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unproduciblesmackdown · 4 years ago

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Genuine question what is billions even about I see clips all the time and I cannot figure out what the plot is besides like “business” but I am very much in love w Taylor Mason (i think that’s their last name?) so I am intrigued ...

oh i’m so glad you asked

yeah it’s not at all a Just You thing, not only do we often only post about a particular slice of the series, it’s just REALLY difficult to get (or provide. but i’m always up for the challenge) a sense of what Billions is like as a series like, genre wise, and re: the plot, my god, every [usually more than 50 min but less than an hour] episode is a journey, in that So much will have happened. it moves at a Pace, i can tell you. but you know, good news in that it’s not really necessary to explain every plot thread ever, b/c it’s as much about its Themes or what have you

the stats rundown is billions is a weekly showtime tv series partway through its 5th season (12 episodes per season, currently they are producing the last half of s5 but had been on pandemic production hiatus for the past year, we do not yet know when the rest of s5 will air, s6 was greenlit a while ago) this isn’t really need to know for this question lol, but you don’t need to Not know either

the like, content Rundown is that yeah, it’s business, mostly high finance, although one of the main characters is always doing Legal Stuff (don’t care really b/c that side of things is not generally as relevant to, yes, taylor mason, who Makes the series). the kind of overarching Theme / premise is that the show is about like, here’s these Conflicts between people who are wielding some power in various ways, looking at the motivations of the individuals involved / the Cause And Effect web of these conflicts between them, e.g. how the consequences / fallout of one Power Play Maneuver will affect someone else’s storyline and result in them executing their own maneuvers, and of course, the pitfalls of all of this. more specifically, the series kicks off with the two (then (taylor is introduced in season 2) mainest characters, Axe, ceo of a hedge fund, and Chuck, some kind of lawyer who decides to go after axe b/c axe thinks he’s hot shit (true) and chuck is like ohhh i gotta do something about this guy. so there’s an Unending Conflict, axe vs chuck, an ongoing back and forth series of small or more overarching battles, and of course sometimes alliances, because there’s a Lot of characters on this show and we’re in season 5 so there’s been plenty of other Conflicts introduced besides this particular ongoing war. also, uh oh, chuck’s wife wendy works for the hedge fund axe runs! that’s just a whole wrench in things. as some sort of like, in house therapist performance coach sort of deal, thanks wendy, she’s also fairly a Main Character

axe is somewhat more relevant for our purposes b/c that’s that Finance side of the show via which taylor is introduced. but yeah both axe and chuck are exasperating lmfao like, this isn’t a show where it’s about the Likeability of whatever main character where like, you’re rooting for the obviously righteous / justified person or anything, it’s more about being along for the ride where you get to know Why people are engaging in these conflicts for sure, but like, unless you’re one of plenty of fans who maybe aren’t bringing the most Insight to the show who find any of this like, aspirational Epic Winner stuff like hell yeah axe or chuck as the Cool Guy Who Deserves To Win lmfao, being along for the ride is knowing that you’re just getting to watch this unfolding mess, so that’s “fun” lol

to get more to the point, yeah Taylor Mason is again the best part of the series lol, they’re introduced early in s2 as a Very Talented young iintern at axe capital (axe’s hedge fund) who, yknow, part of what makes axe an Eventful character to center things around is he’s (sometimes) capable re: all these strategic finance maneuvers, and also all “i don’t play by the rules,” which can often mean like, the actual rules like “no insider trading please” or more kinda implicit moral rules like “don’t keep taking Business Advantage over people’s deaths,” and here means that even though taylor is this early to mid 20something intern with no experience in finance who’s not even, at that juncture, necessarily planning to stay in the industry, he’s like yeah they’re valuable and i’m not gonna hold them back from that potential / opportunities * just because they’re a 20something new to the industry intern who definitely doesn’t behave in the Usual Way around here and is also a canon nonbinary character, thanks ( * you might not believe it, but axe does not proceed to only ever be a potential encouraging, opportunity creating ally* (*although, one nice thing is that they....almost always....have axe adamantly hold everyone who works with him to respecting taylor as a nonbinary person, at least in how they address taylor. b/c taylor Does get misgendered periodically, which can be exhausting, but they also aren’t exactly striving to hold it to what might be most “””realistic””” so like, taylor isn’t subject to transphobia and misgendering All The Time either) and so taylor very quickly goes beyond internship at axe cap, to the extent that when, at the end of season 2, axe effectively leaves them in charge of the whole fund when his own fuckups mean he temporarily Can’t helm axe cap

aaand then s3 starts off with taylor running things but has axe return Officially in charge soon enough, so there’s problems there, in that axe is now pulling taylor Back, and like, axe is alllllll about his ego, so it’s like, of course he’d Want taylor to have been able to successfully run axe cap while he couldn’t, since it’s his fund, but then of course he’s also mad about it b/c he needs everyone, like taylor, to know he’s better & more winning than them. and taylor doesn’t appreciate now being more sabotaged and stifled and that, like, if they’re mad about being treated this way, axe is just gonna be mad about That b/c you know, why aren’t they Only grateful to their mentor or deferential to his Skill And Experience, as well as the fact that no matter how much of an Ally you are to him, he’ll be mad if you’re not unilaterally loyal, aka if he fucks you over you can’t be mad about it or that’s actually a way you’re wronging Him, and you’re also wronging him if yknow, you say he can’t/shouldn’t just do what he wants, or do anything that to him implies you don’t think he’s objectively the Best most Winning and Deserving guy in whatever regards, like, if you’re associated with someone who makes him feel insecure in his superiority for one moment, and/or who he thinks doesn’t also recognize his superiority or something, he’ll be mad at you.......the Conflicts can arise v easily around here with this beloved character walking around. so, yeah, whereas season 2 for taylor is more like wow taylor you’ve got all this potential and value here, in season 3 taylor’s sure got reason to question their future at axe cap (see this post resident Billions / Taylor Mason Pro soph made last night) and, when not only are they and axe just more often going head to head over what they want here, there’s also this added egregious conflict of “taylor starts seeing this guy oscar who’s also in finance (but not at axe cap) and when they ask axe for some input on a matter via which they intended to help oscar out, axe uses that Information taylor just used to fuck oscar over to his own advantage, and when taylor is like ‘what the hell’ axe is just like ‘what’d you expect!! i gotta be me!!! if you expected anything different, that’s on you, and if you Did expect me to do this, that’s also on you’ because i’m sure it’s a surprise to hear that axe considers himself this like, force of nature where all his feelings and motivations and justifications are Objective and Correct, and then taylor has to tell oscar what happened and naturally this ends the relationship, to their evident further unhappiness” and oops, season 3 ends with taylor having started their own hedge fund.

i could give a tl;dr for what happens over the course of s4 & (so far in) s5, but i think the s2/s3 arcs are kinda the Essential Lore for explaining this character who crashes into the show (not in that their character tends to crash, their arrival and presence is clearly somewhat of a shakeup re: the norm, but they themself are all about staying balanced and Not being driven by tumultuous emotional impulses or anything like that, *cough, the characters they are quite a Foil to in this way*) and quickly ascends to Main Charactership. (also just remembered the other stats note that taylor is played by asia kate dillon, who is themself nonbinary.) another element that is a lot of fun re: taylor is that they have like, the series’ best Friendship lol, the show is not very conducive to a bunch of characters having a bunch of heartwarming relationships, though they sure Do appreciate those characters and let us see a lot of Dynamics at play even beyond the “these people are locked in conflict” plots and characterful interactions and moments for their own sakes, and Alliances, even friendships, sure are the other side of the Ongoing Conflicts coin here. but what i’m getting around to is that taylor gets to be good buds with mafee, a Guy who was working at axe cap already in season 1, who, along with ben kim (Another Guy At Axe Cap in S1, who we are also fans of) is like, one of the actually nice(r) people around there, and who is just like. such this Hapless Cishet Dude lmfaooo but he also happens to be the guy overseeing taylor’s (and presumably others’) internship, and is yknow, maybe kinda conflicted about “i’ve Been an actual employee this whole time and there goes an intern rocketing past me” but is also Supportive towards taylor, and taylor in turn is an Ally to him, and they are Friends, and when taylor starts their own fund, Taylor Mason Capital, mafee is the person from axe cap who helps them do it and leaves axe cap to work for them there. there’s also a part in s4, after an arc in the middle of the season ended up with taylor taking quite an emotional L, mafee has gone and confronted Responsible Parties over it and, naturally, ended up in a charity interfund Boxing Match (which, a] billions is deliberately Wild plenty of times in both its Elevated Dialogue style but also just like, things that happen lol but b] apparently that’s something that can & does happen in real life in hedge fund world. absolutely bizarre to learn this kind of stuff) taylor kinda gives him this pep talk including “asking you to come with me (to TMC, mase cap, their fund) was the best decision i ever made” and even back then, when we’d just started paying attention to the show fairly recently and weren’t exactly familiar with everyone and everything going on, it was like oh i Gotta post that clip lmao

there are many other side characters, this is a very Populated show, including like, recurring characters, people liable to be introduced at various points who might become regulars Or make repeat appearances but more periodically Or be around for part of a season, but naturally also i am mentioning one specific side character of Winston (No Official Last Name), who is a Quant, aka a quantitative rather than fundamental analyst, who first appeared in One Scene at the start of season 3 when taylor was looking to hire some quants for a project, but did not succeed, and the character (then only Quant Kid 2) was only meant to have that one appearance, but delightfully everyone wanted him back and they wrote more material for him asap. taylor later brings him on to their quant project, which is revealed to be part of what ensures they can start their own fund, and in season 4 winston is apparently the head of the quant team at mase cap, and he continues to appear as taylor’s main Quant. could go into a long (and, as he’s not a Main Character and it’s easier to cover his material, very thorough) tangent there lol but you’re asking about taylor and i’m only bringing up winston b/c technically he Is relevant there lmfao but also, i have to, and [tfw this side character quant who was originally only going to appear in one brief scene was the reason you got into this series in the first place and now it’s like well, We’re Here Forever, and also, taylor mason is The character]

natch you must’ve noticed if you’re sending me an ask about billions, but if you like taylor mason you Gotta be following @nothingunrealistic the #1 Tayficianado and who has also recently nobly finished Actually Properly Watching Billions and who can give you all kinds of info about the character / series, there’s A LOT to cover and it’s kinda impossible to convey some stuff w/o simply experiencing things yourself firsthand lmfao but also, we think about these characters and this show every day for like, two years and running, so. as you can see......totally willing to talk about it at any time to any extent lol

#anonymous #winston billions #So glad to get asks like this at any point lmfao like #oh someone's asked me about My Interest huh lol. here we go babeyyy

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potteresque-ire · 5 years ago

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(I wrote this as a response to another post. It got long, potentially upsetting, so I decided to move it here.)

(TW: Criticism of Draco Malfoy under the cut.)

I think the best analogy I can come up with for Slytherins in an Americanized Hogwarts is if they are the children of the tech giants (Hello Draco Bezos) and multi-company conglomerates, the top-earning Wall Street hedge fund managers, the property moguls like the Trumps and the Bloombergs, and the legacy politicians like the Bushes and the Kennedys. This would be a fairer comparison to the social-economic power of Slytherin families in the books because conservatives in the USA mostly do not come from privileged homes. And I suspect even this American analogue may pale to its UK counterpart, for it lacks the centuries of practice ("tradition”) as a convenient excuse for continuing its underlying bigotry.

Draco Bezos or Draco Trump or Draco Bush has as little choice as being of these surnames as Draco Malfoy. The members of the Americanized Slytherin house, likewise, don’t deserve to be seen as all evil, and maybe — and very likely — they’re not. But consider what Americanized Ron would think about the Slytherins as a group, bearing in mind that the books are written in the POV of Harry, a child himself and Ron’s fierce friend, if…

(Under the cut, for I’m VERY talkative today ...)

- If this Americanized Draco still buys his way into the Quidditch team with a Nimbus 2001. The obvious bribery aside, everyone in this Slytherin team can readily afford the same thing, and likely already has, at least, a Nimbus 2000 in possession.

- If Americanized Lucius also interferes with school policy with connections to Washington; he rubs shoulders with Secretary of Education Umbridge, who he got to know back when they were lobbying together in the capital.

- If the execution weapon of choice for Buckbeak is a golf club, a gift from the President Goyle of MACUSA. Walden McNair, former Slytherin, has just received a medal of honour for being able to wield it with style. This is a tale retold by a very bitter Theodore Nott, whose father owns the golf course resort where President Goyle plays but Nott Sr. only gets to keep the hamburger wraps of the President’s lunch. The other regular attendee of these lunches is the landowner of the entire Hogsmeade, who happens to be Gregory Goyle’s father.

And speaking of Hogsmeade...

- If Goyle Inc. hikes the rent of the town after every visit by Hogwarts students. Prices of items sold in Hogsmeade shops hike accordingly to deflect the cost. The Weasleys haven’t been able to afford anything there for years.

Goyle Inc. has also been looking to invest in Ottery St Catchpole, re-develop the area into one with ... farmer’s market. Lots and lots of farmer’s markets where a loaf of bread costs $10.00 apiece.

- If American Hogwarts is also free but God knows for how long. Its profits from the previous years — sorry, not profit, but endowment as should be referred to for non-profit organisations — has been channelled into the stock market and the stock market hasn’t been doing so well. Mrs Zabini, the manager of the fund, still gets her commission even if Hogwarts goes bankrupt. In fact, a volatile market with high trading volumes is a godsend for her income, and her yearly bonus is large enough to run Hogwarts for a year. She’s very generous, however, and donates 1% of it to the school, which gets her name engraved on the Gryffindor-Zabini Tower.

Meanwhile, if the Weasleys go home every summer not knowing if they can return to the same tower on September 1st.

- If Skelegro and other potions in the infirmary are rationed due to high cost and every time a Weasley find themselves injured in a Quidditch match, the Malfoys, father or son or both, would remark on the Weasleys having more children than they can afford, and recommend the school board that these potions should be rationed by surname as well. The Slytherins have no such concerns of course; the Parkinsons are heads of an international potion conglomerate and they can always import extra potions from Brazil, which are sold at a small fraction of the cost they sold to Hogwarts (yes, they have the licence and patent to produce the Skelegro. Why did you ask?).

…

Perhaps -- assuming my understanding of UK’s class system isn’t too off the mark -- these if’s can provide a sense of Slytherin’s privilege in canon to the American audience, and related to this, how Draco’s prejudice towards Ron cannot be put on the same moral scale from Ron’s prejudice against Draco. I’d also like to emphasize this: I haven’t touched at all, on this list, on Voldemort’s reign of terror. I haven’t touched, at all, on the fact that Voldemort’s war had been spearheaded by the parents of many current Slytherin students, and this war had only been suspended -- not ended -- for just short of a decade when the Class of Harry Potter entered Hogwarts. The wounds were still fresh. Arthur and Molly could’ve easily suffered similar fates as the Potters and the Longbottom’s. The bigotry of the Slytherins, and of the Malfoys, wasn’t merely a suspected thing in the canon years, like how we feel about a celebrity who’s made a questionable tweet. Not only was their bigotry a fact in the canon years, but it was also a real, ongoing threat that, if permitted to run its course, could and would ruin the lives of the Weasleys.

Ron seeing the Slytherins as a threat arguably served the dual function of keeping him safe -- perhaps not at the moment, but in the future. Draco, on the other hand, had nothing to fear about Ron and above all, the socioeconomic class that the Weasleys represented.

They never stood on equal grounds.

And here’s the thing I don’t understand. Or I think I understand it, having seen this Ron-is-as-bad-as-Draco-and-Slytherins-are-victims-of Dumbledore’s-prejudice debate in various forms over the years — this isn’t new or controversial, and I wouldn’t be surprised if this has become the dominant view within the ship — and I’m not sure I can get myself to face what I’ve understood, because what this is is worrisome for me.

Please hear me out.

The Drarry fandom on Tumblr has, in my observation, always taken a very strong, hardline stance against prejudice. The post that says something along the line of 10 people who sits with a Nazi makes a table of 11 Nazis get numerous likes and reblogs. And yet in this situation, we have a boy, Ron, who is directly affected by the prejudice, who’s familiar with the connections between his Slytherin classmates and those who have not only worked to make their brand of bigotry the law but helped murder those who do not agree, and his distaste for these oppressors as a group is somehow seen as equal as his likely future oppressors’ disgust at his presence.

The reason given is inevitably a variation of this: Draco was a child. He was parroting his parent’s beliefs. He was too young to be responsible for his words, or his actions. He was a victim.

I’ve not seen this defence offered, not even once within the Drarry circle, for a real-life bully. Tumblr’s user base is young, and many have a history of being bullied due to their race, gender, sexuality, disability, socioeconomic class. After a bit of subtraction (Young Age - Bullying History in Years), I’d take that many of these RL events happened when the victim and the perpetrator were about the age of Ron and Draco in canon. And yet, not once have I seen a shipper on my dash suggest the bully was a victim, or that they weren’t at fault because they were only parroting the prejudice of their conservative families, their schools, their religion etc. That maybe they didn’t mean what they were saying or doing.

This is a (very) good thing. But it also makes me wonder: defenders of Draco and the Slytherins do know, deep down, that the excuse they’ve offered Draco isn’t nearly good enough to exempt him from his behaviour.

Draco might not have understood the greater political ramifications of his bullying, but he knew he was hurting Ron. Bullying cannot a be mindless act; it cannot be a passive reflection of one’s lessons from school or family for It’s a pre-meditated, targeted behaviour, and a good bully like Draco — he came up with a bullying chant that the whole school knew in the end — tailors his acts to serve a specific purpose of hurting the victim. Draco might not have known that calling Hermione a Mudblood could devalue her life enough to make it ripe for elimination when Voldemort came to power, but he knew perfectly well that the term was derogatory. This is especially true if one agrees with the common headcanon that Draco was second only to Hermione in marks in school, that he was no Crabbe or Goyle and he was intelligent.

