#this man only opens up his heart in interviews for paid magazines he hates me <3 | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

aitarose · 4 years ago

Text

YELLOW DAISIES (A. MIYA) pairing: miya atsumu x fem!reader

synopsis: atsumu miya, japan’s most entitled player, the person that strangers resented for unprecedented boasting and confidence—a facade as there was only one person who knew the real him.

word count: 1.6k

genre: established relationship, fluff, time skip

warnings: slight angst, asshole!atsumu?, hospital, mentions of death

notes: i’m only on episode two of season four so i’ve literally never heard this man speak a word, but i wrote this for some reason asjdfkl

↳ DIRECTORY

He was revolutionary—that was what flashed in bright lights in the media, magazines, and news when the name Miya Atsumu came into the picture. It was an honorable title, one that he’d earned from his years of experience, years of effort to become the best player he could possibly be.

Fans of the game couldn’t help but admire his ambition, his confidence when it came to setting—when it came to being on the court. There was nowhere else he seemed to fit, no where else that deemed worthy of a man like him.

He was simply made to play volleyball, he was put on the planet to coordinate the team and help lead them to their respective victories. The drive he had was envious, admirable even to professionals that were years ahead of him in experience.

But there was a catch, just as there always seemed to be a catch when things appear too perfect or other-worldly, as Miya Atsumu was considered the most egocentric man in all of Japan.

Yes, his talent was astonishing and his looks trumped some of the most handsome men in the world, but he was a complete and utter narcissist to the public eye. A complete asshole in all senses of empathy.

He was perhaps an enigma. A man that no one person could quite figure out. A total mystery to everyone but those close to him—to everyone but his twin-brother and the few teammates that he considered friends.

And it wasn’t that the public wanted to hate him, they wanted nothing more than to find a redeeming quality, something that would save his reputation—the ignorant reputation that he’d somehow managed to build himself over the course of his professional career.

Tabloids constantly had new headlines to publish, weekly reports on whatever star-born attitude Atsumu had acted on in public, during games, or even in the safety of the team’s after parties—parties that he’d rarely be found at.

The most common hate train would be the look he’d give the camera every time he so much as scored a point mid-match. The cocky, full of himself gaze to the viewers watching at home, as if to say that he was the real King of the Court.

Holding up his hands in the shape of a heart, Atsumu would smile with a smug grin, teeth flashing white and sticking his tongue out dramatically. He’d hold the position for a few seconds, making sure that the camera got a good take of his face, before returning to the adrenaline rush of the game.

It was as if he became an even better player after his boastful routine, focusing on the game as if it was life or death, as if he would be ruined if they were to lose a single point—frightening the other team with one glance, one look forcing them to crumble underneath their own dead weight.

With his rare intimidating attitude, the Black Jackals had little to nothing to worry about when it came to their setter. He was reliable, always there to pick up the slack when all odds seemed to be against them—when the books refused to read in their favor.

And his teammates absolutely loved him, they knew him better than nearly anyone other than Osamu. When microphones and interviewers shoved misguided questions in their faces, they’d always defend him, as they were more than just players on the same side of the court—they were practically brothers.

So, when it’d be time to stay after the game to greet the fans, give them kisses on the cheek while the camera cemented their meeting in history, his friends paid no mind to how quickly Atsumu would rush out of the building. They’d pay no attention to how he’d refuse to entertain his fans, only stopping for one girl—one girl who’d offered him a bouquet of bright yellow daisies.

“Thank you.” He’d mutter, nodding his head at the young girl before stalking off, ignoring how she fawned over the beauty of his facial features, obsessing over the way he’d just so much as acknowledged her existence.

Pulling out of the stadium’s parking lot was always a big hassle, with the media and paparazzi awaiting his exit, video cameras taping his every move and step he took. There was zero privacy for him, every one of his secrets always seeming to be on film.

But Atsumu didn’t care, he didn’t mind running over a few parking cones, forcing the photographers to jump out of his car’s way, back onto the sidewalk where they belonged. He had absolutely no disregard for their safety according to the new’s titles.

As well as no respect to traffic laws. Speeding limits was a thing of the past in his mind, always going about twenty miles over, whether that was on a highway or neighborhood street. His life ran on double time, needing to be in a rush, a rush away from his duties.

His sports car headed north on the daily, never straying from its path, in pursuit of the same destination every day—every time he had the chance to escape the responsibilities of being a world-known athlete.

And though the world liked to act as if they knew everything about him, as if he was an open book whose chapters were updated every week, no one knew why Atsumu would spend so much time at the international hospital. Why he’d enter the building in the evenings and leave at dawn.

Even today, after the loss of a championship match, he wore the brightest smile on his face while holding a massive bouquet of yellow daisies—the flower that’d always accompany him through the blank grey walls of the healing center.

The grin would stay plastered, the expression reading ingenuity as he’d walk through the automatic doors, taking a final glance back to make sure that no one had followed him, before letting the facade crumble—before he let it dissolve into a somber frown.

“Looking beautiful as always.” Atsumu laughed, waltzing up to the front desk, greeting his favorite worker as she rolled her eyes, passing him the check in sheet with a pointed look. “How’s my girl doing?”

The woman behind the counter took a deep breath, inspecting his signature to ensure that he hadn’t signed in the wrong place, before looking up to respond to his question—the same question that he asked her every day.

“Waiting for you.” She said, gesturing that everything was alright and he could proceed to the dual elevators that carried him to the top floor, the floor in which permanent residents stayed. “She’s up there waiting, just like she always is.”

Blowing the clerk a joking kiss, Atsumu carried on, holding the bouquet with a death grip, picking at the flowers to make sure that they looked their absolute best—that they deserved to be held in his favorite girl’s hands.

Standing in the elevator, his heart dropped at each ding. It was a sound that he had never gotten used to, one that haunted him as he slept, taunting him as if to say that the minutes were counting down—the minutes losing their value, the minutes he had left with her decreasing.

Despite how much he loathed the noise, how he wished he could shut it all off, make time stop just so he could have an infinite amount of moments by her side—he knew that life would come to the point in which he’d hear that sound one last time. A point in which he’d leave the building and never have a reason to return.

As he approached the room he knew all too well, Atsumu brought his hand up to a light knock on the door, giving her a little heads up that he was there, that he didn’t forget about her even though he’d maintained his constant routine for months now.

“Is that the famous Miya Atsumu I hear?” Y/N’s melodious voice called out, knowing all too well that her beloved boyfriend had arrived to harass her. Her already enlarged heart grew bigger at the sight of his brown eyes and golden hair that she’d always try to spot on the court.

While the world admired him for his physical beauty, she knew him for the beauty inside. The beauty that she was so blessed to see, the real personality that was reserved for her and her alone—not even Osamu had seen him so gentle, so caring.

“Yer favorites,” he held out the bouquet to her in a regal manner, presenting it as if she were a queen and it was her crown. His dramatics sent her into a fit of giggles, accepting the flowers with a scoff as he rose up to press a soft kiss on her awaiting lips.

“I saw you.” She whispered, pulling him down to meet her smile once more, relishing in the feeling of their love connecting. It was a feeling that she was addicted to, one that she longed for whenever he was away. “I saw you and the stupid little heart that you flash me on television.”

Atsumu helped her move over on the hospital bed, making enough room for him to lay down beside her as he wrapped an arm around her shoulder, his head resting on top of hers. “Stupid? You sound like the rest of ‘em.”

“No one would be calling it stupid if they knew what it meant.” He pinched her cheeks, puckering her lips to a pout and kissing her over and over again. “If they knew I only do it because I want my girl to be proud of me.”

He sighed, holding her as if she would disappear if he let go, his fear of losing her of greater importance than any public opinion or false story. His fears being valid and reasonable as neither of them knew how much time they had left—how much time they had left to be totally and completely in love.

179 notes · View notes

darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 5 years ago

Text

Secrets ~ 2

Warnings: noncon sexual acts later in series

This is dark!Bucky and dark!Steve and explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: A buried family secret comes to light thrusting you to the forefront of an old alliance.

Note: Last night I got some not so nice comments about me and I know it doesn’t really matter but considering I have to work on my bday tomorrow and everything is just mounting and mounting up, I don’t know how much writing I’ll be doing. It could be a lot or a little. But thankful to have those who care, you guys, cheering me on.

Thank you. Love you guys!

As always, if you can, please leave some feedback, like and reblog <3

You went on like nothing had changed. It hadn’t. You weren’t leaving to marry some stranger. Some outdated prince in his crumbling castle. You studied the past, you didn’t want to live in it.

You went to class. Numb. Your anger slaked away as you jotted your notes and tried to ignore the tugging in your chest. Three classes, a coffee in between the second and the third, then you were due at the bookstore for the closing shift.

It was late enough in the year that the customers weren’t so many. You paced the aisles and asked students if they needed help. Few did as they perused the shelves and wandered, almost aimlessly so. Danica was on the till, though you took turns between sorting through the table of discount paperbacks left disordered by curious shoppers.

Only twenty minutes before close and you were near the back of the store, sweeping. Your path was blocked however as you turned in the far aisle. That man, Mr. Barnes, stood by the wall of rucksacks and hoodies, pretending to be interested. Given the fine cut of his suit and the polish of his shoes, you doubted he needed or wanted the campus-branded clothing.

You kept at your work. You got closer and continued to sweep, knocking his heels with the broom as you grumbled a grizzly ‘excuse me’. He chuckled and stepped aside, turning to watch you as you tried to ignore him.

“Your highness,” He said.

“Don’t call me that,” You huffed as you lifted the dustpan and it folded up against the stick. “What are you doing here?”

“My duty.” He said lightly. “I was sent by your fiance to keep an eye on you. To bring you back to him.” He glanced around and slid a magazine from the rack. “To free you of this boring mediocrity.” He flipped through the pages. “You don’t belong here, Duchess.”

He folded back the magazine and turned it to face you. He held it out and you scowled. He waved it impatiently and you sighed as you stepped closer to look. A man, tall, blonde, austere, leaned against an expensive sports car, a mansion behind him, akin to Versailles, as he gazed nonchalantly into the camera. The headline floated beside him; ‘A King for our Times’”

You recognized him. You’d seen him, as most people had; on the news, in tabloids, on questionable gossip blogs. You’d never paid much attention to him or those royals who existed beyond their means. You scoffed and shrugged.

“Am I supposed to be impressed?” Your lip curled.

“Your feelings don’t really matter,” He closed the magazine and put it back. “The contract stands.”

“You came all this way on the back of a paper signed by a dead king of a dead nation?” You shook your head. “Is your king that desperate?”

His jaw squared and he swallowed. “You think this makes you better than him? This… existence?”

“A life I earned,” You retorted. “I doubt he or you know very much about that.”

“And how much do you know of duty? Obligation? A purpose beyond your own selfish needs?”

“Selfish?” You rolled your eyes. “Sir. We’re closing. You need to leave.”

He tilted his head and grinned. His tongue poked out along his lip and he chuckled.

“Your highness,” He bowed his head. “Until tomorrow.”

He stepped closer and you turned to let him past.

“Don’t bother,” You said to his back as you watched him near the end of the aisle. “I’m not going. Tell him to find someone else.”

He stopped and pushed back his shoulders. He said nothing, just stood there a moment before he continued on. The electronic ding signaled his departure and you let out the breath that had stuck in your chest.

You clutched the broom and dustpan in one hand and grabbed the magazine from beside you. You went to the counter where Danika was balancing the till.

“Hey,” You leaned the broom and pan against the counter. “I wanna buy this.”

“Just take it.” She shrugged. “With our discount, it might as well be free.”

You nodded and took it, bending it under your arm.

“Anything else besides cleaning?” You asked.

“Nah,” She counted out the last of the pennies. “Go on. I’ll close up.”

👑

You sat on your bed, the glow of your small lamp the only light. After an hour of tossing and turning, you surrender to wakefulness. You stared at the magazine, the glossy cover reflected the light beside you. You sank back into your pillows and picked at the pages until you found the one. You opened the magazine and stared at the man; the king; the strange. Fiance?

He was handsome, sure, but even in a picture, he seemed haughty. There was an arrogance to his shoulder, the way he leaned on the white hood, how he appeared to look down his nose at the lens even while standing on the same level. You flipped the page and began to read.

A short blurb introduced him as the King of Astrania, once the playboy prince, but, as the article claimed, matured by the throne. You recalled the gossip of those days, yourself barely a teen then. One night, he had a socialite on his arm, the next an actress, next a singer, a model…

‘You’ve done so much. Anything still on the list?’ The interviewer lobbed another softball question.

‘Lots.’ The king answered. ‘I think my mother would be relieved to hear me say I think it’s past time I found a wife. A queen.’

‘You’re going to break a lot of hearts, your majesty.’

‘I’ve had my fun. Maybe too much. If I’m to serve my people, I’ll need someone at my side.’

You lowered the magazine and frowned at the ceiling. You pushed the pages off your chest and rolled over to turn off the lamp. You pulled the pillow over your head and squeezed your eyes shut. The thought of being bound to man so opposite yourself made you want to scream but you were too tired for that.

👑

You still didn’t know what to say to your mother. Your whole life was a lie. Not a lie you hated which was worse because the truth threatened to undo it all. When you went to the kitchen to get your coffee, she was there, waiting, a mug ready for you. You didn’t say more than thanks as you took and returned to your room.

You readied yourself for another day. Thursday. The last two days felt like weeks. You packed up your bag and left through the front door, avoiding your mother who watched you from the kitchen. What were you supposed to tell her? It’s okay you lied to me, it’s okay you don’t want to fight, it’s okay to barter me away before I was even born? None of it was okay.

You reached the end of the walk and a man in a black suit stepped into your path. You stopped short and tried to pass him. Another man, in the same suit, black jacket, black tie, black everything, blocked you again. You turned the other way and found yourself box in by Mr. Barnes. He crossed his arms as he smiled at you.

“You’re off early.” He said.

“I have class.” You sneered and once more tried to make your way around the men. They moved with you, forming a wall. “Get out of my way.”

