#and even though the person responsible is one of the best polish translators he did a horrible job this time

[trupowieszcz-moved]

anglo people please recommend me niche books you've read at ages 10-14 and i mean niche like i wont find them in nostalgia starter pack posts or whatever

#i wanna translate a book and i need to find one that hasnt been translated yet. #i thought skulduggery pleasant was untranslated but i suddenly found out it was #and even though the person responsible is one of the best polish translators he did a horrible job this time #but im not in position to make a new translation i havent done anything professionally yet #i need a previously untranslated thing

[incorrect-ikevamp-quotes]

I'm so happy to see you getting active again. Honestly, I thought this account just died 😅😅😅😅😅.

I have fallen in love with your posts, especially those meta analysis about Comte are so on-point. I can't wait to see your reviews about his drama CD.

Also, have you seen Comte’s 6th birthday story? I saw the CG but I dont have the chance to read the story. Is ok if you also give some spoilers about it? 🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏

Glad to be back! Sorry for the scare--life just got ahead of me, and alas my spoons were limited and focused on survival. That being said, I've still been reading/translating his stories, so I have indeed seen Comte's 6th bday story.

I think you've given me a bit too much power 🤣 but I'm happy to gush about Comte anytime. Since I'm going to discuss something that hasn't been released in the English version yet, the deets will be under a cut.

A reminder that I'm not a professional, so this is by no means an infallible translation. I try to convey what I find to the best of my ability, but I'm sure there are nuances I miss.

Where to begin? Honestly this story was A Lot, and arguably among my favorites, but the title of the CG/story is allegedly "Courtship at the Nape of the Neck." Get hyped, y'all--if I understood things correctly, it's exactly as it sounds.

The story begins with MC and Comte on their way to a ball for his birthday, and MC is all like "honey. When I said I wanted this day to be for you. That did not mean. Another dress for me." To which Comte's response is "New phone, who dis."

All jokes aside, MC does feel bad about it but he insists it makes him very happy, so she concedes:

MC: You got me a dress as a gift again…despite the fact that it’s your birthday;;;

I smiled at MC, who seemed to feel bad about it.

Comte: It’s because it’s my birthday that I gave you that dress. It’s my greatest pleasure to gift them to you, and accompany you in it.

I reached out beside me to stroke her hair gently.

Comte: It’s always fun to think about what kind of dress would suit you…And besides, when I see you all dressed up like this, I can’t help but fall in love with you all over again.

MC then mentions that she's made him a gift, and downplays it--likely out of shyness--before handing it over.

It was a handkerchief with a simple yet elegant design, with a name embroidered on it.

Comte: Did you embroider this yourself? How did you prepare such a wonderful thing?

MC: Hehe, I did my best under Sebastian’s guidance.

(To do something this intricate by hand would have taken quite a bit of time…)

Comte: Thank you, MC. I’ll treasure it.

I felt a warmth fill my chest at the sweet gesture, and I dropped a kiss to the handkerchief I received.

Comte: I’d prefer to be kissing you, but I fear if I do I won’t want to get out of the carriage after I start.

So like, yes, take a moment to scream, because wow. First of all, how dare you Abel. Second of all, AAAAAAAAAAA IT'S SO SUBTLE AND SWEET BUT ALSO LOWKEY SULTRY HOW DARE!!! I will have my r e v e n g e--

But also??? Aside from my brainworms, I really do love this part of him. Even though her gift is simple, he really does cherish the effort and dedication she put into making him something. I guess I think about how someone in his position could easily downplay its significance--but he doesn’t. He’s mindful of how her feelings saturate the act, and he honors it openly. And in case you think this is a one-off instance, it really isn’t. In his Anniversary story event, there is a direct emphasis on how he still keeps MC’s wedding gift to him--the preserved flower pins--polished as if they were newly gifted to him, not a speck of dust clouding their surface, lovingly tended.

I think it’s very easy for people to minimize him as unfeeling or haughty the way only very rich people can be, but...the his character construction and the intimate personal details you see if you’re close to him reveal that he doesn’t really fit that stereotype at all. Sure he’s selective about who he shares himself with, but that doesn’t make him fundamentally shallow.

Moving right along, MC gets bashful (and honestly who could blame her idk how she even makes sustained eye contact help) and they arrive at the venue in short order. None of this is especially notable except that it says, when they exit the carriage:

Her small, lovely hand covered the one I gently held out for her to take.

Thanks! I'm devastated!!! You just broke down adoration to its bare essentials!!!! I'm a romantic for one person and one person only, and it's HIM--

Naturally, they enter the ballroom and everyone flocks over to congratulate Comte on his birthday. Gracious and measured as ever, he accepts each one in turn, but MC is silent/stiff for most of it. All of a sudden, MC says she's going to get some fresh air and slips away to the balcony to clear her head. Comte is understandably confused and tries to follow after her, until he's intercepted by another noblewoman.

(What’s the matter…? It’s not like her to leave on her own like that so suddenly.)

When I tried to follow her at once--

Well-dressed noblewoman: Wait, Comte

As soon as I’m stopped by the woman, melodious music swells to fill the hall.

Well-dressed noblewoman: I’d love to spend some time with le Comte tonight. Won’t you share a dance with me?

A woman with a charming smile from the past crossed my mind.

(In the past, when I hadn’t been in love, I would have accepted such an invitation for the sake of simply enjoying the novelty of a single moment; that ephemeral warmth was something I relied on in the endless sea of loneliness that was eternity.)

--But now, I don’t feel that way anymore.

(Because I met MC.)

Comte: I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I’m already accounted for. Have a pleasant rest of the night, young lady.

So after Comte picks the correct answer, he continues on his way to the balcony and finds MC staring up at the sky.

Aight so like. I love when they have a certain writer create these stories, because they literally always make MC the strong and silent (stoic/defensive) type and Comte her little meow meow. It may be specific to me and my tastes but I love it here and I'm never leaving.

Before I add the transcription, I will say that I'm not really sure the "were you crying? did someone bully you?" part was something I fully understood. It appeared to be some kind of idiom/nuance the translator struggled to pick-up on, so I apologize for that. But it is my understanding that he's alluding to MC being picked on/unhappy.

When MC turned around, she had a surprised but also somewhat anxious look on her face.

(If I try to ask her what’s wrong…she’ll say it’s nothing. In that case…)

Comte: Were you crying? Did someone bully you?

MC’s expression relaxed a little at my dramatics.

MC: What are you on about, I wasn’t crying or bullied. But if I was crying…what would you do?

Though she throws the question back at me, I smile in response.

Comte: A gentleman's handkerchief is there to wipe away a lady's tears. I would tend to you with the very handkerchief you gifted me tonight.

MC: Thank you. But, I’m not one to shed tears so easily.

Comte: That’s right, you’re very strong.

The anxiety that clouded her expression earlier has faded away now, and she’s smiling.

I hold my hand out to MC once again…

MC: Yes, with pleasure.

Y'all but the way she claps back, and then he kills with that line about the handkerchief. God damn sir, if nothing else you get full points for incredible verbal repartee. (Lowkey, I’d make out with him for his emotional intelligence alone, don’t look at me.)

Okay but because I can’t help myself. I love how he’s like. I’m No Gentleman, MC. I Am A Liar.

Also Comte: A gEnTlEmAn’S HaNdKeRcHieF iS tHeRe To--

Mfer certainly knows how to lay down the charm when he wants to cheer her up--

After that, it simply says they spend a lovely evening together and then cuts to them relaxing in a hotel near the venue. Cuddled together (GOD I WISH THAT WERE ME), MC eventually speaks up to explain what happened earlier that night.

MC: Hey, Comte…

MC is picking at the hem of her clothes absently when she calls out to me.

Comte: What’s the matter?

I caress her hair to encourage her to continue, and she slowly opens her mouth as if she were choosing her words very carefully.

MC: When I was on the balcony earlier tonight…I wasn’t crying, but I was pretty frustrated with myself. I saw so many beautiful women giving you their congratulations tonight, I can’t help but worry you’ll be snatched away from me…I’m sorry you had to see me like this on your special day…

So, in the immortal words of Beyonce, "What's worse, looking jealous or crazy? Jealous or crazy?" is basically the mood of this whole scene. I'm usually not the territorial type, but I wouldn't even blame MC for getting pissed--nobody likes to see other women ogle/grab at ya mans (especially when ya mans is Comte).

Also beginning to wonder if Comte has a certain interest in MC’s hair 🤔

(I see now, so that’s why)

Comte: MC

After hearing such a cute confession, my fingers moved from her hair to stroke her cheek.

Comte: It’s all right, you have nothing to apologize for. Besides which, I know how you feel--I’ve been jealous/frustrated plenty of times too.

MC: Oh…like when?

Comte: Always/All the time.

MC suddenly looks at me, looking as if she really hadn’t been aware of it.

Okay but when he just gives that flat expression and goes "ALWAYS" without hesitation, I nearly started wheezing with laughter. Petty and glamorous, I love him your honor it's not a phase!!!!

Comte: Today, for instance, that Baron who was in love with you from the moment you stepped into the hall. A young waiter brushed his hand against yours while handing you a champagne glass. Every time I see another man taken with you, my heart is agitated.

(Of course, it’s not limited to just today. It’s been like this ever since I fell in love with you…)

Comte: Rather immature for someone like me, isn’t it?

MC: Comte…

Comte: But now…I’m not the only one who feels that way anymore.

I wrapped my arm around her delicate waist and hugged her close, a sweet scent catching my attention.

Comte: Come, MC.

Just the thought of him seething because some random waiter brushed MC's hand literally just. Sent me. Like straight up astral projection, that is so much I had to stare at the nearest wall to cope. And like I'm not sure if it's the same guy, but I have to wonder if the Baron he's talking about is the one that hit on her in Comte's rt--because if that's the case, that would be hysterically funny. At the same time if it’s literally just some random dude that thought MC was pretty at first sight, that is somehow even funnier. Le Comte de "Peace was never an option" Saint Germain. Monsieur le “Don’t even think about looking at my wife. Walk away.” Comte.

I live for it, I love it, I regret absolutely nothing!!!!

I escort her to bed and sit with MC in my arms. I kissed her soft hair and laid my forehead on hers.

Comte: You belong to me, and I belong to you.

MC: Co--Abel…

She calls my name and settles against my chest, and I’m filled with such affection for her.

Comte: You’re so cute…Telling me all about the frustration and the bullying honestly. You’re so lovely I want to bite you.

"You belong to me, and I belong to you." SCREAMING, CRYING, THROWING UP THAT'S SO ROMANTIC AND TENDER AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

"You're so lovely I want to bite you." Do you promise. I want it in writing. 👁✒️

Then MC, who was silent as if she were thinking about something deeply, looks up--

Comte: …what is it, MC?

She pinches the skin of my neck between her lips and nips at me.

MC: I want to bite you too…I love Abel so much…

She keeps nipping at me, her soft lips nearly ticklish against my skin.

(I can’t believe you’re doing this…) NARUTO VOICE: BELIEVE IT!!!

She bit me lightly, and our eyes met.

MC: Am I the only one…allowed to do this to you?

Comte: Yes, of course…you can…bite me harder

So like. I'm aware I've already had several episodes in the process of recounting this birthday story and I apologize for the moments where I breach containment--But.

Bite.

Me.

Harder.

Wow, thanks, none of my thoughts are holy and I am forever changed. I am not going to heaven, and I'm okay with that. I lived, and that's what matters. BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK--

Also yes MC, girl get it!!! Go MC, go!!!!!! Live your best life!!!!!! Get his ass!!!!!

I leaned back to give her more room and she nodded, digging her blunt little teeth into me. The slightest pain is followed by a feverish arousal that blooms from my chest outward.

(I want to bite you even now, I want to love you forever)

MC: Abel…

She called my name again, as if she could sense the urge rising from deep inside me.

MC: I’m the only one who you will bite one day.

Comte: …Of course

(I only want you)

The reversal/mirroring???? The intimacy????? Comte being blindsided but literally out of his mind in love?????? Help??????? It’s more than I can bear??????

This is especially insane to me on the level of like. The game is pretty clear about how biting your lover (at least for vampires) is a mutually understood sign of courtship. It’s a clear sign of who your lover is. And the fact that MC uses that sign to convey her feelings despite being human????? As the signal that she’s ready to fully be his and wants no one else to be able to interfere with that??????? Long time coming but also BWAH, BWAH BWAH BWAH BWAH

The other part of the end that kills me is that. They make love. With her fully dressed. And sure not necessarily that notable out of context, HOWEVER. BECAUSE I NEED TO DIE ON THIS HILL. What he specifically says is:

I reach to undo her dress--before my hands freeze.

[Comte: It’s always fun to think about what kind of dress would suit you…And besides, when I see you all dressed up like this, I can’t help but fall in love with you all over again.] (He’s remembering what he said before.)

Comte: I’ll make love to you as you are tonight. You’re dressed up to my liking, after all.

For those of you who haven’t seen the CG. MC. Is in a black dress. With sleeves that are see-through. Low cut bust. A long and visible thigh slit. With slight gold accents.

SIR. SHE IS DRESSED. TO YOUR LIKING????????????

At this point I’m convinced Cybird wants me to be in palpitations before the game ends for good. So much for Mr. Prim and Proper, I know you nasty Comte--

The rest of the bits are fairly raunchy so I’ll forgo that (let it be known simply that he is a firm believer in foreplay) but there are a few lines that I want to focus on.

(You haven’t the slightest idea how captivated I am, do you?)

[He asks her to say what he can only hear on his bday, and naturally she says happy bday.]

The heat of where our bodies are connected, her voice crying out for more, my heart and soul are on fire with the twin calls.

Comte: MC…

I kiss her tears away before connecting our lips with a smile…

Comte: I love you, too

(MC, you are the best gift of my life.)

With a feeling that is equal to eternity, I dropped my lips to her delicate neckline and…--

A lot to unpack here, but I will try (and fail) to remain composed as we go through each one.

“MC, you are the best gift of my life.” Like. Sincerely don’t even know how to approach this one. I have no clever witticisms. No trite commentary. Literally it is just beyond touching...[insert your preferred sobbing meme here]. It’s an odd feeling because honestly it doesn’t even feel like a surprise; his actions 100% substantiate what he’s expressed. It feels more like the inevitable culmination of his devotion up to this point. But there’s just something about the way it’s crystallized into that simple but enormous sentiment. That she was something unexpected, but not only welcome--accepted with such gratitude and joy. 11/10 I was not okay when I first read it and I’m not even okay now, every minute is half-catatonic.

And now to the question many of you probably have as you wait for me to address it. Did he..........b i t e bite her? The answer is I have no freakin’ idea. That’s where the story ends, and there’s no itemized specification as to how he bites her. But the phrasing keeps bothering me. If it were just another harmless love bite--as we’ve seen him do before--it’s never prefaced with “a feeling equal to eternity.” That kind of distinction is only made when he’s talking about how he changed the men into turned vampires when he found them.

Additionally, so many of his most recent stories have featured MC as a vampire (AU settings) but also in the most recent Christmas story (in the normal mansion setting), he gets extremely close to biting her for real--the closest I’ve ever seen, up to this point.

Granted all I can really do is speculate, but I will say it feels skewed in the direction of “holy shit he bit her for real, this is not a drill, LET’S GOOOOOOO Y O O O O O O”

I hope this summary was as cathartic for you as it was for me. But yeah!!! This is the vast majority of the contents ✌🏼💛

#asks #ikevamp #ikemen vampire #ikevamp comte #ikevamp saint germain #ikevamp translation #ikevamp meta #ikevamp comte birthday #local comteologist speaks #honestly my life was before and after this event #it wasn't the most intricate one but it gave me Everything I've Ever Wanted #satisfaction factor? Immeasurable #man bite me harder #top ten phrases to make a woman lose her mind folks #I think the only thing I've seen in his stories recently that sent me half as feral #is when he asked her to lick his fangs mid-kiss #like 1. was not expecting that #2. once again none of my thoughts are holy why is that so insanely hot-- #like its not even a groundbreaking concept but something about it just made me go crazy go stupid #how can one man be so considerate and affectionate but also just. devastatingly sexy #who gave him the right!!!!! #now if you'll excuse me im going to reread his cinderella collection event story and think about all my feelings #with regards from your favorite jester in love with comte #may you enjoy this rambling overview #and have a lovely rest of your night #not to ruffle any feathers but at this point i dont know how he's fooled so many people into thinking he's the dom/forthright type #(fooled people including me a short time ago) #i am seconds from kabedoning him myself-- #also sorry for any weird formatting i swear tumblr was not cooperating (more than usual)

[critrolesideblog]

"Do you enjoy card games?" At this query, Caleb looked up slowly, finally, from the Aeorian tome he had been frowning at all day.

It was the third day of a forced respite from their Aeorian expedition. They had been beset on their last outing by a three-headed abomination that, though quickly vanquished, had left Caleb with a series of nasty bites that bled with alarming profusion. A couple of healing potions had stopped the bleeding and partly healed the wounds, but they stubbornly refused to heal up entirely. So, at Essek's insistence and Caleb's reluctant acceptance, they were taking a break.

Caleb had spent their "break" thus far puzzling over an incomplete Aeorian formula with increasing frustration and, despite Essek's efforts at reassurance, guilt at delaying their explorations. Caleb had stubbornly refused both Essek's help and his suggestions that he work on something else for a while. So, Essek moved to Plan C.

"I, ah, ja, I suppose so," Caleb replied, azure eyes glancing down to Essek's hands, deftly shuffling the deck he had procured from the second floor of the tower. "Although, it has been some time since I've played one."

"It has for me as well." Essek glided around the desk Caleb was seated at to place himself on the opposite side, as Caleb considered him thoughtfully, and as he seated himself, the Zemnian wizard gently closed the tome with a small sigh and made space on the desk by unceremoniously shoving a small mountain of wadded-up, discarded parchment onto the floor, to the annoyed meows, chitters, and huffs of a number of the tower cats. "It's been at least," Essek took a large breath and let it out in a slow sigh, making a production of thinking over the many decades it had been since his last game with Verin. "Oh, at least 70 years, maybe 80." Caleb leveled a deadpan gaze at him for his efforts, though he was unable to completely school the muscles at the corners of his lips that wanted to form a smirk at his little one-upmanship. Essek allowed himself a satisfied grin in return. "Still, I thought it might be a pleasant diversion."

"Do you have a particular game in mind, old man?" Ha. Essek considered the possibilities, unsure of which, if any, games spanned their two cultures.

"Hm, there was one Verin was particularly fond of when we were children. The cards are dealt evenly between the players," he explained and began dispensing the cards. "And the goal is to obtain the entire deck. Without looking, we each take turns flipping cards over into a pile in the center, until someone plays a face card. When that happens, the next player tries to beat the value of the previous card, Aces being of greatest value, and whomever has the highest card claims the pile."

"Simple enough."

"Indeed, but when Verin played, he was fond of what he called..." He paused to consider how best to convey it in Common. It was odd the random words that came up as blank spots in his vocabulary. Punch...? No, not punch. "How do you say it ... There is a word, I think, for when you hit something with your palm?" He mimed the motion of doing it to someone's face.

Caleb raised an eyebrow, a bemused expression settling on his features. "A slap?"

"Yes!” Now that Caleb said it he was certain he had heard it before. “He liked to play with...” He paused to consider the translation again. “Slap rules."

"Slap rules?"

"When two cards of the same value are played in a row, or on either side of a single card, any player may slap their hand down and claim the pile, whomever is quickest."

"Alright, I think I've got it." They each scooped up their respective piles of cards and formed them into neat stacks in their hands. "Shall we?" There was a glimmer of friendly competitiveness in Caleb's eyes that made Essek's heart-rate tick up a little.

"After you."

They took turns flipping over cards, slowly at first, random numbers of varying colors stacking one on top of the other until Caleb, at last, turned over a Jack. "Ah, let's see if you can beat that, Her Thelyss." Essek dealt his next card. Six. He let out a little huff of disappointment as Caleb slid the pile towards himself with the ghost of a grin hovering around his mouth.

"Danke." He said, adding the pile to his hand.

"Ole hyvä." Essek deadpanned. Amusement crinkled the edges of Caleb's eyes, and an increasingly familiar warm affection took up residence in Essek's chest. They began again, flipping the cards a little faster this time.

Thump. Caleb blinked with surprise as Essek claimed the pile. He moved his hand back slightly to reveal the most recent cards - two threes in a row. "Aaah, right, slap rules."

"Indeed."

They began again, flipping the cards over a little faster still. Essek glanced up at Caleb's face. The guilt and frustration that had tugged on his features the past two days seemed to have released their grip, in favor of intent observation. He looked back down -- two eights! Their hands collided as they both reached for the pile at the same time, but Caleb eked out a victory, his fingers managing to slip just under Essek's. Caleb gave a soft "ha!" as he claimed the pile, and Essek found himself grinning as well, despite the loss. He had not considered that their hands would inevitably touch over the course of this game, but he couldn't say he minded.

"You can imagine, perhaps," he said slowly as they began turning over cards again, resolutely watching the cards this time, "two little Drow boys slapping the cards, and each other, with increasing enthusiasm as the game goes on." Caleb chuckled.

"I can indeed. In Blumenthal, we had a game where we just slapped each other's hands to see who was fastest, no cards needed." Both of their hands shot out - a nine flanked by a pair of fives this time. Again, there was Caleb's warm hand under Essek's instead of cardstock. He made a show of hissing with frustration, baring his fangs a little, but he was sure it was belied by the grin still tugging at his mouth. Caleb didn't seem the least bit intimidated as he added the cards to his hand, amusement crinkling the eyes again. The warm affection steadily blooming in Essek's chest grew warmer still. They began again, and after a moment of dealing cards in companionable silence, Caleb asked, "What is he like? Your brother?"

A memory filled Essek's senses. He and his brother were in a ballroom on the Thelyss estate. Members of various Dens and the upper echelon of the military were milling about them to the strains of soft music and polite conversation. Verin was grinning with a brash pride at being appointed Taskhand, chin held high, chest puffed out. A gleeful victory polished his silver eyes to shining. Earlier that evening, Essek had retied the bun neatly collecting his little brother's many braids to make sure he was presentable for the ceremony. Verin had ruffled Essek's hair to make sure he wasn't. "Tall," he replied, finally, and then muttered, "the bastard." That shocked a laugh out of Caleb, as Essek hoped it would, and he tried to suppress his own victorious grin.

"How rude of him growing past his elder brother!" Caleb laughed.

"The disrespect," Essek opined, shaking his head. "When we were teenagers, I once escorted him to a shop - he wanted to buy a trinket for some girl, and I needed spell components."

"Naturally."

"And the shopkeeper complimented him on how kind he was to take his little brother out shopping." Caleb's laugh was lovelier than any sound Essek could think to compare it to. "I could have strangled that shopkeep. I knew I would never hear the end of it. All I heard for months after that was little brother this, and little brother that."

"How did you get him to stop?"

"Violence." Essek claimed the card pile with a Jack of Spades. "I mastered Telekinesis and tossed him into a snowbank."

"Ja, naturally, as one does." Caleb's voice was warm with amusement.

Essek felt no need to mention that Verin had enjoyed the experience and asked to be tossed into the snowbank three more times. "He's naturally charming," Essek continued. "Too much for his own good, sometimes. He has forgotten on more than one occasion to check whether the targets of his charms were married first."

"Uh-oh," Caleb chuckled.

