground me?” he grumbled. “I don’t have to listen to you, y’know. You’re not my real mom.”

You let out a frustrated sigh as you put the car in reverse and began to back out of the parking spot. “I’m not your fake mom, either, Sam. I’m your aunt. But I’m also your legal guardian, remember? You do have to listen to me.”

“Yeah, but you don’t have any idea what you’re doing!” he pointed out. “Just like I don’t have any idea what I’m doing in English class.”

You couldn’t stop yourself from laughing softly at his comment, and while you knew you shouldn’t humor him... you did see a very faint smile tug at his lips.

“I was never good at English, either,” you admitted. “But I can still try to help you with your homework if you want me to. Or we could look into getting you a tutor, maybe?”

“No,” Sam answered firmly. “No tutor. I -- I’ll just... try harder.”

“Mr. Kang seemed really nice,” you added with a half-shrug. “I can tell he cares. If he didn’t care, he wouldn’t have called me in.”

“I mean... yeah, he’s pretty cool, I guess. For a nerdy, old guy.”

“He is not old!” you laughed. “I doubt he’s much older than I am!”

Sam quirked an eyebrow over at you before letting out a sputtering chuckle. “Like I said. An old guy.”

“Hey!” you cried, reaching over and giving his arm a gentle pinch. “Do you want pizza for dinner tonight or not?”

“Not old! Not old at all. Very, very young.”

You hummed a somewhat sassy ‘mhm’ as you drove back to your apartment. You’d at least managed to break the ice some, but you honestly had no idea if you’d handled that well. Or even handled it at all. But... right now, you just wanted to take what you could get.

“Yeah,” you said with a smirk. “That’s what I thought.”

Not even two seconds after stepping in through the front door to your apartment, you remembered the reason you’d told Sam you could get pizza for dinner.

You had no food whatsoever.

A trip to the grocery store was extremely urgent, so once Sam got settled on the couch with his homework, you grabbed your keys and some reusable bags.

“I’ll be checking that homework when I get back, okay?” you warned with raised eyebrows.

“Yeah, yeah,” Sam muttered, his eyes not even leaving his math textbook.

You reached for the doorknob but paused for just a few moments. You then turned on your heel, strode over to the couch, took hold of Sam’s head and planted a kiss on his forehead.

“I love you,” you told him.

“Ew! Yuck, ugh! Please don’t ever do that again!”

In pre-teen speak, you knew that meant he loved you, too.

“I’ll be back soon,” you grinned as you headed back to the door. “Call me if you think of anything you want. Or if someone breaks in and tries to kidnap you.”

“Yeah, yeah!” Sam called out after you. Apparently, that was his favorite way to respond to you.

Since you now had the car to yourself - and you were no longer nervous about having to talk to Sam’s teacher - you took the opportunity to blast your favorite songs and sing along.

Music had always been a stress reliever, so you’d found yourself listening to a lot of music these days. Whenever you had a spare moment by yourself, whenever you drove to and from work, whenever Sam went to a friend’s house for the night, you put on some music. Singing, dancing, acting like you’re in a music video - you name it, you did it. And you probably disturbed your neighbors, but oh well.

Even once you arrived at the grocery store, you continued singing to yourself, humming under your breath as you pushed the cart in through the sliding doors.

Just like listening to music helped relieve your stress, so did grocery shopping. Walking up and down the aisles and seeing all of the different choices of cereal should have actually added to your stress, but it didn’t. Because at the moment, so much of your life seemed out of your control. You had very little opportunities to actually make choices, but you did with grocery shopping.

You very much enjoyed standing in the coffee and tea aisle, deciding which flavors to buy. Chamomile? Rooibos? Earl Grey? Vanilla Hazelnut? Dark roast? Blonde roast? Green? Pumpkin spice? Cinnamon?

Sometimes you didn’t even need coffee or tea, but you still enjoyed pretending to pick one out.

...Yeah, it’s kind of weird, but oh well.

You had just left the coffee and tea aisle, in fact, a box of Rooibos and a canister of Vanilla Hazelnut in your cart, when you turned down the breakfast aisle. Somebody was standing right at the end, though, and you almost ran into them with your cart.