“The king wants me back before the end of the week. I can’t return empty-handed.”

“I don’t care what your king wants. I have class, work--”

“The jet is charted for three,” He checked his watch. “We have lots of time to pack.”

“You’re not--” You sputtered. “No.”

You looked back at your house. Your mouth stood in the door as she watched. She looked sad, broken. You grimaced at her.

“I told you I’m not going,” You tried to shove past Barnes and the other men grabbed your arms, your bag flopping to the ground. “Hey, let me go.”

“Your highness, my king did permit us reasonable force in our duty,” Barnes said evenly. “And to this point, I have restrained from it.”

“Hey,” Your mother swept through the door and stormed towards the men. “Don’t! Let her go! You’ll hurt her.”

“There is a seat for you on the jet too, Princess,” Barnes offered. “It’s only fitting the mother of the bride should attend the wedding.”

“Get off!” You kicked out and Barnes moved out of the way. “Off!”

“Astrania favours tradition.” He continued. “And it is not unheard for brides to be brought in chains. I’d rather not be so medieval.”

“I don’t wanna go! No!” You continued to struggle. Your mother grabbed at one of the men and was swiftly shaken off. “Stop!”

“Get her inside. The princess, too.” Barnes order.

One man hooked his arms through yours and held them behind you as the other seized your mother. You were turned and forced back down the walk, growling and grunting as you were pushed up the porch steps. Your mother whimpered as she was held by the back of her neck and angled through the front door ahead of you.

Inside, the door clattered and the thicker one was closed and locked. Barnes led the way into the living room and pointed to the couch.

“Princess,” He ordered and your mother was pushed onto the sofa. “Bring the duchess here.”

He beckoned to the hallway and strode ahead of you. Your shoulders ached as you tried and tried to wrench yourself away. Barnes looked in doors until he found your room. You were taken inside as he peered around.

“Cuff her,” He said. “Put her on the bed.”

He turned you and pushed you down onto the mattress. He released your arms as he pinned your down with his knee in your back and you reached back blindly to claw at him. He caught your wrists and held them together, securing them with a pair of thick cuffs before he got off of you. You rolled over and kicked out. Barnes caught your ankle and squeezed until you groaned in pain.

“The king would prefer a bride without a broken foot,” He warned. “But he will accommodate it, should he need to.”

He threw your leg down gruffly and nodded to the man. The other left and you sat up awkwardly, your arms trapped behind you. You stood and Barnes quickly pushed you back down.

“I’ve been nice. Patient.” He said. “But I don’t have time for this.” He pointed his finger in your place. “Perhaps your mother didn’t tell you how these things work or maybe you just didn’t listen. This isn’t a proposal, Duchess. Not a choice.”

You snapped at his finger and he drew away quickly. He smirked and scoffed and shoved you back roughly.

“Keep it up and I’ll have you strapped down.” He snarled.

You slowly sat up, glaring at him, but didn’t go further. “Fuck you.” You spat.

His eyes rounded then he snickered again.

“Oh, there’s a lot to work on, Duchess. That mouth, first of all,” He turned and pulled open the sliding door of your closet. “Ugh, and��” He touched a wool sweater. “And these, most of all.”

The man in black reappeared with a suitcase, the other faded leather dug up from the linen closet. He slapped it down on the bed beside you and flipped it open. He went to stand in the door, blocking it with his wide frame.

“Duchess, future queens, do not wear…” He held up a jacket. “Tweed.”

You growled, fighting the urge to kick him. You couldn’t reach and the cuffs kept you off-balance.

“We’ll take enough for the time being but… we’ll have to bring in some stylists,” He dropped an armful of clothes into the suitcase. “For…” He looked you up and down. “Everything.”

“You can’t do this,” You snarled.

“I can. I am.” He insisted as he tucked in the corners of the clothing. “That’s what you don’t seem to understand. I can do whatever I want. I have an order from the king and I have diplomatic authority. Now, I have been nice so far, I will even allow your mother to accompany you.”

“No,” You hissed. “No, leave her here.”

“Leave her?” He asked.

“It’ll be easier.” You lowered your chin. “For both of us.”

He was quiet. He nodded and stepped away. He went to the attached bathroom and returned with your pouch of essentials.

“We can make up for whatever we forget,” He dropped it atop the open suitcase. “Anything in particular I’ve missed, duchess?”

“Beyond human decency?” You challenged.

He laughed once more and closed the suitcase.

“It’s a long flight,” He said. “And it’ll be longer with those.” He tugged on the cuffs. “Hopefully it gives you time to think.”

He zipped up the bag and handed it to the man in black. Then he grabbed you and lifted you onto your feet. He guided you from the room with his hand on your wrists. Your mother sat, the other man staring her down, and looked over as you entered.

“Please, don’t take her. Please.” She begged as she tried to stand only to be nudged back by her watcher. “You can’t--”

“Princess, you know you can’t stop us.” Barnes said. “And your daughter has made up her mind. You will stay.” He bent to look her in the eyes. “You get your wish. Stay in your exile, pretending, playing at normalcy.”

“I’ll go,” She pleaded. “Let me go.” She leaned over and looked around him at you. “Don’t leave me here. I’ll come with you. I’ll-- I’ll-- you’re my daughter--”

“And you lied to me.” You sniffed. “You did this. Why would I want you to come?”

“I’m your mother.” She uttered.

“You’re the Princess of Ecklun. It was written there on that paper.” You sneered. “In your hand. I have to live with what you’ve done but it doesn’t mean I have to live with you.”

You turned your head up and held back the sudden wave of sadness which swelled in you. Everything you knew was just a lie. Your own mother. Your only family. She’d sold you like cattle. If she had warned you, maybe you could have stayed hidden. If she had warned you, maybe you wouldn’t be so unprepared. If she had warned you…

“Well,” You looked at Barnes. “Are we going?”

He stepped away from your mother and took your arm. “No goodbyes?”

“She signed her farewell a long time ago,” You said and turned away from her. “She’s had years to prepare for this. Years she stole from me.”

398 notes · View notes

smileyjaeminies · 4 years ago

Text

Of point shoes and interviews

Synopsis: How can your very first interview as a dancer turn the tide between you and the cute journalist?

Word Count: 3,2 k

Genre: ballet dancer reader x journalist Jacob, fluff

Warnings: slight mention of counting calories

Member: Jacob

A/N: In celebration of The Boyz’s comeback ‘Stealer’, here is some Jacob fluff. This was inspired by a ballet gala I watched some weeks back, so I hope you guys like it!

Applause. Roaring applause. A standing ovation, for you. The lights are blinding you, so you are not able to meet eyes with the audience, but the look of adoration is clear in your stare. A huge smile is dominating your face, and it’s not one of the fake ones you maintain while performing, no, this one is as real as can be.

You take a bow, again and again, Eric beaming at you by your side, squeezing your waist as a way to offer his comfort. You take his hand again after another bow and ultimately, the Primas start to make their way back, so you follow them. One day, that’s going to be you.

Your white tutu is ruffling around you as you move further backstage, your hand still tightly holding Eric’s. He screams excitedly at you and you start jumping to meet his excitement. More of your friends join you and somehow, you find yourselves in a group hug, laughing and screaming at your successful opening night. ‘Swan Lake’ was no easy feat, yet all of you had done well. Your heart beat rapidly inside your chest, your hands shaking from stress and exhaustion. Your mind grows hazy at the thought that you’re going to do it all again tomorrow, your feet longing to stand on stage again. You were anticipating the reviews with the paper tomorrow morning, your stomach turning in a funny way at the thought.

People are everywhere, backstage is a mess of hugs, smiles and excited chatter. Your best friend Mina has a hold on your hand, so you turn to meet her eyes. They are shining, stars twinkling behind them and yet you can tell that she’s dead tired. Discreetly, you lead the both of you to your shared dressing room, to collapse on the shitty fold out chairs and pry the point shoes off your feet. After a few breathless moments, smiles grew on both of your faces, lighting up the room. In no time, you were rambling on about your performance and trying to get rid of your makeup, hands moving quickly for a well known routine, mouths moving even quicker in excitement. A knock on the door made your conversation die down, making you exchange a look with Mina.

“Are you expecting anyone?” you asked her.

“No. You?” she asked back.

You shook your head and shrugged your shoulders. Mina was only half done with removing her makeup so you got up, opening the door and peeking your head out of it. You were surprised to meet a man before you, handsomely dressed in a suit, hair swept back and a big smile softening his features. He was almost hiding behind a big bouquet of colourful flowers, moving his weight from one foot to the other in anticipation. As you opened the door, you saw a glint of recognition pass before his eyes, making him smile even wider.

“Miss Y/L/N, hello! My name is Jacob Bae, I’m a journalist for THE BOYZ magazine and I was wondering if we could schedule an interview with you!” Jacob rambled on, taking you aback.

He pushed the flowers in your arms, their strong aroma filling your senses and making you overwhelmed.

“You want to interview… Me?” you asked in astonishment.

“Yes! I’ve heard all about you! You’re somewhat of a miracle aren’t you? A prodigy child that did a 180 turn and packed up to go to Juliard? I bet you have a lot of things to say!” Jacob said.

“I… I don’t know honestly. What magazine did you say you write for?” you asked.

“THE BOYZ magazine. It’s all about things young people should keep their eye out about, whether it be small businesses or upcoming stars!” he explained.

Frankly, you had never heard of the magazine and the way he was selling it didn’t seem all that appealing to you. But his kind nature, big smile and the bright flowers were enough to get you thinking.

“I… I’ll see what I can do. But this will have to wait until Monday. No work during the weekend besides dancing” you explained.

“Of course! I understand.” Jacob said.

He fumbled through the pockets of his suit, taking out a small notebook and pencil and scribbling down some information. He then handed the paper to you, making you shoot him a quizzical look as your eyes scanned the words.

“That’s my phone number. I also gave you the address of one of my favourite cafes in town. Small, quiet and discreet, a good place for an interview!” he explained. “Would 11am suit you well?”

“Yes, I guess that’s fine” you answered.

“Thank you so much, Miss Y/L/N! Enjoy your night! By the way, you were amazing on stage today” he said.

A blush rose on your cheeks at his words. It wasn’t the first time you had been complimented, but somehow his praise made you bashful.

“I… Thank you, Jacob. I guess I’ll see you on Monday” you told him.

He beamed at you, turning and walking away. You stood at the door of the dressing room for a few moments, watching him maneuver through the crowd of people to the exit. You smiled to yourself and to the flowers in your hands and walked back inside. You placed the flowers in front of the mirror and sat down in front of them, only then noticing the small envelope attached to one of them.

You opened the envelope to reveal a white piece of paper, scribbled in black ink with a few words. “I can’t wait for the day you stand with the Primas. You are phenomenal. Forever your fan, Jacob Bae”

“Oh my God” you whispered.

“Are you going to tell me or..?” Mina asked from beside you.

You turned to her, handing the card wordlessly as you stared at the flowers. Oh, how the plot thickened. You felt as if you were dancing in a ballet of your own, the excuse of an interview becoming the bait for something more.

“Well, was he cute?” Mina asked.

“Mina!” you called, reprimanding her.

“I thought I’d ask! Don’t be so uptight Y/N” she joked, hitting your shoulder slightly.

You shook your head at her before saying, “We scheduled an interview on Monday”

“You did NOT!” Mina said, placing a hand over her heart, feigning shock.

“Oh, shut up, you’ll be asking for details within seconds!” you joked, making both of you laugh.

“You are not wrong, friend. But first, today we celebrate us! Boys can wait!” she said giggling.

You nodded at her words, agreeing completely. You started changing into your regular clothes, leaving your tutus to hang in the dressing room, waiting for you, waiting for tomorrow. Mina decided to step out first, trying to find all your friends and gather them outside. You hoisted your bag on your shoulder, ready to follow her out when you remembered something. Turning back quickly you retrieved the small envelope and Jacob’s note, throwing them somewhere in your bag. You would have time to think about it later.

The air was cold outside, making goosebumps rise on your exposed arms. With one hand draped around your shoulders, you and Mina waited for some of your other friends for a night of mild partying. You still had a long way to go, so you couldn’t afford any mishaps happening to any of you.

Some hours later, with your belly filled with food and sugary cocktails, you opened the door to our apartment, cursing as it creaked loudly. You changed quickly, collapsing on your bed without much thought, the exhaustion catching up with you. Your day had been beyond successful and your mind was light and airy from everything.

You remembered the envelope, stacked somewhere in the bottom of your bag and smiled. Such a random thing to happen. And who could tell where it would lead?

------------------------------------------

Monday morning came quicker than you expected as the weekend flashed by in a whirlwind of prep, dancing and applause. You hated Mondays. Why did the exciting weekend come crashing every Monday? Unfair.

When your alarm woke you up, a low groan escaped your throat as you rushed to turn it off. Your body was sore, having been overworked for three days straight and was now urgently trying to gain your attention. You knew you'd be in for some exercise later this afternoon, although you didn’t look forward to it.

You walked out to your kitchen, opting for some quick breakfast to save you time. You stared mindlessly at your closet for too long, finally figuring out an outfit out of jeans and a loose sweatshirt. You pulled on some comfortable shoes, remembering you had to run some errands after your interview and after grabbing your keys and locking the door, you were off.

You decided to catch a taxi, as the cafe Jacob had chosen wasn’t far, yet you didn’t feel like walking today. The sky was cloudy above you, even though the clouds were white and not heavy with rain. You tried to make yourself brighter. This opportunity could mean a lot to you, and as your friends would say ‘Any publicity is good publicity’.

You paid the fare, climbing out of the taxi to find Jacob standing in front of the cafe, a single rose at his hand. He smiled seeing you arrive and you mirrored his expression.

“Good morning, Miss Y/N!” he greeted you warmly

“Good morning! Please don’t call me Miss… It makes me feel old. You’re probably older than me anyways!” you chirped back.

“Of course. Y/N then. This is for you” he said, offering you the flower.