Our ship celebrates Draco’s sharp tongue, but that tongue was used exclusively to ridicule, to bully in canon -- it’s fandom that has given it a better / higher / romantic purpose. His father’s tongue spoke the language of bigotry to the ears of the Ministry; this was the Malfoy’s weapon of choice and Draco was forging his own in the books. His bullying ways in canon was written with humour, with Weasley is Our King being the epitome of the laughs. I don’t believe it was JKR’s intention for her readers to fall in love with Draco via his bullying style, however. The HP world was built as a mirror of our own (rather than as a manual of what an ideal world should be, as many in fandom has seemed to assume), and Weasley is Our King showcased how easily bigotry can creep into our day-to-day language when it’s masqueraded as a joke (Even Luna was singing it at some point):

Oh, relax! It’s perfectly fine for everyone to know the Weasleys were born in a bin, into poverty! Funny, isn’t it? HAHAHAHA!

Imagine seeing this kind of behaviour on Tumblr. Imagine trying to defend this kind of behaviour on Tumblr.

I have faith that most of my Drarry friends cannot, will not do the latter.

So please, please reconsider what you’re really saying when you call Draco the victim, the vulnerable one, when you insist that he and the Slytherins had been wronged. I don’t mean to start another debate and I don’t plan to engage in one; this isn’t a call-out post either, I enjoy reading all the opinions expressed and I understand many of the sentiments I’m questioning comes from a place of love. I just hope that everyone who’s reading (thank you) can sit back, think a little. Imagine for a moment that table with the Nazis. Even if, at the table, there’re actually 10 Nazis and 1 who isn’t, who is more vulnerable? The non-Nazi sitting with the Nazis? Or the person who refuses to sit at the table and makes a bad judgement call on the 11th sitter by assuming they are a Nazi as well? Who is more the victim, or more likely to become one? The 11th sitter who’s wrongly labelled? Or the standing person who is being eyed by the 10 Nazis with disgust, the 10 Nazis who already have a family history of hunting down the standing person’s family and friends?

Or does the answer -- and this is the understanding I’ve got but haven’t dared to face -- does the answer depend on if he character in question had white-blond hair that glinted so beautifully in the sun? Is that the reason why Draco Malfoy, bigot, bully, has been given this special treatment, this carte blanche in the sense that he’ll always remain on our good side, be exempt from our moral judgement regardless of what he did, because his physical description doesn’t contain a single hint of melanin?

#pie speaks #hp meta #pie metas

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riseupandcomeaway · 4 years ago

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Dear left,

I am writing to you in the hopes that you actually don’t need to read this. This should only be read if all of a sudden I disappear along with millions of others and you’re still here. Many have noticed that a common denominator of the missing people is their spiritual belief in Jesus Christ as Son of God, Savior and Lord.

Immediately after the Rapture there will be accidents involving all kinds of vehicles with missing passengers, including cars, trains, airplanes, boats… you name it. There may be piles of clothes and personal belongings lying around everywhere, all over the planet.

Why did it happen? Because the Lord Almighty is about to pour his wrath upon the earth. God is about to pour His wrath out on the inhabitants of the earth in one last ditch effort to get humanities attention. You have been left behind because prior to the rapture (the snatching away of the true Christians) you have refused to believe in Christ for salvation, or to repent of your sins that have separated you from Him.

PLEASE UNDERSTAND: We were not abducted by aliens, we have not wandered off, we have not disintegrated from a horrible disease, and we have not been taken hostage. Any other scenario presented to you about our disappearance is a lie. We have been Raptured. It was foretold in the bible. “For the Lord himself shall descend from heaven with a shout, with the voice of the archangel, and with the trump of God: and the dead in Christ shall rise first. Then we which are alive and remain shall be caught up together with them in the clouds, to meet the Lord in the air and sol shall we ever be with the Lord.” (1 Thes. 4:16-17). We are with God. Plain and simple. Don’t take my word for it, please read it for yourself in a book that’s been around for centuries. In fact, more than two millennia - The Bible. The Bible is a long book; in fact it’s a compilation of 66 Books / Letters. Takes a while to get through, but it does end. Let me save you the suspense. God wins.

You are in for some extremely difficult times. You will want to start finding some remote location in which to hide. Save drinking water, food stores, vitamins, medical supplies, a generator, gasoline and oil. You’ll be needing all of these things. You’ll need to know how to grow your own food. The lawlessness that will scourge the earth will have seen no rival. Grab a bible now! There may come a time when it will be impossible to obtain one and illegal to own one. It can give you the truth better than my simple words ever could. Don’t believe anything that is being fed to the world through the media or the government. Cling to Jesus Christ and His saving work of atonement on the cross for your sins.

Now, you need to prepare for the next seven years. This seven year period will start with a world leader who will emerge and broker a peace treaty with Israel for 7 years. This is the antichrist. Three and a half years into this treaty, he will break it himself and force the world to worship him as God. This will occur in the rebuilt Third Temple Mount of Israel. THIS IS IMPORTANT. Look in Daniel 9:26,27. This week is seven years. This begins the Tribulation. After seven years, Jesus will come (the Second Coming) and touch Mount Olives causing an earthquake and He will reign for 1,000 years. When you hear this treaty announced (probably within a few months, or at most a few years), you can mark your calendar and know when Christ will come.

The antichrist will sit in the Jewish Temple, and he will say he is god. He is NOT! This beast is a great deceiver. The whole world will be amazed and follow him. People will be drawn to this remarkable, charismatic, dynamic, compelling, nearly irresistible man as he masquerades as a saviour, forming a one-world government for a world craving for direction and order. The world will hail him as its savior. He will set himself above all else and will deceive many into accepting him as the supreme dictator.

He will want to control everyone and modern technology can now easily accomplish that. With the world in chaos, perhaps more terrorism, and missing people, keeping track of everyone will sound necessary for the world to become stable and safe again. He will institute a new way of things, including demanding that all people, everywhere, get a special mark on their right hand or forehead. This is the manifestation of the mark of the beast; 666. At the time of this writing, we do not know exactly what form this mark will take. A lot of people think that it will be some sort of implantable microchip. This makes sense because of the ability to track purchases electronically is commonplace. It could be that the microchip will be tied into a huge database that verifies the person’s bank accounts and automatically deducts the funds. Also, the antichrist may pitch different selling points of the mark like the ability to track lost children, the ability to catch criminals very fast, the ability to safeguard your money. However, I believe the main point of the mark will be to show your allegiance to the antichrist. You will know it is the mark of the beast because you will not be able to buy or sell ANYTHING without it; not food, water, clothes, shelter; nothing. This will control all your financial transactions. More than likely, money will be obsolete and any funds you may have in the bank (or stocks, etc ) is worthless unless you take this mark. Living day to day will become difficult without the ability to buy or sell anything. Once someone takes this mark of the beast they cannot take it back to make a choice for Christ. The stakes are high and the decision that you make will determine where you will be for eternity.

DO NOT, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, AGREE TO TAKE THIS MARK!!

TAKING THIS MARK WILL SIGNIFY THAT YOU ARE A SATAN WORSHIPPER, YOUR SOUL WILL BE LOST, AND YOU WILL SUFFER FOREVER.

I won’t mince words about what this system (the mark of the beast ) means to you. Your chances of making it alive to the end of the tribulation period is slim. It will likely cost you your life here on earth but will give you eternity in exchange.

The whole world is going to hate you and it will be a daily struggle to just to stay alive. The only way I can see for you to get from where you are now to where we are now is that not only will you have to pass through great tribulation, but also you will probably have to suffer a martyr’s death for refusing to worship the “Image of the Beast.” It’s a shame. It really is. But you had your chance, just like the rest of us. It would have been so much easier back when the Church and the Holy Spirit were on earth for you to accept Jesus Christ as your Savior. It’s going to be hard now, really hard, but you can do it. YOU HAVE TO DO IT. Look at it like I used to look at my life on earth. Even if I lived to be 100 years old, that compared to eternity would be like one tiny drop of water compared to all the oceans. It’s the same with you. Even if you have to suffer 7 years of hell and even if you have to die a martyr’s death; compared to eternity it is like a tiny drop of water compared to all the oceans.

Let me assure you that your reward in heaven is incomprehensibly better than any temporary safety you may garner from accepting this mark. I want to leave you with this verse:

Revelation 21:4

And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away.

If you happen to have read this before the rapture, here are some of the site I highly recommend you to visit on a regular basis to keep yourself informed as the hour draws nearer:

NOW THE END BEGINS

ACTIVIST POST

WHATFINGER

RAPTURE READY

GERI UNGUREAN

LISA BOYD

JASON A ON YOUTUBE

THE CORBETT REPORT

SPIRO SKOURAS

BREITBART NEWS

THE JERUSALEM POST

ZERO HEDGE

Till the glorious appearing,

🤍

ctto

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elesianne · 5 years ago

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A Silmarillion fanfic – modern AU Curufin/future wife

Summary: A poor girl stumbles onto a rich boy at a nightclub, and they hit it off. Too bad that it turns out neither of them is what the other thought.

A modern AU first meeting. A bit funny, a bit sexy, a bit sad.

Wordcount: ~2,200 words; Rating: Mature audiences (mild for M)

Some keywords: alternate universe - modern setting, mild sexual content, class differences, misunderstandings

A/N: This is very different from my other fics in content and style, but the Curufinwë and Netyarë in this are the same as in my fic Sparks fly out and its sequels, personality-wise, though they are of course different in some respects because they exist in modern times this time.

You don't need to have read any of my other fics to read this. Quenya names used.

Warnings: alcohol, having sex when both parties are drunk, swearwords including the f-word, and talk of prostitution (no actual prostitution)

AO3 LINK

Pink dress and high heels, suit and tie

It was far from a meet cute, Netyarë thinks later when things between them are very different.

Instead of a meet cute it's both of them on a wild night out. Netyarë's at a friend's bachelorette party, wearing high-heeled pink pumps and a tight pink dress that she hates because it pinches her sides while also making her feel too exposed. She's not drunk enough for how late it is, and she's rather grumpy because the party hasn't been that much fun. The others have been bickering all night.

She needed fun after the week she's had. Asshole customers in both her jobs, and a botched painting she'd had high hopes for. The materials for that one had cost a lot.

It's getting very late and Netyarë's both horny and lonely. It's not a great mood, especially the loneliness, but she's been single longer than she wanted to be after her last break-up. There's nothing quite like the approaching wedding of a friend to remind you of just how single you are.

She tries to shake the loneliness off on the dancefloor with the two other bridesmaids that are still standing, though one of them would probably not be if she didn't have a guy to lean on. Netyarë doesn't know where she got the guy from. The bachelorette party has disintegrated almost completely, everyone pairing off or wandering off or escorting the nearly black-out drunk bride home.

Netyarë decides not to care that most of the others are gone. She dances wild enough to lose her bridesmaid's sash somewhere on the floor, and doesn't bother looking for it. She also dances wild enough to accidentally bump into a guy in a suit who grabs her arms to steady her and says 'whoa', and then again 'whoa' as he looks down at her.

He seems to be the same degree of drunk as she is – rather, but not too much to have fun or be incapable of making half-sensible decisions. And he's tall, dark, and handsome, like the best kind of cliché, if also rather cocky by what little she can hear him shout to her as they try to talk over the music.

And he is a spoiled rich boy, judging by his clothes and general attitude, with a name that reminds Netyarë of something she can't quite grasp right now. She thinks she might not have heard it right in all the noise. It doesn't matter, though.

On principle Netyarë doesn't fuck guys like this but this one is also rather charming. She likes the shine in his beautiful, long-lashed eyes when he mentions his job which, thank all the gods, isn't hedge fund manager or investment banker. He actually creates things too, and Netyarë likes the passion in his voice.

She doesn't mention any of her jobs because a rich boy's reaction to them would just depress her and that would make sure she went home alone today. Sometimes it is better not to confirm one's worst suspicions.

But the longer she talks to him in a shadowy corner of the club they've retreated to, slowly sipping the ridiculously expensive drink he bought her –

and then dances with him again (posh boy has moves, surprisingly, though he needed to buy and drown a shot before getting on the dancefloor with her) –

the more Netyarë feels like she wants him to come home with her.

Surely her rule of not having sex with guys like this can be relaxed to not dating them, she persuades herself. He wouldn't even want to date her, certainly not if he sees her cheap clothes and apartment in daylight.

She texts a friend to tell her she's asking someone to spend the night with her.

When she whispers the invitation in his ear, her hand on his thigh, he shivers in a way that's very satisfying. She takes his hand when he reaches for her, and they half-run the few blocks to her shitty apartment. Netyarë wonders what he was even doing in that club in this part of town but doesn't bother to ask.

(If she had, Curufinwë might have told her, or not, that he had a shit week too, with constant problems at work and too little sleep. He'd wanted to wind down somewhere where he wouldn't run into any of the people who made his week terrible. Tyelkormo knew a place; of course he did, and then found someone within an hour and disappeared with them so fast Curufinwë didn't even see what gender they were.)

Whatever his reason for slumming it tonight, the posh boy does get a snotty look on his face in the grimy stairwell of Netyarë's building. And maybe he would have that look in her shabby apartment too if he wasn't too busy kissing her like his life depends on it, long-fingered hands reaching for the infuriatingly tiny zipper of her dress as soon as they get in the door.

And it turns out that a tall rich boy doesn't mind a small bed when he's fucking her on it like his life also depends on that.

He's less selfish in bed than she expected from someone like him and his long finges are dextrous and talented, which – good for him, and good for her.

Looking down at her, he says between pants and thrusts, 'Fuck, your body – a piece of art –' and she grins at that, and at how desperately his hands hold on to her ampler-than-she-likes hips. How could she not grin, and meet his thrusts with even more enthusiasm, when he is like that?

'Fuck, your smile', he says, and crushes their mouths together. He tastes of good whisky.

Netyarë is very pleased with herself for relaxing her rule, and with how the not-so-great bachelorette party ended up ending for her.

And afterwards he's a cuddler – isn't that the weirdest thing? – so they fit in her bed well even after he mumbles, 'Can I stay the night', and promptly falls asleep. One of those men, then.

Netyarë doesn't mind being held. She might or might not run her fingers through his soft black hair once or twice before falling asleep herself.

In the morning, too early, she wakes up to him standing next to the bed, looming over her, asking, 'How much?'

When she doesn't reply, he repeats, 'How much? Come on, just tell me. I have a meeting I've got to get to.'

'It's Saturday', she replies, not understanding anything else of what he says, but with a sinking feeling in her stomach. He has his wallet in hand, and a wad of cash.

'I've still got a meeting', he says, his lips a tight line that is at odds with his bedhead and rumpled shirt. He adds, 'I'm not going to pay you any more if you drag this out. Just tell me what I owe you for what I did to you last night. Your standard rate.'

He has to repeat once more before she replies, and what she says is, 'You think I'm a prostitute?'

Rather she yells it, and gets up. There's a bad taste in her mouth that is not just her hangover.

And he is way too tall when she's not wearing high heels.

'I'm not a hooker', she says slowly as if to an idiot, because he just stands there gaping at her.

He splutters. 'You were certainly dressed just like one! With the, the cheap skin-tight dress and the fuck-me heels!'

'I was not! – I was dressed like all the other bridesmaids at the bachelorette party', Netyarë defends herself. 'But, shit, the dress was chosen by the maid of honour who has half the tits that I do and doesn't understand that 'low-cut' means 'lewd' for a bustier girl when she has to wear a small size because she's so damn short… or it means she actually looks like a hooker. Oh gods.'

She sits back down on the bed.

(Curufinwë thinks that she was attractive in the tight pink dress that he didn't know was for a bachelorette's, but she's lovelier in nothing in the morning light spilling in from the surprisingly large windows of this otherwise depressing room. He shakes his head and blames his hangover for that thought.)

Netyarë can't help saying, 'I can't believe you thought I was a hooker.' She looks him up and down. 'Why would a guy who looks like you even pay for sex? Is it, I don't know, some kind of sick thrill for you?'

'Fuck you', he says, and she thinks hysterically, you did. He says, stiffly, 'For your information, I've never paid for sex.'

'Nice for you that you don't have to break that streak', Netyarë grinds out. She feels like she wants to sleep for another four hours. 'Now get out.'

He finishes dressing in silence. She picks up his tie from between her pillows and hands it to him. She wonders why he didn't ask for her price last night before they got into bed. It would have stung less than this, being asked afterwards when she cannot un-fuck him. She doesn't ask him, though.

He hesitates at the doorway. She stands nearby, tense, wanting to make sure he leaves.

'Are you sure you don't want –' and his hand hovers over his pocket where he put his wallet, 'I think we might have almost broken your bed. It wobbled a lot more near the end.'

'How many times do I have to tell you, I don't have sex for money. Get out. And', she adds, his words from a couple of minutes ago suddenly surfacing in her mind, 'for your information, it wasn't just you doing things to me last night – we did things to each other, and together.'

Or so she thought at least. Why did he even bother making it good for her if he thought she was a prostitute? She has no idea.

Gods, the next time she feels even a little bit lonely, she'll come home straight away and cuddle with her couch pillows. Better to be pathetic in that way than this.

As he opens the door he looks like he wants to say something more, the set of his shoulders stiff and determined, but the look she sets on her face works to persuade him otherwise, and he leaves without a word.

Netyarë closes the door behind him with a little too much force. She takes a very long, very hot shower, eats ice cream for breakfast, and then gets to work trying to resurrect her botched-up painting before her afternoon shift at the sleazy bar where she still bartends a couple of days a week. She'll be able to quit that job soon if she sells a couple more paintings for as good a price as she got for her last one.

