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re-re-redline · 2 months ago

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-General Headcanons: Mehmed II- 1st Addendum

No Spoilers… for anything, really

Foreword: So… The Romance Headcanons are fighting me along with a Big Thing I want to write concerning Mehmed, so that’s Great™. Plus my inspiration is waning, Even Better™. So…do forgive me for going a biiiiiit out of order and adding an addendum to Mehmed II’s GHC while I sort those three things out.

One may think that Mehmed II would be more than happy to try and conquer another planet, but in actuality he couldn’t care less about what’s beyond the stratosphere. Not to say he doesn’t find space interesting or anything, but everything he dreamed of having in life was right here on earth. You can’t conquer Europe on Mars because there is nothing like Europe on Mars. No history, no human civilization, no culture, no nothing—just flat land for miles and miles, waiting for someone to live there. It doesn’t feel the same and it doesn’t feel earned either. So what if he just landed on another planet and stuck a flag in the ground and called it his? That’s not conquering. That’s claiming and it’s lame! Now conquering Europe on the other hand… That’s awesome. The strife of fighting country after country as well as keeping his own together and thriving is some tough shit to manage, which to his credit he did pull off in his lifetime, but on a scale bigger than that? Tough doesn’t even begin to describe it, but if and when he does pull it off in this hypothetical, then he’d feel like he was on top of the world. And rightfully so! The amount of work that had to go into just conquering Europe would’ve been insane and this achievement would, if I am not mistaken, pretty much outshine his predecessors and successors achievements. But then you look at planets like Mars and, well, he’d just say ‘eh’ to that. Really, the only scenario where Mehmed II would go and ‘conquer’ a planet would be if he really needed to.

Masters who aren’t exactly…the most forceful in imposing their will or lack the strength to keep their servants under control will find the sultan to be a big help. He’s got plenty of experience getting people together under his banner to get shit done and he can be pretty terrifying when he needs to be to keep people in line. And if that doesn’t work… Well, Mehmed has never been afraid to get his hands dirty nor was he the type to hide such a thing anyways. This is all cool and good on paper, but there is something you’d need to be wary of. Mehmed II has always been an opportunist and that hasn’t changed one bit since he died. Which is why I strongly advise that you make sure you learn to put your foot down sometime and you find some way to keep him in check. Lest he take your role from you and start calling the shots on his own without your input while framing himself as your mouthpiece still. Some servants will be fooled and some won’t, but the fact of the matter is that it’s generally a better idea to not let this happen in the first place. Vlad III, Constantine XI, Martha and Astraea are good servants to make sure he doesn’t pull anything, but the best solution is to improve yourself since the Mehmed does enjoy self improvement a teeny tiny bit more than power. Just a tiny bit though.

Mehmed II’s music taste is indescribable. Not because the genres are so obscure and experimental that they don’t even have names yet, he just listens to everything from everywhere. Putting his library on shuffle is definitely an Experience™ because you never know what the next song is going to be like. You could start off with a 50s swing classic like Istanbul (Not Constantinople) by The Four Lads and the next song could be a Finnish Rockabilly song like Vaeltaja by Pääestiintyjät with next being a Russian Phonk song like Dead Inside by адлин and by the end of it, you’ll somehow end up finding at least five new songs that were way outside of your music taste that you could get behind. That’s just how big and varied it is, so there isn’t much out there that he can say he doesn’t like. Just… keep some of Sabbaton’s songs and the like off the stereo and you won’t end up with it mysteriously breaking when you’re not looking.

If you are the kind of master who is afraid or grossed out by insects and need assistance in removing them from your area to feel peace… Then Mehmed is one of the very last people you should think of calling for aid. Don’t get me wrong, he will provide you succor when you ask. But the way he does it is fucking awful. He will pick the thing up with his bare hands and quickly close the distance between the two of you to show you why there’s nothing to be afraid of. The thing’s thrashing about between his fingers, potentially screaming too, and he’s attempting to hand it over to you whilst rattling off about how it’s virtually harmless. He’ll eventually set you and the bug free by placing the damn thing outside or murdering it and throwing it away if he can’t, but do be prepared for this same song and dance the next time you ask. Why? One: it’s for your own good and growth as a person, two: he finds your terrified expression to be very interesting and kinda funny at the same time. The only way you could get him to stop is if you faint, that’s when he’ll wise up to the fact that you’re definitely not messing around and he’ll apologize.

Speaking of fears, while Mehmed would rather die than admit that he’s afraid of something, he does have two fears. Vlad III and…flying. It makes sense that the only other thing he’d be afraid of in his second life would be something that he’d never have the chance of experiencing the first time around. He can look over a cliff just fine and not feel anything, he can walk on a tightrope high off the ground without breaking a sweat, but being in an airplane? That’s where he draws the line. There’s something incredibly unnerving to him about not being connected to the ground in any way shape or form and the more he thinks on it, the more terrifying it becomes for him. He can’t seem to logic his way out of being afraid and he absolutely hates it. Hence while on an aircraft you’ll find that he’s not chatting your ear off like usual, he’s just sitting there reading. A keen eyed master will note that he’s white knuckling the book in his hands and isn’t turning the page as often as usual. While he would never outwardly clue anyone in onto how he’s doing, if you are closer to him than most then he’ll reach for your hand to hold as he reads. That’s the most you’ll get in terms of a signal that he’s scared, so be sure not to take that lightly when it happens. He wouldn’t forgive you for teasing him on this.

If you somehow manage to summon his older self from during the late stage of his life (he died at 49) then you will find yourself regretting it immediately. They will not stop bickering and they will drag you into their arguments to settle it for them since neither will back down. A whole twenty year gap is a lot of time to change and grow as a person, which leaves both Mehmeds cringing very hard at the other. The younger one thinks that the older one has given up on living for himself and has resigned himself to being trapped in his duties to never find joy outside of it ever again. While the older one thinks that his younger self is being too selfish and that there is no greater honor nor joy than serving the people and nurturing the empire. Needless to say, you’ll be hearing a lot of ‘you sound just like our father’ and ‘you know nothing about what it means to have responsibility of this magnitude.’ They both think that they’re the superior one and that you should desummon the other. The only thing they’ll work together on is getting Chaldea to make more rules and enforce them accordingly since his straitlaced mindset towards crime hasn’t changed a bit across his lifetime. Speaking of…

If a master lacks any proper judges like Gramps or Astraea, then the sultan will not only be a decent pick, but he’ll be more than happy to do it. He’ll be glad that you’re taking steps to improve the system and he’ll promise to do his utmost with the position that he’s been given. And he does just that, and really well too! …Too well, actually. He’s a decent pick because he gets the job done, but the way he goes about it is the problem. See, Mehmed believes that a crime must be punished accordingly no matter the motive. Now, the word accordingly can have different meanings in this regard, but Mehmed tends to lean towards the more ruthless end of the spectrum. Meaning that, while random incidents involving stolen grails and general disturbances have decreased significantly, the atmosphere in Chaldea has become much darker as a result. So, really, it’s recommended that you only go through with this idea if things are getting out of your control. …And if you don’t mind some people going missing, of course.

Endnote: And that’s that! Addendums are nice because I can make them short without feeling too bad, hehe.

Whew. My plans are to get his RHCs done and work on the Big Thing I’ve been planning for him for a while now. Anyone who’s been on this blog long enough may already have an idea as to what that is, but I’m keeping it under wraps for now. If the writing process for the latter gets to be troublesome, I might put that on the back burner and tie up a loose end for Constantine. That being… The multiple endings of “What It Means to Protect You.” Ah, thought I forgot, didn’t you? I have not! I have an outline for it, but I need to write down the baseline context before writing the endings themselves plus I suck ass at writing the beginnings to things. Maybe I should take Featherine’s advice and write the whole thing backwards… But those are my plans! Once I get Mehmed sorted out, then I’ll get Sannan the love he deserves and then I can finally declare that my portfolio is finished and I can confidently open my requests. Speaking of…

To the person who sent me a request in my inbox, I regret to inform you that requests are not open. So you’re going to have to wait until I finish with all that schtuff first. It’s a good request, but the rules are the rules. But do not worry! I have it safely stowed away and cryogenically frozen until the day comes.

Anywho, in Redline news, I got Romulus! I had to fight tooth and nail to get him, speedrunning rank ups and interludes to claw my way to him with a singular pull. It was awful, but worth it. I even got NP2 Caenis out of my endeavors as well as well. So now I can have two Roma supports (Nero Bride and Constantine) and have Romulus blow everything up to high hell and back! Before that I had incurred a bit of gacha salt with being unable to get Odysseus, but I will be awaiting spooks with open arms and potentially using that 5 star ticket JP got recently if need be when it rolls around. But for now, I’ll be saving for Johanna and if I survive that, then Takasugi next. I don’t think I’ll be able to save enough for any of Lostbelt 7’s servants, much to my chagrin. But they’ll come around again after that.

But that’s all from me, I hope you enjoyed and I’ll be seeing you all later.

Have a good day.

—Redline, over and out!

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hellsbellschime · 2 months ago

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that other anon was so aggressive like maybe chill? i love chappell too, but there's zero reason to be losing your shit over someone having a differing opinion like this.

imo chappell isn't wrong. i get her saying she's voting for the dems, but she's also not 100% aligned with their actions and policies which is why she doesn't want to endorse anyone. she mentioned their transphobic and genocidal rhetoric, but they also have started spouting the right's anti-immigration crap too. obviously not as insanely as the repubs "they're eating your pets" talking points, but they are pushing a lot of the same border crisis points. for me dems are clearly more progressive, but they're not progressive enough for where i lean.

so yeah i get chappell with her saying fuck trump, but also fuck some of the dem's policies too. i will be voting blue myself, but i don't think dems should be immune to criticism and it feels like any time someone does call them out for their shit people freak out about not towing the line because the alternative is worse. ok yes, i get that. i lived that too. but letting that mindset take over is way too cult-like. civil servants should be held to higher standards and should be criticized when they aren't living up to the expectations they set.

Well I can't speak for anon, but I personally find these kinds of conversations frustrating at this point specifically because we are at such a dangerous turning point that basically these arguments should be irrelevant until November 6. I agree that there are plenty of improvements that Democrats can make, but we can discuss those problems when we know we aren't in danger of being controlled or overtaken by fascists anymore. No one expects everyone to tow the line, it's just that in the face of what we could be dealing with, it does feel ridiculous for people to be letting the perfect be the enemy of the good when there is a genuine possibility that Project 2025 could happen.

#politics for ts

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abyssmalice · 2 years ago

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drabble: works of miracles (are still not divine)

In spite of yourself, you send off your Eleventh in person.

"Remember my orders," you tell the little girl, her eyes wide but still so hollow even as she nods with what can only be nervousness, the familiar kind you see on guards or servants newly introduced to you. "We will have someone assist you, of course. But we expect you to be capable enough to manage on your own to some extent when you reach Sumeru."

It sounds utterly insane, frankly, to send a girl who isn't even ten years old to be an undercover spy. It's only been a few months of (admittedly intense) training and tutoring, and you have appointed a nine year old to the illustrious position of Harbinger.

A baffling, illogical, wholly ridiculous decision - is what common sense says.

Common sense also says, with a bite of what might just be guilt, that you have made your decision, so you must follow suit. Even if you fail (you will not, you cannot), you will absolutely have the dignity to lie down in the bed you have made.

That bed, as it turns out, is turning a child - a child who you had all the means and authority to return to her home and family - into a weapon.

("Can use the elements without— Has the same composition as Irminsul?"

The documents are just discovery after discovery, for good or worse. Mainly worse. Pierro's expression becomes severe as he skims a thick report - a text transcription of a recording, summarizing a day's experiment and its results.

He ultimately closes the file with a deep line for a frown, mulling deep on what he has read, before he turns to you. "She could be useful."

"What do you mean by that?" you say, even though you know exactly what he means.

"Elemental powers without a Vision - already unfathomable when she is no descender, and unfathomably useful in terms of flexibility for a variety of scenarios. Irminsul—vessel, mirror, record of the world's existence. If we must preserve something through her, find something through her, erase something through her—"

"If it were a simple matter of erasing Celestia through Irminsul's memory of them, I am sure we would not be where we are." Civilizations in the past held varying power - but you know a fair number of them could scry power from the leylines, from Irminsul, and if even they couldn't rebel against the might of the divine -

The man shakes his head, though to agree with you. "Certainly. Were it only so simple. But, should she be able to, she can certainly deal with lesser obstacles in our way."

You start to frown. You find that appealing. You find that sense of appeal to also be absolutely offensive.

And yet, this is war—)

Beggars cannot be choosers, regardless.

You straighten your posture a bit - not to intimidate, not truly, but it does grant a sense of authority in a stupidly quick way. The child reflexively tenses, one of her hands clenching in a way that speaks of wanting to hold a weapon. Pierro has informed you that she might just be a born genius in battle, the way she already knows and is seemingly comfortable with killing. Neither of you could even begin to guess how when it shouldn't possible, and a part of you doesn't want to learn.

The mere fact that she's already got such a convenient, useful foundation to build out of - to be dropped straight at your feet, not exactly quietly but the fact that she is in your grasp, under your control, usable -

("Ah, so you've decided to utilize the girl," Dottore says, as you inform him, if only for the sake of it, not because you particularly want to - but he is nonetheless one of your ten, soon to be eleven right-hand men, so at the very least he needs to be informed. "Understandable, but a pity. I was hoping you would return it to me so I could continue with my research - but either way, you will be making use of it, as expected."

"...There appears to have been more than enough research done on her," you manage to put together something tactful after a long-drawn moment of trying not to be too sharp in reaction.

"Not nearly enough. For one, I have yet to create a functioning, sentient fusion of human cells and Irminsul matter. There is undoubtedly some principle that allows for it - the child is the living example, after all - but it's both frustrating and exciting in equal measure that I still need to discover it."

He sighs, in a way you can only call nostalgic, or appreciative, with a touch of disappointment. "Though, I suppose it would be quite the process to do that at this point. We would have to start from scratch with the way it's behaving now."

You raise an eyebrow in spite of yourself. "The way... she's behaving? In what way has her condition changed from prior to her failed escape?"

"Hm? Well, the fact it's exhibiting any sense of will and volition at all. It was much easier on my eardrums when it stopped screaming during my studies.")

It's already bad enough that everything is working out so well with her. With using her. The only hiccup so to speak is that the child has her own individuality—regained it, rather—and while certainly very meek, you can tell she has a spine buried in her - the way she wants to fight, even if it only in some sense of self-defense, the way she has a constant sliver of apprehension (an indication she wants to refuse) when she interacts with things, familiar or not.

Which sounds so terrible, but the baseline is just that low. When you first met her, not long after her re-capture, the child barely even blinked. Didn't say a single thing, didn't even seem to be looking at anything despite her eyes staring out, wide open. A human doll, a lifeless puppet. The fact that now, she's instinctively reacting to things - turning her head, responding to your words, thinking. This is far better than before, and isn't that just so pathetic?

Children, you know, hope and desire, should be raging balls of emotion, of joy, still exploring the limits of the world. And every capable person in the world, never mind a god or an adult - everyone, of the right maturity, should be encouraging such childish development.

The only thing you're really encouraging in this one is to get back her own personality, and then to bury it for the sake of war.

You are raising her to live properly and simultaneously turning her into some unfeeling tool. Baffling, illogical, wholly ridiculous.

Even so. One for the many, a decision you have made a thousand times before. Above all else, you need to remember that - to prioritize that, when time comes to triage (and you absolutely will).

There will be endless prosperity and a limitless future once the war is won. And should it not drag on for very long - the child might still have a long life left to enjoy it too. So you have to win it, no matter what.

"Tonia," you say, and she seems to shrink into herself, despite that just being her name. "One final thing, before you depart."

"...Y-Yes, Your Majesty...?"

A part of you doesn't think. Your hand comes to rest on her head, gentle. She freezes immediately, in a way you don't quite like, so you ensure you are brief with it.

"—You already know this, but you will be attending the Sumeru Akademiya. It is a very big, and very great school. As such, I expect you will learn much - not just information for the Fatui, but things for yourself. I hope you will gain wisdom during your time in Sumeru."

There's a scrunched pull of her eyebrows, in a way you've come to learn is confusion, if not puzzlement - which, all things considered, is very good.

You nod, mostly to yourself. "Keep all of that in mind. And... take care, my child."

Your Eleventh blinks up at you with her mouth opening and closing like she wants to say something, but having no idea what exactly. You don't fault her - the situation is difficult in general, and you don't doubt a little girl will have a worse time with something of the sort. So you simply glance at the guard next to her, who salutes you in the most formal manner possible, before escorting the newly-minted Harbinger out the doors to a carriage, ready to head straight for the ports.

Eventually, she is but a blip that disappears into the flurry white of Snezhnaya's scenery, and you can't help but wonder if this is why they call it the empty nest syndrome.

Even though it could be argued that Tonia took up as much space as a sheet of paper in presence, there's a distinct feeling that something's simply gone now.

You sigh at that and shake your head. Composing yourself, you listen to the icy clack of your heels guide you back, on default, to your throne. Yes, there are things to be done - audiences to hold, meetings to have, so on and so forth. Time to do your part, as much as Tartaglia will.

(You can regret it all, every little bit, continue regretting some other day.)

#(i was on such a wild writing streak last night u guys have no idea my god i am so sleep deprived by Words Demand To Be Written)#(yet another fanfic and its not even from tonitoni perspective. again. but shes in here this time!)#drabble | (the heart speaks and the soul remembers);

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ha-hatdog · 4 years ago

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all in a day's work / daisuke kambe

somebod requested a badass reader? sorry for this very late update. online classes is kicking my butt. you wanted either a scenario or a headcanon so i decided to make both. long scenario/headcanom mashup ahead.

requsted by anon: Hii!! I just want to say first of all, that I just discovered your blog and I just fell in love with it, keep going you’re amazing❤️❤️ soo can I ask for a Headcanon or scenario (it’s up to you) where Haru has a female friend who works in modern crimes prevention and is really badass (like she knows how to fight and all that stuff), so one day she helps Daisuke and Haru in a investigation in which a fight starts and Daisuke gets impressed by her abilities and develops a crush on her (????)

UNEDITED

It was another mundane morning for the the Modern Crimes department. The room was oddly colder, and the civil servants occupying the compact and simple space secluded themselves with their own businesses. Mahoro Saeki sat on the couch partaking in an unhealthy snack she had shipped from a foreign country, Kamei Shinnosuke was browsing through the internet and more than once using to his advantage the global connection that comes with his access to the computer in order to satisfy his habits and indecent hobbies, Yumoto Teppei tuning in to the occuring horse race in an international channel in his device, Nakamoto Chosuke merrily bading his time reading through documents of recent illegal activities assigned to his care, Kiyomizu Yukihiro fiddling with yet another craft he made out of wood and glue, Kato Haru awaiting the telephone to sound off and have another indiviual summon him for a petty crime, and Kambe Daisuke seated far from the othere, legs crossed and chin resting on his knuckles as he appraised the tranquil area.

Haru slammed his hands on his desk and threw his head, moaning in disdain. "Why isn't the phone ringing?" Whined he as his posture was regained after a moment or so. His eyes, lit with pure frustration and impatience, glared at the telephone, as though threatening without verbalizing his objective would somehow make it ring. "Come on, ring, you stupid phone. How come you always ring whenever I don't want you to and don't when I do?"

"It's a slow day." Remarked Kamei, not takint his eyes off his computer as he regarded his colleague. "Try to enjoy it. You can have all your action some other day."

Haru leaned against his chair, back sliding against the backrest and the back of his neck hitting the edge of his leverage. "Not everyone has weird hobby to keep themselves entertained." Countered Haru, and a pout formed on the blond male's lips at the comment. "This job is what keeps me from going insane."

The offended male turned his swivel chair to face Haru, face scrunched with the same attribute he exuded, "Oi, don't say it like that. It's bad if you describe it like that."

"It's weird without even having to add the adjective." Saeki chimed in between her chewing, humming as the flavor of the chip formerly cinched in the possession of her fingers travelled to her taste buds.

Kamei whipped around to her position, shoulders tensr with the taste of truth and reality, both of which ignored in favor of living in bliss. "It's nor weird. It's perfectly normal for men to be looking at those . . . sort of inappropriate . . . videos." His words trailed off as he came to realization that his own defense betrayed him.

"I agree, but not at work." Haru simply retorted. "Would you want to see me cooking a whole feast inside the precint?"

Kamei looked up in ponder, mouth curling as his thought process stuttered before he presented his inquiry, "Do we get to taste the food you made though?"

Haru stared at the blond man with an impervious mask decorating his appearance, unimpressed with how the man broached the metaphorical event served to him. "Never mind." Shaking his head with amicable dismay, Haru turned his seat to a half circle, arms taking space upon the the armrests. His line of sight crossed over the facile yet minimalistic design of their room, the dull colors of the walls an addition to his disinterest until it landed on a brooding and well vested man.

The referred individual had boredom etched all over his striking features, the lack of events occuring in the Modern Crimes he could invest his time in had him in a bad mood although showcasing it to his colleagues was not his cup of tea. He and Haru were different, and how they handle themselves in this patience consuming day was one of them.

"I'm surprised you're still here." Haru conveyed with a vestige of astonishment. Truly the older man had no such ability that could understand the complexity of his wealthy counteepart. Most days, whenever days were a little too slow for his liking, he would up and retreat back to his home (mansion seems more of an appropriate term to refer to his household) but lately, he had been spending more time in the precinct, and Haru did not know how he should react to this development, or devolvement. His comment floated in the density formulating inside the office, and everybody present swiveled their heads to await his response. "I thought you'd be back in your house now. No cases today, it seems. No games to entertain yourself with today."

"Tell me something I have yet to know, Inspector Kato." Retorted Daisuke, and a tick mark grew on Haru's forehead, but his displeasure to his rude counter was ignored as Daisuke brought his fingers to his ear. He spoke, enough for others to hear his statements. "HEUSC, locate the nearest and most recent crimes occuring within the area."

Haru rose from his seat, alarmed. "Oi, what do you think you're doing?"

Daisuke did not respond to Haru and awaited his butler's relay of information. It did not take more than a few seconds until it has accumulated enough information to submit to his master. "A few streets away, a murder of two took place in a bar called Denyr. Investigation is in process currently."

Daisuke removed his hand from his earpiece and looked towards a flabbergasted. "You heard HEUSC. Let's get going." Daisuke stood up from the couch, dusting himself off before making his way towards the door.

"Wait a minute," Clamored Haru, and Daisuke looked over his shoulder to gaze at him. Haru gritted his teeth, irritated. "You can't just up and go and do whatever you want! This is not your call! We weren't called so we'll just disturb everyone else who's already there."

"Aren't cops allowed to interfere in crimes or disturbance in peace whenever they want? It's their job." Said Daisuke. "And besides, you're just as eager as I am to do something other than waste the entire day waiting for the phone to ring." Then he frowned. "Unless, I'm mistaken, of course. I have no qualms leaving you here. I'm sure you'll be useful for warming up your chair for tomorrow."

Haru growled at him. "You stupid . . . " He grunted and took his jacket off his chair. "Fine! I'll go with you, just to keep you in check!"

“Wait a minute,” Exclaimed Saeki, causing Haru and Daisuke to turn just as the latter had began turning the doorknob. The pink haired female abandoned her seat in favor of giving them a standing and patronizing narrowed glower. “Haru, aren’t you forgetting something today?”

Haru looked up in thought, trying to recall what Saeki was implying. Nothing significant manifested in his line of thought and he turned to his colleague with a frown conjuring in his mien. “Uh, I don’t think I’m forgetting anything.” Answered Haru.

Daisuke grunted, displeased by the interrupting. “Then let’s get going.”

Daisuke pushed the door open and stepped outside. Haru was following suit, shrugging his jacket on when Saeki called out for them once more, particularly the older officer. She had her arms crossed, an unamused pout forming on her brims. “Haru, don’t be stupid!” Clamored she. “I can’t believe you forgot what today is!”

Haru let out an exasperated sigh. “I honestly can’t remember what makes today so important.” Said he. “What is it?”

Kamei rolled his swivel chair back, making sure to reveal himself from any obstructions blocking his form. “Eh? You of all people forgot (Your Name) is coming back?” He conveyed and whistled right after. “That’s surprising, and disappointing. I’m sure she won’t be thrilled knowing you’ll be the last one welcoming her back after her hospitalization – her best friend, her partner in crime.”

