#she was there to scold him and cajole him into going to his classes and she was his only friend

[extra-somethin-somethin]

hey so do you think wtv keiko had to deal with growing up with yusuke could be considered a type of parentification

#god chapters where barely anything happens except a character's realization about things can be hard ... #im writing another keiko pov chapter and it's hard because well!! #keiko was never really a main focus in the series and as time goes on she gets even less of a focus so i have to fill in these spots #in her personality and views that aren't really explored. im taking a lot of liberties lets say #and idek if it's gonna read as in character cos of that #anyway im tryna say that like. pre series keiko was basically this presence in yusuke's life and he saw her as a pain but he cared #she was there to scold him and cajole him into going to his classes and she was his only friend #now we know atsuko was negligent and idk how involved the yukimuras were in his life but i feel like keiko #whether directly or indirectly was given this duty like you have to keep him outta trouble #you're smart you're mature he needs someone like you. this responsibility just kind of put on her before she can understand the weight of i #and she can't really comprehend that weight until it's abruptly taken from her. yusuke dies and there's no one to shepherd #i feel like keiko should get to be mad about this. this realization of the nature of their dynamic. keiko planning things around yusuke #who's never done that in his life. not because he's purposely being thoughtless but bc he was never the one to have to plan #to think about what their future looks like. he just kinda drifted along and keiko tried to do damage control. it wasn't fair #yusuke is keeping secrets from her she is scared of high school and that he'll die again without her knowing why and it's unfair #so she should get to be mad also because girls getting to be mad is one of my favorite things 👍🏼 #the realization that yusuke won't be lost without her so she shouldn't hinge her life on the expectation that he will be #she worries about yusuke a lot i think. especially after he comes back from the dead. and i think kuwa's presence would help ease that #dread in her heart. it doesn't have to be just me. there's someone who can be there with him always and it doesn't have to be me #the guilty relief of not having to be the sacrifice. but kuwa doesn't mind so maybe it's okay this way #idk just rambles about my fic while i puzzle out how to word it #character analysis #yukimura keiko #yu yu hakusho

[amjustagirl]

Hogwarts AU (Haikyuu!!)

feat. Kita Shinsuke

Previously: Miya Atsumu. Miya Osamu. 

Masterlist link here

Warnings: Tooth-rotting fluff

A/N: Any other characters you’d like to see? Send me an ask! 

You knew of Kita Shinsuke, certainly - at least from your gigging girlfriends.

He’s known for his stellar grades (second only to your own) and his reserve position as the keeper on the Hufflepuff team. 

You found him serious and studious when you partnered with him once or twice in class.

But otherwise, you weren’t well acquainted with him. 

That all changed when you were appointed head boy and head girl respectively, and had to share an office for prefectorial duties. 

‘Shall I get started on the disciplinary reports due this week, or draft the allocation of duties for the month?’ You ask him when you met him to split up the work for the first time. 

‘Neither, I’ve done them both’, he replies curtly. A stack of reports in his neat, square handwriting drops in your lap.  

‘Oh’, you say lamely, feeling a little redundant. ‘Is there anything else I can help you with then?’ 

He shakes his head, a clear dismissal as he turns back to his work. 

He’s too high-handed, you complain to your friends. He takes charge of all briefings, tries to refuse your help for most tasks, only accepting when you archly remind him that you’re his peer, not his subordinate. 

He’s infuriating, you continue to complain. He doesn’t have a spark of humour in his eyes when you try to joke around with him, he’s stern and harsh with the other prefects, who all end up protesting to you. And worst of all - his grades are catching up to yours, slowly, steadily - your pride doesn’t appreciate him nipping at your heels. 

 You don’t dislike him. But you don’t like him either. 

That is - until you’re two months into your final year, and you’re off on a solo round one night. 

Your mind was full of the entrance requirements for the Healer course that was just released this evening that you completely forgot where you were (the side staircase between the ground floor and the second floor is tricky, even the first years know that) and stuck your foot right into the vanishing stair.  

It’s a full moon tonight. Your foot is stuck in the stair. All incontrovertible facts. It’s so late that you’ve long given up hope of anyone rescuing you until dawn, so you crouch on the stairs, head huddled in your arms, prepared to camp here until dawn. 

Anyone, that is - save for one Kita Shinsuke. 

He clears his throat, rousing you from your nap, and though you glance up with hope, you end up deflating when you realise it’s him. 

‘You didn’t report back after your round’, he says, the faintest shadow of a smile on his face as he looks down on you, uniform rumpled, eyes heavy with sleep. 

‘I kinda got stuck’, you admit, letting him pull you up, and you mutter a resentful thanks when he frees you from the accursed stairs. 

‘I can see that’, he chuckles, and you blink owlishly. 

Kita Shinsuke, laughing? You must be hallucinating. 

Still, for all his flaws, he’s a gentleman, insisting on walking you back to Ravenclaw tower. It’s such a shock to your system to find that he’s actually human that you find the courage to voice out your long held complaint that he’s not letting you do enough work, that it makes you feel redundant. 

He apologises earnestly. ‘I didn’t mean to do that - I’ve been so used to just tryin’ to do everythin’ by myself that I forget I’ve a partner to help me with this’. 

You accept his apology with a laugh, wishing him farewell and goodnight. 

As you get ready for bed, your face heats up for some reason when you think about him referring to you as his partner. You’re glad he didn't pick up on it.  

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

That marks a turning point in your relationship with him. 

True to his word, Kita starts to treat you like his partner in all prefectorial tasks, splitting all tasks equally with you, seeking your counsel when he needs to. And you start to see why your friends giggled helplessly when you told them that he would be head boy, and would share an office with you. 

‘He’s hot!’ They protested, when you scolded them for being silly twits. 

And now, you have to agree - staring shamelessly at the sight of his broad shoulders filling out his quidditch uniform, his light grey hair tousled in the wind as he glides gracefully down on his broom towards you. 

‘Yachi-san forgot to get you to sign the report’, you tell him, waving the sheaf of papers at him. ‘And don’t scold her, she’s still terrified of you’. 

The younger girl still shakes whenever Kita speaks to her, and she even begged you on her knees to seek him out in her stead. You should be the one thanking her, you think amusedly, appreciating the sheen of sweat on his forehead, the proud curve of his neck as he signs the documents, giving you a wave as he returns back to practice. 

Then you discover he’s not as heartless as his demeanor led you to believe. 

‘Kita, what are on earth are you doing?’ You gasp at the sight before you. 

You heard some rustling in an empty classroom, and assuming it to be another amorous couple getting frisky (you would turn a blind eye, really but you’ve had to clean up after them far too many times for you to have lost your patience by now), you kicked the door open, only to be greeted by the absolutely adorable sight Kita Shinsuke surrounded by a whole gaggle of younger students seated in a circle around him. The younger kids giggle, and even Kita breaks into a smile. 

It turns out he’s been tutoring the weakest students in his downtime because, as he says - magic is hard for those not born into it, like him. Refusing to be left out, you join him in these tutoring sessions, cajoling him to hold it in your office, magicking up beanbags and cushions to make the entire tutoring session a much more comfortable affair. 

‘Well done!’ he exclaims in excitement as the shyest first year succeeds in casting a wingardium leviosa for the first time. 

‘Good work!’ he tells another second year approvingly, as she shows him her top marks for her transfiguration essay. 

Watching him take the whole brood of younger kids under his wing makes you look at him in a different light - a softer light, for the first time. 

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

‘Would you like to go to Hogsmeade together?’ you ask him after a prefects’ meeting, as you walk back to your office together to gather your things. You’ve practised far too long in front of the mirror to channel your inner Gryffindor (even though you’re at heart, a studious Ravenclaw) to mess this up. 

‘Sure’, he responds without skipping a beat, and you grin, fist pumping behind his back. 

But when you turn up at Hogsmeade, the entire batch of final year prefects is there too. 

‘It was a good idea to have a batch outing’, Kita says, as he turns around to chat with Kiyoko from Gryffindor. 

Kuroo from Slytherin, who you hear would’ve been head boy if Kita didn’t beat him out, grins knowingly as he notices the lip gloss you used specially for this occasion, and even kind, funny Aran from Gryffindor bumps your shoulder sympathetically as you look utterly downcast for the rest of the afternoon. 

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

You’re a Ravenclaw, for Merlin’s sake, so you take a hint, lick your injured pride, and stop any further romantic overtures towards one Kita Shinsuke. 

But when you notice his eyes growing tired, his hand faltering over another report he should’ve delegated to someone else, you shoo him stubbornly out of the office, pertly telling him it’s time to take his own advice and rest - or you’ll write to his grandma, and see if she doesn’t send him a howler to take care of himself. When he’s gone, you promptly take over the report, and in complete defiance of your own words to him, you keep yourself up all night finishing not just that report, but the rest of the reports on his plate for the week. 

It’s what a friend would do, you tell yourself, gritting your teeth and setting your quill viciously on an accounting report that bloody Daishou managed to push off to Kita instead of doing it himself. 

It’s dawn by the time you faceplant into the stack of reports you managed to plow through. 

‘Et tu, brutus’, he mutters when he finds you asleep on the desk the next morning, head still pillowed on the mountain of reports. His eyes crinkle at the edges when he gazes down at you, laughing softly when you shy away from his attempts to wake you.

‘Kita?’ you mumble, when he finally takes hold of your shoulder and gently shakes you awake. ‘Didn’t I tell you to go to sleep?’ 

Wait a minute. Is it morning already? 

You jolt awake, swiping the drool collecting at the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand, flushing red in embarrassment at cool, collected Kita catching you like this. This is a bloody nightmare - you grab at your things, making hurried excuses to leave the room when he catches your wrist. 

‘Would ya want to go to Hogsmeade with me this weekend?’ 

‘With the rest of the prefects?’ you mumble shamefacedly, not even noticing that he doesn’t let go of your hand. ‘Sure, I guess.’

Kita laughs again. Twice in a day, you note distractedly. Did you miss something in Astronomy class about the stars aligning with Jupiter or something? 

‘Nope, just with me.’ He tugs you towards him, standing so close your ears flame bright red. You’re sure that if he takes a step closer, your ears might explode. 

‘Kita?’ you stammer, unsure if you’re awake or lost in your dreams. 

‘I owe you an apology’, he says, eyes trained on your lips. 

It definitely isn’t a dream because oh Merlin you can feel his breath fan against your lips. 

‘I only realised you were askin’ me on a date the last time after Aran set me straight. And I’ve been waitin’ for the right moment to ask you out to set matters straight.’

‘You don’t have to - ‘ you squeak, but your words are swallowed by his mouth slanting hungrily against yours and oh gods you’re one of those couples you have to book for making out in school, aren’t you - but does it count if you’re doing it in the head prefects’ office - and wait, does this mean you have to book yourself -  

Then you lose all train of thought when Kita swipes his tongue into the seam of your mouth. Clinging to him for dear life, you tangle your fingers in his hair. 

‘I want to’, he promises, when you separate for breath. 

Your mind is still blank as you nod dumbly, agreeing to meet him at the Great Hall next weekend. You’re still touching your swollen lips, completely distracted that you don’t even notice the squeals and whispers in the corridors when he walks you to class, hand in hand. 

#haikyuu!! #hq #haikyuu imagines #hq imagines #haikyuu romance #haikyuu angst #kita shinsuke x reader #inarizaki #kita x reader #kita x y/n #kita shinsuke #hogwarts au #haikyuu headcanons #hq writing #haikyuu writing #haikyuu fic rec

[bloodypapercut]

f.w. headcanons

hello! this is my first time writing anything here so i hope you enjoy <3

here’s the link to part ii !

word count: 1.1k

-randomly picks you up and threatens to drop you, he usually does but in a pile of leaves or snow or on a bed because he’d never want to actually harm you

-bizarre nicknames but they never fail to make you giggle and make others gag and scoff (pebbles, biscuit, bunny, pickles??)

-he let’s you lean on his chest while you read, purposely trying to make you lose your place by flipping the page or blurting random words. (just imagine sitting on the couch in the common room and your legs are tangled, the fire is burning and you can feel his chest rise and fall as he laughs when you get riled up by him trying throw you off and his breath and hair tickles your neck) 

-on the topic of leaning on his chest, he adores braiding your hair, he’ll try to make ornate updos which usually end up look very eccentric but it’s endearing, he’ll pout when you have to take it down 

-if you’re outside he’ll make flower crowns for you or put flowers in your hair, dubbing you the princess/ prince/ ruler of the land. he’ll carry you on his shoulders and run around because he wants you to feel on top of the world

-eventually he’ll get bored and starts throwing grass and leaves at you, causing a mini war to erupt

-if you’re in a different house he’ll always hide your house tie, sweater or robes. he does so with the hopes that you’ll result to wearing his tie or sweater to let people know you’re his, but he fails to realize you have roomates

-if you’re having a bad day he will skip class to go to hogsmeade to get you books, sweets, new socks and other things that he knows will make you smile. he will cajole the elves to make you your favorites

-when he’s feeling particularly bitter you’ll treat him as well, he usually just wants someone to walk around with and after that he’ll want to sit by the lake or on the bridge leaning on you, playing with your fingers while you hum quietly or read to him

-if you two wake up late from talking all night in his or your dorm you’ll but scurry around the room to help the other get ready. in reality it's more of him helping you because he’s not as worried as you are. Even though he’s late he’ll walk you to class, fixing your tie before he lets you rush to your seat, earning a soft nudge from your partner. if he wakes up late for quidditch then that's when he's frantically stripping and changing into his gear as he stumbles out of the room. you end up having to chase him with his pads or his broom which he tends to forget in the rush of things.

-he’s very intelligent so if you’re studying and you’re having trouble understanding or retaining a certain piece of a lesson he will gladly sit with you, explaining what he can with a soft voice, knowing you’re feeling overwhelmed

- if it’s raining you two will rush outside and go to either the pitch or a field and run around and dance in the rain. If you go to the pitch you’ll both lie down on your rain jackets not minding the wet grass and the tendrils of hair clinging to your faces. You’d both look up into the sky as the rain patters on your faces as you hold hands, you’ll talk about the future and what you two want to do after hogwarts. If you go to the field you’ll walk around, kicking twigs and when one of you stumbles or slips slightly you’ll grip onto each other and start giggling manically

-he likes grabbing your face and running his fingers over your features, pointing out everything he loves about your face

-sometimes he’ll just poke your face or run the end of his quill over your nose to distract you, it usually works as he’s very persistent

-he likes squishing your face with one hand whenever he’s feeling particularly needy and whenever you try to bat his hand away or berate him he’ll squish harder (not aggressively or in a harmful way) causing him to break in a big smile and you to giggle

-FRED. BITES. RANDOMLY. like you’ll be talking with your hands and he’ll randomly grab it and bites your finger, or he’ll like nibble on your ear when he whispers something to you (sorry if that’s weird but i find that so cute)

-steals food from your plate even if the food he took from you?is?right?in?front?of?him?

-in the library he’ll find you hunched over a book he’ll randomly come behind you and try to tie your hair up or to clip it away from your face especially if he knew you were in a bad mood or stressed

-when you fall asleep before him he’ll carry you to his dorm and wipe your face with a cloth, put his jumper on you and tuck you into his bed, he’ll stoke your hair or run his hand up and down your back until he falls asleep

-if george or lee happen to come in while you’re asleep and they’re being loud he’ll scold them which causes them to laugh loudly and pinch his cheek “she’s/he’s/they’re sleeping you gits- oi hey! shove off! oh now you’ve done it look she/he/they’re waking up” 

-he’ll be having a conversation with someone and they’ll mention something that reminds him of you, causing him to excuse himself and run into your room to talk about it/ or he’ll burst in with random questions or thoughts he had

“you’re in love with me right?” “...” “ RIGHT??” “yeah i guess”  “good coz i'm soooooo in love with you!” *throws himself on your bed*

“biscuit? wanna buy a frog? it’ll help us practice!” “for what fred?” “when we have children obviously.”

“guess what time it is???” “ummm 17:39?” “*makes buzzer noise* wrong it’s sexy time” (he does that playfully but you both know you’ll both be very serious in a couple of minutes)

“Y/N! LOVE OF MY LIFE, DARLING ROSE, CHERRY GUM DROP! HOW ARE YOU THIS FINE EVENING??” (imagine him just saying the sweetest things to you in the most aggressive and loudest voice)

-he loves cuddling and if you try to move out of his grasp he’ll wrap all his limbs around you

-he will hold your hand whenever he can, he likes intertwining your fingers and swinging your arms as you walk down a hallway

-he loves running his thumb over your knuckles and placing kisses to each of the joints. he loves doing that when you writing a long essay snape assigned and he can see that you’re gripping your quill too hard and that your hand is cramping. despite your protests and claims of having to complete the essay it softens you and calms you down

i wanna do a part two so badly, i could go on for years 

#fred weasley #fred weasley imagine #fred weasley headcanons #fred weasley x reader #harry potter

[janekfan]

Always

https://archiveofourown.org/works/27834016

WHEEEEEE a speedy write! For @celosiaa and @captaincravatthecapricious for the teeny bit of trans martin :3

“Professor?”

“Mm.”

“Sir, excuse me?”

“Mm?”

“Uncle Jon!”

“Moll--What??” Jon lifted his head from where he’d been staring at his phone, leg jiggling under the table and one folded beneath him in the chair. “What did I say…oh.” Clearing his throat, he let his eyes wander along the queue, absently counting the gaggle of students he’d inadvertently left waiting. “Oh.”

“Are you alright, Professor?”

“I’m sure you’ve noticed.” They had the decency not to snicker, lord they were too good to him. “I’ve been. Well...”

“Distracted.” Molly offered up, finishing his sentence sardonically.

“Quite.” She must have seen something in his face because she frowned.

“Is it, is it Uncle Martin?” Fear, barely conveyed in the miniscule tremble in her voice, had her reaching for her own phone, checking for any messages she might have missed while it was silenced.

“He’s fine, he’s. He’s been under the weather.” And Jon allowed his own anxiety to show, dragging both hands through his hair to completely ruin it. “A, uh. A chest infection. He’s alright. Emma said she’d be in touch if.” It was fine. Martin was fine. It had been so long since the Lonely had taken hold enough to make something like this dangerous so if the humming, jittery, worry would be kind enough to leave him alone and let him finish this class--

“You should go home, sir.” A chorus of “yes, of course” and “we understand” followed suit and he glanced at the clock. Class had barely begun.

“No, everything is--” the notification for a message lit up his cell and the jingle threw the room into quiet and he nearly dove for it. The bank. An advert. Wonderful. “--Fine.” But he wasn’t so sure. That nagging, unsettled, gnawing drone in the back of his mind where the Eye still liked to lurk, to spy, flooded him with second thoughts.

“We can email with questions. We’ve done it before, no worries.” And while Jon didn’t like being reminded of his worst days, they had a point. He wasn’t unreachable. He had appointments with all of them during his upcoming office hours. A firm hand landed on his shoulder, squeezed, Molly.

“Go home. I think we’ll all feel better for it.”

“If you’re absolutely certain--and, and you promise, promise,” he lifted a stern finger, “to contact me if you have trouble?”

They all but shoved him from the lecture hall, Molly already handing him his cane, another student fetching his coat and scarf from the hook while he packed up the most pertinent work. It was Friday anyway and this section was very tight knit being made up of students he’d had the pleasure of teaching before. Too good to him, indeed.

Rushing, Jon made the next train with seconds to spare, firing off a quick text to Emma as he exited the underground right as her number flashed across the top of the screen.

“Baba?” The word trembled. He was right to leave when he did.

“I’m here, Habibti, I’m coming home.” Juggling his bag, the phone, his cane-- “I can see our flat.”

“O’okay. See you soon, Baba.” Within the next moment he was through the door, all but throwing off his coat, leaving his shoes wherever they fell to stride quickly into the sitting room.

“Martin.” Just a breath, relief, at seeing him laid out on the sofa, feet up and elevated, with a cold cloth over his eyes. Emma hugged him, rubbing her face into the worn wool at his shoulder and he took the time to drop a kiss to the top of her head. Soon she’d be too tall for that. With Martin’s scolding in the back of his head, Jon opted to sit beside his legs instead of kneeling on the floor, taking a warm hand in his own. “Hayati.”

“...Emma, I tol’you, darling…” Gravelly, ruined from coughing, and Jon interrupted.

“I was already on the way when she called.” Gently, Jon rubbed his thumb in tiny circles over his skin and Martin sighed, shaking a wet cough loose from somewhere deep in his chest. “That sounds awful, love.”