(Curufinwë walks in a random direction for two blocks before he realises that actually he needs to call a cab. He ends up being twenty minutes late for his meeting, hair still wet from the shower.

He is as irritable as a poked bear for the whole day, and when Tyelkormo asks how his night went, he says, 'Badly', and nothing more no matter how much Tyelko tries to pry or shares about his own night.)

Two days later, like every Monday, Curufinwë comes to have lunch with his mother at her sculpting studio.

Nerdanel kisses his cheek as she lets him in and says, 'Come meet the artist I've been talking about. We started our collaboration today.'

Curufinwë would rather not. He's been in a constantly foul mood since Saturday morning and just wanted to talk about family things with his mother and kid brothers, and try to forget all about his disastrous personal life.

Following his mother as she chatters, he walks to the side room of the studio where there's a table free of marble dust, reserved for eating.

And there's Netyarë in a paint-splattered artist's smock, her brown hair tied up in a messy bun, setting the table.

Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck, runs through Curufinwë's head as Nerdanel introduces them.

(And through Netyarë's.)

'You're a painter?' Curufinwë asks her in an angry whisper when Nerdanel is busy with the food and making the twins carry it to the table.

'Do you like that better than what you thought I was?' Netyarë hisses back.

She is remarkably shorter than him when she's not wearing heels, and as she looks at him, eyes sparking, Curufinwë thinks she really looks like she doesn't like having to look so far up at him.

Nerdanel gets back before Curufinwë has a chance to reply to Netyarë with more than a dark look.

Tilting her head curiously, Nerdanel asks them, 'Do you two know each other?'

'We've met before', Netyarë says, stiff. 'Briefly.'

Curufinwë says nothing.

(Actually he says remarkably little to her over the course of the meal, little enough to be rude, especially when he also sits all tense and stiff-necked and with a prideful look on his face that is no doubt a facet of his arrogance, like his cockiness at the nightclub.

But his mother is wonderful – offering Netyarë an opportunity that could very well be her big break, collaborating with such an esteemed, established artist – and Curufinwë's teenaged little brothers are entertaining, so Netyarë just tries to not care about Curufinwë's glowering and silence.)

Curufinwë tries not to care that Netyarë doesn't look at him even once.

(Neither of them has much success.)

A/N: Yep, so this ends in basically the same place as the first chapter of Sparks fly out, but got there by a more circuitous and NSFW route.

This definitely belongs in the top three of 'most self-indulgent things I've written' but I had a lot of fun writing this, and I hope you guys enjoyed reading!

Please let me know what you thought of this alternative first meeting :)

#I had so much fun writing this #but rather nervous to post because it's so different #silmarillion fanfiction #tolkien fanfiction #curufin #curufin's wife #netyarë #modern au #my fics #elesianne's fics #pink dress and high heels suit and tie

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bastillewolf · 5 years ago

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The Grand Tranquility Hotel (III)

Pairing: Alex Turner/Reader

Summary: An eccentric hotel owner and an inquisitive writer find solace in each other when they both seemed to be at the edge of rock bottom.

Notes: These chapters keep getting longer. I hope you don’t mind ;)

Let me know if you’d like to be added to the tag list.

Chapter III - One Point Perspective

“Good morning, Nicholas,” she greeted, joining him at the breakfast table. “Have the others already eaten?” Nick’s jaw momentarily stopped chewing his food as he glanced down at his watch with a surprised expression, before he swallowed. “Uhm, I didn’t expect you to be up this early, miss. I’m pretty sure Matt is still in bed. Jamie’s in the kitchen, though. I could ask him to cook you up something.”

“Oh, don’t worry. I’ll go ask him myself. I wasn’t sure what time breakfast would be served, and I wanted to take an early walk through the garden,” she explained. Nick quickly shook his head and before she could protest, he’d already barged into the kitchens.

After having a nice and simple meal with eggs on toast with Jamie consistently reminding her that he could make her a dish more elaborate if she desired and her cutting him off and telling him it was delicious, she wrapped herself in her coat and finally headed outside.

The fresh morning air hit her face and instantly woke her up as she breathed in the smell of freshly cut grass, pine trees and that distinct whiff of autumn. Her feet carried her across the gravel pathways which lead her around symmetrically cut hedges and marble statues overgrown with moss. It was a peaceful environment, the only sounds being produced by the running fountain, wafting wind and chirping birds around her.

She eventually found herself in front of the stables and her keen eyes sleekly moved across the field to see if she was being watched. No one ever really gave her a reason to believe she wasn’t allowed in the stables, but the mysterious impression the hotel and staff were giving her made her doubt everything she was doing. When she felt the coast was clear, she slowly opened the creaky wooden door and stepped through.

She hadn’t noticed a curtain shift on the second floor of the Grand Tranquility Hotel.

There were about five boxes, but only one held a horse. It was the one she had spotted through the window yesterday; the rowdy one Matt was trying to calm. It had a dark brown coat and a white triangle-like shape on its head. She slowly approached it, and when her hand reached out to touch it, it only huffed in response. She smiled and ran her fingers along its neck. “You’re a real beauty, aren’t you?” she muttered.

“That’s Mardy,” a voice behind her said. She jumped and the horse made a noise of protest. She turned to meet Matt’s calculating gaze and put a hand over her rapidly beating heart. “Christ, Matthew. You scared me.”

“I’m sorry, miss. I didn’t mean to sneak up on you. It’s just that Mardy usually has a bit of a temper and doesn’t do well around new people. But it appears that she likes you,” he told her. She raised her brows, “and what if she didn’t like me? What would you have done?” Matt blinked, clearly not having thought through that his guest could’ve gotten hurt purely because he was curious. She let out a chuckle. “It’s fine. I’m afraid I was being sneaky, too. I wasn’t really sure if I was allowed in the stables.”

“Why wouldn’t you be allowed in the stables, ma’am?” he asked her with his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “I don’t know…”she replied, thinking it over, “It’s just the vibe the hotel is giving me, I suppose. I can’t really explain it. I must seem like an idiot, I’m sorry.”

“Not at all, miss. I know exactly what you mean.”

Matt took her on a more extended tour around the gardens and told her of the origins of Mardy’s name. One of his co-worker’s old girlfriends – he wouldn’t say who – went by the name Mardy and he explained that they always used to call her Mardy Bum because she had such a bad temper. “Perhaps the horse is payback for that nickname,” she laughed. “Probably,” he grinned, “Now that you mention it, she kind of did remind me of a horse.”

“I was wondering if you could tell me a bit about how the hotel started?” she hesitantly wondered. Matt seemed to remain calm, so she felt a heap of weight fall off of her. “It was really all Alex’ plan. He’d been friends with Miles since high school and they’d always talked about opening a hotel together. When Miles became mayor, he’d upheld his promise and made sure Alex had the funds to make their dream come true.”

“So that’s why the mayor visits so often,” she concluded. Matt nodded, “They’re still great friends to this day. I met Alex in college, and we quickly became mates. When he told me that he’d hire me as staff in his hotel that he was convinced he was going to open, I’d laughed with him and jokingly told him I’d want nothing more. I didn’t think he could actually make it happen, and yet here we are.”

“You must’ve felt very proud of him.” “I did. I still do,” he smiled, “We’ve been through a lot together. Don’t tell him I said that, though. He might be my mate, but I wouldn’t want to add to his already massive ego. He’s still an idiot.”

They arrived back at the hotel just in time for lunch, and this time Jamie and Nick were both already waiting at a table for them, casually holding conversation. “I didn’t know what you’d like,” Jamie explained, “but I wasn’t going to let you have me make you a grilled cheese sandwich or whatever other basic lunch item you most likely would’ve picked.” He waved towards the trays of sliced fruits, triangularly cut sandwiches, pastries and a big steaming pot of some sort of vegetable soup. “I really appreciate it, Jamie, but it’s a tad excessive. I’m only your guest and I don’t need any special treatment from you,” she tried to communicate, but Jamie was having none of it. “Nonsense. You’re our favourite guest. Just don’t tell mister Turner I said that. Or the mayor.”

“Tell me what?”

She nearly choked on her tea and gently set the cup back down before she would drop the expensive china. She turned to meet the now familiar brown gaze as Nick quickly filled the hotel owner in; “We were just talking about how much we enjoy the missus’ company, mister Turner. She’s been very kind to us.”

Alex’ calculating gaze landed on her, and he hummed. “I suppose she has been very kind. You don’t mind my staff joining you during your meals, do you, miss?” “Not at all,” she replied, “In fact, it was my suggestion they join me.” His eyebrows sleekly quirked up. “Is that so? Then you wouldn’t mind me pulling up a chair?” She was at a loss for words for a moment, not having expected this sort of behaviour, so she simply just shook her head. The others seemed a bit uneasy as well. It was clear to her that he never did this sort of thing with any of his guests, and perhaps neither with his staff.

While Jamie ladled the soup in each person’s bowl, Alex leaned his elbows on the table, his fingers adorned with golden rings intertwining as his eyes locked with hers. She didn’t look away, but she sure as hell didn’t feel as bold as Matt had been when he’d talked back against the hotel owner just yesterday.

“I was wondering what the purpose of your stay was, miss? If you don’t mind me asking, of course,” he said, a glint forming in his eyes. His voice was as smooth as velvet and though there was an underlying tone that made her uncomfortable, it also provoked a different feeling deep in her stomach. Something she wouldn’t necessarily describe as a bad feeling. She just hadn’t experienced anything like it in years.

“Well, as I told you before, I’m curious about your hotel. A writer’s instinct, I suppose.”

“But that couldn’t have been the only reason to visit this particular hotel. Lots of hotels have interesting stories,” he continued to prod. She hesitated. “I suppose you’re right,” she said. “My mother used to visit this hotel on her birthday each year. She always talked about it in such high regards, I had to see what the fuss was about. She passed away a few months ago, you see. Her birthday would have been tomorrow.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said quietly, and it was with a sincerity she hadn’t expected. “I’m glad we made her feel comfortable.”

Matt cleared his throat, “Maybe we could hold something in celebration tomorrow, boss. I’m sure her mother would have liked that.”

“What do you suggest?” Alex asked. “Just a small gathering. We could kill two birds with one stone and celebrate that other thing we talked about as well,” Matt replied vaguely. Alex hummed, “I’ll think about it. I’ll let you know at dinner.”

Jamie’s eyebrows nearly shot through the roof. “You- You’ll be joining us for dinner, sir?!” “Of course, I am,” Turner answered, as if it was the most natural thing in the world to suddenly join his staff during meals when he hadn’t done so in a very long time, “I’d like to get to know our guest a bit better.” It was in the sultry way he’d said it that made her doubt his intentions. She had a feeling dinner was going to be a real ordeal.

While they finished their soup and ate the various delights spread across the table, they held conversation, but this time it felt more strained and superficial and she had a good feeling it was because of mister Turner. He didn’t say much else throughout lunch and when they had finished, he politely bade them farewell and took off to do god knows what. Her eyes followed him as he buttoned his jacked and clenched his jaw until his tense shoulders disappeared around the corner of the hallway. His feet carried him in such a way she was almost entranced by watching him come and go. He was a fascinating figure, to say the least.

“I wouldn’t worry too much about tonight, miss,” Nick snapped her out of her trance, “Mister Turner might be a bit held back, but he’s a man of honour. He’d want nothing more than to commemorate one of his guests.” “Then why does he have to think it over?” she wondered. Matt sighed, “he probably just needs to map out how things will be arranged for tomorrow. Just let it sink in. It’s how he usually deals with these things. He’ll lose his train of thought otherwise.”

She’d spent the rest of the afternoon roaming around the grand hotel, taking in the scenery and paintings when she stumbled upon the library. It was an open room, not nearly as big as the dining hall but still very spacious. Bookshelves built up to the ceiling that were filled to the brim, illuminated by the last rays of sunlight streaming through the large windows. Rugs with various designs were strewn across the floor and the velvety curtains along with the matching red loveseats gave a warm and inviting impression. Before she knew it, she’d gotten lost in one of her favourite books that she’d accidentally stumbled upon and Matt was already asking her if she was ready to have dinner.

“Is you escorting me to various rooms becoming a thing now?” she asked with a smirk. Matt chuckled, “Only if you’d want it to be, ma’am. I for one, wouldn’t mind.” She playfully smacked his arm and a blush dusted his cheeks.

Nick appeared to have been alone and anxiously waiting for their arrival when they entered the hall. He informed them that Jamie was still in a craze about getting everything perfect for when she and mister Turner arrived, and she couldn’t help but pity the man. It was his job, of course, but she’d always been the person who didn’t want other people to fuss over her. She was about to get up to go and ask Jamie if he needed any help when the hotel owner himself casually strode in and took his seat across from her.

When he finally acknowledged Matt’s intensely questioning gaze, he sighed. “I’ve mulled it over and I’ve decided that your mother should be commemorated at the gathering tomorrow.” “What made you reach your final decision, if I may ask?” she questioned curiously. Before he could answer, Matt cleared his throat. Alex shot a look at him, silently conversing something, before answering, “I’d looked over some of the files in our archive. Matthew and Nick had both already voiced the fact they found you to have a familiar face. Only when we found your mother’s old details did they remember who she was, and they only had good things to say about her.”

“Your mother actually helped me get the job,” Nick informed her. “Really?” she smiled. “She did. I was young and didn’t have much experience. I applied for the job as a secretary at the place she worked, but they didn’t really need any more staff. So, she helped me get a job here. Wrote a letter to mister Turner herself, she did.” “I still have that letter,” Alex murmured quietly. He looked so fond when he’d said it, she could see he’d never had any regrets about hiring Nick. His stoic façade snapped back in place when Jamie barged through the kitchen doors.

“Good evening,” he said, slightly out of breath and sweating, “My name is Jamie and I will be your chef during your stay here. May I take your order?”

“You don’t have to introduce yourself, Jamie,” Matt whispered to him, but Jamie quickly shushed him. An awkward pause followed; Alex silently observing the chef with a raised eyebrow until Jamie had realized his mistake. He came back with a set of menus.

Dinner went surprisingly well. Apart from their chef’s worried glances to his boss, his boss’ calculating gaze and Nick accidentally throwing wine over himself, there was no further incident. She’d even had a bit of wine herself, and she was feeling a tad woozy because of it.

“I think I’m going to take a stroll trough the hallways and then retire for the night. Enjoy the rest of your evening, gentlemen,” she said as she got up from her chair. Alex stood as well, and the others automatically followed, but more out of obligation. The hotel owner eyed them in irritation, before asking her, “Mind if I join you?” She paused for a moment. “Not at all.”

She didn’t know if he’d expected to gain some sort of information by accompanying her, but he certainly wasn’t making an effort by remaining silent for the first few minutes. Eventually he seemed to cave when she’d stopped to inspect a painting. It was a picture of a great ship in a lightning storm. “You appreciate art?” She raised a brow at him, “Does that surprise you?” She’d sworn she’d seen a flicker of amusement cross his features before that wall went up again. “I didn’t mean to offend you, madam. It’s just that usually the people who visit this hotel are the people who buy paintings just to own them, not to admire them.” “Well, I’m not the usual people, am I?”

“You are most certainly not,” he quietly muttered.

He continued to bewilder her by showing her the hidden gems of the hotel, the paintings and statues hidden in the crooks and corners. Something in particular stood out; a group photo taken in front of the hotel. A bunch of people were waiving their arm at her, with Alex proudly standing in the front, shaking hands with who she presumed to be Miles Kane. He looked so young, a messy mop of hair on his head and a bright smile adorning his face. Quite the contrast to the serene man standing next to her today. On his other side were Matt and Jamie with their arms wrapped around what seemed to be another staff member. She wondered if he’d lost his job, too.

“That was when the hotel first opened,” he explained. “These were the first visitors. I believe your mother is in the top right corner there.” Taking a closer look, she indeed spotted her mum. It made her heart ache to see her so happy and healthy. She’d almost forgotten what she’d looked like before getting sick. She turned to meet the hotel owner’s gaze. “Thank you for showing me this.” And she meant it. He only hummed in response.

She took a moment’s hesitation before asking, “What happened to the hotel?”

When his gaze hardened almost instantly, she knew she’d made a mistake. “I don’t think that’s any of your business.” “I don’t mean any harm, I was just curious,” she tried to explain, but he wasn’t having it. “Perhaps if you didn’t spend as much time sticking your nose in other people’s business you would’ve published a book by now,” he snarled.

She was at a loss for words. So, he continued, “It’s probably best if you retire early, miss. I’m sorry if our hotel couldn’t give you the juicy gossip you were hoping for,” and stormed off.

She was absolutely fuming. She stalked back to her room, passing the front desk where Nick had been about to greet her until he’d realized he wasn’t getting a response from her. She slammed the door behind her, took out her pen and notebook and wrote down the truth about what kind of an arrogant, narcissistic ass Alexander Turner really turned out to be.

#Alex Turner x reader #Arctic Monkeys #Alex Turner #The Last Shadow Puppets #TLSP #TBHC #AM #Matt Helders #Nick O'Malley #Jamie Cook #Miles Kane #Tranquility Base Hotel & Casino #Wpsiatwin #Fanfiction #Romance #Reader Insert

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mrs-hollandstan · 6 years ago

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Inheritance || Rich Kid! Tom Holland

Warnings: brief sexual content (fingering, handjob, oral- male and female recieving-), one very brief joke of prostitution, language, suggestive comments throughout, jetlag, emotional messsssss at the end, nudity mentioned, alcohol mention

Word Count: 7,205

Author's Note: I did NOT expect 7,000 words but here part two is to Filthy Rich which is still super popular on my page and my most popular fic I've written. I hope this second part gets just as much requisition and lemme know what ya think!