Haru’s face fell upon acquiring the information relayed to him. His mind refreshed, finally remembering the time when you took your time from resting in the hospital just to tell him you were soon to be discharged after the outcome of you recklessly electing to throw yourself in front of him when the perpetrator pulled the trigger and shot a bullet his way. You were fortunate enough to have the cylindrical metal projectile imbedded nowhere near any of your vital veins, but due to your blood loss as well as the stacking strain and stress in your body forced you to be admitted in the care of the hospital. Haru was sure you were not supposed to move when you selected to take your phone and call him because he can hear the nurse in the other line scolding you, telling you to end the connection and to rest easy for the remaining week. He could only miss you more – he knew how much you hated doing anything but police work. Haru couldn’t believe he forgot about that since he distinctly remember hardly being able to be consumed by sleep when excitement for your return filled him.

“Shit, it’s today.” Cursed Haru as his shoulders dropped. He slapped his palm against his forehead, groaning. “My God – how can I forget? I’m the worst partner ever.”

Daisuke glanced at Haru, bemused. This was the first time he had heard over this (Your Name) woman. To him, Haru was always a lone wolf who preferred to be alone in his work unless he was required to have a companion with him. Or maybe because it was loyalty to his said partner kept him from going to missions with another. Daisuke looked back at Saeki and Kamei, “Who’s (Your Name)?”

Haru wanted nothing more than to hide your existence from Daisuke. You already had so much in your plate and having a rich bastard interpolating with it was more than you can handle, especially after being hospitalized for quite a while. But it was inevitable for the two of you to meet seeing as Daisuke seemed to be taking a strong liking with playing cop and were in the same department as him. So resigning with the concept of keeping you away from Daisuke, Haru let out a deep sigh. “(Your Name) is another cop in our department. She’s my partner.”

Daisuke blinked at him. “Someone can actually put up with you?”

Haru angrily show his fist to Daisuke, irritation swathing his figure. “What was that? I should be the one saying something that! I don’t know how Suzue-san can put up with your rich ass!”

“Maybe if you’re rich, you’ll know.” Countered Daisuke.

Before Haru could grab hold of Daisuke’s collar, the latter efficiently evaded his attempt to do so and stalked off into the corridor, adjusting his pristine suit as he ventured away. “If you want to stay here and wait for your partner, fine by me. I can go alone and handle the murders all by myself.” He said without looking back to meet Haru’s hardened gaze. “I’m sure this (Your Name) person is more important than the safety of other Japanese citizens.”

“O-Oi, I haven’t even decided yet! Don’t assume I’m not going!” As much as Haru wanted to be the first person to greet you back to work, he too loved justice and cared about the people who wanted to live in peace. Clicking his tongue out of annoyance, he turned to everyone left in the room, and all of them returned his gaze with bemused expressions. “Kambe and I will be quick. We’ll just drop by the crime scene and then cime back. I’m sure I’ll be able to return here before (Your Name) can. If not, tell her I’ll be back soon.”

***

daisuke was never inclined to pursue a romantic relationship. ever since witnessing his mother died, his life had been reserved into finding the truth. but little did he know, his perspective in love and romance will change, and hary will most certainly freak the fuck out

the two police officers arrived in the crime scene in a short amount of time. with how daisuke was speeding, it was understandable they would get there fast and very understandable how haru's whole life flashed right before his eyes. daisuke was actually tempted to go even faster but opposed to it after a while as he did not want to deal more with haru's tantrum after he recovered.

of course when they arrived there, the detectives assigned to the case shooed them off because they're not part of the investigations.

daisuke knew how to deal with them, of course. he brandished stacks of yen to include them in the case and the detectives were like 👀 because you know, who doesn't want extra cash?

haru didn't bother complaning anymore and just went to work. he wanted to get back to the station as soon as possible and welcome you first. best friend efforts, get a best friend like haru.

haru: "i scout the ground floor, you go upstairs - AND NO SPENDING MONEY YOU RICH BASTARD"

daisuke:

haru:

daisuke:

haru:

daisuke:

haru:

haru: "and - "

daisuke left before haru could finish his sentence. really daisuke just stayed and didn't answer him just so he could piss haru off. it worked nonetheless and daisuke can hear haru cursing at him as he walked upstairs

but we all know whatever daisuke does pisses haru off so so it didn't matter.

daisuke went up to the second floor if the bar and he saw how thrashed the place was

overturned tables, fallen chairs, broken bottles, reeks of alcohol, smears and pools of blood but everything seemed pleasant to look at compared to the two corpses that laid out on the floor with police tapes around them. it looked like a small massacre occured in there, and thay surely was the case

head smashed, chunks of flesh scattered, broken skulls but daisuke merely stared at them blankly

he wasn't disgusted nor disturbed. seeing his own mother's corpse was enough for him to deem gore as just another normal addition to his life

like another detective, daisuke began looking for clues. he searched the entire place like the good and professional detective he is -

who am i kidding - the first thing he did once he sees the condition of the second floor was, or course, ask HEUSC for information. screw asking them from fellow detectives when daisuke has his own ai butler

ahh perks of being a kambe

daisuke: "heusc, tell me the exact number of people that attended this bar between nine am to twelve in the afternoon"

heusc: "understood"

it did not take long until heusc responded

heusc: "the exact number of people who attended genyr is twenty seven. twelve in the ground floor, twelve in the ground floor, fifteen in the second. there are two dead bodies found in the second floor - "

daisuke snapped his head to the ceiling as soon as he heard a soft creak emit from over him

daisuke stared at the ceiling for about a moment before askint heusc - "look at the footage from the surveillance cameras surrounding the the bar. how many people fled outside?"

daisuke heard another creek above him, and this time he was sure he wasn't alone

and his unknown companion would love to have him in the same state as the corpses

and heusc replied: "twenty four"

daisuke closed his eyes, "is that so?"

heusc: "one person remains inside the building"

daisuke dropped his communication with his ai and positioned himself to a clean posture, back straight and hands tucked inside his pockets

daisuke: "you can come out now. no use hiding. i know you're here"

no response

daisuke clicked his tongue, "i heard you moving around in the ceiling the entire time i'm here and it's only been two minutes. you're not as discreet as you think you are. reveal yourself now and i'd consider lessening your time in jail."

still, silence greeted him

daisuke was growing irritated by the lack of answer given to him.

daisuke: "a coworker of mine needs to be back at the station right now for a reunion with his girlfriend - " daisuke paused as he imagined haru having a girlfriend. " - so let's keep this short and simple. surrender and as i have promised earlier, i will try to get you lesser years in prison"

but daisuke was not intending to keep this promise. even he knows giving a generous offer to criminals would weaken their resolve

but again, there was no answer

but he expected this

he always does to every case he gets handed with, or forced his hands to

daisuke observed the ceiling through a blank lense before sighing "if this is how you want things to go down, then so be it"

daisuke touched his earring and deliberately increased the volume of his voice as he spoke to heusc - "heusc, purchase the bar and its neighboring buildings and set a bomb for twenty minutes. tell the others to get out of here as soon as possible" he sneered at the ceiling. "i don't mind dying inside this bar with the suspect. it's the norm for a police officer to risk theit lives in the name of justice"

he sounded like haru for a moment there

heusc responded immediately: "understood, sir. balance: unlimited"

it was after that statement did a response come to light

the ceiling above daisuke broke as a firm kick broke through the fragile material

daisuke jumped away before a slim figure of a man dropped down from the hole

before daisuke could move, the man dashed pass him and out of the room, his oustretchrd hand barely grazing the bloodied clothes he wore

daisuke didn't waste time and recovered from his stunned state before following after the perpetrator

daisuke kept losing track of the man from time to the time and when he got down to the grounr floor, he saw no sign of him

nobody was present inside the bar anymore per order of heusc and money

all except for haru of course who immediately ran out of the place he was scouring and back to the main room

daisuke knew he heard heusc's order to leave the building but

haru will always be haru

haru, upon seeing daisuke's solemn state, asked: "what happened"

daisuke: "the man - did you see him?"

*haru, confused noises*: "what man? who?"

daisuke: "the man who killed the peple upstairs - he was still here and he ran down, didn't you hear him?"

haru: "no, i didn't - " his sentence was cut off when a figure suddenly lunged at him

lo and behold the criminal who was hiding behind an overturned couch

haru and the man tumbled down to the ground, fists and feet swinging wildly. daisuke watched as haru struggled to acquire dominance over the situation

daisuke: "heusc, identity of the killer"

heusc: "sakatoshi matona, a former bouncer for genyr until he was let go without reason"

haru strung out profanities and grunts as he and the matona rolled on the floor, trying to pin the other down. with a boost of strength, matona managed to get the upper hand and he put all his weight on haru. his hands found haru's neck and began strangling him

daisuke was like aren't you cop? win you idiot in the inside and haru was like aren't you a cop? help me you bastard in the inside. just the norm for the reckless and seemingly suicidal cops

haru: "gwet hiff op opp mii"

heusc: "transalation: get him off of me"

daisuke took action after that. he pulled matona off of haru and immediately socked him on the face

matona stumbled back but daisuke underestimated the time he would tske to recover and he tumbled back as the criminal retaliated with a punch of his own

daisuke dodged the assault but in the process, temporarily losing his posture. matona took this as an opportunity to continue his line of attacks, landing a few good hits on daisuke but majority of the time, he failed

daisuke recovered from the initial shock matona has inflicted him with and returned to momentum ane he was preparing his attack when bam - haru kato

my day be so fine then boom - haru kato

daisuke's eyes widened when haru, after standing up, tried to lock matona's arms to prevent him from moving anymore but instead, his chest met with an elbow

air was taken away from him and haru staggered backwards, clutching his chest and matona seized him

daisuke cursed and shot forward to help him but stopped when matona took haru's gun away from him and pointed it towards haru

matona: "stand back or i'll shoot"

haru raised his hands in surrender but daisuke did not

and haru was: ?????!!!!! tryna get me killed????!!!!

daisuke: "i can keep my promise, you know"

matona pointed the gun at daisuke

matona: "how can you when you're just a lowly cop?"

daisuke took out his cigar and lit up

daisuke: "yes, because a lowly cop can just buy buildings with a single command from an ai"

matona growled "rich, snobby, uncaring, and a liar. you're just the same like the people i killed"

daisuke opened his mouth to reply when a feminine voice cuts in

"finally, a confession. now we can get this over with"

before anyone could react appropriately, matona felt a hand take hold of his stolen gun and tore it away from his grasp before a heel sunk into his stomach, causing him to spit out blood

daisuke saw her, a woman standing with such grace, confidence, and strength with a gun in her hand and a smirk on her brims

daisuke couldn't move not from shock, but with admiration

who was this woman?

and what was this thudding in his chest

doki doki

his face was hot, very hot

and so was the woman

"( YOUR NAME )???"

daisuke turned and saw haru gawking at you

haru: (@[]@!!)

daisuke: （－－）

also daisuke: is that really (your name)? haru's partner? haru's girlfriend?

daisuke: hmp hmp（｀ー´）

you turned to both of them and daisuke was blown away with you that he nearly fell

he thinks you're very pretty

V E R Y

doki doki

you smiled widely at them: "haru, it's so nice to see you again" and then you turned to daisuke

daisuke froze and his cigar dropped

you glanced back at haru: "you already replaced me?"

haru: "tf no! rich boy here wanted to plays cops for a while so he went to our department. you know me, i could never replace you"

daisuke glared at haru

it waa obvious he was trying hard not to upset you (though you didn't look like the type who would get easily offended)

plus he's pushing a single and narrow minded narrative about him towards you. what if you hate him?

but you didn't and merely smiled at him, ignoring the criminal trembling from the pain of your kick

you: "my name is (your name)"

daisuke.exe has stopped working

jk that won't happen to daisuke

for now at least

daisuke: "kambe daisuke"

you, smiling: "nice to meet you, kambe daisuke!"

haru: "how did you find us here?"

you: "was gon get a drink before i head to the station but then i saw police tapes and stuff"

haru looked alarmed: "YOU WERE GOING TO DRINK RIGHT AFTER YOU GOT RELEASED FROM THE HOSPITAL"

you turned away from them, facing matona: "you can continue scolding me after we arrest this killer, haru. sorry in advance for haru, daisuke. he can be pretty overbearing and protective"

daisuke: "i can tell"

haru was offended okay?

you were already teaming up with daisuke to tease? betrayal.

haru: "how dare you (your name) - "

you did not let haru to finish his sentence and starter beating the shit out of matona like DAMN GHORL

daisuke and haru watched from a distance as you expertly used the gun to your advantage without pulling the trigger. you used the metal to hit him in fragile parts of his body in order to limit his movement

daisuke gawked at you

he has never seen such fluid execution for an arrest

daisuke looked: O-O

haru, seeing him, smugly crossed his arms and said: "you get to see how amazing (your name) is as a cop. she's my partner"

just as he said that, you pinned the criminal down on the ground, gun discarded, your one hand straining his arm behind his back and the other pinning his other hand on the ground

you: "i just got out of the hospital. how did i still win?"

daisuke suddenly frowned

oh, right. she's haru's girlfriend.

several minutes later, you successfully managed to arrest sakatoshi matona and the other detectives came to take him. but of course, you made sure you, daisuke, and haru were getting the recognition

like hell you were letting someone else get the glory for your efforts

you returned to daisuke and haru, smiling

they were talkiny when you hugged haru from behind

you: "haru i missed youuuu. it was lonely without your annoying butt looking out after me all the time"

haru flushed red

haru: "if you didn't catch the bullet for me then - "

you: "and let you get shot instead? nu uh, no way. i would take any bullet for you. right, daisuke?"

he felt speechless when you regarded him

daisuke didn't know what else to say to you so he said: "yes, i agree"

but somehow the the thought of you getting shot angered him

haru looked at daisuke, thinking: he acting kinda sus rn

you turned to haru and the two of you began catching up, smiling and laughing

you two looked comfortable so with each other. you two were carbon copies of one another, except you were ten times better, sorry haru

you two were made for each other

no wonder you're his girlfriend

you: "how's everyone in the precinct?"

haru: "still the same. everyone missed you"

daisuke: "are you two together?"

haru: 👁👄👁

you: *long ass laughing emoji*

haru turned very red, shouting: "WHERE DID YOU GET THAT IDEA"

daisuke: "you said you were partners - "

you: "i didn't know you liked me that way, haru - "

haru: "NO I DON'T KAMBE WAS JUST BEING A DUMBASS"

you tittered and turned to daisuke: "no, we're not together, kambe-san" you tucked a lock of hair behind your ear. "sorry if i scared you"

daisuke felt relief wash over him

daisuke: "i was just wondering. you and haru seemed very close so i was just making sure i wasn't misunderstanding"

daisuke froze with wide eyes when you leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek

and you whispered to him: "gotta work on being discreet when you look at me. i can practically see you chasing after me in the future with how you were looking at me. i'm flattered you find me that fascinating"

you turned to the shook haru: "i like this one, haru. we should bring him along with our cases"

you regarded them both: "anyways, i'll be heading over to the station first. i can write up the report and have man behind bars quickly. don't worry though, i'll make all three of us have the glory. i trust that you two can finish up here without me?"

the two men wanted to say something but both of them were stunned. you just kissed daisuke on the cheek and your best friend saw it. daisuke's eyes were wide and haru had his jaw dropping down

they still didn't say anything when you bid them farewell and just watched as you went to a police car with another cop where matona was and sped off

daisuke can feel his heart hammering against his chest

what was this feeling? it was so strange and . . . it's just strange, but he was not oppossed to thie feeling

in fact, he wanted more of it. as long as it came from you, it was fine

haru, however, was not

haru looked like he had seen the most horrifying thing ever

B E T R A Y E D

his best friend and this cop wannabe?

D I S G U S T H A N G

daisuke cleared his throat and turned to haru to say something but was met with a finger pointed at his face and haru looking vexed

haru: "you - "

the bar and the buildings nearby exploded beforw haru could say anything more. everyone except for daisuke was startled and sunk down on the ground

daisuke was not though. and he remained standing. not for the reason he forgot about the bomb he instructed heusc to plant but because

- you kissed him and he was self destructing

daisuke held back the smile threatening to tear through his face

haru: "w-what was t-t-th - "

daisuke: "i forgot about the bomb, sorry"

532 notes · View notes

singtotheskiies · 4 years ago

Text

dream come true // five hargreeves x fem!reader (royal au)

masterlist

summary: prince five longs for a taste of the world outside the marble walls of the castle he’s always known—and when he meets you at the annual ball, he discovers that it’s even more beautiful than he could have imagined.

request (by my absolute favorite anon): I was wondering if you'd be up for writing an AU one shot? I can't get the idea of something similar to a Cinderella (or prince/princess royalty AU) out of my mind. At some point Reggie throws a Grand Ball for some reason and thats where Reader and Five meet and fall in love and well idk if there would be conflict regarding Reggie and his approval (not like Five would ask) but happy ending? Whether Reader is a princess or a commoner or something else I'll leave up to you.

words: 2000

warnings: none besides reggie’s shit parenting lolz

a/n: i,,,,,, am BLOWN AWAY by this request it is so cute!!! i feel like i really could have done more with this, but here’s a lil unedited smth for you all to enjoy!!! (i wouldn’t be 100% opposed to writing more for this au at some point either)

✖️✖️✖️

Five rolls his eyes to the back of his head for what seems like the thousandth time today. If he has to listen to Luther and Diego tear into each other for five more minutes, he thinks he’s actually going to go insane.

He can see Allison glare at him from the corner of his vision, and he raises his hand in a choice gesture without bothering to look at her directly. Reginald’s cane comes down hard on the floor, voice slicing through the room and silencing Luther and Diego’s bickering.

“Five, your behavior is absolutely un—“ “Spare me the lecture, father.” Five cracks a humorless smile. “I already know what you’re going to say—the future of the kingdom is in our hands, all of us must be prepared since we never know when our moment will come, and so on and so on. Well, I’m tired of this! So tired. All we ever do is sit here and listen to those two—“ he pins Luther and Diego with an angry stare— “argue on and on while you just sit there all self-righteous and above it all, never having the decency to tell us who’s going to inherit—“ “That is quite enough,” Reginald snaps, voice taut with rage. “Out.” Five’s eyes narrow. “Out!” And so he finds himself outside the throne room for the third time in as many weeks, head lolling back against the cool marble. I’m really not cut out for this, he thinks. If this is all royalty is—just endless arguing and politics day after day—then I don’t want it. The mid-morning sun breaks through the clouds, shining through the huge glass panes that line the hall. Gold trimmings catch the light, and a glimmer hits Five right in the eyes. He stands up with a sigh and makes his way to the window, looking out on the courtyard and the distant hills beyond. He’s spent hours looking outside at those hills, longing to run for them with all his might. Small homes dot the slopes like beads on a necklace, and Five wants to walk among them, feeling the ground against his feet and listening to all the villagers greet each other as they go about their days. He longs to be free of marble walls and false smiles and instead feel the freedom that he imagines comes from interacting with real people. An impossible dream, perhaps—but a lovely one all the same. And when Reginald calls Five back to the throne room for a talking-to, it certainly helps take his mind off things. Maybe someday, he thinks. ✖️✖️✖️ The sun beams down bright and warm, and you’re grateful for the shade of your stall in the market. It’s been a slow day for selling, and you can’t help but wish that the time would go faster so that you can be free to roam about as you wish. As much as you love selling your jewelry, there’s other prospects that spark more excitement in you—namely, the yearly Presentation Ball being held in just two days. A smile spreads across your face at the thought of it. It’s going to be beautiful, you imagine, full of normal people trying to be their best for one night. And, of course, the royals will be there. Now, you’re not one to gush over a family who’s never seen in public, but a tiny part of you has to admit that the allure of the elite is tempting. This is the first year you’ve ever been able to go, and you wonder if the stories you’ve heard of rulers more statue than person are true. You hope to get a glimpse of them—just to see if they are, in fact, human. The pads of your fingers brush over the necklace in your pocket you’re saving for the ball, and a smile stays on your face for the rest of the day. ✖️✖️✖️ “You had better redeem yourself tonight, boy!” Reginald says to Five, all rancid decorum and thinly-veiled contempt. “I think it unreasonable to expect that I will sit still like—like some puppet all night, Father,” Five shoots back. “Not when our people will be there—I fully expect to speak with some of them.” “What have I always told you and your siblings ever since you were young? Commoners—“ “—Are to be avoided at all costs. Yes, I know. And I am telling you that I believe we cannot be true rulers without knowing who we are reigning over,” Five speaks earnestly, face flushed. “You are a disgrace to this family,” Reginald shouts, all traces of civility gone. “Your siblings would never—“ “Well, I am not my siblings! And I am certainly not going to sit there next to them and feign pompousness,” Five spits. “I’ve had enough of doing things your way.” His turns his heel, moving to storm out of the room.

“Where are you going, boy? The opening introduction will start any minute!” Reginald shouts after him.

“Do it without me! I’m going to be where it really matters—with my people.” Five yells over his shoulder.

Defying Father feels better than he ever could have imagined—and so he takes a deep breath and enters the crowd with a growing smile.

✖️✖️✖️

It’s quite possibly the most exciting night of your life, and you’re completely, heartbreakingly late.

You curse under your breath as you run up the castle stairs, dress gathered up in your hands to keep from tripping. Guards stand on either side of the grand, gilded entrance, and you breathe a sigh of relief when you see a small knot of people entering just before you. You reach the doors and hold out your invitation, smiling at the guard as he nods in acceptance. “Enjoy,” he says, and you beam back.

“I will.”

The ballroom is just as stunningly beautiful as you’d imagined. Gold swirls along the white marble walls, accents of royal red adding to the decadence. The huge room is chock-full of people smiling and drinking and making eyes at each other. You breathe deeply in awe, eyes shining as your head moves side to side, hardly knowing where to look next.

After several moments of looking around, your eyes land on the grand throne at the very front of the room, furthest from you. King Reginald is seated in all his harsh glory on it, flanked on either side by two of the princes. They’re dressed in brilliant royal clothes, trying their best to look as commanding as their father. Four other beautiful royals sit next to them, but your eye is drawn most to the empty throne at the end of the row. If you remember correctly, there should be five princes and two princesses—but only four men are sitting with the king. You wonder where the other is—perhaps sick or off on royal business? The kingdom rarely sees the royals outside of the balls, so it’s impossible to tell which prince is missing.

You turn away from the thrones, curiosity overcome by your thirst. Maneuvering your way through the packs of people is a bit tricky, but you manage to reach the refreshments table without any major accidents. A servant pours you a drink, and you thank him with a smile. As you turn to leave, you nearly bump into a boy about your age.

“I’m so sorry!” you exclaim, before continuing on.

“Wait,” his voice comes after you. You stop and turn back around, pleasantly surprised. “I’m sorry too. What’s your name?”

You tell him, and he smiles.

“I’m F—“ he pauses. “Felix. It’s very nice to meet you.” He reaches for your hand and plants a soft kiss on your knuckles with surprising grace. He’s really quite handsome, you think—slender, searing green eyes, well-groomed, thick hair. Most endearing of all is a dimple in his cheek that deepens as he smiles at you.

“Very nice to meet you too, Felix,” you grin, still-tingling hand slowly coming back down to your side.

“That’s a beautiful necklace,” he says with admiration. “Where is it from?”

“I actually made it myself! I sell my own jewelry at the market on weekdays,” you beam. “The wire is made from metal mined right here in the kingdom. It’s purer here than in any surrounding region.”

“That’s amazing,” Felix says with another soft smile. “You must know all sorts of things about jewelry.”

“I guess I’ve learned my fair share,” you laugh quietly. “Jewelry is how I make a living—and it’s one of my passions, so I suppose you’re right.”

“Tell me about how you make pieces,” he asks as the two of you find a relatively quiet place to sit, voice genuine and curious.

And so you do.

✖️✖️✖️

You’re the most beautiful thing Five has ever seen—high praise from a boy who’s lived in splendor all his life. As he watches you talk about your craft, he can’t tear his eyes away from your animated face and hands. How had he lived this long without realizing how beautiful people were? He’d never known something as small as a wisp of hair falling over an eye could make his heart swell nearly to bursting.

“Felix? Felix!” Your voice cuts through his daze, and his eyes snap to yours, embarrassed.