“Thank you” you said, feeling your cheeks heating up “And thank you for the flowers on Friday. I don’t think I ever thanked you properly, they were very beautiful.”

“It’s really not a big deal. I’m glad you liked them. Shall we go inside?” he asked.

You nodded at his words and he smiled at you. He opened the door for you and you giggled at his extravagant gesture. Leading you to the counter, you scanned the items, trying to find something to your liking.

“I’m getting the most extra thing today. Pay is up to the magazine. I would urge you to do the same. Have you had breakfast?” he asked.

His suggestion made you laugh, but it also got you thinking.

“I think I’ll just have some tea.” you said.

“What?? Don’t you want to treat yourself? I bet you had a tough weekend.” he said.

“That’s true, but I also have a calorie count. I ate some pretty shitty breakfast, so now I’ll have to deal with the consequences” you explained.

“Are you serious? You count calories on everything you eat?” he asked, clearly shocked.

“Well not everything. But I have to be careful or else I’m going to make Eric’s life hell. Eric is my partner by the way. He’s the one who lifts me and swirls me around” you explained.

“If you put it like that… Tea it is. But I’m still getting the extra thing” Jacob joked.

You laughed at his words, shaking your head at his shenanigans. After placing your order, you moved to wait for your things as Jacob paid. The barista smiled politely at you as he placed your cup in front of you. You nodded back at him, muttering a small thank you.

“I bought cookies!” Jacob announced excitedly, showing you a packet of cookies.

“Ohhh, they look yummy!” you said.

“One cookie wont hurt, right?” Jacob said, sending a wink your way, making you chuckle.

Once his drink was ready, he led you to one of the nearby tables. You settled in, taking a sip of your tea and collecting the sleeves of your sweatshirt to your elbows. Jacob was settling in opposite you, placing his phone neatly in the middle of the table and you noticed that it was already ready to record. He took out the small notebook you had seen a few days back, ready for his notes. You watched his actions, studying his face as it relaxed, the easy smile falling from his lips as concentration on the task at hand took over.

“You ready to begin? I promise I won’t keep you long” he assured you.

“Ask away! I have all the time in the world” you told him.

The smile on your lips landed on his as well and you could almost see him change before your eyes. He became professional, dropping the small talk and teasing, to replace them with well structured questions that helped introduce you, your background and your work to his audience. He allowed you to talk freely, making sure you had said everything you wanted to say before moving on to the next question.

You had just finished telling him how you were good friends with both Eric and Mina even outside of work and how your relationship with Eric needed to be pretty steady for both of you to dance well. Jacob kept nodding at your words, only pointing out things once or twice and scribbling notes down on his notebook.

“Are you single?” Jacob blurted out suddenly.

You were just taking a sip of your drink and you almost choked at the sudden question. You tried to compose yourself, drinking another sip of tea to give yourself some time. You placed the cup on the table only to find Jacob’s wide eyes shifting from you to the notebook in front of him. His cheeks were starting to burn, you could tell and he kept fumbling uncomfortably in his seat.

“I… I’m so sorry, Y/N. I don’t know what to tell you, my editor-in-chief put that in, I thought I had crossed it out. I’m so so sorry” Jacob apologised, his eyes avoiding yours.

You smiled a little at his flustered state, realizing you were watching yet another side to Jacob. The thought made a warm feeling spread in your chest as you took your gaze off your cup to meet his eyes.

“Off the record, yes. On record, I will not answer this question” you reply with a smirk.

Jacob let out a sigh, still keeping his eyes down. You deliberated what you could say to lighten up the atmosphere, or at least comfort him. A smile? No, he wasn’t looking at you. A joke? What if he felt even worse? Your inner turmoil came to a stop when Jacob spoke up.

“Can we just… Forget this happened?” he suggested.

You wasted no time to nod, sending him what you hoped was a comforting smile. He still seemed preoccupied, asking you the next question without the layer of interest you were accustomed to. However, you replied to the best of your ability, hoping that the flow of your words would help Jacob relax.

Indeed, he seemed more present for the next question, going back to nodding and keeping notes. The awkward moment was forgotten and you were soon back in the routine you had created. He finally asked you to send a message to his readers as the final question of your interview. You paused for a few moments, collecting your thoughts before answering.

“I guess I would just like to tell people that it’s never too late to discover your passion. It’s also okay to lose it for some time, to struggle, to question it, to change your mind. There are infinite possibilities and all of them lie in your grasp. Choose a path and if it turns out to be the wrong one... Well that’s life. It’s okay. I know you’ll figure it out, I know you can do it” you finished.

“Wow, Y/n, that’s very inspiring” Jacob said, stopping the recording on his phone.

“Is it? How did I do? I hope you were content with my answers!” you said.

“You were phenomenal! All your answers were really good, I really enjoyed watching your thought process unravel! And the way you talked about your colleagues? That was heartwarming!” he told you.

You couldn’t help looking down, his praise making you shy. That was the second time it had happened, and even if you weren’t a bashful person by nature, you weren’t about to complain. Moments passed in silence as Jacob tidied his things back in his bag. You weren’t sure if you were supposed to go yet or not, so you waited patiently for him to guide you.

“Okay, last question” he said, turning to face you.

“I thought the previous one was the last question?” you asked, cutting him off.

“Well this one is off record, if that’s okay” a nod from you urged him to go on, so he asked, “What are you doing after this?”

“What does that have to do with anything?” you asked back.

“No, no, remember this one is off record. Also, I’m the one asking questions here” he said, a joking manner to his words.

“Well, if you have to know, I have to buy some new point shoes and ribbons and then maybe I’ll grab lunch somewhere” you told him.

“Marvellous!” he exclaimed, getting up from his chair.

“Are you leaving?” you asked him.

“Well yeah, we have to buy you point shoes, ribbons and lunch!” he stated matter-of-factly.

“Who said I want company?” you teased him.

“Oh, this isn’t just keeping you company. It’s a date” he announced, sending a wink your way.

You had to keep your jaw from falling to the floor. As taken aback as you were, you wouldn't exactly say you were about to deny his offer. On the contrary, you had been attracted to Jacob from the moment he appeared outside your dressing room. But, Jacob didn’t know that. So you decided to tease him further.

“And if I refuse?” you asked.

You were still in your seat, Jacob standing above you, ready to offer his hand to help you up. You watched doubt flash in front of his eyes, but he composed himself very quickly. A gentle smile adorned his features as he told you,

“Then I will let you go on your merry way. I would never force you.” he said, his expression stern, deprived of all the joking mannerisms.

You were very satisfied with his answer. He had passed the test, if your teasing could be counted as such. But, as much as the acts of chivalry were cute, you were more than capable of doing things yourself. You decided to let him know that by pushing your chair back and getting up.

Now, you were up, you were almost at eye level, Jacob’s eyes searching for yours. You saw his hand fall to the side of his body, almost defeated. Just as he was about to say something, you reached for his hand, locking your pinkie with his.

If he was confused, he didn’t say anything, opting to just look up from your hands to your face. You beamed at him, only to then say,

“Shall we?”

Jacob smiled back at you, taking the lead to walk out of the cafe. At that moment, you decided that this Monday would get a pass.

#kafenetwork #deobinet #the boyz scenarios #jacob bae #jacob bae scenarios #the boyz #tbz #the boyz jacob #tbz jacob #jacob bae fluff #tbz scenarios #the boyz fluff #tbz fluff #kpop scenarios #journalist au #ballet dancer au #alex writes #the boyz stealer

98 notes · View notes

ladyreapermc · 5 years ago

Text

Fic: Sympathy for the Devil (John Wick x Reader) 1/4

Summary: Your best friend is getting married and you’re very excited until you find out that your ex is coming to the wedding. After a night of too much drinking and without a date for the big day, you summon a demon to make a deal.

Author’s notes: So this one was loosely inspired by this prompt and it was supposed to be an one-shot but it started to grow, became a small series and it might turn into an universe? Crazy? I know! But I’m in love with the idea of demon!John and how that would change the entire John Wick universe. But that’s a story for another day. For now, enjoy this first chapter. Feedback and suggestions are always welcomed!

Wordcount: 2874

Warnings: mentions of alcohol and inebriation; brief mention of blood

It was routine on Monday for your precinct to have squad meetings every morning. It was mostly a moment to update the team on open cases and for your Captain to distribute new assignments. It usually took a good part of the morning, so you didn’t have a chance to check your phone, but when you finally did, there were five missing calls from your best friend Claire, along with several messages asking you (in all caps) to call her immediately.

The sight of it set your senses on high alert as you looked for a quiet place to call her back. Claire was getting married in a week. If she was so desperate to talk to you there could only mean some kind of emergency.

“You haven’t RSVP for my wedding yet, right?” it was the first words out of Claire’s mouth as soon as the call connected.

“Are you serious? That’s why you were calling? I’m your maid of honor. Of course, I’m coming!” You rolled your eyes even if she couldn’t see you. “I’ll do it right now if it’s that important.”

“No! wait!” Claire shouted and you pull your phone away from your ear at the shrill tone of her voice. “You have to bring a date. Ryan’s coming.”

“What?” Your heart sped up and your breath caught in your throat. “Ryan, like my ex, Ryan? What the hell Claire!”

“It wasn’t me!” She hurried to say. “Apparently Dave ran into him and invited him since we have all these empty seats we already paid for. I’m so sorry.”

You dropped on the nearest chair, rubbing your temple. This could not be happening. You were not ready to face Ryan. You didn’t think you would ever be to be. Not after everything that happened between the two of you.

“How the hell am I gonna find a date in less than a week?” you said with a sigh.

Funny how you always believed to be so empowered but the thought of meeting your ex by yourself on a wedding made dread and panic clench your insides. You could almost picture the grimace in Claire’s face just through her silence. You two have been friends since kindergarten, you knew her like the back of your hand.

“What about that guy you’ve been seeing?” she asked, and it was your turn to wince. Teddy was pretty fun, but more of a fuck buddy than a man you’d want to bring to your best friend’s wedding.

“I’ll figure something out,” you said with another sigh before saying your goodbyes and pocketing your phone just as your partner Jake called you over. You two had a witness to interview.

Work helped to get your mind off the situation, but as soon as you walked in your apartment, dropping your keys, badge and gun on the side table, the entire debacle returned to your mind and you flopped on the couch, browsing your contacts because facing Ryan alone was one of your worst nightmares.

Once up a time, Ryan had been the love of your life, the center of your universe. He was a couple of years older, had a punk rock band, tattoos and felt so dangerous. It had been such a thrill. Your parents hated him and hated who you became when you were with him. Then one night you came by his place and he had just up and left without explanation, without a goodbye.

You remembered running all the way back home, the cold air of the night drying your tears and your heart felt like it would never be whole again. Maybe it never mended right, because even though you had several relationships in the last ten years, they never seemed to last or to feel quite right.

It was something you avoided thinking about it and were mostly successful since you’ve been putting your career as a detective for NYPD as your biggest priority. You shouldn’t let the ghost of a ruined relationship you had when you were a teenager affect you or ruin your fun at your best friend's wedding.

That was easier said than done though because as soon as you set foot on your hometown you were hit by this overwhelming sense of nostalgia that settled on your chest and seemed unwilling to be shaken off. Everywhere you looked, your mind was flooded with memories and you never felt closer to your seventeen old self.

The feeling was especially strong when you met Claire and your other best friend Lydia at the same store the three of you bought your prom dresses so you could do the final fitting for your dress. Since you and Lydia had pretty much the same body type, she had been standing in for you and this was the first time you would actually try on the dress that Claire picked for you: a burgundy halter neck dress with a side slit that went up to your mid-thigh.

“You look amazing!” Claire gushed as she met your eyes through the mirror. You grinned at your best friend because she was right. It was a beautiful dress and fit you perfectly.

You paid for the dress and the three of you left the store heading to the same diner you used to hang out after school back in the day. You hoped they still served that heavenly chocolate milkshake and fries because you were starving.

By some miracle, your usual booth at the diner, the one right by the glass window, was free and you, Claire and Lydia took your seats, ordering a round of milkshakes and fries as you caught up with each other. Sure, you three talked every other week, but nothing beat being with them in person. It was light and fun and familiar, and you were having so much fun you forgot any worries you had until you saw him.

Ryan stood on the other side of the street and he looked like he was waiting for someone as he talked on the phone. He had changed so much in the past ten years. Gone were the purple mohawk, piercings and ripped shirts. Ryan had gone back to his natural blonde hair; his blue eyes were free of makeup and there was no piercing visible. He was dressed in a simple blue button-down and tan slacks that fitted him quite nicely.

He looked even more handsome than you remembered and your stomach felt queasy and twisted into knots at the sight of him. Especially when a brunette woman that belonged on the pages of a fashion magazine stepped out of the shop and met him. Ryan kissed her cheek and they walked away; arms linked together.

“You didn’t tell me he was bringing a date,” you croaked, glancing back at Claire.

“I didn’t know,” she said with a sympathetic expression. “Are you ok? What do you need?”

“Alcohol,” you declared, dropping a few bills on the table as you stood up. “Lots and lots of alcohol.”

It was a good thing that Lydia and Claire knew about the entire dirty affair between you and Ryan because they didn’t even blink at your request. Instead, they guided you out of the diner and two streets over to the bar you all used to go as teens. It was old and kind of seedy, but the drinks were cheap, there was a karaoke machine and the bartender still remembered your orders, so he kept them coming all night.

You left the bar with your friends around two in the morning, finding your way home and stumbling up to your childhood room, without waking your parents by some kind of miracle.

Once again you were swayed by the nostalgia that sent you into a fit of uncontrollable giggles. Sneaking home after too much booze? Could there be something more teenage to do?

And maybe it was this nostalgia that gave you the brilliant idea of digging out the stupid journal from under the loosen floorboard under your bed. It was an old leather-bound book you found at an antique store. The yellowing pages and intricate design on the cover had caught your eye and you ended up buying it because back then you were obsessed with becoming a Wiccan witch.