My Masterlist || Read Filthy Rich (part one) || Add yourself to one of my taglists

You'd met Tom's father a number of times. Sometimes when Tom was chasing you through one of their many mansions, you'd nearly run into him, stopping with a gasp before Tom came to a skidding halt behind you, bumping you the smallest bit towards a man in a crisp, Canali, Prince of Wales Siena suit, wearing a smirk before his son introduces him to the new blood standing before him like a deer caught in headlights. There were other times Tom had brought you to a family dinner where you ate a number of foods you could never buy in your lifetime, served by women in their thirties and forties that, despite the sweatshop Cinderella vibe, still probably made WAY more than you, even on a good day at the country club. Each time you'd come into contact with Tom's family, he loved hearing you talk about how... Addam's family they all were as he finished up his nightly routine. Cold, but welcoming stares. Seemingly forced smiles. Computer generated questions. But then again, who could blame them? Each time they met you, the way you dressed, the perfumes and jewelry you wore SCREAMED broke college student. All while each of them, even the youngest, at fourteen, was practically a hedge fund manager and had their own continent.

But Tom's father seemed most invested in your experiences in the short twenty two years you'd been alive. It was in part, as Tom had explained, that his father had also been born into wealth, Dom's own father a very rich man selling aged alcohol to other wealthy men. Tom claimed that his father was interested in what it was like to not be spoiled, as he put it. He wondered what it'd be like to come from a time where you didn't have money, which he believed, in the most respectful way, to be your life. And of course he was right. You knew what it was like to not have the money to pay the electric bill. You knew what it was like to have to sit in the dark and eat cup noodle in the cold. But Tom would never let that happen again.

Dom insisted on Tom giving you all the privileges he and his son were raised on while you were involved with the family so you could see for yourself what it was like. He loved watching you waltz into his front door with a fresh manicure and possible new hair color along with any dress, perfume, or jewelry Tom might have spoiled you with. He knew that in the beginning of your relationship, you didn't enjoy anything being bought for you. But the longer it went on, the more Tom bought and the less you wasted your breath scolding him.

And as far as Dom could tell, when the three of you walked onto a plane the afternoon you left for Seychelles, Tom was still showering you in expensive gifts. You'd wondered as you wandered amongst the tourists and locals coming in and leaving the crowded airport why you weren't being boarded, just the three of you on one of Dom's private jets. Not that you minded, but the looks you got made you feel vulnerable. The looks of the people that passed made your heart pound in your ears. Like you were part of a circus. Like you were a leper.

"Tommy?" His hand meets your back over the black sleeveless midi sweetheart neckline party dress that clings to your hips and has Tom hanging behind you to stare at your ass just like he likes, completely unaware to everyone's stares or distasteful looks, or the unwavering, nagging feeling you have,

"Yeah babe?" You swallow, glancing over at him,

"W-why didn't we take a private jet? These people... they see us together and they surely think-"

"You're a prostitute? Yeah... I get those vibes too." He shrugs playfully, chuckling when you reach back to swat his chest. Rubbing his thumb along the hollow of your back, he sighs,

"Dad assumed that with all the riches we've invested on you, you might want to take a commercial plane. So its a... a sort of pity thing if you will. He doesn't mind it really. It's like a people watching experience for him." Glancing over his shoulder, you follow his eyes to Dom's face, neck bent to look down at his phone,

"Emails, ya know?" You nod, glancing around at the other people,

"If I'd known I'd get these looks... I would've allowed you to drag me kicking and screaming onto a private jet." He chuckled,

"Now you know what it feels like. That first time you met me and that first time you screamed at me that I was a stupid ass little rich kid... this is what it feels like." Slipping his hand down to just before the shelf of your bottom, he clears his throat, looking around you as if someone would be listening,

"Side note... I love when you kick and scream." You click your tongue,

"Quit it. We're in a public place." He huffs,

"When has that ever stopped us? We're willing and able to join the mile high club once we're on board." You glance over your shoulder at his father again who, taking a break from his phone, gives an unknowing, innocent smile. You return it before finding Tom's dark chocolate colored eyes, your cheeks burning like smoldering embers,

"Don't do this to me now." He chuckles,

"When you look this amazing darling... I can't keep my thoughts off of you. If you were in my shoes, the throbbing in my jeans right now would be disgustingly uncomfortable given you don't know how to harness it." You giggle before his shoulder nudges yours and you focus on getting to the correct gate to board your flight.

Once you board and are waltzing through the first class seats, Tom can't keep his eyes off your bottom. The way it looks as you twist and turn to find the right seat number is driving him wild and the way images of you on your back with the splashes of his cum on your thighs and stomach you allowed him to take a few days ago, the same night as the country club experience has his heart skipping a beat. He's pulled from his thoughts when you turn,

"Here we are. How do we uhh... how do we wanna sit." Tom opens his mouth to speak,

"You two can take the window seats, seeing the sight for the umpteenth time might make me sick." Dom replies through a chuckle. Tom's mouth closes when your eyes flick to his and then down to his lips. He swallows and nods,

"Yeah... what he said." Giving a curt nod, you opt for the window seat, watching Tom stow your bags away with guilt ridden eyes. He smiles as he sits in the window seat opposite you, Dom slumping into the seat a few inches from your own, as far from a window as he can be. When he pulls his phone from his pocket again, Tom licks his lips,

"I feel so far from you." You smile when he hides his hand besides him and moves it to the side, gesturing for you to spread your legs to give him SOMETHING. You give a sly smirk before uncrossing your legs and spreading them just the smallest bit until you know your underwear are showing. He quietly squeaks, his eyes cutting to his father when he spots the black silk stuck to your skin,

"I know, but even if you were sitting in your dad's spot, it wouldn't help. We'd still be apart." Tom nodded, glancing up again when his father raised his head for a brief moment at the mention of his title, eyes unmoving from small screen in his hand. He gives a smile before his head returns to it's original place. Tom swallows, closing his eyes when you cross your legs as more people board the plane. He shakes his head of naughty thoughts, staring out the window until the pilot announces takeoff. Your eyes wander his body, lingering too long on the bulge in his jeans that only you know is there. And its inflicted by you. Nearly twenty minutes in, Tom glances up when you stand,

"Show me the bathroom babe? You can get a drink." When you wink, he nods and takes your welcoming, outstretched hand. Turning to Dom, he smiles and Tom swears he knows the real reason you're asking him off,

"I'll bring you a beer." He mumbles, allowing himself to be drug off to the much larger bathroom than towards the back of the plane. He dips inside with you, his arms encircling your waist and his hands placed over your bottom as you hold his face and kiss him softly. He hums into you,

"Fuck... God you're perfect. I'll never, not love you in this dress baby." You clutch his shirt when he leans in to kiss and nip at your neck,

"No hickies just yet... not yet love." You murmur, feeling him attempt to bruise the underside of your jaw. You whimper and moan, his lips making your nipples harden beneath the polyester of your dress. He draws the thin strap of your dress from your shoulder,

"I didn't... I didn't bring a condom. My wallet's in my backpack." You shake your head,

"Let's just... I'll give you a handjob. You can finger me." He practically whines,

"But baby..."

"Fine, I'll blow you." Shrugging your dress off, Tom hums at the look of your bare breasts, reaching for them, his fingers following as you crouch to free him from his pants. When his cock springs free and you lick your lips, he hums, leaning down to press his lips to your own almost too gently,

"I don't think... I've ever loved someone like I love you." Gasping, you take hold of his length,

"Is THE Tom Holland... self-centered rich kid telling me he loves me more than himself?" He bites his lip, watching you stroke him,

"Ha ha, very funny." Licking at his tip, he licks his lips,

"Fine... you wanna be like that... no blow. Handjob is fine. I'll finger you. Make you scream my name so you know how much I love you." When you stand, stumbling in your heels, he kicks your legs apart gently. Sliding his hand between your thighs, he strokes your folds over the luxurious panties, watching you take your bottom lip between your teeth. Your eyes dart up when he leans in for another kiss. Swatting his hand away, you push your g-string down, letting it fall around your feet,

"We can't be here long. We gotta hurry." Wrapping your hand back around him, you stroke him a few rough times, moans slipping from his thin lips. He reaches out again, hand resuming its place between your thighs where two of his fingers slip into your soaked center, his thumb pressing and rubbing at your clit. The two of you moan together, eyes locking every so often. The more focused, the harder and faster you tug him, the more he speeds up. He can feel his orgasm building as you can yours. He presses down on your clit when you whimper, leaning in to press your lips to his clothed shoulder,

"Cum for me my pretty girl." He coaxes, fingers curling to stroke your g-spot. Your knees nearly give out, Tom rubbing your clit a little rougher. He glances down at you hand, bound tight around him,

"Baby... fuck that feels good." Laying your head against his shoulder, his fingers speed up just the little bit that you need, thumb stroking your clit as your body convulses. Your brain goes fuzzy, hand faltering as your orgasm tries to consume you. Tom crouches, cheeks squishing between your thighs as he sucks at your clit. Your head falls back, fingers threading through his unruly hair,

"Oh fuck... oh God Tom, that feels so good." You squeal, gripping the counter in one hand, your foot pressing into his thigh. He hums when you cover your mouth, moaning loudly into your palm as you cum. His eyes are locked on your face, loving the way your eyes are gently closed in pure bliss. He stands, licking his lips of your slick,

"So... fucking... gorgeous." You hum, glancing down at his throbbing cock. Reaching forward again, you give rough, quick strokes, watching his jaw clench. Pushing forward, he presses you to the counter, his cock trapped between you as you try to get him to his high. When he tips his head back again, you lean in, nipping at his neck,

"Baby..." He pants. You suck at his neck,

"Same goes for you..." he mutters, "you're not gonna let me leave marks on you, you're not allowed to leave marks on me." Taking hold of your hair, he gives a gentle tug, drawing you back to face him,

"Gonna cum for me handsome?" He nods, licking his lips again. Watching you crouch before him again, he grunts when you take him into your mouth. He gathers your hair, guiding you along until you're gagging,

"That's it baby... gonna let me cum in that pretty little mouth?" You make a noise, letting him know you'll allow him to. He cocks his head, reaching up to raise his t-shirt over his stomach before you feel his cum coat your tongue,

"Fuckkkkk that's good." He quietly speaks through a shaky voice. Swallowing all he offers, you draw back, pulling his boxers back up to cover him. Pulling his jeans up next, you zip and button them, picking your dress up from the floor. He smiles, leaning down to pick your underwear up,

"That was good. That was uh... you're amazing." Smiling back you slide the straps of your dress up over your shoulders,

"Yeah? Satisfied?" He nods,

"More or less." You click your tongue, snatching the thong back from him,

"You loved it. Don't think I've ever gotten you to cum that fast." He leans in, pressing a kiss to your rosey cheek as you slip back into the material,

"You're amazing darling. Absolutely amazing." Reaching up to stroke his own cheek, you smile warmly,

"Thank you baby. Can't be amazing without you by my side." He smiles back, leaving down to kiss the tip of your nose,

"Let's get back out there... get some drinks." You nod and follow him, the bartender eyeing the both of you as you order two beers and a margarita, eyes cutting to you as he verifies both of your ID's. Tom grumbles, scowling as you walk back,

"What are you suddenly pissy about?" You quiz, cherry at the drink in your hand. He shakes his head,

"He was eye fucking you. You're wearin all this stuff I've bought you, I'm standing right beside you and he wants to do is put you behind the bar on your knees for him."

"Tom-"

"No, I know, keep my voice down. Heaven forbid someone hear me talk about how good your mouth is." He gives a playful smile, handing a beer to his father as you approach your seats again. He helps you sit, sitting across from you with a sigh and sipping from his beer. He eyes you, his heart fluttering at the intrigued look in your eye as you watch the ocean crash beneath the plane.

You really were a sight whether you wore these types of outfits he spoiled you with or just in sweatpants and your university sweatshirt. You were stunning and you were his. No matter what. He loved that fact and you reminded him of it every time you were laying in his bed or on the rare occasion he was in yours. You'd play with each other's hair and you'd reassure him you were thankful for him and in love with him over and over again. And he did the same to you. He wanted you to know how much he appreciated you giving him the chance he knew he didn't deserve. He'd toyed with so many girls around him that he was practically waving a red flag above his head. You'd been cautious in the beginning, but now here you were, his and he wasn't willing to give that up in any way, shape, or form. Not for the rest of his life if things went his way.

---

The eighteen hour flight from New York to Seychelles killed all three of you, you more than the men you accompanied. You were practically dragging your feet to baggage claim, and Tom was holding you up as you leaned against him, waiting for all three of your bags to make their way round.

"Almost done love. Then I'll get you up to the room and you can sleep it off." He cooed, kissing your forehead. You hummed, letting him hold you stable. He kissed your forehead, rubbing your back when your bag made its appearance, leading you out to a courtesy car and helping you into the backseat behind his father. When he climbs in beside you, he kisses the top of your head again as you lean in, head against his arm,

"I want to take you to dinner later. There's a really nice place I think you'll love." You nod sleepily, sighing in his expensive soap and cologne smell. He runs his fingers through your hair, glancing up when you pull to the curb of your hotel. He leads you through the lobby and up to the elevator after his father fetches the keys with a tug on your hand. Once in the room, he points you to the bedroom, letting you go and lay down while Dom runs Tom through the plans for the next few days in the doorway. When Tom returns, he sits beside you on the bed, running his hands across your bare shoulders. He sighs through his nose before leaning in to kiss your temple,

"Get some sleep love. I'll take you out when you wake up." When he goes to stand, you whine and reach back, taking hold of his forearm. He leans in,

"S'matter angel?" You open your eyes just slightly, staring up at him,

"I want out of this dress." His lips pull up in a smile, a chuckle ringing through the room,

"Aren't you too tired for it?" You groan,

"Not sex. I want your shirt." He hums, sliding the zipper of your dress down to expose your bare back. He helps you wrestle from it, licking his lips when he catches a glimpse of your breasts. He pulls his up over shoulders buttoning it swiftly and drawing the comforter back for you to lay under. He kisses your forehead, watching your lashes flutter,

"Goodnight love."

"Goodnight Tommy." You mumble, already half asleep.

When you wake again, it's the middle of the next day. You open your eyes and you swear you've died and gone to heaven. The view from the window wall before you is breathtaking. Few buildings are spread across the area, much shorter than the hotel you're staying in, before a beautiful, sandy beach with the most gorgeous blue water crashing against it is in sight. Standing on somewhat wobbly legs, you walk towards the window, staring out at the beautiful city below you. Your mind is blown and you wonder how you got so lucky to be able to see one of the most beautiful places ever, in person. The sky is clear and the water is just as clear and blue and the people that you can see down on the street, that look like ants, you know are beautiful. Your eyes water and your heartbeat is erratic as you stare down at the ocean, wondering how you were so blessed with the opportunities thrown your way. The door gently creaks open behind you before Tom makes a noise in his throat, opening it fully and stepping inside. He closes it behind him, walking towards you,

"Good... you're up." You make no moves, no noises, you don't say anything to him and the motion has Tom frowning. He stands right behind you, hand placed at your lower back. He moves his head to see your face,

"You okay?" You nod, blinking at the feel of him there. Peeling your eyes from the sight, you look to him,

"Tom its beautiful." He hums in his throat, glancing out at the scene before you,

"It really is huh? I think... I think you're more stunning than anything though. Even in my clothes with your hair a mess." Looking at him, he runs his thumb under your eye,

"My pretty girl." Leaning in, his lips cover yours in a heart stopping kiss and you've never been more happy than in this moment. The way Tom takes your breath away, the way he simultaneously stops and starts your heart, the way he makes your skin burn and tingle is intoxicating. When you reach up and hold his face, he swoops down, holding your thighs tight in his hands and lifting you off your feet. You bind your arms around his neck, his shirt bunched taunt around your hips. Carrying you through the door of the bedroom and out into the middle of the large sitting room, he sets you on your feet before rummaging through the both of your bags and finding the smaller navy blue one,

"Confiscated this because... with my luck, you'd get dressed yourself and I wouldn't get to watch." Clicking your tongue, you sit on his knee, watching him unzip your suitcase. He sorts through the number of dresses you've chosen to bring for the countless expensive dates Tom has planned. After all, your anniversary is coming up and you're on vacation. Why not use that time to celebrate when Tom is free of his father's business. Opting for an Alice and Olivia blue and white tiered high low dress, he draws it from the leather suitcase,

"The... restaurant I've chosen is quite formal and this is perfect. With those strappy heels you love." Smiling, you run your fingers through his unruly hair, leaning in to kiss his cheek, his eyes fluttering shut at the feeling. He sighs, glancing over, eyes lingering on where your breasts are hidden beneath the crisp button up you're wearing. He reaches up, swiftly undoing a button with one hand. Cocking his head when he can see your skin, he swallows,

"I wonder how I got so lucky with you. Everyday that I wake up beside you, or I come to your work to see you or take you out shopping I wonder how I can buy the whole world, yet I can't buy the love you give." His dark colored eyes find yours and he looks almost sad. Like he's losing you when you're right there. You lean in, kissing him,

"And I wonder what cruel god saddled me with you." His lips turn up, eyes fluttering again as you stroke his beautiful, soft curls from his face,

"Y'know... I can always tell when you use that gold flake conditioner stuff. You're always fluffy." He chuckles in his nose,

"Amber gel too. Run your fingers through and it keeps the shine all day." Threading your fingers through for just a moment, you draw back, standing from his lap and starting to unbutton the shirt. Tom licks his lips, leaning back against the velvet of the couch,

"I like where this is goin." Pulling the last button free of its hole, you smile, hair falling to shadow your face as you pull the two sides apart. Tom's eyes wander your body, ghosting past your underwear, before you drop the cotton on the floor. Climbing into his lap, his hand rests on your hip, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows,