“Sorry, just got, um—distracted.” Was Felix really the best he could come up with?

“Am I boring you?” you ask teasingly, the corners of your mouth tipping up. He looks into your eyes, sparkling with amusement, and finds that nothing could be further from the truth. In fact, he’s so overtaken by his thoughts that he blurts them out loud.

“N-no. No! Absolutely not! I think you’re fascinating—and so beautiful.” He curses his voice for whispering those last words, and averts his eyes in shame.

“You’re too kind,” comes your voice, soft but somehow makes the pounding of his heart even louder. “If it makes you feel any better, I think you’re quite handsome yourself.”

Years of lessons in diplomacy and etiquette have done absolutely nothing to prepare Five for the feeling that washes over him when you say those last few words. He has absolutely no idea how to respond, and the best his mind can come up with is a “really?”

“Yes,” you giggle, and he’s suddenly aware of just how close you are to him. You smell so nice, and the skin of your wrist is brushing his forearm—and next thing he knows, his fingers are flickering over yours, filling up the spaces in your hand. The look you give him is so beautiful that he wishes he had met you years ago so that it would already be ingrained in his mind.

Your head is nearing his shoulder now, and he’s afraid to breathe in case he ruins your descent. The moment your hair brushes against his neck, he hears his name from behind him. He whirls around to see Klaus with an enormous grin on his face.

“I see you’re enjoying yourself, brother,” he quips. “Unfortunately, dear old father has just about reached his limit with you. If you’re not on your throne in the next few minutes, he’s going to send some guards to find you.”

Five’s eyes are wide as he meets yours. “I’m so sorry. I can explain—“

“No, I apologize, your highness,” you say. “I’ve no doubt broken some sort of royal rule tonight.”

“You were perfect—you are perfect,” he whispers, shaking his head vehemently. “I will find you later tonight—I promise.”

Your smile is more precious than any title he’s been given. “Then I will wait for you—Felix.”

He presses a lingering kiss to your soft hand, unwilling to tear his eyes away from you. And, when he still doesn’t feel satisfied, he moves his lips to the tips of your fingers, your palm, your wrist. He’s only drawn away by the sound of Klaus clearing his throat pointedly.

And for the rest of the night, Klaus’ endless teasing and Reginald’s equally endless scolding are mere echos in his ears—his head is filled with only you.

304 notes · View notes

fandom-imagines-stories · 4 years ago

Text

Saving Face

Tom Branson x Reader

Words: 2580

Part One of Two

Summary: Married for nearly a year, the reader and her husband return to her home and family for a dinner at her sister’s invitation. Tom faces judgment and becomes a point of ridicule. Everything halts when the reader falls deathly ill.

Notes: This one is definitely hard to write, but you know me I love putting my favorite boys through hell. I love Sybil and Tom, but I really want to write some imagines for him, so in this case, Sybil is just the supportive sister. I hope you enjoy! I also decided to make him a journalist in this since that’s what he does when he goes back to Ireland. (P.S. This was getting insanely long, so I split it into two parts!)

You could tell he was nervous by the way he wrung his hands as you walked. The house had never been more intimidating than it was at this moment. You took one of your husband’s hands in yours and gave him a small reassuring smile.

“She said we would be welcome.” You reminded him, though you also feared that your sister had been too optimistic in her letter.

“Maybe she’s forgotten how it was when we left.” He argued, looking up at the grand estate that he had once been a servant to.

“They don’t hate us, Tom.” He gave you a look.

“They don’t hate you.” You sighed, pausing halfway up the path to the door. It had been almost a year now that you had been at Downton. Almost a year without seeing your family. But it had also been almost a year since you’d married the love of your life.

“I’m sure there will be other guests at dinner tonight, as well as tomorrow,” You started slowly. “And while my family has hopefully adjusted, others will not have.” You knew how some of the other women in society could be. They made Mary look like the goddess of hospitality. Surely, Sybil wouldn’t have invited them, but that didn’t mean that your grandmother wouldn’t.

“I have somewhat prepared myself for this.” He laughed humorously. Your fingers gently grazed his cheek as you made sure his hair was in place. The first face to greet you was at least a friendly one. Sybil burst out the door before you even had the chance to ring.

“It’s so good of you to come!” She exclaimed, wrapping you in a tight hug. This of course was much warmer than a traditional English greeting, but Sybil was anything but traditional. She turned to Tom, her smile welcoming and kind. “I know this must be strange for you, but it means so much to me that you’re here.” He gave her a small nod.

“We wouldn’t miss it, m’lady.” He tried to expel any expression of nervousness from his face, but his smile was still an uneasy one. At least he had an ally in Sybil. You took his arm and Sybil led you into the house. You thought you would feel some great sense of nostalgia. The feeling of being home again after so long. But stepping into the grand entrance only made you realize that anywhere would be home so long as you were by his side.

Servants scurried around you, some slowing down to gawk. Tom avoided their gaze. You hadn’t even thought how strange it would be for him to be served by the people that he once worked with. Mr. Carson was quick to shoo them all away, but their stares lingered in Tom’s thoughts.

“They are expecting you in the drawing room, Lady Y/N.” Mr. Carson kept his tone neutral, though you could sense his disapproval. He was one of the most offended by your match with Tom, not that he’d ever told you. You knew it was his love of the family that drove his opposition, but you found yourself still wishing for his approval. Sybil paused at the door.

“Are you ready?” Her concern was sincere which made Tom feel a little better.

“I suppose it’s too late to turn around and run.” He whispered in your ear, making you laugh.

“I’m afraid so.” With a nod of permission from you, Sybil instructed the footman to open the door. The room was lively with conversation until the moment you stepped inside. Your heart pounded, feeling every person’s eyes staring at you. You were right. It wasn’t just your family. Your grandmother must have invited the Winstons- a family of women your age she’d been trying to persuade you and Sybil to befriend for years. You’d both always found them haughty and arrogant. They definitely weren’t the first family you’d have chosen to introduce Tom to, but you refused to fear them.

Tom lingered in the doorway, regretting ever getting on that train. It wasn’t that he was afraid for his own pride, but for yours. To see you ashamed of him would surely be his undoing. You turned back to him with a look of more adoration than he felt he deserved. When you held out your hand, he didn’t hesitate to take it, fully stepping into the room.

Your mother was the first to approach you, taking your hands in hers with a smile.

“How was the journey, dear?” She asked. There was an awkwardness to her tone, but not a hostile one.

“It was lovely.” You left out the part about the train car being a bit crowded. Not riding first class was something you still had to get used to. There was a child who freely ran around the car and forgot to cover his mouth when he coughed. A small annoyance amongst a thousand other happy memories. Falling asleep on Tom’s shoulder or feeling his finger trace the lines on your palm while you stared out the window watching the world go by. You felt his hand tighten its grip on yours when your mother turned to him.

“I trust your occupation in Ireland has been going well?”

“The editor I’ve been writing for seems to think I have potential.” He knew it must sound so ridiculous to someone of her stature. You put a hand on his arm and gave him a smile brighter than the sun.

“Tom is being modest, mama.” You beamed. “Mr. Byrne tells me he doesn’t know what he’d do without him. He loves Tom’s ideals and thoughts for a new future.” You heard a giggle from across the room. Abigail Winston tried to conceal her smirk by bringing her fingers to her lips. She was by far the vilest of the girls and you expected she was thinking of plenty of ways to humiliate you and your husband.

You couldn’t help but notice the way your father avoided your gaze. While you didn’t elope, the blessing he gave Tom was a reluctant one. You had given him very little choice and you knew that it was only by your mother’s insistence that he allow you to marry. Thankfully, Matthew was quick to strike a conversation with Tom. Matthew seemed to be another friend Tom could rely upon. After all, before learning of his inheritance, Matthew was a simple lawyer.

Carson announced that dinner was ready and everyone filed into the dining room. Tom sat to your right and Mary took the seat to your left. Of every person there, perhaps you feared her the most. Your relationship was complicated, to say the least, and when you left to marry Tom, you knew that she disapproved. When you were a young girl, you idolized your eldest sister and losing her respect had hurt you greatly.

“I hope you’re ready to face the wolves.” She said, quietly enough that only you would hear. You glanced at her, allowing your nervousness to show.

“I just wish I could make him feel like he’s not below us.” He barely touched his food, taking only the smallest bites in fear of looking improper.

“That may be difficult considering he used to work for us.” You gave her a look.

“I don’t think we are above anyone who has worked or currently works for us, Mary.” She chuckled at your defensive tone.

“I know that’s what you believe, dear, but I’m afraid I’m not the one you have to convince.” She nodded her head towards Abigail and her sister Margaret, both gossiping and giggling like school children.

“Tell us, Sybil has it been a strange adjustment?” Margaret began. “You kept so busy as a nurse during the war and now things have settled down.”

“I do my part where I can.” She put on a gratuitous smile and you envied her ability to maintain so hospitable. “I don’t think I could ever go back to what it was like before the war. Too many things have changed.”

“Indeed.” Margaret agreed, her gaze sliding over to you. “So many things have changed.” You shifted uncomfortably in your seat, suddenly feeling very warm. You motioned over to Mr. Carson.

“Could you possibly move the candelabra?” You asked quietly. He gave you a strange look.

“Are you feeling alright, my lady?” He looked genuinely worried, which caught Tom’s attention.

“What’s wrong?” Your husband asked. You laughed as though they were both being silly.

“I’m afraid my dress is a little heavy for the weather and I’m getting a little warm, that’s all.” You assured them. Mr. Carson removed the burning candles, but you felt little relief. You felt sweat bead across your forehead, but dabbing it with a handkerchief would draw too much attention.

“Lady Y/N,” Abigail stared you down with a cold gaze, “Or is it Mrs. Branson now? I never asked which you preferred.” Her words were civilized, but her tone was accusatory and cruel. Your lips stretched into a tight smile.

“You may call me whatever you like.” She leaned over to her sister but made sure you could still hear.

“Perhaps she wishes to be called ‘Lassie’.” They shared a laugh before she continued. “I meant to ask you where you get your shoes?”

“My what?” It was such an odd question considering she had beyond the means to find suitable footwear.

“I couldn’t help but notice how your shoes are in perfect condition.” By the smug smile on her face, you knew what direction she was taking this. “I’m afraid mine wear out terribly quickly with all of the walking I do to get to and from town. Wouldn’t you agree, Margaret.” Her sister nodded with an amused glint in her eye.

“Abigail, I’m sure you’re boring the gentlemen with such talk.” Lord Winston scolded, but she had an agenda she fully intended to keep.

“Then again, I suppose not all of us have chauffeurs that are so eager to please.”

You pushed away from the table so suddenly that it made you dizzy. The plates rattled from the force of your motion and the entire room went deadly silent. The men in the room were too baffled by the unexpected motion that they seemed to forget to stand with you. Abigail’s face twisted with wicked triumph .

“Oh dear, I do hope I haven’t offended you.”

“If you’ll excuse me, I think I need to step out for some fresh air.” You muttered, rushing out of the room. Tom and Sybil were quick to follow while the rest of the party sat in shocked silence.

“I’m sorry if this seems rude, but I’m quite frankly surprised that she brought him here.” Margaret noted, snickering at her sister’s comment.

“Must you both be so wretched?” Mary blurted and joined her sister to chase you.

“My love, slow down. Please.” Tom urged you, but you were out the door without a second thought.

“We’re going home.” You fervently tried to brush the tears as they fell. Your blood felt as if it were boiling and even the brisk night air failed to cool you.

“Y/N wait!” Sybil pleaded, Mary catching up behind her. “We’ll ask them to leave. I didn’t wish them to be here anyway, but please don’t go like this.”

“I’ll gladly throw Abigail out myself.” Mary added. You were almost surprised to see her taking your side but you were too emotional to care.

“I can’t do this.” You stopped and turned to them, the tears on your cheeks glistening in the moonlight. Tom could feel his heart crack seeing you like this. You saw the hurt in his expression and knew he thought this was his fault. But he couldn’t be more wrong. “I cannot play this game anymore. I refuse to dance around my feelings for the sake of keeping face. I thought I’d escaped all of the fake smiles and forced politeness, but life with Tom has made me forget how horrible it all is.”

“Honestly, Y/N, what did you expect to happen?” Mary exasperated.

“Mary.” Sybil gasped.

“Things have changed, Y/N.” Mary stepped towards you. “You made a choice and you knew the consequences. You chose a life of love, but it is also an uneven path to follow. I’ve always respected your courage, don’t disappoint me now by running away.” You softened. She respected you? Tom placed a hand on your cheek, his eyes grounding you enough to stop your hysterics.

“My darling, if you want to go now, we’ll go.” He gave you a reassuring smile. “But I can face them if you can.” The heat spreading through your body was becoming unbearable and your head grew dizzier every second. Your breathing became short and labored.

“Tom, I-” Before you could finish, your legs gave out beneath you.

Tom rushed to catch you and Sybil leapt into action. With one arm holding you upright, his other hand gently patted your cheek, trying to rouse you.

“Y/N? Love, wake up.” He looked up at Sybil. “What’s happened?” Sybil touched her hand to your forehead and quickly drew away.

“She’s burning up, we have to get her inside.” He scooped you up in his arms and the two practically sprinted inside.

Mary was frozen for a moment as they ran past her back into the house. Y/N had looked rather ill at dinner, but surely she was just overwhelmed. Mary’s thoughts went to Lavinia and an icy fear ran through her.

“Somebody help!” Tom shouted upon getting inside. Servants gathered around with a chorus of gasps and Sybil began giving them orders.

“We should take her upstairs,” She instructed. “Thomas, fetch me a bowl of cold water and a cloth. Mr. Carson, try and fetch Dr. Clarkson.”

“Yes, my lady.” Mr. Carson’s eyes followed Tom and the worry in his expression was clear.

“What’s happening?” Matthew appeared from the dining room, the rest of the party soon filing out behind him.

“Y/N’s fainted.” Mary said solemnly, taking her fiance’s hand. “Sybil says she has a fever.” Everyone watched as Tom carried you up the stairs, Cora making her way to the front of the group.

“My girl.” She exclaimed, following Sybil and Tom. Abigail turned to her sister.

“And here I thought Irish women were supposed to have thick skins.” Mary would have lunged at them had Matthew not stood in her way.

“Just ignore them darling.” He sighed.

Upstairs was a flurry of movement from servants bringing Sybil supplies. They’d instructed Tom to the room you were meant to stay in and Sybil helped him remove the heavy dress from your frame. Male servants hesitated as they came in. Even catching a glimpse of you in your undergarments was a scandal. Tom seemed to notice their surprised stares and shifted so that he was shielding you from their view.

“Don’t just stand there.” Sybil exclaimed. “Help Thomas get the ice water and someone find out if Mr. Carson has contacted Dr. Clarkson.”

“Come on, love.” Tom brought your fingers up to his lips. “Open your eyes for me.” He couldn’t breathe. It was like the rest of the world was a complete blur. People bustled around as shapes around him. The only clear thing was you. The panicked tears came without warning. “Please, love. Please wake up.”

The first thing you heard was his voice.

#tom branson x reader #downton abbey imagines #downton #sybil crawley #Mary Crawley #tom branson #allen leech

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edie-k · 4 years ago

Text

Legally Ginger (Chapter 2)

Title: Legally Ginger

Chapter 2/9

Rating: PG-13 (I use fuck more than the MPAA allows for PG-13 but that's a stupid rule - there's no explicit content)

Pairing: Romione endgame

Summary: When Ron Weasley's college girlfriend declines his proposal because he doesn't meet her standard for future husband, he decides comes up with a plan to let her see him in a new light.

Notes: This is an AU Muggle reimagination of Legally Blonde. It's very different than anything I have ever written - and my first chapter story. I intend to update each Monday - although I'm slightly early due to commitments tomorrow.

TRIGGER WARNING: This chapter has a character making a joke about an incident of sexual harassment they were the victim of. This is a line directly from the movie and is bolded to indicate it's not my original dialogue. Unlike the movie, the conduct is identified as harassment.

Shout out to TheKillerTigerBunny’s recent fic for inspiring a scene in the admissions video.

Thanks to adnei again for her feedback!

Read at AO3 or click below for more

Ron mindlessly shoved his hand back into the bag of chips next to him on the bed as he stared at the TV in the corner.

He had spent all day Sunday trying to compose the perfect text. The magic words that would bring her back. He composed dozens of drafts. Some were apologetic - clearly he shouldn’t have sprung an engagement on her but that didn’t mean they had to break up! Some were logical - there was almost a full semester of school left that they could spend together and see where they stood at graduation. Some were just pathetic - begging and pleading her for a second chance.

Finally, he decided to keep it simple.

can we please talk?

She responded.

it’s too hard to talk. I love you but that doesn’t mean this can work I’m sorry

He didn’t respond further. In the end, he couldn’t figure out how to fix what was wrong with him. There was no clear way to make himself worthy of Astoria.

So when the alarm went off Monday morning, he hit snooze. Then he hit it again. And again. And then he just turned it off for the next four days, only emerging from his room in the middle of the night to raid the pantry for more supplies. Apart from a few supportive texts from his siblings and friends, he’d been mostly left to wallow. Which could only mean that news of his humiliation had spread across campus and people were keeping their distance. He appreciated it but had a hunch his brothers’ patience would soon wear thin.

As if on cue, the door flung open.

“All right, Ron,” said Fred, barging in the room. “It’s been a week. Time to emerge.”

“Uh,” grunted Ron. Pig trotted in happily and jumped up on the bed next to Ron.

Fred paused and looked at the TV. “My God, are you watching NBC Sports Network? You need to snap out of it.”

Ron shrugged. “Lost the remote two days ago.”

George poked his head in the room before entering. “God, it reeks in here. And it better be beer in that bottle by your nightstand. Thankfully, we brought reinforcements.”

“Hey bro,” said Ginny, popping into the room. “It’s time to seize the day!”

“No,” he said flatly to his sister.

“Come on, you don’t want to blow off your classes. You’ve worked too hard to have to graduate in the summer semester. You want the celebrity commencement speaker, not whatever ancient associate dean they con into putting on a robe in August,” Ginny appealed.

“I’ve been emailing my assignments. It’s fine.”

“Well, this isn’t fine. Come on! I know what always cheers you up,” Ginny wheedled.

“Ehm,” Ron grunted, turning over.

“Please!” begged Ginny. “I need to blow off steam too.”

“I’ll buy you cheese fries,” George suggested.

“My own order,” Ron said.

“Yes,” agreed George.

“And beer,” Ron added.

“Goes without saying!” said Fred, yanking the covers off of him. “Shower and we’re off!”

****************************

Forty minutes later, he was moping under the umbrella shaded patio table outside of the batting cages, Pig at his feet, picking at his fries while his beer warmed in the sunshine. Fred and George were taking cracks off the pitching machine with a couple of his frat brothers and members of Ginny’s sorority that had tagged along.

“Come on,” said Ginny. “You need to hit something.”

“I’ll take the next one,” Ron replied listlessly.

Ginny rolled her eyes. “Girls, make him see reason,” she appealed to her sisters, who were seated next to him flipping through magazines. Ginny jogged off to join the others.

“Ron, Astoria is trash,” said Lavender.

“She is not!”

“She’s trash,” agreed Parvati. “Bougie trash.”

“I’m the one that’s clearly trash.”

“No, you’re a fucking straight up 9 and if I wasn’t in love with the moron taking 40 mile per hour softballs to the head - ” Lavender gestured at Seamus who was doing just that - “I would already be in your pants,” Lavender assured him.

“You’re a little too earnest for me, if I’m being honest,” said Parvati. “And you’re a dude, so no. But if you dated one of my friends, I wouldn’t tell her she could do better than you.”

“Yeah,” said Ron, throwing up his hands in exasperation. “Astoria, you should take me back. I’m not as good of a catch as a guy that tries to achieve CTE for fun but at least Parvati won’t shit talk me behind my back.”

The girls giggled. “Ron, I know it hurts that she didn’t feel the same about you but truly, you are better off. She was just flat out wrong. You’re smart, you’re accomplished, everyone likes you. She’s a snob looking for a certain name to hyphenate behind hers. Just like her sister,” Parvati insisted, pointing at the People magazine in front of her.

Ron peered over her shoulder. There was a color shot of Astoria’s sister Daphne, her hand ensconced in the hand of a dark haired man, walking the sidewalks of New York.

“Is that the Kennedy Taylor Swift dated?” asked Lavender. The two girls' voices faded in the background as he read and reread the caption.

Third year Princeton Law.

This is what Astoria was talking about. Her sister was dating some east coast prep school guy who went to a fancy university. In some ways, he got it. That need to live up to your siblings’ accomplishments or better yet, surpass them. He certainly felt it himself.

Bill, with his gorgeous French wife, was on the executive track at a financial firm. Charlie, with his easygoing personality, had somewhat accidentally launched a successful YouTube channel about his wildlife adventures in Asia. Percy, who had somehow managed to weather the civil servant storm and was on his third presidential administration at the IRS. Fred and George had their plans and Ginny knew she’d go early in the next National Women’s Soccer League draft if she didn’t opt to play soccer professionally overseas.

And Ron had had Astoria. The thought of a good life with a good job supporting an amazing and ambitious woman was exactly what he wanted. But she needed a little more. She needed someone that could prove they played at her level and bring a little flash and substance, like Daphne’s fiancé did.

He stared at the picture. Ron couldn’t get the Kennedy name. But he could wear a fucking rugby shirt and throw gel in his hair and...

“That’s it!” Ron shouted.

“What?” both girls asked, startled.

“I’m going to Harvard Law,” he announced.

Both girls stared. “Seamus, sweetie?” called Lavender. “Bring your batting helmet. He’s got some brain damage and we need to protect his skull from further harm.”

Ron rolled his eyes. “Ha ha. So Astoria’s a little… materialistic and thinks about optics. Everyone Is flawed. And Lav, you said yourself that I’m a nine. How does law school, hell, Harvard Law School, not get me to a ten?”

“What’s going on?” asked Ginny. They’d abandoned the cages at Lavender’s call.

“I’m going to law school,” Ron announced proudly.

“Why?” asked George.

“Ron, no. You loved your internship. You have three job offers doing what you enjoy. This is fucking insane,” Fred insisted.

“You can’t give up free beer,” Seamus added.

“Maybe I’ll love law school,” Ron reasoned. “And if I don’t, I don’t have to finish. It’ll be enough to prove to Astoria I can get into Harvard - ”

“Harvard?” George asked.

“—And not embarrass her. The jobs I enjoyed have regulatory aspects to them so hey, a semester of law school can only help, right?”

“This is asinine,” Parvati said.

“Free beer,” whined Seamus.

“Holy shit,” cried Ginny, flashing her phone towards them. “Have you seen the cost of tuition?” She flashed it to George before Ron snatched the phone out of her hand.

“How the fuck are you going to pay for that?”

Ron cringed. “It’s not going to be my proudest moment. but I’ve got an idea.”

********************

“Hi, Auntie,” Ron said, as he followed the maid into the giant sitting room.

“Ronald,” Muriel greeted. They stood looking at each other awkwardly a moment. “Well, sit down. You,” she barked at the maid. “Bring us some drinks.”

“Right away, ma’am,” the maid scurried off.

Ron and his siblings came from fairly blue collar roots on both sides of the family. In fact, they were the first to attend college. The cost had made it out of reach for his mother and father to attend themselves. Mom’s brothers had planned to take advantage of the GI Bill but unfortunately were casualties of the first Gulf War. After that, Muriel had set up education trusts for her great niece and nephews with the $20,000 incentive. While his mom and dad had always refused any other financial help from Muriel, education was just too important to pass up.

Muriel had money to burn. Unbelievably, she’d been the trophy wife of an oil billionaire 35 years older than her back in her heyday and other than maintaining her estate, caring for at least 6 dogs at any given time and keeping a steady supply of brandy, she mostly just spent her money on controlling whatever family and non-profits she could sink her claws into.

“So,” said Muriel as the maid returned with a snifter of brandy for each of them. “I assume you’ve come for an advance on your graduation gift. When I saw your mother last month, she said things were quite serious between you and that Greengrass girl.”

“Uh, not exactly. See Aunt Muriel, I’ve had a change to my course of studies.”

“You’re almost done and NOW you realize that culinary arts will earn you pennies?”

“No,” he gritted his teeth. “Not culinary arts. It’s food science. It has to do with the biochemistry of food systems and preservation.”