“He fainted.” Jon pushed all the concern away, turning all his sharp attention to his husband.

“...li’l dizzy, that’s all.” Sentences short, leaving him gasping, and Jon didn’t have to Know that his fever was climbing as it was wont to do in the evenings, instead pressing a kiss to his clammy forehead. He kept his frowning to himself.

“That doesn’t exactly make me feel any better.” He removed the flannel and used it to wipe down his face, his throat, the bit of his chest peeking from under his tee. No binder, he knew better, but still. “You’re burning up.” Bless her, Emma appeared with tea and medicine and Jon maneuvered himself and a protesting Martin so he could curl up against him instead. He was a furnace, oozing heat, and even Jon who always ran so cold, began to sweat. “Oh, Hayati.” Murmuring a few more soft things, he swept the cloth over the back of his neck.

“Jon…” carefully, he drew in another measure of air, barely a lungful. “Don’...ha, feel well.”

“I know, love, I know. It’s alright.” Jon peppered his cheek with kisses, accepting the pills and tea, cajoling Martin into downing both before burying fingers in his lank hair. The tension in him relaxed as he melted further into Jon, the wheeze in his chest pronounced but he’d keep an eye on it. “Well done dad-wrangling today, Em.”

“...’eeey.” Martin coughed into his elbow, hastily tossed over his face, and left it there.

“Hush.” Once everything had a little time to work on that fever it would be straight to bed with him. (Which he never should have left in the first place). “Homework?”

“Yes, Baba.”

“After I put dad to bed we can order take away.” At least her face lit up at that. Martin’s last bout of illness had planted fear deep inside the both of them, but there was nothing to suggest that he hadn’t just pushed himself too far. He’d ask just what he was attempting to accomplish later, if he could remember. For now, he settled into the quiet, listening to Martin’s soft snoring of which he would adamantly deny, and debated whether or not he could be convinced to take a hit off Jon’s own inhaler. “Alright, Hayati, up you come.” In this moment, Jon wished he was strong enough to carry him up the stairs, like Martin would do in these sorts of situations with him, but he could lend him support.

“...Couch’sfine…”

“It isn’t.” And with no more air left to complain with, Martin focused on putting one foot in front of the other, panting heavy when Jon left him sitting on the bed to rummage for a soft set of pyjamas. He was less helpful than he wanted to be when trying to assist but before long and after another full glass of water, Jon was pulling him into his lap.

“Mmh.” Cuddling closer. “M’sorry, Jon.”

“Whatever for?”

“Nng…”

“I feel I have to ask for clarification because there’s nothing here necessitating apologies.” Tone low and even, the goal was to soothe. Accepting care was not one of Martin’s strong suits and Jon supposed he could forgive him that one minor transgression. He began smoothing a hand up and down his back. “Falling ill is no one’s fault, Habibi.”

“Din’ have--” He broke off in another fit and Jon levered him forward so Martin could hack properly, offering another sip of water before laying down with him and wrapping him up in his arms.

“I will always come home when you need me.” Overwhelmed and weepy from fever, tears began to slip over the bridge of his nose, soaking into the pillow, and Jon kissed them away, cupping his cheek in one hand to brush away the damp with his thumb. “Know why?” Stubborn, Martin shook his head, tucking himself beneath Jon’s chin and pulling in a shuddering breath, exhaling slow and following the steady rise and fall of his narrow chest to sleep. “Because I love you, Hayati.”

#TMA #the magnus archives #sick martin #martin blackwood #jon sims #emma au #emma! #eds jon #cane user jon #martin gets some tlc #i picture this happening somewhere after like that big medical scare he had earlier #hurt/comfort #fever #sorry it's tiny!

[frangipanidownunder]

It’s Only Natural: fic

This is for @ellivia and @kega-umi who both requested  Person A has to come into Person B’s changing room and help them out of a particularly tight pair of pants, from the shopping prompts. Thank you! I had fun with this one.

It’s only natural, she tells herself. Quarantine meant lazy eating and half-hearted exercise plans that often ended up with a ‘full body workout’ (a Mulder euphemism) that, while vigorous, and (extremely) enjoyable, did not burn calories the way an hour cross-fit class might.

“You wound me, Scully,” he’d said, the first time she scolded him for cajoling her into their bed instead of the living room for a stretch and tone. His armoury included a wicked pout of his glistening lips, a lascivious wink and a wander of his fingertips along the ridge of each abdominal muscle. As she came a second time, she’d promised herself she would remove all carbs for a week. At least.

The denim slid up okay. She wiggled. She waggled. She shimmied and she jiggled. And then the jeans were up, snug at her lower back, moulded to her ass. The button was challenging but she supposed arthritis in one’s fingers was normal at her age, and the fabric hadn’t had a chance to stretch. She smoothed down the legs so the creases softened. Of course, they were too long.

Bending down to fix the stupid ruffles at her ankles was the moment she realised something was wrong. Not in the bee-sting kind of way, but in the too many just one more spoonful kind of way.

“All right in there, Scully?” he asked, nose peeking through the gap in the curtain. And she’d sent him away with a flap of her hand.

So here she is. Dana Scully, former FBI agent, scientist. Fucking. Doctor. Stuck in a pair of skinny jeans. When clearly SHE ISN’T SKINNY. The changing room is becoming claustrophobic, pressing against her limbs as she tries to undo the button and manoeuvre the pants back down. She stands up straight. Breathes. Looks in the mirror to find herself. She sees an angry old woman. Who the hell puts fluorescent strips over the mirror? Her skin is ghostly. Her hair is the rusty side of copper. A strip of silvery roots shines. Yes, SHINES. She rubs her cheeks, squeezes her eyes shut. Looks again. But nothing has changed. She could use some of Mulder’s effervescent optimism.

She turns away from the traitorous glass, shakes her hips side to side and tries to slip the jeans over the swell of her stomach but they refuse to budge.

It’s only natural. Weight gain in middle age, during menopause, is normal. It’s typical. She’s no different to any other fifty-six-year-old. Except she’s an FBI agent, a scientist, a fucking doctor. She rewrote Einstein. Yet she can’t take a pair of jeans off. She hooks her thumbs down the sides and yanks, but the jeans hold firm.

It’s only fucking natural. Rage boils in the pit of her fat gut. She stabs at the flab there. Turns back to the mirror and makes a smiley face from her navel. Does a Mulder impression. Do you think I’m spooky?

“Scully?”

“I’m fine,” she snaps.

“Right. How do they look?”

Her ass is certainly lifted by the confines of the material. From the back, she looks pretty good. But the bulge over the waistband and the ridiculously long legs make her look like a circus freak. Are there even circus freaks any more? She remembers The Enigma from that bizarre case years ago and briefly entertains becoming the ‘Dr Dana the Denim-clad Muffin Top’ for the rest of her years. Because she is never going to be able to extract herself from these pants. People might pay. There’s a porn site for every fetish.

“They’re a bit tight,” she says, wriggling again to no avail. Her sigh sounds like a fighter jet launching.

Mulder’s whole head appears through the curtains. “Ooh, hot.”

Not helpful. Not in the least. She exhales sharply and he pulls a face in response. But he doesn’t leave. “I need a bigger size.” It cuts to say it. Slashes. She’s bleeding out. Not in the heart being extracted by a psychic surgeon kind of way.

“I’ll get some for you.”

Fucking typical. He’s not even going to ask why. What is it with men? Don’t they get it? She’s known Mulder how long? Long enough for him to understand how hard it is for her to admit something like that. The least he could do is offer some comfort. “Fine.”

He leaves. Then comes back straight away. “It’s not fine though, is it, Scully?”

Fucking typical. Now the psychologist comes out. “I’m fine.”

“You didn’t say, I’m fine. You said, it’s fine. There’s a difference.” Are you shitting me? This is not how she likes her Mulder. “I’m feeling there’s something going on here but I haven’t quite worked it out.”

Before she can blast him out for his lack of investigative skills, he’s inside the changing room. There’s barely enough oxygen for one but with him in the tiny space she’s suffocating. He’s looking down on her. On to her shiny fucking roots. Her protruding gut. Her comedically short legs. Embarrassment leaves a red streak across her cheeks. Breathing hurts. Not just because the waistband of the jeans is digging in to her skin, but because her chest is tight with humiliation.

“I can’t get them off,” she whispers.

“What?” His face is so close to hers, she can feel his cheekbone scrape against her skin. Because of course he hasn’t put on an ounce of fat over the years. Just a bulk of muscle. And she’s not going to complain about that. But if he laughs. If he so much as cracks that beautiful fucking face of his…

She looks down at the floor. “I can’t get the jeans off. They’re…stuck.” Tears burn in her eyes and she feels doubly stupid. A fat old woman trying on a pair of too-small jeans and then CRYING about it.

“Hey,” he croons, lifting her chin with a gently finger. “We’ll figure it out.”

She shakes her head. The tears fly loose. She sniffs, cuffing the wet away with the heel of her hand and takes a ragged breath in. How dare he be so fucking understanding. “I’m fat, Mulder,” she says, leaning into his shoulder.

“No you’re not,” he says, kissing the top of her greying head. “You’re just giving me more to handle.” She slumps against him, half laughing then dissolving into tears again. “There’s always been too much of you for me, Scully. Metaphorically speaking, of course.”

She bumps her head against his shoulder, then lifts her face to him. “These jeans are not just too small, they’re too long. They might even fit your chicken legs.”

His eyes slide down to the floor and he chuckles chestily. “I can’t believe how often I forget just how short you are, Scully. Because, as I said, you’ve always seemed so much bigger to me.”

“Metaphorically speaking.”

“Yes, you’re figuratively enormous. Huge.” He slips his fingers down the back of the jeans and wriggles his wrists.

“Vast, gigantic,” she says, jiggling with his movements. The waistband stretches over her hips and with a pop slips under her buttocks, taking with it, her underwear.

“Impressive, grand,” he murmurs, pulling away from her as the pants fold open over her upper thighs and slide, along with the pale blue panties, down to her knees, “wholly magnificent.”

She’s bare before him. Not in a what are they, Mulder? way, but in a literal, naked-from-the-waist-down-in-a-changing-room-way. And the way he’s looking at her, the light in his eyes, the slight part in his lips, the want, everything else fades to nothing. There’s no sales assistant asking politely at the curtain if everything’s okay. There’s no security camera on the ceiling flashing a red intrusive eye at them. There’s no greys, no lines, no layers of quarantine fat. There’s just him and her and love.

It’s only natural, she thinks. And leans up to kiss his fat lips.

#txf fanfic #my fanfiction #xfficchallenges #challenge: shopping #post season 11 msr

[elisajdb]

BadaGine Week 2020: Day Two

The Life We Share @bardineweek

 Day 2: Good Morning

  Gine woke to see the sun shining through the window and the feel of her body curving against Bardock’s muscular form. She half expected her husband to wake her by making love again. Bardock returned last night from a three month mission. He was always eager to be with her when he returned but last night, he was hungry! It was a wonderful night of kisses, bites, moans, screams and Bardock bending her body in ways Gine didn’t think possible.

 Sometimes Gine wanted to pinch herself for marrying Bardock. It was still surreal this tall Adonis desire her. Bardock could have any woman. He had the looks, strength and magnetic appeal that had many looking his way. He was a third class warrior but he was still oh so strong with charisma that impressed higher rank Saiyans. Many thought Bardock would settle with a female warrior; one who loves fighting and can fight alongside him but he chose her: a woman who wasn’t a fighter and could only serve her people with food preparation that kept their energy high and their bodies strong. The rare time Gine was forced to be a fighter, she couldn’t and had to be rescued by Bardock.

 For others, it would’ve been embarrassing. For Gine, that’s when her life turned around for the better. That moment got her to where she is today: to be Bardock’s wife.

 The mornings after Bardock’s return, Gine and Bardock spent hours in bed sleeping and talking. Gine recall how Bardock would wake her by caressing and massaging her breasts. Most times, like now, he fell asleep holding a breast. This morning, Gine’s body still hummed from Bardock’s touches. He was always good to her; always knew where to touch her to evoke reaction and Gine wanted to reciprocate that to him. 

 Gine was a docile woman. She didn’t have aggressive fighting prowess or an aggressive attitude like Fasha but intimacy brought out a primal urge in her. Gine never thought she would be that type of woman but Bardock had the ability to awaken that part of her she never knew existed.

 Gine carefully rolled over so she faced Bardock and not wake him. He laid on his side with his beautiful, muscular bare body before her. After intimacy, Bardock slept without the sheets. His body was too hot he’d tell her and needed to cool off.

 She wanted to touch him; all of him.

 So, Gine pressed kisses along Bardock’s neck. Her hand caressed up and down the ripples of powerful muscles from Bardock’s tight stomach to his wide chest. Hours after mating and Bardock’s body still felt heated. The sweat that perspired on his body during their mating created an intoxicating, addictive scent. Gine couldn’t resist darting her tongue across a spot of skin she nipped last night.

 The feel of her tongue and lips on his neck and hand gently gliding over his rippled body stirred Bardock awake. The hand that slept holding her breast floated down her back and settled on the gentle curve of Gine’s hips.

 Eyes closed, Bardock cajoled. “Is this how you wake all your lovers when I’m away?”

 Gine’s eyes widened horrified as her mouth slipped from Bardock’s ear. Lovers? Did Bardock think that she….? She shook her head fearful she gave Bardock the wrong impression before she noticed his smile.  

 “Don’t joke like that,” she gently scolded him. “I would never betray you.”

 “I know,” he caressed her sweet face, “but I never got a wake up welcome like this by you before.”

 Flushed with embarrassment, Gine looked away. Perhaps, she was wrong to do this.

“Gine?” Bardock grabbed her chin and forced her to look at him. “What’s wrong?”

 “Nothing’s wrong,” she assured him. With Bardock’s questioning gaze and the deepening color on her face, she knew she had to explain. “I… just wanted to wake you with a good morning in a different way.”

 Bardock noticed Gine appeared embarrassed at her forwardness. Did he go too far with his teasing? “Any morning is a good morning with you, Gine.” He pulled her closer and claimed her lips in a kiss that left no doubt how happy he is to be with her. As Gine returned the kiss, she felt Bardock cup a breast, a thumb lightly skimming her nipple before it was scrapped by his teeth.

 “You’re so sensitive,” Bardock whispered as Gine arched her body to him and her nails dug into the skin of his arm and back. “But so responsive.” He kissed between her breasts. “A mere touch awakens your body to me.”

 Gine felt her back touch the sheets again. Bardock’s hair tickled her skin as he nipped and suckled her chest. Sweat perspired across her body and soft whimpers moaned from Gine’s lips as she felt Bardock ground his hips against her.

 Gine wanted intimacy with Bardock but this wasn’t how she wanted it. If she didn’t stop this, Bardock will have his way and control over her as usual and Gine didn’t want that.

 Just as Bardock moved to her smooth stomach, Gine knew it was now or never. If she didn’t stop him, she will be lost in a whirlwind of pleasure that wouldn’t end until Bardock had his complete way with her. Gine summoned the strength in her lithe body, rose up and pushed Bardock on his back.

 The maneuver caught Bardock off guard. When he had Gine underneath him, he was in control. She never stopped; she encouraged him. For Gine to take a vulnerable moment and surprise him, left Bardock blinking at her several times in confusion. Slowly, his brain worked Gine got the upper hand on him in an intimate moment.

 It was confusing yet arousing.

 “Gine?” What had come over his wife? Why was she so resisting this morning?

 “I want,” Gine whispered as she boldly crawled on her hands and knees over Bardock, “a turn at your body.”

 Bardock’s breath locked in his lungs at Gine’s proclamation. Once the surprise wore off, excitement poured through his body at the knowledge Gine wanted to touch him. Just seeing Gine’s parted lips and eyes glazed with desire, had him swelling in anticipation.

 Gine’s breasts swayed as she neared him. He wanted to touch and take her in his mouth again but resisted. Gine wanted to please him; Gine wanted to do the work and as a loving husband, he wasn’t going to stop her.

 Gine resumed kissing his neck again as she did to wake him moments ago. He heard her inhale his scent and whispered. “I love how you smell….. it awakens my body.”

 His eyes closed as he felt Gine nip his skin. “I love how you touch.” He grunted as she bit him hard. “It awakens my body.”

 Before Gine, women have touched him but only when he asked. Never had a woman touch him on their own. None would be so bold. Gine’s initiative had his blood pumping as if his body was on fire.

 Gine knelt between his legs and ran her hands over his chest and stomach before she surprised him by leaning forward and kissing his chest. Bardock sucked in a breath as he felt Gine’s breasts rub against him. He exhaled sharply when her hands move down his thighs. His hips jumped as his body yearned for Gine to touch him where she calculatingly was not.

 “You’re teasing me,” he gruffly told her.

 Gine raised her face from his chest. Her eyes were playful. “Returning the favor.”

 Several times he teased and taunted Gine. It was as recent as last night he refrained from touching her where she wanted to be touched; pulling back when she wanted more; giving her enough only to pull away before she had her release; making her whimper and beg for him.

 Never did Bardock ever expect Gine to turn the tables on him.

 But she did. Her hands moved close but never touched him. Up and down her fingers dragged over his chest in sweet tease and torment. Her hair tickled his skin as her lips pressed upon a muscled thigh. Her hot breath breathed over him, luring him to think she will touch him there only for Gine to love her lips and teeth on his other thigh.

 A fresh gleam of sweat perspired on his body when Gine bent forward again. The ends of her short hair brushed against his balls and tightening rod. His hands fisted the sheets, heart pounded in anticipation and hips jumped forward anticipating her.

 Gine deftly moved away again. It was by sheer accident her breasts rubbed against him. The mere contact caused a pearl of moisture to spill where Bardock so desperately wanted Gine to touch him with her mouth.

 “Gine,” Bardock groaned.

 It was exciting and amazing to see Bardock frustrated by her teasing. She never thought she could have that power over him. Other women would take advantage of this but being as kind as she is, Gine couldn’t do that to Bardock. She couldn’t let him suffer in sweet torture even by her own doing.

 She took him in her mouth. Hearing Bardock’s name on her lips awakened her body even more between her legs. Her warm tongue swirled around his tip before going deep and sucking him.

 It was too much for Bardock. He had to touch Gine. He needed her under him with him in her. He pulled her mouth from him as he sat up. With his lust filled eyes, Gine saw what Bardock wanted to do. She would give in but she didn’t want to. At least not yet.

 “Wait. I’m not done.”

 “Trust me,” he groan feeling dampness from Gine brush over his leg as he grabbed her hips, “you are.” Though overwhelmed with lust, he noticed Gine pouting. Sweet thing misunderstood him. He settled her straddling over his chest. The brushing of their lower bodies spark a shudder between both. Gine expected Bardock to push her on her back and take over but he surprised her when he grasped the back of her neck and pulled her to him, whispering, “Have your way with me.”

 Pleased he was giving her control, Gine lowered herself on him. She winced at the size of Bardock hitting her deeper in this position. The pain was fleeting and pleasure sweet as she bounced and ground against him. Her swelling breasts swayed before Bardock’s hungry eyes. Leaning forward, she gave Bardock what he wanted. He took the bait and feast upon her breasts.

 Soft cries and heavy moans filled the room as their bodies slap against each other with Gine rocking her hips back and forth; up and down.

 “Bardock,” Gine gasped as she felt her orgasm building. He felt Gine slipping as her body neared her peak so Bardock grasped her hips and slammed into her, taking over. The move had the bed squeaking and begging their occupants to stop. A few more hard slaps of their bodies rocking against each other and Gine was there, squeezing him, crying out and taking Bardock with her.

 Bardock’s own body convulsed around Gine as he emptied himself in her with his teeth sinking into the skin of her neck. Spent, Bardock fell back on the bed with her body sprawled over him.

 For several moments, they stayed as they were, body still joined with their ragged breathing being the only sounds in the room one this sunny morning. With her body sated, Gine’s eyes drifted close.

 “Gine?” Bardock voice rumbled.

 “Hmm?”

 “If this is how you are saying good morning to me, what will you do for lunch?”

  Gine thought for a moment before she giggled to herself. Oh, she had a few ideas!