"You are... so beautiful." Threading your fingers in his hair again, you give a gentle tug to guide his lips to yours. He kisses you soundly, hands sliding up your skin to press to your breasts. He hums, holding the skin in his hands as your lips dance together. Soon he's drawing back, hands still over your chest,

"I hate to cut this short but... our reservation is at five. You gotta get ready." You nod and kiss him one last time before standing and picking the dress up. Slipping it on, you reach under to draw your underwear down,

"No panties... or a new pair?" Tom licks his lips, slouching on the couch below him and watching the silk leave your skin,

"I uhh... I prefer the none... option but yeah, sure, whatever." He shrugs, watching you search through your bags to find where your underwear are stashed. And when you do, you slip into a black thong flashing Tom for just a moment. He licks his lips as you grab your makeup bag and glance over your shoulder,

"Just a little touch up." He nods and sighs, looking around himself,

"I'll be here." When you disappear into the bedroom, Tom swallows before finding the slacks and button up he planned for tonight, smoothing the dress pants down. By the time he's checking himself in the mirror and taking a deep breath, you're stepping back into the overly large living room, finding your heels and earrings. You slide into the heels before walking towards him, pushing your earrings through your earlobes,

"Now how is that fair? You confiscate my things to see me naked, but you get redressed while I'm gone." Tom chuckles, turning to you and smiling wider as you grab the collar of his deep v button up. Smoothing it down, you sigh and wrap your arms around his waist,

"Trust me, you'll see my dick later. Like I said... we can't get distracted. Our reservation's at five." Leaning in, he drags your hands in his own behind his back, lips falling over yours in a soft, mesmerizing kiss. When you pull back, you hum,

"You look amazing my love." He hums in return, pecking your lips once more before you tug your hands free, heels clicking as you strut away from him, Tom entranced in the way your hips involuntarily sway. You sigh, picking your phone up from the marble side table Tom plugged your phone in at. Glancing back at him, he fishes a suit jacket from the mess of suitcases on the floor, shrugging it on and walking towards you. When he's standing before you, he tucks his hands in his pockets and sighs,

"Ready?" You nod and tuck your phone in his pocket. He smiles, glancing down at your hand which he takes, giving it a squeeze. The smile you flash him is brighter than the sun, and he craves it for the rest of his life. You drag him behind you, turning to him in the elevator,

"I'm glad I came here with you. You're the most important person in my life and as... unnecessary as all of this," you gesture around to the gold plated elevator you ride in, "is, I'm just glad to be here. You feel like home." He clicks his tongue and pulls you in, an arm wrapped around your shoulders. You bind both arms around his torso, closing your eyes when he kisses your forehead. He let's his lips linger, smelling the strawberry shampoo he insisted on buying despite it being somewhat cheap, the few days leading up to you leaving for your trip. He swallows,

"You're home to me. I'm so in love with you and I just... I want you to be happy always."

"Wherever you are, I'm happiest." You quickly impose, looking up into those soft chocolate colored eyes. He smiles before his lips seal over yours, fingers gently stroking your cheek. He pulls back, the air having been sucked out of your lungs when the elevator dings and the doors glissade open. Tom takes your hand again, leading you out into the lobby you vaguely remember being sleepily drug through hours before. This time, you look around, finding all kinds of intricate portraits and paintings lining the large, open room.

"Oh Tom, this is amazing. It is so beautiful in here." He smiles, looking over your turned up face, eyes glistening in the chandelier light glowing above you. He chuckles in his throat,

"You think everything is so beautiful but you fail to realize that you're the most beautiful piece of artwork the world has to offer." Glancing up at him, his hand slips from yours and instead rounds your shoulder, arm draped around your neck. You smile, letting it turn into a giggle,

"Thomas Stanley Holland, king of the cheesiest pick up lines. And you know what... it's not even like the expensive cheese from like, France or Italy, its like sliced Kraft cheese from America." The cute little giggle he retains slips from his perfect, thin lips,

"Oh really?" You nod,

"The cheesiest." His smile widens, eyes cutting down to your lips for just a moment before he fishes the rental car keys from his pocket. Flashing you the key fob, your eyes make out the Chiron signature before he flips it in his palm to show you the Bugatti emblem you know so well per the long garage back home filled with cars that collect dust rather than being driven. When he'd explained to you the price of each car, you swore you swallowed your tongue, wondering how long it would've taken you to conjure up the 3.2 million he'd managed for just one supercar without even putting a dent in his inheritance from his father.

"Just got the new La Voiture Noire Bugatti but... I didn't get it in time from the Geneva Motor Show." He shrugs as if he dirtied something rather than bought a brand new car that were all sold before they were even pieced together in the factory. Tugging the handle on the sleek, black sportscar in front of you, you duck into the leather smelling vehicle, looking around yourself. The red and black interior is beautiful and rough, a brash contrast to your delicate blue and white dress you wear. But when Tom climbs in beside you, his slack nearly blend with the seat below him. He sighs, shifting to make himself comfortable before he clicks a button on the side of the fob, the branch of a key springing free. He sticks it in a slot in the dash before reaching to the steering wheel to press the button labeled 'engine'. He hums when the car purrs to life, reaching down to the shift paddle and putting it into drive. Running your hands across the leather center console, your hand lands in Tom's lap, him looking down at if after pulling from the curb,

"What do you think you would do for work if you had to?" He glances at you for just a moment before his eyes are back on the road as he drives through the road splitting the skyscrapers. He shrugs,

"Probably act. I dunno. I haven't thought about it much." Reaching down, he takes your hand in his, kissing the back of it, eyes averted to the road. You smile, watching him silently as he maneuvers the streets, pulling up in front of a restaurant on the beach before too long. After clambering from the car, he rushed around to your side, opening the door and holding his hand out. He helps you from the car, closing the door behind you and lacing your fingers,

"I figured we could walk on the beach after. The sun will be setting." You nod silently before he leads you inside. The staff is friendly and Tom sits across from you in the booth, your feet wrapping around his calves which he reacts to with a warm, happy smile. Once you've both looked over the menus and ordered, the conversation turns back to cheesy where Tom gushes about how perfect you are and how much he loves you. He takes both of your hands and rubs his thumbs over your knuckles, eyes averted to the table, only glancing up into yours every so often until your food arrives. After that, until you've finished and the waiter is inquiring about dessert, the communication between the both of you is minimal, nearly nonexistence. When the coconut and banana tart arrives, you and Tom share it, Tom telling you of when he first came to Seychelles at six and had the same dessert with his family. The smile on his face shows you it's a genuine memory full of love. Despite his parents handing him and his brothers everything, there is a lot of love that courses through the family and he loves not only his parents, but his brothers more than anything.

By the time dessert is over and Tom is paying for the meal, hiding the total beneath his palm and giggling along with you as you fight to see it, the restaurant is picking up and outside, the sky has turned from a bright blue to calm, pastel hues of purple, pink and orange as the sun sets beyond the horizon. Tom leads you out into the warm night, turning to you as you stand beside his rental car,

"Figured we'd just ditch our shoes. Rather than sinking into the sand and getting it everywhere." You nod, slipping your heels off as he undoes his own, sliding them and his socks off and setting them on the passenger side floorboard, he watches you do the same as he shrugs out of his jacket. Standing again, he closes up the car and takes your hand, both of your bare feet padding along the asphalt as you walk towards the beach. Once the sand meets you feet, you sigh and Tom chuckles, pulling you out towards water. You stand at the edge, mud slipping between your toes as the water crashes in, bubbling over your feet. You squeal and Tom cackles,

"Its cold!" You squawk, squeezing his hand. Tom chuckles, staring at you as water washed over you and your face sparkles as the remaining sunlight strikes the crystalline water. He swallows,

"Let's walk a little further down. There's a place down the beach where you can see in the valley." You nod and follow, binding your arm around Tom's waist, his own arm around your shoulders. He sighs as you stroll along,

"Are you enjoying your visit so far?" You nod, laying your head against his shoulder,

"Its gorgeous here. I've seen the sights ya know? London is beautiful and New York I'll always love and... those trips to Australia and Fiji were fantastic. It's a dream to be here... with you." When you look up at him, you both stop walking, Tom looking in your eyes and then down at your lips before he leans in, softly kissing you. His hand slips down to your chin, holding you to him for just a moment longer. When you pull back, a puff of warm breath fans out across Tom's own lips and he sighs,

"You're so perfect."

"You've said that a lot today." He chuckles once more and shrugs,

"It can only get annoying and repetitive if it isn't true. Which it isn't." Cocking an eyebrow at you, you click your tongue,

"But it is. I've got my issues and that makes me imperfect."

"Wrong. It makes you unique, which is perfect." Rubbing the middle of your back, he walks you along, stopping just where the thin neck of hills around the small bay connects it to the ocean. He turns you, hands rested on your arms. He sighs, resting his chin on your shoulder,

"Here's your sight. You think all of those other views are so stunning but here's the one that I've grown up on. My family and I ate at that restaurant, walked down this same beach, sat in this same spot time and time again. Its remained one of my favorite places, and that's why I wanted you to come with me. I wanted you, the most important person in my life, in one of the most beautiful places I remember from my childhood." Looking over at him, he gives a soft smile. You smile back, leaning in to kiss his nose,

"You're adorable." His hands disappear from your arms, head gone from your shoulder momentarily. You stare out at the crashing waves, watching them change color in the sun,

"It is beautiful. Living in New York most my life, the water is always cold and because it's so cloudy you don't see these sort of colors on the water. But you're more beautiful. I-" Turning, you find that your normally perky, tall and lanky boyfriend has crumbled to one knee. A ring that sparkles in all the colors on the ocean's currents sits in his fingers, his eyes looking between your own that hold tears already. He swallows,

"I brought you here because... I wanted to have you in one of my favorite places. I wanted to propose to you in the same spot I sat in as a kid with my family. I want to know that the woman that keeps me most grounded, the woman that I want to spend the rest of my spoiled life with, agreed to marry me in the most nostalgic memory I have. Y/N Y/L/N... will you make me the happiest man alive, give me that last part of my world, and marry me?" The tears are free flowing down your cheeks, the makeup he's bought you over the months and years holds true to waterproof and doesn't smudge as the tears roll down your cheeks. Your lungs constrict and you fight for air as you nod,

"Yes. Yes I'll marry you Tom." He doesn't waste a moment, sliding the Tiffany Novo, Pavé diamond, platinum band engagement ring on your finger before swooping you up, lifting you off your feet in a hug that takes your breath away. Your fingers thread through his hair as you sob, his arms tight around you. He let's out a breath, truly relieved you said yes. He loves you more than anything and the idea of you not saying yes scared him. But here you are, about to celebrate your three year anniversary as an engaged couple, in one of the most beautiful cities ever.

Tom never told his dad of his plan, never indulged on the secret of the ring that was hidden amongst his luggage. He desperately wanted to be cheesy and flash it in the Tiffany blue box, but it was too bulky and you'd notice. But the occasion was perfect. You had no idea and Tom was immensely proud of himself for not popping the question the number of times the urge came about. He was glad that it worked out perfectly and that he had you to stand by his side for the rest of his life now. As his wife. He leans in and kisses you cheek, setting you back on your feet. When he draws back, you lean further in to kiss him softly,

"Who knew?" You look around you, clearing the tears and Tom chuckles,

"Harrison. He isn't here. There aren't any pictures, no commemorative videos, it's just us. Just you and me to remember this moment. That's the way I wanted it." He reaches up to caress your cheek before you step forward to hug him properly,

"I love you so much Tom." He kisses the top of your head, wrapping his arms around you,

"I love you more angel. Forever now." Sighing. you listen to his erratic heartbeat, his fingers in your hair. A thought suddenly hits you and you stand straight with a gasp,

"Are you telling me I get to have my Pinterest dream wedding? Is that was this proposal means?" Tom's eyebrows furrow,

"I-I guess. I didn't know you had a wedding Pinterest board."

"What woman doesn't?" He smiles at the look on your face. When your eyes lock again, he sighs through his nose,

"You have no idea how relieved I am you said yes. Now I can sleep at night knowing that all that uncertainty, all the hate you have for me being spoiled isn't a worry. You're mine and nothing makes me happier." Tsking, you reach up and stroke his cheek,

"If there was any dislike of anything on my part, I wouldn't have stayed for almost four years. You're my life now and I can't imagine anything else. I want to sleep in the same bed as you and wear your shirts and walk around our house naked and make you breakfast and cuddle. I want to marry you, surrounded by our families and dance the fucking night away and have the most amazing honeymoon and someday, I wanna have your kids and have OUR family. There is no one... absolutely NO ONE I want to do this with more than you." Tears are running down both of your cheeks now, the sight of you in Tom's eyes clouded through the warm diamond like tears. You hold his cheeks, clearing his tears, his hands placed on your hips and his forehead rested against yours. He sniffles, opening his eyes again,

"I've known I wanted you since I picked you up for the day in the boutique. When you walked out of your front door and you looked so... normal. You felt like home. You were everything I craved. The normality, the pure, unpaid for love, the respect for just the small things in life. You're all I've ever needed and I just... I'm do glad that you're in my life. That you're mine." You stand in silence for a few moments longer, just holding each other. The only sound is the other person breathing, and the crash of the waves against the shore and the rocks not too far from you. Tom stands back, sniffling and pulling his phone from his pocket. You watch him, swallowing as he takes the hand that is weighed down with the fifty four thousand dollar engagement ring from Russia,

"What're you doing?" He sniffles once more,

"Calling my mum. She's been asking me when I'm going to do it and it's been eating at me because I haven't told her. Now I can." Holding the phone up to his ear after dialing his mother's number there's a pause as he holds your hand out, smoothing over the soft surface of the diamond decorating your hand,

"Hey mum." He speaks low, almost inaudible to you over the waves,

"Yeah, I have something to tell you." He sniffles and there's just one more pause before he spills everything,

"I proposed to Y/N... we're engaged." And your heart couldn't be happier watching his jaw tremble and more tears glisten in his eyes as he looks up, locking eyes with you for just a moment before he looks up at the sky. You'd officially gotten through to the spoiled rich kid's stone cold heart.

Permanent Taglist: @embrace-themagic @delicioustommy @spiderman-n @winters-beauty @smexylemony @lolabean1998 @musiclover1263

Tags of people I that showed the last part love & I feel would wanna read the second part: @thollandz @clairesrainbow @r0ger-tayl0r @marvelsperalta @empressdreams @cartiertom

#tom holland #tom holland fanfic #tom holland imagine #tom holland one shot #tom holland imagines #tom holland x reader #tom holland x oc #tom holland x you #rich kid!tom #rich!tom #richkid!tom #richkid!tom holland #my writing #tom holland smut #rich kid tom #rich kid tom holland #tom Holland one-shot #tom holland x plus size reader #tom holland x poc reader

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tisfan · 5 years ago

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Earth Girls are Easy

@rarepairsevents

Prompt: #8 - Carol comes across a truly lost human on her travels. Darcy was just doing her job when the bifrost went off. Now they’re on the weirdest intergalactic road trip. Bonus points if: bed sharing while mutual pining on an alien planet.

Carol Danvers/Darcy Lewis

Tag: Meet awkward, earth girls in space

Summary - Carol gets contracted to give a Terran a lift home. Cons: the pay sucks, Quill is an asshole, and the Collector’s been giving the girl a place to stay. Pros: She’s damn cute.

“Vers!” Someone bellowed across the Promenade.

Carol Danvers resisted the urge to immediately blast him. She’d been Vers for a mere six years with the Kree, and working under her own name -- or sometimes Captain Marvel, named after her Kree mentor and friend -- for almost twenty. You’d think some aliens would get the fucking memo already.

“Vers, hi, how are you?”

“Carol,” she said.

“What, no, my name’s Peter--”

“MY name is Carol.”

“Oh, right, okay, yeah, the-- the thing, with the Kree, yeah, you know, I really hate those guys,” Quill said.

“What do you want, asshole?”

“So, like you’re from Terra and I’m from Terra, and I thought, maybe, one Terran to the other, you could do me a little, tiny favor.”

“No.” That was easy. She started to walk away.

(more below the cut)

“Look, no, I’ll give you a cut,” Quill said. He was jogging to keep up with her, because her leave-me-the-fuck-alone stride was pretty damn fast. She had to give him credit for perseverance, but out of a perverse sense of humor, she kept walking until he was out of breath and sweating. He still hadn’t gone away.

“Of what?”

“The job,” Quill said. “Look, I got us a job, and then a really sweet opportunity fell into our laps and--”

“You already made a commitment and then something bigger came along, you can’t do both at the same time, even though you’ve already said you would, and now you’re hoping that I’m an idiot and I’ll do your first job for you, for half the price. Keep dreaming, Star Lord.”

“It’s an easy job,” Quill protested. “Look, you can have seventy percent, consider the other thirty a finder’s fee.”

“I’m gonna break your ‘finder’ right off and shove it someplace unpleasant if you put your hand on me, so don’t,” Carol said. “What’s the job?”

“Just drop this girl off on Terra, okay? She’s super lost.”

It had to be a girl, right? It couldn’t be some white male asshole lost in space that she wouldn’t feel a hint of guilt at neglecting. Carol sighed. “Where is she?”

“Great, you won’t regre--”

“Zzzt. Shut up. The only thing out of your mouth better be a location and the amount of units you’re going to be handing me. Otherwise, I’m gonna blast you into next week, and then you’ll miss out on both jobs.”

“She’s at the Collector’s,” Quill squeaked. “And fifteen Asgardian urus. She didn’t have units.”

“Urus will do,” Carol said, practically. Urus had a better trade value in some of the outer rim systems. “And what, do you not like her? Why leave her there?”

“You said not to talk!” And Quill smacked his faceplate down, clicked his rocket boots, and flew off like a slightly paranoid Dorothy Gale. Asshole. Honestly, Carol was never sure if Quill was an asshole on purpose just because it kept people from having expectations of him, or, if like, his emotional growth had gotten stunted at age eight.