Muriel snorted. “And you’ve decided that since pioneer women had canning figured out, there was nothing further for you to do.”

“Actually, I’ve decided to attend law school.”

“Law school?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Harvard Law.”

“You think you’re going to Harvard Law?”

“Yes,” he answered.

“Why?”

“Why-why do I want to go?” Ron responded. He wasn’t sure if his reason would impress Muriel much.

“No, why do you think you’ll get in?”

It was a fair question. Before college, he had never been an over achiever. That had started with the CULA soccer coach coming to see Ginny play during the spring of her junior year. He’d joined the coach, his parents and Ginny at the house after the meet and delivered the disappointing news that the only event he’d qualified for in the district meet was the 3200 meter. While his family looked sympathetic, the coach smiled and said, “Yes, I’d expect that you’d be a great distance runner. My husband coaches cross country at CULA. Could I give him your name?”

No one had ever expected him to be great at anything.

He won the state title in his division for 3200 meter that year and went on to win the conference title twice at college.

And once he proved himself there, people expected he’d be good at chemistry and they expected he’d be a good president of the house and good at fundraising. And he was. Doing what he was expected to do worked.

But now, they all expected him to give up on the love of his life.

“Just… want to do the unexpected.”

“You know I’m on the board of the local humane society?”

“Uh, I guess,” said Ron. He was actually clueless to her old biddy affairs.

“I understand you raised $12,000 for us at the end of last year.”

“Me and the rest of the guys,” he answered.

“Violet Pullen led me to believe it was mostly your doing.”

Ron shrugged. “I was the one who knew how to brew the beer. And it wasn’t that hard to get the permissions to bottle it and sell it and stuff. The other guys got it promoted for the most part.”

Muriel looked at him appraisingly before she chuckled dryly. “Bring me an acceptance letter and I’ll cut a check.”

*************************

“What the hell is all this?”

Ron glanced up from the stack of study guides he was perusing to answer the twins. “LSAT study guides.”

Fred groaned. “Are you still on this?”

“Of course,” Ron said. “My advisor said I need like, a 173 on the LSAT to be seriously considered.”

“Why would they consider a food science major?”

Ron shrugged. “I have a 3.89 GPA. And Stori’s a philosophy major.”

“But that makes sense,” George said.

“How?” challenged Ron.

“Dunno. I guess because philosophy is a snob subject that’s totally useless without at least a graduate degree.”

Ron ignored them.

“And how are you paying for this?”

“Muriel will cover tuition if I get in. I’ll live at home this summer and I’ve got a couple technician jobs I can take that my degree makes me more than qualified for, plus some catering gigs. I figure that’ll be enough to get through the school year.”

“Ron,” Fred said. “Bro, you like your life. Why change it for some girl?”

“I’m getting fucking tired of this. She’s not some girl. I’m in love with her. She’s the one and I just need to show her I’m worthy of her.”

“You ARE worthy of her,” George insisted.

“Then it’ll be easy to prove, right?” said Ron.

The twins looked at each other and sighed.

“Here, take my lucky pencil for the exam. It helped me pass Spanish.” Fred held out the writing instrument to Ron.

“You passed Spanish because you gave Professor Trewlaney a lap dance,” George reminded him.

“Yeah. Luckily.”

“That’s sexual harassment,” said Ron.

“It is?” asked Fred.

“Yeah, it’s called quid pro quo. She should be fired for that.”

“Well hot damn, Ronnie,” said George. “Maybe you’re set for this law school stuff after all.”

“The exam is the least of my worries. I need a two page essay, professor recommendations, and a ‘personal statement’ of some sort. I’ve never been great at selling myself,” he admitted.

“Well Georgie,” said Fred with a grin. “Looks like you just found the subject of your senior marketing project.”

***************************************

“Well,” said Horace Michaels, rubbing his face and looking at his fellow panel members. “That was certainly something.”

“The video was a lot but… I like him,” said Veda Kasyor. “He’s a college athlete and president of his fraternity while carrying a high GPA.”

“Oh, is he an athlete Veda? Did the shirtless jogging footage tip you off?”

“He was also brewing beer in his frat basement.”

“He’s a food science major.”

“And he sold that beer on campus as a Humane Society fundraiser.”

“Who produced this video? Pretty heavy handed with the studying in the library footage,” Richard scoffed.

“He’s got a 3.89 GPA and he got a 177 on the LSAT. He probably studies.”

“Was he playing chess naked in the video?”

“It was his opponent who wasn’t wearing clothes - I believe it was strip chess.”

“If we’re looking for diversity - ”

“A white man’s not it.”

“Typically, no but he’s got, what, 6 siblings? Dad’s a mailman, Mom’s a parapro. He’s not some trust fund legacy case.”

“He had internships with two major corporations. And his resume shows part-time jobs since he was 16.”

“I’m concerned about his course of study. Food science is the hard sciences. Is he going to be equipped to handle position statements?”

“His personal essay was well-written and compelling, plus he minored in business. His Business Strategy prof had a glowing recommendation.”

“Ron Weasley… welcome to Harvard.”

#au romione #ron and hermione #romione fanfic #ron weasley #ron x hermione #romione #ron weasley defense squad #hp fanfic #muggle au

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tristanlovesthequeen · 4 years ago

Text

Something Smart

Tristan Arcelona

Claire Daigle

Minding the Canon HTCA-502-01

11/30/16

Artist as Purveyor of the Contemporary Landscape

The first time I saw a representation of Salvador Dali's “The Persistence of Memory” was in a cartoon on Nickelodeon called “Tiny Toons.” I forget the exact scene but somehow this image stayed with me and has pervaded popular culture since its inception. Dali first came up with the idea during a after a dinner party with his wife, Gala and some artist friends. After dinner the group decided to go to the cinema and Dali decided to hang back. He sat at the head of the table observing a loaf of Camembert cheese and pondering the super soft texture of it. He sat down and began to work at the painting. It was almost complete upon the return of his wife. Upon seeing it she proclaimed that it was a sight impossible to be unseen.

The simplicity of the initial concept of soft cheese was then taken to the next step through Dali's hyper paranoiac conceptualism and then taken even further by art critics, theorists, and historians who believed it had to do with Einstein's theory of relativity. Later on in Dali's career he began to paint about this topic, with the advent of nuclear physics and string theory, molecular structures and DNA mapping. This is an instance of artist creating a brand, and the symbiotic relationship between the supply chain and the demand creating new technologies, hybridized paintings, and advancement in concept. Dali drifted between faith systems his entire life, finding sources of inspiration and exploring them, sharing his findings and experiments through the medium of art. What started as landscape and portraiture evolved into impressionism then cubism and then his most famous surrealist stage. This period explored the concept of dream reality and meaning of dream symbols which directly connected him to the theories of Sigmund Freud. When criticized by fellow surrealists as purely a commercial painter, he denounced surrealism, needing only his wife Gala. He lived a life in the spotlight through wars, moving from Europe to New York and back again. He progressed the ideas explored in surrealism to scientific theorems and in the tail end of his career he became more of a faith based painter.

Sometimes the mythology of a painting's creation is more interesting than the painting itself. It's reputation precedes it and therefore it achieves high levels of fame. One such painting is “Dance at the Moulin de la Galette” by Renoir. The Moulin de la Galette was a popular dance hall/ bar/ restaurant for the impressionists to meet in Montmarte Paris, France during the late 1800's. Pierre Auguste Renoir had a studio nearby. Legend has it that everyday he would carry the canvas with a friend down to the Moulin de la Galette and set up his easel.

Renoir leased a studio at 12 Rue Cortot, in April 1875. It came furnished and had two floors, where he lived with his brother. He made several studies at the Moulin de la Galette. Renoir's civil servant friend Georges Riviere writes how friends helped carry the canvas back and forth “We would carry this canvas every day from the rue cortot to the moulin, because the painting was executed entirely on the spot. This was not without difficulties, when the wind blew and the big canvas threatened to fly away like a kite over the Butte.” (pg. 64)

Renoir used his friends and acquaintances from all walks of life as models. He had a favorite female sitter, whose name was Jeanne and was sixteen who refused the main role in the painting but appears later in life as the main character in “The Swing.” Instead, her sister Estelle models the pink and blue ribbon dress.

Renoir went through a period in his life where he and his fellow impressionist compatriots were penniless. Renoir combated this period in his life by writing letters to friends asking for money, also by staying with fellow artists such as Monet. It seemed the impressionist vision was fading with the salon show actually losing money and his artist group parting ways. His main gallerist Durand-ruel closed his London location and it seemed that all was lost. Famished, Renoir started painting portraits and with a stroke of luck and genius, he was able to make the acquaintance of one of Duret's friends Deudon, who was a wealthy lawyer and owner of a clothing store Old England. Duedon comissioned him to paint a mural in his estate, a portrait of Madame Duedon and five of his finished pieces.

This granted Renoir passage to build upon what he had been pursuing with his portrait studies to create the symphony of motion and light that we know as Bal du Moulin de la Galette. After exhibiting, he was able to land several published reviews as was the style at the time. However, instead of advancing his process and concept, the reviews were mostly negative, 2/6 were favorable.

Most of Renoir's paintings are figurative, all signifying spacial pictoral depth. Some are landscape. Now they seem highly unoriginal, the best part about them being the color and motion of brushstroke. His model choice changed slightly over the years, yet remained mostly young white women, beginning with light red hair and progressing to black. He undeniably had a type, at his worst remained a blank, doll-like expression. Even in the Bal du Moulin de la Galette, his most populated painting, it looks as though the main female model repeats over and over as though she were dancing with her clones. However, he combats this with the dappled shadows from the overhanging branches, the representation of the contemporary styles of the time, and the bright and sunny disposition of all the participants of the scene. One cannot help but feel nostalgic for a period that would not have existed if the Impressionists had not imagined and created it.

Advance time about a hundred years or more and we find Bruce la Bruce's movie Super 8 1/2. This movie is a mockumentary based on a queer fetishistic porn producer's life and work. Things have changed since the 90's, with the advancement of the internet interrupting basically every aspect of our lives. Porn is everywhere. This movie is reminiscent of John Waters' tongue in cheek reality. The stars are not perfect right wing citizens, they are “underground” and rife with problems, and we see how very real they are. The main character takes after Andy Warhol, he has taken to alcoholism and lives in a dingy room with aluminum colored space blankets on the walls. He is always in a state of heartbreak and his relationships with his costars are argumentative and violent.

Googie is an adventurous porn producer who finds her subjects in mysterious ways. She finds a lesbian couple hooking up in a graveyard and casts them as her new stars. A confessional interview shows them talking about their threesomes with strangers and hatred for hetero cis men. They like to “fuck them, and fuck with their minds.” Wednesday and Friday describe going into clubs with a pair of scissors and cutting off straight men's ponytails. They aren't serious strippers, they are quirky and take their sexuality and dancing with a slight humorous bend.

The stars are full of themselves and obsessed with fame. Their egos cause them to blow up in violent outbursts at each other and exploit each other. The difference between Bruce la Bruce's porn and every other run of the mill porn filmed in New York or the valley, is that these stars have been given credit for being avant garde art stars. One such plot is Bruce driving an old Jaguar down a a desolate country road and hitting a hitchhiker. He gets out of the car to check on the man who he has hit and ends up getting a blowjob when he regains consciousness. The movie concludes with the stranger throwing up on the side of the road and Bruce hopping back in the car and driving away.

A movie directed by Googie and starring Wednesday and Friday, the two lesbian “sisters,” pictures them holding a man up with a WWII army beretta, lubing up his rear and shoving the covered pistol in his behind. They finish him off by stripping him bare in the brush, powdering him and equipping him with a diaper.

The movie is a black comedy. Visually it is devoid of colour. Needless to say, it is weighty in its stark portrayal of a scene that is hardly ever represented in the main stream without being over glorified. It is an industry, much like the meat industry, that remains invisible in its process, yet is pervasive throughout history, since the dawn of photography. It has it's parallels in the art scene, with painters and photographers alike representing models who may or may not have participated in porn shoots. The credit goes to the artist usually, with the model being a conduit to his concept, and it is impossible to see how much the subject actually contributed to the process and final image.

Eventually we see Bruce's participation in the industry drowning him in sorrow. He stumbles around the courtyard of an insane asylum in black doc martens, white pants, and a white straight jacket. He has been exploited to no end, what was supposed to save his career, the interviews and collaborations, actually detrimented from it. His friend describes him as losing touch with reality, blurring the line between his movies and his waking life. We see him shellshocked on camera dropping a line of infinite wisdom and rebuking it, attempting to cover his tracks, rephrasing it as if it can be edited out of the space time continuum.

The film is filmed in low-fi black and white with almost no budget. Needless to say, it is an art film. It documents a sub culture that concerns itself with a subversive beauty, that the mainstream is dangerous. It takes hard work no matter what you do, whoever said being a pornstar is easy? We see the image of a young black man on a benchpress, the director condemning him for not being able to get it up, that he has had “Three fluffers already.” That the price of fame might be the price of your mental well being, that the more one departs from mainstream society the more danger one welcomes into their personality. That somehow being beautiful and volatile gives you control over others, it creates a desire in them to do your will. However, it is only tolerable for a short period of time. Misery loves company but it also attracts a certain type of self aware genius. We are only comfortable with our avarice in the midst of a reflection, and when that reflection starts to change we are disgusted and need to move on. We accept that life is hard and must accept the most gruesome of challenges because our ability to tolerate and moderate these events bring us a sense of personal satisfaction, the sense of grit to survive. The fear always lies with our insecurities. When will this life bring me under? How much is too much? In this industry, pain and substance abuse go hand in hand. In theory, the dampening of the limbic system allows us to surpass the constant onslaught of painful memories. What is actually happening is quite the opposite. How one chooses to combat these issues or feelings depends on a personality type or a type of abuse someone has endured in the past, whether it was mental, physical or sexual. Occasionally people attempt to welcome back this type of abuse into their lives, they put themselves in situations that repeat or glorify an abusive situation and it becomes a cycle without rebirth leading to their ultimate destruction and downfall. Given the right willpower, resources, and technique one can break this cycle. Life is not without pitfalls and setbacks, but only if we take them that way. This can lead us further into space or further equip us to deal with life has to offer us.

Ultimately society was not built to do us any favors. The kind of free sexual rebellion that this movie introduces is somewhat refreshing somewhat stale. It shows us that this behavior might not land us in prison, but might lead us to a sort of mental exile where we feel alien to the world. The world has offered us an escape from mainstream only to find that we are caught in another mainstream. Crimes against humanity are rampant wherever we go and it is not until we accept them as part of our culture that we find any release.

Tony smith created the steel sculpture “Die” in 1968 with the intention of representing the “square root” of six. It is literally six by six feet, metaphorically representing death by being six feet deep and a six foot box. It is brooding in its intentionality, also seems to be a means to an end goal of traveling to New York. The NGA describes the piece as “embracing the heroic and humanistic attitudes associated with abstract expressionist art of the 1950's,” however I would describe the movement as one filled mostly with a sense of white male machismo. How could he have not noticed the gigantic black cube in the middle of Jerusalem called the Kaaba which houses the holy book of the Q'uuraan? Millions of people flock to the religious site each year to pay homage to the prophet Muhammad. Arguably, this is an even larger homage to organized religion and the prowess of another man of a separate ethnicity. Both cubes are homages to death, one is immensely popular and other remains a mirror of a small dying culture, we shall presume the reader knows which one is which.

Sometimes art is less conceptual as a metaphor for what is already present in life, and turns into a science project that invigorates the future of materiality, which is what all visual art media is based. Traditional materials are often decided by trends in the economy, sudden turns of fate determine which path is chosen and which materials will become the new norm. What replaced the steam engine with the gasoline powered motorcar and what replaced paper made from trees instead of hemp, was usually a rich investor that decided it was easier to pollute than to create something that is sustainable and equally as useful. What we have now is a bunch of overworked, underpaid employees that are just as polluted in their minds as the environments lakes and rivers.

Iris van Herpen is a designer that falls into a new genre of material futures. Material futures deals with finding a category of unsustainable or overused materiality, whether it be, organs, meat that we eat, or clothes that we wear. She creates new fabrics that are produced using 3d scans and furthermore printed and stitched by hand and machine to create designs reminiscent of HR Giger meets fairy princess, Hufflepuff meets Slitheryn in Harry Potter fan lore. She is conducting science with the touch of a skilled wizard, producing new leather from cow cells and lightweight fabrics lighter than silk. This technology continues to progress around the world. Her theory is not that we should be creating new wearable technologies that are stylistically unsound, meant to connect us to the outside world without bringing anything new to the physical realm. Her textures and textiles connote that we can represent how we feel and what we have experienced through a suit that we wear. 3D printing is becoming more accessible, to the point that people could do it “if they could only find the time.” If Iris van Herpen ever becomes mainstream we might not find the time to leave the house in the morning, staring at our reflections, robing and disrobing again until we can find the right form to describe our ever changing mood.

As it so happens, Iris van Herpen interned for Alexander McQueen, a famous English fashion designer who has died but his name still rings on. Before his death in 2010, he put together a show called VOSS, in which models were to reenact the mentality of being in an inpatient unit. Models shaped like gazelles stumble around in high heels looking posh and sleek with some sort of headdress that looks as though they have strapped pantyhose to their heads. Kate moss fumbles at the walls, which, are double sided mirrors, the audience can see in but none of the models on the runway can see out. The models, while nice to look at, sporting some amazing designs by McQueen, are perhaps not the most interesting part of the show. The climax comes, as the large rectangular rhombus in the center of the room comes crashing open, glass shatter and butterflies spread everywhere, fluttering about in the light. The main character, unclear whether she is the protagonist/ antagonist, reclines nude inside the cube, sporting a gas mask with concord wings a precursor to a character in Mad Max Fury Road.

It just so happens that this model is Michelle Olley, a London based writer and magazine editor who specializes in culture. She was a key figure in queer and fetish culture in the 80's and 90's and has since hopped around from job to job and now works as content manager for Turner Broadcasting's Adult Swim. On her blog, she describes the experience of being involved in the project. The all around stress she was under and the real life torture she felt being kept in the box.

“If it weren’t for yoga I’d be in absolute agony by now. I can’t move much because moving breaks wings; my lower leg is dead after about twenty minutes on the chair. I’ve got at least an hour and a half alone in here, and that’s if the show starts on time, which of course they never, ever do. After about another fifteen minutes my right shoulder, which is leaning on a cushion, starts to ache. I’m clutching onto Stephen’s best scalpel—which I need to slash open the butterfly net that contains 250 live moths and butterflies. I’m holding the net in my other hand trying to keep it still so I don’t disturb them. The radio earpieces are throbbing—they’ve been hurting since they wrapped the bandages round them. It’s not too bad in the mask. I can breathe OK. The temperature is awful, though. They need to keep it cold in there so that the moths will remain still/placid. Cold air is being piped in, as when the lights go on at showtime, it’s going to get really hot. The cold air is giving me goose bumps and making the glue/moth parts all around my body really itchy. My head’s hot, my body’s freezing. Time to test whether they really are listening at all times. I ask Anna to turn off the air con and they agree to give it a rest for ten minutes. I have no idea how long it took to shut it off or low long it was off for, but it wasn’t enough. Before I know it, the pipes are blowing again—sending another flurry of broken wings and antennas off me and I’m shivering. Anna tells me they’re running about twenty minutes late (it was about an hour to the official start by this point). By this stage I have no idea how long I’ve been in there, or how long I have left. Time has ceased to be quantifiable. I’m too focused on not thinking about my discomfort, not getting emotional, saying warm and not thinking about the fact I was busting for a pee. I just wanted desperately to get it over with. Sometime later Anna calls to say it would be another fifteen minutes on top of the twenty (“We’re waiting for Gwyneth, who’s stuck in traffic”). Bring. It. On. Before getting in the box, I’d seen all the names on the chairs through the two-way mirrored glass. Paltrow was at my feet, next to Nick and Charlotte Knight; my backside was right to Isabella Blow, Grace Jones, Sharlene from Texas and Ronnie and Jo Wood. Could they tell I was hatching a radio mic? I’d also spotted Tracy Chapman, Tracey Emin and Jake Chapman’s names on the chairs. My early comment about “doing it for art” was coming true in an unexpected fashion...

No, it’s the art thing again. I want people to know what I just went through wasn’t a breeze and I did it for art. Yes, art. Because I believe it’s worth going through that much palaver if it creates a strong image that conveys an important idea. And I believe that the idea that we are trapped by our “civilized,” socially approved identities is massively important. It causes women so much suffering. Fear of aging, fear of not being thin enough. Fear of not having the right clothes. Fear of our animal natures that we carry in our DNA—fish, bird, lizard, insect, mammal. We’ve never had it more techno, we’ve never needed it more human. We humans living now still cannot turn ourselves into perfect beings, no matter how long we spend at the gym, beauty parlour, shops, etc.”

Sometimes it takes a whole orchestra of behind the scenes folks to get a project realized. Sometimes it is only a handful of people who receive the credit for a massive undertaking such as this. Why is Tracy Chapman still relevant? Because she is involved with the culture. And when all is said and done, however equally distributed the pain and strife of the work that was completed, we still live in a world where Benjamin Franklin is accredited with the discovery of electricity. Perhaps McQueen would have not felt so weighed down by the responsibility of stardom if the attention received for such a project was distributed with more equity. Michelle Olley still learned a valuable lesson in body image from the experience of participating in the project, so it seems that process can be the most important part of creation.

Haruki Murakami writes in his novel Kafka on the Shore, “That’s why I like to listen to Schubert while I’m driving. Like I said, it’s because all the performances are imperfect. A dense, artistic kind of imperfection stimulates your consciousness, keeps you alert. If I listen to some utterly perfect performance of an utterly perfect piece while I’m driving, I might want to close my eyes and die right then and there. But listening to the D major, I can feel the limits of what humans are capable of—that a certain type of perfection can only be realized through a limitless accumulation of the imperfect. And personally, I find that encouraging.”

Contemporary art seems to operate solely upon this concept, that there are continuous builds based upon the notion that everything here is imperfect. Competition is based on this nodule that human kind has something to prove, that there is somehow something better to be strived for. Competition within contemporary art pushes boundaries of what is conceptual, accepted, what element of art history the piece is derived from, and what new materials can be used. Since there is no purpose in striving for perfection, it eliminates the competition within the art world. What is left is abstract free flowing ideas. Competition in the art world, it seems only exists within the art market. Survival of the fittest is based on who has the latest advancement in technology “who has the biggest guns” and who can obtain the largest chunk of the economy. Eventually people try to compensate by dumping the largest amount of money into a particular project, here size of the object, materiality, location, and finish come into play. What is left can be impactful, just because of the immense capabilities of one particular artist.

The Japanese synth composer Yuzo Koshiro, who is famous for his video game scores during the 90's describes this concept when being called the king of FM synthesis. “It’s an honour for me. Though there are a lot of people who use the FM synth well. As I said before, in terms of game music... Trying to use an FM synth with MIDI had so many restrictions. I don’t think people could use the chip to its full potential exactly as they wanted. Since I made my own editor and driver, I could control everything about the chip down to the fine details. So I think that’s why I was able produce that level of sound. I definitely don’t think I’m great at making quality tones though. Being able to control every little thing freely was one of the main reasons I received that kind of praise.” Koshiro was able to fine tune his process by using his own tools, which he developed, using his own ideal of how he saw the future. Still, he believes the final product was not the embodiment of perfection. He finds that the more one plays through a video game with the music that he has composed, the more the melodies grow on us.

“Is it the quiet shore of contemplation that I set aside for myself, as I lay bare, under the cunning, orderly surface of civilizations, the nurturing horror that they attend to pushing aside by purifying, systematizing, and thinking; the horror that they seize on in order to build themselves up and function? I rather conceive it as a work of disappointment, of frustration and hollowing—probably the only counterweight to abjection. While everything else –its archaeology and its exhaustion—is only literature: The sublime point at which the abject collapses in a burst of beauty that overwhelms us—and that cancels our existence” Kristeva.

Kristeva's “Powers of Horror” is a long, drawn out study on the abject. How she was able to complete such a tour de force is beyond us, which is probably why it seems so intelligent. She was able to sustain concentration on the most unbearable subjects, and most art students, given the the task of completing the entire transcript, are unable to do so. If there is one positive concept to be derived from this reading, it is that the abject is necessary in small doses, in order to achieve the opposite. What disrupts and disgusts us can make us believe that there is an opposite. That notion is described in the quote as the sublime.