"Indeed." Essek rolled his eyes with old exasperation and then claimed the pile of cards again with a Queen of Hearts. "He's smart, but he always preferred fighting and flirting to academics. Still, he has a keen mind for battle strategy, tactics, problem-solving. Much too honest for politics, but he is the sort of person people turn to naturally for leadership, and he takes that responsibility seriously." Caleb claimed the pile this time, King of Clubs.

"He sounds like a good person," Caleb ventured quietly.

Another memory rose up, unbidden. Verin when he was a long way yet from being Verin. They had called him Rei then, and Essek had been called Kai. Rei was a baby, barely old enough to walk, but his tiny hand patted Kai's shoulder gently as his elder brother tried not to cry over a skinned knee. His silver eyes, large in his small, round face, clearly full of a sympathy he did not have words yet to express. Essek nodded. "Even when he was a child. As a toddler, any time he received a treat, his first instinct was always to share it, with me or Nanny, or the housekeepers, even, whomever was nearby." Haluatko vähän? Do you want some? The little boy had always asked. Haluatko vähän? He had asked the less popular children in school, as he went out of his way to share his snacks and his shine. Haluatko vähän? He had asked with an excited smile, on the eve of his deployment to Bazzoxan, before running out into the rain to get fried insects from his favorite street vendor, like a child and not the 105-year-old man that he was, and again after purchasing it and exclaiming how delicious they were, Haluatko vähän? "He has always had a good heart." Icy tendrils began to snake their way through Essek's chest, like the mold of Aeor, feeding on the heat there and turning it into cold, cold shame and guilt. How had Verin remained so good and Essek turned so wrong?

He didn't ask the question aloud, but Caleb seemed to guess where his mind had turned and countered it with a question of his own. "Perhaps some credit goes to his elder brother for shielding his good heart?" Essek made himself look into Caleb's eyes, and their hands paused in their game for a moment. There was no pity in the Lucidian blue, just a gentle curiosity. It was a genuine question.

Essek considered the hypothesis. He had tried his best to keep Verin on the right side of the Umavi's scrutiny and their father's temper and out of any problems he couldn't punch his way out of. But was it as simple as being the younger of the two? Essek had felt as much affection for Nanny as Verin had, but he wasn't sure he had ever offered to share a treat with her before Verin came along. If he had, he certainly hadn't continued to offer after repeated declinations out of an immovable sense of fairness. As far as Essek could recall, they had always been of wildly different dispositions. Verin was boisterous where Essek was quiet, outgoing where he was introverted, gregarious where he was selfish, courageous where he was cowardly. Try as he might, Essek could not imagine Verin doing the things he had done, for the Dynasty or against it, for mere power.

"Very little," he concluded. "I did try to look out for him, but for all that we share in origin, we are very different people. There is no discarded timeline with a Shadowhand Verin."

Caleb considered this thoughtfully for a moment and then tossed a card down with his verdict: "That last assertion is unfalsifiable." Essek raised an eyebrow and tossed a card down. Yes, he supposed it was... for now...

Thump. Caleb slid the pile crowned by two Kings toward himself with a satisfied grin. "You know this game is very unfair to you, Herr Thelyss." There was a spark of mischief in his eyes, and Essek felt the chill in his chest begin to ease. "What with my being so much younger than you, better reflexes and all of that."

Essek scoffed and shook his head, a grin returning to his face. The nerve. "Oh, we'll see about that."

#baby's first ficlet #first one posted to the worldwide web anyway #please be gentle #caleb widogast #essek thelyss #shadowgast #a little but mostly Essek thinkin about his brother #verin thelyss #Apologies to anyone who speaks Finnish if the Google Translates are terrible #my writing tag

[totiredtowrite]

"Ｔｈｅ Ｂａｒｔｅｎｄｅｒ"

Warnings - Alcohol, cursing, brief mention of seggs, the word prostitute if that means something to you

Note: Guess what, I made the dni thing bigger ehe 🤪. Also I need more Iwa works on my page

FEM READERS DO NOT INTERACT (SHE/HER, SHE/THEY)

/̵͇̿̿/’̿’̿ ̿ ̿̿ ̿̿ ̿̿

Iwaizumi Hajime was a rather popular man.

The reason being, of course, that he was the bartender.

Most everybody knew about him. The strong, handsome, man who worked at the saloon. Sleeves rolled to his elbows, the occasional charming smile, strong arms and cut jaw. If you've seen how he interacts with his childhood friend, the salesman who hangs around the bar, you'd almost think he was stubborn and rude.

While correct about the stubborn part, he was charming when he wanted to be. Good with people, good at his job, attractive. He was everything a bartender needed to be.

Of course, his job also meant dealing with the less pleasant people. Drunken idiots, the occasional prostitute who he usually just gave money and sent on their way with some kind words, those who ugly cried in the corner tables about how fucked up their situation was. (He felt pity for the last group of people, though it really wasn't his problem. Or his business).

Lastly, he got hit on. A lot.

Granted, a lot of people who tried to get in his pants were shit faced. So far gone that they probably couldn't remember their own name. Still, there was a decent number of people who were stone cold sober. As much as he hates to admit it, he actually likes the attention, to an extent. Pretty people fall at his feet, though many were...shallow. That surface level attention was nice in the moment, but he knew none of them would be able to provide the connection he wants.

The most he'd get from any given person who came through for his attention was a one night stand and some pretty words. Come sunrise, and they're gone.

Iwaizumi sighed, setting down the glass he was polishing. It was nearing the end of the night, only a few people left at the bar. While the business was open at all hours, (Iwaizumi works nights), there was a time when business slowed tremendously. A drunkard in the corner, a regular, was babbling nonsense about something to the woman across from him. There was a new woman with him every other night.

With another sigh, Iwaizumi put up the glass and leaned against the counter, watching the door with boredom. He was young, he was desirable, and he was giving up the idea that he'd get some sappy romance. Working at a bar, seemingly untouchable or unreal to the people around, was just going to be his life wasn't it?

He got up to turn around, when the sound of the door swinging open stopped him.

"I do hope this place isn't closed." A small laugh left your mouth.

Hajime turned around, breath catching in his throat. You were easily the most beautiful man he'd seen in what felt like forever. Even if other people, (or you), thought you weren't all that, he could say otherwise. And he would.

You tilted your head at his lack of response. "Hello?"

Snapping out of it, he shook his head furiously. "Of course we're- we're always open."

You gave him another one of those beautiful grateful smiles, taking a seat in front of him at the bar. You slipped off your overcoat, adjusting your vest. "M'sorry, I'm new in town," you chuckled. Iwaizumi let his eyes wander from your face to your, obviously expensive, clothing.

"Yeah?" Iwaizumi said, cursing his voice for cracking in the middle of the word. Thankfully, you didn't seem to notice. And if you did you hadn't commented on it.

You nodded. "It's obvious, isn't it?"

He laughed awkwardly, nodding yes. "Do you, uh, want anything?" He rubbed his hands together. No way in hell was he going to lose his cool over a pretty man.

"I dunno," you let out an exhale as you pondered. "You can pick. I don't usually drink."

He turned to find whatever the best thing in the saloon was. In truth, Iwaizumi didn't drink much either. With his back to you, he popped the cap off of the most expensive looking liquor in his cabinet. Biting his lip, he pondered what to say. It's not every day that some otherworldly looking new guy walks into his bar, after all.

"So..." he eventually started, "Ya staying long?"

"Mm," you rested your head in your hand. "Just moved in, not leaving any time soon. Can't tell you the details of my job, but it's...tiring."

He scoffed in agreement. "I know what you mean," he turned around and slid a glass over to you. "Well obviously I don't get paid as much as you probably do, but night shifts aren't fun. 'Specially not here."

You hummed. "I guess you've gotta deal with a ton of people, huh?"

Iwaizumi grunted in approval, absentmindedly watching you take a tentative sip of your drink. "Drunks, my dumbass best friend, people who wanna get in my pants," he sighed.

You looked up to take a better look at him. "Can't blame them," you giggled. "You in a relationship? Got a woman? Or a man. I won't judge."

Iwaizumi shrugged, feeling himself blush at your compliment. "Nope. Not like I'm opposed to either, but," he sighed in the middle of his sentence, "Finding well meaning people here is hard."

You traced your glass. "Tell me about it. I can't make a meaningful connection with someone for the life of me."

Iwaizumi laughed. It was a nice sound, sort of hoarse and rocky. "Then I guess we can be hopeless romantics together, can't we?" He smiled at you softly. His previous nerves about being faced with a man who may or may not reject him, (or even be into guys), have disappeared. Being around you felt...nice. Comfortable.

You hummed out a 'yes' into your glass, giving him a small smile. "I'm (y/n)," you said when you looked up. "How about you?"

He knew he was getting progressively more red. "Hajime."

"Well, Hajime," you sat up straight, "I guess we'll be seeing each other often."

No doubt about it, Iwaizumi was falling further and further into this hole. This stupid hole of feelings for a man he just met. "Yeah," he fought the stutter in his voice, "I guess we will."

~

Do not repost, translate, or copy my work on to other platforms.

#hq x male reader #m!reader #anime x male reader #x male reader #male reader #haikyuu x male reader #iwaizumi x male reader #iwaizumi hajime x male reader

[sprawa-przybyszewskiej]

I cannot claim to know about this play more than some others (Ewa Graczyk, Jagoda Hernik-Spalińska, Kazimiera Ingdahl and Maria Janion, in alphabetical order, are the official Horsewomen of the Apocalypse in this topic), with a lot to bring to the table, and so I will sometimes discuss parts of it which are - at the very least at the first glance - absolutely and doubtlessly simple; but  by discussing them I hope to be able to bring into the discussion some new material, new evidence, perhaps - for the contrary of the popular belief.

I remember when I first read the scene between Danton and Robespierre, I was completely mystified, just as Maxime. To somebody who at that point knew nothing about the historical events, the exchange between them was very logical (and everyone knows how hard it is to obtain, especially in a piece of media where the author blatantly favours one of the characters over another). I am very glad then, to be able to say that while Przybyszewska did everything she could to humiliate and belittle Danton in the more visual aspects of the scene - his gestures, movements, actions, mimicry, even the sound of his voice etc.  - she didn't bother making him out to be a complete clown. His arguments are populistic, but that's not necessarily a bad thing when you're n politician aspiring to be even more than that. Perhaps she thought that painting him out to be a weakling would somehow diminish Robespierre's awesomeness, which is a valid concern. For Robepsierre has little left to do in this scene - it is made out to ba a confrontation between them, of sorts, but is it one, really? I don't think so, not for the large part of it. Robespierre comes in, dishes out few sarcastic lines, looks at Danton with disgust and contempt and then crushes him in a yet another sarcastic line and then leaves. There isn't that much he can do not only to participate in the exchange, but to be visually and audially appealing to the audience as a character in a play. And even though we all know staging The Danton Case is a secondary affair, the main thing you can do with it is to read it and ponder over it, when you do stage it, a lot of responsibility rests on the actors recreating the part. Which is why choosing a good actor can, potentially, make all the difference, sometimes going as far as completely changing the way you view the very same scene you read earlier.

I have always assumed by "the same man" they meant Robespierre. It makes some sense in the light of the conversation, altough I have to admit it makes little sense in the light of Robespierre's reaction. The question thus presented to us is: do we go by what is written, do we percieve a play as a piece of fiction in a real world, OR do we immerse ourselves in the fictional world, suspend our disbelief and for a moment treat it as an alternate reality of sorts?

Polish director Jan Klata has managed to put on stage a compelling retelling of The Danton Case and I would like to present to you a scene from his version, which we're lucky enough to have on YT, with translation courtesy of @that-one-revolutionary​. I've seen the play in its entirety: some metaphors were heavy-handed to say the least, some aspects I wish he'd done differently, but all in all, when choosing the main protagonist, the director casted in the role a truly splendid actor (please note that Marcin Czarnik was young. Young! It made all of the difference and it's worth watching if only for that), who brought home some of the points of character of Robespierre's which could have easily been brushed aside in order to highlight some other aspects of the conversation (the most famous example of this would be the very same scene from Wajda's movie, where the appealing and in all aspects imposing Gerard Depardieu dominantes the scene, thus presentign it in a very different ligt). While it can be read as a political statement, or a match of two great personalities, or a display of cunning on either part, Klata (or Czarnik; it's hard for me to say what the director tried to do with it, a lot of Robespierre's quirks, mimicry, gestures etc. seemed to come directly from the actor, which I can only say because I've seen him in other things and that's sort of his style of acting; all in all, I'll try to treat this not as a discussion over this particular staging, because for that I lack needed data, but it's unavoidable in the long run at least at some points, so please bear that in mind) treats the conversation itself as a minor thing in comparision to what is going on in Maxime's mind at the moment.  Just look at this: there is no significance brought into their meeting, no change of the scenery, nothing indicates this meeting is special in any way. The logical conclusion is, then:  it's not special. Both Danton and Robespierre seem to treat this as a step which cannot be avoided, but which bears no great weight either. The only reason they agreed to make this step altogether is - for "the same man". For Camille.

I do think Przybyszewska's intention was actually to disguise Maxime under this vague title. If this is a play about love - as I will always state it is - she wanted to underline the fact some people will be hatefully loved by those who are beneath them, who have nothing whatsoever in common with the object of their affection simply because the loved one is so great, so genius, so shining and bright it is impossible not to love them. I think this is the relationship between Danton and Robespierre (that is, on Danton's part) up until this point in the play. Danton idolizes Robespierre against his will (against both of their wills, really), because Robespierre is truly made out to be a demi-god at the very least. If you could team up with a hero like this, you should. So Danton goes through a humiliating process of trying to reconcile with Maxime, because humiliation, if everything paid off in the end, would be worth it. That Robespierre doesn't reciprocate the affection is simply a further proof that he is above Danton in every way.

Klata-Czarnik duo seems to have gone into another, subtler direction though. The man that both politicians make an exception for seems to be Camille, moreso because Robespierre loves him than because Danton has any special feelings for him. What is his relationship with Camille, anyway? They are cordial enough, but always a bit on the edge, and we know that Danton doesn't know everything that Camille thinks and feels in regards to Robespierre, mostly because he doesn't care that much, but also because he is characterised as a brute, and this simply goes above his head, it's too subtle, too delicate of a feeling for him to know it. It is also clear he knows Camille pretty well, but he doesn't know his soul, so to say. Therefore, he cannot actually love him, not to the point to make him the one and only excpetion from his otherwise coldly and precisley calculated plans.

Is there, however, a scenario in which Camille could be Danton's exception? Yes, when it becomes more about Robepierre than about Camille. When Camille is sort of offered as a mean to lure Robepierre in. Danton could make this exception only if it meant getting what he wanted (which is later mirrored by his blatant admission that the only reason he lets Camille take the fall with him is to deny Robespierre any joy in life after this point).

Robespierre, however, doesn't see it this way. He actually makes the exception for Camille and I think Danton's words – whatever he means by them, whichever interpretation we think is correct – put him on alert, for the fear of having his secret discovered. In the video linked above it is even more than that – once Robespierre hears Danton indirectly name "the same man", he gets aggressively defensive. For him to have someone like Danton talk almost openly about what he treats as his personal secret (a secret that Danton, being in great familiarity with Camille, could potentially know for certain) is equal with defiling it. I have violated your secret. Do you know what he says in the original? I have raped your secret. It really brings into the focus how much “the secret” needs to be protected, and how much it will hurt Maxime once it’s uncovered and destroyed.This is what he fears pretty much for the entirety of the conversation, his suspiscion somewhat confirmed when Danton says: No catchphrases, Robespierre. I know you.

As I mentioned earlier, the shift in my reading of the scene was prompted by the video. It is worth observing what exactly does Robespierre do when mentioing Camille by surname – he gets visibly more upset, he ponders for a split second for the best way to talk about him. His choice of words is interesting as well:

Both translations here are poor and I quite like what that-one-revolutionary did with it. "Katarynka" is a music-box, so "an instrument" fits much better (not to mention the obvious English connection to the phrase "play like a fiddle", which is adequate here). A parrots is after all a living being, something with a will of its own, if steered by more powerful handlers. But admitting that Camille, from his own free will decided to go against Maxime and everything that Maxime believes in is much harder for Robespierre than calling him an inanimate object, which can be unwittingly used by people with their own agenda. That leaves Camille almost blameless, perhaps careless and foolish, but not responsible fo anything that has transpired.Calling him names serves another purpose as well, which is to steer away the suspiscion that Robespierre protects Camille becuase he cares about him in a special way. He knows there are Danton's accomplices turning ears by the door, so he doesn't want to give himself away with his care and concern.

Ultimately, what do you believe, whom do you think they were referring to I think says a lot about what you think about Maxime's state of mind at the time. Danton's too, though, it can be used as a litmus test whater or not you believe he was honest in idolising Robespierre and offering him his adoration and obedience. In some stagings it will be presented as true, in some as a lie, and that's the beauty of adapting a piece of literature, there are so many options, all blooming from the same roots.

#sprawa dantona #the danton case #L'Affaire Danton #stanisława przybyszewska #stanislawa przybyszewska #maximilien robespierre #maksymilian robespierre #kamil desmoulins #camille desmoulins #georges danton #jerzy danton

[haillenarte]

white day 2020;

Here is a full translation of the (thus far) Japanese-exclusive White Day 2020 Developer’s Blog post.

First, the dry translator’s disclaimers: I acknowledge that this post is four months old. Once upon a time, I was the sort of fan translator who would have rushed to get this done within a week of its posting, but in this case, I was busy with the Ishgardian Restoration Skybuilders’ Ranking when it was first posted, and then after that... well, I just busied myself with other things. I was tempted to skip doing this one completely, but then I felt obligated to complete the series given that I’d translated the post from 2018, so... goodbye to my Saturday morning and afternoon, I suppose.

This post is intended as a polished translation on par with official content. As such, I have taken certain liberties with the text: though it was originally in more or less a script format, I embellished it to make it a prose post consistent with other English developer’s blog posts. Most of the moogle’s narration was invented by me in order to preserve humor and narrative flow. This is nothing that the localization team itself does not do. I can assure you that the core details remain essentially intact and untouched.

If you would prefer to read a more literal take on this text, I am sure that more than a few rough translations exist of it already, so please look for someone else’s post if you want something that’s more of a word-for-word take.

Special thanks to the person I trust best to write Urianger’s dialogue for helping me with Urianger’s dialogue, and then to a second good friend for Elizabethan grammar-checking the both of us!

Happy White Day, Kupo!

March 13, 2020

It’s ever so nice to speak with you again, kupo!

Do you remember me from the last report, perchance? ‘Tis I, the ever-industrious deputy postmoogle’s apprentice! The rising star that’s, ahem, still training to become a full-fledged postmoogle... kupopo...

This Valentione’s Day — like every Valentione’s Day — we postmoogles were once again entrusted with delivering confessions of love all throughout the realm. So I’m here to give you an exclusive rundown on how my deliveries unfolded, kupo!

First, I tapped into my considerable experience as an aspiring postmoogle to... erm... take care of the most difficult delivery on my list before all the rest. A-As any professional would, obviously!

...Phew!

Oh, it was such a relief that he was asleep when I dropped by, kupopo... I thought my heart was going to thump straight out of my fluffy chest! My paws might have been severed... my pom plucked...

Honestly, I was of the distinct opinion that I had done more than my fair share of the year’s work after that, kupo, but of course I tirelessly flew away to my next destination without complaint!

The second set of Valentione’s Day packages in my delivery satchel were meant for Lord Hien of Doma!

Lord Hien greeted me himself, kupo, friendly as ever. "Ah, the postmaster — right on time as always!” he said, a little breathlessly. “You have my thanks. Would you just leave your deliveries on that table so that they come to no harm?”

What harm? I was more a bit confused, but then I realized that he was in the middle of some sort of... game?

He was running around, being chased by the leader of the Buduga clan, kupo. I suppose they were in the middle of an extremely spirited game of tag! How fun! I remember when I was a young moogle playing tag with my friends, floating in circles with the wind in my whiskers... Oh, for those halcyon days! 

Daidukul received a fair bit of stuff from his admirers, too, kupo. More than Magnai, that’s for sure...

Then Isse looked at me as I was laying out everyone’s packages. “Oh, the postmoogle’s arrived?” he asked. “Um, by any chance, are you the one who delivered the year-end gifts from last time? I meant to give my thanks to the person who sent me something then...”

Of course, I told him that would be perfectly fine!

After all, even when it’s not Valentione’s Day, it’s the responsibility of a delivery moogle — or delivery person — to ensure that all the tender feelings they’ve been entrusted with reach their intended recipients. That’s why there’s no better job for me than being a postmoogle!

After my business in Doma was concluded, I flew back to Eorzea, kupo.

I’m a real go-getter — and someone really ought to tell the deputy postmoogle of my great work ethic — so I darted straight to the Black Shroud to unload my paws of all the packages I had for the people there. And what luck! As fortune would have it, I met one of my delivery targets on the road: Sanson Smyth!

“Happy Valentione’s Day, Sanson!” I chirped. “I have some very special deliveries for you and your usual companion!”

“Companion?” Sanson repeated. He sounded a little incredulous. “Er, no, that’s not quite right — it would really be more accurate to call him a vexing subordinate... Regardless, if it is Guydelot you seek, he is no doubt at his usual tavern. Would you like me to walk there with you?”

Oh, but of course I did, kupo! Sanson’s such a thoughtful, helpful man, isn’t he? It was so very nice of him to ask.

Taverns are where travelers go to rest, so they seem like such wonderful places to meet other people, kupo...

Once I’d finished with my deliveries in the Shroud, I let the cool northern winds carry me straight to Ishgard, kupo. And what change it’s gone through! The city was just bustling with the reconstruction effort!

I told Edmont (Count Edmont? Lord Edmont? So confusing!) that I’d come to deliver joyful tidings of love to everyone in House Fortemps again, kupo!

And to Ser Aymeric as well, of course!

And... well, I had a whole sack of things to give to Estinien, but just like last time, he wasn’t anywhere to be found. Since writing his name on it and leaving it by the window seemed to work last Valentione’s Day, I asked Aymeric if I should do the same this year, but... kupopo... He didn’t quite seem to approve of the idea. 

“We’ve received word from our men afield that Estinien may no longer be operating in Ishgard,” Aymeric explained, “so it may not be enough merely to leave his gifts by the nearest window and expect him to come across them.”

My pom drooped a bit at this pronouncement, kupo. After all, how was I going to deliver Estinien’s presents if even the Ishgardians couldn’t find him? Was it all hopeless, kupo?! All those packages to be returned to their senders... What a waste!

“No, well... Another report indicated some success in luring him with the scent of roasted kraken, seared by dragon’s breath. We might try that, if you’d like.”

I thought that seemed like a reasonable suggestion, but Edmont looked a little concerned. “Ser Aymeric, do you truly think — ?” he began, but then he seemed to change his mind. “...No, forget that I spoke. That being said, the restoration of the Firmament is proceeding apace, so I would exercise caution around undue use of fire...”

Well, I am nothing if not a cautious moogle, so I very carefully cooked up some delicious grilled kraken over an open fire, kupo. We postmoogles truly go above and beyond for our work!

I left his packages with the salted cephalopod as it was roasting, so I’ll bet he was thrilled to find everything set up for him!

I didn’t forget to make deliveries to this place either, kupo.