Decided she didn’t care, Carol changed her trajectory just enough to be pointed in the general direction of the Collector’s.

At least she was one of the few people who could just barge in on him. He wasn’t exactly afraid of her, but she wasn’t afraid of him, either. They were sort of, not quite, equals in a way where both of them thought they’d win if it came to a throw down, and neither of them disliked the other enough to try it.

“Hey Taneleer,” she bellowed, slipping lightly between the displays. “I hear you got a package for me?”

“Do I? I was just thinking I might keep her. Earthlings are so delicate, they just don’t survive very long.”

“Yeah, yeah, your coat is lovely by the way, where did you get it?” She pushed into Taneleer’s personal space. “Give me the girl.”

“Right, one human woman, coming right up--” the Collector said, brushing down his coat, which appeared to, in fact, be alive. Gross. “Miss Lewis, if you please. This is Captain Marvel. She’ll be taking you home.”

The woman who Taneleer coaxed out of the corner was pretty in a coffee-shop, slam poet, studying to be a CPA on the side, and volunteering at the dog shelter on the weekends.

Oh, I am in so much trouble.

“Miss Lewis,” Carol said.

“Darcy, Darcy is fine, I’m-- yeah, nice to meet you.”

“You can call me Carol.”

Both Taneleer’s bushy eyebrows went up.

So much trouble.

“So, you’re a human,” Darcy said. Like when she was walking near Thor -- she never walked with Thor, Thor was a one man show, and sometimes he let other people accompany him -- she had to practically run to keep up. “Do I even want to know how you got to space?”

“I was kidnapped,” Captain Carol Marvel thingie said, not looking around.

“Lot of that going around, that’s the same thing that Star Guy said, and I know Jane’s been to space a few times, but usually Thor takes her. It’d be nice, I think, if there were some humans who got to space by themselves, don’t you? I feel so-- unadvanced.”

“Humans are, compared to the larger galaxy,” Carol said, “rather primitive.”

“Fuck you. We have great margaritas,” Darcy sniffed. “Around here they have random varieties of ‘we distilled this shit next to our power core and it probably won’t kill you.’”

“I’ll give you that much,” Carol said. “I haven’t been to a decent bar in… well, probably longer than you’ve been alive.”

“You don’t look that much older than me,” Darcy said. She was, however, familiar with gods, and their age issues. Thor was something around fifteen hundred years old, or the rough equivalent of a soccer mom. Of course, by that notion, Loki was all of sixteen or so, and the more Darcy thought about that, the more logical it seemed. Loki had all the sense and restraint of an angry white boy with daddy issues and a gun, and the Asgardians did seem to be the primeval angry white boys.

“Looks can be deceiving,” Carol said, “although, not possibly as old as you’re now thinking. I was born on Earth in 1966, standard planetary time.”

“There is exactly no way you’re twenty years older than I am,” Darcy spluttered. “Not with an ass like that.”

Carol looked over her shoulder. “What’s wrong with my ass.”

“Not a damn thing,” Darcy said. “And I’ve seen Tony Stark up close, so believe me when I say, I know a fine ass when I see one.”

“Tony Stark? Is that supposed to mean something?”

“Iron Man? Earth’s greatest defender? How long have you been gone?”

“Since ‘89, with a brief visit in 1995 to deal with some alien issues.”

“We had aliens back in the 90s? Well, that explains some things,” Darcy said. Really, nothing surprised her anymore.

“Quill is half alien,” Carol said, “and his mom popped out that delightful ass in the eighties or thereabouts. So you’ve had aliens on Terra that I personally know about since the mid seventies. And the Asgardians were there centuries ago. Face it, little green men are a thing, and probably always have been.”

“What even is my reaction to that supposed to be?” Darcy demanded, trotting to catch up, because Carol had stopped listening and was striding off toward… well, Darcy hoped it was her ship, or something. She was used to it, though. Being left behind. Forgotten. She wasn’t very interesting, or very smart, or very beautiful. She was a mostly normal-thank-you-very-much human grad student who was going to have a lot of freaking college loans to pay off. Which was why she kept putting off actually graduating, because at least being Jane’s assistant paid some bills and kept her in kitchen and booze funds.

It also ended up with her being accidentally zotted to the other end of the galaxy when one of Jane’s experiments either went drastically wrong, or incredibly right. Hard to say, and she wouldn’t really know until she got home and found out of Jane had just popped off to a different party of the galaxy. And rest assured that Thor probably knew where she was and went after her. Which, it might not occur to them for a while that Darcy also needed to be rescued.

To be fair, Jane often managed to find trouble when she was out of line of sight, and getting popped of, she might have, for instance, immediately have stuck her pen into some swirly goo and gotten infected with Bad Space Things. You know, just saying.

Not like it had ever happened before.

“So,” she said, when she finally caught up, panting for breath, because, damn, in addition to having a killer ass, Carol also apparently had increased lung capacity. Well, Darcy might be able to make use of that if she was going to entertain the idea of getting funky with a space diva. And she just might consider it. “Sounds like you’ve been missing the bar scene for a while, and maybe a drink or two, and cheese sticks? Want to hit the Applebees when we get back? I mean, I know it’s basic and everything, but I don’t get paid all that often and their happy hour is--”

“Don’t you have fifteen Uru? At least?” Carol stopped walking and Darcy slammed into her, and they engaged in a little rocking back and forth before Carol steadied them out.

“Well, yeah,” Darcy said. “I’ve got hundreds of them, Thor gives them to us all the time for stuff. But there’s no exchange rate on Earth for god-money.”

“How many do you have with you?”

“A hundred or so,” Darcy hedged. She’d told Quill she only had twenty because he’d looked very… untrustworthy.

“Right, we’ll hit up the exchange on our way out of the port,” Carol said. “Minus my delivery fee, of course.”

“Of course. Does that mean yes to a date?”

“If you have a hundred uru, you could probably buy the bar,” Carol said. “So, yes. Date. sounds fun. Do they still do karaoke on Earth?”

“Yass, Queen,” Darcy said, holding her hand up to be high fived and after a moment, Carol seemed to recall the custom. “What’s the exchange rate?”

Carol swiped a few gestures over her wrist, popping up a display holograph, which Darcy would think was really cool if she wasn’t actually in Goddamn space and had seen some actual motherfreaking aliens, thanks very much. “About six and a half to one.”

“Six hundred dollar’s isn’t bad, but it’s hardly buying real estate--”

“Six and a half thousand. To one Uru. So, about half a million dollars, or so, after processing fees.”

Darcy almost stopped breathing. “I have hundreds of those things at home,” she squeaked.

“So, yeah. Date?”

“Date.” She could think about the rest of it later. Like, when she was writing a check to pay off her student loans.

fin

A/n - in the book, Dorothy Gale had silver shoes, and she could use them to fly, which is what Carol is thinking of here.

Earth Girls are Easy is an 80s movie staring Jeff Goldblum, so... make of that what you will

#rarepairevents #carol danvers/darcy lewis #earth girls are easy

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arcticdementor · 4 years ago

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First, the story of the Sky King: In August 2018, a Horizon Airline employee with no piloting experience hijacked a turboprop from the Sea-Tac airport and flew in wild loops against the backdrop of the setting sun. He wheeled over the Olympics for an hour before crashing on an uninhabited island in the Puget Sound.

He died on impact. But in that hour, the 29-year-old Richard Russell, ordinary in every respect, became a kind of folk hero. The internet, or at least the part of it anons like me inhabit, watched in awe as he pulled off one improbable aerial maneuver after another before steering the plane into oblivion. It was an outrageous act. We saw something beautiful in this. We saw something deeply human.

Cracks in the Surface

Redditors captured national headlines last month by driving the price of GameStop stock over 14,000%, catching bearish institutional investors in a classic “short squeeze.” A spike last Wednesday drove the shares up 40% and sent the broader market into a frenzy. Everyone wanted in on the action. New “meme stocks” like AMC, Nokia, and Blackberry—hot brand names from 2005—percolated up from the online ferment to ride the tail winds of GameStop’s success. Dave Portnoy of Barstool Sports purportedly invested a million bucks in a handful of these names. Others followed. I followed. On Wednesday, 1.25 billion shares of AMC were traded, up from a daily average of about 25 million.

Suddenly everyone was an expert in gamma squeezes and options trading. The blue checks flooded the take market. Narratives began to emerge. “White supremacist neo-Nazis were targeting Jewish financiers.” This was “the Capitol siege all over again.” There were calls for the SEC to do something to regulate the speculation. Midwits decried the disconnect between GameStop’s stock price and the company’s underlying financial health. This is a perversion of market dynamics, they said. They wagged their fingers. This is not funny, they insisted. You kids better cut it out. This is illegal. You’re going to hurt yourselves. You’re going to crash the market. You’re going to lose your money. Nag. Nag.

…

This has become a mantra for the meme stock buyers. You buy and you hold. You are not cowed by the halts and “recalibrations” of exposed counterparties, the naked betrayal by Robinhood of its user base. If anything you are emboldened by these efforts. You grow stronger in your convictions. You refuse to enter stops on your trades. You do not sell at the gap-ups or on the fifteen-minute green sticks to new daily highs. You buy. You do not sell. You HOLD THE LINE.

This organic, digitally distributed coordination defies normal market psychology. The market assumes individuals will act in their own, or their clients’, singular financial interest. That’s why they are so quick to call this manipulation. That’s the only way they can process market participants cooperating with one another. A spirit of brotherhood? It must be collusion!

Brotherhood in the Arctic

Comparisons between the January 6 siege at the Capitol and the meme stock brigade on Wall Street are not altogether wrong. We are living under a regime that is in failure mode. Its gears are seizing up. In Encounters At the End of the World, Werner Herzog remarks on a penguin that has been deranged by the incomprehensible landscape of the Arctic and wanders aimlessly for hundreds of miles until it eventually exhausts itself and dies. America, confronted once again with history by the incomprehensible landscape of our digital environs, feels something like that.

It is, as far as I can tell, the plan to comfort the American people in this deranged march to our national death with an increasingly tedious iteration of bread and circuses. IPAs, designer meds, porn, and video games are enough for some, it seems, but, thank God, they do not sate us all. Say it with me: I will not eat the bugs. I will not live in the pod. The narratives we have been given to understand ourselves, to prime us to accept this debased existence, do not obtain for us all.

We do not hate ourselves. We do not hate who or what we come from. And we intend to respect ourselves enough to fight against the degenerate and malignant forces insisting we believe otherwise.

…

On Friday, a hedge fund manager went on TV to plead with the meme stock buyers to desist. He did not scold us as so many had done, but instead tried to appeal to our mutual interests. His point was that if the meme stockers succeeded in bankrupting these hedge funds, it would crash the market and then everyone would lose: Main street and Wall Street alike. This was a familiar rationale. It’s how they justified the bailouts in 2008. If we let these banks fail, they said, it all collapses.

Possibly. And maybe in 2008 that seemed reasonable to the vast majority of people. But a lot has changed in a decade, and there is simply no “mutual” overlap anymore between the interests of hedge funds and those of the rest of us. They want to continue our march toward death. We want to live—even if just for a moment. As such, threats of mutual destruction are perhaps no longer so compelling. A paradox arises: How do you win a game of chicken against a man who has already been committed by forces beyond his control to annihilation—or, in any case, against a man who sees himself that way? Who looks out to the cliff’s edge and prays for it, who in that final exalted moment, suspended mid-air, flying toward sunset, is confirmed in his conviction that it was all worthwhile?

#lomez #the american mind #read the whole thing

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sowingseedsandshootinghoops · 4 years ago

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Charles Dickens: Societal Problems in “Our Mutual Friend”

Note on the text: Our Mutual Friend by Charles Dickens published by Walter J Black

Charles Dickens is one of the best novelists that the world has ever known. His knowledge of nature is so deep and so penetrating that it rings true even now.

He was a much better observer of human nature than he gets credit for. It has become vogue in recent times to see him as something of a caricaturist who only created characters that were one dimensional and over the top.

But look at the way he introduces the characters of Lizzie Hexam and her father Jesse, who are sailing on the Thames, to us. How he tells us so much about these characters with so little text: “Allied to the bottom of the river rather than the surface by reason of the slime and ooze with which it was covered, and in its sodden state, this boat and the two figures in it obviously were doing that they often did, and were seeking what they often sought” (2). With only a few words we know instantly that they are professionals and the image that comes to mind from these few words is as rich and detailed as if they had been given a paragraph’s worth of adjectives.

Again Dickens shows his genius in describing the minute details of human nature in the way that Jesse instinctively knows that Lizzie has noticed something on the river that he hasn’t: “What ails you?’ [asked] the man, immediately aware of [Lizzie’s change in attitude]. ‘I see nothing afloat’” (3).

It should not be a surprise therefore that someone who noticed the smallest details of human behavior, was also able to notice some of the broader details too. What Dickens seems especially interested in is the effect that education and money have on people. One of the things that he points out over and over again is how people who are in the privileged class often don’t notice how privileged they are and they aren’t aware of just how valuable those privileges are. People on the outside on the other hand are acutely aware of just how valuable those privileges are. Those who are educated, for example, don’t know just how much of a gift education is because “no one who can read looks at a book, even unopened on a shelf, like someone who cannot” (24). Lizzie is a poor girl who, as she tells her younger brother Charley, “would be very glad to be able to read real books” and who “feels her want of education very much” (40). She knows what the value of a good education is, which is why she sends Charley off to school later even though that means that she might not see him again. Contrast that with the image of the Veneering family who, although they are very educated and surround themselves with the crème de la crème of society, care so little about being educated that “any one who has anything to tell generally tells it to anyone else in preference” (18). These are the people who have the power and the privilege, and yet they cannot even recognize or appreciate the privilege that they have.

Along with access to education comes access to higher paying jobs, and all power that money has access to. Dickens was acutely aware of the power that money wields in both the micro and macro scale. In terms of the micro scale, look at how Eugene describes the way in which his father found him a woman to marry to his friend: “My respected father has found, down in the parental neighborhood, a wife for his generally not well respected son’. ‘With some money of course?’ ‘With some money, of course, or else he would not have found her” (198). A rogue like Eugene, without any money, is intolerable and unmarriable. But a rogue with money is a different story altogether.

Dickens is also aware however of the role that money plays on the macro scale. Just look at the way he describes what a gentleman with shares, the 19th century equivalent of a hedge fund manager, does:

He goes in an amateurish, condescending way into the City, attends meetings of Directors and has to do traffic in shares. As is well known to the wise in their generation, traffic in Shares is the one thing to do in this world. Have no antecedents, no established character, no cultivation, no ideas, no manners, have Shares. Have Shares enough to be on Boards of Directors in capital letters, oscillate on mysterious business between London and Paris, and be great. Where does he come from? Shares. Where is he going to? Shares. Does he have any principles? Shares. What squeezes him into parliament? Shares. Perhaps he never achieved anything of himself in success, never originated anything, never produced anything! Sufficient answer to all: Shares. Oh mighty Shares! (154-155).

No where is the difference between the haves and the havenots in this book more evident than in a conversation that Mr. Podsnap has with an unnamed gentleman at a dinner party. They are discussing a report which has just appeared in the newspaper regarding six people who have died that week, in the streets, of starvation. Initially Mr. Podsnap says that he doesn’t believe that that actually happens to which the gentleman replies that they

must take it as proved because [of] the Inquests and Registrar’s returns. ‘Then it was their own fault’ said Mr. Podsnap. . . . The man of meek demeanor intimated that truly it would seem [that] starvation had been forced upon the culprits in question. . . [and that] they would rather not have [starved to death]. . . if it had been agreeable to all parties. ‘There is not’, said Mr. Podsnap flushing angrily, ‘there is not another country in the whole world, sir, where so noble a provision of the poor is made as in this country’. The meek man was willing to concede that, but perhaps it rendered the matter even worse, as showing that there must be something appallingly wrong somewhere [in the system]. . . [and] wouldn’t it be just as well to try and figure out where? ‘Ah!’ said Mr. Podsnap. ‘Easy to saw ‘somewhere’; not so easy to say ‘where’! But I see what you are driving at. I knew it from the first. Centralization. No. Never. Never with my consent. [It’s] not English’. . . . [The meek man had no] favorite ‘ization’ that he knew of. But he was certainly more staggered by these terrible occurrences than he was by names of however many syllables. Might he ask if dying of destitution and neglect was necessarily English?. . . . [Might there be a way to ensure that the] laws [regarding the poor] were being properly administered? (190-191).

At this point Mr. Podsnap quotes Scripture by saying that the poor will always be with us and cautions the young man to not attempt the impossible by feuding with God. When the young man attempts to say that he is not trying to go against God but is instead just trying to help his fellow man Mr. Podsnap interrupts him by saying that he

must decline to pursue this painful discussion. It is not pleasant to my feelings. It is repugnant to my feelings. I have said that I do not admit these things. I have also said that if they do occur (not that I admit it) the fault lies with the sufferers themselves. It is not for me’- Mr. Podsnap pointed at ‘me’ forcibly as [if to add] by implication that it may be well for ‘you’- ‘it is not for me to impugn the works of Providence. I know better than that, I trust, and I mentioned what the intentions of Providence are. Besides’, said Mr. Podsnap flushing. . . with a consciousness of personal affront, ‘the subject is a disagreeable one. I will go so far as to say that it is an odious one. It is not one to be introduced among our wives and young ones, and I’, he finished with a flourish of his arms than anything [else] could, ‘And I remove it from existence’” (191-192).