If we look at the hollowness of space as terrifying, then we see why people decide to huddle together within city walls. We condense only to realize that this too, can be perceived as abject, and in the instance, we decide to disperse. In this way, the feeling of abjection can flip flop, all at once describing the fickle nature of the human personality, and the lightness of being alive.

“Women artists are more inward-looking, more delicate and nuanced in their treatment of their medium, it may be asserted. But which of the women artists cited above is more inward-turning then Redon, more subtle and nuanced in the handling of pigment than Corot? Is Fragonard more or less feminine than Mme. Vigee-Lebrun? Or is it not more a question of the whole Rococo style of eighteenth-century France being "feminine," if judged in terms of a binary scale of "masculinity" versus "femininity"? Certainly, if daintiness, delicacy, and preciousness are to be counted as earmarks of a feminine style, there is nothing fragile about Rosa Bonheur's Horse Fair, nor dainty and introverted about Helen Frankenthaler's giant canvases. If women have turned to scenes of domestic life, or of children. so did Jan Steen, Chardin, and the Impressionists-- Renoir and Monet as well as Morisot and Cassatt. In any case, the mere choice of a certain realm of subject matter, or the restriction to certain subjects, is not to be equated with a style, much less with some sort of quintessentially feminine style.”

Traditionally, throughout history, most of the credit of winning has been given to men. Credit is sometimes equated to fame, such as Alexander McQueen's stylistic designs and art shows, where there are numerous participants. However, what equates fame? How do we quantify how well known something is? If something that lives in our hearts is more important than fame, how is it that we measure? Many ideas presented in the art history canon have been proposed by women first. We see this in the example of Carolee Schneemann's “Meat Joy” and also “Up to and Including Her Limits.” Matthew Barney used the same ideas in his piece “Drawing Restraint” several years later and arguably received more credit. He is also referencing his “personal mythology,” which might include pieces that Schneemann has produced. Meat Joy creates a scene where the body is abjectly presented as a vessel of meat, flesh we consume is also the flesh we destroy, and the theme of abject flesh is now popularized in contemporaries like Jenny Saville. Where once upon a time it was popular to idealize the human form, it is now popular to debunk the myth of a perfect form and present the new ideal as a medley of body types and human characteristics, not ignoring the ever presence of the abundance of flesh, and bodily fluids. In terms of art, the gender of the object is attributed to whomever created it, no matter how rugged or polished the piece may be. The independence of women artists does not suggest that they did not particularly belong to a certain school or class of artists, it just means that they were not recognized for being there. Since the presence of art history is also based upon the presence of critics and historians, the relationships between these individuals and the people they chose to represent is important too. The interpersonal relationships amongst individuals in the art world also influence who receives a review. Ana Mendietta is mostly recognized for her relationship with Carl Andre, as Lucian Freud is mostly recognized because he is grandson to Sigmund Freud. Not to say either is necessarily without talent, which is quite the opposite, however people are recognized mostly from their upbringing and what circles they revolve in.

Which leaves me believing something is missing within the art world and the world at large. We all experience the sense of the void, which is a mirror of the total amount of dark matter in the universe. There is something amiss, and we are not quite sure what it is. The Fifth Element addresses this concept, with the notion that there is a missing element that will save the universe. With designs by Jean Giraud Moebius and Jean Paul Gaultier, this french cult classic is one of the most visually stunning movies to date.

The plot revolves around the main character Korben Dallas and his relationship with the embodiment of the fifth element, Leeloo. She is a fanboy's dream, a young model actress that does not speak English, is the visage of perfection but does not have any visual or cultural preference of her own to speak of, nor any knowledge of who she is or what humans are. Besides this general monotony, she contains an element that is activated by a particular piece of knowledge. What Korben Dallas teaches her, is the concept of love. This is the final unifying element in the universe, the one that clarifies the dream, and brings light to an otherwise dark place. No matter what your belief system is, if you are a human, animal, sentient being, this rings true. What is the essence of life, what is the point of materiality if there is no feeling there?

With my own work, I feel a sense of displacement usually rather than belonging. A jumble of ideas are mashed together usually to bring a solution to some sort of negativity, in order to see the light shine through. Many artists use their art as a way to connect on a broader spectrum, in this way I am no different. I find that personally I connect best at a small scale, one or two people rather than a huge group. Limiting options of who to talk to can create a stronger bond, as if limiting one's palate, in order to know what is truly motivating one's soul.

With what I create, I tend to maximize my reference points. I create a mashup of things I have experienced, usually told in the form of a fable created through symbolism of images derived from 90's pop culture. Perhaps this is me bringing to the forefront the notion of keeping my childhood alive, by subliming memories of contemporary life. Art can be about breaking free of limits, so my process constantly changes to remove myself from an XY axis and a grid, to constantly build and destroy, to remove anger, hate, and turn it into love.

This semester I have learned a few things about the art world and art school in specific. There are a few key tropes that reoccur and navigating them is mostly about the language used to describe them. For example, using the word umwelt for someone's personal bubble; using the term post humanism when someone really means Sci-fi; structuralism for patterns that repeat; anthropocene for the current affect of global warming. Part of the interchangeability of words to describe these things has to do with the malleability of the ideas themselves. As we saw with Salvador Dali's study of string theory, different personal views conjure up different worlds. The study of these worlds leads us on our own personal journeys. We envelop these concepts and let the future unfold, perhaps we use art as the mechanism to advance human kind. I always thought of art as some kind of pseudo-science, now I can say that these things are interchangeable, art can be science, theory, personal reflection, fortune telling, and the economy. The mythology that leads us here today can change time.

Works Cited

Barbara Ehrlich White, Renoir His Life Art and Letters. 1984. Harry N. Abrams, Inc. New York

NGA.gov for tony smith's die

http://www.nytimes.com/2015/04/08/t-magazine/iris-van-herpen-designer-interview.html?_r=0

http://blog.metmuseum.org/alexandermcqueen/michelle-olley-voss-diary/

http://daily.redbullmusicacademy.com/2014/09/yuzo-koshiro-interview

The fifth element

#Tristan Chase Arcelona

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soranihimawari · 4 years ago

Text

Shatter continued

A story in several parts:

tw: reader chan’s sibling is a toxic force to be reckoned with; officers mentioned in later parts (civil servants for young adults); mentions of accidents and scarring [both emotional and physical]; young adult 18+ for strong and suggestive language

word count: 6.8 K

tagging @oikawa-obvs @m0nstergeneration20xx

the characters and other tie in works:

seijoh 4: oikawa, iwazumi, hanamaki, mattsun

spin off of the Running at 6a.m. feat. hanamaki and his s/o [plus s/o family]

Little side notes: mattsukawa issei means “it’s all right.” // fuyu no rairakku fuji means “my beautiful wisteria tree” // mitsuketa means “I have you”

Throughout this story, mattsun & q learn how important the actions of others does not define a set path.

Images based via Pinterest

Image 2 based off this post

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III

The day before you leave back to your side of the city, you tell your friend what has transpired between you and mattsun on movie night:

“That’s great! I knew he’d like you. They all do,” she says. “I mean, you did fall asleep next to him for a little while before they walked us home that night.”

“Yeah, I know,” you reply. “I’ll be out with him all day…”

“You’re not going to know what hits you until it shows, Q.”

“Life is not like the hallmark movie channel, Chise!”

Your friend’s stubbornness and your counter argument came to a close when her aunt and uncle stepped in to act as a mediator between the two of you…

“Your sister is coming to pick you up, Q,” her uncle informs you. The news was not a welcomed one at all; the blood in your veins ran cold.

“What?! Uncle, you can’t be serious,” your friend states, wide eyed. “Q just got here…She can’t go back! Her sister is not right. Please recon—”

“There’s nothing we can do,” her aunt replies. She explains all the sound reasonings why.

“How long do I have?” You wonder. Chise storms out of the room and when you hear her door shut, you inhale and exhale a deep breath silently counting down before you rationally think things through. You were gone for a total of four days & three nights; it takes about an hour or so for the train, but if your sister does a ride share, you have less than that.

“She’s on her way, isn’t she?” Your voice betrayed your expression.

“Yes,” you’ve never seen your friend’s uncle so abruptly twist in disgust. You know both he and his wife would try anything to help you, but considering how they presented the facts, it was going to be a losing battle.

Nodding, you thank them both for the news and the hospitality they offered, but you ask them to leave as politely as you can. You were seventeen years old when you realized that the hardest thing and right thing are not always the same.

Your sister wasn’t always this way. She was the elder & you needed to listen to her. You were always like water, one with the moon & stars; she was like fire, warm and with enough energy to harbor the solar flares. She wasn’t always an unhappy brute; the accident that tore your family apart was the catastrophe which estranged you to this day.

“What do you mean Q’s leaving?” Makki asks. He sits up hearing his girlfriend’s voice fall into a panic.

“It’s an emergency; you know I told you about y/n’s relative right?”

“Yeah. What’s wrong?”

“Takahiro, I’m worried for Q because that’s the one who’s coming to pick her up. She can’t go back to that house on a whim! Her sister might beat her up worse than before!”

“Stay where you are. I’m getting a hold of Iwazumi & Mattsun.”

“Mmk. Hurry because I don’t know what time that witch is arriving.”

—18:43—

“Call the authorities,” was what you hear your friend’s relative instructs. One of them has to keep the objective line of sight here and now all there is left to do is wait.

You stand outside your friends house with a dark expression. Your sister’s arrival meant you could try to fight, yet you knew words are just as damaging. You come face to face with her just as the boys arrive.

“Come little sister,” she says. You don’t move. Your friend is behind you, but when the boys arrived she lets them in the side gate: Makki leads followed by Iwa, and finally Mattsun. Your friend fills them in and now they stand at the ready to help you if you need it.

“Q. Come now. Don’t make it anymore difficult than it has to be.”

“No.” Your voice is absolute.

“No?” She sarcastically replied with a scoff.

“Did I stutter?” You retort. Your friend and her family is on the porch watching this.

“I don’t know what your game is, but this is a family affair…”

“Do not bring them into this mess,” you warn as you walk toward the spot on the lawn where your sister stands. There is a few feet of grass between you.

“Enough,” she says in a menacing tone. “Quantum stop being foolish before I burn you and cast you out. Black sheep or not, you are my sister and you will do as I say.”

She takes out a lighter from her purse and one of the oldest journals you have. It was a tome you had since you started middle school.

“Burn it for all I care,” you spat. “Because as far as I am concerned, we are no longer family. You stopped being in mine before I started high school you bitch. Touch me again and I will make you regret finding me.”

At this point, your teeth are bared and your voice is as even as it can me. You know there is truth in those words, but with your found family behind you, you have the higher ground.

“Like hell little sister,” she spits. “I rather you drop dead and die because you are what makes me insane: this ends today.”

You sister burns the book regardless. You stomp out the flames in time that a good portion of the damage book is scorched down to a delightful singe. You wonder how long your sister has been without her medication. The gargantuan illness does not leave her nor do you want to find out because the shadow of her hands comes into contact with your left side of your face.

She leaves without batting an eye at you. Rather, you feel the residual sting of a slap across your face from a hand that is not your own. The sound is like a whip cracking in the wind.

“Mattsun, Iwazumi,” your friend’s face is pulled into Makki’s side where he whispers something in her ear, probably to watch you say the final nail in the coffin:

“You have no power over me; I am not afraid of you,” you defy her orders again.

“You cheeky little shit,” your sister says before your fist makes direct contact with her face and when it knocks her to your left, you roundhouse kick her in the ribs thus knocking her wind out of her.

“Did you know she could fight like that?” Makki asks. Your fist is unclenching because your wrath is unlike anything they’ve witnessed, sure Iwazumi smacks Oikawa with a volleyball, but when ther collectively see what you can do, they look at each other. Except Mattsun, he reads the situation and what you told him at the movie night the day before finally clicks.

I am not ready because I am not fully healed yet. I am left alone to deal with my own demons. Everyone has dragons to slay and for today that dragon is your sister. His thoughts are strung together, yet he sees what you mean in practice and honestly it explains your cynicism, your perception of what it means to have someone who is just as toxic and how they tried to break you.

“Holy shit,” you clearly hear your friend gasp behind you when she pushes herself off of Makki. When your sister lands on the concrete border of the lawn, you don’t care to notice the winter wind whipping around your short locks. Your breathing is becoming more unstable, yet when you stand to inspect the damage done, you glance down with an oddly satisfying expression: You’re a survivor and you’d be damned if your sister thinks she could shatter you further.

You pick your sister up by the collar until she is eye level with you. You whisper something in her ear which makes her furious: “Fuck you and the high horse you rode in on sister.”

“Go,” your best friend says one word while Makki holds her back; Mattsukawa and Iwazumi sprint to where you are holding your sister and all that woman sees is red thereafter.

Her mouth lets out an in humane scream as she lunged forward, her hands have a vice grip on your exposed flash. You feel her nails dig and leave marks. The action carried through as hands reach for your neck to crush your windpipe. You know of the western saying “to choke on your words,” but you’d never thought of it being done physically.

As soon as this occurs, you notice your sister’s wrists are almost snapped by the sheer force Mattsukawa exerts in holding you from behind. Your gasping for air is by far one of the most horrifyingly haunting things he’s ever heard (and you all you can emote is telagraphing I am terrified. Don’t let me go). It takes you a moment to register that it is because you hear him breathe behind you.

“I got you,” Mattsun holds you; he holds you for as long he can to make sure you don’t slip on the residual frost on the lawn. He runs a hand through your hair calming you down further. Your hands are not by your side anymore, rather you feel them grasp on to his own. You close your eyes and he repeats those three words until your breathing and panic subsided.

This occurs while Iwazumi corners your sister and she leaves your friends’ property. Sirens wail in the distance and it doesn’t take very long for the authorities to take your sister into custody for verbal and physical abuse charges whereas you claim self-defense. It’s hard to talk currently, so you write it out on the report form. Makki and your best friend are filling out witness statements while Iwazumi is being checked out by one of the health officials right after you sign the report documents. Mattsun doesn’t leave your line of sight at all, for that you are grateful. Your knuckles have the suture glue on them aid the healing process. The EMT gives you a neosporin antiseptic for the scratches on yout face left behind from the slap your received from the guilty party already in the backseat of the squad car that had already left for the booking station in the west side of the neighborhood.

When the witness statements are done, you are asked to come to the precinct first thing in the morning for a secondary assessment for your wounds,but this is bypassed as soon as you mentioned your previous case serial numbers.

“She’s as lucky as they come,” one of the officers says in passing. “We’ve been trying to pin her relative’s location because of the fact this isn’t her sibling’s first attempt at attempted murder.”

“You did the right thing as soon as you called sir,” his partner praises your friend’s aunt and uncle. “That woman is a danger to herself and others. How did one sister’s grief spiral while the other chose to move forward is beyond me, but miss Q has some good people around her.”

“She’s our niece’s closest friend, so please make sure that woman has all ties cut with the victim,” you heard her uncle say. “We’ll take her in, but please make the arrangements to have some of her things brought here before the holidays.”

“Understood sir,” the first officer says tilting his hat. “Ma’am, we’ll be going then. Good day.”

Iwazumi takes his leave shortly thereafter and reminds Makki to give you all some space. Mattsun asks if it’s ok to take you away for a couple of hours. You finish passing along the case files while this occurs. You’re not ready to talk about what just happened, but you find yourself ready to move past this ordeal. Families are different, yet your relationship with your sister is one of the worst after the story of biblical twins.

“Of course. Take her out for as long as she needs. You have my number, so text me later,” your friend says with a warm smile. She bops her head toward where you still stood basking in the frosty atmosphere. “Gods know she needs a break. Oh, and Mattsun?”

“Hmm?”

“Thank you.” She hugs hun quietly along with her uncle who lays a hand on his shoulder. Her aunt mentioned something about how they’re going to remodel the room you stayed in to a permanent one. “She is family after all,” was the last thing he heard as the three of them went back inside their home.

On that note, Mattsukawa returns back to your side. He marvels at your new marks bestowed by what had transpired a couple hours ago. It’s nearly eight in the evening on a Tuesday night. Winter break has finally come, but here he notices you’re ok. Or rather, as ok as you make it seem.

“I should get you a bell,” your sense of humor is impeccable, but when the tears that never come do make their way known in other ways, you stop to turn your face back to the skies. You close your eyes thanking whatever lucky stars you have for having good people gravitate toward you; with one final breath, you return your focus back to your guard dog even if he towers over you with enough power to eclipse the graying skies. As he reaches for your hand, you know this is the first time he sees a glimpse of how much you shine.

“It’s quiet now,” you said, returning your undivided attention to him. “Thank you.”

The young middle blocker moves forward with you mentioning something along the lines of you had a date to keep.

“Do you still want to go?” He asks you this to gage how you’d react. He doesn’t want you to over exert yourself, so when you say yes, he leads the way to one of the closer neighboring shopping plazas.

One trip to a tea shop down the street leads you and him to have a quaint seat by a window. The both of you talk like old friends. You don’t let the dread of what looms over you break you, you’ve been through worse and you’re not going to let anything happen to make him feel like that again. You could tell how frightened he really was earlier when he kept you in front of him on the lawn. You pour some more mango black tea into your cup. You know you two barely say much, yet an entire epic is laid out between you two.

Not a word is said because there is an definite understanding in the delicate exchange here. Mattsun sips his tea and as he learns you’re exhausted of fighting on your own. It dawns on you if given the chance stories about being wronged in the past leads you to be bound by love later on. Tell me you want to help me too, Mattsukawa.

“If you’ll have me, please let me be your kintsugi,” he places the dwarf tea cup down on its saucer. You sit across from him as the fluorescent lighting causes your eyes to flicker amusedly at his features. You rest your chin in your hand when he does this.

“You don’t have to ask,” you reassure him. With your free hand, you hold one of his with residual heat. Why are you doing this? You like each other. Hell, he’s the one who made sure you’re alive. He’s amazingly kind, so what is stopping you?

“I already run with you at six in morning. It’s plausible after--Mattsun? Hold on a sec. Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I like you,” Mattsun’s voice is as casual as he makes it seem. Don’t make me go through that again; I almost didn’t get the chance to show you how amazing you really are.

You see what he means behind those eyes of his. He’s honest, kind, and strong; almost like steel, but you’re just as strong like titanium. You work well together, you think. If this is what it feels to fall in like with someone, you’d proactively seek it every time from him until you learn how to love yourself for all parts of you. He has a subtle way of telling you he likes you. Acts of love and kindness aside, you want to cherish this setting, precisely because you live the way you tease him in a friendly manner. For a moment, the veil of winter’s shouldering dreariness stops. Your lips curl into a Cheshire’s grin. His heart nearly stops for the second time that day.

“I like you too,” you chuckle. “Who knew you were such a romantic at heart Mattsukawa?”

“You did.”

You nod. “I should have known. So, where would you like to take me now?”

After you two finish speaking at the teahouse, Mattsun escorts you toward another part of the same plaza. Your face illuminates in the refraction of the street lamps, your hands bump into each others whilst you walk the promenade.

There are no words exchanged because neither of you want to see each other with the image seared into your minds’ eye; his arms that evening were clicking on to your waist, his his center of gravity shifting so when he pulls your body backwards, you hear his voice reminding you he has you, you’re safe here. You nodding closing your eyes when his warmth emits a calming aura. You both ignore the subject, but you’re really fucking thankful to have him (along with the company you keep, each showing a different type of love from the international myths you loved to read): you both walk with the same thoughts that evening: Don’t scare me like that again, whatever you do, stay alive. We haven’t even seen what our story might look like. Just please, prove to me you’re still here; catch the fire from me to you and live.

Mattsukawa and you walk past a pillar and stop to take a glance at the community announcement boards. A few of the paper lanterns are already lit. The street lamps are beginning to hum.

“There’s a night market happening,” you read aloud, slowly, you feel yourself relaxing more into your surroundings. Your hand points to the sign and Mattsukawa notices the minute change in your behavior. You’re much more free and outgoing than before; you’re a winter’s tale and a dahlia, but he knows the flower thing might be a tad bit off, so he keeps that content to himself for now.

“We’ll take the others here later,” he informs you about thinking about how his classmates, especially Oikawa, would handle not coming.

“If you say so,” you reply. You both continue to walk and browse through the various shops, but when he takes you into one the art stores, you ask him to wait a moment to let other patrons walk in. He is perceptive enough to understand your feelings, so he does what he thinks is best: he reminds you you aren’t going inside alone.

“I got you,” Mattsukawa repeats from earlier. “We’ll go inside whenever you’re ready. Does that sound fair to you?”

“...ok.”

“Do you want to go call it a day then?”

The moment you nod, he walks at a quicken pace. Eventually you tell him to slow down when you pass by a neighboring plaza. This one was more serene than the last.

“What’s on your mind?” You ask you impromptu date.

I’m learning to trust you a little more and I’m afraid of this continues, would you run from me?

“Mattsukawa. Don’t overthink it,” your voice is unmistakably calm, yet it is driving him to let go and live a little; so you do. You let his hand go for a little while, and now you stand in front of him and you have a mischievous glint in them.

Fuck it. I don’t care if you’re here for four days or four minutes. I am not running away from this, from you, and the possibility of you staying.

Mattsukawa tilts your face up with one of his fingers and when you feel his lips ghost over your own, you close the gap. First kisses in the winter are not rare, but the ambiance of being surrounded by the wisteria trees dyes the world into a violet haze. Love is not as fickle as you think. This one is different, you both relish in this display of affection. He breaks the kiss briefly, and to him, seeing you like this makes him finally understand the sentiment of seeing a whole universe in one person.

You stop him dead in his tracks because as soon as you feel Mattsukawa’s warmth leave your face, you understand how much he was holding back; you both were. His face is tinged a little bit flushed out slightly by the curious softened stare you give him. He wanted to see you worked up before, but he wasn’t expecting to see you act so hastily. You drag your bottom lip through your teeth before you sigh much to your own chagrin because you knew what he felt was true.

“Mmhm,” you’re driving him insane in this short game of stolen glances because he received no further warning when you pull his lips back on yours. Your hands traverse upward from where your hands initially were on his shoulders and eventually looping around his neck. There is a secret kindness you want him to have; he owns this part of you, the wild capricious love of the cold is gorgeously delightful. You’re ok even when he deepens this kiss and he draws this sounds of want and need from you the more you let him. You taste his love in the way your hands love to tousle his hair; you hear his chest rumble in amusement when he opens his mouth slightly teasing you with the residual taste of the tea from earlier. Don’t be afraid to fall, you muse.

Mattsukawa draws you in closer to him as he snakes one arm around the small of your back while the other hand he has used to tilt your face moves to your shoulder before finding solace on your neck. He lost a to the way you move your body and you both don’t succumb to each other’s prowess. What you both crave you found in each other. He dips you to one side like in those old movies you so love. You’re mine, my dear; irreplaceable and hopelessly in my loving arms. Safe you’ll always be.

You catch your breathing when you part, he places you back in a standstill position. You’re smiling together, like a firefly lamp in the summer, casting a halo ring around you two. A few of the flowers are blown away in the brief wind and apparently land all around scattered like gorgeous mosaics on the concrete. You turn your head slightly to hear his heart drum on; you tell him things via tracing the kanji on his shirt little messages like “future,” “brave,” “loyal,” “true,” etc. he chuckles because it tickles a bit, but he reminds you wildhearts can’t be broken so easily. You concur taking a deep breath, watching as your exhale leaves little pufts of moisture to dissipate in the air. He rests his head against your shoulder in a slight variation of an acknowledging bow; his breath tickles against the nape of your neck, his mouth teasingly nips at the midpoint of your ear.

“Fuyu no rairakku fuji,” he crowns you a new name; his lips press against your cheekbone. You grin at the new nickname.

“Mattsukawa Issei,” you remind him when you two begin walking again and he pauses dumbfounded by the tone you use. It dawns on him that perhaps his best friend’s girl told you his name in full. You return the wisteria name he bestowed upon you with a much simpler one for him. “Mitsuketa.”

— spring forward—

You wonder if he could remember that when you sleepover for the first time; you find out he can and does so the moment he lays you down on his bed to make you remember how being loved by him is going to leave you breathless one step at a time, and true to his word, his hands are sturdy.