“Oh, sorry!” you said immediately.

And then your eyes landed on a young man.

Or maybe an old man, according to Sam.

“Mr. Kang,” you grinned.

“Oh, hey,” he smiled back, lifting up a hand in a little wave. “Mrs. Y/L/N, nice to see you again so soon.”

“Sam’s back home doing his homework, I promise,” you assured him, feeling a slight pang of guilt in your stomach. “And -- it’s, uh -- it’s Miss. Not Mrs. I -- I’m not married.”

God, this would all be a whole lot easier if you were, to be quite honest.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Mr. Kang apologized.

“No, it’s fine. I mean, Sam and I have the same last name, so it’s easy to assume.”

And... I don’t know. There was something about this junior high English teacher that was just... comforting. Was it his eyes? Or his smile? The way he seemed to really be intently listening to you?

Either way, you felt it.

The word vomit.

“I’m not actually Sam’s mom,” you began. “I don’t know if you know anything about the situation... I’m his aunt. His dad was my brother, so there’s the last name thing explained. But, uh, his parents -- there was an accident not even four months ago. And I’m kind of the only family Sam has? I mean, around here. His mom’s side of the family lives halfway across the country, but they wanted him to stay in the same area. He did have to move schools, which I know sucks for him, but -- yeah. So, I think his behavior -- the way he’s acting in your class -- I mean, he never talks to me about them. He never tells me he misses them, but I know he has to. I ask him, but I just can’t get him to talk about anything. He has to be just holding everything in, and it all comes out at school, y’know?”

Mr. Kang’s brow had furrowed as you spoke, and he nodded at your question. Truly, it really did seem like he was interested. Even though you were most definitely bothering him and telling him way too much information that he did not even ask for, he seemed like he was really listening. Like he actually wanted to know all of this.

Of course, tears had pricked your eyes the second you’d said the word ‘accident,’ and you were currently trying to swallow the lump of emotion lodged in your throat. Your voice had gotten choked up, but you carried on.

“I just don’t know how to help him. I try, I really do. I’ve known Sam his whole life, but I’ve always been the Cool Aunt. But now I have to be the Mom, but I know I’ll never be his mom. And now he’s not doing his homework and he’s being disrespectful, and I just --” You let out a shaky breath. “It’s very overwhelming.”

Mr. Kang reached out and put a reassuring hand on your upper arm. “I am so sorry,” he murmured, his words very clearly showing on his face. “I had no idea. I teach so many kids, it’s difficult to know about every one of them.”

And then he looked at you. He studied your face carefully before taking a breath and letting his hand fall from your arm.

“Would you like to get some coffee somewhere? I feel like there’s just... a lot more you need to talk about.”

Boy, was he right. He didn’t even know how right he was.

You reached up to wipe a stray tear threatening to slip from your eye and nodded.

“I would like that,” you answered.

A tiny smile appeared on Mr. Kang’s lips, and he moved to hold onto the handle of his shopping cart. “Do you know that shop The Grind?”

You nodded, humming positively.

He pushed his sleeve down to check his watch, brow furrowing slightly in thought. “How about 7?”

“Perfect.” It would give you plenty of time to get back home, stop for the pizza, put the groceries away, and shove a slice or two down your throat.

“All right, 7 it is.” A full-on smile came to his lips then, and you realized just how good-looking he was. You would bet all the money in your wallet right now that a lot of girls at Sam’s school (and some boys, too) had a crush on him. Sam, himself, had said he was ‘pretty cool,’ so that had to account for something.

“See you then.”

And before you let yourself apologize for being a bother - I mean, the man had simply been trying to grocery shop and then you’d come and started crying, for Pete’s sake - you pushed your cart down the aisle and continued on with your shopping.

There would be plenty of time to apologize later.

Part 2

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inyourwildestdreamslove · 6 years ago

Text

Bitter Love: Chapter 3

Pairing: Sweet Pea X Reader

You hadn’t seen your high school sweetheart in years. When your mere presence at a bank robbery send the thieves running for their lives it’s time you faced your past. Are you ready to?