Doesn’t Mr. Podsnap remind you of people in recent times who, when they were told of a tragedy that was happening nationwide to members of an under privileged class, initially denied that anything was happening, and then, once they could no longer deny the fact, proceeded to blame the members of that group for their predicament? People who even after they realized that they could not blame those people for the predicament which they found themselves in, said that everyone should just simply celebrate the progress that the country has made and stop talking about it because they were tired of having the conversation and it was making them uncomfortable? Does this remind you of anyone? No? Just me then I guess. . . .

Not only does society despise members of the lower class, but it scoffs at the attempts that many people of class make in order to be able to enjoy the benefits that are being offered to members of the upper class. When Jesse Hexam is being derided for being a waterman and something of a grave robber, he retorts that it is better to rob a dead man who has no need of money than it is to rob a live one which is what a lot of other people do. Similarly people condemn Bella for wanting to marry a rich man, but who could blame her? Given the way that society treats poor people, who could blame her for saying that she “hate[s] and detest[s] being poor” and that because she cannot make money, beg for money, or steal money, she is resolved to marry into it (435)? But that is the difference between the haves and the havenots. The haves make the rules and the havenots have to live by them. The haves live in a world where they have privileges that they are not even aware they have, while the havenots must struggle to get by in a world that seems stacked against them.

Charles Dickens was a very perceptive writer, and much of what he said about 19th century England still applies to America today. History doesn’t always repeat but it does often rhyme. It’s strange to know that people like Podsnap still exist today. We have a long way to go, but it’s important to keep fighting so that future generations don’t have to keep dealing with the same problems that we do. We must keep fighting.

#charlesdickens #dickens #podsnap #ourmutualfriend #poverty #poor #scriptures #underprivileged #privilege #rich #education #hexam #lizziehexam #money #stocks #shares #upperclass #workingclass

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mr-and-mr-diaz · 4 years ago

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Here it is! The garden party! What will happen in the secluded hedge maze...?

M/M Romance, Arranged Marriage - Also available on AO3

Chapter 5: The Garden Party

Excerpt: "Would you like me to lift you up a few feet so you can see better?" Henry appeared next to me, chuckling.

I got ready for the weekend's garden fete with some excitement. No longer was I the grumpy cuff shackled on the wrist of an unwanted suitor. I was on the hunt for replacements. Since I would be going as an observer, I decided against bright colors, opting instead for a light brown overcoat and trousers, a shorter hat, with an ivory shirt. A matching light brown handkerchief and emerald green cufflinks completed the ensemble. I was just fine enough to be acceptable as Henry's fiance, and just unobtrusive enough to be able to mingle.

My parents climbed aboard the carriage and we were off. It was little more than a fifteen minute drive to the large estate, and having been there recently I knew what to expect when we headed up the drive.

I was wrong. The front gardens had been transformed for the summer feat. The hedges were clipped into magnificent shapes, and flower garland was strung and twisted onto colorful poles. Servants rushed about, serving drinks to all the guests as they entered the mansion. I sat in the carriage a moment longer, overwhelmed at the spectacle.

"Philip." My mother called less-than-patiently from the ground. Then "Oh!"

I looked down quickly. Henry looked up at me with a large smile on his face and his hand held out. His tailor had earned his pay. Royal blue trousers hugged his legs, showing off their musculature, and a tailed royal blue coat trimmed in gold wrapped around his broad shoulders, ending in elaborate, gold-stitched cuffs over a snowy white shirt. His eyes were brought out by the colors and they shone in the growing evening light. Even I, who was determined not to like him, had to be impressed.

I took his offered hand and allowed him to escort me from the coach. The gathered crowd had paused to watch the spectacle, the light brown and ivory pigeon being helped down by his fiance, the peacock. It was laughable. Arm in arm we walked up the drive, Mother sighing spectacularly. I resolved all the more to find him a more suitable match. We were unfit for each other in every way.

And I didn't want him.

We wove through the crowds, exchanging greetings with the guests. I could feel my face getting red and I attempted to get away a few times, but each time was pulled back by Henry's firm grasp on my forearm.

"If we stay linked like this the whole evening, I daresay I won't have a spare chance to find you another suitable match." I whispered up to him.

He chuckled. "You'll get your chance. But until then you are here as my fiance and we must keep up appearances."

I wanted to add that such a spectacle would make it all the more awkward when we split from one another, but I refrained, instead pasting on a charmed smile and following Henry around the banquet. Inside was even more glamorous than out. Massive chandeliers gleaming with candles lit the hall and a grand set of steps carpeted in burgundy led the way up to the ballroom. Inside, couples danced, their reflections jumping at them from the floor to ceiling windows, and long tables covered in snow-white linen held all manner of delicacies, from sugared fruit and chocolates to towering cakes iced in the bright colors of spring, draped in flowers. It was truly a magnificent show.

I tore my eyes from the refreshment to assess the people in the room. My eye caught onto a few young men that passed first glance requirements--they were handsome, the right age, dressed well. I made a note of which ones to engage in conversation throughout the evening. One, a young dandy who I'd never seen before, seemed especially suited. I took a step toward him when Henry pulled me to the dance floor.

"Would you do me the honors, Philip?"

I tugged at my wrist. "Henry, I may have found just the one, give me five minutes."

His brow furrowed, but he released me. "Of course."

I made my way across the room, nodding at friends as I made eye contact with them. The young man was talking to Sir Rond, who was making quite the spectacle of himself for a forty year old married man. His scowling wife, standing a few paces away, seemed to agree. The young man in question was taller than I was, and better muscled. He was blond and green eyed, and his clothes accentuated that, a forest green ensemble with tan leather accents and a tall hat. The effect was dashing.

I held out my hand to him. "Sir Philip Mallory."

He smiled at me. "Sir Edmond Ray, at your service."

A nobleman! I silently cheered myself. "I haven't seen you locally before, are you visiting? New to town?"

He nodded. "Visiting my cousin. I haven't been here for very long but I already adore your little shire, it's so charming and warm. And the views in the evenings are stunning!"

I laughed. "To be sure. I'm sure your wife or husband would be quite happy here, you need only bring them down to see."

He chuckled. "I'm sure they would, if they existed. I'm unattached." He winked at me, letting me know he knew exactly why I had been asking. I blushed. It had been transparent. But not for my sake. He held out a hand "Might I have the honor of enjoying the next dance with you?" His smile froze at the last word, and his face was still for a moment before lighting up. I knew before turning who stood behind me.

"Sir Ray, this is Henry Shawdun. Henry, this is Sir Edmond Ray."

Henry's eyes lit up. "Edmond? By God, I didn't recognize you at first, what brings you here?"

Ray's smile rendered me unnecessary to this conversation. "Henry, you old dog, I saw your family name in the invitation. I hoped you would be here!" They gave each other firm slaps on the back and immediately fell into reminiscing about the old days. Not a spark of romance flashed between them. I sighed. One down. And he had looked so promising. So long as Henry was engaged in catching up with good ol' Sir Ray, I was free to seek out other potential suitors. Nodding in their distracted direction, I hastened back outside.

Sir Roland Maxry immediately caught my eye. His family's wealth was also on the decline. Rumor indicated that he was in talks with a number of nouveau riche about potential marriages. He would no doubt be delighted for the opportunity to catch a man like Henry. I hastened to him.

"Roland!"

He turned, sandwich halfway to his mouth, and saw me. "Philip. Enjoying your new family's prosperity I imagine?" His grin was acid. A man after my man, huh? He's yours.

I grinned. "How could I not? Henry and I were actually thinking of holding a show of bravery in the hedge maze tonight. I refuse to walk with him since we've already done it together numerous times, and he is in search of a partner. Might you oblige us?"

Roland grinned, his teeth barred. "I would be honored."

I smiled at him once more, then hastened inside to inform Henry of what to expect.

As I reentered the ballroom, I immediately spotted Edmond, once again being assailed by Sir Rond and some of his associates. But Henry was nowhere to be seen. I stood on the tips of my toes, trying to see over the heads of all the dancers. My lesser height was no help in situations like these.

"Would you like me to lift you up a few feet so you can see better?" Henry appeared next to me, chuckling.

I scowled. "You can mock, you have height to spare."

"I just offered to lend you some, did I not?"

"No matter. Henry, tonight at the maze challenge, you will walk through with Sir Roland Maxry."

"Why?"

I turned to him impatiently. "To check if his coat matches the roses, you dunce!"

He laughed outright at that, his eyes seemingly larger when matched with his coat. This Godforsaken ensemble, I really must shake his tailor by the hand..! "You want me to see if he is an eligible match? You do move quickly, Sir Mallory."

"The sooner we are free of each other the better." I told him decisively. "I hope to have at least ten gentlemen lined up for you to sample before the night is out.

His eyes darkened. "Would you so accost me at my own banquet?"

I smiled at him impishly. "It's the only reason I didn't beg sickness to avoid this feat in the first place."

His mouth quirked, but his eyes were no longer smiling. They regarded me seriously for a few moments, though I couldn't figure out what it was Henry was looking for. I looked away.

"Fine." Then his hand grasped mine. "But if you are to punish me, it is only fair that I return the favor." Once again, his hand pulled me to the dance floor. "Dance with me."

I tugged against his hold. "How am I to line up ten worthy gentlemen if I am whirling about the floor with you?"

His grin restored, he pulled me against him and drew me into a waltz. "You set that lofty goal, Philip, I'm confident you'll find a way to do both."

After the waltz, Henry pulled me into a quatrain, and after that a foxtrot. It was fun dancing with him. I was a fair dancer, having practiced in school with the rest of the young men of my standing, but nothing special. He was the superior dancer, and as such, took the lead. As he caught my eye for a grin and swept me around the floor, I found myself wishing for only a moment that I could lead him just the once, sweep him away, be the reason for that sparkling smile.

And I would be. As a friend, once we were no longer shackled to each other. When Henry tried to pull me into a second waltz, I begged off, catching the eye of another young gentleman and all but throwing him into Henry's arms.

And there is two.

Eight to go.

By the time we had arrived at the hedge maze, the last event of the evening, I had only found two more eligible gentlemen, a Sir Isaac of Brent and Lord Gentry Schilts. Either one had plenty of potential--looks, manner, nobility, and a deficit of funds . All qualities agreeable with marrying into new money. I had arranged for one to accompany Henry to the horse races tomorrow afternoon, and the other would walk with him in the park come morning. To each I had fashioned a suitable excuse for why I couldn't be there and why poor Henry required the company. They were agreeable to the arrangement--another point in their favor. After each appointment was made, I hastened to Henry's side, informing him of the arrangement. Each time, he would look at me in that same searching manner, and nod quietly, before hastening off to attend to another guest. In our year of knowing each other, he had never acted toward me with such distance and it was confusing that it should come now, when we were more in agreement than ever before. I shrugged it off--surely he was simply tired from the long night or some such and would be recovered to his regular good spirits after a full night's rest. I prayed his distant manner wouldn't ruin things between him and Sir Roland.

With this in mind, I approached the hedge maze. True to his word, Henry was waiting in line with Sir Roland on his arm, the latter giggling madly at something and stealing covert glances at the whole crowd, as though waiting to see if they also agreed the two were a good match. I grinned, satisfied, and proceeded to find a seat among the spectators.

Someone caught my arm. "Would you do me the honors of accompanying me through the maze?" I looked up into Sir Edmund's green eyes.

I smiled at him. He seemed the friendly sort, even if he wasn't a suitable match. "I would be honored, Sir Edmond. Though I warn you, my sense of direction is appalling."

"Fortunate then that mine is compass precise." He grinned and tucked my hand into the crook of his arm. Together we entered the line. I watched as three couples ahead of us, Henry and Roland were given the go-ahead and vanished behind the tall walls of green. Soon enough, it was our turn. The man in charge of the maze looked between Edmond and I with a raised eyebrow, but shrugged, then waved us through.

It immediately became darker as we entered. I was okay with close spaces and so wasn't alarmed. I did feel lost as soona s we turned a corner. "You know where we are, correct?"

Edmond smiled. "We've barely moved five meters. The entire path is purportedly 78 meters until the end." His hand tightened over my wrist. "Which ought to give me ample time to get to know my old schoolmate's fiance."

I chuckled awkwardly. "You seem close, the two of you. A better match than he and I, surely."

He laughed outright at that. "Not an ounce of romantic feeling between us, I'm afraid, though I agree we make a pretty picture. But back to you," his voice lowered, "Henry tells me you are having trouble settling into a marriage."

So Henry had told this old schoolmate everything. "It's not marriage that's the issue here, though it is an issue, it's just Henry."

"Something about Henry Shawdun does not match your standards?" his tone had gone cold.

"No! No, nothing of the kind! The whole situation is so... I have no choice in the matter. No one asked me 'Hullo Philip, would you like to get married?' Nothing! No 'How about you exchange your body for your father's gambling debts?’'' I froze, embarrassed that I had let that out. "I... Oh blast it, you would have heard anyway.'' My hand tightened on Edmond's arm and I stalked forward through the maze. "I do not want to be shackled into a marriage with anyone! I am not my parents' last asset to trade away!"

"I see." Edmond appeared thoughtful. "But you told me it was Henry that was the issue here."

"He is!" I stopped where I was walking and turned to face him. "Both of us are trapped in this, not just myself, but I am alone in fighting it! When we first met, after the wedding contract was signed, I was ready to scheme with him a thousand ways to break up the engagement, but he just kissed my hand, smiled, and said 'Nice to meet you at last'!" I threw my hands up in frustration. "Useless!"

Edmond considered me silently. In the failing light, it was impossible to tell what expression was on his face. "Maybe he is not as opposed to the match as you are?"

"He should be! I am far from the most eligible man in the city, he can do far better. And it's the principal of the thing as well, the lack of choice."

"Did you ever consider if maybe he needs this marriage for reasons of his own?"

"We spoke about it. He needs my title. If I can find him another suitable match, he promised to break it off. You can imagine my disappointment when you turned out to be back-slapping, hearty friends and nothing more."

Edmond laughed at that. "And that's why he entered the maze with Sir Roland."

I looked up at him. "Do you think it's a good match?"

"I think they will not be able to survive the maze together, forget the rest of their lives. Roland is vain and, quite frankly, annoying."

"How rude!" Then I raised my eyebrows. "But I am annoying too! Maybe it doesn't matter."

Edmond laughed harder at that. "You are charming, Philip. A bit of a fool, I think, if you consider Henry and Roland a good match, but charming."

I sighed. "I'm really not. I'm quite awful when I put my mind to it. Last week--" I stopped. I suddenly didn't want to admit what I'd tried to do to Henry last week, or how badly it had failed.

"Henry told me about your parlor party gone wrong." Edmond said quietly. "Quite the vile thing you attempted there."

I nodded silently. "I know. I feel terrible for having attempted it. but I just feel so... trapped. I do, just looking at him. He'll come to visit, we'll go somewhere nice. He'll take my arm, smile down at me... and I can't breathe. All in want is to get away."

Edmond clicked his tongue sympathetically. "That's the trouble with arranged marriages. It's a shame, really. I think if you and Henry had met under different circumstances, you might have become the staunchest of lovers."

I shrugged. "Maybe. But that is neither here nor there." I brightened as a thought occurred to me. "You wouldn't happen to know of any eligible sorts for Henry, would you? Perhaps an old school friend?"

There was rustle to our right, and a large shadow made its way toward us. "Pick a name, Edmond. Anyone would be better than Roland." Henry himself approached.

"Henry!" Edmond brightened up. "Any names come to mind?"

"Young Sivac might do the trick," Henry's tone was teasing, "He seemed to be interested in me back in the day."

"Back luck, Shawdun, he's been married two years now and a son on the way."

"Surely not!" Henry seemed genuinely delighted. "You must send my heartiest congratulations next time you see him!"

"Henry!" I interrupted impatiently. "How was your walk with Sir Roland?"

He turned back to me. "Dreadful. Not an original idea in his mind, except to pull me behind the nearest statue and claim scandal. Almost as bad as Lady Evelyn, that one." He reached out for me. "Do you truly feel so trapped by my side?"

I turned my head to Edmond, uncomfortable at having been overheard. "Um, we can talk about this later.."

"You seemed comfortable enough telling my friend all about it." His tone was dark. "Is it true?"

"...Yes." I whispered.

"Then when I am standing right here in front of you and you are all I see, you feel trapped by our arrangement?" He stepped in even closer, arms closing around my back. "When we are at a lovely party and I turn down to smile at you, you can't breathe?"

I nodded in the dark.

"Answer me."

My breath caught in my throat. I couldn't answer. His soft coat brushed against my bare forearms, his hands branding my back where they held me. His voice was a low rasp, and his warmth overwhelmed me.

"Yes." I choked out.

He was silent for a moment. "I see." He released me then, and I breathed in relief, then paused. What am I relieved about? I looked around. Sir Edmond had left us alone. Henry sighed, then directed us to the path. "I look forward to meeting the two young men you have set me up with tomorrow. Truly, they couldn't be worse than Roland was."