Flipping through the familiar pages, you smiled at the “spells” which were mostly badly written rhymes or some verses you found online. A spell to get good grades; another to make your father less annoying; one to make people fall in love with you; there was even one to summon a demon... You paused at those words, frowning at the page. You didn’t remember this one but it certainly your handwriting.

You got up in an impulse and gathered the ingredients the spell required: silver, ash, and bone. You took an old jewelry box that you found in your room, filled with a handful of your grandfather’s ashes, the black knight made of carved bone from your father’s chess set and the silver necklace your mom had given you for your sweet sixteen.

Once you had everything, you grabbed your journal of spells and the box and headed for the crossroads a couple of blocks from your parents’ house. The entire thing was crazy and the sane part of you kept telling you to go back home and sleep off your intoxication. Another part of you, which was louder, edged you forward.

You put the box in the middle of the crossroad and checked the spell again. There was one last ingredient that you hadn’t added: blood. You took out your hairpin, letting your long hair tumble free over your shoulders as you used the sharp edge to prickle our finger, flinching at the quick stab of pain. Crimson blood blossomed on your skin and you let it fall into the open box before you chanted the words on the journal three times as demanded.

Holding your breath you waited a few moments, but nothing happened except a slow drizzle starting to fall. The cold droplets made you laugh and sobered you up a little. What were you doing? This was ridiculous.

Rolling your eyes at yourself and sucking your wounder finger, you picked up the jewelry box from the dirt ground and turned on your heels to head home. You managed only a couple of steps when the wind picked up speed, making your hair wisp widely over your face, carrying around a deep throaty voice:

“Your Latin needs work.”

---

John was staring out of the window of his hotel room, sipping his bourbon when he felt the call. It had been a very long time since he had received a summoning. In these modern times, witches and warlocks were a rare breed and few of those who dabbled with magic had any actual power to execute a spell like this.

Apparently, someone in this tiny little town was powerful enough to do so and it was out of pure curiosity that John set his glass aside and followed the call. He found himself on a dirt crossroads, under a soft spring drizzle just as a young woman started to walk away from him.

He commented on her Latin to catch her attention, taking pleasure in the way she jumped startled before turning around the look at him, her doe eyes widening in surprise. She didn’t look particularly powerful or special, but there was something strangely enticing about her that sparked John’s curiosity.

“How...? Where...? Who...?” she stuttered too confused to really finish a sentence and John snorted.

“You summoned me here,” he replied with an arched eyebrow. “As for who, you may call me John.”

“A demon named John?” she snorted a laugh and John thought there was an edge of hysteria in her tone that he could only attribute to shock.

“Who were you expecting? Beelzebub?” he asked dryly. “So, what do you need?”

“What do I need?” she repeated a little dumbly and John shook his head with an exasperated sigh. This was starting to get annoying.

“Yes. Why did you summon me here?” he clarified.

“I... Well... I need a date.” she confessed, her cheeks turning a charming shade of red. “For a wedding.”

She quickly explained her situation and all John could do was stare in disbelief. This girl really summoned the powers of hell because she didn’t want to face her ex alone? It was preposterous.

“I didn’t think it would actually work!” she exclaimed, obviously noticing his disapproving expression. “How was I supposed to know I wrote down an actual summoning spell on my book of shadows when I was sixteen!?”

John shook his head, ready to go back to his hotel. This was pointless and he had a business deal to conclude in a few hours. Before he could do anything, he felt the wind changing directions and making him freeze as it brought along her scent.

It was so sweet and desirable, almost intoxicatingly so and it made John want to bury his nose in her neck. It was the smell of virtue. This woman had one of the purest souls he ever encountered.

“I can give you what you want,” John offered in a low voice, turning up all of his charms and being rewarded by the way she shuddered. “For a price.”

“I’m not selling my soul,” she replied as she took a step back.

John fought to contain his grin at her refusal. It meant he would have to work this in the old way. Corrupt her little by little. It had been a long time since anyone put up a challenge to him. The prospect excited him.

“I don’t always deal in souls,” he said moving closer to her. “Sometimes all I require is a favor.”

“What kind of favor?” she asked, eyes narrowing in suspicion and John felt a strange sense of pride. She might be naïve enough to summon him, but she wasn’t stupid.

“You’re learning,” he commented, gently tracing up her arm just to see her breath hitching, her scent changing slightly, acquiring a certain spiciness due to her arousal. “I don’t know yet. Someday I might need something, and you’ll have to give it to me.”

John waited as she thought through his offer. He could tell part of her wasn’t sure if this was really happening or if she was hallucinating due to too much alcohol.

“I assure you, darling,” he said, taking her hand in his hand bringing to his lips for a soft kiss, letting his teeth scrape over her knuckles. “I am quite real.”

“Will anyone get hurt? If I do this favor?” she asked her voice shaky, her cheeks flushed.

“No one needs to get hurt,” he assured, holding her gaze.

“Ok,” she finally said with a gulp. “If you promise no one will get hurt with this favor of yours, I accept. Where do I sign?”

“That’s not how demons seal contracts, darling…” John smirked at her, hand moving to her cheek, cradling her face and tilting her face up with a gentle nudge of his thumb on her chin. He could tell the exact moment she realized what was about to happen because her eyes darkened and her lips parted almost in an invitation.

John could hear her heart racing and the jumble of thoughts running through her head as he closed the distance between them and pressed his lips against hers. He was gentle because he didn’t want to scare her and it paid off because she sighed against his mouth, her hand coming to his chest and fisting his shirt as she pressed her mouth a little more firmly against his and John could feel her urge to have him.

His tongue teased the seam of her lips and she immediately parted them for him, letting John explore and chase the faint taste of liquor and the sweetness that seemed uniquely hers. It was almost addictive, especially the way she responded to him, her own tongue sliding against his, her body pressing closer. John could feel her arousal growing and igniting his own. It had been a long time since he felt this stirring with just a kiss.

He wrapped an arm around her waist to hold her steady and her hands timidly moved up to his neck, her fingers combing through his hair softly, almost like she was petting him, and this time John was the one to sigh against her mouth.

He could stay like this for a long time. As long as she wanted.

It was that treacherous thought that broke the spell and John pulled away from her, putting some physical distance between himself and the girl.

John lingered for a moment watching the way she sighed happily, eyes still closed, her fingers gently touching her lips, still caught up in the aftereffects of him charm. He felt a strange urge to return to her, catch her mouth again, but before he could succumb to those impulses, he went back to his hotel, putting some distance between himself and this alluring human.

He was the one doing the tempting, not the other way around. John needed to remember that.

(tbc)

Permanent Taglist (give me a shout if you want to added or removed)

@poisonedjoinery @ringa-starr @curly-minnie @i-cant-remember-my-old-login @caryled @beyond-antares @kathorax @krazycags01 @meetmeinthematinee @red-pill-blue-pill @baphometwolf666 @soarocks @imagine-the-fanfics @moonlit-raven-haven @cumberbatchbaps @coolbreezeinkeanureeves @kindainlovewithkeanu @sgt-morgan @hisdeadwife

#john wick #john wick fanfic #john wick imagine #john wick x you #john wick x reader #Demon!John Wick #fanfic #series #alternate universe #sympathy for the devil

321 notes · View notes

bountyofbeads · 5 years ago

Text

https://www.nydailynews.com/opinion/wayne-barrett-donald-trump-rudy-giuliani-peas-pod-article-1.2776357?outputType=amp&__twitter_impression=true

REMINDER: Trump has relied on Rudy Giuliani as a "fixer" ever since Trump bribed Rudy to kill a mob-related money laundering investigation into him 30 years ago.

The late Wayne Barrett wrote about their corrupt 30-year relationship in 2016:

Peas in a pod: The long and twisted relationship between Donald Trump and Rudy Giuliani

By WAYNE Barrett | Published SEP 04, 2016 5:00 AM ET | NEW YORK DAILY News | Posted September 25, 2019 |

Let's start with the fact that Donald Trump's top surrogate, Rudy Giuliani, is on the payroll. In January, he joined a law firm, Greenberg Traurig, that represents Trump and son-in-law Jared Kushner.

Last year, the firm handled Trump's suit against the Florida city of Doral so his golf course could override noise regulations that barred him from bulldozing before sunrise. More recently, it handled Kushner's $340-million acquisition of the Watchtower properties in downtown Brooklyn.

When Trump paid a $250,000 fine in 2000 for secretly funding a million-dollar lobbying campaign against an Indian casino in upstate New York, he was represented by Greenberg.

Giuliani brought Marc Mukasey, the stepson of ex-U.S. Attorney General and lifelong Giuliani friend Michael Mukasey, with him to Greenberg; Mukasey is now representing legendary leg man Roger Ailes. Mukasey launched into a tirade recently against New York Magazine reporter Gabriel Sherman, calling the Ailes biographer "a virus" willing to "use any woman" to Weinerize the Trump debate adviser. His dad, who once branded Trump a "peril" to national security, delivered a Republican Convention speech the night after Rudy's screed.

This intertwine may or may not have something to do with why the Greenberg firm lets Rudy, one of its newest partners, hired early this year ostensibly to run a cybersecurity unit, travel the country with Trump, introducing him at rallies and fundraisers, challenging Hillary Clinton's health based on stuff he finds in corners of the internet, declaring her Clinton Foundation troubles worse than Watergate, wearing a "Make Mexico Great Again Also" cap, and helping draft policy speeches diagnosing African Americans for white audiences.

I even watched Rudy on TV, before one joint trip to Ohio, loading suitcases into the back of a Trump SUV in front of Trump Tower, the only baggage that slows him down.

Rudy has actually been more visible in his buddy's campaign than he was at times in his own $50 million presidential attempt in 2008, when he managed to convert the months-long top ranking in the polls into a single delegate. The imperial 2016 candidate who hates losers, especially ones who wind up in Vietnamese prisons, has instead embraced an epic dud, his solitary act of empathy in a campaign of callousness. He could've trashed Rudy like he did John McCain: "I like people who weren't caught with their command center down."

But the onetime comb-over twins just had too much in common. Though bombs-away hawks today, they got multiple draft deferments during the Vietnam War, with athlete Donald citing bad feet as his excuse and Rudy using an ear defect to sidestep his ROTC obligations.

Trump is now warning of a rigged election, invoking the image of Philadelphia blacks cheating at the ballot box and calling for voter suppression squads to "monitor" suspect precincts. Rudy said the 1989 mayoral election he lost was stolen and spent millions on suppression squads, dispatching off-duty white cops and firefighters to minority districts, when he won in 1993.

The two amigos also spark similar antipathy in Mexico, their latest joint destination — Donald for a mantra of insults, and Rudy for a multi-million-dollar anti-crime contract his consulting company won in Mexico City that flopped so badly the police chief declared he was "no fan" of Giuliani's. Rudy even tried to lend credence to the Trumpian fantasy that "thousands" of Muslims in Jersey City celebrated 9/11, quibbling only with the number.

Then there's the wife trifecta. No one in American public life, other than perhaps their kindred spirit Newt Gingrich, has ever mastered the art of a bad divorce like Rudy and Donald, carrying on as if spousal humiliation was the point.

Ask the kids. When Trump married mistress Marla Maples nearly four years after he walked out on Ivana, the three convention stars, Don Jr., Ivanka and Eric, didn't show up. Andrew and Caroline Giuliani made strained appearances at Rudy's 2003 wedding to Judi Nathan, but in 2007, both distanced themselves from their father's presidential pursuit, with Caroline Facebooking her preference for Obama, as close to the ex-mayor's heart as she could plunge the dagger.

Rudy's wife Donna found out he wanted a divorce when he announced it on TV, just as Marla had a couple of years before. Rudy then chose Mother's Day to alert the press that he would be having dinner with his new love and led the cameras on a 10-block walk with her after dinner, kissing her goodbye while his wife and kids simmered. His divorce lawyer declared "we're going to have to pry her off the chandeliers to get her out of" Gracie Mansion. Even Donald Trump was offended, writing an open letter to New York Magazine and urging Donna and Rudy "to sit down with each other in a room, without your lawyer, and see if you can settle this."

But Rudy was only following in the divorce-as-spectacle footsteps of Donald, who'd used the New York Post as his personal hammer a decade before, relishing in Marla's "best sex I ever had" headlines even as they horrified young Ivanka and Don. Trump told Newsweek the scandal was "great for business," and pushed Marla to seize on the opportunities it presented, including half a million to pose in "No Excuses" jeans.

He'd brought his mistress to the same Atlantic City boxing matches he brought his wife to, aboard the same helicopter, just as he'd set up Marla in a sparkling suite on the Aspen slopes while he was vacationing with his family. Young Don told his father then "you just love your money," a line he did not revive in his convention script. Ivanka, shocked by headlines on newsstands during her walk to school, just wept.

Rudy and Donald first got together in the late 1980s shortly before Donald became a co-chair of Giuliani's first fundraiser for his 1989 mayoral campaign, sitting on the Waldorf dais and steering $41,000 to the campaign. A year earlier, Tony Lombardi, the federal agent closest to then-U.S. Attorney Giuliani, opened a probe of Trump's role in the suspect sale of two Trump Tower apartments to Robert Hopkins, the mob-connected head of the city's largest gambling ring.

Trump attended the closing himself and Hopkins arrived with a briefcase loaded with up to $200,000 in cash, a deposit the soon-to-felon counted at the table. Despite Hopkins' wholesale lack of verifiable income or assets, he got a loan from a Jersey bank that did business with Trump's casino. A Trump limo delivered the cash to the bank.

The government subsequently nailed Hopkins' mortgage broker, Frank LaMagra, on an unrelated charge and he offered to give up Donald, claiming Trump "participated" in the money-laundering — and volunteering to wear a wire on him.

Instead, Lombardi, who discussed the case with Giuliani personally (and with me for a 1993 Village Voice piece called "The Case of the Missing Case"), went straight to Donald for two hour-long interviews with him. Within weeks of the interviews, Donald announced he'd raise $2 million in a half hour if Rudy ran for mayor. Lamagra got no deal and was convicted, as was his mob associate, Louis (Louie HaHa) Attanasio, who was later also nailed for seven underworld murders. Hopkins was convicted of running his gambling operation partly out of the Trump Tower apartment, where he was arrested.