#BadaGineweek #BadaGine #Bardine #Bardock #Gine #The Life We Share #Part Two #Good Morning #dragon ball #Dragonball Z #Dragonball Super #bardineweek

[caffeineivore]

Commission #5

For @lyrhiamoon, who prompted fluffy Christmastime Minako/Kunzite with bonus Artemis. A Hallmark Movie-esque meet-cute, if you will :P

Only Nicholas Abington-Bryce, the aging, irrascible founder of the Bryce Real Estate empire, would have the chutzpah to demand a house call from his lawyer a mere two days before Christmas. And indeed, even soulless lawyers have their limits. Kyle Grayson, however, never put much stock in the holiday, and though his idea of a good time undoubtedly entailed something other than making yet more painstaking and arbitrary adjustments to an already-elaborate will, that it was half-past three in the afternoon of the twenty-third of December did not faze him in the least. Kyle had been the old man’s lawyer for the last year and a half, and he did not expect anything more or less than to deal with a little hand-and-foot waiting. And when one had no family or close friends with whom to celebrate Christmas, that particular calendar day was much like any of the other 364 out of the year. 

Of course, he did not particularly care to make the drive all the way to the palatial Abington-Bryce mansion all the way upstate. The old man had done his business in the city back in the day, but had retired to live out his golden years in a picturesque resort town mostly known for its ski slopes in the winter and its hiking trails in the summer. He still made the hour and a half journey into the city to meet with his board once a week, or perhaps to put Kyle through the paces if he felt like it, but on the phone call, he’d explained abruptly that he’d given his chauffeur the week off for the holiday. It had certainly not occurred to the old man to do such an outlandish thing as to drive himself into the city, and had Kyle suggested such a thing, it’s entirely possible that Nicholas Abington-Bryce would have reached through the phone and choked him to death for the impudence. And so it is that at the hour of four o’clock, Kyle pulls into the merging traffic bringing drivers away from the lights and liveliness of the big city and onto the expressway heading north.

The snow begins to fall in fat, feathery flakes about halfway through his commute, but Kyle grits his teeth and soldiers on. He had just gotten the pre-winter oil change and routine checkup on his car, and it boasted freshly rotated tires and brand new windshield wipers and a full tank of gas. The roads get increasingly slick the further he gets away from the city, but that is only to be expected. By the time he reaches the winding mountain roads which lead into the little podunk town in BFE, lane markings are all but obscured, and he has dropped his speed down to thirty miles per hour, then twenty-five as the winds howled and raged outside. The GPS had given him an estimated time of arrival of half-past five, but it is a good forty-five minutes past that when he finally pulls into the long, winding drive of the Abington-Bryce mansion. 

The house is picturesque enough-- all red brick and slate-gray shutters and white columns adorning its front facade. A generous expanse of lawn is covered with the rapidly-falling snow, and white Christmas lights glow against the fringe of glittery icicles along the eaves and windows. The porch is flanked by neatly trimmed privet hedges and the main door is hung with a forest green wreath of pine boughs and holly. Stamping through snow that is almost certainly melting into and ruining his shoes, Kyle hunches his shoulders against the biting wind and rings the doorbell. 

He would have been surprised if the cantankerous old man himself have answered the door, sure, because Nicholas Abington-Bryce definitely strikes him as the sort who likely spent his evenings in state seated in an easy-chair with a snifter of brandy and a cigar and a newspaper. A housekeeper would be more in-character, or perhaps a butler. Quiet, inobtrusive, judgmental, clad in neat black clothing. What he had not expected, though, was for the door to be pulled open by someone with a fountain of golden hair and a fuzzy sweater in a shade of candy-apple red, but before his mind could register much more than ‘young woman, blonde, very hot’, a white fluffy blur shoots straight at his legs.

“Artemis, NO!” Very Hot Blonde has a voice like silver bells, and it’s not at all effective in scolding what looks and feels like a very determined cat climbing its way up Kyle’s right leg, claws painfully searching for traction on the fabric and digging into his skin. Indeed, the cat ignores the woman and likely would have made his way all the way up to Kyle’s hip had she not huffed out a breath, stooped down and bodily yanked the beastie off. That doesn’t end well-- the move puts her face-level with his crotch, but before he could even stammer out something in mortification-- the cat yowls and digs in, and the sound of ripping fabric immediately follows. His pants, in very short order, look like something which would be found in some hipster designer bin. Very Hot Blonde, now holding onto the cat in a death-grip like a mother with a squirmy, hyperactive toddler, takes a step back, and looks up into his face, baby blue eyes wide and contrite.

“Oh, hi. I’m sorry, please come on in. I’m Mina, and this VERY BAD CAT WHO WILL GET NO TREATS is Artemis. I’d offer to shake hands, but I don’t want to let him go for an instant or he’ll jump on you again. He’s just being friendly, I promise!”

“... Am I at the right place?” Kyle asks belatedly, stepping into the foyer area. Overhead, a big, glittery crystal chandelier glints off the gold of her hair. “Is this the residence of Mr. Nicholas Abington-Bryce?” Certainly nothing in the old man’s demeanour or lifestyle suggested that he would feature unknown beautiful women and mischievous cats as a part of his household. “I’m Kyle Grayson, from Grayson and Burnett in New York City. I’m his lawyer.”

“Oh! Yes, he did call you to come today, didn’t he? I forgot, because it’s Christmas soon, and I’ve been getting ready since I’ve arrived two days ago. I’m Mina. But I said that already, didn’t I?” A pretty blush touches those flawless cheekbones, and Kyle has never before found himself charmed when faced with a flustered female. “That is to say, I’m Mina Abington, here to visit Grandpa Nicky from out of town. Do come in out of the cold so we can get you some hot cocoa and cookies. Do you like gingerbread?”

Kyle did not consider himself a hot cocoa and gingerbread type of guy, but surely the alternative was worse-- saying no to those big blue eyes, which happened to belong to the very-off-limits granddaughter of a client. Cautiously, he follows her in.

**

“We’ve just had dinner, Grandpa Nicky and I, but if you’d like a plate, I’ll be happy to get you one. We had broccoli-stuffed chicken breast and wild rice. You must be starving after that drive.”

“Doesn’t your grandfather want to see me? I am quite late, unfortunately. But the roads are getting pretty bad out there, and it couldn’t be helped.”

“I’m sure he will, but he’s taking a nap. He takes a nap after dinner every day, for about an hour. He’ll be up again in time to watch the seven o’clock news.” The fetching-- and since when did he use such plebeian terms as ‘fetching’-- Miss Mina Abington leads him into the kitchen with her cat still clutched in her arms, and beams a megawatt smile at the stout, apron-clad woman standing by the stove. 

“Mrs. MacGregor, could I maybe please get you to put together a plate of dinner? For our guest? He’s come a long way and it’s so cold outside.”

Even as Kyle raises an eyebrow at the positively Dickensian descriptor for himself, Mrs. MacGregor harrumphs. “Are ye goin’ to take that bloody wee beastie out of me kitchen first?” 

“I will do that in just a moment. He can keep Grandpa company, don’t you think?”

“I dinna care so long as he doesna get his wee paws into the fish again. Or the chicken. Or the ham. Or, indeed, the tatties, which he has no earthly use for, now does he?” Mrs. MacGregor waits until both girl and cat are out of the room, then turns a beady eye on Kyle. “Ye must be the lad from the law office in the city.”

Kyle cannot recall, at any point in his thirty-two years, ever being called a ‘lad’, but he nods in an awkward way. “Yes, my name is Kyle Grayson. I’m Mr. Abington-Bryce’s lawyer.”

“And have you been working for him for long?”

“For almost two years now. He’s always done business with our firm, but I took him on after I made partner. My predecessor was good golf buddies with Mr. Abington-Bryce before they’d both retired, as I understand it.”

In short order, Kyle finds himself more or less telling the grumpy Scotswoman his whole life story-- growing up in Connecticut, attending college and law school at Yale, moving to New York City after receiving his Juris Doctor and getting a job offer at the firm. She harrumphs again at random moments, but places a steaming cup of coffee and fragrant plate of food in front of him, and he’s hungrier than he thought, because by the time Mina walks in again, this time sans cat, he’s almost halfway through the plate. She beams at him in a way that makes him feel embarrassed for no good reason, then moves onto cajole Mrs. MacGregor for hot cocoa and gingerbread cookies.

It’s almost insidiously nice, and a distant clock strikes seven as he starts in on the cocoa and gingerbread, and that brings him back to reality with a jerk. “Look, Miss Abington, I’m not here to socialize. I’m here on behalf of your grandfather, my client, who is undoubtedly wondering where I am. I appreciate the hospitality, but I should definitely get to work before it gets even later. I still have a long drive back to the city.”

“Oh, do call me Mina, won’t you? I had a teacher in high school call me Miss Abington in a really snide way whenever I dozed off in her class, and considering it was Geometry, who could blame me, right? And certainly you must see to Grandpa’s business with you, but you’re not thinking of driving back in the blizzard, are you? The forecast says we’re supposed to get a foot of snow. Oh… you must have some plans for Christmas. Of course. It’s supposed to stop snowing by tomorrow morning, and hopefully by tomorrow afternoon we’ll be plowed out.”

“I don’t have plans for Christmas, but I can’t really just impose on you guys, either.” Kyle finds himself inordinately fascinated by the rapidly changing expressions on her face, and at this latest statement, she looked as though someone had kicked her troublemaker cat across the icy street straight into a snowdrift. 

“No plans for Christmas? But… but…how?!”

Kyle shrugs, a bit disturbed that it seems to matter so much to her. “I just don’t. Anyway, I should get to work. Where is your grandfather, Miss… Mina?”

“In the den. Here, follow me.” Still looking very sad and lost, she leads the way, and Kyle gets an impression of a cavernous, well-kept home all buffed hardwood floors and antique furniture polished to a gleam. The den features a roaring fireplace complete with boughs of holly festooning the mantel and a towering Christmas tree glittering with ornaments and ribbons and lights, festively topped with an angel with golden hair not unlike Mina’s. Nicholas Abington-Bryce is seated in an easy chair, looking not unlike a Bond villain or a Mafia boss in his Italian suit, the fluffy white monster of a cat quite docilely perched on his lap and purring loudly. The cat, Kyle notices with not a little bit of resentment, seems to have no inclination of sharpening its claws on his pant legs. 

“Ah, Mr. Grayson. You have arrived.” The old man stands, dislodging the cat on his lap. It zeroes in on Kyle once again, but seems a bit friendlier this time, choosing instead to wind circles around his ankles. Or perhaps attempting to trip him. Either way, between the rips and the cat hairs, his trousers are destined for the trash heap. Kyle manfully attempts to move his way across the room without tripping over the animal, and shakes the old man’s hand. 

“Yes, I’m here, as you requested. When did you want to get started on the work?” 

“After we finish watching the news, of course.” Nicholas, now that the formalities have been observed, plunks right back down in his chair, gestures Kyle towards the plush white loveseat where Mina is already sitting with a peremptory hand. “One must keep abreast of what’s going on in the world, you know? The work will wait until we’re done here. At my age, young man, there’s nothing left but time. Now hush.”

A glance at the screen of the gigantic wall-mounted television screen shows an accounting of what looks to be the latest Kardashian-Jenner escapade. Kyle seats himself gingerly next to the girl, and as the cat now makes himself quite at home by crawling its way back up into his lap, he resigns himself to a long night ahead. At this proximity, Mina’s thigh brushes against his, and he can smell the scent of her hair-- something sweet and warm, like wild honeysuckle and vanilla. She laughs at the Kardashian antics on the screen, and the thought occurs to him that her voice is far more suited for laughter than for scolding or recriminations. And he absolutely doesn’t know her at all, nor has any business thinking or noticing anything about her voice, or the scent of her hair. In his lap, the cat fixes piercing blue eyes upon his face, as though suspiciously trying to ascertain his intentions towards its mistress.

Kyle sighs. A very, very long night ahead. And if the weather report, as being delivered by an unnaturally chipper redhead in a skirt suit on the screen, is accurate to any degree, he’s very well and truly stuck. There’d be no navigating his sleek but seldom-used Lexus through the snowdrifts if he left now, and they’d probably find his dead body after the spring thaw. He’d have to spend at least one night under the same roof as his most demanding client and quite possibly the prettiest girl he had ever seen, and he didn’t even have a toothbrush or a change of clothes. 

Bah freaking Humbug indeed.

#m/k #senshi/shitennou #sailor moon #fanfiction #fanfic #commission #lyrhiamoon

[aurumacadicus]

For my trade with @creationfail! Hope you like it! (Also it’s 7K so part of it’s under the cut!) ((You can now find this on my Ao3 here as well.))

It started with Maria.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true. It had started with Ana saying perhaps Tony wouldn’t cause quite so much damage to the mansion’s electronics if he had something to focus his energy on. Jarvis had taken Tony to sign up for an activity and had let him choose which one he wanted to do, wisely deciding that if Tony didn’t like his activity, he would become even more destructive at home.

Tony had been shy, and had to be cajoled. The lady helping them sign up had pushed him toward sports, because most little boys liked them, but he was already starting to get bullied by boys in school, and they used gym class to pick on him physically. None of the girls were that mean to him, though, and he noticed a lot of girl names on one list, so he’d pointed to that one.

Howard had pitched a fit when he learned Tony had signed up for ballet, but Maria had coldly told him, “Any professional ballerino could snap your neck with his thighs.” Then she’d told him in no uncertain terms that he could either keep buying electronics for the house without scolding Tony, or let him practice ballet. Howard mulishly allowed Tony to stay signed up for ballet.

So it started with Ana and Jarvis, but Maria had finished it.

Tony only realized he might have made a mistake when he was the only boy that turned up to class, and all the girls were looking at him curiously. He didn’t have a chance to bail, though, because Jarvis was already sitting down with his things, and the teacher had welcomed him in warmly. She seemed to sense his hesitancy and said, “Ladies, if you’re good and help Anthony, maybe we can celebrate the end of class with lifts.”

All of the girls were excited for lifts, so they welcomed Tony with open arms.

It was exhausting, but fun, and probably the best thing that had ever happened to Tony, because suddenly he had friends—tiny ones, but fierce: Natasha pushed Tony technically, and Jan insisted that he have fun, and Jane talked about the stars with him, and Sharon helped him practice whenever they were both visiting Aunt Peggy, and Darcy showed him how to close his fist so he wouldn’t break his thumb if he ever had to punch someone. Even after some of the girls left ballet, either growing out of it or finding other interests, they kept in contact.

Howard pitched a fit when Tony decided to become a professional ballerino, but at that point, Tony didn’t care what Howard thought. He only went to school because Maria had asked him to get a degree to fall back on when he could no longer perform. He thought Maria’s request was more reasonable than his father’s.

Tony joined a troupe with Natasha, and they debuted in The Firebird together, and the rest was history.

.-.-.-.

I saw you in The Sleeping Beauty. You were perfect. I enjoyed seeing you as Prince Désiré. I haven’t been so enchanted since I saw you play Solor in La Bayadere. It’s always a pleasure to see my art help you with yours. ⭐

Tony smiled and ran his thumb over the little red star that served as a signature. He hadn’t thought that the man who made his shoes would actually go see his performances. Then again, he clearly loved ballet, at least to the point that it was his livelihood. Perhaps he liked seeing his product in use.

“You gonna kiss your love note or not?” Natasha asked, snapping her gum at him obnoxiously.

“Rude,” Tony answered immediately. “You’re rude.” But he did press a kiss to the note anyway.

Natasha wrinkled her nose at him. “Gross. Why don’t you kiss your shoes, too?”

“Don’t pretend you’re not jealous,” Tony scoffed.

Natasha remained unmoved. “I’m not jealous. You’ve been pining after this guy since your mother got him to make your shoes. You know he makes quality shoes for other people, right?”

“I—know that,” Tony answered defensively. Because he did know that, despite what his friends might think. Hell, the guy made Natasha’s pointes, so it’s not like he could even pretend he didn’t. “Of course I know that.”

“You should let me set you up on a date,” Natasha suggested. “Have some fun. Date an actual person instead of a scrap of paper and some shoes. Maybe get a dick up your ass instead of that massive stick—”

Tony gasped, scandalized. “I’ll have you know I have exactly zero sticks up my ass, you absolutely horrible friend!”

“Hmmm, seems fake,” Natasha replied, and snapped her gum again. “Whatever. I’ll just set up Steve again.”

Tony turned back to her, interested now. “Can I sit behind a potted plant with you and watch him crash and burn again?”

“I don’t know why he’s so bad at dating,” Natasha complained, spinning slowly in her chair as she thought about it. “He never has this much trouble on our practice dates.”

“I have no idea why that might be,” Tony lied, straight-faced, and watched her huff in annoyance as she tried to figure out why Steve could go on dates with her and not anyone else. When he gave his Man of Honor speech at their wedding, he was going to cite these incidents viciously.

Instead of telling her that, though, he turned back to his desk and penned off a quick response before he got wrapped up in sneaking after Steve on another Bad Date.

I’m so glad you got to see my performance! Your shoes never fail to impress me. Next time I’ll definitely be thinking of you when I take the stage. :) I only wish I could wear pointes more often. Your work is even lovelier on them and I wish I could truly appreciate it as much as the ballerinas. I look forward to the next pair, tesoro mio.

.-.-.-.

Of course I go to your shows, Tony. I go to as many as I can. One of my favorite techniques to watch you perform is the saut de basque. Cabrioles are beautiful to watch as well. It helps that your legs go on for miles. I’ve said before that I didn’t really choose this job, the job chose me, and sounded pretty bitter about it. I’m not bitter anymore, not after watching you fly across that stage wearing shoes I made. Thank you for that, Tony. I appreciate it more than you’ll ever know. ⭐

“Your face is on fire,” Natasha said, leaning in very close to his face.

Tony screeched and jerked away from her, falling out of his chair. “Nat!”

Natasha smirked, raising an eyebrow. “What did your ‘tesoro’ say? Did he tell you something racy? Have you guys progressed to lurid correspondence? Did he send you a picture of his dick?”

“Don’t be gross!” Tony exclaimed, flushing darker, and yelped when she snatched the note from his hands. “Natasha!”

“What did he say that turned you into a tomato?” Natasha asked, grinning wickedly, and used her foot to hold him down so she could read it. “Did he proposition you? Did he give you a place to meet?”

“Give it back!” Tony whined, reaching up weakly.

“Ooh, your legs go on for miles,” she said gleefully. “How brazen.” She was going to continue teasing him, but then she got to the end. “Oh,” she whispered, and dropped her hand to return the note to him. “Sorry.”

Tony snatched it back and held it to his chest, blushing. He waited for her to leave before he got up off the floor and climbed back into his seat.

Yes, his shoemaker had told him how he’d mostly been forced into the role, when he’d been young and poor and had needed to help feed his younger sisters back in his home country. He’d been bitter about it for years--he’d wanted to go to school, be an engineer, or a mechanic, or something like that. He’d done as asked (he adored his little sisters, after all) and had done well for himself, and he was mostly happy with how his life had turned out. He’d always been resentful for his beginning though.

And Tony had made him forget all that, if only for a moment.

Tony clutched the note to his chest, hands shaking, and wondered if he was reading into it too much. He couldn’t be though, could he? He’d been as much as told that he’d been the one to make him feel better about his art. He couldn’t be misconstruing that. Could he? What if he was only seeing what he wanted to see because he was pining?

Tony got up so he could pull the box full of notes out from under his bed, each of them carefully dated and filed from years of correspondence. He started from the beginning, a simple note jotted down like an afterthought, a quick Hope you like the shoes. The second note had come with a handful or Russian toffees, just as brusque but softened with the sweets. The notes had gotten warmer the more Tony had replied, until finally they had accumulated in him being told that his dancing had kept his shoemaker from feeling so bitter about the job that had been forced on him. Tony didn’t think he was overreaching for thinking that there was something more there.

He went through the notes one more time before going back to his desk to write his response.

I appreciate that, tesoro mio. I was so flattered to read that my performance could make you forget your bitterness that it about knocked the breath out of me. At this point, it’s not a new pair of shoes that excites me anymore--it’s your notes that come with them. I love hearing from you, even if it’s just a sentence or two. It always brightens my day.

Tony was pretty sure he would have continued on and embarrassed himself (would his tesoro still make his shoes if he confessed his undying love to him?) except then the door to his room opened again and a styrofoam cup was set just inside.

Tony recognized the red nail polish. “You can come in, you know. I’m only a little mad at you still.”

“I am still too ashamed to show my face.”

“Natasha.”

“Leave me to wallow in my misery,” Natasha said and shut the door again.

Tony rolled his eyes and got up to go over to the door. He pulled it open and leaned out. “Natasha.”

Natasha hissed and disappeared back into her own room. “Wallow, I said.”