Whenever I come here, the atmosphere of the room feels so... so holy, kupo. As if the very air is clear... but empty, too. Do you know what I mean?

I cleaned up my posture before I left, kupo, and then it was off to finish the rest of the deliveries!

I had successfully shared everyone’s expressions of love with all sorts of people in Eorzea, and now it was time for... um... the impossible, kupo. You see, I still had a whole stack of especially challenging deliveries to make to the First!

We moogles have a lot of special tricks up our poms, kupo, but even I can’t possibly visit another shard without a bit of help... 

I really hadn’t the foggiest idea how to get there, so I wound up consulting the helpful folks at the Eighteenth Floor to ask them how I could get to the First!

And do you know what? They were so nice, kupo! They said that because Valentione’s Day was such a special day, and because they wanted to accommodate everyone’s heartfelt feelings, they’d let me use a special door that would take me safely to the First. Though it was not without... stipulations...

They handed me an enchanted pocket watch and said that if I failed to return before the hand on the watch made a full turn around the clock, I’d never be able to go back to Eorzea again, kupo.

Terrifying! Utterly terrifying! What other job would possibly ask you to put your existence as you know it on the line, kupo?!

But I am, as I’ve said, a professional beyond compare... so I made up my mind and zipped right through that door!

...I admit, I passed out and lost consciousness as I was traveling between the worlds, kupo. But when I came to, I was in a beautiful purple forest, and I could vaguely hear someone calling for me!

So I bounced back into the air and fluttered off to the Crystal Tower, kupo!

Naturally, the first First resident I delivered packages to was the Crystal Exarch. I had things to give him as the Crystal Exarch, and... other things to give him, too, kupo. Presents from a different time, from when he went by a different name. 

Now, I must admit, I’ve never quite understood his situation, but I did dutifully deliver his Valentione’s Day gifts each and every year! I simply wasn’t able to enter the Crystal Tower, so I would leave them at the entrance, kupo. I told him this, and then I asked him if he’d received them.

...But he didn’t answer me, kupo! He just started crying!

What was a poor moogle to do? I mean, you’ll notice our paws aren’t exactly great for wiping tears away. Had I made a terrible mistake after all? Should I not have done that?

“No,” the Exarch said, shaking his head. “No, you... you have done nothing wrong, little moogle. Forgive me. Let us move on. We must needs formulate a plan to keep you safe as you navigate this shard.“

I was very grateful to have made the acquaintance of such a cooperative colleague, kupo! With his help, I charted a path through Norvrandt that would let me finish my deliveries in time.

Next time, though, I hope I’m given a bit more time to take in the sights. I still think of those beautiful flowers in Il Mheg, and all the sights and sounds in that luxurious seaside city, Eulmore...

The Scions of the Seventh Dawn were there on some sort of business trip, I suppose, and of course they received as many gifts as ever, kupopo. I was very pleased to meet young Ryne for the first time, though!

She was delighted to meet me too, I do believe, and when I explained to her what Valentione’s Day was all about, she smiled and said, “It’s so wonderful that there are such beautiful holidays on the Source!”

“I’m sure Norvrandt will begin celebrating its own holidays before long, now that it isn’t under threat of the Light,” Thancred told her. “If you want, you can start a holiday of your own, with your friends.”

“That’s true,” Ryne giggled.

Urianger was especially pleased to see Ryne smile, kupo! Er, what was it he said again? “Pray enjoy thy gifts, to the delight of those who give thee affection.” Something like that, kupo? And also, um... “Have care lest thou shouldst cross paths with pixies and their kin, for therein lieth a penchant for mischief most troublesome.”

Yes, that was it, kupo!

Seeing everyone smile made my heart feel all warm and fuzzy too, kupo. I realize I’m always warm and fuzzy, but I mean extraordinarily so!

After ensuring that all of my packages arrived in the hands of their recipients on land, I then had to travel all the way to the bottom of the deep blue sea. It still boggles my mind that people on the First live beneath the ocean waves, kupo!

It took me some time to find someone who would respond to me, but I managed it eventually. “Why, hello there!” I said. “Yes, you, the tall fellow over there! Do you know where I might find someone by the name of Emet-Selch? I’ve a long story that I haven’t the time to tell, but to cut it all short, I have a pile of presents that I must see into his hands!”

I couldn’t quite make out the tall fellow’s face behind his mask, but I got the impression that he was smiling at me, kupo. “You are troubled, little one. Yes, I understand... If you would deliver these glad tidings to him, then let me give you a helping hand. Here.”

Poof! 

I couldn’t believe my eyes, kupo! With a snap of his fingers, the tall man made all my packages for Emet-Selch disappear into bits of light!

This wasn’t in any of the procedural manuals the deputy postmoogle made me memorize back-to-front, so I admit I might have panicked a little bit... but the tall fellow calmed me down soon enough.

“Even sweet gifts such as those you bear are only masses of aether,” he explained. “Once reduced to their base components, they will go to where he is — where all life eventually arrives. Be at ease, child. Whatever his faults in character, our lord of the dead and king of the underworld is an exceedingly clever man. No matter how vast the sea of life may be, he will surely be able to pluck his presents from the aetherial flow... supposing he desires to do so, that is.”

Now, I didn’t truly understand the finer points of this explanation, kupo... but the masked man seemed sincere about getting those gifts to Emet-Selch, so I decided to believe that he hadn’t done any harm.

I wanted to thank him for his help, but then he was gone in the blink of an eye! Even though I was in the middle of speaking with him when he vanished!

The citizens of that place are so mysterious, kupopo...

After all that was said and done, kupo, I had one final delivery to make. Just one last addressee to track down, and then I’d be finished, kupo!

And I really put my all into it. I swear upon my postmoogle’s cap and bag! I looked everywhere, every mountain high and valley low, but I simply couldn’t track him down.

The time left on my pocket watch was starting to run out, kupo, so I had to accept defeat. Disappointed, dragging my drooping pom behind me, I made my way back to the door between worlds, which already looked like it was in danger of disappearing, and leapt through the gates...

Mayhap I had cut it so close to the last second that something went wrong, kupo?

I passed out again, and when I came to, I was rolling around on an unfamiliar grassy knoll... while someone was poking at me to wake up, kupo!

What luck! What incredible luck! It was the very person I’d been searching for, for all that time, up until the very last second — Ardbert!

I almost cried and threw myself at him, I was so happy! To think that I would find him like this! “Ardbert, Ardbert!” I said, like he was an old friend. “I finally found you! I had all these presents to give you, kupo!”

He laughed and took it all in stride, though this must have been greatly puzzling to him. “What’s this? Another reward for the quest we just finished?”

“No, it’s not, kupo!” I replied, perhaps a little more crossly than I should have. “Here, this is for you! Take this, and this, and this! It’s all yours, kupo! Each package represents someone’s feelings for you, kupo! Everyone loves you so much!”

“Careful, now — oh, these look delicious!” he exclaimed, affably embarrassed as he sorted through the boxes I was admittedly pelting him with. “And this is all for me? You’re sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure, kupo! Eat them all up and have more faith in yourself, Ardbert!”

His eyes crinkled at their corners when he smiled. “Hahah! You’ve got a point. Then I’ll share these with my friends just over there. My thanks for bringing them all this way here, postmoogle. You’ve done a great job.”

...

...

I don’t quite remember what happened after that, kupo...

When I came to, I was lying on the counter of the Seventh Heaven, evidently having dozed off next to that Wandering Minstrel fellow. At first, I thought perhaps meeting Ardbert in that strange world had been nothing but a dream, but when I checked my postmoogle’s bag, I realized that it was much lighter, kupo!

So I really had met him, and I really had completed all my deliveries!

This year’s Valentione’s Day deliveries were arduous and difficult, kupo, but at the end of the day, I really did have a lot of fun. 

I delivered all of your love to everyone else, kupo... and now I’m here to deliver their love back to you!

One more time, for everyone’s sake: Happy White Day, kupo!

#ardbert #aymeric #crystal exarch #edmont #emet-selch #estinien #g'raha tia #guydelot #heavens' ward #hien #hythlodaeus #isse #ryne #sanson #solus zos galvus #thancred #urianger #zenos #white day #ffxiv #ffxiv translation

[elderbloodlore]

Calanthe was not a racist homicidal tyrant: a useless and bitter rant of someone whose favourite character ever got mercilessly butchered.

WHY ARE YOU WRITING THIS? 

Well, let me give you a little bit of a backstory. I first read the Last Wish and the Sword of Destiny in 2012, when I was 14 years old. I instantly connected with the character of Calanthe, and after her death, it took me nearly a year to be able to pick up the saga itself. Ever since, she remained my favourite fictional character ever. As a little girl in misoginistic Poland, I was so lucky to have her as a role model. Because she fought for herself, she took no shit from anybody, she had love and respect of the people around her, and yet she had such tenderness and kindness about her that many strong woman-trope characters are missing these days, and that is exactly what happened to Calanthe when she was being translated to the screen. In 2015 The Wild Hunt was coming out and there were rumours of Ciri being included, so you can imagine my absolute glee and the hope I was filled with to have some more content with that one woman that meant so much to me growing up. And you can imagine my disappointment when all we got about her were a couple tiny mentions, even though the events of the Wild Hunt happen not even a decade after her death. Then the show by Netflix was announced and, once again, I had super high expectations. I wanted to see the wise, kind, beautiful Queen brought alive. December 2019 rolls in, and my hopes are being steamrolled. So here I am, 22 years old and crying over a fictional character, because one of the best written female characters ever (in my opinion) entered mainstream as a bullish, racist, homicidal tyrant. So let me address the biggest changes the show made to my beloved Calanthe Fiona Riannon, the Lioness of Cintra.

THE LOOKS 

That was obviously the first thing that threw me off. I was quite enthusiastic when the cast was announced, but then as the first promo pictures were released, my enthusiasm was slowly dying down. In the books, Calanthe’s looks are adressed very often: 

 “As before, the queen wore emeralds matching the green of her dress and her eyes. As before, a thin gold crown encircled her ash-gray hair.” Sword of Destiny. 

I tried to convince myself that Jodhi May won’t be a bad Calanthe so hard that I actually made this poor ass EDIT to feed my delusions and cheer myself up. In comparison, HERE is my personal favourite art of Calanthe that I find is the most accurate to the book portrayal. 

Even when the first trailer dropped I was still trying to convince myself that even though she has none of her Elder Blood features or her iconic emerald green, that she wore exclusively in the books, she couldn’t be that bad. Right? Wrong. 

THE DEMEANOR 

This is probably the biggest change. Calanthe was one of the wisest, most gracefully-written characters in the entire saga, and I really hoped to see that on screen. She was quick-witted, calculating, but at the same time caring enough to let her daughter choose her own destiny in the end (even if it was to be with a hedgehog-headed man twice her age). Her smiles were said to always be full of kindness, she was acting very proper and clearly cared about her image. I’m not going to be getting too much into it with my own words, let these examples speak for me:

'Ah, Geralt,' said Calanthe, with a gesture forbidding a servant from refilling her goblet. 'I speak and you remain silent. We're at a feast. We all want to enjoy ourselves. Amuse me. I'm starting to miss your pertinent remarks and perceptive comments. I'd also be pleased to hear a compliment or two, homage or assurance of your obedience. In whichever order you choose.' [...]  'Hochebuz,'  said Calante, looking at Geralt,  'my first battle. Although I fear rousing the indignation and contempt of such a proud witcher, I confess that we were fighting for money. Our enemy was burning villages which paid us levies and we, greedy for our tributes, challenged them on the field. A trivial reason, a trivial battle, a trivial three thousand corpses pecked to pieces by the crows. And look - instead of being ashamed I'm proud as a peacock that songs are sung about me. Even when sung to such awful music' Again she summoned her parody of a smile full of happiness and kindness, and answered the toast raised to her by lifting her own, empty, goblet. Geralt remained silent. The Last Wish.

'Aha,' said Calanthe quietly, clearly pleased. 'And what do you say, Geralt? The girl has taken after her mother. It's even a shame to waste her on that red-haired lout, Crach. The only hope is that the pup might grow into someone with Eist Tuirseach's class. It's the same blood, after all. Are you listening, Geralt? Cintra has to form an alliance with Skellige because the interest of the state demands it. My daughter has to marry the right person. Those are the results you must ensure me.' The Last Wish.

‘Very well then. As queen, I shall convene a council tomorrow. Cintra is not a tyranny. The council will decide whether a dead king's oath is to decide the fate of the successor to the throne. It will decide whether Pavetta and the throne of Cintra are to be given to a stranger, or to act according to the kingdom's interest.'  The Last Wish.

'Pavetta!' Calanthe repeated. 'Answer. Do you choose to leave with this creature?' Pavetta raised her head. 'Yes.' The Force filling the hall echoed her, rumbling hollowly in the arches of the vault. No one, absolutely no one, made the slightest sound. Calanthe very slowly, collapsed into her throne. Her face was completely expressionless. The Last Wish.

Guards, armed with guisarmes and lances, ran in from the entrance. Calanthe, upright and threatening, with an authoritative, abrupt gesture indicated Urcheon to them. Pavetta started to shout, Eist Tuirseach to curse. Everyone jumped up, not quite knowing what to do. ‘Kill him!' shouted the queen. The Last Wish.

CINTRA, RACISM AND MURDERING HER OWN PEOPLE 

In the books, Cintra was often mentioned to be obiding by the rules of the elves: 

‘Dear child,’ said Vesemir gravely, 'don’t let yourself get carried away by your emotions. You were brought up differently, you’ve seen children being brought up in another way. Ciri comes from the south where girls and boys are brought up in the same way, like the elves. She was put on a pony when she was five and when she was eight she was already riding out hunting. She was taught to use a bow, javelin and sword. A bruise is nothing new to Ciri—’ Blood of Elves.

There were many elves and dwarves living peacefully within its borders. Calanthe’s two names - Fiona and Riannon, come from her ancestors that are respectively a quarter and a half elf, and known to be that. Calanthe was the one who taught Ciri that non-humans are not dangerous:

‘I’m not afraid at all!’ Ciri suddenly cried, assuming her little devil face for a moment. ‘And I’m not parrotised! So you’d better watch your step! Nothing can happen to me here. Be sure! I’m not afraid. My grandmamma says that dryads aren’t evil, and my grandmamma is the wisest woman in the world! My grandmamma… My grandmamma says there should be more forests like this one…’ Sword of Destiny.

There was no actual reason nor basis for the showrunners to make her racist and make her murder elves. Having her walk into her own daughter’s birthday party, bathed in elven blood, while she knows that the same blood flows in her own veins, at least partially, was completely unnecessary. Even in the polish version of the show from 2001 Calanthe said: 

RELATIONSHIP WITH GERALT 

This probably hits me the most on personal level, because I feel like Calanthe had a huge impact on Geralt’s growth as a character, and with such a drastic change to their relationship, I’m unsure as to he will now proceed to develop. Calanthe was, in large, one of the first people in the books that treated Geralt as anything more than a mutant. Here are some of my favourite scenes between the two, in comparison with how their relationship was portrayed in the show:

"At times, no, for years at a time, I deluded myself that you might forget. Or that for other reasons you might be prevented from coming. No, I didn't want anything unfortunate to happen to you, but I had to take into consideration the dangerous nature of your profession. It is said that death follows in your footsteps, Geralt of Rivia, but that you never look behind you. Then... when Pavetta... You know already?" "I know," Geralt said, inclining his head. "My sincere condolences..." "No," she interrupted, "it was all long ago. I no longer wear mourning clothes, as you see. I wore them for long enough.” Sword of Destiny.

He slowly pushed the cup on the table so that the clink of silver on malachite would not betray the uncontrollable trembling of his arm. "You don't deny it?" "No." She bent to seize his hand with vigor. "You disappoint me," she said, giggling prettily. "This isn't voluntary," he responded, laughing as well. "How did you guess, Calanthe?" "I did not guess." She did not release his hand. "I said it at random, that's all." They broke out in laughter. Sword of Destiny.

"I will not take it. It is too great a responsibility, one that I refuse to assume. I would not want for this child to speak about you the way... the way I..." "You hate this woman, Geralt?" "My mother? No, Calanthe. I doubt that she was given a choice... or perhaps she had no say? No, she had, you know, enough formulas and elixirs... Choice. There is a sacred and incontestable choice of every woman that must be respected. Emotions are of no importance here. She had the indisputable right to make such a choice. That's what she did. But I think about meeting her, the expression on her face then... it gives me a sort of perverse pleasure, if you understand what I mean." Sword of Destiny.

A rosebush grew next to the gazebo. Geralt plucked a flower, breaking its stem and then knelt, his head bowed, presenting the flower in his hands. "I regret that I did not meet you sooner, white-haired one," she said, accepting the offered rose. "Rise." He rose. "If you change your mind," she went on, sniffing the flower, "if you decide... Return to Cintra. I will wait for you. Your destiny will be waiting for you, as well. Perhaps not advitam aeternam, but for some time, no doubt." "Farewell, Calanthe." "Farewell, witcher. Look after yourself. I... I sometimes feel... in a strange way... that I am seeing you for the last time." "Farewell, my queen." Sword of Destiny.

FALL OF CINTRA AND CALANTHE’S DEATH 

We were robbed of so many epic scenes that truly took away from Calanthe’s millitary accomplishments and showed none of the strength and determination she originally had: 

"The Nilfgaardians dealt the first blow," he began after a moment of silence. "There were thousands. They met with the armies of Cintra in the Marnadal valley. The battle lasted all day: from dawn to dusk. Cintra's troops valiantly resisted before being decimated. The king died, and that's when the queen..." "Calanthe." "Yes. Seeing that her army had succumbed to panic and scattered, she gathered around herself and her standard any who could still fight and formed a line of defense that reached the river, next to the city. All the soldiers who were still able followed." "And Calanthe?" "With a handful of knights, she covered the troops' crossing and defended the rear. They say she fought like a man, plunging into the thick of the battle. She was impaled by pikes when she charged against the Nilfgaardian infantry. She was then evacuated to the city. What's in that flask, Geralt?" "Vodka. Want some?" "Well then, gladly." "Speak. Continue, Dandelion. Tell me everything." "The city wasn't properly defended. There was no headquarters. The defensive walls were empty. The rest of the knights and their families, the princes and the queen, barricaded themselves in the castle. The Nilfgaardians then took the castle after their sorcerers reduced the gate to cinders and burned down the walls. Only the tower, apparently protected by magic, resisted the spells of the Nilfgaardian sorcerers. Even so, the attackers penetrated inside four days later without making camp. The women had killed the children, the boys and girls, and fell upon their own swords or... What's is it, Geralt?" "Continue, Dandelion." "Or... like Calanthe... head first, from the battlement, the very top... It's said that she asked to be... but no-one would agree. So she climbed up to the crenelations and... jumped head first. They say they did horrible things to the corpse afterward. I don't want... What is it?” Sword of Destiny.

I understand that this happened because of limited screen time, probably, but the whole Fall of Cintra had been squeezed into what seemed to be a single day, a crushing defeat for Calanthe’s forces, and probably in some way, punishment for her pride. 

AFTER CALANTHE’S DEATH 

While reading the rest of the saga, these little snipits of people talking about Calanthe, mentioning her, often with respect and reverence, mentioning how her people mourned her and swore revange for her, truly kept me going through. I wished that, at the end, Ciri would find it in herself to return home and liberate it, as back then I had no way to spoil myself the ending. In the books, you can really feel the outrage almost all of Continent feels after the murder of Calanthe: 

[...] Cintra is a symbol. Remember Sodden! If it were not for the massacre of that town and Calanthe's martyrdom, there would not have been such a victory then. The forces were equal — no one counted on our crushing them like that. But our armies threw themselves at their throats like wolves, like rabid dogs, to avenge the Lioness of Cintra. Blood of Elves.

[...] Bear in mind that these men left their homes and families, and fled to Sodden and Brugge, and to Temeria, because they wanted to fight for Cintra, for Calanthe’s blood. They wanted to liberate their country, to drive the invader from Cintra, so that Calanthe’s descendant would regain the throne. Baptism of Fire.

In the show, there is none of that. In fact, people seem to be full of disdain and hatred for her, saying things such as: 

which, in turn, fills me with dread for the upcoming seasons, because I can already feel all the further butchery coming my beloved Queen’s way.

IN CONCLUSION

In all honestly, there is very little the Calanthe from the show has in common with the one from the books, the one I originally fell in love with. Which is not to say that Netflix’s Calanthe is not a great character in her own right, because who doesn’t love a badass sword-wielding Queen, but as a portrayal of the greatest ruler within the Witcher universe, and one of, in my opinion, best written female rules in literature, she falls flat, and that’s what pushed me to write this useless and slightly bitter rant, in hopes to maybe interest more people in the original version of Calanthe and maybe, just maybe, prompt some of you to read the saga or, at the very least, the short stories. 

#Calanthe fiona riannon #queen calanthe #anti-netflix #rant #ask to tag

[transformer-imagines]

Happy Together

No one asked for this, but I’m the one in control of the aux cord on this blog and I wanna indulge myself with some cute Dinobot shenanigans

Sludge (G1) x Bot!Reader (sfw)

2672 Words

Everyone and their creator knew that the Ark’s med bay was understaffed. Ratchet was the only one qualified enough to consider a doctor, so mechs tried to help out however they could. Being in the war for the better part of your life, you had picked up what medical knowledge you could in order to aid your comrades; you couldn’t offer much, but you tried to help Ratchet as much as you could. Normally this translated into running errands, taking basic vitals, or doing some patch work.

It was all hands on deck in the med bay today. A particularly nasty skirmish sent so many bots your way that anyone in non-critical condition was asked to sit on the floor. You were scurrying about between them, jotting down names and conditions on your datapad. Even the thick platted Dinobots hadn’t come out of the fight clean. The aspiring team medic, Swoop, was one of the few permitted a seat on an exam table, Wheeljack working to reattach his wing. He was the only Dinobot that you had ever really spoken to, being in and around the med bay so often. He was an excitable and enthusiastic young bot, not something anyone would be able to tell with the way his vocalizer was whining static.

His brothers had tried valiantly to remain with him in the med bay but were shooed out by Wheeljack; there were just too many injured bots for them to be taking up all that space. Only Sludge was allowed to stay, waiting to get patched up with the other mechs on the floor. You were saving him for last, not overly eager to face him; his intimidating size dwarfed most bots and the Dinobots weren’t well known for their friendly dispositions.

Eventually, you could put it off no longer. You tried your best to exude confidence and professionalism in your EM field as you approached. Sludge took notice, straightening up from tracing absentminded patterns on the floor panels to send a curious look your way. Oh Primus, he was sitting down and you barely even reached the top of his chassis.

“So, uh, you’re name’s Sludge, right? I’m Y/N.” He gave a hum in response, nodding his head in agreement that yes, his name was in fact Sludge. “Can you show me where you’re hurt?” He nodded again, moving his right pede out for you to inspect. What you could make out as his alt dino casing was shredded, jagged metal torn and fraying out from the wound.

“Right next to big explosion. Took out him Swoop. Lots of shrapnel, tore off wing and hit me in side.” He turned slightly and gestured to the kibble on his back. “More here.” You gestured for him to turn fully so you could inspect the damage as you jotted down his abridged account on your datapad. He was lucky his plating was so thick, as the force of the explosion probably would’ve hit major energon lines in any other bot. Most of his damage was superficial, deep as it was, though the shrapnel had managed to nick a few minor energon lines.