Lombardi — who expected a top appointment in a Giuliani mayoralty, conducted several other probes directly tied to Giuliani political opponents, and testified later that "every day I came to work I went to Mr. Giuliani to seek out what duties I needed to perform" — closed the Trump investigation without even giving it a case number. That meant that New Jersey gaming authorities would never know it existed.

It's hard to watch Giuliani invoke his 14-year history as a federal prosecutor when he calls for Clinton's prosecution and square it with the seedy launch of his own relationship with Trump.

When Rudy was mayor, Trump hired the lobbying firm that included name partner Ray Harding, the head of the state's Liberal Party, whose ballot line had provided the margin of difference in Giuliani's 1993 election. Harding's firm quickly went from three lobbying clients to 92, and it steered the controversial, 90-story Trump World Tower, the tallest residential tower in city history, through three levels of Giuliani administration approvals despite loud opposition from community groups led by Walter Cronkite.

Both Harding and his son, a top Giuliani official, wound up felons. His other son, Robert Harding, a Giuliani deputy mayor, has long been a lobbyist at Rudy's current employer, Greenberg.

The Giuliani administration also wrote a 1995 letter of support to HUD for $365 million in mortgage insurance for Trump's Riverside South project, affirming that the Westside Yards site was in a blighted neighborhood, a contention so ludicrous that Donald had to eventually withdraw the application. A board of Giuliani appointees, pushed by Harding's firm, also approved renovations at Trump's 100 Central Park South, where Eric Trump now lives.

Rudy wound up a friend, speaking at Fred Trump's 1999 funeral, doing a grope scene with Donald in a 2000 Inner Circle skit, inviting Donald and Melania to his Gracie Mansion wedding and attending Trump's 2005 Mar-A-Lago wedding.

As aligned as Trump and Rudy appear, there are enough stark differences to make the embrace uncomfortable, at least if the blank-slate broadcast interviewers would do a search or two. When Mitt Romney ran against Giuliani, he said Rudy made New York a "sanctuary city," based on Giuliani's urging undocumented people to settle in the city. PoliFact found the assertion "true."

As mayor, Giuliani was the top Republican champion of the assault-weapons ban, sued the gun industry and called for "uniform licensing" of all guns, contending that the free flow of firearms into the city from unregulated states was killing New Yorkers.

Rudy was also one of the only elected pro-choice Republicans who even supported partial birth abortion. He's recently begun to perform same-sex marriages. He is, in all of these respects, an anti-Trump surrogate.

Yet Trump has said he might name Rudy to chair an immigration commission or to head homeland security. Trump apparently forgets that Rudy already gave us one homeland security secretary, his business partner and former correction and police commissioner Bernie Kerik, who blew up like a land mine before he could take office and wound up sentenced to four years in federal prison, partly for lying to the White House.

2 notes · View notes

maggyme13 · 7 years ago

Text

I just want to be like you

AN: This is my entry for @caplansteverogers Disney Challenge. I had the Song Prompt of “I want to be like you”-Jungle book. I hope I made it justice and you like it.

(y/n) is working for the Avengers. She didnt want to bother the others and so she got in a bit of trouble. And all of that because she just wanted to be a bit like Natashe (sorry, i suck at summaries)

FRIDAY

Thoughts

Natasha x Reader

Wordcount: around 3000

Warnings: nope :)

Masterlist

One year. That was the amount of time you had been working for the Avengers-Initiative. Not as one of the superheroes, a medic or a spy (you know the interesting kind of jobs)- no- you were responsible to stand in front of the press and answer questions, give conferences or schedule interviews with the members of the team. Given that fact, you spend most of your time at the compound, gathering information to give out to the public, scheduling an autograph-session or the interviews with magazines. Sometimes you felt more like a manager or PA than a public agent.

Payment was good and because you lived at the compound (with free food an meals all day) you were able to save most of it and because of your heavy schedule, you had next to no time to even be able to spend it. Often times you had thought about getting a pet (you really loved dogs), but with how crazy your schedule could be, you didn’t want to stress it out or leave it for days at once with another person taking care of it.

Tony had bought a huge saltwater-fish tank for the lobby where the press or guests would be waiting and you just sat there at times and relaxes watching the hundreds of fish swimming around. At one point he had joked about getting sharks, to scare people they needed to question, but his wife Pepper Potts and Captain America himself had parted him from that plan. Though you had the feeling the plan wasn’t entirely of the table, because more than once you had seen the ex-Russian spy Natasha Romanov (also known as Black Widow), the ex-Hydra Agent Sergeant James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes (aka THE Winter Soldier), Clint Barton (the famous Hawkeye) and Iron Man himself sticking their heads together near the tank and discussing things like space, how to lower someone down the easiest and safest way and if human excrements would be harmful to those dangerous animals. They had always stop talking though when they noticed you being close and you, the good employee you were, had always acted like you hadn´t heard anything at all.

Secretly you imagined having that tank whenever you had a stressful day with press or idiotic people harassing you when they thought they could get close to the Avengers through you. You then would imagine them hanging over said tank or swimming with the sharks. In reality you wouldn´t wish anybody to life that fate, anybody but one: Alexander Schwarz, a reporter for the worst magazine in existence, who thought if he kept flirting with you (more like harassing you) you would get him close to the Avengers and he could produce the biggest scandal ever. You hated that man with a passion, he didn’t get the hint and he wouldn’t even get it was it hit into his brain by Hulk with a steel-chair.

The conference you had to attend today was especially exhausting. On the last mission something had gone wrong and a few houses and fields had been destroyed (by the enemy!). Of course, Stark had immediately made sure anybody would get their houses rebuild (better like they were before), the hospital bills would be paid and the farmers that lost their products would get paid generously. As it was usually the case, and usually the press didn’t really care about it. But this time they smelled a scandal coming around and the protesters waiting outside the hotel where the conference was held, treated you like you had been the reason for it happening.

“You look exhausted (y/n). You should tell Tony that you need someone to help you. Or at least accompany you to those meetings so you don’t need to swim with those sharks alone. I can only do as much and stay close, I am of no help with the press.”, Happy piped up from the driver-seat. Even though he was the chef of security for Tony Stark, he often drove you, Pepper, Tony or any Avenger that needed a ride, to your appointments. And he didn’t seem to mind being a driver as well.

“It´s fine Happy. It´s only because of the damage caused during the last mission. That was like a drop of blood in a pool full of sharks. It´s not usually that horrid and stressful. Pepper managed press-conferences AND board-meetings when she was both Starks PA and literally leading Stark-Industries. If she can manage that, I can manage this a few times a year. Neither she nor Natasha would need an assistant.”, you sighted, looking out of the window, where you only were able to see your own image. That late it was already. It was past midnight and you knew you would have to wake up again in only a few hours, for you had promised Natasha to train with her.

“That’s true. Natasha would just scare the shit out of anyone of them with her Russian Assassin Charm and Pepper had a LOT of training being Tony´s PA and I am sure she is as dangerous as Natasha can be. Damn that woman has a look in her repertoire that can kill even an undead. Trust me I was close often enough when Tony got a scolding from her. I wouldn’t want to get on either of their bad sides.”, the man explained with a laugh, you knew he was right.

“But still-“, you sighted, ”Fine. I will at least think about it. Just promise me to not say anything as long as possible. To neither of them, please.”

“Fine. Just don’t work yourself to a breaking-point. If I think you come close I will sing like a bird on your only free morning of the week.”

“Fitting description.”, you laughed, “I promise. Now lets get home. I am tired like hell.”

“I hear you, (y/n).”

______

Ten minutes later you finally entered your room and you fell head first unto your bed, falling asleep at once.

A loud beeping sound scared you to sit up straight and you groaned realizing you had to get up already.

“Friday. Please turn off the alarm.”, you mumbled half asleep.

“As you wish. I advise to get ready. Mrs Romanov is already on her way to your room.”

“Thanks for the heads-up.”

Still more asleep than awake you got dressed in workout-clothes and quickly washed your face with cold water to at least get awaken enough to keep your eyes open. What turned out to be harder than it should be.

You looked somehow decent, when a knock sounded from your door and you went to open it. A very much awaken and enthusiastic looking Natasha greeted you.

“Morn´n Natasha. How ´r you?”, you mumbled with sticky eyes.

“Better than you it seems. You alright?”, he asked worriedly.

“mhm? Mhmm!. The confer´nce jus´ took longer than usu´l.”, you mumbled, supressing a yawn.

“You want to do this another day? I won´t be mad. You look like you need the few hours of extra sleep. Don´t exert yourself. I don’t want you to get hurt you know?”, she stated, with a cocked eyebrow.

“It´s fine. I need to get other stuff ready, so I would have to stand up soon either way. Tis way I will do som´thin´ for my health.”, you yawned before stumbling past the assassin and towards the elevators, with her following suit, a worried look on her face.

___

Entering the gym, you noticed that the supersoliders were already there, as well as Falcon and a sleeping Archer. Neither of them noticed you at first and you walked towards one of the bikes to get warm. Usually you would use the treadmill, but with how tired you were the bikes were less of a safety hazard for yourself. Would you fell asleep, you hoped you would just slump down onto the handlebars and not head first one the track and then down the floor like it would be the case with the treadmill.

Your heart sprung out of your chest after only a few minutes, that was how tired you and your body were and you must have fallen asleep for a second, because the next thing you knew were Clint clapping you onto your shoulder, waking you up with a start. Wasn’t it for his hand on your shoulder, you would have fallen off the bike.

“Morning (y/n). sorry I didn’t want to startle you. Didn’t thought you would be that much in thought.”, he apologised, “How come you are here this early? Usually you are here in the evening.”

“Promised Natasha to train with her.”, you answered, trying to look as awaken as possible.

“Yeah, Nat is an early riser.”, he laughed, sending someone behind you a look and you knew it was meant for Natasha from the kind of look it was. You had noticed pretty early those two had some kind of silent communication going on.

“True. Conference was longer than usual last night on top of that.”, you explained, and the man next to you looked like he understood what was going on.

“When did you came in?”, he asked, sounding as worried as Natasha had been before.

“No idea.”, you sighted.

“FRIDAY, when did (y/n) return from press last night?”, the man asked as once, catching the attention of everyone else around.

“She and Mr Happy returned at 2:23 am.”

“That was just three hours ago. Did you get any sleep?”, he exclaimed with widen eyes.

“Yeah.”, you mumbled, ashamed of being caught.

“I mean except the twenty minutes on this bike.”, he declared with a pointed look.

Shit. I slept twenty minutes on this bike. Fuck.

“Yeah, I fell asleep as soon as I hit the sack-I didn’t even change into my PJs.”, you admitted, a blush creeping onto your face, feeling every attending Avenger´s eyes on you.

“That’s not a lot of sleep. You are over exerting yourself.”, the Captain sighted and scolded at the same time.

“Its alright-“, you started to assure them, but were interrupted by him again. “No, its not. You just fell asleep riding an exercise bicycle. That´s not usual and right!”

“Usually its not that bad.”, you tried to reason, but a stare form him made you shut up at once.

“You will go back to your room and I will tell Tony you have the day off. NO arguments.”, he ordered in his Captain America voice and you sighted. You knew he was right, but you didn’t want to look weak or helpless and, in your mind, you just looked both.

“Yes, Sir.”, you answered, not mocking but defeated and climbed off the bike, only to stumble into the Archer, who caught you with ease, “Sorry.”

“No worries. But do as he said, you look like a walking dead with how pale you are. Its ain´t healthy.”, he whispered in your ear.

“I will see her to her room.”, the man with the metal arm stated from behind you and you had the feeling there was more to it than just making sure you don’t fall asleep mid-step.

“Do that Buck. Natasha, we have training to do. And (y/n), I don’t want to see you out of your bed unless you go to the bathroom or to eat and drink something. Not unless you are fully rested I will have FRIDAY have an eye on you.”, and with that he and Natasha walked away to spar.

“Come on. Or do I need to carry you?”, your chaperone winked and you slowly stumble towards the elevators, him following suit.

“You know, I am not used to much sleep and walk around the compound at night, right?”, he began as soon as the doors of the elevator had closed.

Where is he going with this?

“I noticed you are often working until late at night doing schedules and preparing for press-conferences or whatever you do. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you being exhausted whenever a mission goes public or the flowers you want to dumb in the bin, only to decorate the common area with them. More than once I saw you asleep at your desk and missing meals because a statement had to be finished or things like that.”, he stated in a neutral tone.

“It´s not that often.”, you mumbled, ashamed that you had been caught. You had tried to sneak around at night, so no one would notice.

“Maybe not, but it is often enough I would define it as regular and common. You need to stop that.”, he almost ordered you, worry seeping into his voice.

“Yeah- can you do me a favour please? I am not allowed to leave my room, like you heard, and I am pretty sure there will be a bouquet of flowers be delivered this morning and- can you just get rid of it without throwing it away?”, you yawned, your eyes closing on your own accord.

“You going to tell me who is sending them?”, the man asked, guiding you out of the elevator and towards your room.

“Not now- too tired- maybe later.”, you mumbled.

“Fine. For now, sleep.”, he said, nodding towards your bed, “If FRIDAY tells me you aren’t in your PJs and then bed within 5 minutes I will make you. Understood?”

“Yeah. See you whenever I wake up again.”, you said, your eyes already closing again, and you heard the door close behind you. You knew he would keep his word and within a minute you laid in your bed, fast asleep.

___

The sun was already setting again, when you finally exited your room on the hunt for something to eat, your target was the fresh pizza you smelled coming from the common area´s kitchen. And your stomach rumbled so loud, you were sure half the compound would hear you coming closer.

“Look what the Pizza drew out of its cave.”, your bosses voice declared your arrival, “Fun aside. Heard Capsickle had to send you in time-out because you nearly killed yourself overdoing. How are you feeling?”