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3: Forced Love

You remember nights riding on the back of Sweet Pea’s motorcycle like it was yesterday. You could feel the wind in your hair and you felt effortlessly free. Your arms would be wrapped around his torso and he would speed up just feel truly alive. The two of you would race the moon in the sky and lay under the stars.

Tonight, however, is nothing like the carefree romps you used to have with Sweet Pea under the light of the full moon. Tonight, the air is filled with gunshots instead of stars and as Fangs reaches back and pushes you down into the floorboard you can feel yourself shaking with fear. The roar of engines echo in your ears and you can hear Fangs swear from his position in the driver’s seat. The SUV swerves to one side and almost off the road. You pitch forward and brace yourself on the interior of the door. You yelp as someone hits the vehicle from behind making the car pitch forward and a grunt from Fangs as he slams into the steering wheel. By some miracle he keeps the car in the road. The sound of motorcycle engines cut violently through the air and more gunshots are added to the fray. You hear the sound of a crash from behind you and the SUV slows down before coming to a stop. The passengers side door is yanked open and you look up into the concerned eyes of Sweet Pea.

“You okay baby?” he asks as he runs his fingers through your hair.

You nod shakily as you pull yourself from where you were wedged between the two seats.

“Where are we going?” you whimper.

“Away from here… Just the three of us.”

“Just the three of us?”

“I don’t trust anyone else right now. They shouldn’t have been able to find us.”

You just nod as you sit yourself back into the back seat. You’re cold from the wet towel around your prone form and your wet hair. Your shivering becomes worse than ever before, but the three of you have to get out of here.

Eventually, you’re lulled to sleep by the sound of the engine and silence that engulfs the car.

It’s a couple of hours later when you wake up strapped to a chair in a dark room. You’re confused and disoriented, especially since the last thing you remember is being the back seat of a car with Fangs and Sweet Pea up front.

“I see you’re finally awake…” you hear a voice from the shadows and squint to see who spoke to you.

A woman walks into the light of the single solitary bulb dangling from the ceiling.

You vaguely wonder to yourself if this scene could get any more clique…

“Who are you?” you ask your voice sounding stronger than you thought it would.

“That doesn’t matter…”

“Why not?”

She gives you a smile like you would a small a child who asks questions you have no intention of answering. Mostly because they wouldn't understand anyway.

“It just doesn’t,” she bites back.

“I don’t understand… What happened?”

Her smile is venom as she answers, “We need...The Serpents. They have become big players in a very dangerous game. Virtually untouchable. Except,” she purrs, “for one little detail. The woman that the illusterous Sweet Pea loves. It’s all very… poetic...and sad. He’s still very much in love with you… And if he’s in love with you… he can’t be in love with me…”

“So, you love him?”

She pauses and just laughs at you, “Oh! How funny! Of course not! I just need him… And I can’t have him if he wants you…” She hisses, “It’s… nothing personal...just business.”

A moment later she pulls out a gun and aims it directly at your head.

“Wait!”

“Yes?” she signs in imaginary exhaustion.

Your thoughts race with things that you could say and you can feel panic set in.

“Tick... tock…”

“You….don’t have to kill me?” you ask.

She laughs merrily at you, “That’s...just not how this works love… Besides! I’m saving you really… From a life of…dullness… your life has been very dull hasn’t it? Since you broke his sweet little heart…”

“There must be something I can I do! I don’t want to die!”

“Does anyone dear?”

“Please!”

“OH! Alright! You’ve pulled at my heart! There is something you can do…”

“What?”

“Kill him.”

“But don’t you need him?”

“If you kill him, I could take over the Serpents and I won’t need to play wife to a man.”

“I’m not killing him.”

“Why not? Does your life not mean more to you than his?”

“I-I…”

“Unless…” she purrs, “You do still love him?”

You look away from her, “Oh you dooooo!” she squeals.

“He will be so happy to hear that! He will practically do anything to keep you safe… Isn’t that right Sweet Pea?”

You glance into the corner and notice a figure in the shadows that wasn’t there before. Sweet Pea walks into the light and stands right in front of you. You gaze up at him purely baffled.