“There wouldn’t have been an explosion in the first place if it wasn’t for you ditzy dinos!” You finished jotting down the damage before looking sharply in the direction of the whiny outburst. Of course it was Huffer. “If you hadn’t given us away, none of us would be in here!”

“We’re all on the same team, Huffer,” you said with a wave of your servo. “So stop harassing patients or I’ll turn off your vocalizer.” A resounding laugh sounded from behind you.

“You must have a glitch in your memory core, Huffer,” said Hound. “The Dinobots gave us away by saving your tailpipe!”

“I could’ve taken care of it!”

You left the two to their bickering, patting your patient on his knee plating to get his attention. “You’re not too badly damaged. Since I got to you last for diagnostic, I’m gonna go ahead a patch you up first, okay?” You offered Sludge a kind smile, trying to provide better bedside manner than Huffer. He took it, returning your smile with one of his own and moving to expose the damage on his leg more as you fished around subspace for your welder and some titanium patches.

It certainly wasn’t the last time you saw Sludge. He had a knack for denting his plating, either over the course of sparing with his brothers or while out in the field. You would’ve thought that he’d just get Swoop to take care of it, but more and more frequently he would be stopping by the med bay; he said he liked how much quieter it was there than in the retrofitted cave the Dinobots had claimed as their own.

It was almost laughable how intimidating you found Sludge when you first met. He had a gentle spark, reserved and well-intentioned. Sure he didn’t have the fastest processor, but you couldn’t keep up with Perceptor either; and what was a smart mech worth if they weren’t also kind? You’d much rather spend time with Sludge than Shockwave. It didn’t hurt that he was a good listener, too. Despite what other Autobots might suggest, he had a good memory, asking for updates on personal projects that you had mentioned offhandedly the last time you saw him. And he had a creative mind! Swoop had been talking to you about how Sludge had recently taken up two-dimensional etching and drawing. And he had a handsome face, delicate touch when getting your attention, and –

Wait what? Hold on, were you…did you have a crush on Sludge? Oh Primus, this was just what you needed in the middle of a war. Still, you could do worse. And the spark wants what the spark wants… So what, maybe you did have a crush on him. You might as well try and see where it goes; in this war you had to make what joys you could.

“Is it just me or does Y/N look like they’re trying to court somebot?”

It was gossip time in the empty corridor, two mechs making good use of the late hour and lack of nearby audio receptors to concern themselves with the lives of others.

“You just noticed? Yea, I caught em in the wash polishing like it was going out of style,” Cliffjumper gave a short laugh at the memory. “You’da thunk I’d caught em sneaking extra rations with the way they bolted outta there.”

“Any ideas who the lucky mech is?” Powerglide didn’t give the minibot a moment to answer before continuing. “I overheard from Doc Ratch one of the Dinobots has got a lil crush; maybe we’ve got some love-birds on base?”

“Primus, I hope not. No one deserves to have a dumb dino on their tail; they’re so stupid and clumsy, they’d wind up melting the poor bot down! Honestly, I think Y/N deserves better than getting slagged by Slag.”

“You’re just jealous you aren’t getting any,” the plane sniped.

“Powerglide, I’m just a realist. I can’t help that your processor is full of that romantic scrap.”

“Cliffjumper, I can’t help that you have an incurably abrasive personality.” Powerglide gave the Porsche a hearty pat as he began walking further down the hall. “Come on, maybe we can get Ratch to fix that personality component of yours! Or at least we can sit down; my struts are killing me!”

“I do not have an abrasive personality, you silicon sanded showboat!”

Neither took notice of the saddened giant on the other side of the corridor, watching the retreating mechs from around the corner.

Sitting in one of the metal booths stuck to the far wall of the Rec Room, you found yourself thinking it all through. Lost in the swirling liquid of your energon cube, you wondered if you had been reading the situation wrong. You thought that Sludge had reciprocated your feelings, but he hadn’t really responded to your efforts. He never mimicked your attempts at posing or polishing. Maybe he was just unaware of Cybertronian flirting? It would make sense, as he was made on Earth, but even then you would’ve thought someone would take pity on him and explain your efforts. It wasn’t like you were being subtle, even in non-Cybertronian terms. You even got advice from Carly, trying to figure out how she’d won over someone as oblivious as Spike. You tried to be as obvious as possible, complimenting his skills and appearance and inviting him to recreational activities. But even then, he would look flustered and come up with some reason to turn you down. Maybe he was just trying to let you down on amicable terms, ignore your advances but maintain your acquaintanceship. Maybe he-

“Hi! Room here to sit?”

The scratchy voice startled you out of your reprieve; you must’ve really been in your own processor not to notice the dinobot flyer approaching.

“Oh, Swoop! Yeah, of course, take a seat,” you gestured across the table. It was almost humorous watching him try to squeeze himself into the clearly too small booth; being the smallest dinobot still made him one of the biggest Autobots. Finally situating himself, he flashed you a mischievous smirk and his optics flashed in mirth. “How’s it going?”

“Good! Had to get out of Dino Den, though; too loud for reading when Grimlock and Slag fighting.” He emphasized his point by producing an anatomical datapad and setting it on the table.

“Well that’s too bad,” you said. “How’s everyone else doing?”

“Him Snarl hog TV all day, watching Nurse Whitney.” His tone held a slight annoyance at the distraction it must’ve posed to his own studying; you knew he was quite fond of the show, and probably found it near impossible not to be watching it. His optics lit up in sudden remembrance, a squawk making its way past his vocalizer as he straightened his posture. “Sludge work on project! Big art project!”

“Oh?”

“Yes! It pretty, very pretty! Him Sludge good at art. Best Dinobot, maybe even best Autobot! And good at other things too!” Swoop emphasized his point by holding aloft a digit, helm held high with a self-assured expression. “Him strong, very strong! Last fight, him take out twenty, no, thirty Decepticons! Him good at keeping others safe, protecting. Oh, and him best fisher of Dinobots! Good provider! Patient and quiet and-”

“Wait, what’s fishing?”

“Fish earth animals, live in water. Humans and Dinobots like catching fish, very fun and -”

It was hard not to notice the lumbering form of Sludge entering the Rec behind the chatty Pteranodon. His sweeping optics seemed to stop in the direction of your booth (though you suppose it would be hard not to notice Swoop, what with his crest and loud voice), his optics seeming to blink out for a second. Swoop continued on, oblivious to his brother’s presence.

That is until Sludge began stomping his way over. You quickly grabbed onto the table, thankful that it was bolted into the wall as the ground shook under his weight. It wasn’t often you were reminded of his tremorous step, but it seemed that whatever had gotten under his plating was enough for him to have forgotten the virtue of gentle pedes. You didn’t expect to see his normally soft features so soured, mouth drawn into a tight line and optics darkened into a furrowed glare. With his massive stride, it didn’t take long before Sludge reached you. His servo came to rest behind Swoop, the back of the booth’s bench groaning under his weight as he leaned down, optic to optic with his brother.

“What you Swoop think you do?” His voice seemed edged with a nervous worry.

“Me just talking to Y/N,” Swoop answered, flashing the Brontosaurus the same mischievous smile he had given you earlier. “You know they want go fishing? Me say you should take them!”

“Yeah,” you interjected, ignoring the fact that you had never discussed joining the Dinobots on their fishing exploits. “I think it sounds like fun!” You couldn’t help the eagerness that steeped into your EM field, hopeful that you might finally get an opportunity to spend some true quality time with him outside of the occasional med bay visit.

Sludge seemed to soften a bit at your reply, gifting you with a gentle smile before his brow furrowed. His smile turned to a slight pout as his gaze drifted down, seeming to be a bit lost in thought. He exvented sharply, lugging Swoop out of his seat and maneuvering the now indignant mech around to carry him under one arm. Ignoring his squirming brother, he turned to you with a sad smile that he tried to mask with a projected air of confidence in his EM.

“Me Sludge think on it. Would be fun. Uh, him Ratchet ask to talk to him Swoop, so we see you Y/N later.” With the lame excuse, he turned to leave the Rec. With a loud squawk, Swoop made his opinion on the matter known.

“No! Him Sludge like Y/N! Like whole bunch!” That seemed to stop the brontosaurus dead in his tracks, grip loosened enough in shock that the loud flyer was able to transform out of his grasp. He seemed stuck in place as his processor caught up with the situation. In contrast, you and Swoop seemed to be a flurry of movement, standing up from your seat in the booth as the Pteranodon perched himself on the back of the bench.

“Really?” Your response, lackluster as it might’ve been, was all you could dumbly muster up at the revelation.

“Yes, him won’t shut up about it! ‘Oh, them Y/N so nice, very sweet. Pretty face, pretty smile. Feel like me Sludge melt when they look at me. So smart, so kind.’” Swoop’s impression left quite a bit to be desired, but that was the last thing on your mind, your gaze drifting to the gentle giant in question as you took in his words. Sludge had sheepishly turned halfway towards you, optics firmly locked to the ground and servos fiddling together nervously. “Us Dinobots try talk to him about anything, him always distracted or drawing you.” That seemed to catch Sludge’s full attention. “Him have big project now, draw y-” A large servo suddenly came to rest on the Pteranodon’s beak, clamping it shut before anything too embarrassing could be shared. You craned your helm up to look at Sludge, his cheek plating positively painted with the glow of his optics and lips drawn into a pout.

“Sludge, is that true? Do you really like me?” His optics bashfully locked on the ground again, answering you with a soft nod. He dared a glance at your face before averting his gaze again. “You know, I like you a lot too.” That seemed to win his attention, finally maintaining some real eye contact. He nodded again with a hum and you frowned. “You knew? Why didn’t you say anything?” That stung, knowing that he was aware of your advances all along and hadn’t done anything. Especially when he apparently liked you too.

He opened his mouth before closing it, brow furrowing. You gave him a moment to formulate his thoughts.

“You Y/N deserve better than Sludge.” He spoke slowly, thinking hard on his words. “Deserve someone smart and not clumsy or stumbly. Deserve someone not hurt you.” You frowned at that.

“Sludge, you are one of the gentlest mech’s I know. You haven’t hurt me yet and I don’t think you will,” you said, stepping closer to him. “And in any case, I think I would know better than anyone else what I deserve. I think I deserve to be happy and getting to spend time with you makes me happy. You make me happy. Do I make you happy?”

“Yes.”

“Then let’s be happy together.”

 BONUS:

“SQUAWK! Let Swoop go! No want to see smooches!”

#transformers #maccadam #sludge #sludge x reader #cybertronian reader #dinobots #swoop #g1 #tf sludge #transformers imagines #oneshot #thinking about doing another one with slag #maybe make a little series for all the dinobots? #also still need to write that smut oneshot that's just a one night stand with astrotrain #the working title of this was himbosludge #I'm a morosexual and proud #in which reader is also a morosexual

[pengychan]

[Coco] Nuestra Iglesia, Pt 21

Title: Nuestra Iglesia Summary: Fake Priest AU. In the midst of the Mexican Revolution, Santa Cecilia is still a relatively safe place; all a young orphan named Miguel has to worry about is how to get novices Héctor and Imelda to switch their religious vows for wedding vows before it’s too late. He’s not having much success until he finds an unlikely ally in their new parish priest, who just arrived from out of town. Fine, so Padre Ernesto is a really odd priest. He’s probably not even a real priest, and the army-issued pistol he carries is more than slightly worrying. But he agrees that Héctor and Imelda would be wasted on religious life, and Miguel will take all the help he can get. It’s either the best idea he’s ever had, or the worst. Characters: Miguel Rivera, Ernesto de la Cruz, Héctor Rivera, Imelda Rivera, Chicharrón, Óscar and Felipe Rivera, OCs. Imector. Rating: T

[All chapters up are tagged as ‘fake priest au’ on my blog.]

A/N: First off, unlike Ernesto, I gotta give some credit! The song that features in this chapter was written by @eldathe​, who has a gift I sorely lack (but whom I'll definitely not murder for it). Also, @lunaescribe wrote the bulk of the scene in which Ernesto and John discuss the scriptures. I only made some minor edits with her permission (watch and learn, Ernesto). Art is by @swanpit​, who is a gift as always!

***

“So it… worked? It actually worked?”

“Why the surprise? I told you I could sell it.” 

Sofía made a point to cross her arms and look just a little insulted, but she didn’t really put a lot of effort in it: relief was too great. Sure, she had been pretty certain she’d managed to back the gringo into a corner and force him to keep the secret, but she couldn’t entirely discount the chance he’d decide screwing Ernesto over was more important.

“Right, right-- you did a great job,” Héctor replied, laughing a little in sheer glee. “Well, it’s sorted! We’re safe!”

Imelda rolled her eyes. “From the Federales, yes. Not from boredom now that Juan will be the one to say mass.”

“Let’s be honest, Sunday mass was never a party when Padre Edmundo led it, and we somehow survived.”

“Fair enough.”

“Huh, Ernesto? Why the long face?” Héctor spoke up, blinking. Now that he mentioned, Ernesto did rather look like he’d just announced Juan had opted to personally hang him in the plaza first thing after the evening mass. 

As a response, Ernesto made a face. “He wants me to study the Bible.”

“Well, there are worse punishments--”

“And learn Latin.”

“... Ah.”

“Oh.”

“My condolences.”

“Would you like me to send a telegram now for the Federales to come pick you up at their earliest convenience?”

Ernesto scoffed. “You know, this is the part where you’re supposed to be telling me Latin is not too bad.”

“But it is,” Héctor said, matter-of-factly.

“What, you’d have me lie to you?” Sofía gasped in moc horror, hand to her mouth. “Me? A nun?”

“... I hate all of you,” Ernesto informed them, only to yelp and laugh when Héctor threw an arm around his shoulders and ruffled his carefully combed hair. 

“Ay, don’t be like that. We survived it, and you will too,” he declared. “But I have just the thing that will make you feel better!”

“You managed to sneak in a bottle of tequila?”

“Better - I have an idea for a new song, and I know you’re going to love it.”

“Hah! If I’m left with any free time for music now.”

“Well, Juan is going to be busy, no? Saying mass and confessing and whatnot. He can’t be watching you all the time,” Héctor pointed out, and patted his shoulder. “... It’s good to know you’re safe.”

Ernesto chuckled, reaching up to fix his hair. “We all are.” The rest of the sentence - for now - hung unspoken in the air, but none of them said anything. In the end, it was Héctor to speak. 

“Well-- I’ll go looking for Miguel. I need to talk to him. And don’t you think I forgot you also owe him an apology,” he added, jabbing a finger against Ernesto’s chest before he was off... though not without giving Imelda a dreamy smile as he left the room. Ernesto scoffed.

“What, is apologizing is my new job now?” he called out, but none of them bothered to reply.

***

Héctor found Miguel at the stream, throwing flat rocks over the water and trying to make them bounce all the way down to the bridge while Dante jumped in the water over and over again, trying to catch them in mid-air and failing miserably.

The chamaco was breaking the rules in several ways - skipping his laundry duty day, staying out past the time he was allowed to be out, and in a place where he was not supposed to be - but Héctor wasn’t about to give him a lecture now that he had to try and extend the olive branch. 

… Oh, who was he kidding, he wouldn’t have given a lecture under any circumstances. He walked up right behind Miguel, grinned, and strummed his guitar with a grito. 

“Ayyyyyyy!”

“GAH!”

Miguel jumped a couple of feet up in the air, almost landing in the stream right along with Dante; the only reason why he didn’t was that Héctor reached out to grasp the back of his shirt quickly enough to spare him an unplanned bath.

“Careful, chamaco!” he laughed, pulling him back onto solid ground. “My new song may need a little polishing, but it’s not so bad to jump in the stream over.”

Miguel blinked, taken aback, then grinned. “A new song? What is--” he exclaimed, only to trail off. He made a face, crossing his arms. “I’m still mad at you.”

Héctor sighed. “I know, I know. I’m sorry I didn’t keep my word, Miguel, but it wasn’t a secret I could sit on. I had to make sure Santa Cecilia was not in danger.”

“Ernesto is not dangerous,” Miguel protested, but ay, Héctor would hear the slight hesitation in his voice, notice how quickly he averted his gaze. He frowned. 

“Miguel…?”

“I just-- he was really mad that I told you. He yelled at me, hit Dante - I mean, he did growl at him, but…” he bit his lower lip. “He said he should have let me drown the day we met.”

He said what, Héctor thought. I’m going to kick his ass, he thought. With an immense effort, he managed to let neither of those thoughts show. 

“He is sorry, and he will apologize,” he said instead. He’d better, or else. “He was under a lot of pressure, and said things he didn’t mean. He-- we were afraid word got out.”

Miguel looked back up at him, alarmed. Héctor, the nuns and everyone else had done their best to shield children from the harsh reality that was the ongoing war outside Santa Cecilia, but any child could tell that would have been bad, bringing the Federales down on Ernesto and Santa Cecilia like wolves on cattle. 

“What? But it didn’t, right? It wasn’t me, I told no one else but you, I swear--”

Héctor smiled. “No, it was a false alarm. All is well,” he promised, and strummed the guitar again. “And I have the new song. Want to be the first to hear it, chamaco?”

It had been a while since Héctor had the time to write a new song, even longer since Miguel had been the first to get to hear it, and the thought was clearly enough to chase away the lingering fear and anger. “What is it called?”

“Cómo está tu Padre - it’s about Ernest-- Padre Ernesto and Padre Juan.”

Miguel bit his lower lip. “Padre Ju-- John is not too bad,” he declared. 

“Oh?”

“He talked to me. Put in a good word for you when I was mad.”

Well. With how their recent interactions had gone, that was not something Héctor had expected to hear. “Oh. Well then, I suppose I’ll thank him for that.”

“The song isn’t too mean to him, is it?”

Héctor’s smile turned a bit sheepish. “Not excessively. Just some light-hearted fun.”

Miguel seemed thoughtful for a few moments, then he clearly decided it wouldn’t be too bad - or, more likely, that being decent for once was not enough to make up for the huge pain in the neck the gringo had been in the past few days. He perched up on a rock while Dante climbed out of the stream, a rock in his mouth, and flopped in the dirt at Miguel’s feet.

Ah, there was the public. Héctor cleared his throat. “When you're a Man of God, the people come to you to check in on the church…” he spoke, and strummed the guitar before singing.

“As I walk through the plaza, A señora comes my way From her lips falls a question Cómo está tu Padre? Ay, now what do I say? The Church of Santa Cecilia Watches with cynicism An American man hell-bent on Sharing blanco egoisms. Lone, he thinks he's the one! To have Divine Right to bear down on! He'll show dismay When his own way, Can't stay long. Such is life, with Padre-”

***

“John--!”

“Don’t John me. It’s Father Johnson, and you’ve had your break, Ernest. Now, read aloud--”

“It was three hours ago!”

The protest gained Ernesto a single, insufferable arched eyebrow from the gringo sitting across the table. He had his own Bible open, which looked… significantly more beat up than last time Ernesto had seen it. 

“Oh, no,” he said flatly. “Three straight hours of study. No man has ever endured such torment.”

“Well, it is more than enough for me!”

“Unsurprising, considering you seem to be barely literate in Spanish--”

“Hey! I can read, write and do maths, for your information--”

“-- But if you are to learn any Latin before the end of days comes--”

“-- And I can read music sheets! Can you read music sheets?”

The gringo sighed and shook his head. “Not that it is relevant, but as a matter of fact, I received piano lessons as a boy,” he said. His expression, like that of a man who sucked on a lemon, made Ernesto suspect they had not gone too well. “Now, I ask you to focus until at least the end of the page.” He pushed the book back towards Ernesto. “Go ahead, translate the next part.”

Holding back a groan, Ernesto looked back down at the page. If he did what he asked, maybe they would be done soon. “All right, so, uh. Pray for us sinners, which is ora pro nobi--”

“Nobis.” Juan - since using his real name got him no leniency, may as well keep calling him that - cut him off for the eleventh time in the past five minutes. “It is nobis. Which case is that?”

“Uhhh… ab… gen...” Ernesto glanced up, trying to gauge his reaction.

All he got was a raised eyebrow. Again. He was more and more tempted to rip those ridiculous stripes of yellow hair off his face. "Think. Nos, nostri or nostrum, nobis. Nominative, genitive…?"

Something clicked in Ernesto’s head. “Oh! Dative! That would be dative, right?”

An approving nod. “Dative plural, correct. Now, what else did you get wrong?”

Ernesto looked back down at the page, trying not to think that if he’d just let him call the Federales he would now be hanging by the neck from a tree and none of this would be his problem anymore. “Peccatoris?” he guessed. 

“Exactly. Peccatoris is genitive singular of peccator, first of all, so at least you didn’t entirely make it up. But in the sentence it refers to nobis, which means it must be…?”

Ernesto gave him a blank look. Juan sighed, but did not lose his nerve. “Think of the same sentence in Spanish - ruega por nosotros pecadores. Why not ‘nostros pecadora’?”

“Because nostros is plural and pecadora is singular. And feminine.”

“And what is the issue there?”

Well, that was a dumb question even a kid could answer. “That it’s got to match.” Ernesto frowned, thinking it over, and-- oh. Oh. “Wait. It’s got to match nobis, so-- dative plural as well?”

A nod, something that almost resembled a smile. “Very well,” Juan conceded, and Ernesto grinned. There, that wasn’t too bad, after a-- “And that would be?”

“Huh?”

“Dative plural of peccator. What is it?”

Ah. “Er… peccatorum? 

"That’s genitive."

“Peccatores?”

“Nominative. Or accusative, could be either.”

“Uuuugh.” Ernesto let out a groan, and his head dropped on the desk with a distinct thunk. He could almost hear a smirk in Juan’s voice when he spoke again. 

“Peccatores, peccatorum, peccatoribus,” he said, taking a cigarette out of the case. “Ora pro nobis peccatoribus. We’ll go through the third declension again before we call it a night.”

“What-- you said this was the last page!”

“I asked you to focus enough to finish it, didn’t say it’d be the last. You clearly need more prac--”

“It’s almost two in the morning!”

“Then we better be quick.”

Forehead still pressed on the desk, Ernesto groaned. “Don’t you ever sleep?”

“Not without a clear conscience, which is to say not until I’ve done my duty,” Juan replied, and pushed a notebook full of notes in front of Ernesto again. “It’s not difficult. You need to memorize it and, with enough practice, it will come naturally. You should have an edge on me there.”

Was he mocking him? Ernesto raised an eyebrow himself. “... Do I now?”

“Spanish is one of the closest languages to Latin, whereas English has different roots. It was difficult for me to pick up Latin at first. You’re doing quite--” he paused, stopping short of saying ‘well’. “... Passably, for someone entirely ignorant.”

“Hey!” Ernesto protested. He may not be a bookworm, or a scholar, but that was going too far.

“It is not meant as an insult. It comes from Latin ignorare, which simply means ‘not to know’--” 

Ernesto dropped his head back on the table, and rather wished the Federal Army would come to put him out of his misery sooner rather than later.

***

“So, we’re marching south?”

“Jesus Christ, we have literally just arrived, I was hoping we could rest…”

“We will, I think they said we’re not going for at least another week--”

“Two weeks. If you’re going to eavesdrop, at least do it properly,” a voice suddenly spoke up, causing the gathered soldiers to wince and turn. 

“Commander Hernández!”

“We were just, uh, we--”

“I was not eavesdropping, I only… er… walked by, and… sort of… overheard what they were telling you...”