“Awake, still a bit tired, but at least I can open my eyes now. I will finish the work as soon as possible.”, you stated with an unsure smile, already dreading the hundreds of mails you would have to answer about the last press-conference.

“Not happening. FRIDAY already answered any Email you received today and will do so the next week and there won´t be any schedule to uphold for the next two weeks and you are on leave for the next three weeks. No arguments.”, He stated- no ordered you, “But enough of work-stuff. Eat and enjoy the evening before Capsickle or Pepper are going to rip me a new one.”

“Ok.”

“So, tell me. Why didn’t you tell me to fuck of this morning?”, the female Assassin scolded you, biting down on her own piece of pizza.

“Like anyone would ever tell you to ´fuck off´ and stay alive.”, you scoffed, “But seriously, I thought I would be able to make it. You never look exhausted.”

“Because I am used to only a few hours of sleep each night since I am a little girl. And trust me, I am exhausted a lot, especially when I come back after missions.”, she explained.

“It´s not only the sleep. The press-conference was tiring. Some journalist wanted to see the world burn, others treated me like I blew up that house, and then there is Schwarz- Damn I hate that guy.”, you sighted, hoping at once she hadn’t heard you. But of course, she did.

“Hold on. What are you talking about and who is Schwarz. Happy never mentioned anything.”

“Because I asked him not to.”, you groaned, “I didn’t want to bother you all with it and I thought I am able to deal with it on my own.”

“But why? And that still doesn’t explain who Schwarz is.”

“You wouldn’t need help of others, or Pepper.”, you mumbled ashamed, “And Schwarz is a journalist that doesn’t get the hint and thought he can woo me to give him intel.”

“First of all: Of course I need help of others, as does Pepper. And second: How doesn’t he get the hint?”, the Russian red-head almost growled.

“He keeps sending me flowers and asks me out for dinner whenever he can. No matter how often I decline he won´t stop. I just want to be like you.”

“For fucks sake (y/n)-“, she sighted,”- We will have a serious talk one day. And I will make damn sure that sucker gets the hint, maybe even Bucky will help, and then I will make sure your work-schedule gets lessened. None of us wants to see you work to death.”

Relieved (and knowing you wouldn’t have a say in this either way) you nodded, before eating your pizza in piece. And just like the Assassin had promised (or threatened), the woman taught you to a few tricks and she and Bucky made sure you wouldn’t have to bother with the Journalist again. You had no idea how they did it, but the last thing you heard of him was an apology letter and that’s it. You didn’t mind though. Your work-schedule was remade and from that time on, FRIDAY was responsible to schedule Interviews and other dates and meetings, while you only had to step in front of the press, though now whenever one of the others had time, they would keep you company.

AN 2.0:

Haya whoever read this oneshot :) I hope you liked what I wrote for the Writingchallege and that I did the prompt justice. Let me know! (I am not sure if I did- but that’s it up to you)

As always feel free to reblog, comment and like it.

Taglists:

Permanent:

@jadepc@pacifyhxlsey @thankyoukarenclifford @thankyouforanonymity @punkrockhufflefluff @scarletraine @ambrosialyn @elwenia@markusstraya

MCU:

@yknott81@so-finster-die-nacht@caplansteverogers @emmii4 @banner-and-bucky-are-life @forext20

#MCU #caplansdisneychallenge #Avengers #writingchallenge #natasha romanoff #Avengers x reader #Tony Stark #Bucky Barnes #MCU Fiction #mcu Oneshot

40 notes · View notes

herroyalhighnessqueenmomo · 6 years ago

Text

Comic Strip (Peter Parker x Reader) Pt.1

Summary: You live in the real world as a journalist in New York. On the side, you'd love to be an actress but you've been struggling. You live with your best friend. One day you were in trouble and was all of a sudden saved by Spiderman. You think its just a guy in a costume but it's actually him. You end up having to go on an adventure of a lifetime to an alternate universe where comics actually exist.

Your alarm woke you up. You groaned getting up. You turned it off and went to the bathroom. You did the routine of using the bathroom and brushing your teeth. As soon as you finished you got dressed. You wore a white button down shirt, black dress pants, a black blazer, and black flats for now. Heels usually hurt your feet a lot so you only put them on when you got to work. You were currently a web intern at a magazine company. That meant you always had to look your best to impress. It was a very difficult job if you couldn't keep up. After your internship your goal was to become a print journalist. This meant you'd be writing a lot of articles and giving interviews. Being an unpaid intern is very difficult in New York while you were in college. Luckily your best friend was helping to support you. Both of you went to NYU. She was offered a side job in modeling that paid her well. Whenever she could she'd help you with anything you were behind on in your classes.

So far the both of you were pretty successful but you had to admit you lived a very stressful life with little to no time to relax.

You soon finished your nude glam makeup look. Afterwards you put on your accessories. You hated going out without proper accessories. You even had a motto. 'Accesorize or the outfit dies.' You soon exited your room and smelled coffee. You went to the kitchen to see your best friend Maia serve you some coffee in your traveling mug.

"Thanks." You said as you put creamer and sugar substitute. You stirred the mix with a spoon. Once you finished you put the cap on.

Maia then handed you a paper bag. "Whole grain banana nut muffin."

"I hope it tastes good still after it got tortured by whole grain." You stated.

She rolled her eyes. "As long as we're living together I'm not letting you eat trash. That's the deal remember? I support us and you eat healthier."

"Unfortunately. But my internship is almost over and I will get a job and then I will eat a Big Mac." You stated threateningly.

She shook her head in disappointment. "That's.not.food. that will kill you."

"At least I'll die happy."You stated and grabbed your set of apartment keys. You grabbed your coat and purse then walked out.

Maia would always try and get you to eat better. In a way you really appreciated her trying to take care of your well being but some of the stuff just didn't taste all that good. Maia did however try and do her best to make the food taste better because she knew you hated healthy food due to the lack of dazzling flavor. You actually were doing better with your food habits and you did feel better about yourself. Your hair and skin looked much better. You wouldn't admit it but you might try and stick to more healthy foods after your internship.

You got to the subway station and went on the train to the city. On the train you started eating your muffin. It actually tasted similar to a regular banana but muffin, which you were thankful for. You drank some coffee while you opened your issue of a Spiderman comic that was in your purse.

As surprising as it may seem to outsiders that a grown professional woman still read comic books, you didn't give a rat's ass. You loved reading them. Your two favorites were Deadpool and Spiderman. You had a huge crush on Tom Holland, the actor of Spiderman.

The train finally stopped at your station. You got out coffee in hand. You put your comic back and drank your coffee on the way to the building that you worked at. You had finally arrived and quickly got to working. You were writing down interview questions for the next guest your company would have. Personally you were hoping that your boss would let you be the one to interview them. By the time you finished and sent it to your boss she gave you a new task.

"Um, Ms. Elliot, this errand will clash with the time of the interview." You stated.

She had turned around with a toss of her dyed deep red hair. "I'm aware of that. What is the problem?" She gave you a blank stare.

Your confidence that you mustered up was quickly leaving your body. "Um, well I figured that since I have been working for this company for a while and I've been working really hard lately, I was hoping that I-"

"Come on spit it out. Time is being wasted."

"I was hoping that could be the one to do the interview." You finally finished with your heart in your throat.

She began to laugh. "Sweetheart, you're just the intern. You don't get to do interviews, you get the chance to get the hell out of here and do I what I asked while you still have a job."

"Sorry."

You ran off and out the building. Turns out you needed to pick up something from an address. You used the GPS on your phone. It led you to a conspicuous and cliche alley way. This made you very uncomfortable. All of a sudden a group of guys burst through a door and grab you. You let out the loudest scream you could. You weren't planning on going down without a fight. You kicked and screamed and ended up getting thrown on the floor. You hit your head pretty hard. You expected to be killed but for some reason the guys ended up getting thrown off of you. You looked to see a flash of red.

You watched the scene unravel in confusion. Your vision was a little blurry because of how hard by hit your head but the guys were getting tied up with what looked like webs from a spider. Your eyes traveled to a man dressed in a red suit. It was unmistakably the suit of Spiderman.

The man turned to you. "Hey, are you okay?" The voice was almost boyish. It sounded cute but familiar.

"I-I'm fine, um thanks. You're Spiderman?" You asked not fully gaining any form of understanding.

He nodded. "Yes, I am. This might sound weird, but you're going to have to come with me."

You scrunched up your brows in even more confusion. "I don't even know who you are."

"Yes you do, I am Spiderman. You just said so." He stated.

You shook your head. "Well, I meant you're dressed like him. You can't actually be Spiderman. Superheroes aren't real."

He sighed. "The doctor said this wouldn't be easy." He muttered. "Alright if I take off my mask and reveal my secret identity would you come with me?"

You looked at him as if he was either crazy or perhaps stupid. "What secret identity? Everyone knows that Spiderman's real name is Peter Parker."

He ran and shushed you. "Don't say it so loud."

"Say what so loud?" You really didn't understand what was wrong with him. "You're a comic book character. It's common knowledge!"

He was extremely silent. You groaned and pulled out your comic book and pointed at the cover. It was of Spiderman swinging from a building. He grabbed the comic book. Peter was scrambling through the pages frantically.

"Hey watch it! I just got that issue. You're gonna rip it." You warned him.

He looked up at you. "So you're telling me that I'm not real? I'm just a character? Dr. Strange didn't tell me much about you. He just said we needed you to fight Thanos."

You had a look of confusion. "How am I gonna fight him? I am powerless, I don't know how to fight, I'm not even smart enough to create tech." You reasoned.

"Well you are Y/N Y/L/N, right?" He asked you.

You gave a nod. "Even if you were the real Spiderman where would you take me?"

"Back to my world." He replied.

You scrunched your brows. "Take off your mask."

"But I-"

"If you take it off I'll go with you." You offered.

He hesitated but decided to reach for the top of his head and began pulling. As soon as you saw his face you almost fainted.

"You're Tom Holland."

He looked confused. "Tom who?"

"So this isn't a publicity stunt? You're actually spiderman?" You asked not believing it.

He nodded.

You squinted. "Fine, I'll go with you, but my best friend is coming with me."

You went to your apartment and called Maia. You told her it was an emergency. She came to the apartment as fast as possible. However,while you waited for her you began to pack yours and her bags.

"What's wrong? What's the emergency?" She asked as she entered the apartment. Her voice revealing her concern.

You pointed to Peter. Her eyes went over to him and confusion quickly made its way on her face.

"Why the hell is spiderman in our apartment?" She asked.

"Apparently he's taking us to his world to help him defeat Thanos." You answered.

"Is this a joke?"

"Nope."

She shook her head. "Well I'm not going anywhere with a complete stranger."

You turned to Peter. "Take off your mask."

As soon as he did Maia's jaw dropped. "Okay is this a dream? What's happening?"

"I don't have much time to explain. Dr. Strange is supposed to be opening up a portal soon we have to be able to leave." He replied putting his mask back on.

"Okay but I have to pack my bags." She said.

"Already did."

"You did?"

You nodded and handed her, her suitcase. All of a sudden the three of you see a spark in the we middle of the air that expanded into a circle. In the center of the circle you saw what you recognized was the building Dr. Strange usually was in. You and Maia exchanged glances of pure shock.

"Come on we don't have all day." You heard a voice say from the other side of the portal. You recognized that it was Dr. Strange's.

Peter walked in first. You and Maia were both nervous. You had your bags in one hand and each others hands in the other. The both f you counted to three and walked through.

As soon as you entered, the portal disappeared behind you two. The both of you looked around in astonishment until you were hit with a pounding headache.

"Strange what's happening to her?"Peter asked.

Dr. Strange walked up to you. His hands sparked up into round runes. "We had to bring her into this world because she is a mutant. Her genes were dormant in her world. She lived in a world where there are no powers. In this world her powers are one of the strongest. Everyone get down."

They all looked confused but got down Your headache was beginning to be too much. You let out a scream that took out the power in the building. Everything was getting thrown around. Your headache finally subsided and you passed out.

When you woke up you saw a paper lantern hovering over your head. You thought it was all a dream but now you had no idea where you were.

#spiderman x reader #marvelfandom #peter parker x reader #marvelfics #marvel #marvel fanfiction

12 notes · View notes

polarwandersea · 7 years ago

Text

Vince Foster and Hillary Clinton

claim: Hillary had an affair with Vince Foster

analysis: false. In the context that this rumor is often used, it loses credibility. It gained it’s origins as gossip in Arkansas and was used by political opponents to later try and pin his suicide on the Clintons. I will go through why the rumor persists and show how it loses credibility in the way people use this rumor against the Clintons.

Background: the rumor that Hillary had an affair with Vince started in Arkansas where sexuality of public officials is often gossip.

Here’s a quote showing an example of how people would intrude and speculate about public figures life: “Sit in the Capitol Bar, in downtown Little Rock, for a few nights and you can be told that virtually every prominent public figure in the state is a rapacious womanizer and also gay- Including Clinton. Even Hillary Clinton was not spared this treatment: one can hear that she was having an affair with Vince Foster and also that she is a lesbian, often from the same lascivious gossip.”

Web Hubbell, another close friend of Hillary’s spoke on this matter and gave his view: Webster Hubbell explained in his memoir Friends in high places that this kind of sniping came with the territory Hillary had staked for herself in Arkansas. Because Hillary was the first female partner in the upper-crust Rose Law Firm, her close professional and personal relationships with Foster and Hubbell provoked resented in the tightly knit community surrounding the Little Rock Country Club. The governor’s wife was an inevitable focus of gossip and everything she did provoked idle chatter. If Hubbell was and Foster were sometimes said to be lovers, at other moments her friendships with other professional women provoked speculation that Hillary was actually a lesbian.

false accusations and rumors that have been made about Hillary and Vince Foster:

“In new expose Bill & Hillary: so this is that thing called love, authors Darwin Porter and Danforth Prince claim that Foster was “impressed” with the budding attorney and brought her to work at Little Rock’s Rose Law firm in 1977 as the first female associate.” This should hardly raise eyebrows, Hillary was an impressive lawyer and very smart but the way these authors talk about it make it seem as if it was more than that and Vince was only attracted to Hillary in a romantic or sexual way. This claim is false because it can easily be pinned down to sexism and the inability of two male authors to see that a woman can be recognized for her work ethic by a man in a platonic way where neither of the two are interested in each other.