“I will let you wallow for fifteen minutes,” Tony sighed. “And then we’re going to binge-watch The Land Before Time. You only made it through half of the first one.”

“Never,” Natasha said, muffled by her door. “You won’t trick me with that sad nonsense.”

“It has a happy ending, Natasha.”

“My wallowing doesn’t start until you leave me alone.”

Tony bit back a retort and instead started the timer on his phone, because he was still mad enough to be petty about this. He leaned down to pick up the cup and took a sip.

When he realized it wasn’t a green smoothie, like he’d thought, and was actually a mocha milkshake from his favorite diner, he figured he could cut Natasha a little slack.

.-.-.-.

Tony had always known that being the son of Howard Stark could be dangerous. He just hadn’t thought he’d be a target after he went toward ballet instead of explosives. He didn’t know why he’d thought otherwise, though. He and Janet were from two very influential families. Of course they’d still be targets.

“Tony,” Jan whispered, tears in her eyes, as she clasped his hand in both of hers and rocked back and forth beside him where he was lying on the ground. “Tony, Tony, Tony.”

“Don’t look at it,” Tony said, gripping her hand tight.

“Tony, your leg.”

“Don’t look at it,” Tony repeated sharply.

Jan let out a sob. “You should have let them do it to me.”

Tony glared up at her, knowing his anger was misplaced but feeling too helpless to do anything about it. “Don’t be stupid, Janet. DO NOT. Look at it. Just keep your eyes on my face.”

Jan nodded helplessly, sobbing again, then dipped to instead bury her face in his chest. Tony held her there so she couldn’t turn her head, instead stroking a hand up and down her back. He never would have let their kidnappers torture her, and he knew she knew that. He wouldn’t change anything for the world.

But he didn’t look at his leg either.

.-.-.-.

Tony heard Natasha screaming and opened his eyes, even though it was hard, because he felt floaty and far away. He didn’t know a lot of Russian--he hadn’t had a lot of time to learn around ballet and his school work, and by the time he’d graduated he’d lost interest--but he knew the swears. Natasha’s screams were of anger. ‘Those bastards’ and ‘who would dare’ and ‘I will murder them’ and ‘how could they.’ Tony managed to turn his head to look at his mother.

“Yes, dear,” Maria said gently, and stood to go calm Natasha down without him having to say a word.

Maria brought Natasha in fifteen minutes later, and it was the worst he’d ever seen her--her mascara had run down her flushed cheeks, and her eyes were red and puffy. Her hands were red as if they’d been hitting something. Maybe the floor or the wall? Maria led Natasha to a seat and helped her take Tony’s hand, then excused herself so they could be alone.

Natasha whispered some more threats under her breath before letting out a little sob. “Tony.”

“Hi, Natasha,” Tony whispered.

Natasha pressed her forehead to the back of his hand. “Who will be my Prince Siegfried now, Tony?”

Tony smiled. “You made Odette? Natasha, I’m so happy for you. I knew you could do it.”

Natasha managed a smile for all of two seconds before sobbing again. When they’d realized they were the only two from their classes who planned on pursuing ballet as a career, they’d dreamt of playing Odette and Prince Siegfried together. Tony had played Prince Siegfried a couple times, but Natasha was always passed over for Odette. And now that she got to be Odette… Tony couldn’t be her partner. It wasn’t fair.

It wasn’t fair.

“Natasha,” Tony said gently. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not,” she answered immediately, and then bit her bottom lip. It wasn’t okay. But if Tony wanted to pretend it was, it would be selfish of her to say otherwise. Then she gasped, jerking back in her seat. “Tony, your tesoro!”

Tony’s smile faded, and he was glad for the painkillers. He was too floaty to get too distressed about it. “Natasha, they broke my knee,” he said, voice wobbling. “Shattered it into five pieces.”

Natasha bit her bottom lip to keep from sobbing again and just held his hand tightly.

Tony’s fibula and tibia would heal, and he might have been able to go back to ballet after about six months and some muscle building exercises. But his knee… God, his knee. He’d known he was ruined as soon as that crowbar had hit his kneecap. He might be able to dance again, for fun, but he wouldn’t be able to do the harder moves, the long extensions, the quick leaps. He wouldn’t be able to safely do lifts without the threat of collapsing under the extra weight, of hurting his partner.

He wouldn’t go through shoes, wouldn’t be able to show them off. It would be a long time before he could even put the shoes on. His shoe-maker would surely lose interest in him in that time. After all, he’d said Tony’s performances had made him less bitter. What use was Tony to him now, when he might never dance again?

“...Natasha,” Tony said after a moment.

She sniffed and lifted a hand to dry her eyes quickly. “Yeah?”

“I can eat all the junk food I want,” Tony breathed. “I’ve eaten seven bowls of ice-cream.”

Natasha stared at him, aghast, before letting out an ugly braying sound of laughter. She was immediately mortified.

“I wish Steve had been here to hear the noise you just made,” Tony lamented. He let his eyes drift closed, forced them open again. “Natasha? I am going back to sleep now.”

“Okay,” Natasha answered quietly, stroking her thumb over his knuckles. “Okay, Tony. Go back to sleep.”

“Natasha,” Tony said sleepily.

She leaned in a little. “Yeah, Tony?”

His eyes drifted open a little, and his expression when stern. “Don’t look at my leg. Don’t. It’ll only upset you.”

Natasha couldn’t help a little jerk of surprise, but nodded resolutely. “Alright, Tony.”

Tony narrowed his eyes at her, but mostly just looked like he was squinting. “Promise.”

“I promise,” Natasha agreed easily. She wouldn’t look. She’d already seen it when she came in. She was secretly glad it was Jan with Tony and not her. She’s pretty sure she would have died the moment she saw the crowbar come down on Tony’s knee.

Tony looked at her a little longer, then promptly passed out, nearly rolling off his pillow.

Natasha laughed again, then clapped a hand over her mouth, embarrassed. God, she was so glad Steve wasn’t here to hear her laughing like an idiot.

.-.-.-.

On the fourth week of bed rest, Tony handed Natasha a note and asked her to send it to their shoemaker. Natasha agreed quietly and took it from his shaking hand.

She peeked before she put it in the envelope and immediately wished she hadn’t, tears rolling down her cheeks as she took in Tony’s looping cursive.

I’m sorry, tesoro mio. I’m so sorry. I hope you’ll find someone else to watch. Goodbye.

.-.-.-.

“Am I a cyborg now? I feel like I should get to be called a cyborg if I set off security detectors when I go through them now,” Tony said, tipping his head back to look up at Steve. “You’re not wearing your uniform, Steven.”

“Maybe I’d be wearing the slutty nurse costume if you’d gotten it in any color other than pink,” Steve replied with good humor. “Also! I’m your physical therapist, not your nurse.”

Tony frowned. “What do you have against pink? Too girly for you?”

“Nah, pink just washes me out,” Steve said, shrugging. “Makes me look sickly. Or like a vampire. And you had your patella wired back together, Tony, not given an entirely new knee, so you can’t be a cyborg, sorry.”

“Mean. I’ll tell Natasha you were mean,” Tony whined. “Also if you’re my physical therapist why do I have to stay in the wheelchair? Why can’t I have my crutches?”

Steve scowled down at him. “Because you tried to fucking escape when you finally had crutches, Tony.”

Tony opened his mouth, then shut it with a pout. He had tried to escape. The only reason he hadn’t made it was because Steve had caught him and carried him back into the tiny gym.

“Anyway, if you behave, I’ll let you use your crutches in here next week,” Steve said, ruffling his hair. “Come on. We’ll start with ankle pumps today. Sooner you get done, sooner you can meet Natasha for lunch.”

“TONY,” Natasha shouted, bolting into the room. She looked harried, wild-eyed and cheeks flushed from running.

“Or you can meet Natasha now,” Steve joked, only to let out a startled noise when she shoved him aside. “Nat!”

“You’re in my way,” Natasha snapped, then pressed a kiss to his cheek to take some of the sting out of it. She turned to Tony, shoving an envelope in his face. “Here.”

Tony took the envelope because he was afraid if he didn’t, Natasha might slap him with it. He turned it over in his hands before looking up at her in confusion. “Natasha, what--”

“We’ll leave you alone to read it,” Natasha told him, and tried to surreptitiously push Steve away. When he didn’t move at all, she turned to glare at him. “Oh my God. Steve.”

“We’re in the middle of an appointment,” Steve pointed out, putting his hands on his hips. “Just because you guys are my friends--or because you’re my girlfriend--doesn’t mean I can push back all of the appointments after Tony’s because you think he needs to read a letter. Fun fact! We are actually in my place of business and this is my job. Tony, ankle pumps.”

“Steve,” Natasha hissed, and then wrapped her hands around the back of his neck so she could drag him down and whisper in his ear.

Tony watched Steve’s expression go from annoyance, to confusion, realization, honest joy, and then annoyance again. He had really good facial expressions. Tony didn’t understand why Steve was so bad at playing charades when they hung out.

“I don’t need you to blow me for this,” Steve hissed, then blushed when he noticed Tony was watching. “Okay! Sometimes having emotional workouts are good therapy too! So, you do that, and I’m going to go explain to Natasha that I’ve been waiting for her for years so she doesn’t need to use sexual favors when I’m actually wrapped around her little finger and she can just tell me what she wants.”

“Good luck,” Tony called out after them as Steve dragged Natasha away, already ranting about all the shitty dates he went on to make her happy and do you think he’d do that for anyone else.

Tony waited until they were on the other side of the room, then looked back down at the envelope with a frown. It had no return address on it, so it couldn’t be from one of the places he’d sent an application to, and the front only had his name on it, no actual address. Who could it possibly be from? He was almost afraid to open it. It had to be important, though, for Natasha to have run it in to him, especially since she’d been planning on a quiet yoga session to decompress before she had to return to practice the next day.

So he opened it, no matter how nervous he was. And then covered his mouth with one hand so Steve and Natasha wouldn’t hear his surprised sob.

Tony, I heard about what happened. I’m so very sorry. I fretted for days, thinking about how scared and angry you must have been. Part of why I loved watching you was because you clearly loved to dance. Your passion for it was in every step you took, every turn, every smile and wink you gave to the audience. Someone stole that from you. And I know it’s selfish, but they stole it from me, too. They stole the opportunity to watch you leap across the stage, to watch you lift your partners and move them around like they weigh nothing, to watch you bow at the end of the performance and blow kisses to the audience. I always used to pretend that one of those kisses was specifically for me. Now you’ll never be able to do it again, and it kills me, knowing that you wanted to keep dancing and someone put an end to that. I cried when I saw your last note. It seemed to hit home then that you might never dance again, even for fun. You wouldn’t need my shoes. I wouldn’t have an excuse to send you notes. You wouldn’t have a reason to send me any notes back. I hadn’t realized how much I’d loved receiving them, how much I loved to send my own. I realized that I don’t want to live a life without you in it, Tony, even if it’s only through notes. You called me your treasure. Don’t throw me away because you think you’re not what I want anymore. Don’t cut me out of your life. I know so much has happened to you recently. You’re still healing physically, and you’re probably still dealing with the trauma of being kidnapped and tortured, and the fact that you might not ever be able to dance again. I have no right to ask for anything from you while you heal. But I want you to have time to think about my request, so I figured I’d put it all down on the line right now and you can do with it what you wish. I care about you, and I still want to be in your life. Will you meet me, Tony? Can we meet face-to-face? Can we be more than just notes and letters to each other? Can I kiss you? Reading back, this entire letter is selfish, and I’m sorry. If you don’t want to meet me, you can just ignore the entire thing. Throw it in the trash, or burn it. You can forget about me if you want, if it’ll make you feel better, help you heal. But I hope you’ll give me a chance. We’ve been through so much together, Tony, from when you were just one of the soldiers in the Nutcracker all the way up to when you made Solor in La Bayadere. I know I was just a nameless pair of hands making your shoes, but you were the a bright spot in a very dark part of my life to me. If you decide you don’t want to meet, that’s fine. I just couldn’t live with myself knowing I didn’t try to reach out at least once more. I hope you’re doing well, Tony. I hope you’ll continue to do well, regardless of whether we meet or not. You deserve it. ⭐

Tony stared down at the letter for a long moment before setting it down on his lap and wrapping his arms around himself. He was broken. He couldn’t even walk at this point. And he--his shoemaker still wanted to talk to him? Wanted to see him? (...Wanted to… to kiss him?) Tony couldn’t even stand up for a kiss to be comfortable. But maybe… maybe his tesoro wouldn’t care.

He didn’t seem like the type to care, anyway. Tony didn’t know him that well outside of the notes and letters, though. Maybe once they met in person, his shoemaker would realize the extent of his injury, see that he was truly never going to get back on the stage. Tony didn’t think he had the strength to handle that, after losing his ability to practice his passion for the last twenty years. He’d been telling himself ‘you would have had to retire soon, anyway,’ and it had helped a little. But on his darkest nights when he was alone and in pain, he thought about how at least he would have had a choice then, to retire; not been savagely beaten and then had his leg broken and his knee shattered.

Tony got the feeling that those dark nights would now be accompanied with thoughts of what he would do if his shoemaker turned his back on him.

“Steve?” Tony called out, voice cracking.

Steve turned from where he was very patiently pointing out that every single bad date he’d been on had been bad because he chose for them to be immediately, frowning. “Everything alright?”

Natasha turned too, concerned. If she’d known the letter was going to make Tony cry, she wouldn’t have brought it to him so quickly.

Tony stared down at the floor for a while, then looked back up, voice weak as he said, “I want to do ankle pumps.”

Steve let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding as he began toward him. “Okay. Okay, yeah, let’s do ankle pumps to warm you up and then practice walking so you don’t run over. You can do all the other laying-down exercises at home, okay?”

“Okay,” Tony said, setting the letter aside and reaching out for his hands so that Steve could help pull him up out of the wheelchair. He paused in confusion when Steve just held his arms instead of helping him over to the bench to lie down. “...Steve?”

“Everything’s going to be okay. You know that, right?” Steve said after another moment. “I know people have told you that, but I’m saying it now too. Things might not be great, they might not even be good for a while. But everything is going to be okay, and okay is a very fine thing to be until it can get better, Tony.”

Tony swallowed thickly as he was finally eased down onto the bench, blinking back tears. Yes, everyone had been telling him that things would be okay. But hearing Steve say it like that… it made him feel a lot better. He didn’t have to be doing well. He just had to be doing okay.

.-.-.-.

“I want to be able to walk without help before I meet him,” Tony explained over an extremely decadent lunch of nothing but noodles and meat. “So I might need your help with some of my home exercises.”

Natasha raised an eyebrow and tried not to be jealous of the amount of carbs he could eat now that he no longer had a dancer’s diet. “You mean like telling you to do them?”

“Haha,” Tony deadpanned. “No, I need you to help me stretch my hamstring.”

“I can do that,” Natasha agreed easily. She tried to sneak a noodle off his plate and sighed when he smashed it with his fork and gave her a dirty look. “But you are going to meet him then?”

Tony was silent for a moment, stirring his noodles in circles, before looking back up at her. “I thought about saying no, but there’s this annoying little voice in the back of my head that kept chanting ‘but what if.’ Sounded annoyingly like you.”

Natasha was affronted for a moment but then she was just pleased. “Nice to know I was rubbing off on you at least a little.”

“Ngh,” Tony groaned, rolling his eyes. “We’ve lived together for a decade, Natasha. Something had to rub off on me.”

“Well it clearly wasn’t my common sense, otherwise you’d have had more sex,” Natasha said. “When was the last time for you? Six years ago with Pepper? If this doesn’t work out, I’m setting you up on dates again.”

Tony stared at her for a long time before waving down a passing waitress. “Miss, could I get the sweetest, fattest dessert you have?”

Natasha gasped, mortally offended. How dare he taunt her with food she couldn’t eat like this.

.-.-.-.

It took six months for Tony to finally gain enough strength in his leg that he didn’t limp. The screws still hurt, sometimes, but the break (shattering) had been so bad that the doctors were hesitant to remove them so soon, if they ever did at all. Tony was only slightly upset about it. It might suck in the winter, when things got cold, but he was honestly a little scared to go back into surgery.

He didn’t have to think about that for a while, though. He had other things to focus on. He had a job now, at a high school, teaching science. It wasn’t what his parents had wanted (even Maria had wanted him to go into business) but he was… happy. Happy enough, anyway. He’d always planned on going into teaching, just… not so soon.

Luckily his students were great. He’d still been on crutches when he’d gotten the job, but the students had been so kind, opening doors and carrying his things for him until he’d been able to carry them himself. The other teachers were nice, too. The principal, Mr. Fury, was kind of a hardass, but he only wanted the kids to do their best, so Tony could put up with it. He’d struggled his first few months of the job, still depressed from his injury and loss of his career, and having to figure out how to actually teach, but he was pretty settled finally, and it helped that he could carry his own things now.

Tony looked down at the box of chocolates in his lap, feeling like an idiot. He was meeting his shoemaker, not going on a date. (Maybe? His tesoro had scratched out the kissing part. He probably shouldn’t put too much stock into it.) He felt a little lost. It felt like this meeting was going to be a turning point in his life, but he couldn’t imagine his life turning anymore than it had when his knee had been shattered.

He turned and looked over at Natasha and Steve, who were hiding in plain sight by having a picnic underneath a tree nearby. Natasha rolled her eyes fondly, and Steve waved, and Tony felt himself relax a little. If anything went wrong, they would come help him. He tried not to think about how things might go wrong, instead smoothing his hands over the top of the box. He hoped his shoemaker liked it. He’d never really asked about his favorite foods or anything, but his tesoro had always thanked him whenever he sent him chocolates from his favorite shop. He hoped he hadn’t jumped the gun, buying champagne truffles. (And if he had, he could probably get drunk on them.)

He wondered if his response had been too late, if he’d given his shoemaker enough time to come. But he’d feared that if he gave his tesoro too much time, he’d overthink it and back out. He closed his eyes and tried to remember what he’d said in his letter to his shoemaker, written in fevered excitement when he’d made it an entire day without having to use his crutches.

Tesoro mio, I’m sorry to have made you wait so long, but I figured if you could be a little selfish in your letter, I could be a little selfish in mine. I wanted to be able to walk without help when I saw you. I wanted to show you that I’m more than my injury. I wanted to not be broken anymore. Now that I can walk, I’d love to meet you. I’ll be waiting for you in Central Park at one o’clock in the afternoon.

He’d given the letter a week and a half. He’d included a map of the park and details of where he’d be waiting. He’d picked a spot where it was quiet but not too secluded, where he could sit on a bench on the sidewalk because he could walk without crutches but it exhausted him, knee throbbing at the end of the day, and walking in the grass was harder on his knee than the cement. There was a coffee cart nearby in case they wanted drinks, and he’d stuffed a couple extra sandwiches into Steve and Natasha’s picnic basket. (He had maybe omitted that he would have Steve and Natasha waiting in the wings in case his shoemaker turned out to be a serial killer in his spare time.)

Had a week and a half been enough? Tony checked his watch. It was still ten minutes to one. His shoemaker still had time. Tony had gotten there early so his knee would have time to rest in case his shoemaker wanted to walk, and so Steve and Natasha could get set up and look like they were just picnicking and not lurking nearby in case things went south. His shoemaker had time.

But what if he’d changed his mind? What if he didn’t come?

Tony smoothed his hands over the box in his lap again and let out a shuddering breath. He’d healed from his injury. Surely, if his shoemaker decided not to show up, he could heal from this too.

It took a moment for him to realize a shadow had fallen over him. He looked up, blinking against the light, to find a man leaning over him. The man was tall, and handsome, with a jaw that could probably cut him, and eyes so beautifully gray that he wanted to drown in them. Tony stared up at him, eyes wide, frantically trying to find something to say that wasn’t ‘hng muscles.’

“Tony?” the man said hopefully.

Tony opened his mouth, then shut it again helplessly. All these years, and he’d never thought to ask for his shoemaker’s name. He swallowed thickly before trying again, choking out, “Tesoro mio?”

The man’s lips spread into a wide smile and oh, God, he was even more beautiful now. “Hi, sweetheart,” he said quietly, leaning in toward him.

“Hi,” Tony replied dumbly, remembered the box of chocolates he was holding, and shoved them at the man quickly. “These are for you!”

“I was wo--oh, uh, thanks.” The man stood up straight and took the box from him, staring at it for a moment. Then he looked back at up him, smiling a little. “Thank you.”

Tony tried not to fidget and mostly failed. “You’re welcome. I, um--I can walk. If you want to take one.”