The newly appointed Commander Santiago Hernández waved a hand, clearly unbothered by the very obvious lie, and they all breathed a little more easily that no punishment would be doled out. That was something they appreciated about Hernández, even though they didn’t know him well: he had been one of them until recently, when his actions in Veracruz and his show of loyalty in refusing discharge had gained him a promotion. He was above them, but didn’t flaunt it nearly as much as others would.

“It will be announced soon, so it is no secret,” he was saying. “Our battalion will remain here for a further week or two, in case reinforcements are needed around Mexico City, but it seems unlikely the current standstill will break. Once we receive the all-clear, we finally head south.”

That word - finally - sounded like a sigh of relief, and the men exchanged a few glances. It was no mystery that Commander Hernández had been itching to lead them down south for a good while, growing increasingly frustrated with the skirmishes and changing tactics that kept them in their current position. He was hellbent on finding a deserter who had shot a friend of his and had fled south, which was understandable but… a touch loco, really. 

South is a very vague hint to finding a man who had run off months earlier. This Ernesto de la Cruz may have joined the rebels or been killed by them, died in the desert he’d escaped into, be hiding into some hole or even have crossed the border into Guatemala or British Honduras; chances of running into him were slim to none. 

But of course, none of them was foolish to say as much aloud in his presence.

“This will be no stroll in the park,” the Commander was going on. “We will need to get through Zapata’s territory to get there, but it is necessary. We cannot let them push their control all the way to Veracruz and cut the country in two. We will have reinforcements for that part.”

“... And after that?”

“After that, the battalion splits. Some units will go towards Yucatán, while I will lead you towards Oaxaca and then down to Chiapas. There are some very active rebel groups in both regions who support Zapatistas, but few enough they can be dealt with. There is belief they have widespread support among the civilian population, and that is what we need to crush.”

If Commander Hernández noticed any of his men shifting uncomfortably, he pretended not to. His voice was cold, his eyes unyielding, the world reduced to friends to fight alongside with and enemies to be destroyed.

No, not friends - comrades. Santiago Hernández had no friends, not anymore. The last he had left were shot dead, by a deserter and by Americans. His fellow soldiers could show him obedience, show him respect and even camaraderie, but there was no one left to show him friendship.

And no one left who could talk reason into him.

***

“Since he rode in with swagger And a crass sort of charm, His unconventional ideas Keep our town safe from harm He draws in crowds To the church, old and young Quick to bestow, He'll make his blessings come We were fatherless, and Hey, presto! We were gifted with Padre-”

“Miguel.”

“-- Huh? No, Ernest-- gah!” Miguel let out a yelp, trying with very little success to hide the guitar behind his back and acutely aware of the fact the small crowd of children who’d been listening to him was dispersing very quickly; out of the corner of the eye, he could see Óscar and Felipe leaping over a fence like thoroughbred horses. Within moments the only ones in the yard were himself and Dante, with Father John towering over them. 

… Well, at least he didn’t look too mad. Only rather tired. Miguel was suddenly very glad he’d decided to only sing the part about Ernesto and not the bit about him. Even so, seeing children shrieking and running off when he approached probably was… not very nice. Miguel gave a smile he hoped would come across as charming but that was actually very, very sheepish. 

“Hola, Father John,” he said, making sure to pronounce his name as correctly as he could. The priest’s thin lips curled for a moment in something reasonably close to a smile. 

“Hola, Miguel. That was… an interesting song.”

“It was just… just a bit of fun.” Miguel shifted a little, hoping he wouldn’t find out about the rest of it, or who had written it. Thankfully, the gingo didn’t prod for more details. 

“... I do apologize. It was not my intention to spoil your fun. I am searching for my Bible - I seem to have lost it,” Father John said, letting his gaze wander around the yard, on the low stone wall and the few benches - but there was no sign of a Bible anywhere. “It is quite old and ruined, but it has a sentimental value. Could you spread the word and let me know if you find it?”

Ah. “Of course. I can go look for it. I will now,” Miguel spoke quickly, and turned to leave - but Father John spoke first, causing him to pause. 

“... You do miss Father Ernest, I gather,” he said, and well… there was no point in lying there. Ernesto had even apologized to him for snapping, as Héctor said he would, even though he’d offered no explanation, and Miguel had accepted the apology. So all was well now… right?

“We kinda miss him at Mass,” he admitted. “I know you said he’s busy with other things, and-- I like how you say Mass,” Miguel added quickly, hoping he had not noticed how he’d almost dozed off and dropped the incense the previous Sunday. “It’s just-- well-- you know--”

“It’s all right, I understand. I’ll ask him to say Mass this Sunday,” he said calmly, and walked back to the church. As he watched him go, more of Héctor’s song echoed in Miguel’s head. 

Like oil and water Their teamwork does seem strained And so I often am questioned Cómo está tu Padre?

***

Father John Johnson lit his next cigarette against his best judgment. 

He normally practiced more restraint, even with a vice, especially considering rolling papers and tobacco felt like something immoral to spend his small allowance on in such hard times. That, and it was the last in his tin - which meant that in order to get more he’d have to go on an unpleasant trek up the hill, to the small stand on the edge of town, with the little gruff man who clearly overcharged and quipped about John reminding him of Spaniard colonizers each time.

John’s family was actually of Dutch ancestry - not a drop of Spanish blood as far as he was aware - but it was a fight John had decided not to pick. He’d just take the scathing remark and be content that the man wouldn’t go telling the rest of the town that the gringo priest bought tobacco from him. By far not his most shameful secret, but still one he’d tried to keep hidden. 

“And what’s the point of that anymore,” John mused aloud, leaning back against a tree. 

As much as he’d tried to avoid the thought, he feared his worse sin would leak to this town sooner or later, due to Ernest’s continued existence here. Granted, the man had all the more reason to keep John’s secret now that his own had been found out, but a slip of the tongue was all it would take. 

And if that happened, well, he would no longer have to worry about keeping his smoking habit hidden. Who’d be bothered by a priest having a penchant for foul-smelling habits when it’s common knowledge he has an even stronger penchant for men in his bed? Perhaps Brother Hector would write a song about that, too. The thought terrified him, knotting up his stomach, and yet he couldn’t hold back a bitter laugh before he took another drag.

Such thoughts circling endlessly in his mind were part of the reason for his irresponsible rationing of cigarettes, along with Ernest’s gauche behavior ever since he showed divine and priestly mercy.

That morning’s breakfast had made him nearly reconsider indulging Sister Sophie’s plea for Ernest’s pitiful life. The man had been edging toward familiarity ever since John had given him the gift of mercy allowing him to remain in the parish, so long as he did his best to behave like a real priest so no one else learned his secret - which meant listening when John assigned him scripture to study, so his sermons no longer consisted of him improvising stories he thought he remembered from childhood. 

Even so, he regretted allowing Ernest to occasionally say mass to keep people from questioning the change. It took all the restraint in John’s body not to stand up in the middle of mass that day to correct him that Jesus never ‘set a temple on fire for revenge’ and certainly did not ‘condone’ arson in the ‘right situation’. Indeed, John 2:14 was his first assignment for that little mishap. 

Clearly, the lesson Ernest had taken from it was not precisely the one John had hoped he would. Instead he seemed quite coy at breakfast declaring loudly to all the sisters and impressionable Hector how reexamining the bible was such a ‘good reminder’ that Jesus simply ‘doesn’t care much if we sin!’.

“He was a bit of a hell-raiser himself! A rebel!” 

Each phrase announced with a strongly targeted grin toward John in an obvious attempt to excuse his own behavior, which nearly caused John to flip a table himself. But he had shown restraint, and channeled that anger into what was now his last cigarette, which he would attempt to savor as slowly as possible.

“There you are!” 

The voice burst seemingly from nowhere, causing him to yelp.  “Lord have mercy!”

John startled, nearly dropping the cigarette and turning to glare up at that man. In response, he just grinned. 

“I thought you had better reflexes than that,” Ernest began, the forced friendliness and warmth radiating off him just as strongly as it had during breakfast. He either wanted something from him, perhaps more foul carnal acts - in which case he would be sorely disappointed - or was trying to make sure his little stunt that morning hadn’t cost him John’s silence and mercy. 

John inhaled, his voice coming out strained with fragile control. “I have… given you respite, patience, and lessons. I can not fathom a reason you must accost me in private when I have been explicit that unless it is in the parish for lessons we are not to--” 

Ernest didn’t seem to be listening: the next moment he was plopping into the grass beside him, leaning on another side of the tree. “I know, I know,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I’m not going to take up much time, it’s just that you rather rudely ran off at breakfast--”

“You cannot fathom how close I was to strangling you over the nonsense you were spouting, you should count yourself lucky that I left--”

“But,” Ernest cut him off, “you left before I made my point about my, uh, study of scriptures.”

“I’m not grading you,” John replied flatly.

“I am aware. But I think I found something that could bring you, uh…” a vague gesture. “I just think it’d be something you’d like. I don’t think what you-- we are is such a big deal. In case you missed it--” 

Missed it - now that was nothing short of an insult, and John’s composure broke. “I’m the real priest, Ermest - what could you possibly teach me that I don’t know about scripture!” he barked. Ernest didn’t even flinch, but lifted a Bible he’d seemingly pulled out of nowhere. Had he kept it hidden under his robes for a dramatic reveal just now?

“What, don’t like to think I can get something you didn’t?” Ernest made a face. “I am pretty smart, if I say so myself. Even you admitted I’m getting the hang of Latin.”

His boldness was coming back each day he awoke to see John had not yet cast him out it seemed. “Pride is a sin,” John muttered, making an effort not to release a slew of profanity he would have to confess to - God knew who to, since he was the only priest in the village. Instead, he pressed the cigarette between his lips and inhaled as though the smoke was oxygen.

Ernest shrugged. “Anyway. I’ll have you know that according to Romans 3:23--” 

“Yes, yes. ‘For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God’,” John replied without missing a beat. “I’m well aware. Is this a case to prove why you deserve full forgiveness and a return to--” 

“Well, if you shut your mouth and let me finish, maybe you’ll see.”

Oh, John would love to be a pettier man, to make some empty threat about changing his mind to get Ernest on his toes again. But, well… God was watching, and he’s sinned enough lately. Far more than enough. 

“Well then,” Ernest was going on. “Since he’s saying we’re all sinners, there’s no reason to feel particularly bad if we--” 

“Priest. I’m a priest,” John cut him off again, stressing the words just enough to remind Ernest that he was not one, regardless of the cloth he wore.

“Huh?” He seemed honestly confused. “I know you’re--”

“Do you just keep forgetting priests are on another level of standard than--” 

“Cálmese one minute, will you?” 

“I am calm!” John snapped. “But if you don’t cease blaspheming, I’ll have you study so much--”

“So anyway,” Ernest barreled on before he could be scolded for the disrespect. “That verse reminded me of one I heard as a boy, and it took some digging to find it, has anyone ever thought of alphabetizing this thing?”

“This thing would be the Holy Bible, it would be appreciated if you showed some respect towards the Word of--”

“Anyway, it was a Psalm,” Ernest continued, clearly having made a habit of not acknowledging John’s attempts at educating him that day. “And it went, ‘for you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother’s womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made - your works are wonderful’, and so on, right? God made us and all that, and makes no mistakes. You told me - and I’ve watched - you tried everything to avoid these desires, so… why would God make a mistake with you?” 

John was silent for a moment; it mirrored a touch too closely to the argument Father Joseph had given him years ago. Shaking off the alarm, he turned his gaze on Ernest’s face for the first time in the conversation. “You have mistaken the Devil’s influence for divine design.” 

“Didn’t you tell me you’d felt this way since you were a child - an innocent?” 

“I was not that young, I was…” Almost a man, he’d thought then, but looking back now… oh, he truly had been barely more than a child. Something ached in John’s chest and throat, and he swallowed before speaking. “The devil, he… he works in deceitful ways.”

“Me too, you know.”

John scoffed. “Yes, you certainly do work in deceitful ways too, but that is no reason--”

“No, I mean-- being like that. As a boy.”

Ah. John fell silent, and turned back to Ernest. His hands were crossed, and he looked… uncharacteristically uneasy, no longer looking at him. “Even before my… experiences in, uh…” a sigh. “I said it was seminary, but of course that was not it.”

“Where…?”

“In the army. Overall unpleasant.” A bitter chuckle, but he didn’t elaborate. “But well before then, I would look at men. Other boys, really, well before I knew what sodomy was. Like you, correct?”

John had only ever looked that way at one boy when so young, but the memory of Walker Underwood - leaning back on the grass beside him to look up at the stars, talking and laughing, so unaware of John’s reddening skin and uneasy thoughts - still hurt all those years later, and he chose not to remark on that. 

“... Correct,” he murmured instead, and Ernest nodded before speaking again.

“And it was not lust exactly, was it? Too young for that. So… why’d God make you like that if his design is divine? Either of us?” 

A somewhat smug smirk was emerging on Ernest’s face, like that of a pupil who had turned in an immaculate report despite the teacher’s mediocre expectations. John turned his attention to the grass, his smoking hand lingering in the air as Father Joseph’s kindly voice and words echoed in his head. 

Perhaps it is in God’s plan that it remains your cross to bear.

Ah, but Ernest did not think of it as a cross to bear. He accepted it, embraced, revelled in it… and God had not struck him down for it. He’d struck down neither of them.

He was quiet so long that Ernest’s look of confidence began to waver, as though he feared that perhaps he had simply broken him further as opposed to-- ah, was comforting him what he’d meant to do? His way to apologize for his deception? John suspected as much. 

The thought sat warmly in his chest, and that feeling in itself should have concerned him, but… he wanted to revel in what comfort that knowledge gave him, if only for a little while.

Without a word, slowly, John’s free hand landed on the one Ernest rested in the grass. A delicate pat, the kind of gratitude a widowed parent shows to the child who thinks they can console them with a false belief the dead will return, knowing full well it is not to be. But the key there was that he... he recognized the attempt. 

“You’re dreadfully naive about scripture theory.” John remarked, his voice somber. Before he could pull his hand free Ernest took hold of his index finger, forcing him to linger. 

“Either I’m right, or God has messed up a lot of kids in his design.”

The notion God may mess up in any way, shape or form was another blasphemy, but it was probably the point Ernest was clumsily trying to make. So John didn’t rebuke him, nor did he try to pull away from his grasp, which was loose enough for him to be able to do  so effortlessly. There was a doubt that may be just a ploy from Ernest’s part to remain in his good graces, or maybe even slither back into his bed, but even so it was difficult not to appreciate the gesture.

Perhaps he means it. Father Joseph surely did. 

John gave a single nod, and allowed his hand to be clasped as he finished the remainder of the cigarette - Ernest’s presence no longer quite as stressful as it was before. Then the cigarette was done, he blew out the last of the smoke, and he pulled his hand away. 

“We ought to head back--”

“Here,” Ernest said suddenly, pushing the Bible in his hands. John blinked, taken aback, and glanced at him to see he was looking away. What in the world…?

“You know I can quote the Bible in my sleep, don’t you?” he pointed out, just a little offended. “I know exactly which passages you’re quoting. I simply don’t think your simplistic interpretation--”

“No, I mean--” Ernest fidgeted, uncharacteristically uneasy with words. “That’s yours.”

“... I beg your pardon?”

“Your Bible. I, uh, got someone to fix it up. As a, you know. Apology.”

Ah. John looked down at the Bible in his hands, truly focusing on it for the first time. That wasn’t his Bible, it couldn’t be; he’d ruined it slamming it down on the camera, until the spine broke, the leather cover came off and several pages came loose. The one he held in his hands was newly bound, now, with a new cover and all pages firmly in place. Still, when he opened… that was his handwriting at the margin, his notes. His Bible, indeed. So that was where it’d gone. 

“I see,” John heard himself saying, his throat a little tighter. He instinctively flipped the pages, searching for-- yes, there it was, right where he’d left it: his father’s letter. Disowning him, telling him he no longer had a son, to never be in touch again, so he wouldn’t taint them. But for the first time, seeing that letter did not fill him with shame. It filled him with anger.

“Didn’t you tell me you’d felt this way since you were a child - an innocent?” 

I did nothing. I was a boy, I only thought of kissing another. His own child, cast out over nothing.

“I noticed it looked kind of ruined, and I figured old Raúl could fix it up,” Ernest was saying, seemingly unaware of his thoughts. “He owed me a favor, so--”

“Thank you,” John said, very quietly, and smiled, the restored Bible - his keepsake of Father Joseph, the man who had called him his son despite everything - clutched to his chest. “This means more to me than you’ll ever know. I-- I have no words.”

Ernest smiled back. “Not even in Latin?” he asked.

And, for the first time since the truth had become clear to him, John Johnson laughed.

***

Well, getting Juan’s Bible fixed up hadn’t saved Ernesto from his daily Latin lesson, but at least he’d been allowed to go to sleep at a reasonable enough time, so there was that.

Not that he had hoped to fall asleep soon or easily, because he never did, not when he had to sleep alone. In the dark and the silence, falling asleep to find himself back in the barracks - or in a battlefield, or marching under the sun, or about to gun down civilians - was all too easy. So far, he found that some company was the easiest way to keep all of that away at night. 

He’d tried to casually suggest Sofía to spend the night with him, but of course, she’d shrugged him off and said she had plans. She was probably living it up with Sister Antonia right now, who was pretty but, in Ernesto’s opinion, nothing to write home about. Unlike him, of course. He was very much something to write home about. Or to the Archdiocese. Thanks for that, Juan.

Ah, yes. Juan. Asking him for nightly company was now entirely out of the question for obvious reasons, but Ernesto found that the thought of him helped a little just now. Namely, the thought of the look on his face when presented with his fixed-up Bible; the surprise, the smile, the laugh. It had been… nice, to hear that laugh again. 

Not that it had been the goal, Ernesto thought, but he was not entirely sure what the goal had actually been. He’d just eyed Juan’s Bible on the table after the gringo left to deal with some confessions, and thought that it looked in terrible shape, like he’d dropped it from a great height. He vaguely remembered Juan telling him that the old Bible was a gift from Father Joseph and very dear to him, much like the crucifix around his neck.

Grabbing it had taken a moment, and the walk to Raúl’s shop only minutes. The man was mostly a leatherworker, but was good at book binding and also the father of a woman finally expecting a child after years of fruitless marriage thanks to Ernesto’s, er, blessing - so he owed him a favor. When he’d returned to pick it up, the Bible looked new and he’d actually flipped through it to check Juan’s notes and make sure it was the same one he had left.

What am I doing?, he’d asked himself then, and he did again now. ‘Getting a book fixed’ was technically the right answer, but why would he bother was another matter entirely. He told himself it was vital he remained on the gringo’s good side, and that also was technically true. So there, that had been it - no motive but self-preservation, as always. End of story. 

Ernesto turned to the wall, pulled the covers up to his chin, and closed his eyes. His thoughts did keep drifting back to Juan’s smile, which was annoying, but when he finally fell asleep no soldiers, screams or gunfire disturbed his dreams. All in all, it could be worse.

***

You no longer have a father. I only ever had one son. For both of our sakes, never write again.

For a long time, John stared in silence at Reverend David Johnson’s neat handwriting in the flickering light of the candle barely lighting up his room. He had read that letter every morning upon awakening, and every night upon going to sleep, for well over a decade. A reminder of his sin, of his failure as a son. It hurt, each time, and it hurt him now. 

Only that the hurt was different that night, the disdain no longer entirely against himself. The letter was written on Christmas Eve, a brief unfeeling response to a heartfelt plea. Cold. Cruel.

I was a child. I was his child. How could he?

John pressed his lips together, the letter in one hand and his Bible in the other. A father’s rejection, ink more and more faded, and a Father’s gift - now restored. John’s eyes drifted towards the candle and, while he did not burn the letter, he did think about it.

He thought about it for a very long time.

***

“A flying machine! What in God’s name were you two thinking??”

“That we wanted to build a flying machine. It worked pretty well, except for the part where it didn’t fly.”

It took every ounce of Imelda’s patience, plus some she probably borrowed directly from the Almighty, not to grab Felipe by the front of his shirt and shake him hard enough to make his teeth chatter - and if not for the fact he had a broken left arm in a cast, she may not have been able to hold back.

“Maybe we should have picked someplace less high for the first test,” Óscar was conceding, all bruises and skinned elbows but with his bones still all in one piece. “We’ll choose better next time.”

“Next-- there is absolutely not going to be a next time.”

“Yes, yes, that’s what mamá said.”

“Papá as well.”

“So we knew you’d say that, too.”

“But you need not worry, because the next flying machine will actually fly!”

Imelda groaned, reaching up to rub her temples. “Was a broken arm not  enough for you?”

“Nope! I still have the other one,” Felipe quipped, flexing the arm in question to show off absolutely non-existent muscle. 

Óscar laughed. “And on the bright side, if the Federal Army comes looking for new soldiers, they won’t take him! Huh, maybe I should break my own arm--”

“Don’t say that,” Imelda cut him off, her voice suddenly sharp. It was the sort of thing she’d been having nightmares about. “Not even as a joke.”

“... The arm thing or the army thing?”

“The Federales. Actually, both. But mostly the Federales.” Imelda found she couldn’t entertain the thought even for a moment and something had to show on her face, because both of her brothers stopped smiling at exactly the same moment. 

“Hey, we… we didn’t really mean it.”

“We won’t say that again. Promise.”

Imelda sighed and finally nodded, managing a smile. “... Good. And if you want to entirely reassure me, you may also promise you will not keep trying to build flying contraptions and launch yourselves--”

“Oh look, it’s getting late!”

“We should be home in five minutes!”

“We should have been home five minutes ago!”

“Wait a moment--” Imelda began, only to trail off when her brothers took off running in the direction of their home. She sighed, making a mental note to let her mother and father know they should keep all tools under lock and key next time she saw them. Not that she thought it would stop them, but at least it would slow them down. Possibly until Felipe’s arm healed.

Their joke about Federales passing by to pick men to replenish their ranks  rang through her mind as she walked back towards the parish, impossible to entirely ignore.

If they took them, I don’t know what I’d do.

Her thoughts turned for a brief moment to the loaded pistol she kept hidden in her room. She paused mid-step, clenching her jaw. No, that wasn’t entirely true, was it?

She knew exactly what she’d do.

***

“He left, didn’t he?”

“Yes, Commander, as you said he would. We watched him take a horse and ride off.”

“Of course. To warn his friends down south of what he heard in the cantina, no doubt.” 

Santiago took a swig of his drink before setting down the glass, eyes glued to the map. It had been a grueling business, pushing past Zapata’s forces immediately south of Mexico City, but they had made it and now the battalion had split, leaving him in command of a couple of units… heading for the area where Ernesto de la Cruz had fled, leaving behind Alberto’s body in the smoldering sand.

I’m getting closer, I know I am. It’s only a matter of time.

And he could wait, of course. He could bid his time; being in the army had taught him discipline… something many of his men severely lacked. They were unruly, prone to talk and drink and then to talk even more after a drink… and that small village was full of ears. Thank God, said ears were also very bad at spying without being entirely too obvious. 

Sergeant García scowled. “Do you want us to follow him and take him out before he can warn them of our itinerary?”

“No, let him warn them. Let those traitors waste time rallying around San Luz while we take another route right past them.” With some luck, they may even be able to catch them by surprise from behind. He’d come up with another itinerary, and avoid sharing it with anyone who didn’t strictly need to hear it.