This love is messy, but you enjoy every moment of being enamored by him. You don’t look back anymore, but forward when he calls your new name right as you pull him back toward you before you both ruin the sheets that support you. You place a hand over his chest to stabilize his figure over you. “Watashi no utsukushī fuji,” his voice has you defenseless the moment you humbly accept him as solely yours.

“My first love, come here,” your lips were always inviting toward him and he listens to the way you both praise each other while he brings your unscarred arm above your head; your scars are now inked with wild wisteria flowers he so affectionately called you a few months ago.

Luckily one of your case workers knew someone in Miyagi who does tattoos pro bono for victims of abuse survivors. Languid wisteria blossoms iluminate your arms under a blacklight, but the white ink outlines remain visible like small embroideries tying you to the blossom to ward off evil. The subject came about one evening during the routine cafe shoppe run with the boys and your best friend:

“All I’m saying is that if she wants it done, we know someone in Miyagi who can,” Makki reasons with your friend.

“I was thinking about it,” you speak up before your friend completes her ‘harrumph.’

The table falls quiet. “I was thinking of having the wisteria blooms cover the worse of it.”

“Wisteria, huh?” Oikawa asks. “I think that’s a good choice. Iwa-Chan! Let’s— ”

“No.” Honestly, when he found out what had transpired via the group chat with his friends, he nearly cut his family vacation short to fly back to check on you.

Instead, Iwazumi took over by sending him photos of both Makki and your best friend eating a crepe one night followed by one of you and Mattsukawa after he gifted you a wisteria branch necklace.

Presently, your hand coaxes Mattsukawa into leaving marks of his love blatantly across the exposed parts let him meet. The bruises his lips left behind are just as intoxicating as you remember.

“You’re still so daring,” his voice drowns out the pleasurable noise you let him hear.

“You’re~ahh~ staring,” your hands find their way to the collar of his half undone dress shirt. He pauses for a moment, smirking through his gaze when he envelopes you in his arms. Your hands are too quick when you unbutton the rest of his shirt. You’re wearing one of your old high school gym baseball shirts when you came over to visit for spring break. (The first time you sleep overnight was quite entertaining to say the least, but you both prove you’re capable of this sort of love too.) His hands move to coerce your legs slide over his thighs and here you sit, knees slightly bent and he has you where you both want to be.

Your breathing is ragged and labored as he kisses you slowly, hands slipping under your shirt.

“Please," your voice is barely above a whisper. One word was all he needed and fuck were you worth it. Mattsukawa assists you in pulling that fabric over your head before you push him down back on the bed. Your arms are cut around his shoulders for support as he picks up where his kisses left off. Your love bites haven’t fully disappeared yet from last time: bites across the mounds of your breasts are yellowing now; the ones over the inside of your thighs are still healing beautifully. His wisdom lurks in how well you handle his sexual desires with every time you consent to it. You both seek no other tangible means to prove how far you’ve come (with and without his help).

“You’re still pretty,” he says. He marvels at the fact you’re still with him in the present moment. Your hair is tangled in his hands and he beckons you to make him remember what you told him in the park one winters day.

“Mesmerizing me is what you do best,” your mouth haunts his own pulling out the lewd sounds of his satisfaction. He hisses as you return his favor; he holds you tighter until you are comfortable in his hold. Those eyes of his remain on yours because you told him the first time to keep his eyes forward.

“You’re really something else,” he groans as you bite the space in the space between his shoulder and neck. You don’t let him come undone without you a little less than an hour later; he makes good on his promise of always saying he got you and you return with remembering you have him. You ran with him every day at six in the morning for a solid year, but forgot that sexual escapades with him are more often a marathon than not. Eventually, you catch up to him, and the cycle begins anew with you. Mattsukawa is a fierce lover, but within the walls you share with him, he realizes you’re just as lethal as a jaguar in his bed.

Yes, love in the spring always came in waves for the outside world, it here, once the sheets were changed, you and Mattsukawa take care of each other first before he has your drowsy form (smelling like the rain) clean and clothed in just an old pajama top of his (he wears a pair of a different style sleep pant) he lays you down first before he climbs in with you.

Loving each other is never as messy as you heard from those around you. It’s only because you both let each other propel forward; your love is maddening since you and Mattsukawa are firm believers the shattering parts make you the most beautiful. So when you wake up in each other’s touch, his lips always trace over the sides of you where he loves you strongest, whistling the melodies that cause flowers to bloom.

End

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#mattsukawa x reader #tw: violence #tw: toxic behavior #tw: mentions of scars physical and emotional #tw: death and blame #reader chan learns she is strong too #angst to fluff #this be some heavy shite #🌻— flying around collecting pollen—queue #🌻.txt #🌻sora scribbles

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greekowl87 · 4 years ago

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Fic: False Flags - Ghost Ship 7/?

This fic still lives, albeit, just at a slower pace. For those that need to catch up…The First Fic: (False Flags Redux) | Ghost Ship: (1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) or if AO3 is your thing, you’ve got your choices. Sorry for any grammar or issues of that nature. No beta, I suck at editing my own work on computers (especially when it’s longer) and Grammarly only does so much. I still hope you enjoy it. Thanks for taking the time to stop by.

Tagging: @today-in-fic, @improlificinsarcasm, @baronessblixen, and @suitablyaggrieved

A/N: I haven’t given up on this fic but life keeps me busy and inspiration has been little. Thanks for any support with this fic. Sorry; no beta and trying to self edit longer works it not the easiest for me.

Buckley sat by the window of the hotel room carelessly spinning an unloaded Colt 1911 on the small table the motel staff had placed in the double room. Across the room, Alex Krychek groaned in annoyance and turned up the volume on the television with his one good arm. Buckley snorted and continued to spin the pistol. “Will you stop that!” Krychek shouted angrily. “You’re driving me fucking crazy.”

“Am I?” He laughed. “Good, Alexi.”

“Alex. Stop calling me that! I don’t know what the old man sees in you. Enlisting your help a second time? You screwed up and got caught last time. What makes you think you can do better?”

“And I got shot by Mulder too but the tip came from an anonymous informant. Not my screw-ups, you dick. Besides, shouldn’t you be doing something useful? Like getting us dinner or something?”

Krycek shuddered. “And I lost a goddamn arm thanks to Mulder and I’m not complaining. God, don’t you ever shut up? I’m not your servant so stop bothering me. I’m not supposed to let you out of myself or else god forbid you to go rogue.”

“Why worry?”

“I’ve seen your work,” Krycek huffed. He thought about the file folder and the gruesome pictures he had seen. It reminded him of Jack the Ripper, especially when Mulder and Scully had caught him during his last crime spree. “You’re fucking insane.”

“I used to be a gangster from the 1920s.” He replied. His voice took on a Chicago accent briefly. ‘That’s where I learned all that.”

“You really are insane. Bipolar. Order a pizza or something if you’re so damn hungry. The phone book is right there.”

Buckley chuckled and continued to stare on the window, spinning the pistol.

****************

Mulder and Scully slept through the night but that didn’t do anything to calm each other’s nerves. The ocean pounding the sandbars only matched Scully’s racing heart. Mulder sipped his coffee and leaned against the counter. “Scully, you’re pacing,” he quipped from the couch.

“I feel like a prisoner here,” she answered. She looked around at the ocean-inspired theme and shook her head. “It feels irreverent like Arcadia did.” She crossed her arms and looked at Mulder. “Don’t you feel the same? We can’t leave.”

“I don’t remember anyone saying that. Skinner didn’t say that. We’re free to come and go as we please. It isn’t like Skinner has placed us in protective custody and he’s standing in the corner watching our every move. We have our weapons. We’re trained federal agents. We’re okay.”

She shook her head in frustration. “I have the worst feeling growing in the back of my mind. He’s closer than they think he is.” She scratched the back of her neck and Mulder got from the couch to catch her hand. “What?”

“It’s not the chip,” he answered quickly. “This isn’t like Ruskin Dam. This isn’t the Syndicate coming after us. This is just old fashioned…” He sighed, unable to find the word. His fingers caressed the back of her neck gently. “It’s just our past coming back to haunt us. Quite literally. In the physical form of a sociopath.”

“You should have killed the bastard when you had the chance,” she replied. Scully relaxed into his touch and closed her eyes. “Might have saved us this headache.”

“You are the better shot between the two of us. Sorry. Couldn’t kill Model, couldn’t kill Buckley even at close range. But you, my kick-ass G-woman can shot a Sig Sauer P-226 with the precision of a surgeon and still take out and heal with the same ability. Maybe I should just give you my own weapon.”

Scully smiled ruefully and leaned into the shoulder she had shot years before. Mulder laughed and held her close. She took a deep breath and looked up to him and said, “I imagined our time down here filled with doing the tourist traps, relaxing with you on the beach, and just having fun.”

“We still can. The Bodie Lighthouse isn’t that far. Neither is Roanoke Island. Let’s go there. Check out the history. Maybe we can solve the case of the missing colony.”

“They’re national parks.”

“And we’re federal agents. We’ll be fine.” He gave her a weak smile. “Let’s do the lighthouse today. We can spend tomorrow on Manteo and have some dinner or something.”

“Mulder…”

“It’s better than seeing you pace back and forth. It’ll be fun.”

“Fine,” she conceded. “Anything is better than just being stressed.”

“I know you hate flying but are you afraid of heights?”

She shook her head. “I don’t think so. Why?”

“Have you ever been up in a lighthouse?”

“Surprisingly, no.”

“Really? Coming from the woman who loves the seas.” Mulder grinned. “You’re going to love it.”

*********************

The FBI partners gathered their weapons and badges to hide them discreetly among their clothes. They grabbed Scully’s purse, locked their beach house, and went down to Mulder’s car. He hated seeing Scully like this and knew that this trip would be just the thing. They made the drive down NC-12 to Cape Hatteras National Park chatting silently with one another. When they arrived at the fork for Cape Hatteras National Park, he took the right back down the highway. After a short distance, he turned left down a small paved road where Bodie Island Lighthouse was. Mulder pulled their car in the small gravel parking lot and smiled at Scully. “Well?”

She leaned forward to look out of the windshield. The black and white striped lighthouse stood off in the distance with the white lightkeeper’s house nearby. “It’s quaint,” she smiled. “Very tucked away. I’d imagine you might be used to up in New England.”

“I’ve seen a few.

“It has a history as well.”

“I bet it does.”

They climbed out of the car and Mulder was surprised when Scully openly took his hand and led him towards the Lightkeeper’s House, which served as the gift shop and the National Park Service’s Office. As if she had been there before, she knew right where everything was. Mulder became interested in some of the lighthouse knick-knacks as she purchased two tickets to climb the lighthouse. “Got those tickets to the stairway to heaven, Scully?”

“Hahaha,” she smiled. Much to this delight, she took his arm as they ventured back outside to a bench near the lighthouse to wait for the next tour. She guided him to sit with her on the bench overlooking the lighthouse. “I should really purchase a camera for this trip.”

“We can always buy a postcard.”

“I’m talking about us.” She rolled her eyes in amusement. “Why do you have to be difficult?”

“Because I love it when you say, ‘You’re crazy, Mulder.’ Besides, who needs a camera when you have a photographic memory?” He tapped his temple. “All our recent memory making…”

She laughed and it lifted Mulder’s spirit. Despite having a reincarnated ex-husband murderer who happened to be a serial killer in this life hunting down them while they were on their first vacation as a couple, he was so happy to hear her laughter. She smiled and rested her head against the bicep. She closed her eyes sleepily. “What do you say to us taking a nap in the hammock we have on the deck when we get home?”

“Despite the threat of…”

“Ssshhh. But yes.”

“As long as we pick up dinner along the way. Are you in the mood for seafood?”

“What about some Carolina BBQ?”

“I like you in a vacation mood. Why can’t you be more open to greasy foods when we’re in the field?”

“Vacation. There’s a difference,” she laughed.

Mulder watched a park ranger walk past them, calling, “All those for tickets for the 12:00 lighthouse tour line up behind me.”

“That’s us,” Scully whispered.

“Do you have to be first at everything?”

“I have to remind you who is the boss in this relationship. Tell me, Walking History Textbook, what is special about this lighthouse?”

“I remember,” he whispered, kissing the top of her head, “trying to blow it up with the retreating troops but I got orders to report to Norfolk instead.”

She chuckled. “Fucking past lives but then again, I have those to thank for my better sex life.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“Shut up.” Her eyes opened and she tugged on his arm. “Let’s go.”

“This salt air is doing wonders for your spirit,” he remarked.

“Maybe it’s the company more.”

Mulder smiled and kissed her forehead lovingly. She walked together to the front of the lighthouse where others were lining up in front of a park ranger. The woman park ranger smiled and waved people closer. “Gather around everyone! First, a few rules before we go up. The stairs in this lighthouse aren’t like the ones at Cape Hatteras. Only one person at a time can be on them, going up or going down in either direction. You can have multiple people on the landings,” the park ranger explained. “Now that we have that out of the way, can anyone tell me about the lighthouse?”

The tour group was met with silence as the park ranger started to talk about a mini-history lesson about Congress approving the lighthouse and it’s history from the Civil War to the present. As the park ranger concluded her mini-speech, she stepped back and motioned for everyone to begin their journey upwards. Mulder and Scully were in the middle of the group and took a moment to take in the moment around them: other tourists, the lovely March weather, and Scully in sunglasses smiling and laughing with her arm wrapped through his. It was so nice to see you here relaxed and happy.

“Are you happy?” Mulder whispered to her.

“Yes,” she answered.

That was all he needed at that moment. He really should have bought a disposable camera to capture this moment. As they climbed the lighthouse in a single file line, he was entranced by the magic of the moment. They paused periodically on each landing, overlooking various aspects of the horizon. The salt marshes and sounds of the Ocean on the other end. The Atlantic on the other side. Scully laughing. Eventually, they reached the top, the wind whipped Scully’s hair.

She gripped the railings of Bodie Lighthouse and leaned over to look at the people below. Mulder’s hand rested lightly on her back and he whispered, “What a view huh?”

“Hey, mister!”

A young kid’s voice caught both of them off guard and as they turned they saw a young boy with a brand new Polaroid camera. He smiled, speaking loudly over the wind. “I’ll take two pictures of you for five bucks.”

“Try three,” Mulder haggled, getting into the spirit.

“Two dollars includes on the spot printing. Memories last forever.”

“You sound like a Hallmark commercial.”

“Mom lets me watch a lot of tv.” The young kid considered his possible client. “What do you say? Five dollars for three pictures?”

“I have to consult with my boss. What do you say, Scully? Three for five?”

She nodded and smiled. The kid smiled and raised his camera. He took a series of three shots. One of them both overlooking the railing out to the Atlantic sea, the second of them together smiling for the camera, and an unscripted kiss that briefly turned passionate, all of which was captured on the kid’s camera. Scully broke away, her cheeks flushed as she smiled. Mulder dug through his jean’s pockets until he produced a crumpled five-dollar bill. He exchanged it as Scully still took the still-developing photos.

Scully waved the photos in the sea air in a vain attempt to get them to develop quicker. She briefly flashed back to when she found that picture of them in the library archives in Newport News months ago from 1863. But there was something else that bloomed up inside of her; pride, love, tenderness, and devotion. Finally, something to memorialize and immortalize this moment now. She eyed the top image of them kissing with affection. Mulder was saying something before he returned to her.

“How did they turn out?”

“The kid has an eye for photography?” She answered.

They both gripped the photos to keep them from flying away in the sea breeze. “The Gunmen can make copies of these,” he whispered into her ear. “We can put one down into the basement and make Skinner jealous.”

“Or we can keep the copies for ourselves,” she answered. She rested her head against his chest; the breeze was in one ear with echoes of eternity from the Atlantic and his heartbeat was steady with promises of the future. “We need to buy a camera.”

“I can agree with that.” They watched the pictures develop on top of the lighthouse as they stood close to each other and as another momentarily in the winds of their entwined existence became immortalized once again on film. Scully felt relaxed and, for once, at peace. “Let me put those pictures in my purse,” she whispered softly.

Mulder gladly obliged and she carefully tucked away their pictures. They stood together, admiring the 360 panorama view that Bodie Lighthouse gave. After a while, they descended the staircase back down to the ground. Scully took his hand in public, unafraid who was watching and dragged Mulder to the gift shop. As he enjoyed the moment of this rare display of public affection, Mulder had a nagging feeling in the back of his mind that disappeared when Scully’s lips met his.

********************

Buckley sat in the farthest car from the lighthouse, looking through his binoculars. Krycek sat next to him and asked, “Is it them?”

“Yep,” the other man replied. “Just like I told you.”

********************

Mulder looked at the Polaroids that had been taken at the lighthouse that day. He could only imagine the film on the disposable camera and how wonderful the shots were going to be. He and Scully were laughing, posing together as a couple framed by the lighthouse and the Atlantic Ocean. The little kids who had charged them five dollars for the pictures were ruthless but he finally had some proof of their happiness in this life. He contemplated calling upon the Gunmen to use their technological magic to digitize the photos but that would be for another day. He had been relatively low profile with his relationship with Scully over the past three months and he did not want to push it unless she was okay with it.

“Hey, Scully,” he called, “when do you think we should tell your mom?”

“About what, Mulder?”

“Us,” he replied.

From the kitchen island, Scully was curled up on the couch with a blanket watching ‘Dharma and Greg’ and not really paying attention to him. She rested her arm on the back of the couch and twisted to look at him. “What aspect of us?”

“Well,” Mulder began, setting the photos down, “the change in our relationship for starters.”

“Or the IVF?”

“I wasn’t going to go there.”

“But you were thinking about it.”

“I don’t know what I was thinking,” he admitted. He set the pictures aside and joined her on the couch. “I’ve just been thinking lately.”

“Well, I feel like there’s been a lot of that going around,” she said. Mulder unfurled her legs and rested her feet in his lap. “What are you doing?”

“I don’t know,” he answered honestly. “I’m not really thinking.”

“Or maybe you’re just too busy thinking. Are you thinking about the IVF?”

“I would want to try again if you are willing too.”

“I still want to think about it,” she replied.

He lightly massaged her feet and she hummed in approval. “I can’t believe how sore my feet are from climbing all those stairs.”

“It’s not like you aren’t used to all work. You’re the FBI equivalent of Wonder Women running in high heels.”

“I appreciate the compliant, Mulder, but if you remember, I decided to wear flip-flops that have no support.”

“Well, where else could you get weather nice enough to wear flip flops in March?”

She giggled as he got a particular ticklish area. “Only in Nags Head.” She nodded to the show that was on. “So, I caught this the first time when I was in San Diego. Have you ever heard of it?”

“What is it?”

“The show’s called ‘Dharma and Greg.’”

“I believe I have,” he said. “Some flower child marries a lawyer and chaos ensues when they decide to marry on the first date. So which one am I? Dharma or Greg?”

“Dharma,” she answered. “But opposites attract and make us better for it. Wouldn’t you agree, Mulder?”

He chuckled. “I might be inclined to. Do you want to keep it on this or find some nature documentary?”

“I like that and this version of Domestic Scully.”

“Did you lock the doors downstairs?”

“Yes,” he answered, “and I triple checked all the locks and windows. The only window that will be open is the one to our bedroom on the third floor.”

“And our weapons?”

“In the bedroom on the nightstands.”

She relaxed and nodded in approval. She withdrew her feet and switched her sitting position. She lounged against Mulder, wrapping his arms securely around her, and they enjoyed the rest of the comedy sitcom. He smiled into her arm and pressed a kiss, solidifying this moment in his memory. Even though there was a psycho that might be trying to kill them, he was the happiest he had been in a long time.

***********************

Mulder and. Scully had retired after television for a few more hours of watching prime time sitcoms. Scully disappeared into their bedroom and he did a quick lap around the beach house to check all their locks. By the time he got back up to their third-floor bedroom, he could hear the water running in the master bathroom.

“Mulder,” Scully called through the partially closed door. “Did you get everything you needed done?”

He could hear the partially slurred speech. “Is that wine I smell?” He dare not open the door. While this vacation had stress from fear of a psycho, it was bringing out sides of Scully he had only dreamed of and seen in one other lifetime. “Scully?”

“Hmm.” She giggled. “Maybe. Come join me, Mulder.”

“Where did you get the wine?”

He was already taking off his shirt and Scully’s laughter was causing his blood to boil in anticipation. “I snuck it in our last shopping trip,” she replied. She was giggling again. “Mulder, come on. There are still bubbles.”

Bubbles. “Aw, Scully.”

He pushed the door open slightly and saw her hair clipped back and a coffee mug in her hand. Most of her were covered by the bubbles from the jacuzzi so all that he saw was the one bare leg perched near the faucet. “Scully…” he crooned.

“What? Go grab yourself a coffee mug and bring the bottle with you!” She was smiling. Even though they decided to take their relationship to a new level, this still seemed so uncharacteristic of her. “Come on, Mulder. We’re on vacation.”

“I know we are,” he answered. He chose his next words carefully. “Weren’t you the one earlier who was concerned about our safety?”

“I’m not letting them get to me. Us. I was thinking about what you said earlier.”

“About telling your mom?”

“No. I want to try again when we get back to D.C.”

Mulder smiled and his concerns momentarily forgotten. “I’ll be right back.”

He went to the fridge, grabbed the open bottle, and a coffee mug from the fridge. She was smiling coyly at him. He topped off her coffee mug and shucked his jeans. In one fluid movement, he slid behind her and coiled his arms around her. “It’s a good thing you’re so small,” he teased. He kissed his favorite spot behind her ear. “Or else this w Scully lounged back into him. “I’ve been dreaming,” she whispered to him softly. She sipped the wine-filled coffee mug. “Don’t worry, it’s not any new past lives or anything.”

“I’m glad?”

She heard the question in his voice. “I am just thinking about this life and the last. Us. What could have been.”

Scully was always amazed how well they just worked together, either spiritually, or as she had discovered lately, physically as well. She sipped her wine. “Now or then,” he asked.

“Then. I still have a hard time believing it was real, Mulder.”

Together, they entwined their hands and caressed her flattened abdomen. He nuzzled her neck and closed his eyes. They both could remember those memories for the early 1860s, the joy of their unborn child, laying together, and dreaming about the future. “It was,” he replied. “And I don’t know how this whole past life thing works but we’ve been given a second chance.”

“By remembering?”

She turned her head in question and Mulder found her lips. “We’ll have that again.”

“Your faith is grounding.”

“Did you enjoy the lighthouse today?” He asked, changing the subject. “I was thinking why not tour all of them? We can drive back down to Cape Hatteras and climb the lighthouse there. Or drive an hour or so up to Corolla and climb the Currituck Lighthouse. And there are the ferries...Ocracoke, Knotts Island…”

“One day at a time, Mulder,” she laughed. “Today was Bodie Lighthouse. Tomorrow is Manteo. Tonight is this.”

“So,” he paused, setting aside both of the wine mugs. “Do you want to try to experiment and push the bounds of this fancy bathtub?”

“I bet you’re more effective than those water jets,” she challenged.

Mulder smiled and kissed her deeply. “I’ll get you to relax on this vacation.”

Scully just deepened the kiss and pulled him closer.

************************

Further up the barrier islands in Duck, North Carolina, Franklin Buckley, and Alex Krycek were at a small pizzeria nestled in a small outcrop of shops. Over shared slices and bad beer, they talked. “I still don’t get it,” Krycek started. “Why is this so fucking important to you? Mulder is no one.”

“Your boss is interested in them,” Buckley shrugged. “As a result, I am too.”

“I read your file you know.”

“Hell, I was in the papers.”

“And this somehow makes you the best choice?” Krycek sneered. “I still don’t understand that smoking bastard’s logic. I know you were in the papers. There is a fucking manhunt on for you.”

“And yet they can’t touch me.” Buckley waved the soggy pizza in the air. “We’re having pizza.”

“Why did the old man pick you?”

“Alexi…”

“Alex.”

“Alex.” Buckley grinned. “Have you ever wanted revenge so badly that you would do anything? Take back what is rightfully yours?”

Krychek grew quiet. “I have.”

“Then this is no different. It’s all a matter of waiting. I made the smoker an offer he couldn’t refuse. Are you going to finish that pizza?”

“No.” Krycek was distracted. He pushed the plate towards Buckley with his right arm. “Go ahead.”