“Okay,” the man said. “I’d rather just sit. My knees have been knocking the whole walk here.”

Tony wondered if he looked as relieved as he felt. He hoped not. “Okay.” He stared up at the man a little longer before awkwardly patting the seat beside him. The man smiled, amused, and sat down beside him.

God. How mortifying. Natasha was going to make fun of him forever. His game was so bad. But did he even need game? This wasn’t a date. He was just meeting the man who’d been making his dancing shoes for the last decade. He wondered if Natasha would consider murdering him when they got home.

Tony’s breath hitched when the man reached out and grabbed his chin, tipping his head back so he had to meet his eye. “Oh-!”

“Can I kiss you?” the man asked softly.

Tony blushed and bit his bottom lip, gasping again softly when the other man’s eyes darted down to look at his mouth before returning to meet his gaze again. “Okay,” he whispered, and was glad for the grip on his chin, otherwise he would have swooned forward like a total dweeb.

The kiss followed as soon as the word passed his lips, and the man was gentle for all that he was desperate, only pressing in as far as Tony allowed, nipping his bottom lip softly, tongue dipping teasingly between his parted lips. Tony reached up for his shoulders, unable to help a needy whimper.

But then the man was leaning back, licking his lips before smiling down at him. “I’ve been wanting to do that for years, doll.”

“Doll?” Tony repeated softly once his brain caught up with what was happening. “Oh, I like that.”

“Yeah?” The man leaned in to press another, chaster kiss to his lips. “Guess I’ll have to keep calling you that, then.”

“And--” Tony began, then bit his bottom lip. But he couldn’t hide the fact that all he knew the man by was a star for a signature or his own pet name for him. “And what should I call you?”

The man leaned back in surprise, then snorted. “Guess I can’t be called ‘Star’ or something like that. My name’s Bucky.”

“Bucky,” Tony repeated, feeling the name on his tongue. He thought about it for a while before looking up at him in disgruntlement. “Bucky isn’t a name.”

“Hey,” Bucky said, laughing a little. “I didn’t make fun of your name.”

“How could you? Tony is an actual name. Bucky is what you would call a dog,” Tony replied immediately. “I’m not going to call you that.”

Bucky rolled his eyes, but thankfully he looked amused. “My full name is James Buchanan Barnes.”

Tony thought about that for a moment before very seriously telling him, “Somehow, that makes it worse.”

“Hey!” Bucky exclaimed, but then he laughed. “Okay, I was named after an American president that literally no one remembers. My mother had high hopes for me, I guess. If not any of the names I’ve offered you, what are you going to call me?”

Tony tilted his head, frowning up at him thoughtfully, before his lips spread into a shy smile. “I could keep calling you ‘tesoro mio.’”

Bucky smiled back. “I like the sound of that.”

“Guess I’ll just have to keep calling you that,” Tony offered shyly.

“Stealing my lines and giving them back to me even better,” Bucky mused. “Guess I’ll have to get used to being one-upped constantly.”

“I am pretty competitive,” Tony agreed, and wondered if he could get away with stealing another kiss.

“He is!” Natasha called out from the picnic blanket. “I don’t know how I’ve managed to stand him for almost twenty years!”

Tony blushed, mortified all over again. Oh God. Steve and Natasha were still here. They’d probably seen them kiss. He did not turn to look at them. He would not give Natasha the satisfaction of seeing him blush.

Bucky glanced over his shoulder at Natasha, amused, before looking back down at Tony and curling an arm around his hunched shoulders. “Honestly, I’m just glad to see you’re okay,” he admitted after a pause. “Hope that doesn’t sound dumb. I was really worried about you.”

Tony looked down at his hands, twiddling his thumbs. He really was okay, wasn’t he? Just like Steve had said he would be. Finally, he looked back up at Bucky, managing a soft smile. “I think I’m going to start getting better than okay, tesoro mio. Starting today.”

Bucky raised his eyebrows but smiled back at him gamely before looking down at the box he’d set in his lap. “Think we should have one of these truffles to celebrate, doll?”

Tony sighed. He really did like being called ‘doll.’ “Okay,” he agreed, taking one from the box after Bucky offered it to him. He nibbled on it, smiling. He hoped they had more things to celebrate in the future. Bucky made him think they would.

“...This is real champagne,” Bucky said after chewing on the truffle thoughtfully for a moment. “What the fuck and you were going to just let me eat a whole box of booze? Did you want me drunk?”

Tony snorted some chocolate up his nose and spent the following ten minutes of Bucky apologizing trying to get it out.

#aurumacadicus writes #creationfail #winteriron #widowshield #ballet

[illyrianbeauty]

Veni. Natavi. Vici.  Chapter 6

Feyre Archeron wanted nothing more that to leave that cauldron damned town and never look back.  With graduation looming in the near future, she was desperate find a way to attend Prythian University.  Even now with her older sisters out of the house, Feyre and her father barely had enough money to pay rent, let alone be able to pay for any type of tuition.  Her only option, as she saw it, was to swim her way to a full ride scholarship.  The only thing standing in her way of achieving that goal was the Developmental Reading class she was currently failing.  When the cocky captain of the boys diving team, Rhysand, offers to help tutor her, she reluctantly accepts and ends up getting more than she bargained for.

Fic Masterlist

Writing Masterlist

Chapter 6:  A Thought For a Thought 

Feyre stared out of the car window as she mulled over Mor’s plan.  It was underhanded, devious even, and it would definitely get Ianthe off of their backs for good.  If they were successful, that is.  If they were caught though… if they were caught they would most likely be kicked off of the team, and as much as Feyre wanted Ianthe taken down a notch or two, that wasn’t a risk she was sure she was willing to take.  Feyre leaned her head back against the headrest and squeezed her eyes shut tightly. The all too familiar feeling of dread began to overtake her senses.  She absentmindedly fiddled with the charm hanging around her neck, a birthday gift from Mor last year, as she tried to control her breathing.    

“What’s wrong, Feyre Darling?” Rhys asked, giving her a sidelong glance.

Without bothering to open her eyes, she huffed, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re a horrible liar.  You know that, right?” he chuckled lightly.  

“Prick,” she spat. It unnerved her how easily Rhys seemed to be able to read her. Not even Mor, her best friend, was able to see through the mask she so often wore.  Rhys though, it seemed, had a direct line to all of her innermost thoughts. The prospect of Rhys knowing her deepest secrets simultaneously thrilled and terrified her.  

“How about I tell you something I’m thinking, and then you do the same.  A thought for a thought,” he offered, his words lined with equal amounts of concern and sincerity. Slowly she turned her head in his direction and gave him a long, considering look.  

“Fine. Go ahead. I’m listening.” She rolled her eyes before drawling, “And it better not be anything disgusting.  There are certain things I do not need to know about.”

The corners of his mouth twitched upwards as he said, “Fair enough.  I’d hate to offend your delicate sensibilities.”

“Delicate sensibilities, my ass.  I just don’t want to hear about you farting or anything like that.  Males are disgusting creatures, after all,” Feyre smirked sassily as she twisted a strand of hair around her finger.  Rhys tipped his head back and barked out a laugh.  Her stomach fluttered at the sound.  Heat began creeping up her neck and checks and she was unable to hold back the giggle that escaped.    

“No bathroom talk.  Agreed.” She raised an eyebrow expectantly at him.  Like hell she was going to go first.  This little game was his idea after all.  

“I am thinking that I really hope you agree to our little bargain.  I am thinking that I would really like to spend more time with you,” Rhys said, rather sheepishly, as he rubbed the back of his neck.  Though he remained focused on the road ahead, she noticed his cheeks turning slightly pink. Cauldron, he was adorable!  She bit her bottom lip as she considered his statement.   What if Mor had been telling the truth?  Feyre had dismissed it as nothing more than her friend’s drunken ramblings, but what if he actually liked her?  

Finally coming to a decision, she said, “I’m thinking that I need to talk to Mor about a stupid plan we made.  I’m thinking that I’m going to have her come pick me up after my shift.  You don’t need to wait around for me at the coffee shop tonight.”

Rhys’s forehead furrowed as he said, “Alright.”  A look of disappointment flashed across his features.  

Hoping she wasn’t making a horrible mistake, Feyre said as casually as she could, “I’m also thinking that I am going to accept your offer.  How does tomorrow night sound?  I have the night off.”  

Feyre watched his whole face light up as he purred, “Tomorrow night is perfect, Feyre Darling.”  

She squirmed slightly in her seat at the intensity in his eyes as he grinned at her. Unable to hold his gaze any longer, she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and began searching for her cell phone. It would probably be a good idea to see if Mor would be able to pick her up later anyway, she thought to herself.  

Fey: Can you pick me up after my shift tonight?

Mor: Yeah, but I thought my idiot of a cousin was going to.

Fey: Please?

Mor: Of course. Anything for you, Feyfey.

Feyre snorted loudly. Feyfey? What was she? A fucking poodle?

Fey: DO NOT CALL ME THAT EVER AGAIN!!

Mor:  ;) See you later Feyfey!

Groaning slightly, she tossed her phone back into her purse and said, “Mor is going to pick me up, so you can just drop me off.”  

“You sure you don’t need me to stay?”  

“Yes, you mother hen.  I’ll be fine,” she hissed, though the corners of her mouth quirked up.

“Alright, but if Mor forgets to pick you up and you end up spending the night sleeping in a booth, you only have yourself to blame.”

She huffed, “I’ll keep that in mind.”

The rest of the ride was spent in a comfortable silence, only interrupted by the pounding of her traitorous heart.    

***

Feyre nibbled on her lower lip, glancing at her phone for what must have been the hundredth time.  Mor was late, just as Rhys had predicted. Cursing viciously, she kicked the door frame with a ferocity that vaguely surprised her.  Feyre cried out as pain radiated through her foot.  Great.  Now she probably had a broken toe.  Icing on the fucking cake!  A loose stone bit into her back as she slumped against the wall. She let loose a ragged breath and pinched the bridge of her nose, willing herself to calm down.

“Keep it together, Archeron,” she scolded.  It wasn’t as if Mor had ever been known for her punctuality.  Cauldron knew that she loved to make a grand entrance.  Sighing heavily, Feyre scrolled through her contacts list until she found the one she needed and began texting.  

Fey: Where are you???  Her phone pinged with a response almost instantaneously.    

Mor: Almost there!

Her shoulders sagged slightly in relief.  Cauldron boil and fry her- she could almost see the devilish smirk on Rhys’s face if she would have had to call him for a ride home. She felt that all too familiar heat creeping up her cheeks, as it usually did whenever she was thinking about him. Her head snapped up at the sound of an approaching car, interrupting her errant thoughts before they could become inappropriate.  Feyre let loose a breath, one she hadn’t realized she had been holding, upon seeing it was none other than her wayward friend behind the wheel.  Not that this area of town was bad per se but Feyre didn’t want to press her luck by standing outside all night long.

She flung open the car door and hissed, “Seriously? Where the hell have you been, Morrigan?”

Mor drummed her fingers on the steering wheel as she muttered, “Sorry.”  

Feyre climbed into the car, collapsing into the passenger’s seat dramatically.   She spun her head to face Mor, her blood still boiling and itching for a fight.   The hateful words she was about to spew caught in her throat when she spotted Mor’s red rimmed eyes.    

“What happened?” she asked quietly, placing a hand on her friend’s shoulder.

Mor shrugged her shoulders dismissively, though her voice quavered slightly as she said, “It’s nothing.”  Feyre pursed her lips as she took in Mor’s hunched shoulders and pale expression.  So, that's how she was going to be, huh?  Fine, she’d just have to pull it out of her the hard way. Feyre feigned disinterest as she inspected a nail.

Glancing at Mor surreptitiously through the corners of her eyes, she said offhandedly, “Okay, whatever.  I’ll just ask Rhys about it when I see him tomorrow.”  She was tremendously grateful for having the foresight of putting on her seatbelt as Mor slammed on the breaks and brought the car to a screeching halt.  

Mor narrowed her eyes at Feyre and glowered, “You wouldn’t dare.”  

Crossing her arms over her chest, she snapped, “Try me.”

“Fuck off,” Mor hissed, running a hand through her hair in agitation.  

“I love you too, Morrigan. Now tell me what’s wrong,” she cajoled. Mor slumped back against the seat and began massaging her temples.  

She took a steadying breath and then said, “My father called me tonight.”  

Feyre’s stomach twisted painfully as she asked, “What did he say?”

Mor’s hands dropped from her face as she laughed bitterly, saying, “He wanted to know if I had started applying to colleges yet.”

“What?” she asked, feeling thoroughly confused.  Mor had a rather tenuous relationship with her parents, and that was putting it politely. As far as Feyre knew, they had only spoken on the phone a handful of times and hadn’t seen each other since the day Mor left, and began living with Rhys’s family.  

Mor scoffed, “Who knows. He probably wanted to make sure I wouldn’t embarrass him further and besmirch the family name by going to a state school.”

Feyre took ahold of her hand and said, “What did you say?”

She smiled wickedly and said, “I told him that I didn’t have the time nor the crayons needed to explain myself in a way he would understand, then I hung up the phone.”

Feyre snorted, “And you say I’m the dramatic one.”  She gave Mor’s hand a gentle squeeze and then continued, “But seriously, are you okay?”

Mor heaved a sigh and said, “Yeah, I’m fine.”  She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively before saying, “So, are you going to tell me why you’re seeing my cousin tomorrow?”

“I’m just helping him out with a dive,” Ferye squeaked, utterly unprepared for the drastic change in the topic of conversation.

Mor clucked her tongue and said, “Sure. So why did you want me to pick you up then?  It’s not as if Rhys is busy, seeing as he’s currently reading. At home.”

Feyre squared her shoulders and said with determination, “I wanted you to pick me up because I need to know something.  Were you serious? That night you said Rhys had a crush on me, I mean.”

Mor gave her a considering look before finally saying, “I think you need to talk to Rhys about that.”

“Mor, I’m asking you, my best friend.  Please tell me the truth,” she implored, running a hand through her hair roughly.

Mor raised a brow and said with simple directness, “Yes, Feyre.  I was telling you the truth.” She snorted before continuing, “Granted telling you while drunk wasn’t my finest moment. Rhys will kill me if he finds out, by the way.  But yes, he has a crush on you.  He always has.”

“Rhys likes me,” Feyre said, still not quite daring to believe it.  

“Yes, my dear oblivious friend, he likes you,” she said in exasperation.

Feyre couldn’t help the smile that bloomed across her face. She paid attention to little else as Mor drove her home, other than those same three words she found herself repeating over and over. Rhys likes me.  Rhys likes me.  Rhys likes me.    

It wasn’t until much later that evening, as she was getting ready for bed, that she realized that she had forgotten to talk to Mor about their plan for Ianthe. Shit.

***

A special thanks to @librarian-of-velaris and @lady-katkat for being beta readers. I’m so luck to have y'all as friends!! 

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[sordidandsublime]

The Lopez-Sidonias

I keep saying I'm done with PT, which is true (it's not an innovative story. In fact it's probably downright derivative), but I haven't entirely figured out the people who populate the setting. I suppose this one is about occupation. As usual, nothing set in stone etc.

Natalia Lopez Sidonia- she was teaching English in the as-yet-unnamed Protestant university in SMDM, a properly genteel occupation for a upper class young lady waiting for marriage when she met Rafael. While it takes Natalia some years to gain some sort of official title on the board of the Sidonia corporation (it takes a similar amount of years for Rafael to properly incorporate his holdings), she's the one who takes up the day to day management of the plantation, collects the rental on various properties, makes the shrewd purchasing decisions etc and saves the corporation from ruinous decisions when she can. While Rafael might rightfully claim to be owner and CEO of the corporation, Natalia kept the enterprise together and held its coffers (much to Rafael's frustration as he was often prey to a great desire to wantonly spend huge sums of money).

Santiago Lopez Sidonia- heir apparent, oldest son, golden boy. Like most of the Sidonias, Santiago is intelligent, but lacks focus and motivation. He was an indifferent student despite the forceful reminders to do better, to not embarrass the family. He passed the exams that put him in the best (read: poshest) university in the country, bounced from management degree to sociology degree to biology degree, stopped showing up to class for drinking or traveling out of the city or for any number of reasons and is expelled, reaccepted, expelled again. Eventually he manages to graduate with a degree in agriculture from a third rate university back in the home province. He then goes on to help his father with the plantation with the expectation of someday becoming the family patriarch. This description might give one the impression of a sullen, gloomy presence, but that would be wrong. Santiago is popular, well-liked, gallant. He has a number of compadres whom he likes to drink and travel with, similarly well-to-do men who don't really have to work a day in their lives. He explains away his various abandoned enterprises with bellows of laughter and panache, one can't help believing, even sympathizing with his point of view. One might even excuse his fits of rage.

Rea Silvia Sidonia-Fargas- much like her mother, Natalia, Rea is the one who now actually keeps the corporation afloat after years of ruinous debts and mismanagement. She installs herself as chief purchasing officer instead of COO, and puts her more malleable (relative term, ha) siblings on the board. Unlike the rest of her family, Rea's involvement in the family business has been minimal. As a young doctor she worked in Rafael's hospital, of course, it was expected, but after her marriage she went back to school and studied literature and history, focusing on Filipino literature and history. Rea becomes a respected writer, historian and advocate for Filipino art, and has a weekly column in the culture section of a widely read national paper. She's most well known for English and Tagalog translations of the work of Emilio Borromeo Alonzo, a lesser known poet and writer from Bulacan, who, in Rea's opinion, is a much better writer than Rizal because of his wit, subtlety and elegant language. Rea has written a handful of historical novels as well, which were praised for their extreme historical accuracy, but quietly laughed at in some circles for their prim didacticism. Despite her intellectualism, Rea is not a political radical or a flouncy barely-there hippie. She's a shrewd and sharp traditionalist who does not like to be contradicted.

Jaime Sidonia- Serafina's son, adopted by Rafael, much to Natalia's sporadically veiled displeasure. Good humored, a little vague, self-effacing but stubborn in the extreme. Occasionally he surfaces from his thoughts to deliver an exceedingly dry put down. He was in university studying to be an architect at about the same time that Santiago was ricocheting widely between departments, and becomes one with very little fuss. The family's good name allows him to enter an international firm with a branch in Manila where he works for a few years before leaving to become involved in the national cultural commission's projects of restoring mansions built in the vernacular style and the federal style government buildings that remain damaged from the bombardments of WW2. Jaime is now mostly a scholar of vernacular and Asian architecture, he's written books, presents lectures and teaches in university sometimes. He stays out of the family business although he has a seat on the board because he usually has no problems voting the way Rea wants him to vote.

Encarnacion (Chona) Lopez Sidonia- vivacious, frivolous, given over to strong passions, possibly one of the happiest of the Sidonia siblings. Chona was a respectable student, but doesn't count herself as an intellectual like some of her other siblings. Unexpectedly, she's also a doctor, a dermatologist, and sets up a successful practice in a fashionable Makati clinic, helping actresses and socialites clear up their breakouts and occasionally feeding glutathione into their veins for that mestiza paleness. Spurning putting up a practice in Rafael's beloved namesake of a hospital puts her out of favor for years, but she couldn't give less of damn (what was she going to do, offer whitening treatments to pig farmers?). She marries a surgeon, eventually divorces him. Currently she and her fiancé, John, own and manage the Manderley, the oldest hotel in SMDM, a rambling 19th century structure by the seafront boulevard that they're marketing as old world, a return to more graceful times.

Antonio Lopez Sidonia- Architect, industrial designer. Mercurial, melancholic, very kind but flippantly sarcastic and venomously funny when angry. School was difficult for him; he was extremely bright but sensitive, the slightest upset at home would make it impossible for him to focus on his work and he often got into fights and would act out outrageously. Despite that he managed to graduate with honors (after moving high schools) and enrolled into a competitive architecture and design program in university. He had to fight himself, his addictions and the black void of depression to get his degree. His first remarkable project came about as a kind of joke; a month or so before graduation he was in Palawan with some school friends and their older, more sophisticated siblings and their friends when one of them idly began to speculate about building a vacation home on his family's cliff side property. Antonio said it could easily be done, and two years later the elegant construction of glass, local wood and indigenous rock is featured in architects' magazines and mentioned in society papers as the work of a rising new talent. Antonio begins to build homes for the wealthy, he champions the tropical modernist movement, insists on using local materials and craftsmanship and incorporates contemporary versions of traditional Filipino designs into his work. He's difficult to work with, he changes his plans midway through construction, building is slow and he is expensive, but the end result, most feel, is well worth it. His forays into commercial work is a disaster because he refuses to compromise his working methods for a corporate bottom line. All this time Antonio is bedeviled by a love for contraband pharmaceuticals and crushing unhappiness, and there are months and sometimes years when he doesn't work at all. He declares bankruptcy once, is practically homeless several times. There are rumors of primitive asylums, extremely expensive treatments at high end sanitariums. In his later years he's found a semblance of peace and has returned to live on Negros Island, on the occidental side, far enough away from his family to spare him their venom but close enough to fulfill his duties on the board of the corporation. His current project is building affordable sustainable housing in collaboration with a foreign multinational, and he helps his favorite niece, Ava, with the construction of her own home.