“I see. Do you need any further help…?”

“I think I’ll be fine, thank you. You’re dismissed.”

The sergeant left and Santiago focused on the map again, slowly working his way through the glass. There were several alternative routes they could take, but he settled for one that went through some hills and a small village barely marked on the map, the name printed in such tiny letters he had to squint to read it.

Santa Cecilia.

***

A/N: yes, I had to study Latin and had nightmares about it from time to time. But it's cool, they're fading. Ancient Greek, on the other hand, shall haunt me to my grave.

***

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#pixar coco #ernesto de la cruz #hector rivera #miguel rivera #imelda rivera #coco #fake priest au

[nearlymanaged]

3. Lily, Lupin, and Lilacs

Remus made his way to the sixth floor all by himself before Ancient Runes lesson. He’d spent breakfast being entertained by Peter, who had turned into a rat to freak out some first years by going for a swim in their cereal bowls. The performance was cut short though when they noticed a couple of teachers eyeing them from across the Great Hall. James leapt to his feet, grabbed Wormtail, and hurried out of there, yelling something about his ‘poorly behaved pet’.

The lesson had been going on for nearly five minutes when the classroom door flew open and a very flustered Lily Evans burst in, muttering apologies and something about having overslept and how it had never happened before. She went for the nearest seat, which happened to be right next to Remus, and pulled out her things very slowly, trying not to make any more sounds.

Professor Argyle stared at her blankly for a moment and Remus was sure Gryffindor was about to lose ten points, but instead… “Make sure you go to bed at a reasonable time tonight, Miss Evans. Mr. Lupin, could you kindly share your notes with Miss Evans…” And she proceeded to teach the class.

Remus pushed his notes closer to Lily so she could copy the five or six sentences they had been instructed to copy by professor Argyle. “Thanks,” she whispered, scribbling frantically.

About halfway through the lesson, Remus started hearing a strange muffled gurgling sound. The classroom was filled with the scratching of quills on parchment, so it took him a couple of minutes to realise that it was Lily’s stomach that was growling greedily. “Hungry?” He whispered, stifling a laugh.

“Hmpf… I can’t even concentrate on this. Is that ‘leech’ or ‘cockroach’?” She squinted at a rune in a paragraph they had been instructed to translate.

“Leech,” Remus whispered and bent over to retrieve something from his bag. “Here.” He pushed half a bar of chocolate across the desk. “Also, I have no doubt that you know this, but that should be ‘lake’, not ‘puddle’.”

Lily seemed to be taken aback briefly, but then she gave him a genuine smile and breathed ‘thanks, Remus,’ before breaking off a piece and shoving it in her mouth. They had always been friendly with each other. Incidentally, only when James wasn’t around. Or Snape, for that matter. And now that September was drawing to a close, they had started exchanging little interactions here and there more frequently. It was only natural, since some of the classes they had both picked up for their sixth year only had small handfuls of students, none of whom were James or Snape.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you be late for class,” Remus whispered brightly, watching Lily eat the last crumbs of his chocolate, even licking little specks off her fingers once it was all gone.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been late. I just had so much homework yesterday and it got so late and… I need to revisit my homework planner.”

“Yeah, it’s been a long month…”

Just then, the bell rang throughout the castle, announcing the end of the lesson. Both Gryffindors started packing their things and Lily was the first to reach the door while Remus was still fiddling with the zipper of his bag. 

“Well?” He heard her say and looked up to see her waiting for him in the doorway. “Let’s go, I don’t want to be late again!” And they left the classroom together to head to a double Care of Magical Creatures lesson.

* * *

Sirius was eyeing Remus, who was curled up in one of the armchairs with a thick, dusty book. Black had just made himself comfortable in front of the fireplace in the Gryffindor common room. James was servicing his broomstick in anticipation of the upcoming Quidditch season, and Peter was still working on his Potions essay (James’ freshly finished one lying in front of him). It was one of the quieter evenings, the likes of which occurred more frequently since they had started their sixth year.

It had been a whole month since the beginning of term; a whole month since Sirius was reunited with Moony. A whole month since he had been having these new, curious feelings for him. He kept telling himself that it would go away eventually, but there was a part of him that didn’t particularly care for that to happen. He had spent a whole month relentlessly staring at Moony and he could not think of anyone or anything more beautiful, and he had never thought that about anyone for a whole month straight.

He had always liked Moony’s scars; not the pain that they were born out of, of course. But he always liked the way that they looked, as if counteracting how much Remus himself hated them. Sirius remembered the first time he heard his friend call them ugly, back in their second year, and he couldn’t believe his ears. He thought they looked cool; they bore witness of Remus’ strength and resilience. But now he thought they were beautiful -- maybe he had always thought them beautiful?

Throughout the past month, Sirius had been catching himself wanting to wrap his arms around Moony at the most random moments. Or hold his hand. Or kiss him. And then he’d wonder if he would realistically ever be able to do that. He wanted it all to go away, but he also...didn’t. Deep down, more so than that, he wanted to know if there was any chance at all that Moony could like him back. So far, his inventory of clues was that Remus wasn’t girl-crazy, but that could have easily been attributed to him being a bit of a bookworm. A lot of a bookworm.

But then, there was this vague feeling, which Sirius couldn’t put into words, that him and Moony had always had a different kind of...chemistry; different from him and Prongs or him and Wormtail. If only there had been a way to explore that without putting their friendship at risk...

All of a sudden, Sirius’ whole body perked up with a brilliant idea, and before he could question its brilliance further, the words slipped out of his mouth. 

“You guys know I’m bisexual, right?” Sirius’ eyes lingered on Remus for just a moment longer before he casually looked down to inspect his fingernails. 

“Er...you’re what?” James looked at him puzzled, as if he’d just been woken up from a nap. 

“Bisexual, Prongs,” the Black replied with an exaggerated sigh. “Means I swing both ways.”

“And...have you?” Peter asked with some kind of a mixture of awe and confusion.  

“Have I what?”

“Snogged a boy?”

“Not yet.” Sirius’ gaze flickered over to Remus for a split second; the werewolf was still adamantly staring at his book but Sirius could see that his eyes were fixated on a single spot on the page. 

“How do you know then?” Peter asked and James shuffled his stare from him back to Sirius. 

“How do people know they’re straight before they get to snog anyone? Or how does Prongs know he wants to spend the rest of his life making sweet love to Evans without having so much as accidentally bumped elbows with her?”

It seemed to take a second for James to register the answer but then he shrugged and nodded. “Fair enough.”

“So… Has anyone in particular caught your eye?” Peter asked and Sirius restrained himself from looking at Remus.

“Nope, no one in particular.”

For a little while, no one said anything, blankly staring at one another as if confunded. Then, Peter went back to his potions essay and James resumed polishing his broom handle. 

“So?” Sirius’ voice was tinged with annoyance now. 

“So what?” James asked without looking up. 

“You lot okay with that? Any thoughts? Feedback? Anything?”

“‘Course we are okay with it!” Peter affirmed. 

“Now that I think about it, it makes perfect sense,” James mumbles casually, and Sirius was about to inquire further about that statement, but then he realised that Remus was still frozen in the same position, still pretending to read the same page. 

“Moony?”

“What?” He answered rather quickly. 

“Any thoughts?”

“Of course I am okay with it, Sirius,” he punctuated his irritated response by closing his book with a thud. 

“Sorry we’re not more shocked, mate,” James shrugged. 

* * *

James did his best to keep his focus on professor Slughorn, but his gaze would inadvertently land on the side of Lily Evans’ face time and time again during that day’s Potions lesson. And then, once in a while, he’d look over at Snape; he couldn’t help but wonder why Lily and him weren’t friends anymore. He was happy about it, no doubt; but curious nonetheless.

Even with those distractions, James had to admit that it was an interesting lesson. Slughorn was telling them about the strongest love potion in the world, Amortentia. There was a whole couldronfull of it and James was quite aware of the fact that everyone in the classroom was leaning forward ever so slightly, trying to get closer to its intoxicating scent (which, apparently, smelled of different things to every single person).

A couple of the students jumped in their seats at the sound of a loud knock on the door. Slughorn stared at it for a second and then shuffled over to open it. James looked over at Peter and both grinned when they heard the sound of Sirius’ voice.

“Sorry, sir. Professor McGonagall sent me to get Potter. It’s about Quidditch…”

“Right now? In the middle of the lesson?”

“You know how she gets just before the season starts, sir,” Sirius’ voice carried a note of very well faked innocence.

“Ah yes, I daresay, I wouldn’t want to get in the way of Minerva and the Quidditch cup…” Slughorn wheezed and then mumbled something about ‘insufferable’ and ‘fury’. “Very well then, just make sure to get today’s notes from one of your friends, James.”

James scrambled to his feet, shoved all his stuff in his bag, and rushed out of the classroom. They had done this sort of thing so many times, and had planned so many different, slight variations of it, that he wasn’t worried about getting caught at all anymore. He grinned at Sirius and both started down the corridor, to wait around the corner. If James wasn’t much mistaken, Peter was about to use one of those fake blood capsules from Muggle jokes shops that Remus had introduced them to a while ago. 

Sure enough, no more than five minutes later, Peter appeared with red paint down his front. The brilliance of this particular trick was that Slughorn tried to magic Wormtail’s supposed nosebleed away, but since his nose wasn’t really bleeding, the spell didn’t do anything. Pretty quickly, Slughorn gave up and sent Peter to the hospital wing.

“Why did it smell like coffee, lilacs, and Moony in there?” 

There was a second’s pause and then James turned to Peter, shock and curiosity mirrored in his face too.

“What?” Sirius lifted his hands in a brief shrug when his two friends exchanged very eloquent and very obvious looks. Then he explained rather proudly: “I’ve been able to pick up even the most subtle scents a lot more since I’ve started casually transforming into a massive black dog. Was Remus here already to get you out of Potions?”

James, and by the looks of it, Peter too, knew that the cauldron full of Amortentia was seated nearest to the door, and the only scent that Sirius could have possibly been picking up was that. And it smelled like Moony to him.

“No er…” James shook his head as if waking up from some kind of a trance. “Yeah, Merlin’s beard, that’s incredible! That you can smell things like a bloody dog now!”

“Yeah… Completely!” Peter agreed. “Incredible!”

“Come on, you must have noticed things like that too since last year?” Sirius shrugged again and his two friends exchanged looks, again. “Anywho,” he rolled his eyes, probably thinking that they were trying to mess with him. “Shall we make a quick stop at the kitchen?”

#wolfstar #wolfstar fanfiction #remus lupin #sirius black #james potter #peter pettigrew #marauders #fanfic #hogwarts

[gayregis]

boppinrobin replied to your post: “Question. Part 1. Hi. I like your blog and your analytical analysis of books,”

aauuuughhh tysm for ur analysis as always

thank you for reading and liking it!!

arinasassymessi replied to your post: “Question. Part 1. Hi. I like your blog and your analytical analysis of books,”

Thank you again for your response! I wrote anonymously because I was a little embarrassed by my English, but to be honest, I've been reading your blog for a very long time, and I've always wanted to discuss some topics with you. Thank you, I feel more confident now. First of all, I apologize for the fact that I considered this scene pro-life.

The thing is, I've reread the witcher books countless times (mostly because of Regis, lol). And if in the first times I was so fascinated by the plot and characters that I did not notice any obvious sexist/homophobic moments, then after rereading the books more consciously, I caught very unpleasantly, conservative motives, which Sapkowski is not shy about.

I remember that the first time this scene, even though it caused a bit of misunderstanding, still touched me with its warmth and how Geralt emotionally supported Milva, helping her make a rather difficult decision. And the way Regis was pleased with his actions, smiling at him, awww.

But after studying the books in more detail and the messages that Sapkowski puts in them, it seems to me that I began to see a catch everywhere. At first, I was also delighted to learn about Ciri's relationship with Mistle, wow, progressive author, LGBTQ+ representation! But after seeing this relationship "live," I felt cheated, and since then, I have returned to this scene with Milva.

I thought, oh no, isn't everything here the same as I believed? Most of all, I was afraid of Regis because he is my comfort character, the voice of reason, and a progressive medic. Does Sapkowski put pro-life ideas in his mouth?.. After a couple of discussions with friends, this fear only took root.

However, after reading your in-depth analytical analysis, I agreed with it, looking at the facts in a new way, and was glad that my first guesses and feelings from this scene were close to the truth. Now I can rest in peace, lol.

About "medicament/medicine" and "agent." I have read books in Russian, and now I am rereading "Baptism of Fire" in English to practice. I think the difference between the words "medicament" and "agent" in English is somewhat unclear, and it is impossible to say precisely which of them has a negative connotation.

Both of them sound entirely neutral and normal to me, but again, I'm not a native speaker, correct me if I'm wrong. In Russian, instead of the word "agent," we have the word "snadobye" (the closest translation is 'potion,’ and in Polish, it is 'ziola’). And while "medicament" means only medicine, a remedy, the word "snadobye" can also mean medicine, but has more folk properties (?).

It is brewed from herbs and a synonym to a potion/drug — a poisonous, magical, and forbidden drink, usually attributed to witches and wizards. For me, Geralt's refusal to use the word "medicament" — neutral and scientific-medical — in favor of a word that has a more magical/negative connotation seemed rather strange. But again, this is just my guess.

I consider the Russian translation closer to the Polish one because it belongs to the same language group, but I don't have access to the original to check what words were used there. In any case, I think that since Geralt decided to use one instead of the other, they should differ in some way, but it is not known in favor of which word this works. I also like your version.

I also had a lot of questions about Milva and her actions. She's probably my second favorite character after Regis, and I didn't understand her actions until a certain point. She was not satisfied with a woman's position in her society, so instead of the usual role, she decided to participate in Geralt's journey?

I was also not very clear about their conversation and Geralt's conclusion: "someone else's child for your own, life for life." Why? After all, she could stay in Brokilon and give birth, but if she didn't want a child, she could have an abortion (for example, she rather cruelly compared her child to young wasps that eat caterpillar alive).

Recently, the Russian Witcher community posted a short theory that Milva was in love with Geralt and therefore went after him. Milva's thoughts in Brokilon speak in favor of this — she finds Geralt attractive (although she felt something similar for Cahir when they were waiting for Geralt and Buttercup to be released from prison at night).

*not Buttercup (have no idea what is it), JASKIER

Also, their conversation outside Regis' hut at night, when Milva bitterly remarked that Geralt needed another woman — a scholar, a wise one, a beloved one (Yennefer), desire to get emotional support exactly from Geralt and and insisting on his presence during the miscarriage, her further refusal to marry the baron, and perhaps Sapkowski's sometimes ANNOYING idea that any woman should go crazy in Geralt's company. But again, these are just guesses, and I would be interested to hear your opinion.

I also didn't know that tumblr has a word limit in comments, so my replays look pretty stupid now, lol.

yes!! i also read the books first just for the plot and then went back and later, when my mind was clearer, noticed a lot more of political views in the writing. it’s the fact that a lot of sapkowski’s other takes are shitty (re: feminity, lgbt individuals and relationships), or at least come off as shitty because they are not explicit enough to actually be a progressive opinion, compounded with the fact that the scene with milva is not very clear on exactly what regis is asking geralt, why he is polling them, why geralt is upset, or what they even intend to do. i think also, because the subject is so important and people have very intense opinions about it, it makes you nervous to see it come up in a fictional story, even if the author is promoting a good message - it’s the feeling you described of, “oh no, isn't everything here the same as i believed?” 

and yeah, you’re right, in english i’d say medicament and agent both have neutral connotations, “agent” to me sounds more scientific, somehow? like it would be used in an experiment? i think i have usually heard it more in descriptions of products, like “cleansing agent” in relation to something dealing with chemistry... but then again, i am not a scientist, doctor, beautician, etc...

and about milva - agree, i love her too :D!! these are my personal opinions and takes on her character motivations but:

i think her ‘not being satisfied with a [traditional] woman’s role in society’ extends beyond not being satisfied, it’s being disgusted with it - in tower of the swallow, she describes how she as a teenager experienced sexual assault at the hands of her stepfather, and her mother didn’t do anything (assumedly because of the societal roles involved, and you can (unfortunately) see this occur in real life as well, mothers don’t protect their daughters from the men they stay with). milva beats him to death and runs away, and never goes back to that life. additionally, in baptism of fire, she talks about her name - milva, and why she changed it, and she says that her original name, maria, along with a lot of other “feminine-sounding” names beginning with M (this is at least what i got out of it, they sound like sweet names given to peasant girls), get your ass pinched in taverns (this is my best recollection of the quote). 

it’s clear that she has not only experienced discomfort, but really just blatant violence at the hands of “traditional feminity/women’s societal roles,” and so she goes to rely on only herself at first, hunting in lower sodden, and then finally being ‘adopted’ (kind of) by brokilon and eithne, becoming affiliated with them and working for them and the scoia’tael. this makes sense to me, because of course brokilon is a matriarchy, and the elves are mentioned to raise (and thus, treat) male and female elves the same way.

i won’t rule out that sapkowski intended for milva to have romantic interest in geralt, but i think that even if he did, it wasn’t interesting and i disagree with that direction for her character. my takes continued are that:

re:  "someone else's child for your own, a life for life." in this conversation, she talks to geralt about the differences between “milva” and “maria,” her two identities that seem to be at ends with each other. she didn’t want to stay in brokilon to have the child, because by societal means, she is no longer a “woman” in the traditional sense - she’s milva, not maria - she kills, she laughs as she pulls out the arrowheads from corpses, etc., like her chosen name, ‘milva,’ she is a red kite, a bird of prey. 

she doesn’t fit the societal expectations of a woman, and was never trained in being a mother (she ran away from home as a teenager, she hasn’t done ‘traditional woman things’ like keep house and cook, raise and deal with children, weave (?) and work in a house since she was 16, and she is older than that now (i’d say she’s at least past her early 20s, because she is described as a “young woman” compared to angouleme’s “very young woman” in lady of the lake, and angouleme is approx. 18-19). but since she doesn’t fit these expectations, how can she expect herself to raise this child? thus, she likely wanted to drop the baby, but since she was raised in a conservative rural society in which women are expected to bear children and not have abortions, she may have felt guilt and shame for wanting to do so. thus, she wanted to follow geralt - although she would have intentionally lost her child, she would have intentionally saved another, absolving her of her guilt. it’s like as regis described to geralt in the middle of the book, about penance and running up debts, this is a large theme of the book - a baptism of fire, fire which not only purifies, but burns (a challenge which absolves one of guilt, but it is painful). 

these are just my takes, i think sapkowski’s intentions were more along the theory that milva had a crush on geralt, but as i said i think that’s just boring and the “easy way out.” he also did that with cahir and ciri, making heterosexual love the motivation for a noble deed, and it’s just like... these characters have so much other depth and serious individual issues, and you want to reduce their motivations to just simply “they were in love”? okay... so yeah i don’t think sapkowski really may have intended any of the above, or if he did, it was to a lesser degree, but this is my interpretation of it.

#arinasassymessi #replies

[takadasaiko]

Love Me Twice: Chapter Eighteen

FFN II AO3

Summary: The Keens have dinner with Scottie, Red takes a trip down to Texas, and Ressler runs into trouble.

Chapter Eighteen

Liz had just wrapped Agnes in a fluffy towel after her bath when she heard the sounds of someone in the kitchen. She kissed her daughter's hair that had - somehow and miraculously - stayed dry through the bath - and told her to put the clothes hanging up on. Grandma Scottie was coming for dinner.

Tom still looked tired, albeit less frustrated than he'd been while they were at Dr Orchard's. She stood watching him move around the kitchen and he almost looked like he knew where things were. She thought it might have just been his quick learning curve until he went for a specific cabinet and then looked very confused by what he found there.

"What are you looking for?"

"One of those big saucepans. I could have sworn-"

"I moved it up because I don't use it very often." She watched him follow through to the cabinet she motioned at. "You remembered where it was."

Tom blinked, surprised, and Liz felt a small smile creep into place as he said: "Guess I did." He grabbed the pan he needed and set it on the burner. He looked so natural there, almost like he had never left. He had, there was no denying the damage done to their lives, but as he started working in the sauce Liz felt a rare tug of peace. She wanted to hold onto that as long as the universe would let her.

"You don't have to cook, you know," she said as she moved to lean against the table, never taking her eyes off of him.

She could see the barest smiles pull at the corner of his lips. "I feel like you're not much of a cook."

"I've gotten a little better."

"Not sure if it's a memory or just a survival instinct, but I'm gonna play it safe on this one."

Liz flashed a grin that felt a little more forced as someone knocked on the door. Well, Scottie was early. "Aggie, you dressed?" she called into the little girl's room as she passed.

"My ears!" Agnes' voice sounded from inside, but Liz was already tugging the door open to reveal her mother-in-law on the other side.

She had never seen Scottie Hargrave look anything less than ready to stride straight into a boardroom in her tailored outfits and heels and tonight was no different. She stood in the doorway with her head held high and her thousand dollar purse on her arm, but under it all the younger woman thought she saw a hint of nerves. Okay. At least the last sliver of suspicion could be put away.

Liz flashed a smile. "Hey, come on in. Tom's in the kitchen."

"How is he—?"

The question was cut off as Agnes' door was thrown all the way open and she piled out of her room in the clothes that Liz had laid out for her, though with an addition of her own by way of the cat ears headband. She wrapped herself around Scottie's long legs and grinned up at her. "Hi."

"It's like you didn't see me today," Scottie teased with a smile and knelt down to pull her granddaughter into a hug. "I hear you've had a visitor."

Agnes nodded. "Daddy's in here," announced, surprising Liz and taking Scottie by the hand to lead her in. They hadn't said anything, there was no way she should have known, but Liz supposed with all the oddities that surrounded her daughter since birth there was no reason that she shouldn't have believed it either. Just another strange happening in the Keen household.

Liz followed at their heels to find Agnes already chattering away, pulling up a chair to stand on so that she could see what Tom was doing. He stirred at the sauce that was simmering, teasing the little girl playfully while Scottie stood frozen next to the kitchen table. Her dark gaze was fixed on him, following every tiny move, until he finally turned around as he wiped his hands on a dish towel. "You must be Scottie."

"Agnes, why don't you go play until dinner's ready," Liz prompted softly.

She looked ready to argue, but finally hopped off her perch with a loud and dramatic huff that lasted almost to her room. Scottie's lips twitched up at the show the four-year-old has put on and her attention snapped back toTom. "She's always reminded me so much of you," she said softly.

"I don't know how much Liz has told you…."

"I know that someone has manipulated your memories and that you're missing a considerable amount of time."

Tom's dark blue gaze flickered to Liz and she tried for a reassuring smile. "Yeah. I, uh…. I don't remember you. Sorry."

"It's not your fault," Scottie answered immediately, but Liz didn't miss that subtle anger just under the words. Well, when they did find who was responsible for Tom's missing memories, Scottie looked ready to go to war with them. It couldn't hurt to have the CEO of Halcyon Aegis in their corner.

Scottie plastered a struggling smile on her face as she shifted the subject. "So, what's for dinner?"

-------

Howard Hargrave had been a civilian engineer when Red had first met him. Halcyon was in its infancy and its young, still-optimistic CEO had happened by and offered to play translator for a Polish woman with intel that Reddington's team had needed. Their interaction had been so brief that it wasn't until years later that the two men pieced it together and had gotten a good laugh over it. Yet another amusing story in a collection of them that they cultivated over the years.