“Must suck having one arm but I’ll tell you, this pizza is better than anything they served in the joint.”

“What’s your plan?”

“You’ll see. In the meantime, it is all the matter of waiting and seeing.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Wait and see.”

****************

Back in Nags Head, Scully stood on the deck with her arms around her. She watched the waves hit the shore as high tide came ashore. Mulder had run out earlier to pick up some dinner for them but, while he was gone, Skinner had called her cell phone with an update on the situation. While Buckley still had yet to be confirmed spotted, there had been an anonymous tip that Krycek was in league with Buckley. While the SACs of the branch offices were not as quick, Skinner was the one to make the connection. He hung up without giving Scully any orders to immediately return or what to do next. He promised to call her the next day if there had been any developments.

But this newest update from Skinner had left her uneasy. Their boss had danced around the possibility of recalling his two agents back from their vacation but had not stated anything directly. She watched the waves, memorized, and let her thoughts drift. This vacation of theirs was already turning south with each new update about Buckley. She was beginning to feel paranoid, like a haunting ghost on the edge of her vision. She sighed and looked up at the sky. The sun was setting behind her. Although she couldn’t see the sun at this point, it was already painting the sky in a brilliant canvas of colors and hues of reds, pinks, purples, and oranges. She tried to let herself get lost in the beauty of the moment but her anxiety grew worse.

She watched the last of the sun fade into darkness and went back into the beach house. Scully glanced at the green digital clock on the microwave and frowned when she read 7:13. Mulder should have been back by now. She tapped her knuckles lightly against each other to ward against the growing anxiety. She heard the main door unlock and his musical voice call, “Scully, I’m back! You’ll never guess what I picked up!”

She tried to refrain from clutching her pounding heart but failed. “Took you long enough!”

“I’m sorry, but you know how I get sometimes. Something catches my eyes and poof.”

She could hear him climbing the stairs, trying to juggle plastics takeout bags. He appeared, dropped the armload of food and a nondescript black plastic bag on the counter. He sneaked up behind her, kissed her, and whispered, “Miss me that much?”

She nodded, twisting her head to meet his kiss. “Always.”

He hummed and flexed around her. “You’re tense.”

“I spoke to Skinner earlier.” She tried to relax as she spoke. He hummed. “And I...let’s just discuss it tomorrow okay? We’ll lock the doors, keep our weapons nearby, and play it safe. Is that okay?”

“Whatever you say,” he whispered. “So, for dinner, I got us a surprise.”

“Dare I ask?”

He broke away but not before stealing another kiss. “We’re on the coast. You know the seafood is fresh. I literally just got it so you know it is good.”

“Get to point. Why were you late?”

“Well,” he shrugged, “I went up the strip a couple of miles and found this really cute place.”

“You just used the word cute.” She frowned teasingly, his lighter mood getting the best of her. “Did you find us china patterns?”

“That is a future date at the Alexandria farm market. I got us the best seafood.” He began to unpack the bags. “For starters, Agent Scully baked oysters.”

“An aphrodisiac, Mulder?”

He held up a finger to silence her. “Next, a course of shared soup, that is she-crab soup.” She laughed and hid her face. “Next, honestly I couldn’t decide between landlubbers and the sea, so a buffalo chicken wrap I think will heat up well tomorrow and a lovely scallop dinner…”

“I love scallops.”

“I know,” he laughed. “I got us a combo. Scallops and local shrimp with a salad and a baked potato. But, to answer your burning question, the reason why I took so long…” From his back pocket. She could hear the crinkling of a paper gift bag and he held out the mysterious wrapped package in the palm of his hand. “I saw this and immediately thought of you.”

“Mulder.”

With the food momentarily forgotten, she pulled off the paper and revealed a small velvet box. “You see, I can’t see you in another necklace than a cross or bracelets or rings but earrings...for sure.” She popped open the box and drew in a sharp breath. “Do you like them?”

“Mulder, these are beautiful.” She examined two fine little stud earrings with a sand dollars designed in the silver overlay. “Silver?”

“No, white gold.” He shrugged. “It was in this little kitschy shop run by a local artist who makes jewelry. I just thought.”

“I love them.” She awarded him with a kiss. “Thank you. In fact, I’ll put them on now just to show you.”

“You don’t have to. Besides, I know you well enough you will murder me first if I don’t feed you.”

“I am not that bad.” She closed the box and replied, “Thank you.”

“For what? Dinner or the earrings?”

“Everything.”

He pulled the plates and bowls down from the cabinet. Scully busied herself with fetching silverware and napkins, inwardly defeating the idea to tell Mulder about Skinner’s call until after dinner. He glanced out the window to the deck. “What about eating outside tonight?”

“Let’s eat at the breakfast island and then go outside. It was getting chilly while I was out there a while ago.”

He nodded and went to the radio in the living room. Mulder fiddled with the dial and settled on a classic rock station playing the Eagles. She set out dinner and he joined her. They silently sat next together over dinner. “So,” he asked, unsure of the silence, “what do you want to do tomorrow?”

She paused on the shrimp she was working on. “Skinner called while you were out,” she began. “Giving us an update. We got two SACs and field offices chasing this, along with Skinner, but no one has yet to confirm seeing Buckley aside from the fact they’ve flooded the airwaves with his picture. But there was an anonymous source that Krycek is involved.”

Mulder was quiet, cutting half of the baked potato. “Well, we both know the Smoker is involved. Morely’s were found on the site of his breakout.”

“I know,” she whispered. “He said he’ll update us again tomorrow and Skinner hasn’t ordered us back to Washington. Yet.”

“I sense a but coming, Scully.”

“But since we came down here, I can’t help but feel off or like we’re being watched or followed during all this.” She picked up her fork and dipped a scallop into the melted butter. “When we were at the lighthouse the other day…”

“You felt like we were being watched?”

She nodded, averting her gaze. “I know it doesn’t sound like me.”

“I trust your instincts, Scully.” He looked down at his own food. “And I got the same feeling too.”

“Our money would be gone.”

“But we would be safer.”

“As is our vacation.”

“Not necessarily.”

“I am not spending the rest of the two weeks we took off months in advance in an FBI safe house.”

“What would happen if we were closer for them to keep an eye on us? Skinner is in Norfolk right with the two SACs. Virginia Beach isn’t that far. I remember when we were there a few months ago hearing about Sandbridge. It was advertised to be like the Outer Banks without leaving Virginia. We could take the hit on the money and have the FBI pay for it.”

“Or get them to refund it and then pay for it. We’ve earned it at least.”

“I can’t agree more.” He sighed. “How do you want to play this, Scully.?”

“I want our vacation.”

“But?”

“I just can’t shake the feeling something is going to happen.”

Mulder rubbed his chin, forgetting he had melted butter all over his hands. She frowned and took a napkin, gently wiping it away. “Thanks. But back to your feelings,” he said. “I agree and have the same feeling.” He watched her reaction as she kept her face neutral like a poker player. “But I think we should consider our safety first.”

She nodded.

“What are you thinking,” he asked softly.

“That we can never catch a break. Let’s go outside after dinner and sit for a bit in the hammock. We can pack tomorrow after we call Skinner.” She sighed. “You know, I really was looking forward to having a real vacation with you.”

He nodded. “We can still have it,” he said.

“Can we? As I said, it feels like we can never catch a break.”

With the mood suddenly sourer, they both finished their meals and discarded the dishes. Scully hand-washed all the dishes they had been using, including the few sitting in the dishwasher. Mulder gathered a sweatshirt for her, two glasses, and the small bottle of aged rum he had purchased from them. She eyed the small liquor bottle. “I’m sorry, Mulder to be the downer of the party.”

He shook his head and walked over to her. He trapped her between the counter and his arms. She sighed, wrapped her arms around his neck, and rested her head against his chest. He smiled at her open display of affection. “You’re never the downer at a party.”

“I never told you about my first and last high school party.”

“Well, how about we part-tay outside to that hammock for one night and you can tell me. I’ll bring the booze.”

Scully chuckled. “What would my father say?”

“Hang and quarter him on the yardarm?”

“Aye,” she teased. She kissed him. “Help, I’ve been charmed by a pirate from New England who thought I was a mermaid.”

“That is terrible,” he whispered. They both smiled. “But more of an angel than a mermaid.”

“Let’s go outside. High tide was just coming in when I was out there earlier.”

Scully pulled on the sweatshirt he had brought her and the two glasses and the liquor bottle. Mulder followed behind her, turning out most of the lights as he did. She sat on the hammock like a big lounge chair and made room for him. She rocked it gently as Mulder eased himself next to her. “Let me do the swinging,” he told her. “My legs are longer.”

“Shut up, Mulder.”

Scully poured them both a drink and held up his. She chinked the glasses together. “To our vacation being ruined.”

“Well, if it weren’t for the x-files, we wouldn’t be here and I don’t regret a second of it with you.”

“Fox Mulder the sentimental,” she whispered lovingly. Mulder wrapped his arm tightly around her and she chuckled. “I love you.”

He smiled and whispered, “Not a single second.” His long legs began to rock them. “We’re going to be okay.”

She nodded absently. She rested against his arm and listened to the ocean. “We’ll go back to Virginia tomorrow.”

“I’ll tell Skinner to make plans to keep us in Virginia Beach.”

“And get us a beach house. I’m not staying in a motel.”

“Won’t argue with that.”

She sighed. “Fucking Buckley.”

“Fucking Buckley,” he agreed.

“So, it’s settled?”

“Yes. I’ll make the call. Right now, let’s just enjoy the beach.”

He nodded and rocked the hammock with his long legs as she closed her eyes and enjoyed the moment with Mulder.

#false flags redux #xfiles #xf fic #txf fic #txf #msr #msr fic #case fic #fox mulder #scully #mulder and scully on vacation

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anne-lister-adventures · 4 years ago

Text

Friday, 21 February 1840

8 1/4

3 20/’’

Fine morning breakfast at 10 1/4 – Professor Eversmann till 11 1/2 - Very agreeable and instructive – Says we shall get quite well avec la neige to Astrakhan – Had the Courier and George and Mr. E-[Eversmann] explained about the route direct from Bolgary to Simbirsk – He has only one copy of his Voyage to Bochara but it can be bought at St. Petersburg –

Mr. Turnerelli came soon after 12, but the Terenin Vassok did not come till 12 25/’’ – Off in it immediately to the Térenins (Mr. Turnerelli followed on foot) – went upstairs for a moment – Several ladies and gents[gentlemen] all ready to go off immediately to the Mosque – Found 3 ladies already there and counting those who seemed well known to our party we were 8 ladies and 10 gents[gentlemen] and 2 livery servants – Madame Terenin and her 2 sisters and Mr. T-[Terenin] and the Chef de Police and our 2 Professors and 4 others and Colonel Bechmetieff and a Mr. Krudener an intelligent young man who has served in the Caucasus and knows the Tartars and their customs –

Paganism prohibited in Russia but a few Tchonasses (about 300 men) still by stealth offer their sacrifice in the woods and get drunk for 3 days or as long as their beer lasts at the fête of St. John, as the pagans Fins do – Same worship – like the old goths – Not Lamaism –

At the Mosque at 12 40/’’ for 1/4 hour or 20 minutes we had arrived just before the Imaeem (priest) began to pray – Same service, of course, as at Moscow and there we saw it from 1st to last or we should have known little from what we saw today – Largeish mosque – Some neat plaster work inside about the windows and in the ceiling – There might be from 100 to 150 men and boys; and we were a talking addition of 20 – Kasembek said the prayers being in Arabic were as little understood by the Tartar people as the Latin prayers by the Roman Catholics – The putting the hands to the ears is as if to hide eyes, and stop up ears, to shew that they are meditating and insensible to all around – They really seemed very devout and not disturbed by the talking of our party – K-[Kasembek] said it was merely a religion of the exterior from the Mosque -

The Märcani Mosque in Kazan (image c. 1940s).

Adjourned to the house of the Tartar honey merchant …….not the richest here, but very good and much respected and rich – 4 wives – Only saw one son, a nice enough boy of about 7 or 8? Three tables groaned under different species of pastry and confectionary – Then a regular Tartar dinner – A pilau (pilaf) of rice and little bits of meat – Roast mutton – Ditto dindon in morceaux (tho’ the Tartars never cut anything up, eat with their fingers) – Cold fish &c. &c. &c. –

After this the ladies were shewn into the Harem – The 4 wives – And a daughter and niece or two, and 2 or 3 women servants about 12 altogether – Nicely dressed in brocade and ornamented with pearls, tourquoises, even diamonds – A stupid looking set – The youngest wife rather pretty – Rouged cheeks, and blackened teeth – Little Turnerelli was allowed to come in but no other man – At first the women were for running away, but they were soon reassured and even looked at the little man – Poor things! So many human beings – Human animals! – Except an Asylum for Insanes I have never seen any sight so melancholy and so humiliating as this Harem – Speaking of the Tartar and Persian women to Professor E-[Eversmann] the day we called on his wife, he observed ‘Elles ne sont pas de la Société’ – They are not admitted or capable of being admitted into Society – How terrible this degradation of one half of mankind!

“Harem Fountain” by Frederick Arthur Bridgman.

We dispersed at 2 1/2 on leaving Monsieur Le Tatar, a very civil nice clean-looking about 60? man – Very civil – Drank our health and happy voyage and the health of our Queen and of England – I returned the health of the Tartars and the Russian Imperial Family – Mr. K-[Kasembek] our Persian accompanied us (in his Traineau?) to the Observatory – Locked – The professors wife buried on Monday – Could not see it – Saw the collection of medals arranged in armoires on dark green ledges reared against the back – Asiatic and Russian coins and medals of which we could not judge the value – The principal part of the collection modern – Some time in the Library (the medal-room adjoins it) 2 Étages of Gallery round the top – 30,000 volumes said K-[Kasembek] they have all the leading English periodicals Quarterly and Edinburgh Reviews – But the Edinburgh the one K-[Kasembek] seemed to prefer – All books defendu or not received by the University but 2 months en retard –

It was 2 55/’’ when we thanked and took leave of our good aimable Kasembek – Then drove to the General Governor’s – Not at home – Left P.[Pour]P.[Prendre]C.[Congé] cards – Ditto ditto ditto chez les Térénin but he came up while we were at the door, and took our P.[Pour]P.[Prendre]C.[Congé] cards himself – Very civil – Then left our cards chez les Moussin Pouchkine (they not at home) – Madame E-[Eversmann] excused us last night leaving cards chez elle – Everybody very civil and hospitable and have done their best and enough to make our séjour à Kazan agréable –

Home at 3 1/4 – Madame de Lapteff’s carriage and 4 at the door had been in waiting ever since 2 p.m. took it to the Gastinoi Dvor (bought tea and bougiees) and then a little détour, and gave the footman as usual (each after each time) a blue note = 5/- and came in at 4 1/2 – Then busy packing – Had George – The Kibitkas were to have been here at 2 p.m. – Not ready – Promised at 9 a.m. tomorrow – Nous verrons –

At accounts a little till Madame de Lapteff came at 7 1/4 – Tea, and sat with us till 9 1/2 – Very agreeable person – Gave us a letter to Countess Warantzoff, and another to a Mr. Spask? (I have put up the letters and cannot turn to the name) at Odessa – Then the tea things having remained began again and sat talking and tea drinking till 11 – Then till now 2 1/4 tonight wrote the last 19 lines of p.[page] 32 and all but the first 6 lines of p.[page] 33 and the whole of the last p.[page] and so far of this – I must arrange some better observation in Kazan when I have more time – I must copy my pencil notes of Tuesday (vide p.[page] 30) by and by –

The botanic garden is Southwest of the Town leaving Boutirka on the left as one goes from here – an Orangerie, but nothing to be seen at this time of year – We have had no time to see one of the 5 Tatar schools mentioned by Kupffer – Toilette and Société are not good for laborious research – We have not seen Mr. Emeritus Fuchs – He is about the age of Fischer of Moscow – 70 passé? Eversmann is surely the most distinguished Professor of the set – The Curator has offered to buy his collection for the University (as he the Curator himself told me last night) and will probably agree for it by allowing E-[Eversmann] to have it for his life – E-[Eversmann] said this morning he should not like to part with it during his life –

Very fine day – 20º of cold this morning said Madame L-[Lapteff] not more than 15º if so much at noon – They say here the climate is less severe than that of Moscow! – Very fine day – ‘Tis now 2 1/2 tonight –

[symbols in the margin of the page:] + ✓c ✓c

[in the margin of the page:] put forward my Arnold watch (before breakfast) exactly 4 hours and it still 1/4 too late by the clocks of the house

Page References: SH:7/ML/E/24/0019 and SH:7/ML/E/24/0020

#anne lister code breaker #anne lister #ann walker #moscow to baku 1840

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mxliv-oftheendless · 5 years ago

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Green Wounds, Ch. 4

And we’re back with Green Wounds! Here’s hoping Tumblr makes it easier to post this one... because I swear to God it should not have been that hard to post the KISS Unsolved story. But we’re not here to gripe about Tumblr. We’re here to see what’s up with Starchild!

Hoo boy, I am actually excited for y’all to read this chapter. Some heavy shit goes down in this chapter and it was insanely fun to write it! If you guys have seen Maleficent, then you already know what’s gonna happen...

Read on and enjoy!

Starchild stayed in the ruins for a month, sending Peter every day to spy on the ongoings of Jendell. King William died after a fortnight—at which Starchild felt a rush of satisfaction—and his successor was to be crowned in some weeks after his marriage to the king’s daughter, Jeanette. But Peter never saw anything of Ace.

Peter flew down behind Starchild, who was staring out in the direction of Jendell. He was often staring out at the kingdom whenever Peter saw him. He wasn’t sure what Starchild did while he was off spying for him, but he hoped it wasn’t just staring out obsessively at the kingdom.

Starchild waved a hand and turned Peter back into a man. Peter immediately crashed painfully to the ground, letting out a groan of pain. He really hated being a bird—it felt like a betrayal to his feline species to have the form of one of their favorite animals to hunt. “Why do I always have to be a bird?” he grunted to Starchild as he picked himself up. “Can’t I be a cat?”

“Flying is faster,” Starchild replied bluntly, not turning around to him. “Did you see anything?”

Peter shrugged. “I saw a bunch of servants carryin’… carryin’ multicolored skin? And some of it looked like animal fur. What was that?”

“Probably clothes. Did you see what they did with them?”

“Uh, no, I didn’t. Other than that, I didn’t see anythin’ else.”

“Did you… see Ace?”

“Uh… no. I didn’t see him.”

He couldn’t see Starchild’s face, but from the way he spoke he sounded like he was frowning. “Fine. Go get some rest, and go back in the morning.”

“What do you even want to know about this Ace guy, anyway?” Peter asked, by this time very curious. “I thought you didn’t like humans.” Why would he? Humans were dirty, inelegant creatures. Not at all like the sleek, civilized superiority of the cats. “Plus, he stole your wings. I would think you wouldn’t want anything to do with him anymore.”

Starchild finally turned to look at him over his shoulder, and Peter was treated to an icy glare. “I don’t like humans. And I also don’t employ you to ask me ridiculous questions,” he said just as icily. “I have my reasons.” He turned back around. “Just… Just leave me alone. Go hunt or something.”

“… Could you turn me back to normal again?”

Without replying, Starchild waved his hand and Peter was (thankfully) turned back into a cat. Peter quickly slunk off to hunt, not wanting to be around the faerie longer than he had to be.

-*-

What Peter was unaware of was that Starchild did not actually spend all day on a ledge in the ruins, staring out at Jendell. His days were usually spent going around the ruins, sometimes exploring and other times simply wandering. Occasionally he ventured out of the ruins into the fields.

On one such time, he was wandering along the edge of a field nearby a forest when suddenly rustling made him turn his head. There coming out of the forest was a red fox. When Starchild saw the tip of one of the fox’s ears burned off, he realized it was the fox he had encountered at the glade. Had it been following him?

Starchild frowned at the fox. “I thought I told you to go away,” he said to it, even though in the back of his mind he thought, You’re talking to a fox. A FOX.

The fox tilted its head and stared at him, with the same piercing, exposing stare. Starchild wanted to hit the fox with magic again, but this time stopped himself. Instead he tightened his grip on his walking stick and glared back at the fox. For a long, long moment, neither fox nor faerie moved. Then Starchild curled his free hand into a fist, his hand glowing dark purple, and ground out, “Go. Away.”

After a moment, the fox lowered its head, turned around, and disappeared back into the woods.

Starchild turned and walked back towards the ruins. He wasn’t sure why that fox had appeared to him again, but he didn’t like it at all.

As Starchild spent more time alone, away from the Moors, and as his mind descended further into obsession, he gradually began to lose more of the faerie he had been before Ace stole his wings. And as summer turned to autumn and the world turned steadily colder, so did what remained of his heart.

-*-

Finally, after a month of hearing nothing and seeing no sign of Ace, Peter saw something.

He was perched on a window that looked into a gigantic room with a platform on one end, the platform housing two regal-looking chairs. A huge crowd of elaborately-dressed people was gathered in the room, waiting for something.

After a while, the doors to the room opened, and the crowd parted, leaving a path through the middle of the room to the chairs. Men wearing armor marched into the room first, then stood in line on both sides of the path.

Then a beautiful dark-haired young woman entered the room wearing a lavish dress that, honestly, made Peter wonder how she didn’t trip and fall in it. All the people in the room bowed to her as she passed, and Peter couldn’t help but notice that the young woman seemed a little out of her element as she nodded her head in return. She walked up the platform to the chairs and sat down.

More footsteps filled the air, and Peter turned to look at the entrance again. His eyes widened slightly.

It was a man, with dark hair cut to his chin and a rather odd face. He was wearing the lavish clothes and animal furs that he had seen before, but Peter recognized him immediately. This was Ace, the man his master was so obsessed with.

Ace walked up the platform, but instead of sitting down in the other chair, he instead went to stand between them. Another man came forward, carrying a golden crown in his hands, and as Ace knelt down Peter realized what was happening.

The man placed the crown on Ace’s head then stepped back, bowing his head. Another man spoke. “I present to you, the first of his line,” he said to the crowd as Ace stood up. “His Royal Highness, King Ace.”

Excited murmurings went up in the crowd. Ace looked out at the crowd and briefly nodded his head to them, then turned to sit down in the chair alongside the young woman, obviously the Queen.

Peter turned around, spread his wings, and flew off back toward the ruins. A large part of him didn’t particularly want to tell Starchild what he’d seen, but he really had no choice. At the same time, Peter also remembered the story his master had told him, about that Ace taking his wings, and actually felt a twinge of indignation. Taking a faerie’s wings so he could have some crown on his head? That was just low, even for a human.

-*-

Starchild had gone very, very still by the time Peter finished his report.

“Someday, y’know, I’ll live there, in the castle,”

Of course. How could he have so stupidly forgotten the one thing Ace had always wanted?

He finally spoke, his voice shaking… with what, he wasn’t sure. “He did this to me… so he could be king?”

He didn’t want to cry anymore. He had cried more than enough tears over Ace and his betrayal. What he felt now was rage.

Deep purple magic began to materialize around him as his anger rose higher and higher. His breathing turned ragged and his shoulders shook. The grip his hands had on his walking stick tightened until his knuckles turned white, and for a moment he imagined it was Ace’s neck.

He turned his head to the sky, and let out a long, primal scream.

The deep purple magic shot up into the air and broke through the clouds, twisting into a column of purple light. Purple lightning bolts shot out of the column and struck stones around the ruins, exploding them all to rubble. For a moment, Starchild stared up at it, frozen, eyes blazing.

Then he lowered his head, and the magic dispersed. Sheer rage was still surging through him, and inhuman growling came from the back of his throat as he breathed raggedly.

I’ll never hurt ya Starshine This is true love Starshine Let me help you I’ll keep you safe

I love you, Starshine.

Lies. All of it had been nothing but lies. And he’d fallen for all of them.

Behind him, Peter spoke up. “What now, Master?”

Snarling like an animal, Starchild turned around, his eyes wild with rage. He wordlessly waved his hand, turning Peter back into a cat, and stormed off. With every step, stones flew out of his path, and as he passed under a still-intact entryway, the entire entryway broke apart and flew in all directions.

“Well, when I become king, we can change all of that.”

“We could really unite the two kingdoms?”

“Sure! We’ll do it together, Starshine!”