Ciela Maria Lopez Sidonia-Pangilinan- The family beauty and the brainy one, she would thank everyone to remember that. She excels in school, and for her pre medicine course she doesn't simply enroll in a relatively easy science-medical degree, but some obscure molecular biochemistry honors program. Afterwards, a fast-tracked medical program, and then a masters in hospital management. Ciela makes sure to remind her siblings that she's never flubbed her schooling the way some of them have, and in almost any business related argument she trots out her credentials; clearly she's the most learned and so they should bow to her expertise. Ciela returns to Santa Maria in bouyant spirits after she collects her masters. She imagines modernizing Rafael's hospital, changing the system top to bottom, making it more efficient and bringing it up to primary, western standards. She won't stop there, and is dedicated to doing the same for the plantation, and can already imagine the gratitude and admiration of her family. Smart, good and beautiful Ciela. It doesn't go the way she imagined; she and Rafael fight, a lot. She insists (she never raises her voice) she shows him her textbooks and manuals, spends money on new equipment, changes policies and hires staff without asking, Rafael calls her stupid and walang-alam. They row for months, the entire family is involved one way or the other, Ciela cries, engages her elder sisters in long phone calls, alternates between cajoling and scolding her father. Eventually Ciela leaves, returns to Manila and makes what is, arguably, the most successful marriage amongst her sisters, to the scion of a massive pharmaceutical company. Still, Ciela can't help trying to make herself necessary to the family business. She acquires a phd in health sciences, visits her family regularly, tries to offer this or that innovation to Rafael, who laughs at her and rebuffs her. Now that she's on the board of the Sidonia corporation she's aggressively (but in a ladylike way) trying to acquire the position of COO, despite her lack of practical experience and shaky grasp on the realities of running a business.

Ricardo Lopez Sidonia- the youngest, and full on family disaster. No one can say, exactly, how Ricky passes both grade school and high school but he does. He moves from one humanities degree to another, claims he wants to be a novelist, a filmmaker, a painter, a pilot. Eventually he drops out of school permanently. Cheerful, clever, indolent and entitled, Ricky skates through life on the generosity of his parents. He doesn't care that his father calls him a fool, a useless parasite etc etc. he figures Rafael owes him his money for being a shitty dad and an all around fucked up human being, and it's not like they'll ever put him out on the street, they're too proud for that. Ricky dabbles in various businesses without ever making a success out of them, despite them being business that would yield a respectable profit if he stuck with them. Gas stations, convenience stores. Once, assisted by Ciela, he attempts to sell medical equipment, and also gets into several businesses with stoner school buddies who eventually got their shit together for adulthood. Ricky's too lazy to stick with anything; he's too lazy to be a proper junkie, even. Fond of luxury goods, the latest smartphone etc but he doesn't take good care of these things. He gives them away when bored. Nowadays he occasionally shows up to his job as assistant hospitality manager for one of his nephew, Isidro's resorts, but really everyone knows it's not an actual job, it's an excuse for him to hang out with guests, take them out on the lake and smoke a blunt or five.

Plus:

Serafina and Angelica Sidonia- Rafael's younger sisters. For a time they both lived with their mother in one of the homes in the San Diego compound, out of sight of the big house. No one knows whether they're full or half siblings. For a time it was the only thing the townspeople of San Diego could talk about, and even years later it's still a topic to dredge up on hot afternoons when the latest gossip is thin. Angelica marries, Serafina does not. Angelica's husband dies young, but not before she bears him a son, Felipe, who goes on the become head overseer of the plantation and assistant to Rafael. Serafina has two children out of wedlock, Jaime and Maximiliano. The father might as well be the devil himself or an enkanto, that's how much people know of their paternity. In their old age Serafina and Angelica become intensely reclusive, and still dwell in the same house they were given to live in by their brother.

Asterio Sidonia Cabahug- the youngest of the Sidonia siblings, from his mother's marriage to a rice planter and dealer. Lumpish and obedient, but not overly intelligent. He oversees the Sidonia's roll on-roll off port.

#Sidonias #PT #I feel like I forgot someone #a wholeass telenovela #and yet its only background info lmao

[yoolee]

Samurai Love Ballet: PARTY

A/N:  A quintessential exercise in self-indulgence. Learn about the Nutcracker here. Original headcanon here. Also, all thanks to @han-pan, the culler of commas, the tracker of tenses, the sense-maker of sentences, etc. and so forth. EDIT I AM TERRIBLE Y’ALL I forgot to credit @dear-mrs-otome, provisioner of puns that you will encounter around 10:16.

Samurai Love Ballet: PARTY – Battle for Divine Tulle

07:03

Kojuro is already grateful for his assistant. He acquiesces instantly as she swaps his long-cold cup of coffee for a fresh mug of tea. In the same motion, she swipes away his notes on funding allocations and exchanges them for a tray of breakfast with as stern an expression as any scolding mother. It’s ruined a bit by the rosiness in her cheeks, brought out by the wreaths of steam from her tea and his. Instead of stern, he thinks perhaps that she looks like one of Drosselmeyer’s delights—enchanting and entrancing.

If only he could cajole her into being a distraction as they are, but she is already off and into his  spreadsheets, and he suspects he has missed his chance this morning.  Pity, that.

Though not for his budget, he acknowledges, as he watches her at work, murmuring quiet recommendations with efficient care.

She is, undoubtedly, his left hand, and he allows himself the time to marvel until she looks up and catches him watching. With something like a dismayed pout, she points to his plate. Not quite sheepishly, he digs in to the food she’s brought and his stomach sighs in gratitude at the reprieve from his abuse. He should know better than to drink coffee on an empty stomach, but he hadn’t meant to get sucked into things so early. He has to admit, that’s what he’s said every other morning since he accepted the position. Somehow, no matter how many hours he works, there’s more to do and it’s his job as artistic director to see it all done right. And so he comes in the early hours before spats between soloists, disruptions by set design, and last-minute changes by their capricious Executive Director and Producer can be introduced to interrupt his day.

And though she scolds, she never fails to see him fed with something fresh and tasty from her kitchen.

(That wasn’t in the job description, but he appreciates it.)

Not, he acknowledges, that her uniquely evolved role really has one. She gets him to delegate, keeps track of schedules, hops on stage for blocking, and notes down Nobunaga’s endless whims with a mostly straight expression schooled on her lips (she’s getting better at that, but it still makes him smile).

In another era, he supposes, she might have been his page, though he struggles to imagine a similarly absurd set of circumstances leading her to his side through history as those that have conspired to put her here now.

“Kojuro, are you listening?”

He blinks, and offers her a smile that only makes her faint frown deepen. “Of course, precious girl.”

She looks skeptical but reaches over and brushes his cheek, a soft smile lighting her bright features even as she attempts—unsuccessfully, once again, although he won’t tell her so—to school her expression into one that is serious and scolding. “Eat your breakfast.” She glances around the abysmal mess of his office, and fails to hide a sigh. “You know, it would be easier to find things if—”

Eager to silence that thought before she can finish it and he can get roped in, he quickly (and blindly) agrees to the unfinished thought he has no wish to hear her speak aloud and so turn into action on his part, “You’re right of course!”

08:30 - Elsewhere

(Outside his office, the company begins to trickle in, bags over shoulders, circles under eyes. He hears Oichi; the smooth, confident tones of his prima floating easily over the sleepy chatter of the rest)

08:45

As is his habit at this time, Kojuro checks in on Masamune.

To his pleasure, the company’s maestro is nibbling silently on a familiar-looking breakfast of his own, steadfast in keeping crumbs from falling onto his perfectly tuned piano. Kojuro feels a surge of appreciation for his assistant once more and the thoughtfulness that marks her presence in the company. It was once a rare thing to see an empty plate in Masamune’s hands, and Kojuro can only be relieved at the change.

Beyond Masamune’s corner, tucked against the far wall where mirrors meet barres, the dancers are stretching, and Kojuro can’t help but smile at their half-asleep grumblings and mumblings. It will be the quietest they are all day, no doubt.

“Do you miss it?” Masamune asks quietly.

Kojuro glances at him in surprise, and knows there’s more to the question than an eavesdropper would guess. Because of who asked, he considers the question with due gravitas. He remembers sore muscles, charley horses at 3 AM. He remembers the stage lights, the smiles, the whispering swell of ah’s from the audience, and applause at the end. He remembers how it feels to hold another person in his hands, a partnership dependent on synchronized seconds, the slide of warm palms across satin and tulle, the toss, the turn, the temperaments and trust.

But he considers, too, the alternative and lays them neatly side-by-side in his thoughts. In the other column is laying the strategy, translating the vision, plucking the strings and soothing the tempers, turning an idea into a grand reality, and watching it from the wings as it unfolds, out of his hands and in the feet of his dancers and timing of his crew. And, of course, his assistant, whose path may have never crossed with his own it were still endlessly and intricately making circles under spotlights.

On stage, he was a commander, by necessity.

Offstage, he is more…a consultant, and no less necessary.

He smiles faintly, and says nothing.

Masamune nods, and turns back to his piano as the dance master enters the room.

Kojuro’s faint smile turns a tinge wicked as the dancers immediately scramble to the barres without a word from their already faintly-disapproving instructor. Ishida Mitsunari is no easy taskmaster, but then, nor should he be. Kojuro inclines his head in greeting and slips out as class starts, the dancemaster’s acerbic snap deriding floppy dégagés and lazy, dull dancers echoing in his wake.

9:38 - Elsewhere

(Noboyuki is leading the corps through their new steps in the party dance. He corrects a placement with a touch that’s brief and a smile that lingers. The dancer stumbles - and the warmth gains an edge of disappointment.)

10:16

It’s too quiet.

Kojuro leaves his office, concerned with the serenity, and finds his instincts rewarded; his stage manager nearly in tears.

In three seasons, Kojuro has never seen Mitsuhide lose his calm. The quintessential right hand man, Oda Company’s Stage Manager is one of the only ones willing to push back against Nobunaga (understandably so, as it’s his crew that invariably takes the brunt of his changes) and handles each immediate backstage crisis with aplomb and quiet certainty. So Kojuro can only imagine what tragedy has struck, what horror has befallen his fellow cat-herder.

“Mitsuhide!” Alarmed, he runs to the man’s side, nearly taking a spill when a waylaid prop trips him up in his haste, “What’s happened?”

The other man turns, and schools his expression into one more familiarly unruffled on his features, but it only lasts a second before crumpling once more, as he turns back to hunch over what he has discovered. His hands helplessly gesture before him to the ropes looped around stage pegs. Worried, Kojuro follows his pointing finger, stepping closer to take a look at what he is sure is going to eat into his already thin budget.

And stops dead.

Mitsuhide sniffs and gets himself under control.

Almost.

“What a good widdle kitty she iiiiiis yes, and what widdle noooooses they have!”

Kojuro’s arms cross, troubled crease pressing between his brows. Apparently the theatre’s resident mouser, Bontenmeowru, is not, in fact, a he. Being an uneasy fan at best—despite the adorable name his assistant provided in an attempt to woo him to the creature’s side—Kojuro decides to let Mitsuhide handle it. “Right.” He says faintly. “Little noses.” Part of him wants to lean closer, stroke the soft fur and say hello.

The other part remembers what claws feel like.

He turns on his heel and retreats hastily to his office.

10:17 - Elsewhere

(Mitsunari is reading the riot act over lethargic assemblés - just because something is simple does not mean it is acceptable to do it without necessary effort. His ironclad argument rattles off the mirrored walls)

10:58

One of his marzipan flutes is missing her call.

Umeko, Kojuro thinks with a sigh. He automatically looks for Matsuko, since the pair of them seem to be inseparable, but for once they're proving him wrong. Matsuko is currently trying wheedle advice—and a date, Kojuro suspects—from their Cavalier. Shingen looks nonplussed, indulging the dancer’s flirtations with a cocksure smile, and Kojuro closes his eyes.

He’ll worry about that later.

For now he has a flute to find.

He is unexpectedly aided by the thud and flash of a spotlight turning on, illuminating his wayward dancer perfectly. He’s curious for a moment just how Saizo knew who he was looking for, until he sees who Umeko is with. His flute is arched into a stretch with her ankle resting on a completely frozen, sheet-white stagehand’s shoulder. “Thanks, Yukimura, you’re just the right height to help me stretch, and I’m so—”

Kojuro fights to hide a smile and instead pointedly glances to the light booth. Saizo.

The spotlight flicks off.

“Umeko.” Kojuro murmurs. It’s his firm tone, and he has to work to keep it that way when not only Umeko, but poor Yukimura too, jump in absolute unison. Umeko looks disappointed at worst. Yukimura looks…

Red. Kojuro decides, after cycling through a variety of descriptions regarding guilt, horror, shame, and impending visits to the gallows.

“I—that’s—well, um—I didn’t…” The man stumbles helplessly, despair in his brilliant blue gaze as he runs a nervous hand through his hair.

“Of course not,” Kojuro agrees blandly, patting him on the shoulder. “You…” He has to pause to take a breath or he’ll start laughing and the poor fellow doesn’t—quite—deserve that. “Have dropped your tools…”

Yukimura blinks, and glances down, clearly failing to have noticed what would have smashed the toes of a less hearty soul. Not for the first time, Kojuro thinks wistfully of the lifts that could be effortlessly accomplished—if he weren’t afraid the tendency to drop tools would translate to dancers too. (Shingen has been coaching him. Kojuro wonders if Yukimura realizes quite what Shingen’s plans for him are - and, given the other contenders to replace the man when he retires, thinks it’s probably for the best if everyone remains in the dark).

Yes, best to keep him on sets for now, even if he does tap his toes in . Kojuro smiles sympathetically and nods before placing a hand on Umeko’s back to lead her away and back to where she is supposed to be. She looks nonplussed and pleased with herself. He gives her a look. “Please refrain from traumatizing our technicians.”

Umeko sighs, biting her lip and watching as Inuchiyo strolls by, whistling, on his way to the set shop, toolbelt slung on his hips and half of Clara’s bed over his shoulder. “But they’re so pretty…”

Kojuro makes a noncommittal sound. “Places, please.”

11:46 - Elsewhere

(There is a great fussing hullabaloo over a missing prop. Kansuke stands in the wings, holding it out to multiple people as they scurry about, frantically seeking it. No one takes notice.)

12:12

At noon, disaster strikes.

Though he has too much dignity—and awareness of ground that would be lost should he appear flustered—to run, Kojuro certainly does make his steps faster. His cast is palpably silent and that’s never good. It means one thing.

The Executive Director has paid a visit.

Kojuro closes his eyes in brief prayer that he has not yet crossed paths with Shingen, but knows it is in vain when he hears their lead dancer's low, amused laugh followed by the purring patronization, "Listen, slugger—"

"You listen you broken-down, doddering—"

Kojuro steps smoothly in between and doesn’t have time to sigh, "Director Oda—"

"—decrepit geezer, I—"

"Gentlemen!" Kojuro tries once more. This time he at least gets a glance in his direction. Where was Mitsuhide? Where was Kansuke? His assistant, at least, appears with a wink and a plate of sweets. He could kiss her. In fact he makes a mental note to do just that, and maybe more, once rehearsals were done for the night. "Director Oda, if you would follow me. Danseur noble Takeda, if you would excuse us—"

Shingen raises an eyebrow at the formal speech and Kojuro silently warns him with a gaze but to no avail. "Of course. Some of us are—"

"Hey Shingen try this, yeah?" His assistant shoves a cake in the dancer's mouth, even as her other hand busily pushes the plate into Kojuro's hands. Smooth as any choreography, he in turn offers it to their capricious financial supporter while doing his best to lead the man away. Luckily, Nobunaga is as fond of the home-baked goods as he ever was; though he looks a bit put out, allows himself to be steered away. Kojuro lets out a silent breath of relief. He rather dreaded asking, but the sooner he did so, the sooner it could be dealt with. "Now, what was it you came by…?"

"The tree needs to be bigger."

The tree already grew over 30 feet. He definitely needs Mitsuhide and is relieved when the other man flanks Oda from the other side, already looking determined. If also somewhat more decorated with cat fur than usual. “The tree is fine.”

“The tree needs to be bigger.”

Kojuro thinks despairingly of smooth rehearsals and takes a deep breath. “Why don’t we consider…”

12:30 - Elsewhere

(His assistant is everywhere, lunch in hand for those who have forgotten, chatting brightly and soothing bruised egos that took batterings during morning lessons. Mitsunari is unrepentant - and the dancers do look better).

13:34

Kojuro is thinking that he doesn’t miss the stagelights.

They’re hot, for one. Saizo is clever with them—he’s in the rafters again even now Kojuro suspects, and vaguely ( vainly) he hopes Sasuke, hasn’t clambered up after him again, because he’s certain that’s a lawsuit waiting to happen. ��The boy, who takes the bus straight to the studio from school is supposed to be their production’s Fritz and not an apprentice lighting technician, but Saizo and Yukimura do keep him out of trouble. Trouble just reminds him of the rest of his cast, and he decides to go back to thinking about lights as a safer topic of consideration. It’s the nature of having them on for a two or more hour performance, and the exertion required to perform for its duration, for them to heat up.

A dancer could be spared, he supposes, if one used less lights in the production, and he is the one who could make that call. He doesn’t. The effect of them, sending the younger Sanada’s sets into gleaming brilliance, is too valuable to the performance, and even if Oda would accept anything less than brilliance in his company’s productions—which he would never—Kojuro himself is hardly satisfied with a strategy less than absolute.

So the lights stay and the stage will heat. By the end of the run, the ornately beautiful—and heavy—costumes lovingly crafted by the Uesugi costume master will be saturated with sweat and grime, the sort that no amount of sprayed vodka or deodorizer can mask. Kojuro would have been skeptical of the vodka usage had he not used it himself in his own days of drenched costumes and dance belts.

(He doesn’t miss those, either.)

14:03 - Elsewhere

(Kenshin is gleefully fitting Shingen for tights. Kanetsugu stays outside the door, and resignedly warns away any would-be knockers)

15:21

One of his dancers is throwing a tantrum.

Objectively speaking, that isn’t unusual. He is used to artistic temperaments and the delicate handling of their sensibilities. What’s unusual, this time, is that the dancer in question is not entirely known for such things. His Clara is throwing a tantrum.

That is surprising.

Ai is an angel and has displayed remarkable maturity for her age in the face of being given a role that often creates quite an ego in young dancers. Immediately, Kojuro looks around for Sasuke, who at times embraces the bratty mischief of his role as Fritz a bit too literally. But he is nowhere to be found (rafters, Kojuro resigns himself with a sigh).

Kojuro crafts his tone to gentleness, the respectful quiet he used ages ago on a younger Shigezane and Masamune. “Ai?”

It works—he sees her expression twist in the dismay of a child disappointing someone—and she squirms for a moment before confessing, clear as a bell, “I don’t want to dance with him.”

Kojuro merely waits, unsure of which him she refers to, until she points imperiously to…Ah, yes.

Well to some extent, he can’t really blame her.                

The man on the other hand of her accusatory pointing merely crosses his arms across his chest, his smile benign and angelic underneath loose curls of  gold. He looks every inch the falsely accused angel. Which is why, Kojuro reminds himself, he was cast in the first place as the prince transformed from Clara’s beloved Nutcracker.

Kojuro is smart enough not to ask Ai why. Unfortunately for him, the Rat King (a man Kojuro loves like a little brother, and briefly considers pummelling like one when he opens his mouth, but he’s too old for that) is not.  “Aww, why not, doll? He’s not so bad.”

Ai doesn’t miss a beat. “He’s a dick.”