“The authors go on to claim that other colleagues began to notice a brewing romance between Hillary and Vince and that sometimes he would skip family dinners to eat dinner with Hillary.” Again, this goes back to sexism and the fact that these authors and others can’t understand a platonic relationship between a man and a woman. Also what other colleagues? Web Hubbell himself already spoke on the matter, debunking it. And skipping family dinners to eat dinner with Hillary is hardly a crime, ever heard of working overtime?

This one is just laughable. He accompanied her because he worked at the law firm with her! Also never believe an unmerited and unidentified source such as “a room service staffer” or something vague like that. No name for a room service staffer was given so this could have easily been made up. If they were having an affair they would be discreet and not flaunt it in front of room service staff.

The authors also claimed that Vince’s wife, Lisa was jealous and hated Hillary.

Yeah so jealous lol.

Yeah this can be pinned down to troopergate and several troopers were paid to lie and worked with Larry Nichols. I will elaborate more on this in my troopergate post then link it back here but a lot of the troopers are not credible sources.

Just a preview: the dubious local duo of disgruntled former Clinton employee Larry Nichols and local detective Larry Case, whose specialty was outing the sex scandals of public figures, brought the likes of Gennifer Flowers to the tabloids while Cliff Jackson, a former Oxford classmate of Clinton's, created Troopergate.

Why does this claim persist?:

1. Fox news

Fox news has interviewed Jeff Rovin a man who claims he was a ‘fixer for the Clintons.’

his claim: man claiming to be Bill and Hillary Clinton’s “fixer” – hired to cover up their “dirtiest schemes,” including steamy sex romps and a major scandal involving former deputy White House counsel Vince Foster – says the Clintons have an open marriage, patronize hookers, buy off news reporters and coordinated a scheme to destroy White House intern Monica Lewinsky after her affair with the president.

Why he can’t be trusted: he’s biased. He is a trump supporter:

However, Rovin claimed he is coming forward to put an end to the wild and steamy gossip.

“The election is too important to focus in this salacious material,” he told Hannity. “I hope this stuff is so unpalatable that we just stop.”

“I like Trump,” he said, adding that he’s voting for “one of those two.”

Rovin stepped out and broke this “news” in October 2016 during the election. Interesting timing as it seems that he wanted to influence voters and make them have doubts about the Clintons.

More holes in his claims:

1. He claims that on the day Presidential brother Roger Clinton was marrying his eight-months-pregnant bride Molly. there was a bachelor party. Prostitutes were involved. Recordings were made. Recordings involving Bill Clinton. This claim is false. Larry Nichols has been looking for incriminating videos and photographs of Bill with other women for ages and none have been found.

2. “ I have kept these secrets for a quarter-century because Bill Clinton had become an elder statesman with heart trouble and Hillary Clinton seemed to be focused, at last, on the business of doing her job — for better or for worse.” This ruins his claim because why step out then during the 2016 election? Hillary was still very much focused on her job and Bill still had heart trouble oh right:

The National enquirer was the first to break his story and the National enquirer is a tabloid magazine filled with exaggerations that are meant to be eye grabbing, i.e., clickbait in journalism and they are usually biased as well:

2. People want to believe the Clintons are capable of murder.

This rumor persist because if Hillary were in love with Vince then the whole idea of his suicide as a murder is more plausible. People want to believe the Clintons are capable of murder in order to discredit them and they use the Vince/Hillary narrative to try to push this agenda.

why this is false:

Special counsel Robert B. Fiske Jr. concluded that Foster's death in Fort Marcy Park last July was a suicide. The Fiske investigation involved four lawyers, five physicians, seven FBI agents, approximately 125 witnesses; also DNA tests, microscopes and lasers.

According to Fiske, the truth belied all the ugly glamour. Foster's death was a personal collapse, not a White House scandal.

From the pinnacle of the Arkansas legal establishment, Foster leaped into the service of his boyhood friend, Bill Clinton, after Clinton was elected president. According to Fiske, the toll on Foster was intense from the beginning. During the transition period – when he vetted a number of top appointees – Foster complained to his Little Rock physician of depression and anxiety.

His symptoms grew worse when he got to Washington. In January 1993, Zoe E. Baird was forced to withdraw her nomination as attorney general because she had failed to pay taxes for a nanny; fresh from his inauguration, President Clinton was hit with charges of elitism and corner-cutting and incompetent screening. Foster blamed himself – the Fiske report shows him constantly shouldering blame for mistakes made in the chaotic White House – and the night of the Baird debacle Foster was literally sick from a panic attack.

Final thoughts: the idea that Hillary would have an affair with Vince Foster or any of her colleagues is simply rooted in old fashioned Arkansan sexism. It is born out of the idea that a woman can’t be close to a man without being sexually involved with him. It is also rooted in the old Arkansan belief that a woman can’t move forward in her career unless she is aided or favored by a man.

It would be entirely out of character for Hillary to cheat.

These are just now my own evaluations based on opinion/fact

Her methodist faith and from what we know about her drawing into her faith during times of trouble in her marriage give insight into the fact that she would agree that adultery is a sin. Whereas Bill is a completely different story and due to his upbringing, infidelity was predictable, Hillary herself seems to have no inner conflict that would cause her to cheat.

Why?

1. Hillary draws love from within herself. Hillary is entirely confident and does not need validation. Usually people that cheat are seeking to fill an emptiness they feel within themselves. Hillary has always been filled with a purpose.

2. “I was raised to believe that actions spoke louder than words,” she explained “If you were a person of faith, that should be evident in how you treated other people and what kind of life you lived.

To me this shows that Hillary would not cheat. Actions spoke louder than words and it is clear that Hillary is a woman of her word. Married to Bill by a methodist preacher, I think this would only enforce her and make her want to keep her vows, since actions meant more than words and the vows to her would have simply not been words.

3. Chelsea.

It is clear that Hillary’s priority has always been being a good mother to Chelsea. To me this is another reason why it would be out of character for her to cheat. it seems that she would much rather have a stable relationship than risk infidelity and tear their family apart, therefore hurting Chelsea and putting her in the middle of an affair like that would be out of the question for Hillary. Chelsea is one of the reasons Hillary worked so hard to save her relationship with Bill and I don’t think she would have been unfaithful to her husband out of respect for her daughter’s well being and her own beliefs.

sources: https://www.newyorker.com/news/news-desk/the-private-faith-of-hillary-clinton

http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-srv/politics/special/whitewater/stories/wwtr940701.htm

http://www.wnd.com/2016/10/clinton-fixer-hillarys-affair-with-vince-foster-an-open-secret/

https://www.amazon.com/Hunting-President-Ten-Year-Campaign-Destroy/dp/0312273193

#hope you liked this anon and sorry it took so long #sorry if i missed any typos

57 notes · View notes

lindsay36ho · 6 years ago

Text

Success, or Just a Sensation? Stuart Isacoff on Van Cliburn’s Moscow Win — 60 Years On

When Stuart Isacoff received an assignment to write a cover story on Van Cliburn’s comeback to the concert scene, this led to a friendship between the two that lasted until the pianist’s death.

Piano Street’s David Wärn has met the author of When the World Stopped to Listen: Van Cliburn’s Cold War Triumph and Its Aftermath, a personal and moving book presenting a sympathetic but honest account of the life of the legendary American pianist.

When Van Cliburn died on February 27 in 2013, the whole world was reminded of his sensational 1958 win at the inaugural Tchaikovsky competition in Moscow. Since then, two important biographies of Cliburn have been written. For the British historian Nigel Cliff, whose Moscow Nights: The Van Cliburn Story was published just before Stuart Isacoff’s book, Cliburn’s death and the ensuing obituaries provided the first opportunity to hear the full story of the pianist’s life, a tale that he thinks resonates particularly strongly today: “while we contemplate talk of a new Cold War, it can be illuminating to recall that Russia and America have had a love-hate relationship for a long while.” Isacoff, on the other hand, had wanted to write Cliburn’s biography since the late 1980s — his basement was already full of material for the book, including taped interviews with Cliburn’s boyhood friends and relatives. Isacoff, with his stronger personal connection to the subject matter and his background as a pianist, unsurprisingly provides a more knowing and intimate portrait. He also a tells a more coherent tale, taking in the larger picture without losing focus on the main character and on the cultural, political and artistic significance of Cliburn’s life story. However, for those interested in as many details as possible about the political processes of the Cold War, Cliff’s book might be a good complement.

‘The Rise and Fall and Rise of Van Cliburn’

In 1989, Van Cliburn returned to the concert scene after an eleven-year break. Isacoff received an assignment from a magazine called Ovation to do a cover story on Cliburn and his comeback. The magazine no longer exists; in fact it went under with that cover story, and Isacoff was never paid. “Van said it probably went under because his picture was on the cover. I said no, it was because of my writing.”

The editor wanted a negative story. He showed Isacoff a photo of Cliburn and said ‘look at that smug smile on his face’. Isacoff didn’t think it looked smug at all, but soon realized that Cliburn was looked down on by some people. “Van was considered sort of phony. You take a New York intellectual snob looking at him, and… he was just perceived as being a country bumpkin. He was very flamboyant, and sentimental — not an urban personality.”

Isacoff started to do research, listening to Cliburn’s recordings. “I thought, this is so beautiful… I can’t write a negative story about this man. I didn’t have it in my heart to do that. So I ignored that part of it. I flew to Fort Worth, Texas, and met with him there; it was one of the years when they were having the competition. He didn’t like to give interviews, and wouldn’t let me take him somewhere to talk privately. Instead, he stood in the middle of this room with people running over and hugging him, exclaiming: Van, Van…! He was taking time to individually hug each person and look in their eyes. He said: go ahead, interview me while I’m doing this. So I spoke with him and took notes while he stood there hugging people.” Isacoff called his article The Rise and Fall and Rise of Van Cliburn. “Van was really happy with it. His mother said there was never any fall, so she didn’t like that part.”

An utterly Van-like evening

In september that year, Cliburn performed the Tchaikovsky concerto at the opening of the Meyerson Concert Hall in Dallas. On the basis of his article, Isacoff was invited to Cliburn’s private dinner party afterwards, and was entranced. He decided that he was going to write a book about the pianist. Not only did Cliburn play like an angel: the history of what he had done, his relations with Kruschev and the Soviet people — Isacoff found all this extremely fascinating.

He went to Cliburn’s boyhood town of Kilgore, Texas, to interview the pianist’s old neighbors and boyhood friends. Cliburn also came to do a recital, in order to raise money for the Harvey Lavan and Rildia Bee Cliburn Scholarship. In his book, Isacoff writes about that “beautiful, strange, and utterly Van-like evening”: Cliburn always had terrible stage fright, and it was much worse in front of neighbors, friends, and family. His hands were shaking so badly that after barely making it through the first piece he left the stage. After about twenty or thirty minutes, he reappeared and continued, suddenly cool and calm. Later in the evening, a weight seemed to have lifted from his shoulders. There was a little buffet in the gymnasium at Kilgore College, and Van was going around inviting people to go to the town church — this was around midnight — where he had convinced the organist to open up the church and give an organ recital in the middle of the night.

Stuart Isacoff

Isacoff had done several interviews with people in Kilgore and New York who knew Cliburn and went to school with him, when he found out that Cliburn really didn’t want him to write the book. “I had all these little tape cassettes, which I stored in my basement. I put it all away when I heard he didn’t want me to do it. Then, more recently, it seemed like it was time to take it all out again and start writing. All these years later, these tape cassettes still work, which amazed me.”

The American Sputnik

Van Cliburn was taught by his mother, Rildia Bee, herself an accomplished pianist who had studied with Arthur Friedheim, a pupil of Liszt. He began giving recitals at four and made his orchestral debut at twelve, in Tchaikovsky’s First Piano Concerto with the Houston Symphony Orchestra. At the Juilliard School of Music in New York, he studied with Rosina Lhévinne, and after winning the prestigious Leventritt award he embarked on a series of debuts with major American orchestras. But with his win in Moscow, the tall, 23-year-old Texan, powerful in performance yet radiating a kind of childlike innocence, became not only a successful pianist, but a symbol for American greatness.

The American victory came as a stunning surprise. The Tchaikovsky Competition had been conceived by the Soviet regime as a showcase for Russian artistic supremacy, illustrating what the poet Mayakovsky had described as the opposition between “the materially poor but spiritually dynamic Soviet Union and the rich but spiritually poor United States.” Tensions between the United States and the Soviet Union had been steadily rising since the launch in 1957 of the first Sputnik space satellite. But while his Russian rivals at the competition were extremely well trained, their performances paled compared to Cliburn’s heartfelt spontaneity and his enormous, singing sound. There was something different about Van’s art; also, it was obvious that he had a deep, genuine love for Russian music. Observers in both the Soviet Union and the United States began to refer to Van Cliburn as ‘the American Sputnik.’

According to Isacoff, this was a role he never wished for. “He didn’t care about politics at all. He was made an icon in the West because of the Cold War, and because of the fact that the US was behind in the space race. When he won, he was presented in the media as the American who conquered the Soviets. But he never saw it that way. He loved people; he just wanted to… spread the love. That’s partly why the Soviet people fell so in love with him. In fact, his friends in New York used to laugh at him because he was overly sentimental, gushing all the time. Everything was love… they were too sophisticated for that. He was perceived as being not real, while in fact he had no pretenses at all. But the Soviets ate it up, and returned those warm feelings to him. He was treated so beautifully there that he wanted to go back over and over again.”