Many things had changed since those days, and it had been years since Reddington had even seen his old friend. Christopher's disappearance from the beach house coupled with a variety of other factors - both connected and otherwise - has left Howard unpredictable and not entirely stable. It had only gotten worse with time. Red had finally put distance between them when it became clear that Howard didn't have any intentions of adjusting the dangerous trajectory that he had been hurdling in. Tom's return had been too late and Howard suspected too much to put him right again. Red feared that losing his son a second time - even at a distance - might have done him in.

That's why he was surprised to find out that Howard wasn't rotting away in some deep, dark hole like the government often threatened to throw him into, or even a mental institution for that matter. He found him in a little military town in Texas working for the government. He was tethered by an ankle monitor and given a very small stipend for his efforts if the shabby, bachelor-styled apartment was anything to go by. Perhaps they really had thrown him in a hole, just of a different sort.

Reddington had time to explore the small space before Howard arrived. There was nothing there that would have convinced him that his old friend lived within the walls. Howard had always been a nostalgic man in his own way, but none of that resonated here. Red saw no sign of hidden research or projects he was tackling on his own. Just the mindless day in and day out with a little food and an uncomfortable bed between it.

By the time the door opened Reddington had settled into the lone chair at a two-person breakfast table that could be folded up and shoved in a corner if it needed to be. Howard shuffled in, shouting over his shoulder at someone, before fumbling with the locks behind him. He turned and flipped the fluorescent lights on, freezing as he did. "Red?"

Reddington plastered one of his more charming smiles into place. "Howard. You are a difficult man to find. I thought you'd be in prison."

The other man snorted, tossing the keys down on the cheap counter next to the door. "Why lock me away when I'm still of some use?"

He moved further into the living space and Reddington gave him a once over. For the first time since he'd met him, Howard looked his age. His hair had receded years ago and what was left had turned grey, but the lines in his face looked deeper now and there was a weight against his shoulders. Worse yet, there was none of that old spark in his eye. As far down as his enemies had driven him over the years, that clever spark had remained. Reddington had seen it a little over three years before when he had stood before the cameras and declared war on his wife for the whole nation to see.

"You look like hell," Reddington said, his tone more pointed than light. Nothing about this boded well.

Howard shrugged and moved to the fridge. He stuck his head in and returned with a couple of beers in hand. Reddington did his best not to turn his nose up. Ah well. When in Rome. Or Texas, as it were.

"Long days, meaningless nights. They weigh on you like life," Howard answered heavily and leaned against the table, his sole chair occupied.

"What if I told you I could change all that?"

"I'd ask you what you get out of it," Howard answered sharply.

"Katarina has resurfaced."

"So now you're playing fetch for her?"

Reddington's eyes narrowed dangerously. "You know what it means. This isn't a game."

"Sure it is. One I bowed out of agesago." He took a long swig of his beer. "Save your effort, Red. And whatever money you intended to bribe my guards with. I'm done. I'm out. She's won."

"Your war was never with Scottie," Reddington answered softly and Howard quirked a grey eyebrow.

"Wasn't it? It was her secrets that stole our boy away and the same that ended up getting him killed. You and I both know this Garvey was more than what he seemed." Howard had always been fascinated with conspiracy theories, and while he often found a trail that turned out to be more than it appeared, Garvey was gone. Dead. Reddington had made sure of it. Digging into the man himself would yield very little.

"None of it would have happened if you hadn't reached out," Reddington pointed out.

"None of it would have happened if you'd been half the friend you claimed to be thirty years ago and gotten my boy back!" Howard countered, the old argument rearing its head. "But no. You were too busy learning from my mistakes. Then you turn around, years later, and tell him that Scottie was his mother while telling him to stay clear of me! Of course I went to him. She'd have gotten her claws in and…" He stopped, the fit of rage he had been boiling to fizzling out abruptly and he turned a dark look on Red. "My boy is dead, my wife a traitor willing to kill me. That's what your war brought to my doorstep, Red. I'm not going to help you."

Red sat very still for a long moment. He'd underestimated the pain and suffering Howard had endured these last two and a half years. At the very least he had hoped to push the right buttons to encourage a lust for revenge, but he was too hurt. Too broken. He had heard the charges levied against him at his trial. Accounts of reckless endangerment, theft, perjury, espionage, and the list went on. Tom had testified against him after everything that had happened. He'd stood in front of an open jury as Christopher Hargrave and no one had warned him the dangers of it. Clearly Howard thought it was what had gotten him killed, and that was a hell of a weight to bear. Red didn't need to know the specifics of what he'd done to know that, at least in the recesses of his own mind, Howard had thought he was protecting his child.

Red leaned in. "We're past the point of no return on this."

"I don't care."

"You're willing to rot here?"

"Here. There. What's the difference?"

Red toyed with his options. He could tell him. It was a risk in his state. He knew Katarina we'll enough to know Scottie would, eventually, be brought into the middle of this as well. Howard would be difficult to convince, but perhaps if he could manage to connect him with his son before Scottie… that might work. It was time for a calculated risk or he'd be walking out of this place empty handed. "He's alive."

Howard didn't perk at that. "Who?"

"Christopher."

Now he looked up. "Don't lie to me, Red."

"I'm not, he—"

There was a change, a flash of rage, and Howard hurled the beer bottle so that it shattered against the floor. "My son is dead. You don't get to use him as a bargaining chip, Red. You don't get to manipulate me into sticking my nose into the same chaos that got him killed in the first place. The three of you made your bed. Lie in it or don't. I don't care, but get the hell out."

Reddington sat there for a long moment before he finally stood, fitting his hat back on his head. "For what it's worth, Howard, he can't remember anything. He's lost time."

"Convenient way of using a double to try to fool me."

And there were the conspiracies again, even if it weren't as far fetched as some might have thought. Red has used a double, but just not here and now. "Point being that he doesn't remember your last interaction." He sighed. "Not everyone is your enemy unless you choose to make them. I may be one of the few friends left in this world. Reach out when you finish wallowing in your self pity."

He turned and left before Howard could respond. If he would given way or buckled down, Reddington wasn't sure, but if there were anything left of the Howard Hargrave he had once known he wouldn't be able to shake the hope of his son being alive. It would gnaw at him until he had no choice but to act.

-----------

Ressler hadn't realized just how easily spoiled to flying private he'd managed to become over the years, but the delayed flight out of Germany and delayed layover at LaGuardia International had left him missing Reddington's jet, even if not the interference he certainly would have thrown into their case. No, after what he'd done to their Blacklister when they had refused to give him five minutes with the man. He might have given them the name that took them to Bonn, but Ressler's be damned if he forked over the jumpdrive Weiss had risked so much to get to him.

Still, it was late and Ressler was exhausted. He could miss the convenience of a private jet without missing the man that provided it.

He shifted his bag on his shoulder and fumbled for his keys just outside of his front door, but as he slid it into the lock and turned, he could feel that the mechanisms had already been released. That wasn't good.

The bag dropped to the hall floor as Ressler reached for his sidearm, readying himself as he pushed the front door open. The living room looked clear as far as his line of sight reached and he inched in, every muscle taught and finger ready on the trigger. He cleared the kitchen and the living room, the bathroom, and that only left one more room in the apartment. He flexed his fingers around the handle on his gun, adjusting his grip and he pulled a deep breath in through his nose as he started into the bedroom. He made it half a step through the door frame before the door swung out hard.

The blow hadn't been what he expected, but even as he stumbled off balance he kept his grip on his gun. Ressler spun, leveling it, but his attacker was already there. He was a tall and thick man, well out of Ressler's own weight class, and the shot went into the ceiling when he slammed his arm upward. He spun faster than he should have been able to and Ressler heard his own yelp of pain rattling in his ears before realizing that the intruder had followed through and wrenched his arm around so hard that it must have popped it out of socket.

Ressler didn't have time to test the theory as the man descended on him again, but he managed to avoid the blow if only just barely. He bobbed, finding his right arm utterly useless, and was sent sprawling to the floor hard. He lay there for a moment, stunned, and blinked hard against the pain as his attacker loomed over him. "The drive," he said simply and Ressler grimaced. He could see his gun on the floor, but he'd have to be faster.

"Don't know what you're talking about, pal."

The other man snorted and pulled his own weapon from its holster. "I don't believe you."

Ressler roller for his gun and the shot went off.

---------

Dinner went surprisingly well. They tiptoed around certain subjects until Agnes went to her room to play, but as soon as she was out of earshot it was clear that Scottie Hargrave expected more. She had been pleasant and chatty about a lot of nothing right up until that point. A cover. A well designed mask. Tom knew it well, even if no memories seemed to be shaking loose about her just yet.

He worked his way through what he knew, he and Liz reading each other's small tells to make sure they didn't let information slip that shouldn't. He was careful never to mention Katarina Rostova by name, but something like recognition flashed through Scottie's eyes as Liz shared a few choice details about the woman that had called herself both Maddie Tolliver and Rostova.

Liz excused herself as her cell phone rang, stepping into the bedroom to take the call. Almost immediately Scottie turned to him. "The woman that hired you."

"Tremblay?" he asked carefully.

"Are you certain that's her name?"

"Are you certain it's not?" he countered.

"I understand your… caution," she said slowly, almost as if she were tasting each word. "This woman. I need to know what you know."

There was something strangely familiar about the way she was looking at him. Her gaze was calculating and careful, like she thought she could unearth any secrets by sheer determination. He held it though, and felt like he might be on the verge of remembering something important about her.

"Scottie, we're going to have to cut this short," Liz said as she blew back into the room.

"Elizabeth-"

"Ressler was just attacked in his apartment. I have to go."

Tom was on his feet in an instant. "What happened?"

"I'm not sure yet, but I need to get a babysitter and -"

"Go," Scottie said firmly. "I'll watch Agnes."

Tom watched Liz hesitate for a long moment before she nodded, accepting the offer. Within five minutes she'd kissed Agnes goodbye, grabbed her gun, and pulled him out the door behind her.

--------

TBC

Notes: Well, Becca called it in the reviews: my whump quota strikes again. Aimed at Ress this time :P

I don't know if I've mentioned this here (I chatter about it quite a bit on Tumblr), but I'm been working towards a move to California for a while now. This weekend I'm flying out and signing a least if all works as expected. Wish me luck! :D

Next Time: A new clue emerges in the case, Scottie sets a clandestine meeting, and Liz forces Red's hand.

#the blacklist #Tom Keen #Elizabeth Keen #Scottie Hargrave #Raymond Reddington #Howard Hargrave #Donald Ressler

[aithuzah]

The Right Thing

[ AO3 | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | ? ]

Arthur was awake, dressed, and seated at his desk when Merlin entered his chambers with breakfast. He had slept fitfully until the first hints of daylight slipped past his curtains, finally deciding to give up on his bed and write down some of his racing thoughts and pressing questions.  

He was listing potential allies and enemies among the court when Merlin closed the door and announced, “The king came to see me last night.”

Arthur’s fingers tensed around his quill, splattering ink as the tip scraped a short line against the parchment.

“You’re still alive,” he noted. “I suppose that’s a good sign.”

He set the quill aside, pushed away from his desk, and took his place at the table.

Merlin set the tray of food in front of him and plucked a roll from the plate. “He wanted to thank me in person for what I said to you,” he said. “He called me a trusted ally in the fight against magic, and he said we must be extra vigilant to protect you from magic users who want to exploit your inexperience and corrupt you.” He took a bite out of Arthur’s breakfast.

“...You must be joking.”

“See, that’s exactly what I was thinking while it happened,” Merlin said, waving the hand that held the bread at Arthur. “And then he left, and I spent most of the night reading my secret book of magic to translate a spell. Life is awfully funny sometimes, isn’t it?”

Arthur snorted. “That’s one way of putting it,” he said. To think his father had asked Merlin of all people to ensure Arthur would stay away from magic...it was almost too ridiculous to be offended by, but the manipulation and condescension evident in the request still rankled.

Arthur speared a sausage with his fork. “Did you...find anything?”

Merlin nodded. “We can talk tonight. There isn’t time now.”

Arthur had training with the knights that morning, then lunch with his father and Morgana, and a routine patrol in the afternoon. They wouldn’t be able to speak in private for more than a few moments until that evening.

Arthur’s jaw clenched at the thought of sharing a meal with Uther. How was he supposed to smile and carry on as though nothing had happened?

But what else could he do?

If he confronted his father, Uther would continue to deny everything and probably throw him in the cells or confine him to his rooms until he “came to his senses,” as though punishing a child for throwing a tantrum. If he simply killed him for his crimes, as he almost had, he would lose the trust of his court and his people, destabilizing the kingdom and leaving it vulnerable to attack from their watchful rivals.

And…Uther was still his father. Even now, the memory of holding a blade to his throat left Arthur feeling sick and unsettled. Murdering Uther in cold blood could not be an option, either as a prince or as a son.

There had to be a better way.

He put the thought aside and realized he had finished his breakfast without tasting a single bite of it.

—

Arthur threw himself into the strain and burn of sparring, relishing in the pure physicality of it even as he watched each and every knight with a newly calculating gaze. Who was wholly loyal to Uther? Whose viewpoints were unwavering, and who might be swayed?

His orders were sharp, every correction of footwork or technique curt and bare of his usual self-satisfied confidence. The others responded in kind. Their usual camaraderie dulled over the course of the morning to match the prince’s solemn concentration. When they finally retreated to the armory to stow their weapons and armor, Arthur escaped as soon as possible to clean up before lunch.

Just play along, he reminded himself as he slipped into the chair across from Morgana. Do what you always do.

So he smiled and let the empty pleasantries and familiar banter wash over him as he ate. Yes, the new trainees showed great promise. No, he didn’t expect to return from patrol in time to dine together; he had already arranged for his servant to bring him his meal later in the evening. Yes, he had reviewed the crop inventory reports, and would have his suggestions prepared for the next council meeting.

On the other side of the table, Morgana stayed quiet, offering only a handful of teasing remarks throughout the meal. Whenever she believed Uther was in the wrong, though, she would be the first to speak up, no matter the consequences to herself. Not too long ago, she had hidden a Druid child in her own chambers until she could reunite him with his people—come to think of it, Merlin had helped with that, hadn’t he? They must already trust each other. How much did Morgana know about Merlin?

Either way, Arthur had no doubt that Morgana would be an eager ally. Hell, she would probably be offended if he didn’t involve her in their plans.

As they left the hall and prepared to part ways, Arthur pulled her aside.

“Meet me in my chambers tonight, after sundown,” he said in a low tone. “I need your help with something.”

Morgana smirked, tilting her head at him. “Oh? The great Prince Arthur Pendragon needs my help? What, do you need to impress some girl who’s caught your eye?”

He refused to rise to the bait. This wasn’t the time for their usual back-and-forth. “No. It’s…something important.”

Her expression cleared as she searched his face, and she nodded. “Alright, then. I’ll do what I can.”

—

Merlin had dinner on the table and a bath waiting in his chambers when Arthur finally returned from a long, uneventful patrol. He had almost wanted to find some trouble, just to give his mind a break from the incessant hum of anxious anticipation.

Did Merlin figure it out? Was she real? She couldn’t be real. She had to be real. What if she wasn’t? What if she was?

Instead of immediately diving into the conversation Arthur had been waiting for all day, though, Merlin pushed him toward the tub. “We’ve got all night to talk, but right now, you smell like a horse’s ass,” he said.

Arthur threw a look over his shoulder at his dinner and felt his stomach growl. “I’d rather have a lukewarm bath than a cold meal.”

Merlin’s face lit up with a giddy grin. “No need to worry about either one, Sire,” he said, and then his eyes lit up quite literally as he waved a hand at the bathwater and muttered a few words Arthur didn’t recognize. Steam began to rise slowly from the tub. Merlin gestured to it with a flourish. “Welcome to a brand new world of possibilities.”

This was, Arthur realized, the first time he had actually seen Merlin use magic. And it was…hmm.

“You’ve done that a lot, haven’t you.”

Merlin’s smile turned into a scowl. “And you have realized that the non-magical method for drawing private baths involves the long, exhausting process of hauling buckets of water up multiple flights of stairs while heating more water over a fire and hoping it will be just the right temperature at just the right time for the spoiled noble who demanded it on a whim, haven’t you?” Rolling his eyes, he crossed the room and dug in a basket of laundry to pull out a few thick, weathered books hidden beneath the clothes as Arthur undressed. “Yeah, of course I’ve done it a lot, it’s why I know that spell in the first place. I don’t know how the rest of the castle staff manages.”

Arthur sank into the bath with a sigh, and Merlin settled at the prince’s desk with his books, parchment, and a quill. As soothing as the hot water felt on his aching muscles—and damn, it really was the perfect temperature—Arthur still hurried through his routine. He scrubbed, dried, and dressed himself before joining Merlin at the desk, damp hair clinging to his forehead as he looked over his servant’s shoulder.

Merlin’s cramped, inelegant handwriting filled the spaces around Arthur’s own, more polished script—responses to the list of thoughts and questions he had written that morning.

And down at the bottom of the last page…

Merlin sat back and tapped a finger next to the still-drying words, and then a page in the open tome set off to the side of the desk. “To the best of my memory, this is the spell Morgause used. A ritual from the Old Religion to contact the dead.”

Arise from death. Help your son. Return to this earth.

“Then…it really was my mother.” Arthur braces against the desk, his legs going weak as the tension he’d carried for the past few days drained away. His chest loosened, then tightened anew as the gravity of the revelation pressed against his sternum. His eyes squeezed shut to stem the flood of jumbled emotion.

A thought struck, desperate and yearning.

“Could you do this?” Could I see my mother again?

Merlin’s breath caught. He stared up at Arthur with wide eyes, then back down at the paper.

“I don’t know,” he answered, voice soft. “Magic is complicated. Especially the magic of life and death. I’ve never tried a spell like that before, and if I did something wrong and messed up a spell that powerful…I don’t know what the cost would be. To me, to you, or to your mother’s spirit.”

Arthur straightened, stepped away. “Right,” he said, scrubbing a palm over his eyes to catch barely-formed tears before they could fall. “Of course. I should not have asked that of you.”

Merlin’s lips quirked into a faint, melancholy smile, his eyes still on the ritual in the book. “Believe me. I understand.”

Arthur recalled, then, what Merlin had said about his missing father. If he had died, would a spell such as this allow Merlin to meet the parent he had never known, as well? Or was the man still alive in the world somewhere?

Clearing his throat, Arthur retreated to the dining table across the room. “But, ah. You did mention that reheating food was among your apparently many talents?”

“Oh! Yes.”

Halfway through Arthur’s meal, a knock sounded at the door. Merlin leapt out of Arthur’s desk chair, shoving papers into the drawer even as the books snapped shut and flew under the bed on their own.

Arthur, for his part, calmly stood and answered the door.

“Ah! Lady Morgana. So glad you could join us,” Arthur said, stepping aside to let her into the room. He closed and locked the door behind her. “How would you like to help us overthrow my father?”

#mine #myfic #bbc merlin #the right thing fic #trust me no one is more surprised than i am that i'm writing merlin fic again

[jojomugi]

hola. 😳 so, i’m a big h*etaro fan as you may know- could you possibly do a little scenario of the reader comforting him after the events of sdc? like my guy, there’s no way jotaro was just okay after all of that. nonono. i do not think for a minute he was. anyways, may i please get some (a bit angsty) soft comforting hours for jotaro? pls and thank you.

Ah yES!!!!

My apologies for the wait. I’ve never written Jotaro before, so this involved a lot of drafting. On the bright side, Jotaro is now another character I can write. I just hope it’s not too OOC. Honestly, we don’t get to see old Jotarhoe get into his feelings too often unless he’s pissed off. I hope you enjoy this though!! I put a lot of love into it just for you buddy 👀!!!

All aboard the angst train whoo whoo.

✨AU: N/A

✨Word Count: 2517

✨SFW?: Yes

✨Spoilers ahead for JJBA PART 3!!!! Read at your own risk!!

The pink petals of the cherry blossom tree outside your home fell like rain droplets from the sky. You were awaiting the arrival of a friend; A friend who on an emotional level was much more than that to you, but a friend nonetheless. Last time you had seen Jotaro Kujo was when you and the rest of the stand using crusaders all reached Egypt.

Quite frankly, the time you spent apart from each other would’ve been far shorter if it had not been for the incident leading up to your departure from the group. The long memory was still fresh in your mind like a new film on a camera roll. You wanted to stay and help, you consider him a friend and the rest of the group like a family to you. But that day when Kakyoin became visually impaired by N’doul’s stand Geb and upon Jotaro’s stern request, you went back home. But now all that crossed your mind was the outcome of those final days in Egypt. You knew Jotaro was obviously still alive, as today certainly wouldn’t have been planned out if he wasn’t. But what happened to everyone else? And was it true that the menacing DIO that by proxy haunted each step in that journey vanquished? 

You shook these thoughts from your mind, as your questions would all be answered shortly. You gave yourself one final look down in the mirror and adjusted your pleated skirt with a slight smile. 

‘Today is going to be a good day’ you silently reminded your reflection with a small nod. But before you had a chance to double-check your small shoulder bag, you were stopped in your tracks by a doorbell. 

“In a second!” You called out as your fast feet hurried down the hall like a rabbit. Like ice, your socks did not do much good with the traction on the floor as you hastily slid around on the smoothly polished wood base of your home to grab a few final things and your shoes. Once you finally got everything together at the speed of light, your perfect display you worked on all morning was now a wreck. You h/c hair now not as smooth from when you first brushed it, and your crew socks now at different lengths. Luckily for you, Joataro was one you could genuinely count on to not judge you for your slightly clumsy physical appearance. As he was a Joestar. And one thing you learned from those days of traveling was that no matter what kind of person they are, all Joestars have a righteous heart of gold.

You suddenly swung the door wide open as a sheepish grin plastered on your face. “My apologies Jotaro, I lost track of time.”

“Oi, y/n, it’s fine. I was 5 minutes early anyway.” He bluntly responded with a dip of the bill of his hat. Jotaro had always been a reserved man until he was poked to the point of utter annoyance, but today, right now, something seemed off about him. You couldn’t put your finger on it, but something in your intuition told you that he deeply troubled by something, more so than how he was during the trip to Egypt. However, you kept to the sideline, as you understood that he was also the type of person to talk when he was ready to. There was no point in forcing him and ruining what was supposed to be a good day for you two. Like a switch, you let out a blink of your e/c eyes and formed a now nonchalant like demeanor. “Oh! Well, it’s alright really. I need to work on my time management skills anyways.” 

Your words were quickly disregarded as he tucked his hands into the pockets of his pants. “Yare yare. Are you ready?”

You let out a small nod as you stepped out to lock your door. You two finally departed to the sidewalk to make your way towards town. However, all the could be heard between you two were footsteps.

Crunchy. Melancholy. Footsteps.

Internally you just hoped that something interesting would come by the path you two took. Like maybe a cute dog, or an interesting butterfly. Anything to break the tense silence between you two. It was agonizingly awkward, even for Joatro’s standards of reservation.

But if fate wasn’t going to intervene, you had to come up with something on your own. You pondered hard on what to say, as you wouldn’t want to trigger any type of problems dwelling within his mind. You went with the safest route and asked a question you already had a vague idea of an answer to.

“How is your mother doing?”

The silence continued for a few moments more. You slid your hands into your cardigan pockets and waited patiently. 