There’s a beat of silence. Kojuro’s hand comes down hard on Ieyasu’s shoulder, locking him in place even as an outraged hiss escapes his Nutcracker Prince’s teeth. Someone snickers. Hideyoshi, probably, the other contender for the role who instead opted to play the mysterious Drosselmeyer. Kojuro quickly speaks up. “Ieyasu, please—Kenshin paged from the costume room, your costume repairs are done.”

He sees the calculation in molten eyes, the acidic rebuttal forming, and sees too the weighing of options, the bile swallowed back down as Ieyasu opts for a poison smile that is all golden acquiescence and good manners. “Of course, Director.” He bows farewell to Ai—and if there is a mocking flick in the gesture, it is brief— and stalks off with the catlike grace that keeps him employed when his attitude has sent more than one of his corps dancers weeping to the wings.

Kojuro allows himself the brief pleasure of imagining Kenshin’s assistant’s face when he learns of his daughter’s language. He bites down a smile and decides that, outburst aside, Ai has earned her secrets. “It’s only for a few steps, Ai. After the Nutcracker turns into the Prince, Clara turns into the Princess.” A different dancer, instead of the child Clara.  “Just a few steps…”He hears Hideyoshi laugh, and the cheerful whisper of then he’s someone else’s problem!  Kojuro throws a bitng glance, and then gentles his expression, and even more grateful to have decided so when Ai’s expression instantly collapses into one tremulously unsure.

“Can’t I dance with Uncle Kenshin instead?”

“He’s retired,” Kojuro murmurs gently. And happier, by all accounts, in the throes of endless tulle, sequins, and silks. So long as he stays on budget, Kojuro is happy to leave him to it – and minding the budget is Kanetsugu’s headache before it’s Kojuro’s.  And speaking of absolving headaches, Kojuro’s assistant is suddenly there, kneeling by Ai’s side with a sisterly smile.

“C’mon, let’s take a break, huh?” His assistant cajoles sympathetically. Ai nods and Kojuro hears as they walk away, “You know, Mitsuhide found kittens…”

“Can we name ‘em?”

“I don’t see why not.”

Kojuro allows himself a brief moment of sympathy for the creatures, who will surely be doomed to paw de mew and copurrlia.

But then it’s back to business. “Set for Land of Snow,” he calls.

16:38 - Elsewhere

(Inuchiyo reaches for the drop curtain pull--instead he gets the snow release. White fluff dumps down on startled ballerinas two dance sets too early.)

16:58

Now, Kojuro thinks, unable to hide the smile that takes up residence on his face, now the fun begins.

The calm before the storm. Or, he supposes – the smaller squall before the tempest, since the stage and theatre is swarming with activity as dancers chatter and stretch and snack on their break, parents drop children off for rehearsal, set pieces are hauled into place. He waves to Kojiro, being fitted for his Toy Soldier costume, and is gratified when the boy’s expression blooms into a grin as he returns the wave. Next in line is his assistant’s little brother Yahiko, already angling for a fancy corporal’s hat. Kenshin is beaming at him, and whips out a peacock feather (from where, exactly, is a concerning question for someone else to attend to) for the cap in question. Next to him, Kanetsugu snatches it away, nonplussed by the twin pouting expressions that meet him.

Kojuro moves on. In the audience, Ieyasu is smiling thinly at their Executive Director, and Kojuro can tell from his posture that the earlier slight has not been forgotten—but it has been tabled, for now. No one has glass in their pointe shoes, he supposes—he’d have heard the shouts.

Hideyoshi, eyepatch in place and swirling cape pooling around his shoulders, is entertaining Ai and some of the other toy soldiers while they wait. Solemn-faced Mitsunari glides by followed by a parade of tiny, bouncing mice, gleeful to be wearing their tutus for the first time and giggling at their rat king, Shigezane, who is trailing along as though he is one of them. Kojuro catches some of the calm, quiet instructions the oblivious Mitsunari offers his small entourage—and the grumbled complaint in their wake from Yasumasa who fails to understand why the dancemaster doesn’t treat them like that. Their choreographer Nobuyuki pats him consolingly on the shoulder, but murmurs serenely, “Because they don’t show up hungover.” Toramatsu laughs, but smothers it when Yasumasa glares. Tadakatsu does not such thing and Kojuro calmly steps between his Spanish and Russian dancers, currently dressed as party guests for the first act, silently pointing them to their places.

His Arabian dancer is missing. No—Kojuro lowers his searching gaze, and sure enough, finds the man napping in the audience. “Kageie…”

His harlequin doll pops up at his elbow, “I got him!”

Kojuro murmurs his thanks and continues his survey. Oichi and Shingen are practicing the shoulder sit lift to the gleeful oohs and aahs of the younger dancers. Yukimura is looking far happier, but that likely has something to do with kittens in his arms, all straining towards a less-happy looking Saizo. Mitsuhide is adjusting his headset, murmuring instructions. Masamune’s orchestra tunes their instruments under his gaze and Kojuro frowns at their fearful whispers. Just because Masamune has high standards…he shakes his head. “Places!” he calls, and then there’s only one more person to find.

He smiles when he sees her, head ducked against her childhood friend’s as he makes a last minute repair to toyboxes Toramatsu and Yoshichi will appear from in the first act. Inuchiyo says something that makes her laugh, and the brightness of it is still in her eyes when they lift and meet his.

There, he thinks, is the true calm. Not before the storm, but in the center of it, amidst dancers scrambling to places and 30 foot tall trees (soon, Kojuro thinks with a sigh, to be 45), sour-tongued soloists and lost slippers, napping performers and flustered stagehands. He holds out a hand and she accepts it with a grin.

“Ready, Director?”

“Are we ever?” he offers fondly, but turns to the cast and raises a hand that—mostly—invites silence, helped by Masamune silencing the instruments. He has their attention, for now. For a few hours more, he’ll hold it, and take them through the paces necessary to create a dream out of dancing feet and magic out of mechanical sets. “From the top.”

More of Lee’s Rambles

#slbp #slbp fic #slbp modern au #modern au #slbp drabble #slbp fanfic #NO REGRETS NOT A ONE OF THEM #NOT #A #ONE

[mylifeyayy]

Saturday 23 December 2017

12.39pm

I can’t take it anymore. I am sick of living under the rule of my controlling father who thinks he is entitled to being respected without respecting. I cannot count how many times he has pointed out a “fault” in me while blatantly ignoring that my sister triggered all my negative responses. While my sister is also terrifying, the subject at hand here is now my father who is just the worse.

Ever since around Primary 5, I have an enstranged relationship with him. He never ever listens to what I have to say and have never supported me. I’m every single conversation since then with him, I would like cry on instinct. I don’t even want to and yet it fucking happens. If this doesn’t say something about how wrong the relationship is, I don’t know what will. The thing is, when I cry, I get scolded for doing so. This I think is extremely STUPID because not only is this an act I cannot control, but I’m getting berated for crying because of HIM. He has never tried to understand why I’m crying. I do not think asking “Why are you crying? I didn’t even say anything? Why are you so sensitive” is called trying to understand me. It is just him trying to defend himself and ultimately places the blame on ME for somehow crying. I simply do not like talking to him. He always says I am “talking back” to him when I simple was trying to explain my situation. AND WHEN I DO listen to whatever he said, he will say that I do not have a backbone and cannot explain myself. PLUS it is extremely diffucult to do that if my natural instinct is to cry and make all forms of speech incoherent. I do not think it would be fair if I cannot even give a coherent argument while he continues to verbally sling insults and accusations in my direction.

He is extremely biased towards my sister. Even when she throws tantrums and shouts, he will always beg for her forgiveness and cajole her out of her room (which I may add she has locked.) If I do any of those, I would be thrown out of the house or beaten, who knows. Everything is always my fault. What I couldn’t do last year when I was her age, she could do now. He agreed to fund her education overseas when he immediately rejected my desire to. He allowed her to study whatever she wants and constantly beats down my dreams. Whatever I’ve wanted to be (basically the arts) is an impossibility as he will never support me. Ever. It is perfectly okay for her to do badly in her studies while I am basically regarded as a constant disappointment. Another example that shows his bias was when me or my sister were late for school. When my sister was late, he would readily send her (when he had a car) or give her money to take a taxi. When I was late, he would scold me and berate me for being irresponsible, making me even more late, even though I offered to be responsible and pay for my own cab fare. He then proceeded to rant about how the money isn’t mine and that I shouldn’t be so ready to use it. WHICH IS FUCKING STUPID because I went to work painstakingly and earnt my own money. He doesn’t even give me the right to the amount I’ve worked? Wtf? This is fucking bullshit. My sister is allowed to go out of the hosue at 10pm. While I, can’t even go out to study with my friend. Back when I was studying for As, I had plans to go out with a friend to study at a cafe. This would be effective as I was planning on studying Literature, which would be best with intellectual conversations. Yet, he began to accuse me of not doing my best and going out to play, when all I was trying to do was do my best. I already had insufficient time and he was trying to waste more time. In the end, I had to last minute cancel my plans. Later one, he came to say that I could have explained why I wanted to study at a cafe calmly. As you have read in my previous paragraph, it is entirely impossible as my immediate response is to cry. Plus, what I did was what he always have instilled. He had said that as long as I’m living in his (haha no it’s my mom’s too what bullshit) house, I have to listen to whatever he says and never have an opinion or talk back. Of course, he conveniently says that he never remembered that but I do. So I told him yeah fine I’ll just listen to what he says and stay home. He then proceeded to say that I was talking back. This is FUCKIGN STUPID because I was fulfilling his wishes without talking back. He said that I could calmly explain myself. Which is entirely not true. For years I’ve been trying to explain myself and doing so only got me a beating or disowned. I don’t see how doing so would be of any help. See how whatever I do is futile?

He is also very controlling. At the age of 18, I should be allowed to drink alcohol, or even to at least try some. To my knowledge, I’m very sure universities have a shit ton of events where u have to somehow go to some bar (which is very weird for me). By not having drunk any, I’m pretty sure I’ll be taken advantaged of. BUT WHO CARES RIGHT? He also doesn’t allow me to live in a dorm or go out with my friends or basically let me live a decent life. While you may say these reason are somewhat petty, can you stop for a moment and imagine being forced to stay home forever? Yeah.. He disguises these controlling measures as something that “protects” us. When my mother tries to warn us about rape, he is quick to say that we shouldn’t learn about what it is. WHICH IS DUMB because HAHAHAHA when we are actually in danger one day we won’t know what to do.

He has never cared or loved me. I’m very sure I was an accident. My parents weren’t even married when they had me. He had constantly said and implied that he has never wanted this family and that this family is terrible. MAYBE HE SHOULD have considered that before making one. I never wanted to be born. In fact, life has been a shithole. I remember back when I was relatively thin that he insulted my weight and look. That caused me to retaliate and eat more. He basically ruined my self esteem in my looks or any other aspect. I used to be confident and bright but now I can’t even SPEAK In his presence. He took away my tuition right before my PSLE exams while he still somehow had enough money to fuel his alcohol and smoking addictions. He basically wanted me to quit choir. He constantly accuses me of wasting money when all I’ve ever bought was food. In fact, I’ve been withdrawing from my account so much due to how I hate asking them for money that my account has run dry. I don’t even have money to support myself if I leave this house. Back in lower sec, I was lowkey tormented by a classmate that was controlling and faking her mental illnesses. Before you start saying I’m judgemental for saying that, let me explain. This classmate would take advantage of people’s kindness or weaknesses and try to control them. She would take credit while not doing any work and she pretends to cut herself in front of the class to scare people. Don’t people who cut themselves try to hide their cuts? Why publicise it? AND why PRETEND to cut. I had once made the mistake to confide in my father that I had a classmate who was terrible to me. All he did was say I needed to suck it up and not think so negatively. He basically made it seem like my fault that I had to deal with this classmate. Naturally, I cried and again, he began to attack me and say that I’m too sensitive. When my sister complains about her classmates doing petty things to her, he is quick to assure her and support her. I do not understand this. He only ever cares about himself and his pride and his fucking daughter (my sister). I need to leave.

[writerman]

Power and Control|| ArdynxRavus

You can find chapter one here!

- - - - -

Chapter Two

Ravus pulled away from Ardyn, no further words shared between them, he couldn’t go home- Regis was a family friend but he wasn’t going to stretch his friendship with his parent’s to accommodate a childish tantrum.

 As he stalked through the blessedly empty halls to his usual post, Ravus could not help but feel absolutely ashamed of his outburst before the faculty. Their faces had shown a surprise not usually connected with anything the young Tenebraen did.

 How was it that whenever he had the misfortune of meeting that walking disaster that he somehow lost all composure and reacted like a small child?!

 Absolutely ridiculous.

 They hadn’t seen each other for at least 6 years, not since Ravus was in university and Ardyn was his professor in history.

 It had been a stormy relationship from the start, from day one they had been at each other’s throats. The Tenebraen had gotten to his first history class late, Ardyn chewed him out over that fact to make an example of him to other students.

 He could still feel the burning heat of embarrassment on his cheeks by the time class ended, he stomped over and slammed down his notes for the class and told Ardyn to eat it, well, in a far more eloquent way and revealed that the class was a waste of time and he was quitting it.

 “How childish, quitting a class because you cannot handle receiving any form of criticism. A mild reprimand and you are likely near tears; I imagine with a name likes your you are part of nobility of some such. Typical old money behaviour.” The professor taunted slyly, a smirk forming lazily as he watched his words cut into his student.

 Oh how those words had incensed Ravus, he was so proud of his actions after this, he merely narrowed his eyes, grabbed his notes and left without a word.

 The young man went to every single history class after that, seating himself right at the back laptop open taking meticulous notes, always calling out inconsistencies in Ardyn’s information, he knew it was getting to him, not in the way the professor thanked him for keeping him right but the faint glimmer in his golden brown eyes, it was fire and it was rage.

 This continued for 6 months, every class they had smart remarks about one thing or another, Ravus always remarking on Ardyn’s lazy teaching style, the professor merely took this out on Ravus by mysteriously losing an essay or two submitted for marking.

 It all came to a head in a bar one summer night.

 Ravus was sat in a booth with a beer in his hand, it was warm, he’d been holding onto it for a good 30 minutes waiting on friends to finish a late class, not really in the mood to drink but his friends had cajoled him into holding a booth for them until they could get there.

 Being sat alone with his thoughts was never good for anyone but for Ravus it felt like he was slowly being sucked in to a dark void, it wasn’t until someone spoke that he realised that another had joined him in the booth, looking up he could only just manage to hold back a sneer.

 Professor Izunia.

 “So pensive, young Ravus. If only you could manage such a thoughtful gaze in my classes. I’d actually believe you were taking an interest in my class, but your excellent note taking seems only to be of use to put me in the firing line.” Ardyn sounded grim, a light tone of amusement but he clearly wanted Ravus to know that he wasn’t fully joking around and had intended the conversation to be serious.

 Ravus had not ever seen him this way, the most serious he had been and so he leaned back, taking a swig of warm beer, grimacing at the taste, but he left his body language open as to invite further conversation.

 What harm could it be?

 “You say this as though you believe you do not deserve to be fired at.” The Tenebraen ground out, irritation flared but he did not allow it to get the better of him this time around, his professor was free to say what he wished outside of the classroom, however, that gave Ravus the opportunity to truly see who this man was away from the gaze of the student body.

 “Touché, Sir Fleuret. However, I feel this is all down to the fact you are still sore about being made a fool of in front of your peers. Surely a young man of your intellect would understand why I had to make an example out of you on the first day. As light hearted as my classes may be at times, I must stand firm, I will not have the students believe they can walk over me throughout their time here.” There was a pause between both of them, Ravus felt incredibly foolish for all the months of anger toward his professor.

 It should have been clear what he had done and that all the silly little mistakes Ravus pointed out as glaring misinformation was just childish, Ardyn hadn’t really done anything wrong.

 It was almost as though the history professor could hear his thought process as a true smile spread across his face. Ravus only felt flushed with embarrassment, the only person who had made a fool of him was himself.

 “Well, if this conversation is done-…” Ravus made to move from the booth but Ardyn stopped him by merely raising a hand, he gestured for his student to remain seated and got up.

 “I am sure you are awaiting better companions than that of an old man, I shall leave. Enjoy your evening, Ravus.”

 The evening progressed without any mishaps, the young student drank too much avoided any flirting 1st years, he glanced across the bar over the course of the night, he noticed the professor talking to a pretty young girl, she seemed dazzled by him, Ravus scoffed to himself.

 Silly girl.

 He scolded himself as the hot bloom of jealousy spread through his chest and his heart thumped uncomfortably at the sight of them both laughing.

 “Rav, Rav, Rav go to the baaaaar and buy another drink!” His friend slung an arm around his broad shoulders and shoved a fistful of notes into his hand, with a, somewhat, renewed sense of purpose Ravus strode over to the bar.

 He overheard the girl sitting with his professor as she offered praise to the older man, Ravus steadfastly refused to look in their direction as he hailed down the bar tender who looks rushed of his feet and frazzled to a crisp.

 “Uh… 4 beers, thanks.” He offered payment but the barman waved the notes away and gestured down the bar toward where Ardyn sat with his pretty friend.

 “The uh… gentleman paid for your drinks tonight.” Ravus turned to face the two who sat a little further down the bar, the professor offered a little friendly wave and his companion smiled brightly at him though she knew him.

 Ravus scowled at Ardyn and grabbed the drinks before departing from the bar pushing his way through the crowd of sweating bodies. The summer heat, even after sun down, was oppressive and many suffered, choosing to use the heat as an excuse to ‘get wasted’.

 Once back with his friends he passed round the drinks and kept the notes in his pocket, he could use it for a cab home, his friend wouldn’t care about the cash, it wasn’t even enough for 4 beers but it would be enough to get a cab home back to his uni dorm.

 He remained silent until one by one his friends started drifting off making excuses as to why they had to leave, some had to get sleep for early classes, others had to actually study for tests- Ravus decided that if everyone else was leaving he would too.

 With a sigh, he stumbled out of the too crowded bar and relished in the cooler air of the night, it must have barely been midnight, the streets were still busy and cabs lined the road next to the bar, a hand on his shoulder made him jump, turning he catches a flash of red hair to find his professor at his side.

 “It is rather late and you have an early class tomorrow, if I recall. An early history class with a certain professor Izunia.” The rather charming grin that graced is features could have bowled Ravus over if he had been able to focus properly.

 “Ah… Yes. I was just heading home, not that it is any of your business what time I get home or get up for class. Maybe I will just skip my classes tomorrow completely.”

 “Don’t lie to me, you are going to get home, sleep and then in the morning drag your hungover self to my class and take your painstakingly perfect notes and ace the class as you usually do because I am not going to let you skip, I will find your dorm room and hire a group of rowdy members of the football team to wake you if I have to…” The amused smile had a sinister edge to it, not so much that Ravus feared him but he seemed to be quite the sadist when he wished to be did his professor.

 With that thought in mind, Ravus peeled himself away from Ardyn’s side, he realised throughout Ardyn’s minor threat that the professor has his arm around him so that their sides were pressed together almost as though they were more than just acquaintances.

 “I’m getting a cab home and I will show up to class if I feel like it.” The youth responded barely withhold his ire, this prat knew how to wind him up and he was powerless to stop him.

 They were joined, suddenly, by the pretty young girl from earlier, she introduced herself as Cindy, her southern American accent was a refreshing change from the staid British accents that surrounded them at present.

 “Oh, hi! I was really hopin’ I got to meet you tonight, Ravus. Ardyn has told me so much about you! He says you are real clever and are top of his class, I was top of his class too, he makes his lectures just so darn interestin’ that I couldn’t help but hang on to his every word!” Cindy was so bright and cheerful that Ravus could not find it in him to be rude, instead he offered her a smile and shook her hand, responding quietly that he also thought Professor Izunia’s classes were very interesting and he was pleased to have been able to get a spot in the very popular class.

 They chatted idly for a short while before a flashy bright yellow car pulled up and Cindy hopped in with a quick wave to the two standing on the sidewalk before the car roared down the road like a metal beast.

 “Oh, Ravus, how you made me positively giddy upon hearing you enjoyed my classes so… you never gave such an impression before.” Of course Ardyn mocked him for his words but the youth just rolled his eyes, hiding a smile as he looked away, it wasn’t until he looked back to his professor that he saw the older man had grown serious and Ravus wondered if he had done something wrong in the 30 seconds it took him to look away and then back again.

 “That smile, my dear boy, how it lit up your face for a moment. How it made that handsome face more perfect than I believed was possible.”

 W-was his professor flirting with him now?

 But there was no one around to witness it, this was just supposed to be for humour, a joke.