#mm romance #arranged marriage au #the reluctant fiance #original story #original work #not well researched #historical inaccuracies #EVERYWHERE #Philip Marjory #Henry Shawdun

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wokeastroke · 5 years ago

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Risal’s families: Written by Risal, obviously. Response B: A foot in the door. An inch. A handhold. Often the hardest part of persuasion was finding one of those to start with. From there, a clever mind could make whatever fragments it held sway over fall into place. But it all depended entirely on that first blow. Get them to surrender once, and with the proper encouragement, they would do it again. And again. And again. The servant who greeted her at this mansion’s front door for example. Kind, nervous young man. Not difficult to pry little scraps of information out of. There were handholds aplenty and the skinny waif of a boy was all too ready to surrender what he knew. Nobody had come to visit the residence in weeks, aside from an overburdened courier. He was one of the few members of staff who had kept their jobs since the end of the war. The lady of the house was not entertaining visitors at this time, but she was in fact home. When it became clear that the Ren’dorei would not be satisfied until she was allowed inside, the boy tried to politely make his retreat. And then Risal really put her foot in the door. It was not long after that Risal stood in the threshold of an impressive bedchamber’s entrance, the doors to the room splayed out to their fullest extent on either side. It had been a struggle to throw them open with a dramatic flair, the solid, heavy things. But the effect was worth it. Especially as the boy who greeted her, now red-faced from nipping at Risal’s heels as she moved freely about the manor, caught up. And also caught a glimpse within the bedchamber. “Oh- oh gods, my lady, I am so sorry. The elf just-” A hand rose. And that was all it took to silence the flustered man. The Lady in question was presently seated at her desk. Even at rest there was something graceful about her, and it started in posture that was effortlessly perfect. And continued in her features. She did not possess the roundedness nor the freckles most born and bred Kul Tirans did. Instead, there were high cheekbones and a starkly defined jaw, a thin nose and similar lips. Her eyes were the most striking of all, grey as a polished blade and similarly sharp. She did not flinch from Risal’s gaze. Even as the chill of the halls seeped into the room, and the human quickly found herself woefully under dressed in her nightgown. A hearth did little to stave off the growing chill of October in Kul Tiras that penetrated the rest of the building. But, at least the Lady of the house was better dressed than her companion. If only slightly. Ah yes, her ‘companion’. A whore. From the breasts overflowing from a corset half unlaced to the bare, creamy expanse of her legs, back up to a face painted just exaggeratedly enough to tell the story of what the girl was. Her lengthy blonde locks were a certifiable mess- as were her lips. The cherry red lipstick smeared haphazardly about. As though her appearance weren’t damning enough evidence, she had been draped over the Lady’s lap upon Risal’s arrival. Quite the thing to discover. And the Ren’dorei was nothing if not a cat with the canary between her paws. “Make tracks. Both of you.” At the Lady’s words, both whore and servant fled. As their footsteps faded down the halls, the Lady rose. Every movement made at a pace calculated enough to appear unhurried, but purposeful. When her eyes left Risal’s, she did so to look into her vanity’s mirror. Dabbing away at the lipstick smears that decorated her face until they were but a memory. She did not speak again. And while it was a purposeful lack of manners on the human’s part, Risal couldn’t bring herself to care. It gave her an opportunity to reconsider the Lady. Clara Whittles. The last of a minor noble house and sole proprietor of the Crimson Hoof. Before meeting the human in person, she was already something to be respected. Most nobility was entirely useless in a more practical sense, but Clara had done well for her family. A shrewd mind served the woman well in doubling the Whittle family’s holdings during the scant seven years she had been the head of her house. She had turned an average stock of Kul Tiran warhorses into a symbol of superiority. Truly, a shame that the war had been so unkind to her. It almost made Risal expect to find a weeping mess. Evidently, Clara was made of stronger stuff. “Bad timing?” “Quite the contrary Miss Risal. I’ve been prepared for your visit for some days now.” The woman spoke as she stared into the flames that danced around the base of her hearth. Risal was given no more than the verbal acknowledgement, and a slight cant of Whittle’s head. As though the Lady were listening to the buzzing of an insect rather than a guest. “You need no introduction of person nor purpose. Speak your piece.” “Very well.”Risal replied smooth as a heated blade to butter, not to be deterred so quickly. Nor easily. “I have not come to steal your land as I am sure is the expectation. My offer is joint ownership, everything split as fairly as is practically possible. The finer details are up for debate but I will pledge an injection of funds into the Crimson Hoof of a hundred thousand gold the moment the papers are signed. Not to mention a variety of-” “Stop.” There was an audible clack as Risal snapped her jaw shut. Okay then. “If I wanted gold, I would have accepted one of the dozens of other offers that have been made in the past weeks. Don’t look so surprised, you are scarcely the only one who knows the value of my land. Nor are you the wealthiest.” Clara waved a hand at the disgruntled noise that came from her doorway. “Calm yourself, if I desired nothing from you, you would not be here.” The Lady paused once more, leaving Risal time to realize her worth. And the fact that it depended entirely on Clara’s own interests. “You are young for one of your kind, aren’t you? They say an elf’s ears always give their youth away, because the older they are the less they move. Until they still forever.” “That is to say Miss Risal, this venture may be a pleasurable pursuit to you. A fanciful whim to entertain yourself and Felo’dorah until another war arrives. My family line dies with me, but the others? Generations of Fairworths and Galihans will come and go before you care to notice. And that what will be their birthright? To be neglected servants. Peasants to toil while you reap the rewards. Entertainment you surrendered when your attention was tempted elsewhere, because you’ve the luxury of time to waste.” “I do not. In the coming years, I will either mould a legacy worthy of my family, or forever be the one who destroyed the Whittles name. With that said, I am of the belief that joining your little… fledgling empire is a wise step towards a satisfactory end. But you will own nothing of my lands, nor the Crimson Hoof.” Clara held her tongue when she heard Risal step forward, finally crossing fully into the bed chamber. She still hadn’t turned to see it, but it was far from difficult to imagine the scowl on the Ren’dorei’s face. Especially when the woman spoke. “Perish the thought that I insult you my lady, but these lands will be mine whether you make it an easy transaction or not. Sooner or later you’ll be unable to retain ownership, the expenses of running a place like this being as they are. At which point you’ll be forced to sell. If not to me, then to someone else whom I might find to be a more agreeable individual.” And of course, Risal could not have been more wrong in her assumption. And, of course, Clara was all too prepared to explain why. _____________________ “A fine, handsome stallion. Truly deserving of his name.” Risal watched with quiet distaste as Clara showered Noble with affection. The Lady was not wrong, for the steed was indeed fine and the handsomest horse either woman had ever lain eyes upon. Even still, Risal wished he would be somewhat less than perfect for a moment. Nip at the human’s hand perhaps. Kick dirt up on her dress. Anything really, would suffice. But Noble did no such thing. Because beneath all the rippling muscle, and years of training that had prepared him for war alongside a seasoned rider, the damned horse was sweeter than sugar. Every affection accepted with soft, appreciative huffs and a look from those surprisingly intelligent eyes. There would be no apples for him later. Traitor horse. “I am glad you think so. Noble deserves to be appreciated by whomever cares for him, though I know you will far from disappoint, my Lady.” Clara nodded her agreement. And for a time, that was the end of their conversation. There wasn’t much more to speak of given that their matters of business had been settled, and now, Clara had met Noble. It gave Risal a much needed moment to breathe and admire the lands of the Crimson Hoof. The acres upon acres of fenced off fields. A hedge maze not terribly far from the manor. A private pond just large enough to warrant the little dock and row boat that rested over it’s otherwise pristine surface. Picturesque. That however, was not what caught Risal’s eye. It was clearly an abandoned structure. Smaller than the main manor, but not by much. A tad overgrown from neglect and poor ageing but imposing all the same. A tidy sum of gold and the input of a stylish eye would turn the derelict thing into an abode to be proud of. And it just so happened Risal recently found herself in need of a new home. Even if it was essentially right next to Clara Whittle’s manor. “Lady Whittles. I don’t suppose you have any particular use for that building, have you?”

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wendynerdwrites · 5 years ago

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Guess who got a big chunk of writing done for the first time in months? This gal!

Okay, so here is a rough first chapter of a Metalocalypse fanfic, Dethcomics:

"Gentleman… It seems Dethklok is looking into joining the world of comic books. A call has gone out seeking artists and writers to create a Dethklok graphic novel."

"This could be catastrophic! Every new Dethklok industry venture manages to upset the balance of trade, but a band-sponsored book spreading their messages further?!"

"At least with their music no one can tell what Nathan Explosion is saying. But written in black and white?!"

"Exactly. To elaborate, I have called in expert in comics, Professor Varveil Molfirbygai."

The Professor, skinny and acne-ridden, comes forward, pushing his square-framed glasses up the bridge of his nose. "Gentlemen, Dethklok have already rejected the proposals by Brian Posehn, Brian Piludo, and Grant Morrison for their books and are tearing through artists one at a time. At this rate, no one in the industry will be left but Rob Liefeld and Devin Grayson. Apparently their contradictory demands and unrealistic expectations have even been characterized by Alan Moore as 'too far out'. Marvel, DC, Image, and Dark Horse have all blacklisted them, leading to the band to launch their own independent publishing house. This could potentially upset the delicate balance of power within the industry. And God help us if the title is snatched up for screen adaptation by Sony or - ugh - Hulu."

"What can we do to nip this in the bud?"

"It seems that Nathan Explosion's new wife, Abigail Remeltindtdrinc and Charles Offdensen have taken a more direct role in monitoring the project. They may prove a stabilizing influence…"

~_~_~

"Ugh, Dildos!" William Murderface hurls his whiskey bottle to the corner of the game room. "These artsy-fartsy types are a bunch of egotistical, emotional dildos!"

"Ja, likes how obsessives and arrogants can yous gets?" Skwissgaar adds, shredding silently on his Gibson. "And sos delicate!"

Toki, leaning back from the Mortal Kombat machine, sniffs. "I's kinds of liked that Yoorerd Way fellows…"

"HE DIDN'T KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT ROCK!" Nathan roars from the foosball table, engaging in a fierce battle with Pickles.

"Maybe we should just write it ourselves, y'know." Pickles suggests, "And get, I don't know… Toki, you draw things, right?"

Toki brightens. "I'S DO!"

Skisgaar scoffs, "All's he's draws is girly, fluffy tings like happy bunnies and womens withts de tits covered."

"Toki is even less metal than that Brenden Smalls douchebag! Heh, Brenden Smalls, what did he ever create for anyone?" Murderface adds.

"I cans draw brutal!"

"I'm sure you can, Toki, but I'm afraid that still isn't happening," a firm, female voice calls out.

The room falls silent as Charles and Abigail enter the room.

"Guys, Abigail may have found someone to write and draw the book," Charles announces.

Abigail blanches slightly, somewhat uncomfortable. "Maybe, if I can convince her."

"Her?" Murderface asks, somehow sounding simultaneously dismissive and aroused. "We can't let ladies make stuff for us!"

Abigail cradles her temple. "See?" She says to Offdensen, "I told you!"

"Why would we wants chicks arounds us?" Skwisgaar asks.

"Guys, we already put out the announcement. You've blown through nearly every acclaimed graphic novel creator in the business. Fans are getting impatient. So if we can get Abigail's friend to do this for us, you will be on your best behavior!"

"Maybe we should give this chick a chance, you know?" Nathan offers, offering his wife a sympathetic look.

"Oh, you're only saying that because your lady suggested it!" Murderface howls, taking a new bottle of alcohol from a Klokateer with a tray. "You're totally whipped, Man!"

Abigail's eyes burn. She smarches over to the couch and yanks the bassist by the ear. He cries out.

"Listen, you talentless sack of piss, this whole project has been taking time away from recording. And you know how I feel about that. You're going to be a good little boy and do as I say, understand?!"

"YES, MA'AM!"

Abigail releases him, leans back, clears her throat, and smooths her blazer. "I apologize for that. I am… not feeling like myself lately. Like I said, I haven't even convinced my friend to do this, I am not even sure I can. But you can all be sure of her qualifications. Her name is Sofia Maldonado, she's been creating comics since she was fifteen. She has worked on titles like The Boys, Swamp Thing, Ms. Marvel, Deadpool, Nightwing, and Batman. She has her own book, The Emerald Pixie, that has been a hit with both critics and readers and has been nominated for four Eisner Awards, winning two."

The band looks at her as if she is speaking Chinese. She sighs.

" Uh, 'Emerald Pixie'?" Nathan inquires, "No offense, Honey, but that doesn't sound very metal."

"The Pixie has retractable ten inch fangs."

"Oh, uh, that's cool, I guess."

"I mean, it can't hurt, I guess." Pickles adds.

"Is she hot?" Murderface asks.

"Yeahs, is she hot?" Skwisgaar asks.

Abigail turns to Charles. "Why am I doing this again?"

Offdensen pats the producer on the arm. "Guys, please, that is irrelevant. And you will keep things professional, or I am cancelling your vacation to Pornfest this year, understand?"

"What?! Can you even do that?!" Pickles cries out.

"As per my new contract with the five of you, I most certainly can."

The band all grumbles, except for Toki.

"Cans I's shows her my drawings?"

"I'm sure that will be fine."

Abigail sighs. "Look, guys, this woman is a friend of mine, she is good at what she does, and she does not put up with crap. I am going out on a limb for you with this. One wrong move and she bolts. Understand?"

They all grumble again, but answer in the affirmative.

"Excellent." Charles straightens his tie and clears his throat. "Abigail will call up Ms. Maldonado and see if she is willing."

~_~_~_~

"No."

"Just lis-"

"No, Abby, and also: No. Nope. Negative. Nuh-uh. Nein. Not happening. They've run through almost everyone. Do you know how fucked up you have to be to weird out Alan Moore?! The man worships a Roman Snake God, for fucks sake. I am not descending into that pit of testosterone and excess."

"I will keep them in line, I promise. I managed to get them through six albums in as many years. Now that I'm involved, it will be different, I promise."

"Didn't William Murderface once refer to women as 'Serpents with tits'? Abby, I have reached a point in my career where I am through putting up with shit like this. I have had to collaborate with Garth Ennis and Frank Miller. I even spent an entire hour of my life in the presence of Dave Sims. I have done my time."

Abigail groans. "Sof, Charles Offdensen is offering enough for you to put Eddie through preschool, K-12 private, college and grad school someday."

"Emerald Pixie is selling like crazy and Paramount and Universal have approached me for the rights."

"I'll get you an interview for Collegiate."

There's a long pause.

"...Really? How?"

"I'm an alum, remember? And the Headmistress owes me, like, seven favors. Your son will be playing in the sandbox with the children of Governors and hedge fund owners.”

There’s another pause. Abigail smiles. For all that Sofia has gone on about hating capitalism and her passion for Leftist politics, since her son was born she’d grown a little hypocritical on that front. Not that Abby could blame her. Sofia didn’t have a lot of support, being a single mom.

“Maybe I’ll consider a meaning.”

Abigail tries a different tactic. “Please do. To be honest, I could really use a friend around here at the moment.”

It’s not something she’d normally say, as independent as she is. But as she makes the statement, she realizes that it’s true.

Sofia’s voice becomes gentler. “What’s up?”

Abigail tells her.

Her friend takes a deep breath. “Okay, then. I’ll take the meeting. But I mean it, Abby, one shitty comment---”

“---I know. But hey, look, you’ve met Nathan, and he’s not so bad, right?”

Technically, Sofia had encountered the entire band to varying extents at the wedding. She’d really only spoken to Nathan, and stared, mouth agape, at Pickles’s bender and slurred Best Man’s toast.

“He’s not too bad, I guess. But the rest? Bunch of crazy gringos.”

“Toki is sweet. Pickles actually isn’t bad when he’s not blackout drunk. Skwisgaar can be decent, aside from the arrogance. And Murderface… Don’t worry, I’ll keep my boot to his neck. I’ll keep my boots to all of their necks. I swear. Please, Sof, do this for me.”

Sofia takes yet another deep breath. “Alright. I’ll be available in a couple of weeks. Book me a flight. And I want my Collegiate interview before then.”

“Done. Thank you so much.”

They say their good-byes. Abigail hangs up and leans back against the pillows of her bed, rubbing her temple. Nathan enters the bedroom, looking a little sheepish.

“Look, uh, I had another talk with the guys. Murderface is in debt again, so I offered to pay it off, if you don’t, uh, mind. That should help keep him… you know… less Murderface.” He sits down on the edge of the bed and takes her hand. “Did she say yes?”

“We have a single meeting in two weeks. I’m pretty sure I’m going to draw up a list with Charles about things they are not allowed to bring up.”

“You’re sure this is a good idea, right?”

Abigail smiles ruefully. “No, not at all. But it’s the only idea I have.”

“I hope the guys don’t, well, uh, you know…”

“Sofia talks a big game, but she’s tough and willing to put up with more than she lets on. She wouldn’t be where she is if it were otherwise. If we keep them reined in enough, I think we might make this work.”

~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~

“Hey, I’s remembers her!”

“Shut up, Toki! Don’t be weird!” Pickles snaps as they watch their prospective new artist drop her bags in the middle of the Mordhouse entry hall and look up at the gargantuan ceiling.

She is tall and athletic, with bronzed skin, blue eyes, and dark brown hair. She wears boot-cut black pants, a red graphic tee, and a black jacket with pins on the lapel. The band all peers at her curiously as Abigail rushes forward to greet her, ask after her son, and re-introduce Charles.

Handshakes are exchanged, and Abigail ushers the band over.

“Sofia, you of course remember my husband Nathan. This is Pickles, the drummer. Skwisgaar Skwigelf, lead guitar.”

“Hi’s.” Skwisgaar offers, obviously trying not to stare at her tits.

“Toki Wartooth, rhythm guitar.”

“Hello’s artist-lady!” Toki bounces on his heels, clutching sheets of paper. “I’s have some drawings, I hopes you like them!” He thrusts them towards her.

The artist smiles kindly and takes them. “I’ll give them a look. Thank you, Mr. Wartooth.”

“Calls me Toki!”

“Thank you, Toki.”

“And finally, William Murderface, bass.”

“Greetings and salutations, Senoriiiiiita!” Murderface grabs the woman’s hand and presses a wet kiss to it before smirking up at her. “Ole.”

Sofia snatches her hand back and glances at Abigail, who glowers at the bassist. “Knock it off, Murderface, or I’ll have you neutered.”

He squeals and jumps back. “S-Sorry.”

"So's, tells me, comics-lady. Cans we's makes dis comic book a pops-ups book and can we's makes the pop-up dragons breathes fire?"

Sofia takes one look at Toki, then another at Abigail. "I'm so glad to be here!"

#metalocalypses #fanfic #lots of comic book references

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