“She’s better now.” 

The Kujo’s words were as blunt as an ancient knife. But even so, it deeply stung. Your hunch was correct there really was something wrong.

“I’m glad to hear. I was so worried about her. The day I flew back here I used what was left of my money to have a card and flowers sent to her.”

“I know.” 

And yet another insult to injury. Still, even with your sensitive emotions, you did your best not to take it personally. 

“She…really appreciated it. Thank you y/n.” He carefully added, as his step accidentally kicked a rock down the coated pink pathway. Your e/c eyes couldn’t help but soften at the sentiment. He was slowly but surely seeming close to his normal self. With the flip of your locks, you quickly turned your head up at him to press on.

“Well, I’m glad. And what about Mr.Joestar? How is he?”

A faint smile formed that hid behind the high collar of his coat. The only way you could tell he was even smiling was by the very slight movement of the male’s defined cheekbones. 

“Psh…Still a pain in my ass like before.”

A small irresistible giggle emitted from you. Jotaro’s ocean-like eyes glanced down at you for a moment, before steadily looking forward again. His look was now refined and sober once more.

“Oi, y/n, I’m getting tired of walking. Let’s go sit at the bench up the way.” He suggested with a point from his bold finger in the general direction of the bench that you two would soon be approaching. You complied with a nod and once you both got there, you sat on separate ends.

From the eyes of another, no one would even guess you two were even going to the same destination, that it was a mere coincidence you two just so happened to be sitting on the same bench. That was far from the case, but Jotaro was mentally distant and you were hesitant to step into that void of mental distress. Still, you felt as his friend, and how close he was in your heart, it was your duty to help him through whatever he was going through, or at least support and encourage him. You took in a deep inhale, and shortly freed a long sigh from your lips.

“What about Kakyoin? I’ve been worried about him too. Is he still able to see? I figured he would’ve called by now, especially since we live in the same-“

Those first words amongst your rambling…

‘What about Kakyoin.’ 

A tsunami of flashbacks washed over his already flood thoughts and emotions. The weight of guilt at that moment would have destroyed mountains if it was able to. Since that night, he couldn’t help but wonder what he could’ve done differently for him for Kakyoin to still be with them. He made a best friend in someone who thought he couldn’t trust in the beginning. As much as Jotaro’s Joestar legacy deemed him a hero for defeating DIO, in Joatro’s eyes, Kakyoin was a real hero for the final message he left them in those endmost moments of his life on what DIO’s stand really was. Deep down he knew its what Kakyoin would’ve wanted, vengeance for all those that DIO damaged, including himself. He knew that the fight would end with loss—But he could not shake the feeling that he could’ve done something to change the fate of his best friend.

He quickly straightened up with a snap.

“Damn it. Can you just shut up already?” The male gritted, retaining all the frustration and overwhelming emotions he wanted to release. He’d never inflict harm onto you, but he definitely wanted to punch something. But just as quick as he fractured to you, he instantly regretted his knee jerk reaction to you. Obviously, you would’ve had no clue on what was taunting him. The Kujo was at least that rational with his mind. “Just….”

A longingly defeated groan fell from his mouth as he bent forward, bracing his sharp elbows against his knees. You were struck in the heart by his harsh response. He was always quick to be agitated but not in this way. But if the mention of Kakyoin was enough to drive him to that, you only feared the worse, for Joatro was never one to get overly tied up in small, fixable, problems. You slanted towards his direction while still respecting his personal bubble. 

“Jotaro…are you alright?” You asked with a soft sort of caution. 

There was a long pause yet again. The male slid his cap off for a moment before sitting back up and placing it back upon its place. You deserved to know what happened to your form friends as well, just as much as he had the right to grieve over this loss in his own ways. What to say wasn’t hard to formulate, but translating the pain into spoken words was what tormented him.

“Kayoin…Didn’t make it.” He alas answered, trying his best to keep the sharp lump that he formed down. To not fall apart.

For a moment you were dumbfounded. You certainly did believe him, but how? How could such a talented stand user like him fall? Your lip twitched as it begged you to allow itself to quiver. As much as you yourself wanted to break down from this news, you remained strong. This time it was your turn to be the strong one for him. Jotaro truly needed you, for you were the remaining person who wasn’t far across in another continent that he knew he could confide in. He undeniably trusted you with his whole heart, which was truly a rarity for anyone he kept around.

“I’m…so sorry…” you shakenly stammered, as you placed a soft hand on to one of his broad shoulders closest to you. He sharply continued, almost as if you remained silently idle in the same place you were before. 

“Avdol and Iggy…they didn’t make it either. Old man shouldn’t even be here but he survived thanks to DIO’s stupidity.” He spoke in a begrudging manner. He hated that name. DIO. If it wasn’t for DIO, he wouldn’t have had to lose anyone, and no one would’ve been hurt, not even the people who blindly followed him in hopes of something in return. However…ironically enough, he wouldn’t have had the experiences he had that brought him and others together to form a bond that carried its way through even the afterlife. 

You remained silent as you awaited for him to continue if he wanted to continue that is. Your light fingertips gently grazed themselves across him back, leaving a reminder of your openness and reassurance you had to offer for Jojo.

While getting a grip on his composure, Jotaro continued. He hated apologizing in general, but in this instance, it would’ve been upright rude for him not to. “Listen, Y/n, I’m sorry for snapping at you earlier. I let my emotions get the better of me.”

“Its fine, Jotaro. I don’t blame you once so ever.” You scooted closer towards him before proceeding on. “In fact, you seem to have a lot on your mind today.”

Jotaro let out a breath of air and leaned back in the wooden seat. That was the damn truth, he really did have a lot on his shoulders, even though everything was done and over with.

“I don’t want to admit it, but I’m dealing with a lot of emotions I don’t understand. Hell, it’s even more terrifying to confront them than it was to confront DIO. Even after defeating him, there is still a lega- no, a path he left behind that needs to be dealt with. He’s dead for good, but the consequences of his actions are still here leaving an impact on me and so many others.” 

“Unfortunately I don’t know if Star Platinum could beat up your emotions…But at least you can beat the crap out of DIO!” You nervously joked, hoping to not border onto the boundary of joking inappropriately. 

“Tch. True.”

One side of the Kujo’s lip halfheartedly curled at your honest yet funny commentary. He honestly needed to help combat with containing the deep-seated emotions that wanted to explode from within. 

As quick as your joke spilled, you shook your head to keep your focus back onto him. It was time to pour your honest intentions to him. Even though he was no longer facing DIO, he was now facing what some might even say was more mysterious and challenging than some century-old vampire. And that was the human mind and its complex rewiring after a traumatic event. You’d never discount your own feelings, but you’d also never leave someone you love to suffer alone. You calmly shut your eyes after you found the courage within you to say what you needed to say. And then you spoke.

“I’m not a therapist by any means but…They were my friends too. It already hurts to have them gone, but it hurts, even more to see you struggling alone with pain far greater than yours.” Your trailing hand froze back onto his shoulder.

“Jotaro. Take what I’m about to say as you will but….” Your body froze as your sudden pause drew his handsome blue eyes and attention back onto you. Yeah, this was a lot easier to say with his strong intimidating appearance not looking you dead in the eye. With a small swallow, you finally said it. “I love you, and I will always be there for you. It would be a disservice to how much we grew together during those weeks to not be there. Whenever you’re ready, and whenever you need me. Just call me and I’ll be there.” 

Jotaro’s eyes didn’t stray from yourself. He was clearly taking what you said into deep consideration. He took in a deep inhale and turned forward. You could feel a load of relief wash over you until suddenly, his large hand placed itself over your much more tinier one. 

“Y/n.”

“Y-yes?”

“Thank you.”

#jotaro x reader #JJBA SDC writing #JJBA #SDC #JJBA:SDC #jojo no kimyō na bōken #jojo’s bizarre adventure #jojo's bizzare adventure stardust crusaders #jotaro kujo #jotaro jojo #jotaro cujoh #Part 3 spoilers

[hatari-translations]

Iceland to Poland dispute

If you’re a member of the Hatari International Fans Facebook group, you may have seen someone recently share this article from DV. I’m going to talk about it a bit.

The headline of the article is ‘Hatari before the District Court on Thursday - “They nearly ruined my festival with their greed”’. It explains that Hatari is being sued by Wiktoria Joanna Ginter, organizer of the Iceland to Poland music festival, who contacted DV about the matter. She says that Hatari had agreed to appear at the festival in December, but then a few months later, when they were famous after their Eurovision appearance, they demanded more money for appearing.

It’s important as fans of any kind of celebrity to not get lost in a total denial of the possibility that our beloved faves might do something dickish. However, as it happens I had read a more detailed article on Vísir back in August, which provides a lot more context and shows that the DV article is presenting this issue in a deeply misleading way. So I thought I’d write a post explaining this better article’s account of what’s going on and opining on it.

The Vísir article (summary)

Iceland to Poland is a music festival, where Icelandic bands are taken to several cities in Poland, introducing the Icelandic music scene to Polish music lovers. Wiktoria did approach and book Hatari for the Iceland to Poland festival in December, when Hatari was not yet well known (pre-Söngvakeppnin), and the concerts had been announced. Wiktoria was apparently a personal friend of the band, who actively promoted them and translated Hatari’s lyrics into Polish as a personal favor to Matthías.

Originally Wiktoria planned to book GusGus to headline the festival, but it didn’t work out timing-wise. Because Hatari and Vök have the same agent, she contacted the agent to book both bands. Eventually a contract for Hatari’s participation was signed, but although Vök was in talks too they never actually signed. Wiktoria claims that because they didn’t get Vök to sign on, they lost a major investor who would have put in about 12 million ISK.

In May, she contacted their agent again asking if it’d be okay if Vök got paid after the concerts, because they couldn’t get the funds together before the festival. Subsequently, she says their agent responded with a harshly-worded response saying neither Hatari nor Vök would be appearing. She responded that Hatari could pull out if they wanted if they paid for the booking of a new artist, in accordance with a clause in their contract. At this, she said the agent stopped responding to her e-mails.

A little while later, she says that Einar contacted her, suggesting that she make Hatari the headliners of the festival, on condition that they would be paid six times more than the original contract said. Wiktoria says she responded that they just didn’t have that kind of money to pay them, and that then Einar “became very unfriendly” and called her “crazy”, and finally said he didn’t want to work with her.

Subsequently, Hatari posted an announcement that their appearance at Iceland to Poland had been canceled, “[d]ue to the failure of the promoters of Iceland To Poland to honor basic contractual agreements”. Wiktoria says that the organizers went on to be harassed and decried as thieves by fans of the band, and that she’d had a nervous breakdown as a result.

Hatari’s response

The only official response to all this from Hatari was this statement, quoted at the top of the article (everything else is according to Wiktoria’s account):

To whom it may concern,

Svikamylla ehf. has not received a subpoena of any kind. The reason the multimedia project Hatari canceled their appearance in this festival was that it could not be determined that the band would be paid for their appearance.

Respectfully, Svikamylla ehf.

The DV article

Wiktoria’s account in the DV article makes it sound like they had a contract for Hatari to perform at the festival for a certain amount, but then after they got Eurovision-famous, they just contacted her demanding more money, and then, when she refused, they canceled.

That would indeed be outrageously dickish, but according to the Vísir article - which, again, is also based on Wiktoria’s own account - this is not at all what happened. Hatari canceled (or rather, their agent did) when Wiktoria tried to get Vök to agree to appear without being paid in advance, because they hadn’t yet secured the funding. Reading between the lines, and judging from Hatari’s official response, it seems pretty clear that the agent at least got the impression that they didn’t have the money to pay Hatari on hand either, and were instead just hoping to raise the money sometime in the couple of months remaining before the festival would take place.

Then, after Hatari’s appearance had been canceled, Einar contacted Wiktoria with the offer to appear as headliners, for a higher price.

Ultimately, Wiktoria tried to turn to crowdfunding, and in the end, the final concert of Iceland to Poland was canceled, so it’s apparent the festival really did have major money problems. By contrast, the DV article states the festival went well, which seems like a pretty big lie by omission.

Speculation

This part is inevitably going to be based on my guesses and interpretations, but here’s my best effort to make sense of this.

Clearly, Hatari pulled out not because they wanted more money than originally agreed on, but because it didn’t look like they were going to get paid. Maybe Wiktoria was right that if Vök had just officially signed on like they’d talked about, that one investor would’ve been in. But maybe she wasn’t. I spent six years working at a tiny startup, and if I learned anything from that experience, it’s that investors appear to be super-interested and about to sign, only to end up not actually doing so, all the time. I can believe that Wiktoria genuinely believed she could get the money, but, without knowing any specifics of the festival’s financial situation, I suspect the agent also probably genuinely judged it to be unlikely Hatari would actually end up being paid for the gig if they did appear.

It sounds reasonable for a contract like this to include a clause requiring an artist who cancels to compensate the festival - but it makes sense only when canceling is the artist’s own decision. If there’s no funding to pay the performers, though, it would be ridiculous to expect them to either appear anyway or pay the organizers money to get out of it. Not being able to pay voids the contract from that end. I don’t know the details here, of course - maybe they would have had enough money to pay Hatari and just didn’t have any for Vök. But their agent at least clearly didn’t believe so.

As presented by Wiktoria in the Vísir article, Einar’s offer doesn’t really make any sense: if you quit something because they don’t have the money to pay you, surely you don’t then approach them to go “Okay, but what if you pay us even more”, even if you are just a complete dick - you already know they can’t do that. The only way I can make sense of it is if what Einar was offering was that they would accept being paid after the festival, if they would be the headliners and paid accordingly. And that does actually make a lot of sense. By offering to headline and be paid afterwards, presumably Einar would have been hoping that with Hatari’s new Eurovision fame, having them as headliners would attract investors and sell tickets, enough so to keep the festival afloat and get Hatari their pay in the end. But under those circumstances, of course it would also be pretty reasonable for them to expect to be paid significantly more than originally agreed - they’d be headlining the festival, and also taking on the risk of agreeing to perform without guarantee of payment.

All in all, again, I stress that this last bit is all speculation on my part - but the idea that Hatari ruined the festival with their greed seems extremely exaggerated, and the fact Wiktoria retold the story in such a distorted way to DV doesn’t sound great for her. It also doesn’t sound great for DV that they repeated her statement without even doing the basic research required to find the much more detailed account already published in the media, but DV is known for doing that sort of thing.

Incidentally, the court date cited in the DV article was today. DV noted that the public agenda for the district court didn’t include the case, but that it presumably would be added later. I checked the agenda this morning and still didn’t see the case, and I haven’t seen any news articles today mentioning it. So it’s kind of unclear whether this even happened. I’m confused, but I’ll tell you if I hear more.

One last note: it is really dismaying that Wiktoria was harassed by Hatari’s fans to the point of a nervous breakdown. Harassment is not okay under any circumstances. Please, please do not harass people, even if they're suing your favorite band.

#hatari #news

[pretzcl]

— after the storm

summary: i’ve had this question for a really long time. why do good girls like bad guys? 

pairing: badboy!jaemin x fem!reader

word count: 1.6k 

genre: dash of angst, a scoop of fluff and egg. just egg. 

a/n: it’s not my best work, it’s essentially a collage of fics i wrote last year and glued into one google doc. bon appetit

Jaemin’s crosses his arms over his chiselled chest. His back leant against the nose of his shoe-polished black car, parked under a carport. Straightening up once his gang of hollering buffoons encircle around him. 

Na Jaemin. Whispers follow him and the pack of howling morons he walks with, down the corridors, exuding an air of confidence and carelessness. Leaving a trail of distraught girls on a path of shattered hearts and missed calls. No matter how many broken hearts, lines of girls melt under his piercing stare and his self-assured grin. Most, intrigued by the mysteriousness in the dark pools of his eyes behind his tousled brown hair, a prize to be won. Few despised the taunts in his arrogant half smirk, a cliche.

Currently, you identify yourself as the latter. Hair whipping back as you set a path ablaze with a burning desire to give the jerk a piece of your mind. People in the midst of your march blended in a mass of grey figures. Finally, you come to an abrupt stop behind the pack.

“Jaemin!” you shout, demanding to be heard amongst the handful of jackasses. One by one they turn to face you like turning over a deck of cards. The King of Hearts very last.

His eyes glint devilishly as he stares you up and down. You have to consciously uncurl your fingers twitching by your side, deeply resisting the delicious urge to slap the smirk playing at the corners of his lips.

“Hey princess,” he huskily greets you. The frustration boiling inside of you fumes in hot vapours off your body at the pet name.

Begrudgingly, you choose to ignore it and focus on the primary source of your anger towards him.

“Quit the act, Jaemin. Where the hell were you?” you interrogate, narrowing your eyes only on him and not his friends who were clearly enjoying themselves.

“Why?” he muses, in perhaps the most innocent questioning tone he could muster. “Did you miss me... princess?” he rolls the last word of his tongue before his face curls smugly.

“Do you think this is funny? I waited for 3 hours for you at the library. 3 hours! I don’t need to help you. I’m not the one failing here so you could have the integrity to at least, show up,” you vent, too overwrought to care if you were embarrassing him in front of his friends. You didn’t know if his friends knew if he went to tutoring but currently you couldn’t care less as a fiery heats up your face. 

He stands there totally unresponsive to your words. Though his jaw clenches and his eyes darkly narrowed down at your form. You refuse to shrivel under his gaze. Fixed in your stance in front of him, you continue to wait for an apology or even a pathetic excuse. Anything! You’re not a doormat. And you certainly are not a princess. But nothing emits from the silence and you decide to break it when you scoff, “Forget it.” Desperately fighting back the tears brimming at your lashes as the frustration is trying to release itself from within you.

Not sparing him a single glance, you turn on the back of your heel and trudge into the waning glumness. To where that might be, you don’t know. But you know you need to get away. You drown the sniggers and jeers echoing each step you make with a pair of earphones. The lofty melody hums softly through your ears while you disappear into the smudges of charcoal.

⋇⋆✦⋆⋇　 ⋇⋆✦⋆⋇

The pitter patter of droplets against the stone pavement drones through your body like the chatter of a full classroom. An unanticipated flash of an ivory streak triggers the rolls of ominous thunder and quickened steps along the path. The matted, wool of darkened greys hovers over you, ushering you to scurry albeit, your feet were tentative, wary of the slick pavements wet with murky puddles.

“Y/N!” a voice from behind you competed against the waging war taking place in the sky. In a confused daze, you turn around. But you wish you hadn’t acted so hastily upon recognising the owner of the booming voice.

He approaches you in a strut almost, like an off-duty male model, totally unaffected by the icy daggers flying through the harsh winds. A hand wrapped around the ornate handle to an umbrella while the other hand is tucked cooly in his ripped black jeans.

“Where’s your umbrella?” he asks while stretching his hand so the ornate handle clasped in his hands is between both of you. “Hmm?” he lowers down to meet you at eye level waiting for a response.  

“I forgot it,” you murmur, focusing your stare on the slick, darkened concrete. Aggravated by the teasing tone on the tip of his tongue but ultimately choosing to bite on your own tongue. If it weren’t for him, you wouldn’t be sheltered from the drizzles of rain boring mercilessly down on the street.

“So you’re saying Miss perfect grades forgot her own umbrella on a day like this?” he snickers through as smirk stretched along his lips as taunting as the tone of his voice.

Halting in your steps, a glower deepens on your face. “I was in a rush this morning,” you clip.

“I was just teasing you don’t have to take everything so personally,” he scoffs. Frustration boils inside your stomach when you caught his eyeball roll from the corner of your eye.

Your hand curls into a clenched fist and you have to actively release the tight grip as you breathe out, “I don’t want to endure your teasing my whole way home.”

“What’s your problem today? Did you fail a test or something?” he sniggers.

“You know exactly what my problem is,” you spit looking him directly in the cold dark abyss that so many fell for. Any amusement dancing in his brown hues is flooded by the sharp coldness pouring into his eyes. The unreadable expression etches across his face as he snaps his focus to street onward after shoving the umbrella in your hand.

“Whatever,” is the last thing he says before disappearing into the lifeless, blurs.

You stood alone, shivering as the rain teems upon the umbrella wobbling in your grip. A mixture of disbelief and resentment fires up in your chest at the coldness cemented in his narrow glare before he stormed off.

“Unbelievable. He has no right to be pissed off at me,” you scoff to yourself, kicking the back of your heel into the pavement. Resuming your trudge in the midst of the gloominess devouring the day.

Somehow, the fury of anger washes away in the rhythmic beats of the raindrops. Each drop of rainfall, a clear beat upon the black fabric before they cascade from the rim like a waterfall. The trance of rain from under the umbrella blows out any fire lit up on a match set in your chest.

⋇⋆✦⋆⋇　 ⋇⋆✦⋆⋇

Near a busy intersection, cars rushing past with wipers in full wings, you gasp. A blank white surges over your paralysed body and bleary vision. It feels like your frozen in time until a firm grip pulls you back and turns you around, earphones slipping from nooks of your ears, in one swift movement. Your eyes widen registering the panting boy standing in front of you.

“What are you thinking you were going to get hit by a car!” Jaemin barks at you while roughly shaking you by your shoulders. A rambunctious series of car horns quickly followed and you can only assume it translates to what Jaemin had yelled at you for. You only blankly blink up at him as your mind tries to rapidly rewind to you approaching the intersection.

“You know for a smart girl you’re really stupid,” he sighs hanging his head low.

“Jaemi-”

“Promise me you won’t do something like that again,” his words maybe scolding though his voice wispy and soft like angel wings. He searches into your eyes and for the first time, you notice his damp, bangs obscuring his large, brown eyes shroud the kindness they possess.

“I promise,” you mumble feeling breathless at your heart beating erratically.

“I’m sorry for leaving you by yourself and for not coming to tutor lesson today,” he mutters at the ground. Voice is hoarse as he pants a whirlwind of heavy breaths intermitted by a few stifled coughs. You stood dumbfounded hopelessly watching the exhausted boy and scanning how his hair becomes one with his face, wetly draping over his sharp bone structures. Shifting your gaze to the street behind him you struggle to fight the twitching feeling of wonder resounding from within you.

“Jaemin, did you run all the way up the street to save me?” you softly ask. No longer harbouring any anger or frustration from earlier today. Your fingers with a mind of their own sweep a sodden lock from his forehead revealing those big brown orbs and you gently tilt his chin up.

“Maybe,” he says in an even softer tone.  Something totally unfamiliar uncurls itself in enormous wave engulfing over you and you crash your lips onto his. Bursting the droplets on the plush of his lips. Jaemin's hand rested below your ear, his thumb caressing your cheek as you pull back afraid of losing yourself in him. Your lips brushing against each other as your breaths mingle. “Y/N,” he whispers slowly, prolonging each letter as if to savour them. And in this very moment, your senses wisp away and you can no longer think straight. Never before has your name ever felt so mystifying. Not caring if the water soaks through to chill your skin, your hands run down his spine, pulling him closer until there’s no space left between you two. So close you could feel the beating of his heart against your chest and you lose yourself to him.

#neowritingsnet #nct #jaemin #nct reactions #jaemin imagines #nct imagines #nct scenarios #na jaemin #jaemin scenarios #jaemin fluff #nct jaemin #jaemin angst #jaemin oneshot #badboy!jaemin #nct dream #nct aus #nct writing #jaemin fanfic #nct fanfic #nct oneshot