He wanted to travel back in time and berate his child self. How could he have been so naïve as to think Ace would be any different than all the other arrogant, selfish humans?

As Starchild left the ruins with Peter bounding after him, leaving them in much worse shape than when he’d arrived, the one coherent thought that broke through the anger consuming his mind was Get back to the Moors.

He couldn’t live like this anymore; hiding away in pitiful ruins (human ruins), scavenging for food, waking up screaming and crying every night from the same dream… and letting Ace go unpunished for what he’d done.

He was tired of humans controlling his life. And he was not going to let another human shatter him again, or take away anything else he cared about.

Get back to the Moors.

-*-

He walked all through the night, and would have continued into the day if Peter hadn’t insisted on stopping to rest. So he begrudgingly stopped and let Peter take a brief nap, before setting off again. The entire time, his anger never faded, not even a little. If anything, it increased. The ground would lightly rumble under his feet, any plant growth he passed would burst into dark purple flames and die, and dark clouds seemed to follow him overhead. He passed between two small divides made of stone, and with every step he took the stones were flung out of formation into all directions behind him.

It seemed to take an eternity, but finally, Starchild saw the familiar standing stones up ahead. He was nearly there. He came to the boulder he had perched on just over a month ago, and climbed to stand atop it. He opened his mouth and began to shout in the tree language, his voice projecting out into the forest. “Border guards! I summon you here now!”

For a long moment, there was nothing. Then he heard rustling and heavy footsteps, and turned just in time to see Gene appear from out of the trees. Upon seeing him, Gene froze in surprise, then began to growl at him, demanding to know where he’d been. Starchild ignored him and looked out into the forest, watching as more and more of the border guards emerged. When they saw him, they all began asking him where he had been, what had happened to him… and what had happened to his wings. They were all especially shocked to see him without his wings.

Their constant questioning about his wings did the most to make Starchild’s rage flare up again. His hand tightened around his walking stick, glowing faintly purple, and he raised it up in the air then banged it down against the boulder. “QUIET!”

Purple magic shot out from the tip of his walking stick, hitting all the border guards. There was instant silence.

Starchild looked out at them all, then began to speak, his voice the most powerful it had ever been. “I know you all have many questions. You ask what happened to me, and my wings? I will tell you what happened. They were taken from me… burned off my back by the same filthy human that now sits on the Jendell throne! He tricked me, made me think he wanted to help me, even made me think he loved me,” he spat out the word like it was poison, “all so he could steal my wings and become the king! He blinded me with all his lies, but I see him now for what he truly is—a greedy, selfish, arrogant piece of filth, just like the rest of his kind! Have any of you ever wondered why we continue letting humans invade our home? For centuries, it has been war after war after war, with the greedy humans forcing us to defend ourselves. At the end of every war, they say there will be peace, but they lie! Not even a month ago they tried to take the Moors again, not even thirty years after the war that took my parents’ lives! They don’t stop… they will never stop!

“Why do we let them attack, and always force us to defend? We have always been nothing more than sitting ducks! Well, I say, not anymore! The Moors cannot survive with us simply trusting in one another; we need clear and strong leadership. And although my wings are gone, I am still protector of the Moors. I can give us that leadership! But I cannot do it by myself. You have all fought by my side in defending the Moors, and I cannot think of anyone better to help me! Join me, and I will make sure the Moors are never defenseless again!”

Starchild looked out at all the border guards. “What say you?” he asked of them. “Who will stand with me?”

For one long moment, there was silence. None of the guards moved, or spoke, only stared at him.

Then…

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

Starchild turned his head. At the front of the group of guards was none other than Gene. He held his spear out in front of him, and was banging the end of it against the ground. Then Starchild heard another tapping spear join Gene’s, then another, then another… until every single one of the border guards were banging their spears against the ground.

The corner of Starchild’s mouth quirked up into a miniature smirk. He turned around and walked out of the clearing, the border guards falling into step behind him.

-*-

Clouds rolled over the sun, and the sky went utterly dark over the Moors as thunder rumbled. The glowing lilies floating in the lake one by one winked out. The Fair Folk looked around in surprise and confusion… then turned and froze when they saw Starchild come out from among the trees, the border guards behind him. Gasps went up when they saw the faerie, and someone cried out, “His wings!”

For their protector no longer had his large black wings. And although he looked the same, save for a black jacket and black boots, his features were no longer soft and gentle, and kindness no longer radiated from him. His features were now sharper and cold, and what the Fair Folk felt from him now made them all incredibly afraid.

He walked past them all toward the very center of the large lake island. As he did, the branches on the trees grew longer, growing and connecting with branches and vines that grew out of the ground. The branches and vines twisted together, forming the back and seat of a makeshift throne.

Starchild walked towards the sprouting throne with his head held high, and the look on his face perhaps would have been solemn if his features weren’t so cold and stony. Each step was slow and deliberate, to better make the Fair Folk realize what was happening. He didn’t bother turning his head to look at them as he passed, but could feel the shock and terror radiating from them all.

When Starchild lowered himself to sit on his throne, he understood for the first time in his life why humans loved power so much. He ruled over the Moors now, had a different power that wasn’t magic, that would allow him to get what he wanted… and knowing that made him feel more powerful than he’d ever felt in his life.

Peter jumped up onto a stone beside him, and Starchild lifted a hand to run his fingers over Peter’s fur. He finally turned his head and looked out at the Fair Folk, taking in their intimidation and fear. Every movement was smooth and calculated, and every inch of Starchild gave off the impression that he could easily rip them apart if they even thought about protesting this new reality. To his satisfaction, the Fair Folk all averted their gazes whenever his eyes met theirs.

To his left, Gene pointed his spear at the Fair Folk and growled threateningly, the other border guards following suit. Shaking in fear, one after another the creatures began to bow, until all of them were bowing in respect to Starchild.

Starchild looked out at them all, and for a moment, he felt a flash of something akin to guilt. The old Starchild would have been appalled at the thought of doing this, and would (ironically) rather cut off his wings than impose his own authority on the Moors.

But that Starchild was a fool; a naïve, starry-eyed fool who thought he’d been given true love’s kiss. He had been content to cry, wanting nothing more than to wallow in misery and sob over Ace stealing his wings and ripping his heart to pieces. That Starchild was dead. And this one, this new Starchild, did not want to cry. He would not cry anymore.

What he wanted now was vengeance.

And he would get it, one way or another.

Lightning flashed, illuminating Starchild’s cold face.

#green wounds #chapter four #picture as usual comes off of ecosia images #it's really interesting to write the development of starchild and peter's relationship #starchild is slowly hardening even though he now has a servant/sort-of companion #I guess it would show how even if you're not completely alone you can still be consumed by your pain #peter is a little confused #he's also getting concerned about starchild #starchild encounters the fox again #it's also really interesting to write out starchild's interactions with the fox #we see what's up with ace #or more appropriately king ace now #hoo boy...#starchild has gone dark!#I love how they set it up in the movie to show that maleficent finding out about Stefan is the clear straw that broke the camel's back #I tried to convey that here as well #but OHHH SHIT starchild's gone dark!#and strap in y'all cuz it's only gonna get darker...#hope you guys enjoyed this!#my favorite chapter comes up next Saturday!#maleficent au #kiss au writing #my writing #stay tuned for chapter five!

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troubleintrump · 5 years ago

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Open Letter:

To my Trump-supporting family,

On the morning of November 9, 2016, the America I knew and loved died. Or rather, I woke that day to discover that it never really existed in the first place.

Let me explain.

I grew up in the Deep South. I was a flag-waving, gun-shooting, red-blooded American boy. I said the Pledge of Allegiance every morning in school, got tingles when I heard the national anthem, and fervently accepted that no other country on the planet could ever come close to the grandeur, freedom, and inspiration that the United States of America offered. We were that City Upon the Hill that was promised to the world – a shining beacon of participatory democracy that everyone else desperately wanted to emulate but could never achieve. We were tough on our allies, but only because we needed to push them to excel and improve. Of course, they’d never quite catch up to us economically, politically, or militarily, but hey, that’s the price of not being the USA. The chants of “USA! USA! USA” weren’t taunts, but merely celebrations of our preeminence. And anyone’s detractions were just signs of their jealousy. Because everybody wanted to be American, right?

I was sold the American dream just like the hundreds of millions of my compatriots. Work hard, pay your dues, and you’ll succeed. No child left behind. All in this together. Pull yourself up by your bootstraps. I joined the Navy and proudly served my country because that’s just what a Southern boy did. There simply was no higher honor than being part of the vanguard protecting democracy from those who would do us harm.

Even after traveling the world with the Navy and learning that, actually, America didn’t hold a monopoly on freedom, I still wasn’t swayed from my categorical resolution that no country was better. No people could be better. America resulted from the failures and lessons learned from every other country’s trials and errors. Mostly errors. But we corrected them all. Where other countries had endured the restrictions of authoritarianism or the unfettered chaos of direct democracy, America perfected the balance with our Constitution and its representative democracy. Sure, we had our own fits-and-starts, which our schools taught – seizure of land and the treatment of Native Americans, the slave trade and oppression of black people, relegation of women to the home – but the America in which I grew up in the 1980s and 1990s had moved past those missteps. Right? Wasn’t America now that happy melting pot teeming with opportunity for all, if only you tried hard enough?

Of course not. But that was how I viewed it. And I’m sure that’s how you still think of America. What we did to the Native Americans? They just need to accept that we civilized them and they should be thankful. Slavery, Jim Crow, systemic racism? Nah, African Americans need to get over slavery, stop being ghetto thugs, and start accepting responsibility for their own communities. And women certainly have come a long way – just don’t get too uppity or think you’re entitled to too much of a political view, otherwise you risk losing your innate genteelness. (If reading this part makes you feel uncomfortable – and it probably does – stop for a second and think about why. Your discomfort is what’s left of your conscience.)

After I left the Navy and joined the real world, I saw more and more of what this country truly was. The mistreatment of people of color, the judgment and chastisement of the LGBT community, and the everyday sexism. Unlike the America taught in schools, this place had a lot of scars, scratches, and quite a few gaping wounds. But still I thought none of them were terminal. Surely Bill Clinton (for all his flaws) had it right when he said there was nothing wrong with America that couldn’t be cured by what was right in America. Surely.

Up until November 8, 2016, I genuinely believed that, despite its myriad shortcomings, America was still the country that stood up to bullies. It valued intellect and scientific discovery. Americans may have disagreed on specific policies, but still had faith that public servants genuinely had the country’s best interests at heart. Immigration built this country. And we should always, always protect the innocent and welcome those fleeing poverty, war, or famine with open arms.

But America didn’t elect a leader who represents any of those principles. America didn’t elect a leader with any principles. And you did that. You can say you held your nose and voted for the “lesser of two evils,” or that you only voted for Trump because you knew he’d further the policies with which you agreed, even if you found him personally detestable. But when you and all of the other Trump voters pulled that lever, you weren’t just selecting your preferred presidential candidate. You were selecting what America was. And it is nothing like the America I grew up believing in. To say that your choice and the result it brought about triggered an existential crisis would be an understatement. My whole life, I’d been an unquestioning, patriotic servant of America because of what I’d believed it stood for. But in a single night, everything it stood for was revealed as a fraud. Everything I stood for was a fraud.

So now, two and half years into the alternative reality, I’ve come to grips that this isn’t some insane nightmare. This is reality. And seeing how Trump supporters (yourselves included) have behaved since then, I really was a fool for ever believing America stood for anything else.

I won’t bore you with my journey to “wokeness” or why the things you tolerate literally sicken me. Sexual predator? “They’re not hot enough to sexually assault.” Racist bully? “Fake news.” Uncompassionate bigot? “They should stay in their own damn countries.” Even if I had the capacity and patience to expound on every deviation from the America I thought existed, you wouldn’t care. Why? Because you’ve stopped listening. The rise of Fox News means you’ve stopped reading the papers. And even if you did, you wouldn’t be intrigued or inquisitive about what they say because you’ve bought into the idea that the press is the enemy of the people (except for Fox News and the National Review, which get passes because, well, why?).

You’ve stopped paying attention to anyone who doesn’t agree with your crystallized view of the world. You’re the mosquito of the Reagan era, completely unaware the sap has long hardened around you into amber. And frankly, it’s not even particularly pretty amber. It’s dull, opaque, muffled. You can’t see or hear through it and you don’t want to.

But to be honest with you, I’ve lost all interest in trying to break you free. At first, I really wanted to. I wanted you to understand how the promise of America was broken. I wanted you to see so we could find some way to fix it. But every time I tried, you trotted out some line you heard Trump spew (none of which make any sense whatsoever, by the way) or that some Fox News commentator has conned you into thinking reflects reality. So I’m done.

The America I believed in doesn’t exist. Instead, it’s a different country now, irretrievably. I get a bit melancholy about it sometimes, because promise and hope and opportunity are like political endorphins, and I miss them. And I miss you. I miss having conversations about our lives as though you hadn’t abandoned everything we ever believed in. I miss seeing your smiling faces without having to hold back a political tirade. I miss spending time with you without constantly wondering how you sleep at night knowing what this country is doing to the defenseless.

Surely by now you’ve seen the AP’s recent photo of an El Salvadoran man and his two and a half year-old daughter who drowned as they fled the violence in their home country, hoping to seek asylum in America. They drowned because Trump won’t let them claim asylum at the border entry points. He’s denying them the safety and promise that America used to stand for. Many observers who haven’t yet fully recognized their prior delusions are saying, “This isn’t what we stand for.” But it is. It’s exactly what America stands for.

And that is why I’m done with you and your ilk. We’re still family; you raised me; we share the same blood. But we come from and live in two different countries.

Sincerely,

Matthew

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reading-writing-revolution · 5 years ago

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Open Letter: To my Trump-supporting family from a Navy Veteran:

To my Trump-supporting family,

On the morning of November 9, 2016, the America I knew and loved died. Or rather, I woke that day to discover that it never really existed in the first place.

Let me explain.

And that is why I’m done with you and your ilk. We’re still family; you raised me; we share the same blood. But we come from and live in two different countries.

Sincerely,

Matthew

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goforwardgreenwriter-blog · 6 years ago

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The Worm Reads: The Assassin’s Blade, Ch 28-29

A great way to start your first year in college is reading shitty YA novels.

We open up with Celery and some other assassins helping Ilias and the Master.

A few sniffs revealed that the wine had been laced with a small amount of gloriella, just enough to paralyze him, not kill him. (...) How had he not noticed it before he drank? Perhaps he wasn’t as humble as he seemed; perhaps he’d been arrogant enough to believe that he was safe here.

I am going to lose my shit. I am actually going to go insane.

You didn’t fucking notice either Celery you goddamn waste of space piece of shit!!!!!!! You were drugged the same as him, you don’t get to act all high and mighty!!!!! Fuck you, Celery. I was considering snarking the rest of the series but Jesus Christ this is actually making me fucking exhausted to the point where I don’t know if I can handle it.

The next few pages do that shitty thing where each scene is only a sentence or two long and they have to use the scene indicator a million times and it looks fucking ugly. Look at this.

Shit’s ugly, man. Anyways, Celery lets Ansel go even though she murdered innocent people and generally fucked everything up because of reasons, I suppose.

The Master calls Celery into his room later to talk (yeah, he can talk now) to her about how poor Ansel lost her family. Yeah, still doesn’t justify her murdering Mikhail and other people who considered her their friends.

He walked to a latticework hutch, as if he were giving her the time to regain her composure, and pulled out a letter. By the time he returned to her, Celaena’s eyes were clear. “When you give this to your master, hold your head high.” She took the letter. Her recommendation.

I wish the Master was in a better book, he truly deserves it.

He also gives Celery a bunch of gold to help pay off her debts, and even though I hate Celery and she doesn’t deserve it, the Master is too pure, too good for this world?

Sunlight gleamed on the gold inside, reflecting through the room like light on water. All that gold … and the piece of Spidersilk the merchant had given her … she couldn’t think of the possibilities that wealth would open to her, not right now. “When you give your master his letter, also give him this. And tell him that in the Red Desert, we do not abuse our disciples.

I think I stan him now? Yeah, I stan a minor character whose never gonna appear again. That’s how shitty the cast is in this book.

With that, that brings this shitty, shitty story to a close. I hate this one the most so far; horrible writing, horrible characters, Celery continues to grow even more unlikable, and there wasn’t even any Sammy in there to cling onto. Let’s just start the next one.

The next story is called The Assassin and the Underworld. Ow the edge.

The cavernous entrance hall of the Assassins’ Keep was silent as Celaena Sardothien stalked across the marble floor, a letter clutched between her fingers.

And we’re starting off with another Celery POV. Joy. At least The Healer short story allowed us tiny breaks with Yrene. Will I ever get my beloved Sammy POV?

So Celery marches into Arobynn’s study and tosses the letter at him, growing immediately pissy when he doesn’t open it.

She looked at the exquisite red carpet beneath her feet. Someone had done a splendid job of getting all the blood out. How much of the blood on the carpet had been hers—and how much of it had belonged to Sam Cortland, her rival and co-conspirator in the destruction of Arobynn’s slave agreement?

Good lord SJM, we know who Sammy is, stop info dumping us about shit we already know.

“If I could take back that night, Celaena, I would.” He leaned over the edge of the desk, his hands now forming fists.

So Arobynn pulls the abuse shtick of apologizing again and again for abusing Celery, and I hope to god she isn’t stupid enough to fall for it.

“Every day,” he went on. “Every day since you left, I’ve gone to the temple of Kiva to pray for forgiveness.” She might have snorted at the idea of the King of the Assassins kneeling before a statue of the God of Atonement, but his words were so raw. Was it possible that he actually regretted what he had done?

I swear to fucking god if I have to read Celery forgiving her abuser and handwaving his abuse away I am actually going to Kermit

Father, brother, lover—he’d never really declared himself any of them. Certainly not the lover part, though if Celaena had been another sort of girl, and if Arobynn had raised her differently, perhaps it might have come to that. He loved her like family, yet he put her in the most dangerous positions. He nurtured and educated her, yet he’d obliterated her innocence the first time he’d made her end a life. He’d given her everything, but he’d also taken everything away.

I am actually cringing so hard right now this is a major Yikes. Regardless of how many presents he buys you or if he acts nice sometimes, he’s still an abuser! He still beat the shit out of you and threatened to kick you out of your home if you didn’t get what he wanted!

So yeah Celery decides “oh well I’m not telling him about the gold I have and my plans to leave him” so fuck the Mute Master for giving you all that gold, I guess? Fuck you, Celery, just fuck you.

“Benzo Doneval is coming to Rifthold,” Arobynn said. Celaena cocked her head. She’d heard of Doneval—he was an immensely powerful businessman from Melisande, a country far to the southwest, and one of Adarlan’s newer conquests

Another boring fucker like Lord Berick who probably won’t even make an appearance? Seems likely.

Doneval is friends with a queen of Melisande that surrendered her crown to the King of Adarlan and he’s here to discuss building a trading road to help get some wealth rolling in Melisande.

Doneval also wants to set up a slavery trade in Adarlan, so Arobynn has been hired to take him out. Great. More of using slaves to prop Celery up, I see.

She was beginning to see where this was going. Doneval was practically wrapped in a ribbon for her. All she had to do was find out what time the meeting would take place, learn his defenses, and figure out a way around them.

I cannot wait to see how she fucks up this supposedly easy mission.

And even though there was no excuse in this world for what he had done, Arobynn was all she had. The history that lay between them, dark and twisted and full of secrets, was forged by more than just gold. And if she left him, if she paid off her debts right now and never saw him again …

Yeah, you read that right. Celery forgives her abuser because he raised her. Holy fuck, this is very uncomfortable for personal reasons I’m not going to get into, but just because someone raises you doesn’t mean you owe them shit. Fucking hell, SJM, do you know how humans function? Do you read your own shitty novels before you send them off to be printed?

Celery peaces out of there after lowkey forgiving her abuser which is. sjkhakdhkadhjk.

A passing servant bowed his head, eyes averted. Everyone who worked here knew more or less who she was, and would keep her identity secret on pain of death

But like??? Just???? Why?? Why is this a thing why why why why.

She clenched her hands into fists and was about to whirl and stomp back down the stairs to tell Arobynn that she was leaving and that he no longer owned her, when someone stepped into the elegantly appointed hall. Sam Cortland.

THERE HE IS THERE’S MY BOY THERE’S MY BOY

I missed Sammy so much holy shit, I can’t believe I’m actually excited to read this book for once. Sammy deserves such a better series.

No missing limbs, no limp, no indication of anything haunting him. His chestnut hair had gotten a little longer, but it suited him. And he was tan—gloriously tan, as if he’d spent the whole summer basking in the sun.

I’m so happy in fact, I barely did more than roll my eyes at the tanning thing. Sammy is here and he’s not maimed or harmed! No doubt that’ll change by the end for Celery’s angst but let me have this while it lasts.

“Are you hurt?” Sam asked quietly, taking another step closer. It took her a moment to realize that his imagination had probably taken him to a far, far worse place when she said someone had held a blade to her throat.

Please tell me that wasn’t a casual reference to sexual assault. Please tell me.

He was now looking more closely at her, at the almost invisible white line along her cheek—another gift from Ansel—at her hands, at everything. His lean, muscled body tensed. His chest had gotten broader, too.

I love how Sammy was implied to be an average sized dude until SJM decided Celery needs to thirst for him, and then BAM instant broad shouldered buff hottie. This series is so fucking ridiculous we are reaching Twilight levels.

“Sam!” a dark-haired, green-eyed young woman chided, laughter on her lips. “There you—” The girl’s eyes met Celaena’s. Celaena stopped smiling as she recognized her.

Oh great, more fucking girl hate. Listen, I’m not gonna pretend all women are perfect delicate angels who do nothing wrong and that all women get along 100% of the time but I’m sick and tired of all girls in YA not getting along. Why can’t girls just... be friends? Be civil and kind to one another? You know, how it mostly is in real life?

“Lysandra,” Celaena echoed. She’d met Lysandra when they were both ten, and in the seven years that they’d known each other, Celaena couldn’t recall a time when she didn’t want to beat in the girl’s face with a brick.

Oh great, it’s Lysandra to boot. Those who read my E0S know she was a decent character, certainly one who deserved better than to be a love interest for Assdion. Can’t wait for Celery to slut shame her a million times in this novel!

Apparently Lysandra and Celery cat fight all the time and one time Lysandra stole a fan from Celery so she beat the shit out of her. Lovely.

“[Arobynn] invited your future clients here?” “Oh, no.” Lysandra giggled. “This is just for me and the girls. And Clarisse, of course.” She used her madam’s name, too, like a weapon, a word meant to crush and dominate—a word that whispered: I am more important than you; I have more influence than you; I am everything and you are nothing.

Literally nothing that Lysandra said implied any of that, but go off on how important you supposedly are, Celery. She doesn’t have the brain power to comprehend people’s lives don’t revolve around her.

Lysandra lifted her chin, looking down her delicately freckled nose at Celaena. “My Bidding is in six days. They expect me to break all the records.” Celaena had seen a few young courtesans go through the Bidding process—girls trained until they were seventeen, when their virginity was sold to the highest bidder.

I know shit like this happened in real life, but the fact that Lysandra is excited about it is.... bleh. I already know SJM is gonna be super fucking tasteless about serious topics like this.

“Sam,” Lysandra went on, putting a slender hand on his arm, “has been so helpful with making sure all the preparations are ready for my Bidding party.” Celaena was surprised at the swiftness of her desire to rip that hand right off Lysandra’s wrist. Just because he sympathized with the courtesans didn’t mean he had to be so … friendly with them.

Oh, fuck you, Celery. Just because you have a crush on Sammy doesn’t mean he owes you shit. If he wants to be with Lysandra, that’s his right and he has no obligations to return your feelings!!! But no, use it as an excuse to slut shame Lysandra. You fucking piece of shit.

Though Lysandra’s virginity was unquestionable—it had to be—there were plenty of other things that she could still do. Things that she might have done with Sam …

This fucking bitch I swear to god.

1. Way to slut shame and portray it as a good thing if the girl “‘deserves it”“, SJM!

2. So what if Sammy and Lysandra had sex with each other? Sammy has no obligation to like you back or save himself for you. Jesus fucking christ.

Celery runs off to have a cry and literally nobody gives a shit. The end.

#the worm talks #the worm reads: tab #anti sjm #anti tab #anti tog #wish me luck in college boys

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