 Heart thudding uncomfortably again Ravus made to pull away as Ardyn closed the space between them pulling the youth round to face him properly, a soft kiss pressed to his lips.

 No, no, no, he was not meant to kiss a professor, a male professor… but fuck, it felt good. It felt right.

 Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…

 This was NOT happening.

 Ravus pulled himself from that memory as soon as he heard a student call on him for help with math, that’s right he was still at work, this was not 2010 and he was not a university student anymore, with that in mind he strode over to the student pushing his mind to math rather than a certain professor that now had the audacity to haunt his thoughts the halls of the school.

 The next few weeks were surely going to be Hell.

#Long post #Ardyn #Ravus #ardyn izunia #ravus nox fleuret #final fantasy xv #Fanfic

[nightmareonfilmstreet]

The Shape of Things – HALLOWEEN H20: Twenty Years Later

The dictionary definition of cash-in is described thusly: ‘to take advantage of or exploit (a situation)’. Ever since the motion picture industry became a going concern, it has unapologetically cashed-in on the success of its product. Take, for example, Bride of Frankenstein, Curse of the Cat People, Dracula: Prince of Darkness, or even Halloween II. While not necessarily superior to their predecessors, each is a wonderful film in its own right, beloved by genre fans. But there’s little doubting that they only exist due to the resounding success of the original; a studio, production company, writer or director merely sought to exploit this.

By the early 1990s, the horror film entered something of a fallow period. While it’s erroneous to suggest that there was nothing of value produced – Candyman and Army of Darkness, for example, both arrived in 1992 – it seemed there was very little to entice the teenage demographic to the cinema. Films such as Jacob’s Ladder saw a shift towards more mature themes and the psychological horrors of Jonathan Demme’s Silence of the Lambs only exemplified this approach. Merely a decade earlier, the slasher film was in its Golden Age, but as the 80’s wore on, tastes began to change. The teens who flocked to cinemas to take in scenes of gratuitous gore and nudity had all but grown up and moved on while the calibre of output took something of a nose-dive. As the 90’s dawned, purveyors of the slasher were still gamely toiling away. Amid the dreck, there was still a gem or two waiting to be discovered, but seeking out a cinema prepared to show Slumber Party Massacre III or Popcorn was a singularly tricky proposition. For all intents and purposes, the slasher had ceased to exist.

At the same time, a young actor named Kevin Williamson was pursuing a second career as a screenwriter. While attending a class at UCLA he managed to sell his first script, Killing Mrs. Tingle. He soon discovered, however, as the script languished on a shelf, that selling a screenplay did not necessarily equate to said screenplay evolving into a motion picture. But Williamson had an ace up his sleeve. After watching a news special about the serial killer Daniel Rolling, the writer began to sketch out the opening scene for a screenplay that he titled Scary Movie. Having found its way to Dimension Films, the genre arm of Miramax, the script landed on the lap of actress Drew Barrymore. Impressed by the mix of scares, irreverence, and an unapologetic celebration of the genre, she quickly signed on. After cajoling director Wes Craven, still licking his wounds after the failure of Vampire in Brooklyn, the film, now re-titled Scream was an instant hit, catapulting the slasher film and the horror genre back into the spotlight.

  “The resurgence of the slasher offered the opportunity for a new chapter [of The Halloween saga] to be written…”

  The autumnal period between late August and early December proved to be the most fertile ground for new slasher films. October 1997 and November 1998 saw the release of the first two installments in the I Know What You Did Last Summer franchise. The first in the Urban Legend series opened in September 1998, while the latest in the Chucky saga premiered only a month later. Kevin Williamson’s latest genre stab, a mix of high school anxiety crossed with body snatching paranoia in The Faculty rounded out the year, along with Gus Van Sant’s (nearly) shot-for-shot remake of proto-slasher, Psycho. Sandwiched between this new raft of slashers, and teen horrors, was another attempt to bring back a horror titan from the supposed dead. On August 5th, 1998, US audiences once again welcomed back Michael Myers in Halloween H20: Twenty Years Later.

Another product under the Dimension Films banner, Halloween H20 is in many ways the ultimate cash-in, seeking potential box office from two revenue streams, the nascent slasher boom and fans of the Halloween franchise. But it’s too simplistic to dismiss the film as nothing more than an attempt to jump the bandwagon.

For a start, the franchise had hit rock-bottom with Halloween: The Curse of Michael Myers five years previously and with the coffers full, here was an ideal opportunity to redress the balance. Was it cynical? Possibly. But the fact of the matter is fans will always want to see more of their favorite anti-heroes. The resurgence of the slasher offered the opportunity for a new chapter to be written and Dimension duly charged Kevin Williamson with the job. His treatment, by way of some heavy exposition, linked the entire story together, from John Carpenter’s original to the forthcoming installment (with the exception of Halloween III: Season of the Witch). After consideration, it was decided to eschew several elements of Williamson’s story including any reference to the series beyond Halloween II. Hence, the alleged working title of Halloween 7: The Revenge of Laurie Strode became Halloween H20: Twenty Years Later. What remained of Williamson’s treatment was a slightly reworked version of the opening sequence, the academy setting and, most important, Laurie Strode.

      Halloween H20 is very much Laurie Strode’s story. Twenty years on she is still coming to terms with the events of Halloween night. Except, of course, she’s not really at all. Her coping strategy is to anesthetize the events with prescription drugs and alcohol. While she has a rudimentary command over her waking nightmares, she has no control over her unconscious mind. This is where we first meet Laurie (now Keri Tate), writhing on the bed in the grip of what we suppose is one of the countless times she awakens screaming. Her son John attempts to reassure her that she’s safe and well.

Of course, when John opens the medicine cabinet, and we see row upon row of prescription bottles. The truth about Keri’s mental condition is etched on his face as he taps several white pills into the palm of his hand. This is how Keri starts the day. This is how Keri starts every day. And when John pointedly mentions that they’re out of Percodan, Keri reacts with a smile and a change of subject. This is Keri back in control, but it’s a thin facade amid the opioid crisis taking place under the Tate roof.

Keri’s relationship with her son is only superficially matriarchal, but the dynamic between the two shifts continuously. As a single mother, responsible for a large number of children as the headmistress of a private academy, she unconsciously draws upon her vocational skills to scold or cajole him. He tries to make light of the increasing tension between them, by half-seriously suggesting: “Today is the day you are going to realize that I am seventeen years old and your overprotection and paranoia is inhibiting my growing process.” Keri’s face darkens though when John pushes to be allowed to leave the academy on a camping trip. When the subject of the anniversary of the Haddonfield murders arises, however, the dynamic shifts again and it is John who assumes the role of adult, drawing a line under the conversation, reminding her that “We’re through with all that.”

  “Keri is floundering […] struggling to reconcile the disparate threads of her life through a thin veneer of normality…”

  Despite the self-medication, or possibly because of it, the visions of Michael Myers remain. In a window reflection, for example, (she briefly mistakes her lover and colleague Will Brennan for Michael), or when a silhouetted figure approaches (Will again). Despite his attention and concern – Will is a counselor at the academy – and an offer to listen to Keri talk on a non-professional level about a problem her problems, Keri brushes him off, ordering another large glass of wine when he briefly excuses himself.

In Williamson’s treatment, Keri reveals the extent of her turmoil to the character Jake (a fellow teacher, who becomes Will in the final script), when he confronts Keri about her substance abuse: “I can go to all the little 12 step meetings in the world, and I can say, “Hi, I’m Keri, and I’m an alcoholic.” And everyone can hold me and tell me everything is going to be fine with Keri once she quits drinking but what you seem to be missing from your loving and non-judgemental point of view is that Keri doesn’t exist. At the end of the day, the Halloween mask comes off and it’s Laurie Strode who has to find a way to get to sleep at night without a butcher knife slicing into her dreams.”

It’s a revealing moment, but in the context of the final film perhaps a little too heavy-handed. Although the audience is mutually complicit in the knowledge that Michael Myers is coming for Keri, she only divulges information about her past and the persistent fear that Michael will one day come to finish the job. Finally disclosing her past, two-thirds of the way through the film, it also becomes abundantly clear that Keri’s alcoholism and addiction to prescription drugs aren’t wholly to blame for her visions and hallucinations, but an exacerbation of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) that she hasn’t even begun to address.

      As Halloween approaches, Keri’s alcohol and chemical dependency increase to ward off the encroaching dread that this may be the year Michael finally finds her. And yet, like the Ouroboros – the snake eating its own tail – Keri increasingly uses Michael as a crutch to indulge in her addictions. And when Keri scolds John for going off campus, arguing that all she asks for is one day for him not to disobey her, his response is as cutting as it is final: “If you want to stay handcuffed to your dead brother, that’s fine. But you’re not dragging me along. Not anymore.”

Keri is floundering during the first half of the film and struggling to reconcile the disparate threads of her life through a thin veneer of normality. Like Michael Myers, she also wears a mask. Michael’s is both literal and figurative, concealing any trace of humanity. But Keri’s mask is slipping. Twenty years of hiding, of maintaining a fictional life have taken their toll. Ironically, it’s a work of fiction that brings Keri to the realization that she must face her deepest fear. In a parallel to John Carpenter’s original, during a class discussion on Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein and the notion of fate, Molly Cartwell, the love interest of John, provides the moment of revelation: “Victor reached a point in his life where he had nothing left to lose. The monster saw to that by killing off everybody that he loved. Victor finally had to face it. It was about redemption. It was his fate.”

Another key moment follows when Keri finally allows John to go on the camping trip, telling him: “It’s good for you, it’s good for me.” A mother’s intuition is described as “the deep intuitive blood bond a mother can have with her child”, and it’s never more obvious than during this brief exchange. Keri is ostensibly giving John his freedom when her true motive is to move him out of harm’s way, sensing that Michael is closing in. John, meanwhile, is fully aware that something is amiss, but his plans have changed anyway, which will incur horrific consequences.

  “Halloween H20: Twenty Years Later remains a curiously underappreciated installment in the series.”

  Where Halloween H20 starts to falter is during the latter part of the film. The scenes which feature Michael Myers stalking John and his friends follow slasher conventions to the letter. They’re required to because this is what convention dictates, so it’s no surprise when the most sexually-active couple inevitably dies in line with the puritanical trope. The killing of young Sarah Wainthrope is particularly brutal, though not in a gore-fuelled sense. Instead, we’re made to watch Michael’s impassive masked face as he brings the knife down again and again on the unfortunate Sarah.

Elsewhere, components designed to ramp up the tension are all present. Near escapes, wounds that temporarily slow but don’t stop Michael, keys dropped at the vital moment and a handful of fun, but inconsequential call-backs to Carpenter’s original. It’s all somewhat by-the-numbers until Keri finally comes face to face with Michael. In that brief moment, Keri is Laurie Strode again. She’s no longer the headteacher of a private academy, an addict or a victim; she’s a mother, and she’s a fighter. Laurie is the one holding the gun, and when she tells Will to save himself because she won’t leave her son, we believe her. The dynamic has shifted once again.

Inevitably, it’s Will who finds the sharp end of Michael’s kitchen knife. In a moment of impetuous heroism, he snatches the gun away from Laurie and shoots Michael, only to discover he’s ‘killed’ the campus security guard Ronnie Jones. Shamefully, LL Cool J is given very little to do with a poorly-written attempt at comic relief, aside from reading aloud his attempts at adult fiction to an unseen girlfriend on the end of the phone.

    Laurie, finding unimaginable strength and resolve, finally sends her son out of harm’s way and goes to face her familial demon. In the final reckoning, Laurie, in her own meta moment, seemingly understands the rule of a killer returning for one last scare and following a brief, and almost touching moment of silent reconciliation between siblings, removes the head of the beast.

There’s plenty of truth to Jamie-Lee Curtis’s performance in Halloween H20, and it’s likely because Curtis herself was at the time addicted to alcohol and painkillers (she became sober the year following H20‘s release). Watching the film through fresh eyes after learning of her addiction struggles Curtis’ performance takes on an even greater sense of urgency and pathos. The pain etched upon her face isn’t acting, it’s the anguish of the actor.

With this being the twentieth anniversary of the release of Halloween H20, there has been plenty of reappraisal of the film, with many citing the phrase ‘cash-in’ and dismissing Steve Miner’s film outright for daring to be made in the wake of the Scream phenomenon. H20 seems to fall foul of some of the most vitriolic ire when discussing the late-90s slasher releases, and yet, aside from Scream, probably has the most compelling point to make. It’s undoubtedly a more straightforward film than it’s more celebrated sub-genre cousin, which may go some way to explaining why it receives the most criticism. But it’s no more glossy than any of its contemporaries, and the return of Jamie Lee Curtis in the role of Laurie Strode elevates it above similar material.

Dismiss it as a cash-in all you want. Despite the unfortunate timing of its release, Halloween H20 was actually trying to say something, however heavy-handedly, about the nature of PTSD and its effects on the individual. While Curtis has since revisited the role that she’ll forever be associated with, in the weakest of the series, Halloween: Resurrection and the forthcoming Halloween reinvention from Blumhouse – a film that revokes all but the original film’s place in the canon – Halloween H20: Twenty Years Later remains a curiously underappreciated installment in the series.

  The post The Shape of Things – HALLOWEEN H20: Twenty Years Later appeared first on Nightmare on Film Street - Horror Movie Podcast, News and Reviews.

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[sobdasha]

only 2 more smooches to go now

thanks to @adirotynd for being a faithful bird consultant, meaning that among other things all the instances of [place where they keep birds] have been replaced with stables

Skyward Sword!Zelink4lyfe, chest kiss (when they are tiny, oh snap that darn bird flu, I will never have my fill of SS!Zelda being extremely proprietary over Link)

--

Zelda drags Link up to the Headmaster's office and tattles.

"Fatheeer," Zelda says, still holding Link's wrist as he stumbles to a stop beside her, "Link didn't do his flying today! I caught him. He pretended like he was going to, but he was just napping with his bird!"

So punish him right now is implied, Gaepora can see.

"Zelda, dear, I think that if Link isn't behaving appropriately in Instructor Owlan's class, you should speak to Instructor Owlan--"

Zelda crosses her arms in a big huff and scowls at him. Oh dear. Gaepora knows he shouldn't encourage her like this, but…

"Link," he says, folding his hands and peering over his desk at them, "what do you have to say for yourself about this?"

Link shrugs, and rolls his freed wrist around, and explains quite reasonably that his bird didn't feel like it.

Gaepora frowns. He is by now, as a father, very well aware of the need to slowly and carefully clarify these sorts of statements. He is also very well aware of Link's rather unusual, and fearsomely strong, connection with his Loftwing.

If Link was given to understand, from his bird, that the Loftwing wouldn't or, indeed, couldn't for some reason come when Link called him and leaped off a diving platform...scolding Link for that could be very dangerous indeed.

"What do you mean, your bird didn't feel like it?" he asks. "He didn't feel like flying? Why wouldn't he feel like flying?"

Link shrugs again. His bird didn't feel like it. He just felt like roosting somewhere quiet with Link for a nap. So Link curled up with him.

"I see...but Link, your Loftwing understands that your classes are important, right? You can't simply sleep through them--"

Also it feels weird. Link screws his face up in thought for a few moments, considering, before he thumps his palm flat on the middle of his chest. Right here.

Gaepora's chair scrapes back across the floor before he quite realizes he's stood up, his frown twisting with urgency. "Link, your bird is injured? Have you told Instructor Owlan? Where is your bird now?"

Link shrugs again. Gaepora brushes past him as he jogs out of the office--a bit counterproductively, given Link is supposed to be leading him to his Loftwing--but Gaepora has to stop to collect Owlan on the way first, in any case.

By that time, Link has picked up on the mood at last. He dashes across the plaza, small legs pumping, while the adults hurry after him and Zelda trails anxiously behind, all punishments forgotten.

The crimson Loftwing is tucked away in a secluded alcove, apparently folded up in sleep, feathers ruffled and fluffed up until it's almost half as big again as usual. But it raises its head and cries pitifully at Link's approach.

Link presses himself up against his bird, Zelda on his other side, while Owlan conducts an exam.

Owlan sits back on his heels after a few minutes, breathing out a sigh. "I was afraid of this," he says, shaking his head. "Several of the knights on patrol recently have reported some strange behavior among a few of the wild Loftwings. I suspected an illness might be circulating through the population. Well, we'll keep him apart from the other birds and make sure he gets plenty of rest, and I'm sure he'll recover just fine, Link," he adds kindly.

Link nods and rubs his face against his Loftwing's beak. He just wants him to get better soon.

"Come on, then," Owlan says. He lays a hand on Link's shoulder, and squeezes gently. "Why don't you help us coax him into the stables. We'll get him settled and comfortable and give him some medicine, and then you can tell us how he's feeling."

The Loftwing stables aren't very extensive, but they're cozy and a good place to keep any ill or injured birds that need observation and tending. Quite a fair amount of cajoling and one bottle of mushroom spores later, and Link's bird is nested in one of the stalls and resting. Several more hugs from Zelda after that, and Link feels the weird feeling in his own chest loosening.

"There, let's let him rest," Gaepora says, putting a hand on each of their backs and ushering them out into the sunshine. "You can come back to visit him later, Link. And, of course, I'm sure Instructor Owlan won't mind if you don't attend your flying lessons until your bird is back in good health. But next time your Loftwing doesn't feel like flying," he adds, "you need to tell Instructor Owlan right away. Do you understand?"

Link nods, his hand squeezed tight in Zelda's.

The following week for Link is--a bit rough around the edges, perhaps, is how Owlan might put it. Both he and Horwell turn a lenient eye to Link showing up for class bleary-eyed and distracted. The boy and his bird are inseparable, as everyone well knows. And he's worried about his Loftwing, of course, which is only natural.

And to be honest, Owlan himself (like many others before him) has made a particular study of Loftwing behavior for years, trying to read their feathered companions' physical and emotional states from their outward actions. But those things Owlan struggles to understand--Link has always seemed to know instinctively how his bird feels at any given moment.

Everyone knows the bond between Link and his Loftwing is strangely deep and seamless--and one day, when he's older, perhaps he'll be able to put it into words and explain just how far it goes. But for now, it wouldn't be surprising if he's feeling a bit empathetic to his bird's illness.

And then, when Link's Loftwing appears to be recovering its energy and is well and truly on the mend, Zelda comes into her father's office again and sighs.

"Link's spending too much time with his bird," she complains.

And this, Gaepora thinks, would be the jealousy rearing its ugly head again. Oh dear.

"Now, Zelda," he says, "I know you're feeling a bit lonely. But think how upset you would be if it was your Loftwing that was ill."

"No," says Zelda, running her fingertips along the spines of her father's books on the shelves, "I think he swallowed some feathers."

Gaepora sits there for a minute, puzzled by that statement, as Zelda traces book titles and doesn't seem particularly in one of her slighted moods. He should ask for clarification, he knows this. But somewhere in the back of Gaepora's mind something tells him this isn't the moment to sit here playing twenty questions, trying to drag the significance out of Zelda's words.

He heads straight for the stables, Zelda trotting along behind him.

There in the stall is Link's Loftwing, the bird looking bright-eyed and alternating between preening its own feathers and fussily preening Link. And there is Link, curled up against his bird, his eyes closed and his skin too-warm under Gaepora's hand and his breathing short and sharp and far too quick.

Gaepora curses, under his breath, and scoops the boy up.

"I'm not supposed to visit you," Zelda says, the next night, when she's snuck into Link's room. She shrugs her shoulders to show what she thinks of that.

"I heard you got your bird's flu only now it's pneumonia," she adds, sitting on the edge of Link's bed. "It sounds icky."

Link coughs. He feels icky. Zelda finds his hand under the blanket and fishes it out, so she can pat it.

"Where do you hurt?" she asks. "I'll kiss it better."

Link isn't sure about that. He feels really icky.

"I kissed your Loftwing and he got better, didn't he? It took a while but it worked!"

Zelda does have a point. So Link points a hand to his chest, where it hurts to breathe. He aches sort of everywhere, actually, but he thinks he wouldn't mind that so much if he could breathe again.

Zelda nods, and leans over, and presses a kiss against the front of his shirt. "There," she says, "now I know you'll be okay."

Link nods, and coughs again, and his eyes flutter with sleepy blinks. Zelda pats his hair, until his eyes stop fluttering and her own mouth starts yawning, and then she sneaks out again to go to bed for real.

#sobdasha fic #sobdasha fic adjacent #kixboxer #legend of zelda #skyward sword #smooching meme