Van Cliburn celebrates with Emil Gilels

‘Oh no, I’m not a success, I’m just a sensation’

When Cliburn returned from the competition, several reporters flocked to New York’s Idlewild Airport to meet him. You must think you are a big success, one of them threw out. Oh no, I’m not a success, I’m just a sensation, answered the young prize winner. He was received by a ticker-tape parade in New York, and soon made a million-selling recording of the Tchaikovsky concerto, but after some time critical misgivings began to be voiced. Everyone had expected his qualities to mature and deepen, but this never seemed to happen. Cliburn found the treadmill of a concert career less and less bearable, and his words at the airport tragically rang more true as his career went on. “He was not psychologically prepared for what happened, and burned out very quickly. It was overwhelming. He was not used to having to perform all the time, and they always wanted the same pieces: Tchaikovsky 1st and Rachmaninoff 3rd. He became almost like a robot,” says Isacoff.

“People like Kirill Kondrashin, the conductor, said to him: Van, you have to take time off. You need to relax and study, to deepen your understanding and not wear yourself out. But Van said: Kirill, I can’t stop, because if I do people will forget me. A lot of that probably came from his mother, who became his road manager and kept him in line. She was very strict — not an easy person, and not particularly nice. But he was devoted to her; she lived almost to a hundred, and he took care of her. But the psychological impact of that was not good.”

Other types of problems also rose in Cliburn’s life. “He was getting injections for a while from a doctor, Max Jacobson, who was nicknamed Dr. Feelgood. He administered amphetamines and other medications to famous artists, movie stars and politicians, including John F Kennedy. And Van got hooked on that. When that was over, he found other obsessions, like astrology. He was afraid to go on stage unless the stars said it was a good day to do it. He was always nervous, and had terrible stage fright. Recording was very difficult, because he pictured that students from Juilliard would sit listening to his playing, finding mistakes. He had all of these psychological impairments that accompanied him, and it wore him out.”

Happy endings

Even though Isacoff had to abandon the book project, he had a lot of contact with Cliburn in the years that followed and kept up with what was going on. “Van was a very generous person. I remember a birthday party for Joseph Bloch — a close friend of mine who taught piano literature at the Juilliard School for fifty years. All the people that went to Juilliard were in his class, including Van. But Van got an F in piano literature, because he never got to class. He couldn’t wake up in the morning. He stayed up all night, and in the morning he would call Bloch’s wife and say: Mrs Bloch, would you please apologize to your husband for me, I just can’t get out of bed. Bloch was in his 90s when he passed away, and I think it was for the occasion of his 90th birthday party, at Steinway Hall in New York, that I got in touch with Van and said: your old teacher who gave you an F is having a birthday party. Van immediately called this florist that he used near Carnegie Hall and had flowers sent over.”

While the tale of Van Cliburn has some of the elements of tragedy, Isacoff points out that there are also a number of happy endings to it. Van Cliburn created a lasting musical legacy and inspired love and admiration in generations of Russians, propelling diplomatic efforts between the rival superpowers. The competition and festival that bears his name is one of the world’s most important piano events, inspiring countless young musicians. On a personal level, the friendships formed in 1958 were lasting: for example, among the people who made a special journey to see him when learning he was ill was Liu Shikun, his Chinese rival at the Tchaikovsky Competition. Finally, what really made Cliburn’s end a happy one was Tommy Smith, the pianist’s life partner during his last two decades. Being with Smith, writes Isacoff, Van Cliburn “was no longer haunted by the past.”

The book on Amazon:

from Piano Street’s Classical Piano News https://www.pianostreet.com/blog/articles/success-or-just-a-sensation-stuart-isacoff-on-van-cliburns-moscow-win-60-years-on-9887/

0 notes

wellimhavinga3outof10day · 8 years ago

Text

Lost Lullabies - Chapter Eighteen

Description: Mickey Milkovich, former child star turned action movie star, runs into his old co-star, Ian Gallagher, out on the street in the middle of a winter night. When Mickey takes him in, he doesn’t realize that Ian has the power to completely turn his new life upside down.

Chapters: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18

Read on AO3

Ian jumped back as Mickey threw his phone at a wall. “Whoa,” he said. He fought the urge to raise his hands in surrender, his heart suddenly beating fast. But he’d dealt with mad men before. He’d dealt with men much worse than Mickey when they were mad. Taking a deep breath, Ian said, “Mick? What happened?”

Mickey shook his head and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. A sound like a smothered laugh escaped him. “Fuck. Fuck, Ian. Just... fuck.”

“What did Liz say?”

Mickey sniffed. He raised his eyes to meet Ian’s and Ian felt his blood run cold. If the director could see the way Mickey was looking at him now, he wouldn’t have to yell at them for looking in love. He’d have to yell at them because Mickey looked like he was going to kill him. Mickey shook his head, said nothing.

Ian swallowed hard. “Does someone know?” It was the worst thing he could think of, the only thing that would make Mickey this upset, this fast. “It doesn’t matter. They’re just rumours. You’ve squashed worse.”

“It’s not just rumours.” Mickey chewed on his lip. “They have pictures.”

“From where?”

“Outside the bar. The fucking stupid mistletoe.”

Mickey’s phone started to buzz from its place on the floor. His glare was downright murderous.

“Does it really...” Ian took a deep breath. He wanted to rewind the day until they were back in bed and just stay there under the covers where it felt like the world was so far away. There he didn’t have to think about how deep in the closet Mickey was or how far away they were from being a real couple. From Christmas Eve until yesterday, things had been perfect. Ian wished he could blow that bubble around them again. “Does it really matter?”

Mickey’s glare moved targets. “Does it really matter? Are you fucking kidding me, Ian?”

“No one cares anymore, Mick. We’re not children on the Disney channel anymore. We’re adults.” Ian fought to keep his voice steady, strong. It was hard when Mickey was looking at him like he’d suddenly grown a second head. “Hollywood isn’t the same homophobic place it was a decade ago. Being gay isn’t that big of a deal. In fact, it’s fucking fashionable at this point.”

“It’s not who I am, Ian.”

“It is who you are! You’re gay, Mickey. You’re gay.”

“I know I’m fucking gay, you stupid shit.” Mickey sighed and started to pace. “I’m saying the person you’re talking about, the fashionable gay star on the red carpet, that’s not me, Ian. That’s not my image. That’s not what I do for a living.”

Ian opened his mouth to respond, then had to admit, “I have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about.”

“Gay actors, Ian. That’s what I’m talking about. Gay actors get the shitty sitcom roles and the side roles in rom-coms and the one or two that are really good and shut their mouths about their sexualities? They manage parts on crappy teen dramas.” Mickey shrugged. “That’s not the kind of acting I do. I’m an action star. People pay to see me shoot guns and fuck women. They don’t wanna watch that shit knowing I’m picturing your pasty white ass instead of some chick’s vagina.”

“Change your image, then.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Why not? You fucking hate your job, Mickey. You hate being an actor, you told me yourself. So what does it matter if you’re getting paid to shoot a machine gun on a movie screen or kiss a couple guys in a shitty sitcom? It’s still money.”

Mickey shook his head, eyes crinkled in surprise and disgust. “I don’t want to kiss other guys, Ian. I want to kiss you.”

Ian sighed and crossed his arms. “Just not on a magazine cover?”

Mickey licked his lips. “I don’t think you understand how much of my career is built on reputation. I get roles because casting directors think I’m still some Southside trash bully who’ll be convincing on screen as a gangster. If I come out, if people see these pictures... no one’s gonna believe that coming from me. No one’s gonna think I’m tough or badass or can kill a guy with a bottle opener.”

“You can kill a guy with a bottle opener.”

“Not the point.”

Ian settled back against the wall, his eyes following Mickey as he walked the length of the room again and again. He knew their five minutes were up. Any second now some poor PA would knock on the door and get the full force of Mickey’s wrath.

“I don’t know what any of that has to do with being gay,” Ian said. “Gay men aren’t automatically weaker.”

“They are in Hollywood.”

“But that’s such bullshit! Don’t you want to change the scene? Don’t you want to show them your sexuality doesn’t define who you are?”

“You think I’ll have a chance?” Mickey laughed, short and bitter. “The change will be overnight, Ian. The pictures will hit and suddenly all of the movie roles I’ve been offered will be pulled. The next set of scripts I’ll get will be for sitcoms and rom-coms. Interviewers will start to ask me about my opinion on gay rights and the LGBT community and what the fuck am I supposed to say? I don’t know anything. And when that becomes painfully clear, when people know for sure that I don’t have the righteous anger it takes to be a gay icon, I’ll be wiped right off the fucking slate. No more acting, no more money. I’ll be type cast into oblivion.”

“You don’t even like acting.”

“It pays the fucking bills.”

“And how much money do you have hidden away, Mick? How much have you been saving? Because you’re not exactly living in a fucking mansion with gold-plated teeth.” Ian tried to catch Mickey’s eye but failed. “Are you telling me you can’t live the rest of your life on what you’ve already made? Or maybe, what you’ve already made and some slightly shittier job that you might actually like?”

“And what? Be the mechanic everyone knows as that washed up movie star? The gay guy who couldn’t handle the spotlight and ran?” Mickey spat on the floor. His phone buzzed again. “No. I may not like acting but I like the movies I’m in. I like my life, Ian. And I’m sorry, but I’m not throwing it all away for you.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to.” Ian forced out the words even though he felt like his heart had just shattered in his chest. He forced himself to breathe, steady himself. Right here and right now wasn’t about him. “Not for me. But for you.”

“The fuck does that mean?”

A knock came on the door followed by a small voice. “Excuse me? The director wants you back on set.”

“Tell him to fuck himself in the ass,” Mickey snapped.

Ian sighed and turned to the door. He opened it only enough to poke his head out and meet the eyes of the terrified girl on the other side. “We’re kind of in the middle of something. Maybe ask him if he can start in on the Christie/Tabitha scene?”

She nodded and backed away quick, still terrified.

Ian closed the door but didn’t turn back to Mickey.

“What’d you mean when you said you’d ask me to do it for me?”

Ian turned and met Mickey’s eyes. He shrugged. “You’ve been in the closet your whole life, Mick. Ever since you were a kid, you’ve been fucking terrified to tell anyone. You’ve been terrified to let yourself feel what you feel, to love who you want to love. You can’t tell me that hasn’t taken a toll on you. You can’t tell me that’s fun for you.”

“It’s liveable.”

“But that’s not really living, is it?”

Mickey stared at him for a moment and then cursed. He flopped back onto the couch and let his head hit the wall. “I can’t do this, Ian. I just... I’m not ready. I might not ever be ready.”

“Right.” Ian bit his lip. “Okay. Then don’t do it.”

Mickey laughed. “Wouldn’t that be great? If I could just decide not to like there aren’t pictures coming out tomorrow.”

“Who cares?”

“The millions of people who are about to see me with my tongue down your throat, Ian.”

Ian shook his head and walked over to Mickey. “No. Fuck them. They’re wrong.”

“There’s picture proof.”

“Of what? That you kissed me? Who fucking cares?” Ian scoffed. “There was mistletoe for crying out loud. If that’s not an excuse, I don’t know what is.”

Mickey raised an eyebrow. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“It was late. We were drunk. We stumbled under some mistletoe and you thought, fuck it. It’s tradition, isn’t it? And I’m your best friend. Should you really not kiss me just because I’m a man? What kind of fucking homophobic world do we live in where two guys can’t even kiss as a goddamn joke without people jumping down their throats?”

“Everyone knows you’re gay.”

“Which is why you went for it. You knew I wouldn’t mind. In fact, I’d probably enjoy it. Are you not allowed to kiss your friend platonically just because he’s gay? It was a joke, Mick. Just a joke. Maybe you went a little too far, maybe you forgot you’re a celebrity and you can’t just go around kissing people, but...” Ian shrugged. “We were drunk. There was mistletoe. Frankly, you’re disgusted that people just jump to conclusions about your sexuality because you’re comfortable kissing guys. You’re a good ally. That’s it.”

Mickey stared at him for a long moment. “You’d be okay with that?”

“It’s not about me.”

“Because you don’t sound okay with it,” Mickey continued like he hadn’t even said anything. “You sound pissed as all fucking hell.”

Ian took a deep breath, shrugged. He sat down on the couch beside Mickey and offered his hand. Mickey linked their fingers together and squeezed. Ian said, “Am I happy that my boyfriend wants to keep me a secret? No, not really. Do I understand? I’m trying to. But Mick, bottom line is, if you don’t want to come out, you don’t fucking have to. You don’t owe these people anything and they don’t get to decide when you make major life decisions. So, if it helps, say that it was a joke between friends. I’ll back you up.”

Mickey leaned in to peck his lips. “Thank you.”

Ian squeezed his hand tight. “We should get back to set.”

Mickey shook his head. “We have a while.” He kissed Ian again, harder and longer. “Let me show you how much I fucking love you.”

Ian laughed and leaned in to the kiss. “I love you too.” Then he pulled back. “But we’re going to get caught in here. And that’s not gonna help anyone.”

Mickey nodded. “Okay. Let me run your idea by Liz and I’ll meet you out there?”

Ian agreed and left the dressing room. After he closed the door, he leaned up against it and forced himself to breathe. He knew he’d done the right thing. He’d offered Mickey the only out he had and Mickey had taken it. Ian really hadn’t thought that Mickey would take it.

He forced himself to go about the rest of the day as if nothing was wrong, as if everything was exactly as it should be. Like the director was full of shit and there wasn’t a picture of them kissing coming out on the front page of every magazine tomorrow. The thought made Ian’s stomach turn. The last time he’d been on a magazine cover, he’d been lying halfway out of a limo, vomit trickling down his shirt, an insane smile on his lips. There’d been a guy in the limo holding his legs to stop him from cracking his skull on the pavement. No matter how long Ian had looked at that picture for, he couldn’t remember the guy’s name or even having seen his face before. He still remembered the headline: CHILD STAR CRACKS. It hadn’t been the first bad picture by far but it was the last. The one they’d taken before finally giving up on him.

<<Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen>>

#gallavich #shameless #Ian Gallagher #mickey milkovich #ian x mickey #mine #3outof10 fanfic #lost lullabies #chapter eighteen

6 notes · View notes