“What?”

He leans forward, his hands resting on the arms of the chair and gazes into your eyes. The roar of emotions running through you is overwhelming and you feel tears threatening to spill from your eyes.

“Leave us,” his voice cuts through the air as your begin to sob. You tuck your head down and curl into yourself as far as you can go.

“I’m sorry baby… but it had to be done…”

“I don’t understand why you’re doing this to me…”

“Because if you are going to be my queen I have to make sure you are loyal.”

“Sweet Pea! What are you even talking about?!”

“I want you to marry me…”

You stop and gaze at him in shock.

“Marry you…?”

“We love each other, you’ve proven your loyalty to me, I can provide for you, and with a little training you will be able to think under pressure. We will be amazing together. We’re meant to be together.”

“Was any of this real?”

“Of course it was real… The way we feel about one another is real…”

“No Sweet Pea… Was any of this real? Or did you just make it all up?”

“I needed to know how you felt and the a person staring down death is the most pure form of themself.”

You’re speechless as you regard the man in front of you.

“Come on, baby…. Let’s get you more comfortable and then we can discuss everything.”

You only nod numbly as you attempt to process everything. He unties you from the chair and helps you to stand up. You notice that you are still in the bathing suit from what feels like a lifetime ago. He leads you into a room where he guides you to the bed. You sit and feel the bed beside you dip, but you can’t look at him.

“We’re going to be so perfect together…” he whispers as he helps you to remove your bathing suit top. Your arms wrap around your bare breasts to shield them as he gets up and walks over to a dresser. He opens a drawer and pulls a nightgown from its debts, it’s in a deep shade of emerald green. He rolls the gown up until it’s easy to slip over your head.

“Arms up baby,” he says softly.

You do as your told and raise your arms and a moment later feel the silk fall down your body. He hands you pair of matching underwear and you hold them in your hand staring down at them for a moment.

“I’m going to take a shower my love… we will catch up some more when I get out…” he says with a smirk as he turns and walks into the bathroom.

Your eyes widen in terror as the bathroom door clicks shut. You stand up and rush over to the bedroom door and gently try it. It’s locked.

You groan as you rush over to the windows and examine them as well. Even if you could open one, you are 3 stories up and several men with guns are scattered across the lawn. You look down at the underwear in your hand before you change, putting it on in place of the swimsuit.

You glance over at the remote and turn the TV on. The news is full of your face. Your car is being pulled from the river in a clip on the bottom. The words Missing: Presumed Dead flashes across the screen. You don’t know how long you stand there staring forlorning at the TV before you vaguely hear the bathroom door open.

“Don’t worry beautiful… We can be together now…” he says as his hands come to rest on your arms, his lips on your neck.

“Sweet Pea? What have you done?” you croak out around a sob.

“Removed any and all obstacles that could keep us apart. I think you are going to adjust to life here very well…”

Three Months Later

Sitting on the balcony at your Chateau in France you gaze serenely out at the morning sun rise. You sip your coffee and rest your hand laden with your engagement ring on the keys of your laptop. Sure you had fought it at first, but you have everything you could ever want.

You have Sweet Pea, the love of your life, your freedom, your career, a chateau in France and you want for nothing.

“How is your novel coming my love?” Asks Sweet Pea as he walks out on the balcony to join you.

“Perfectly,” you say with a glowing smile at your husband to be.

“So, you’re happy here?”

“Of course I am… I’m happy where ever you are, besides I have everything I could ever want and more.”

He smiles a self satisfied smile, “I’m glad to hear that my love… How are the details for the wedding coming?”

“We will be meeting with the baker this week, I’ve already put it on your calendar.”

He just nods as he takes a sip, he already knows what you will choose, but he likes to make you happy anyway.

“I thought the little bakery we went to when we first got here would be the perfect one! Don’t you think so?” you twitter as you gaze lovingly over at him.

“Of course, if that’s what makes you happy.”

“You make me happy,” your glowing as you giggle at him.

How did you ever even live your life without him before?

I think this is the end... Probably not what you were expecting! I hope you all liked it anyway! Let me know what a comment!

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